15132	----	NARRATIVE OF WILLIAM W. BROWN, A FUGITIVE SLAVE. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. --Is there not some chosen curse, Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who gains his fortune from the blood of souls? COWPER. BOSTON: PUBLISHED AT THE ANTI-SLAVERY OFFICE, NO. 25 CORNHILL. 1847. [Illustration: William W. Brown.] TO WELLS BROWN, OF OHIO. Thirteen years ago, I came to your door, a weary fugitive from chains and stripes. I was a stranger, and you took me in. I was hungry, and you fed me. Naked was I, and you clothed me. Even a name by which to be known among men, slavery had denied me. You bestowed upon me your own. Base indeed should I be, if I ever forget what I owe to you, or do anything to disgrace that honored name! As a slight testimony of my gratitude to my earliest benefactor, I take the liberty to inscribe to you this little Narrative of the sufferings from which I was fleeing when you had compassion upon me. In the multitude that you have succored, it is very possible that you may not remember me; but until I forget God and myself, I can never forget you. Your grateful friend, WILLIAM WELLS BROWN. LETTER FROM EDMUND QUINCY, ESQ. DEDHAM, JULY 1, 1847. TO WILLIAM W. BROWN. MY DEAR FRIEND:--I heartily thank you for the privilege of reading the manuscript of your Narrative. I have read it with deep interest and strong emotion. I am much mistaken if it be not greatly successful and eminently useful. It presents a different phase of the infernal slave-system from that portrayed in the admirable story of Mr. Douglass, and gives us a glimpse of its hideous cruelties in other portions of its domain. Your opportunities of observing the workings of this accursed system have been singularly great. Your experiences in the Field, in the House, and especially on the River in the service of the slave-trader, Walker, have been such as few individuals have had;--no one, certainly, who has been competent to describe them. What I have admired, and marvelled at, in your Narrative, is the simplicity and calmness with which you describe scenes and actions which might well "move the very stones to rise and mutiny" against the National Institution which makes them possible. You will perceive that I have made very sparing use of your flattering permission to alter what you had written. To correct a few errors, which appeared to be merely clerical ones, committed in the hurry of composition, under unfavorable circumstances, and to suggest a few curtailments, is all that I have ventured to do. I should be a bold man, as well as a vain one, if I should attempt to improve your descriptions of what you have seen and suffered. Some of the scenes are not unworthy of De Foe himself. I trust and believe that your Narrative will have a wide circulation. I am sure it deserves it. At least, a man must be differently constituted from me, who can rise from the perusal of your Narrative without feeling that he understands slavery better, and hates it worse, than he ever did before. I am, very faithfully and respectfully, Your friend, EDMUND QUINCY. PREFACE. The friends of freedom may well congratulate each other on the appearance of the following Narrative. It adds another volume to the rapidly increasing anti-slavery literature of the age. It has been remarked by a close observer of human nature, "Let me make the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws;" and it may with equal truth be said, that, among a reading people like our own, their books will at least give character to their laws. It is an influence which goes forth noiselessly upon its mission, but fails not to find its way to many a warm heart, to kindle on the altar thereof the fires of freedom, which will one day break forth in a living flame to consume oppression. This little book is a voice from the prison-house, unfolding the deeds of darkness which are there perpetrated. Our cause has received efficient aid from this source. The names of those who have come from thence, and battled manfully for the right, need not to be recorded here. The works of some of them are an enduring monument of praise, and their perpetual record shall be found in the grateful hearts of the redeemed bondman. Few persons have had greater facilities for becoming acquainted with slavery, in all its horrible aspects, than William W. Brown. He has been behind the curtain. He has visited its secret chambers. Its iron has entered his own soul. The dearest ties of nature have been riven in his own person. A mother has been cruelly scourged before his own eyes. A father,--alas! slaves have no father. A brother has been made the subject of its tender mercies. A sister has been given up to the irresponsible control of the pale-faced oppressor. This nation looks on approvingly. The American Union sanctions the deed. The Constitution shields the criminals. American religion sanctifies the crime. But the tide is turning. Already, a mighty under-current is sweeping onward. The voice of warning, of remonstrance, of rebuke, of entreaty, has gone forth. Hand is linked in hand, and heart mingles with heart, in this great work of the slave's deliverance. The convulsive throes of the monster, even now, give evidence of deep wounds. The writer of this Narrative was hired by his master to a "_soul-driver_," and has witnessed all the horrors of the traffic, from the buying up of human cattle in the slave-breeding States, which produced a constant scene of separating the victims from all those whom they loved, to their final sale in the southern market, to be worked up in seven years, or given over to minister to the lust of southern _Christians_. Many harrowing scenes are graphically portrayed; and yet with that simplicity and ingenuousness which carries with it a conviction of the truthfulness of the picture. This book will do much to unmask those who have "clothed themselves in the livery of the court of heaven" to cover up the enormity of their deeds. During the past three years, the author has devoted his entire energies to the anti-slavery cause. Laboring under all the disabilities and disadvantages growing out of his education in slavery--subjected, as he had been from his birth, to all the wrongs and deprivations incident to his condition--he yet went forth, impelled to the work by a love of liberty--stimulated by the remembrance of his own sufferings--urged on by the consideration that a mother, brothers, and sister, were still grinding in the prison-house of bondage, in common with three millions of our Father's children--sustained by an unfaltering faith in the omnipotence of truth and the final triumph of justice--to plead the cause of the slave, and by the eloquence of earnestness carried conviction to many minds, and enlisted the sympathy and secured the co-operation of many to the cause. His labors have been chiefly confined to Western New York, where he has secured many warm friends, by his untiring zeal, persevering energy, continued fidelity, and universal kindness. Reader, are you an Abolitionist? What have you done for the slave? What are you doing in his behalf? What do you purpose to do? There is a great work before us! Who will be an idler now? This is the great humanitary movement of the age, swallowing up, for the time being, all other questions, comparatively speaking. The course of human events, in obedience to the unchangeable laws of our being, is fast hastening the final crisis, and "Have ye chosen, O my people, on whose party ye shall stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandal shakes the dust against our land?" Are you a Christian? This is the carrying out of practical Christianity; and there is no other. Christianity is _practical_ in its very nature and essence. It is a life, springing out of a soul imbued with its spirit. Are you a friend of the missionary cause? This is the greatest missionary enterprize of the day. Three millions of _Christian_, law-manufactured heathen are longing for the glad tidings of the Gospel of freedom. Are you a friend of the Bible? Come, then, and help us to restore to these millions, whose eyes have been bored out by slavery, their sight, that they may see to read the Bible. Do you love God whom you have not seen? Then manifest that love, by restoring to your brother whom you have seen, his rightful inheritance, of which he has been so long and so cruelly deprived. It is not for a single generation alone, numbering three millions--sublime as would be that effort--that we are working. It is for humanity, the wide world over, not only now, but for all coming time, and all future generations:-- "For he who settles Freedom's principles, Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny." It is a vast work--a glorious enterprize--worthy the unswerving devotion of the entire life-time of the great and the good. Slaveholding and slaveholders must be rendered disreputable and odious. They must be stripped of their respectability and Christian reputation. They must be treated as "men-stealers--guilty of the highest kind of theft, and sinners of the first rank." Their more guilty accomplices in the persons of _northern apologists_, both in Church and State, must be placed in the same category. Honest men must be made to look upon their crimes with the same abhorrence and loathing, with which they regard the less guilty robber and assassin, until "The common damned shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul." When a just estimate is placed upon the crime of slave-holding, the work will have been accomplished, and the glorious day ushered in-- "When man nor woman in all our wide domain, Shall buy, or sell, or hold, or be a slave." J.C. Hathaway. --Farmington, N.Y., 1847. NARRATIVE. CHAPTER I. I was born in Lexington, Ky. The man who stole me as soon as I was born, recorded the births of all the infants which he claimed to be born his property, in a book which he kept for that purpose. My mother's name was Elizabeth. She had seven children, viz: Solomon, Leander, Benjamin, Joseph, Millford, Elizabeth, and myself. No two of us were children of the same father. My father's name, as I learned from my mother, was George Higgins. He was a white man, a relative of my master, and connected with some of the first families in Kentucky. My master owned about forty slaves, twenty-five of whom were field hands. He removed from Kentucky to Missouri, when I was quite young, and settled thirty or forty miles above St. Charles, on the Missouri, where, in addition to his practice as a physician, he carried on milling, merchandizing and farming. He had a large farm, the principal productions of which were tobacco and hemp. The slave cabins were situated on the back part of the farm, with the house of the overseer, whose name was Grove Cook, in their midst. He had the entire charge of the farm, and having no family, was allowed a woman to keep house for him, whose business it was to deal out the provisions for the hands. A woman was also kept at the quarters to do the cooking for the field hands, who were summoned to their unrequited toil every morning at four o'clock, by the ringing of a bell, hung on a post near the house of the overseer. They were allowed half an hour to eat their breakfast, and get to the field. At half past four, a horn was blown by the overseer, which was the signal to commence work; and every one that was not on the spot at the time, had to receive ten lashes from the negro-whip, with which the overseer always went armed. The handle was about three feet long, with the butt-end filled with lead, and the lash six or seven feet in length, made of cowhide, with platted wire on the end of it. This whip was put in requisition very frequently and freely, and a small offence on the part of a slave furnished an occasion for its use. During the time that Mr. Cook was overseer, I was a house servant--a situation preferable to that of a field hand, as I was better fed, better clothed, and not obliged to rise at the ringing of the bell, but about half an hour after. I have often laid and heard the crack of the whip, and the screams of the slave. My mother was a field hand, and one morning was ten or fifteen minutes behind the others in getting into the field. As soon as she reached the spot where they were at work, the overseer commenced whipping her. She cried, "Oh! pray--Oh! pray--Oh! pray"--these are generally the words of slaves, when imploring mercy at the hands of their oppressors. I heard her voice, and knew it, and jumped out of my bunk, and went to the door. Though the field was some distance from the house, I could hear every crack of the whip, and every groan and cry of my poor mother. I remained at the door, not daring to venture any farther. The cold chills ran over me, and I wept aloud. After giving her ten lashes, the sound of the whip ceased, and I returned to my bed, and found no consolation but in my tears. It was not yet daylight. CHAPTER II. My master being a political demagogue, soon found those who were ready to put him into office, for the favors he could render them; and a few years after his arrival in Missouri, he was elected to a seat in the Legislature. In his absence from home, everything was left in charge of Mr. Cook, the overseer, and he soon became more tyrannical and cruel. Among the slaves on the plantation, was one by the name of Randall. He was a man about six feet high, and well-proportioned, and known as a man of great strength and power. He was considered the most valuable and able-bodied slave on the plantation; but no matter how good or useful a slave may be, he seldom escapes the lash. But it was not so with Randall. He had been on the plantation since my earliest recollection, and I had never known of his being flogged. No thanks were due to the master or overseer for this. I have often heard him declare, that no white man should ever whip him--that he would die first. Cook, from the time that he came upon the plantation, had frequently declared, that he could and would flog any nigger that was put into the field to work under him. My master had repeatedly told him not to attempt to whip Randall, but he was determined to try it. As soon as he was left sole dictator, he thought the time had come to put his threats into execution. He soon began to find fault with Randall, and threatened to whip him, if he did not do better. One day he gave him a very hard task,--more than he could possibly do; and at night, the task not being performed, he told Randall that he should remember him the next morning. On the following morning, after the hands had taken breakfast, Cook called out to Randall, and told him that he intended to whip him, and ordered him to cross his hands and be tied. Randall asked why he wished to whip him. He answered, because he had not finished his task the day before. Randall said that the task was too great, or he should have done it. Cook said it made no difference,--he should whip him. Randall stood silent for a moment, and then said, "Mr. Cook, I have always tried to please you since you have been on the plantation, and I find you are determined not to be satisfied with my work, let me do as well as I may. No man has laid hands on me, to whip me, for the last ten years, and I have long since come to the conclusion not to be whipped by any man living." Cook, finding by Randall's determined look and gestures, that he would resist, called three of the hands from their work, and commanded them to seize Randall, and tie him. The hands stood still;--they knew Randall--and they also knew him to be a powerful man, and were afraid to grapple with him. As soon as Cook had ordered the men to seize him, Randall turned to them, and said--"Boys, you all know me; you know that I can handle any three of you, and the man that lays hands on me shall die. This white man can't whip me himself, and therefore he has called you to help him." The overseer was unable to prevail upon them to seize and secure Randall, and finally ordered them all to go to their work together. Nothing was said to Randall by the overseer, for more than a week. One morning, however, while the hands were at work in the field, he came into it, accompanied by three friends of his, Thompson, Woodbridge and Jones. They came up to where Randall was at work, and Cook ordered him to leave his work, and go with them to the barn. He refused to go; whereupon he was attacked by the overseer and his companions, when he turned upon them, and laid them, one after another, prostrate on the ground. Woodbridge drew out his pistol, and fired at him, and brought him to the ground by a pistol ball. The others rushed upon him with their clubs, and beat him over the head and face, until they succeeded in tying him. He was then taken to the barn, and tied to a beam. Cook gave him over one hundred lashes with a heavy cowhide, had him washed with salt and water, and left him tied during the day. The next day he was untied, and taken to a blacksmith's shop, and had a ball and chain attached to his leg. He was compelled to labor in the field, and perform the same amount of work that the other hands did. When his master returned home, he was much pleased to find that Randall had been subdued in his absence. CHAPTER III. Soon afterwards, my master removed to the city of St. Louis, and purchased a farm four miles from there, which he placed under the charge of an overseer by the name of Friend Haskell. He was a regular Yankee from New England. The Yankees are noted for making the most cruel overseers. My mother was hired out in the city, and I was also hired out there to Major Freeland, who kept a public house. He was formerly from Virginia, and was a horse-racer, cock-fighter, gambler, and withal an inveterate drunkard. There were ten or twelve servants in the house, and when he was present, it was cut and slash--knock down and drag out. In his fits of anger, he would take up a chair, and throw it at a servant; and in his more rational moments, when he wished to chastise one, he would tie them up in the smoke-house, and whip them; after which, he would cause a fire to be made of tobacco stems, and smoke them. This he called "_Virginia play_." I complained to my master of the treatment which I received from Major Freeland; but it made no difference. He cared nothing about it, so long as he received the money for my labor. After living with Major Freeland five or six months, I ran away, and went into the woods back of the city; and when night came on, I made my way to my master's farm, but was afraid to be seen, knowing that if Mr. Haskell, the overseer, should discover me, I should be again carried back to Major Freeland; so I kept in the woods. One day, while in the woods, I heard the barking and howling of dogs, and in a short time they came so near, that I knew them to be the blood-hounds of Major Benjamin O'Fallon. He kept five or six, to hunt runaway slaves with. As soon as I was convinced that it was them, I knew there was no chance of escape. I took refuge in the top of a tree, and the hounds were soon at its base, and there remained until the hunters came up in a half or three quarters of an hour afterwards. There were two men with the dogs, who, as soon as they came up, ordered me to descend. I came down, was tied, and taken to St. Louis jail. Major Freeland soon made his appearance, and took me out, and ordered me to follow him, which I did. After we returned home, I was tied up in the smoke-house, and was very severely whipped. After the Major had flogged me to his satisfaction, he sent out his son Robert, a young man eighteen or twenty years of age, to see that I was well smoked. He made a fire of tobacco stems, which soon set me to coughing and sneezing. This, Robert told me, was the way his father used to do to his slaves in Virginia. After giving me what they conceived to be a decent smoking, I was untied and again set to work. Robert Freeland was a "chip of the old block." Though quite young, it was not unfrequently that he came home in a state of intoxication. He is now, I believe, a popular commander of a steamboat on the Mississippi river. Major Freeland soon after failed in business, and I was put on board the steamboat Missouri, which plied between St. Louis and Galena. The commander of the boat was William B. Culver. I remained on her during the sailing season, which was the most pleasant time for me that I had ever experienced. At the close of navigation, I was hired to Mr. John Colburn, keeper of the Missouri Hotel. He was from one of the Free States; but a more inveterate hater of the negro, I do not believe ever walked on God's green earth. This hotel was at that time one of the largest in the city, and there were employed in it twenty or thirty servants, mostly slaves. Mr. Colburn was very abusive, not only to the servants, but to his wife also, who was an excellent woman, and one from whom I never knew a servant to receive a harsh word; but never did I know a kind one to a servant from her husband. Among the slaves employed in the hotel, was one by the name of Aaron, who belonged to Mr. John F. Darby, a lawyer. Aaron was the knife-cleaner. One day, one of the knives was put on the table, not as clean as it might have been. Mr. Colburn, for this offence, tied Aaron up in the wood-house, and gave him over fifty lashes on the bare back with a cowhide, after which, he made me wash him down with rum. This seemed to put him into more agony than the whipping. After being untied, he went home to his master, and complained of the treatment which he had received. Mr. Darby would give no heed to anything he had to say, but sent him directly back. Colburn, learning that he had been to his master with complaints, tied him up again, and gave him a more severe whipping than before. The poor fellow's back was literally cut to pieces; so much so, that he was not able to work for ten or twelve days. There was also, among the servants, a girl whose master resided in the country. Her name was Patsey. Mr. Colburn tied her up one evening, and whipped her until several of the boarders came out and begged him to desist. The reason for whipping her was this. She was engaged to be married to a man belonging to Major William Christy, who resided four or five miles north of the city. Mr. Colburn had forbid her to see John Christy. The reason of this was said to be the regard which he himself had for Patsey. She went to meeting that evening, and John returned home with her. Mr. Colburn had intended to flog John, if he came within the inclosure; but John knew too well the temper of his rival, and kept at a safe distance;--so he took vengeance on the poor girl. If all the slave-drivers had been called together, I do not think a more cruel man than John Colburn,--and he too a northern man,--could have been found among them. While living at the Missouri Hotel, a circumstance occurred which caused me great unhappiness. My master sold my mother, and all her children, except myself. They were sold to different persons in the city of St. Louis. CHAPTER IV. I was soon after taken from Mr. Colburn's, and hired to Elijah P. Lovejoy, who was at that time publisher and editor of the "St. Louis Times." My work, while with him, was mainly in the printing office, waiting on the hands, working the press, &c. Mr. Lovejoy was a very good man, and decidedly the best master that I had ever had. I am chiefly indebted to him, and to my employment in the printing office, for what little learning I obtained while in slavery. Though slavery is thought, by some, to be mild in Missouri, when compared with the cotton, sugar and rice growing States, yet no part of our slave-holding country, is more noted for the barbarity of its inhabitants, than St. Louis. It was here that Col. Harney, a United States officer, whipped a slave woman to death. It was here that Francis McIntosh, a free colored man from Pittsburgh, was taken from the steamboat Flora, and burned at the stake. During a residence of eight years in this city, numerous cases of extreme cruelty came under my own observation;--to record them all, would occupy more space than could possibly be allowed in this little volume. I shall, therefore, give but a few more, in addition to what I have already related. Capt. J.B. Brunt, who resided near my master, had a slave named John. He was his body servant, carriage driver, &c. On one occasion, while driving his master through the city,--the streets being very muddy, and the horses going at a rapid rate,--some mud spattered upon a gentleman by the name of Robert More. More was determined to be revenged. Some three or four months after this occurrence, he purchased John, for the express purpose, as he said, "to tame the d----d nigger." After the purchase, he took him to a blacksmith's shop, and had a ball and chain fastened to his leg, and then put him to driving a yoke of oxen, and kept him at hard labor, until the iron around his leg was so worn into the flesh, that it was thought mortification would ensue. In addition to this, John told me that his master whipped him regularly three times a week for the first two months:--and all this to "_tame him_." A more noble looking man than he, was not to be found in all St. Louis, before he fell into the hands of More; and a more degraded and spirit-crushed looking being was never seen on a southern plantation, after he had been subjected to this "_taming_" process for three months. The last time that I saw him, he had nearly lost the entire use of his limbs. While living with Mr. Lovejoy, I was often sent on errands to the office of the "Missouri Republican," published by Mr. Edward Charles. Once, while returning to the office with type, I was attacked by several large boys, sons of slave-holders, who pelted me with snow-balls. Having the heavy form of type in my hands, I could not make my escape by running; so I laid down the type and gave them battle. They gathered around me, pelting me with stones and sticks, until they overpowered me, and would have captured me, if I had not resorted to my heels. Upon my retreat, they took possession of the type; and what to do to regain it I could not devise. Knowing Mr. Lovejoy to be a very humane man, I went to the office, and laid the case before him. He told me to remain in the office. He took one of the apprentices with him, and went after the type, and soon returned with it; but on his return informed me that Samuel McKinney had told him that he would whip me, because I had hurt his boy. Soon after, McKinney was seen making his way to the office by one of the printers, who informed me of the fact, and I made my escape through the back door. McKinney not being able to find me on his arrival, left the office in a great rage, swearing that he would whip me to death. A few days after, as I was walking along Main Street, he seized me by the collar, and struck me over the head five or six times with a large cane, which caused the blood to gush from my nose and ears in such a manner that my clothes were completely saturated with blood. After beating me to his satisfaction, he let me go, and I returned to the office so weak from the loss of blood, that Mr. Lovejoy sent me home to my master. It was five weeks before I was able to walk again. During this time, it was necessary to have some one to supply my place at the office, and I lost the situation. After my recovery, I was hired to Capt. Otis Reynolds, as a waiter on board the steamboat Enterprize, owned by Messrs. John and Edward Walsh, commission merchants at St. Louis. This boat was then running on the upper Mississippi. My employment on board was to wait on gentlemen, and the captain being a good man, the situation was a pleasant one to me;--but in passing from place to place, and seeing new faces every day, and knowing that they could go where they pleased, I soon became unhappy, and several times thought of leaving the boat at some landing place, and trying to make my escape to Canada, which I had heard much about as a place where the slave might live, be free, and be protected. But whenever such thoughts would come into my mind, my resolution would soon be shaken by the remembrance that my dear mother was a slave in St. Louis, and I could not bear the idea of leaving her in that condition. She had often taken me upon her knee, and told me how she had carried me upon her back to the field when I was an infant--how often she had been whipped for leaving her work to nurse me--and how happy I would appear when she would take me into her arms. When these thoughts came over me, I would resolve never to leave the land of slavery without my mother. I thought that to leave her in slavery, after she had undergone and suffered so much for me, would be proving recreant to the duty which I owed to her. Besides this, I had three brothers and a sister there,--two of my brothers having died. My mother, my brothers Joseph and Millford, and my sister Elizabeth, belonged to Mr. Isaac Mansfield, formerly from one of the Free States, (Massachusetts, I believe.) He was a tinner by trade, and carried on a large manufacturing establishment. Of all my relatives, mother was first, and sister next. One evening, while visiting them, I made some allusion to a proposed journey to Canada, and sister took her seat by my side, and taking my hand in hers, said, with tears in her eyes,-- "Brother, you are not going to leave mother and your dear sister here without a friend, are you?" I looked into her face, as the tears coursed swiftly down her cheeks, and bursting into tears myself, said-- "No, I will never desert you and mother." She clasped my hand in hers, and said-- "Brother, you have often declared that you would not end your days in slavery. I see no possible way in which you can escape with us; and now, brother, you are on a steamboat where there is some chance for you to escape to a land of liberty. I beseech you not to let us hinder you. If we cannot get our liberty, we do not wish to be the means of keeping you from a land of freedom." I could restrain my feelings no longer, and an outburst of my own feelings, caused her to cease speaking upon that subject. In opposition to their wishes, I pledged myself not to leave them in the hand of the oppressor. I took leave of them, and returned to the boat, and laid down in my bunk; but "sleep departed from my eyes, and slumber from my eyelids." A few weeks after, on our downward passage, the boat took on board, at Hannibal, a drove of slaves, bound for the New Orleans market. They numbered from fifty to sixty, consisting of men and women from eighteen to forty years of age. A drove of slaves on a southern steamboat, bound for the cotton or sugar regions, is an occurrence so common, that no one, not even the passengers, appear to notice it, though they clank their chains at every step. There was, however, one in this gang that attracted the attention of the passengers and crew. It was a beautiful girl, apparently about twenty years of age, perfectly white, with straight light hair and blue eyes. But it was not the whiteness of her skin that created such a sensation among those who gazed upon her--it was her almost unparalleled beauty. She had been on the boat but a short time, before the attention of all the passengers, including the ladies, had been called to her, and the common topic of conversation was about the beautiful slave-girl. She was not in chains. The man who claimed this article of human merchandize was a Mr. Walker,--a well known slave-trader, residing in St. Louis. There was a general anxiety among the passengers and crew to learn the history of the girl. Her master kept close by her side, and it would have been considered impudent for any of the passengers to have spoken to her, and the crew were not allowed to have any conversation with them. When we reached St. Louis, the slaves were removed to a boat bound for New Orleans, and the history of the beautiful slave-girl remained a mystery. I remained on the boat during the season, and it was not an unfrequent occurrence to have on board gangs of slaves on their way to the cotton, sugar and rice plantations of the South. Toward the latter part of the summer, Captain Reynolds left the boat, and I was sent home. I was then placed on the farm under Mr. Haskell, the overseer. As I had been some time out of the field, and not accustomed to work in the burning sun, it was very hard; but I was compelled to keep up with the best of the hands. I found a great difference between the work in a steamboat cabin and that in a corn-field. My master, who was then living in the city, soon after removed to the farm, when I was taken out of the field to work in the house as a waiter. Though his wife was very peevish, and hard to please, I much preferred to be under her control than the overseer's. They brought with them Mr. Sloane, a Presbyterian minister; Miss Martha Tulley, a neice of theirs from Kentucky; and their nephew William. The latter had been in the family a number of years, but the others were all new-comers. Mr. Sloane was a young minister, who had been at the South but a short time, and it seemed as if his whole aim was to please the slaveholders, especially my master and mistress. He was intending to make a visit during the winter, and he not only tried to please them, but I think he succeeded admirably. When they wanted singing, he sung; when they wanted praying, he prayed; when they wanted a story told, he told a story. Instead of his teaching my master theology, my master taught theology to him. While I was with Captain Reynolds, my master "got religion," and new laws were made on the plantation. Formerly, we had the privilege of hunting, fishing, making splint brooms, baskets, &c. on Sunday; but this was all stopped. Every Sunday, we were all compelled to attend meeting. Master was so religious, that he induced some others to join him in hiring a preacher to preach to the slaves. CHAPTER V. My master had family worship, night and morning. At night, the slaves were called in to attend; but in the mornings, they had to be at their work, and master did all the praying. My master and mistress were great lovers of mint julep, and every morning, a pitcher-full was made, of which they all partook freely, not excepting little master William. After drinking freely all round, they would have family worship, and then breakfast. I cannot say but I loved the julep as well as any of them, and during prayer was always careful to seat myself close to the table where it stood, so as to help myself when they were all busily engaged in their devotions. By the time prayer was over, I was about as happy as any of them. A sad accident happened one morning. In helping myself, and at the same time keeping an eye on my old mistress, I accidentally let the pitcher fall upon the floor, breaking it in pieces, and spilling the contents. This was a bad affair for me; for as soon as prayer was over, I was taken and severely chastised. My master's family consisted of himself, his wife, and their nephew, William Moore. He was taken into the family, when only a few weeks of age. His name being that of my own, mine was changed, for the purpose of giving precedence to his, though I was his senior by ten or twelve years. The plantation being four miles from the city, I had to drive the family to church. I always dreaded the approach of the Sabbath; for, during service, I was obliged to stand by the horses in the hot broiling sun, or in the rain, just as it happened. One Sabbath, as we were driving past the house of D.D. Page, a gentleman who owned a large baking establishment, as I was sitting upon the box of the carriage, which was very much elevated, I saw Mr. Page pursuing a slave around the yard, with a long whip, cutting him at every jump. The man soon escaped from the yard, and was followed by Mr. Page. They came running past us, and the slave perceiving that he would be overtaken, stopped suddenly, and Page stumbled over him, and falling on the stone pavement, fractured one of his legs, which crippled him for life. The same gentleman, but a short time previous, tied up a woman of his, by the name of Delphia, and whipped her nearly to death; yet he was a deacon in the Baptist church, in good and regular standing. Poor Delphia! I was well acquainted with her, and called to see her while upon her sick bed; and I shall never forget her appearance. She was a member of the same church with her master. Soon after this, I was hired out to Mr. Walker; the same man whom I have mentioned as having carried a gang of slaves down the river, on the steamboat Enterprize. Seeing me in the capacity of steward on the boat, and thinking that I would make a good hand to take care of slaves, he determined to have me for that purpose; and finding that my master would not sell me, he hired me for the term of one year. When I learned the fact of my having been hired to a negro speculator, or a "soul-driver" as they are generally called among slaves, no one can tell my emotions. Mr. Walker had offered a high price for me, as I afterwards learned, but I suppose my master was restrained from selling me by the fact that I was a near relative of his. On entering the service of Mr. Walker, I found that my opportunity of getting to a land of liberty was gone, at least for the time being. He had a gang of slaves in readiness to start for New Orleans, and in a few days we were on our journey. I am at a loss for language to express my feelings on that occasion. Although my master had told me that he had not sold me, and Mr. Walker had told me that he had not purchased me, I did not believe them; and not until I had been to New Orleans, and was on my return, did I believe that I was not sold. There was on the boat a large room on the lower deck, in which the slaves were kept, men and women, promiscuously--all chained two and two, and a strict watch kept that they did not get loose; for cases have occurred in which slaves have got off their chains, and made their escape at landing-places, while the boats were taking in wood;--and with all our care, we lost one woman who had been taken from her husband and children, and having no desire to live without them, in the agony of her soul jumped overboard, and drowned herself. She was not chained. It was almost impossible to keep that part of the boat clean. On landing at Natchez, the slaves were all carried to the slave-pen, and there kept one week, during which time, several of them were sold. Mr. Walker fed his slaves well. We took on board, at St. Louis, several hundred pounds of bacon (smoked meat) and corn-meal, and his slaves were better fed than slaves generally were in Natchez, so far as my observation extended. At the end of a week, we left for New Orleans, the place of our final destination, which we reached in two days. Here the slaves were placed in a negro-pen, where those who wished to purchase could call and examine them. The negro-pen is a small yard, surrounded by buildings, from fifteen to twenty feet wide, with the exception of a large gate with iron bars. The slaves are kept in the buildings during the night, and turned out into the yard during the day. After the best of the stock was sold at private sale at the pen, the balance were taken to the Exchange Coffee House Auction Rooms, kept by Isaac L. McCoy, and sold at public auction. After the sale of this lot of slaves, we left New Orleans for St. Louis. CHAPTER VI. On our arrival at St. Louis, I went to Dr. Young, and told him that I did not wish to live with Mr. Walker any longer. I was heart-sick at seeing my fellow-creatures bought and sold. But the Dr. had hired me for the year, and stay I must. Mr. Walker again commenced purchasing another gang of slaves. He bought a man of Colonel John O'Fallon, who resided in the suburbs of the city. This man had a wife and three children. As soon as the purchase was made, he was put in jail for safe keeping, until we should be ready to start for New Orleans. His wife visited him while there, several times, and several times when she went for that purpose was refused admittance. In the course of eight or nine weeks Mr. Walker had his cargo of human flesh made up. There was in this lot a number of old men and women, some of them with gray locks. We left St. Louis in the steamboat Carlton, Captain Swan, bound for New Orleans. On our way down, and before we reached Rodney, the place where we made our first stop, I had to prepare the old slaves for market. I was ordered to have the old men's whiskers shaved off, and the grey hairs plucked out, where they were not too numerous, in which case he had a preparation of blacking to color it, and with a blacking-brush we would put it on. This was new business to me, and was performed in a room where the passengers could not see us. These slaves were also taught how old they were by Mr. Walker, and after going through the blacking process, they looked ten or fifteen years younger; and I am sure that some of those who purchased slaves of Mr. Walker, were dreadfully cheated, especially in the ages of the slaves which they bought. We landed at Rodney, and the slaves were driven to the pen in the back part of the village. Several were sold at this place, during our stay of four or five days, when we proceeded to Natchez. There we landed at night, and the gang were put in the warehouse until morning, when they were driven to the pen. As soon as the slaves are put in these pens, swarms of planters may be seen in and about them. They knew when Walker was expected, as he always had the time advertised beforehand when he would be in Rodney, Natchez, and New Orleans. These were the principal places where he offered his slaves for sale. When at Natchez the second time, I saw a slave very cruelly whipped. He belonged to a Mr. Broadwell, a merchant who kept a store on the wharf. The slave's name was Lewis. I had known him several years, as he was formerly from St. Louis. We were expecting a steamboat down the river, in which we were to take passage for New Orleans. Mr. Walker sent me to the landing to watch for the boat, ordering me to inform him on its arrival. While there, I went into the store to see Lewis. I saw a slave in the store, and asked him where Lewis was. Said he, "They have got Lewis hanging between the heavens and the earth." I asked him what he meant by that. He told me to go into the warehouse and see. I went in, and found Lewis there. He was tied up to a beam, with his toes just touching the floor. As there was no one in the warehouse but himself, I inquired the reason of his being in that situation. He said Mr. Broadwell had sold his wife to a planter six miles from the city, and that he had been to visit her,--that he went in the night, expecting to return before daylight, and went without his master's permission. The patrol had taken him up before he reached his wife. He was put in jail, and his master had to pay for his catching and keeping, and that was what he was tied up for. Just as he finished his story, Mr. Broadwell came in, and inquired what I was doing there. I knew not what to say, and while I was thinking what reply to make, he struck me over the head with the cowhide, the end of which struck me over my right eye, sinking deep into the flesh, leaving a scar which I carry to this day. Before I visited Lewis, he had received fifty lashes. Mr. Broadwell gave him fifty lashes more after I came out, as I was afterwards informed by Lewis himself. The next day we proceeded to New Orleans, and put the gang in the same negro-pen which we occupied before. In a short time, the planters came flocking to the pen to purchase slaves. Before the slaves were exhibited for sale, they were dressed and driven out into the yard. Some were set to dancing, some to jumping, some to singing, and some to playing cards. This was done to make them appear cheerful and happy. My business was to see that they were placed in those situations before the arrival of the purchasers, and I have often set them to dancing when their cheeks were wet with tears. As slaves were in good demand at that time, they were all soon disposed of, and we again set out for St. Louis. On our arrival, Mr. Walker purchased a farm five or six miles from the city. He had no family, but made a housekeeper of one of his female slaves. Poor Cynthia! I knew her well. She was a quadroon, and one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. She was a native of St. Louis, and bore an irreproachable character for virtue and propriety of conduct. Mr. Walker bought her for the New Orleans market, and took her down with him on one of the trips that I made with him. Never shall I forget the circumstances of that voyage! On the first night that we were on board the steamboat, he directed me to put her into a state-room he had provided for her, apart from the other slaves. I had seen too much of the workings of slavery, not to know what this meant. I accordingly watched him into the state-room, and listened to hear what passed between them. I heard him make his base offers, and her reject them. He told her that if she would accept his vile proposals, he would take her back with him to St. Louis, and establish her as his housekeeper at his farm. But if she persisted in rejecting them, he would sell her as a field hand on the worst plantation on the river. Neither threats nor bribes prevailed, however, and he retired, disappointed of his prey. The next morning, poor Cynthia told me what had past, and bewailed her sad fate with floods of tears. I comforted and encouraged her all I could; but I foresaw but too well what the result must be. Without entering into any farther particulars, suffice it to say that Walker performed his part of the contract, at that time. He took her back to St. Louis, established her as his mistress and housekeeper at his farm, and before I left, he had two children by her. But, mark the end! Since I have been at the North, I have been credibly informed that Walker has been married, and, as a previous measure, sold poor Cynthia and her four children (she having had two more since I came away) into hopeless bondage! He soon commenced purchasing to make up the third gang. We took steamboat, and went to Jefferson City, a town on the Missouri river. Here we landed, and took stage for the interior of the State. He bought a number of slaves as he passed the different farms and villages. After getting twenty-two or twenty-three men and women, we arrived at St. Charles, a village on the banks of the Missouri. Here he purchased a woman who had a child in her arms, appearing to be four or five weeks old. We had been travelling by land for some days, and were in hopes to have found a boat at this place for St. Louis, but were disappointed. As no boat was expected for some days, we started for St. Louis by land. Mr. Walker had purchased two horses. He rode one, and I the other. The slaves were chained together, and we took up our line of march, Mr. Walker taking the lead, and I bringing up the rear. Though the distance was not more than twenty miles, we did not reach it the first day. The road was worse than any that I have ever travelled. Soon after we left St. Charles, the young child grew very cross, and kept up a noise during the greater part of the day. Mr. Walker complained of its crying several times, and told the mother to stop the child's d----d noise, or he would. The woman tried to keep the child from crying, but could not. We put up at night with an acquaintance of Mr. Walker, and in the morning, just as we were about to start, the child again commenced crying. Walker stepped up to her, and told her to give the child to him. The mother tremblingly obeyed. He took the child by one arm, as you would a cat by the leg, walked into the house, and said to the lady, "Madam, I will make you a present of this little nigger; it keeps such a noise that I can't bear it." "Thank you, sir," said the lady. The mother, as soon as she saw that her child was to be left, ran up to Mr. Walker, and falling upon her knees begged him to let her have her child; she clung around his legs, and cried, "Oh, my child! my child! master, do let me have my child! oh, do, do, do. I will stop its crying, if you will only let me have it again." When I saw this woman crying for her child so piteously, a shudder,--a feeling akin to horror, shot through my frame. I have often since in imagination heard her crying for her child:-- "O, master, let me stay to catch My baby's sobbing breath, His little glassy eye to watch, And smooth his limbs in death, And cover him with grass and leaf, Beneath the large oak tree: It is not sullenness, but grief,-- O, master, pity me! The morn was chill--I spoke no word, But feared my babe might die, And heard all day, or thought I heard, My little baby cry. At noon, oh, how I ran and took My baby to my breast! I lingered--and the long lash broke My sleeping infant's rest. I worked till night--till darkest night, In torture and disgrace; Went home and watched till morning light, To see my baby's face. Then give me but one little hour-- O! do not lash me so! One little hour--one little hour-- And gratefully I'll go." Mr. Walker commanded her to return into the ranks with the other slaves. Women who had children were not chained, but those that had none were. As soon as her child was disposed of, she was chained in the gang. The following song I have often heard the slaves sing, when about to be carried to the far south. It is said to have been composed by a slave. "See these poor souls from Africa Transported to America; We are stolen, and sold to Georgia, Will you go along with me? We are stolen, and sold to Georgia, Come sound the jubilee! See wives and husbands sold apart, Their children's screams will break my heart;-- There's a better day a coming, Will you go along with me? There's a better day a coming, Go sound the jubilee! O, gracious Lord! when shall it be, That we poor souls shall all be free; Lord, break them slavery powers-- Will you go along with me? Lord break them slavery powers, Go sound the jubilee! Dear Lord, dear Lord, when slavery'll cease, Then we poor souls will have our peace;-- There's a better day a coming, Will you go along with me? There's a better day a coming, Go sound the jubilee!" We finally arrived at Mr. Walker's farm. He had a house built during our absence to put slaves in. It was a kind of domestic jail. The slaves were put in the jail at night, and worked on the farm during the day. They were kept here until the gang was completed, when we again started for New Orleans, on board the steamboat North America, Capt. Alexander Scott. We had a large number of slaves in this gang. One, by the name of Joe, Mr. Walker was training up to take my place, as my time was nearly out, and glad was I. We made our first stop at Vicksburg, where we remained one week and sold several slaves. Mr. Walker, though not a good master, had not flogged a slave since I had been with him, though he had threatened me. The slaves were kept in the pen, and he always put up at the best hotel, and kept his wines in his room, for the accommodation of those who called to negotiate with him for the purchase of slaves. One day while we were at Vicksburg, several gentlemen came to see him for this purpose, and as usual the wine was called for. I took the tray and started around with it, and having accidentally filled some of the glasses too full, the gentlemen spilled the wine on their clothes as they went to drink. Mr. Walker apologized to them for my carelessness, but looked at me as though he would see me again on this subject. After the gentlemen had left the room, he asked me what I meant by my carelessness, and said that he would attend to me. The next morning, he gave me a note to carry to the jailer, and a dollar in money to give to him. I suspected that all was not right, so I went down near the landing where I met with a sailor, and walking up to him, asked him if he would be so kind as to read the note for me. He read it over, and then looked at me. I asked him to tell me what was in it. Said he, "They are going to give you hell." "Why?" said I. He said, "This is a note to have you whipped, and says that you have a dollar to pay for it." He handed me back the note, and off I started. I knew not what to do, but was determined not to be whipped. I went up to the jail--took a look at it, and walked off again. As Mr. Walker was acquainted with the jailer, I feared that I should be found out if I did not go, and be treated in consequence of it still worse. While I was meditating on the subject, I saw a colored man about my size walk up, and the thought struck me in a moment to send him with my note. I walked up to him, and asked him who he belonged to. He said he was a free man, and had been in the city but a short time. I told him I had a note to go into the jail, and get a trunk to carry to one of the steamboats; but was so busily engaged that I could not do it, although I had a dollar to pay for it. He asked me if I would not give him the job. I handed him the note and the dollar, and off he started for the jail. I watched to see that he went in, and as soon as I saw the door close behind him, I walked around the corner, and took my station, intending to see how my friend looked when he came out. I had been there but a short time, when a colored man came around the corner, and said to another colored man with whom he was acquainted-- "They are giving a nigger scissors in the jail." "What for?" said the other. The man continued, "A nigger came into the jail, and asked for the jailer. The jailer came out, and he handed him a note, and said he wanted to get a trunk. The jailer told him to go with him, and he would give him the trunk. So he took him into the room, and told the nigger to give up the dollar. He said a man had given him the dollar to pay for getting the trunk. But that lie would not answer. So they made him strip himself, and then they tied him down, and are now whipping him." I stood by all the while listening to their talk, and soon found out that the person alluded to was my customer. I went into the street opposite the jail, and concealed myself in such a manner that I could not be seen by any one coming out. I had been there but a short time, when the young man made his appearance, and looked around for me. I, unobserved, came forth from my hiding-place, behind a pile of brick, and he pretty soon saw me and came up to me complaining bitterly, saying that I had played a trick upon him. I denied any knowledge of what the note contained, and asked him what they had done to him. He told me in substance what I heard the man tell who had come out of the jail. "Yes," said he, "they whipped me and took my dollar, and gave me this note." He showed me the note which the jailer had given him, telling him to give it to his master. I told him I would give him fifty cents for it,--that being all the money I had. He gave it to me, and took his money. He had received twenty lashes on his bare back, with the negro-whip. I took the note and started for the hotel where I had left Mr. Walker. Upon reaching the hotel, I handed it to a stranger whom I had not seen before, and requested him to read it to me. As near as I can recollect, it was as follows:-- "DEAR SIR:--By your direction, I have given your boy twenty lashes. He is a very saucy boy, and tried to make me believe that he did not belong to you, and I put it on to him well for lying to me. I remain, Your obedient servant." It is true that in most of the slave-holding cities, when a gentleman wishes his servants whipped, he can send him to the jail and have it done. Before I went in where Mr. Walker was, I wet my cheeks a little, as though I had been crying. He looked at me, and inquired what was the matter. I told him that I had never had such a whipping in my life, and handed him the note. He looked at it and laughed;--"and so you told him that you did not belong to me." "Yes, sir," said I. "I did not know that there was any harm in that." He told me I must behave myself, if I did not want to be whipped again. This incident shows how it is that slavery makes its victims lying and mean; for which vices it afterwards reproaches them, and uses them as arguments to prove that they deserve no better fate. I have often, since my escape, deeply regretted the deception I practised upon this poor fellow; and I heartily desire that it may be, at some time or other, in my power to make him amends for his vicarious sufferings in my behalf. CHAPTER VII. In a few days we reached New Orleans, and arriving there in the night, remained on board until morning. While at New Orleans this time, I saw a slave killed; an account of which has been published by Theodore D. Weld, in his book entitled, "Slavery as it is." The circumstances were as follows. In the evening, between seven and eight o'clock, a slave came running down the levee, followed by several men and boys. The whites were crying out, "Stop that nigger; stop that nigger;" while the poor panting slave, in almost breathless accents, was repeating, "I did not steal the meat--I did not steal the meat." The poor man at last took refuge in the river. The whites who were in pursuit of him, run on board of one of the boats to see if they could discover him. They finally espied him under the bow of the steamboat Trenton. They got a pike-pole, and tried to drive him from his hiding place. When they would strike at him, he would dive under the water. The water was so cold, that it soon became evident that he must come out or be drowned. While they were trying to drive him from under the bow of the boat or drown him, he would in broken and imploring accents say, "I did not steal the meat; I did not steal the meat. My master lives up the river. I want to see my master. I did not steal the meat. Do let me go home to master." After punching him, and striking him over the head for some time, he at last sunk in the water, to rise no more alive. On the end of the pike-pole with which they were striking him was a hook which caught in his clothing, and they hauled him up on the bow of the boat. Some said he was dead, others said he was "_playing possum_" while others kicked him to make him get up, but it was of no use--he was dead. As soon as they became satisfied of this, they commenced leaving, one after another. One of the hands on the boat informed the captain that they had killed the man, and that the dead body was lying on the deck. The captain came on deck, and said to those who were remaining, "You have killed this nigger; now take him off of my boat." The captain's name was Hart. The dead body was dragged on shore and left there. I went on board of the boat where our gang of slaves were, and during the whole night my mind was occupied with what I had seen. Early in the morning, I went on shore to see if the dead body remained there. I found it in the same position that it was left the night before. I watched to see what they would do with it. It was left there until between eight and nine o'clock, when a cart, which takes up the trash out of the streets, came along, and the body was thrown in, and in a few minutes more was covered over with dirt which they were removing from the streets. During the whole time, I did not see more than six or seven persons around it, who, from their manner, evidently regarded it as no uncommon occurrence. During our stay in the city, I met with a young white man with whom I was well acquainted in St. Louis. He had been sold into slavery, under the following circumstances. His father was a drunkard, and very poor, with a family of five or six children. The father died, and left the mother to take care of and provide for the children as best she might. The eldest was a boy, named Burrill, about thirteen years of age, who did chores in a store kept by Mr. Riley, to assist his mother in procuring a living for the family. After working with him two years, Mr. Riley took him to New Orleans to wait on him while in that city on a visit, and when he returned to St. Louis, he told the mother of the boy that he had died with the yellow fever. Nothing more was heard from him, no one supposing him to be alive. I was much astonished when Burrill told me his story. Though I sympathized with him, I could not assist him. We were both slaves. He was poor, uneducated, and without friends; and if living, is, I presume, still held as a slave. After selling out this cargo of human flesh, we returned to St. Louis, and my time was up with Mr. Walker. I had served him one year, and it was the longest year I ever lived. CHAPTER VIII. I was sent home, and was glad enough to leave the service of one who was tearing the husband from the wife, the child from the mother, and the sister from the brother,--but a trial more severe and heart-rending than any which I had yet met with awaited me. My dear sister had been sold to a man who was going to Natchez, and was lying in jail awaiting the hour of his departure. She had expressed her determination to die, rather than go to the far south, and she was put in jail for safe keeping. I went to the jail the same day that I arrived, but as the jailor was not in, I could not see her. I went home to my master, in the country, and the first day after my return, he came where I was at work, and spoke to me very politely. I knew from his appearance that something was the matter. After talking about my several journeys to New Orleans with Mr. Walker, he told me that he was hard pressed for money, and as he had sold my mother and all her children except me, he thought it would be better to sell me than any other one, and that as I had been used to living in the city, he thought it probable that I would prefer it to a country life. I raised up my head, and looked him full in the face. When my eyes caught his, he immediately looked to the ground. After a short pause, I said, "Master, mother has often told me that you are a near relative of mine, and I have often heard you admit the fact; and after you have hired me out, and received, as I once heard you say, nine hundred dollars for my services,--after receiving this large sum, will you sell me to be carried to New Orleans or some other place?" "No," said he, "I do not intend to sell you to a negro trader. If I had wished to have done that, I might have sold you to Mr. Walker for a large sum, but I would not sell you to a negro trader. You may go to the city, and find you a good master." "But," said I, "I cannot find a good master in the whole city of St. Louis." "Why?" said he. "Because there are no good masters in the State." "Do you not call me a good master?" "If you were, you would not sell me." "Now I will give you one week to find a master in, and surely you can do it in that time." The price set by my evangelical master upon my soul and body was the trifling sum of five hundred dollars. I tried to enter into some arrangement by which I might purchase my freedom; but he would enter into no such arrangement. I set out for the city with the understanding that I was to return in a week with some one to become my new master. Soon after reaching the city, I went to the jail, to learn if I could once more see my sister; but could not gain admission. I then went to mother, and learned from her that the owner of my sister intended to start for Natchez in a few days. I went to the jail again the next day, and Mr. Simonds, the keeper, allowed me to see my sister for the last time. I cannot give a just description of the scene at that parting interview. Never, never can be erased from my heart the occurrences of that day! When I entered the room where she was, she was seated in one corner, alone. There were four other women in the same room, belonging to the same man. He had purchased them, he said, for his own use. She was seated with her face towards the door where I entered, yet she did not look up until I walked up to her. As soon as she observed me, she sprung up, threw her arms around my neck, leaned her head upon my breast, and, without uttering a word, burst into tears. As soon as she recovered herself sufficiently to speak, she advised me to take mother, and try to get out of slavery. She said there was no hope for herself,--that she must live and die a slave. After giving her some advice, and taking from my finger a ring and placing it upon hers, I bade her farewell forever, and returned to my mother, and then and there made up my mind to leave for Canada as soon as possible. I had been in the city nearly two days, and as I was to be absent only a week, I thought best to get on my journey as soon as possible. In conversing with mother, I found her unwilling to make the attempt to reach a land of liberty, but she counselled me to get my liberty if I could. She said, as all her children were in slavery, she did not wish to leave them. I could not bear the idea of leaving her among those pirates, when there was a prospect of being able to get away from them. After much persuasion, I succeeded in inducing her to make the attempt to get away. The time fixed for our departure was the next night. I had with me a little money that I had received, from time to time, from gentlemen for whom I had done errands. I took my scanty means and purchased some dried beef, crackers and cheese, which I carried to mother, who had provided herself with a bag to carry it in. I occasionally thought of my old master, and of my mission to the city to find a new one. I waited with the most intense anxiety for the appointed time to leave the land of slavery, in search of a land of liberty. The time at length arrived, and we left the city just as the clock struck nine. We proceeded to the upper part of the city, where I had been two or three times during the day, and selected a skiff to carry us across the river. The boat was not mine, nor did I know to whom it did belong; neither did I care. The boat was fastened with a small pole, which, with the aid of a rail, I soon loosened from its moorings. After hunting round and finding a board to use as an oar, I turned to the city, and bidding it a long farewell, pushed off my boat. The current running very swift, we had not reached the middle of the stream before we were directly opposite the city. We were soon upon the Illinois shore, and, leaping from the boat, turned it adrift, and the last I saw of it, it was going down the river at good speed. We took the main road to Alton, and passed through just at daylight, when we made for the woods, where we remained during the day. Our reason for going into the woods was, that we expected that Mr. Mansfield (the man who owned my mother) would start in pursuit of her as soon as he discovered that she was missing. He also knew that I had been in the city looking for a new master, and we thought probably he would go out to my master's to see if he could find my mother, and in so doing, Dr. Young might be led to suspect that I had gone to Canada to find a purchaser. We remained in the woods during the day, and as soon as darkness overshadowed the earth, we started again on our gloomy way, having no guide but the north star. We continued to travel by night, and secrete ourselves in woods by day; and every night, before emerging from our hiding-place, we would anxiously look for our friend and leader,--the NORTH STAR. CHAPTER IX. As we travelled towards a land of liberty, my heart would at times leap for joy. At other times, being, as I was, almost constantly on my feet, I felt as though I could travel no further. But when I thought of slavery with its Democratic whips--its Republican chains--its evangelical blood-hounds, and its religious slave-holders--when I thought of all this paraphernalia of American Democracy and Religion behind me, and the prospect of liberty before me, I was encouraged to press forward, my heart was strengthened, and I forgot that I was tired or hungry. On the eighth day of our journey, we had a very heavy rain, and in a few hours after it commenced, we had not a dry thread upon our bodies. This made our journey still more unpleasant. On the tenth day, we found ourselves entirely destitute of provisions, and how to obtain any we could not tell. We finally resolved to stop at some farmhouse, and try to get something to eat. We had no sooner determined to do this, than we went to a house, and asked them for some food. We were treated with great kindness, and they not only gave us something to eat, but gave us provisions to carry with us. They advised us to travel by day, and lye by at night. Finding ourselves about one hundred and fifty miles from St. Louis, we concluded that it would be safe to travel by daylight, and did not leave the house until the next morning. We travelled on that day through a thickly settled country, and through one small village. Though we were fleeing from a land of oppression, our hearts were still there. My dear sister and two beloved brothers were behind us, and the idea of giving them up, and leaving them forever, made us feel sad. But with all this depression of heart, the thought that I should one day be free, and call my body my own, buoyed me up, and made my heart leap for joy. I had just been telling mother how I should try to get employment as soon as we reached Canada, and how I intended to purchase us a little farm, and how I would earn money enough to buy sister and brothers, and how happy we would be in our own Free Home,--when three men came up on horseback, and ordered us to stop. I turned to the one who appeared to be the principal man, and asked him what he wanted. He said he had a warrant to take us up. The three immediately dismounted, and one took from his pocket a handbill, advertising us as runaways, and offering a reward of two hundred dollars for our apprehension, and delivery in the city of St. Louis. The advertisement had been put out by Isaac Mansfield and John Young. While they were reading the advertisement, mother looked me in the face, and burst into tears. A cold chill ran over me, and such a sensation I never experienced before, and I hope never to again. They took out a rope and tied me, and we were taken back about six miles, to the house of the individual who appeared to be the leader. We reached there about seven o'clock in the evening, had supper, and were separated for the night. Two men remained in the room during the night. Before the family retired to rest, they were all called together to attend prayers. The man who but a few hours before had bound my hands together with a strong cord, read a chapter from the Bible, and then offered up prayer, just as though God sanctioned the act he had just committed upon a poor panting, fugitive slave. The next morning, a blacksmith came in, and put a pair of handcuffs on me, and we started on our journey back to the land of whips, chains and Bibles. Mother was not tied, but was closely watched at night. We were carried back in a wagon, and after four days travel, we came in sight of St. Louis. I cannot describe my feelings upon approaching the city. As we were crossing the ferry, Mr. Wiggins, the owner of the ferry, came up to me, and inquired what I had been doing that I was in chains. He had not heard that I had run away. In a few minutes, we were on the Missouri side, and were taken directly to the jail. On the way thither, I saw several of my friends, who gave me a nod of recognition as I passed them. After reaching the jail, we were locked up in different apartments. CHAPTER X. I had been in jail but a short time when I heard that my master was sick, and nothing brought more joy to my heart than that intelligence. I prayed fervently for him--not for his recovery, but for his death. I knew he would be exasperated at having to pay for my apprehension, and knowing his cruelty, I feared him. While in jail, I learned that my sister Elizabeth, who was in prison when we left the city, had been carried off four days before our arrival. I had been in jail but a few hours when three negro-traders, learning that I was secured thus for running away, came to my prison-house and looked at me, expecting that I would be offered for sale. Mr. Mansfield, the man who owned mother, came into the jail as soon as Mr. Jones, the man who arrested us, informed him that he had brought her back. He told her that he would not whip her, but would sell her to a negro-trader, or take her to New Orleans himself. After being in jail about one week, master sent a man to take me out of jail, and send me home. I was taken out and carried home, and the old man was well enough to sit up. He had me brought into the room where he was, and as I entered, he asked me where I had been? I told I had acted according to his orders. He had told me to look for a master, and I had been to look for one. He answered that he did not tell me to go to Canada to look for a master. I told him that as I had served him faithfully, and had been the means of putting a number of hundreds of dollars into his pocket, I thought I had a right to my liberty. He said he had promised my father that I should not be sold to supply the New Orleans market, or he would sell me to a negro-trader. I was ordered to go into the field to work, and was closely watched by the overseer during the day, and locked up at night. The overseer gave me a severe whipping on the second day that I was in the field. I had been at home but a short time, when master was able to ride to the city; and on his return, he informed me that he had sold me to Samuel Willi, a merchant tailor. I knew Mr. Willi. I had lived with him three or four months some years before, when he hired me of my master. Mr. Willi was not considered by his servants as a very bad man, nor was he the best of masters. I went to my new home, and found my new mistress very glad to see me. Mr. Willi owned two servants before he purchased me,--Robert and Charlotte. Robert was an excellent white-washer, and hired his time from his master, paying him one dollar per day, besides taking care of himself. He was known in the city by the name of Bob Music. Charlotte was an old woman, who attended to the cooking, washing, &c. Mr. Willi was not a wealthy man, and did not feel able to keep many servants around his house; so he soon decided to hire me out, and as I had been accustomed to service in steamboats, he gave me the privilege of finding such employment. I soon secured a situation on board the steamer Otto, Capt. J.B. Hill, which sailed from St. Louis to Independence, Missouri. My former master, Dr. Young, did not let Mr. Willi know that I had run away, or he would not have permitted me to go on board a steamboat. The boat was not quite ready to commence running, and therefore I had to remain with Mr. Willi. But during this time, I had to undergo a trial, for which I was entirely unprepared. My mother, who had been in jail since her return until the present time, was now about being carried to New Orleans, to die on a cotton, sugar, or rice plantation! I had been several times to the jail, but could obtain no interview with her. I ascertained, however, the time the boat in which she was to embark would sail, and as I had not seen mother since her being thrown into prison, I felt anxious for the hour of sailing to come. At last, the day arrived when I was to see her for the first time after our painful separation, and, for aught that I knew, for the last time in this world! At about ten o'clock in the morning I went on board of the boat, and found her there in company with fifty or sixty other slaves. She was chained to another woman. On seeing me, she immediately dropped her head upon her heaving bosom. She moved not, neither did she weep. Her emotions were too deep for tears. I approached, threw my arms around her neck, kissed her, and fell upon my knees, begging her forgiveness, for I thought myself to blame for her sad condition; for if I had not persuaded her to accompany me, she would not then have been in chains. She finally raised her head, looked me in the face, (and such a look none but an angel can give!) and said, "_My dear son, you are not to blame for my being here. You have done nothing more nor less than your duty. Do not, I pray you, weep for me. I cannot last long upon a cotton plantation. I feel that my heavenly master will soon call me home, and then I shall be out of the hands of the slave-holders!_" I could bear no more--my heart struggled to free itself from the human form. In a moment she saw Mr. Mansfield coming toward that part of the boat, and she whispered into my ear, "_My child, we must soon part to meet no more this side of the grave. You have ever said that you would not die a slave; that you would be a freeman. Now try to get your liberty! You will soon have no one to look after but yourself!_" and just as she whispered the last sentence into my ear, Mansfield came up to me, and with an oath, said, "Leave here this instant; you have been the means of my losing one hundred dollars to get this wench back,"--at the same time kicking me with a heavy pair of boots. As I left her, she gave one shriek, saying, "God be with you!" It was the last time that I saw her, and the last word I heard her utter. I walked on shore. The bell was tolling. The boat was about to start. I stood with a heavy heart, waiting to see her leave the wharf. As I thought of my mother, I could but feel that I had lost "--the glory of my life, My blessing and my pride! I half forgot the name of slave, When she was by my side." CHAPTER XI. The love of liberty that had been burning in my bosom, had well nigh gone out. I felt as though I was ready to die. The boat moved gently from the wharf, and while she glided down the river, I realized that my mother was indeed "Gone,--gone,--sold and gone, To the rice swamp dank and lone!" After the boat was out of sight, I returned home; but my thoughts were so absorbed in what I had witnessed, that I knew not what I was about half of the time. Night came, but it brought no sleep to my eyes. In a few days, the boat upon which I was to work being ready, I went on board to commence. This employment suited me better than living in the city, and I remained until the close of navigation; though it proved anything but pleasant. The captain was a drunken, profligate, hard-hearted creature, not knowing how to treat himself, or any other person. The boat, on its second trip, brought down Mr. Walker, the man of whom I have spoken in a previous chapter, as hiring my time. He had between one and two hundred slaves, chained and manacled. Among them was a man that formerly belonged to my old master's brother, Aaron Young. His name was Solomon. He was a preacher, and belonged to the same church with his master. I was glad to see the old man. He wept like a child when he told me how he had been sold from his wife and children. The boat carried down, while I remained on board, four or five gangs of slaves. Missouri, though a comparatively new State, is very much engaged in raising slaves to supply the southern market. In a former chapter, I have mentioned that I was once in the employ of a slave-trader, or driver, as he is called at the south. For fear that some may think that I have misrepresented a slave-driver, I will here give an extract from a paper published in a slaveholding State, Tennessee, called the "Millennial Trumpeter." "Droves of negroes, chained together in dozens and scores, and hand-cuffed, have been driven through our country in numbers far surpassing any previous year, and these vile slave-drivers and dealers are swarming like buzzards around a carrion. Through this county, you cannot pass a few miles in the great roads without having every feeling of humanity insulted and lacerated by this spectacle, nor can you go into any county or any neighborhood, scarcely, without seeing or hearing of some of these despicable creatures, called negro-drivers. "Who is a negro-driver? One whose eyes dwell with delight on lacerated bodies of helpless men, women and children; whose soul feels diabolical raptures at the chains, and handcuffs, and cart-whips, for inflicting tortures on weeping mothers torn from helpless babes, and on husbands and wives torn asunder forever!" Dark and revolting as is the picture here drawn, it is from the pen of one living in the midst of slavery. But though these men may cant about negro-drivers, and tell what despicable creatures they are, who is it, I ask, that supplies them with the human beings that they are tearing asunder? I answer, as far as I have any knowledge of the State where I came from, that those who raise slaves for the market are to be found among all classes, from Thomas H. Benton down to the lowest political demagogue, who may be able to purchase a woman for the purpose of raising stock, and from the Doctor of Divinity down to the most humble lay member in the church. It was not uncommon in St. Louis to pass by an auction-stand, and behold a woman upon the auction-block, and hear the seller crying out, "_How much is offered for this woman? She is a good cook, good washer, a good obedient servant. She has got religion!_" Why should this man tell the purchasers that she has religion? I answer, because in Missouri, and as far as I have any knowledge of slavery in the other States, the religious teaching consists in teaching the slave that he must never strike a white man; that God made him for a slave; and that, when whipped, he must not find fault,--for the Bible says, "He that knoweth his master's will, and doeth it not, shall be beaten with many stripes!" And slaveholders find such religion very profitable to them. After leaving the steamer Otto, I resided at home, in Mr. Willi's family, and again began to lay my plans for making my escape from slavery. The anxiety to be a freeman would not let me rest day or night. I would think of the northern cities that I had heard so much about;--of Canada, where so many of my acquaintances had found refuge. I would dream at night that I was in Canada, a freeman, and on waking in the morning, weep to find myself so sadly mistaken. "I would think of Victoria's domain, And in a moment I seemed to be there! But the fear of being taken again, Soon hurried me back to despair." Mr. Willi treated me better than Dr. Young ever had; but instead of making me contented and happy, it only rendered me the more miserable, for it enabled me better to appreciate liberty. Mr. Willi was a man who loved money as most men do, and without looking for an opportunity to sell me, he found one in the offer of Captain Enoch Price, a steamboat owner and commission merchant, living in the city of St. Louis. Captain Price tendered seven hundred dollars, which was two hundred more than Mr. Willi had paid. He therefore thought best to accept the offer. I was wanted for a carriage driver, and Mrs. Price was very much pleased with the captain's bargain. His family consisted besides of one child. He had three servants besides myself--one man and two women. Mrs. Price was very proud of her servants, always keeping them well dressed, and as soon as I had been purchased, she resolved to have a new carriage. And soon one was procured, and all preparations were made for a turn-out in grand style, I being the driver. One of the female servants was a girl some eighteen or twenty years of age, named Maria. Mrs. Price was very soon determined to have us united, if she could so arrange matters. She would often urge upon me the necessity of having a wife, saying that it would be so pleasant for me to take one in the same family! But getting married, while in slavery, was the last of my thoughts; and had I been ever so inclined, I should not have married Maria, as my love had already gone in another quarter. Mrs. Price soon found out that her efforts at this match-making between Maria and myself would not prove successful. She also discovered (or thought she had) that I was rather partial to a girl named Eliza, who was owned by Dr. Mills. This induced her at once to endeavor the purchase of Eliza, so great was her desire to get me a wife! Before making the attempt, however, she deemed it best to talk to me a little upon the subject of love, courtship, and marriage. Accordingly one afternoon she called me into her room--telling me to take a chair and sit down. I did so, thinking it rather strange, for servants are not very often asked thus to sit down in the same room with the master or mistress. She said that she had found out that I did not care enough about Maria to marry her. I told her that was true. She then asked me if there was not a girl in the city that I loved. Well, now, this was coming into too close quarters with me! People, generally, don't like to tell their love stories to everybody that may think fit to ask about them, and it was so with me. But, after blushing awhile and recovering myself, I told her that I did not want a wife. She then asked me, if I did not think something of Eliza. I told her that I did. She then said that if I wished to marry Eliza, she would purchase her if she could. I gave but little encouragement to this proposition, as I was determined to make another trial to get my liberty, and I knew that if I should have a wife, I should not be willing to leave her behind; and if I should attempt to bring her with me, the chances would be difficult for success. However, Eliza was purchased, and brought into the family. CHAPTER XII. But the more I thought of the trap laid by Mrs. Price to make me satisfied with my new home, by getting me a wife, the more I determined never to marry any woman on earth until I should get my liberty. But this secret I was compelled to keep to myself, which placed me in a very critical position. I must keep upon good terms with Mrs. Price and Eliza. I therefore promised Mrs. Price that I would marry Eliza; but said that I was not then ready. And I had to keep upon good terms with Eliza, for fear that Mrs. Price would find out that I did not intend to get married. I have here spoken of marriage, and it is very common among slaves themselves to talk of it. And it is common for slaves to be married; or at least have the marriage ceremony performed. But there is no such thing as slaves being lawfully married. There has never yet a case occurred where a slave has been tried for bigamy. The man may have as many women as he wishes, and the women as many men; and the law takes no cognizance of such acts among slaves. And in fact some masters, when they have sold the husband from the wife, compel her to take another. There lived opposite Captain Price's, Doctor Farrar, well known in St. Louis. He sold a man named Ben, to one of the traders. He also owned Ben's wife, and in a few days he compelled Sally (that was her name) to marry Peter, another man belonging to him. I asked Sally "why she married Peter so soon after Ben was sold." She said, "because master made her do it." Mr. John Calvert, who resided near our place, had a woman named Lavinia. She was quite young, and a man to whom she was about to be married was sold, and carried into the country near St. Charles, about twenty miles from St. Louis. Mr. Calvert wanted her to get a husband; but she had resolved not to marry any other man, and she refused. Mr. Calvert whipped her in such a manner that it was thought she would die. Some of the citizens had him arrested, but it was soon hushed up. And that was the last of it. The woman did not die, but it would have been the same if she had. Captain Price purchased me in the month of October, and I remained with him until December, when the family made a voyage to New Orleans, in a boat owned by himself, and named the "Chester." I served on board, as one of the stewards. On arriving at New Orleans, about the middle of the month, the boat took in freight for Cincinnati; and it was decided that the family should go up the river in her, and what was of more interest to me, I was to accompany them. The long looked for opportunity to make my escape from slavery was near at hand. Captain Price had some fears as to the propriety of taking me near a free State, or a place where it was likely I could run away, with a prospect of liberty. He asked me if I had ever been in a free State. "Oh yes," said I, "I have been in Ohio; my master carried me into that State once, but I never liked a free State." It was soon decided that it would be safe to take me with them, and what made it more safe, Eliza was on the boat with us, and Mrs. Price, to try me, asked if I thought as much as ever of Eliza. I told her that Eliza was very dear to me indeed, and that nothing but death should part us. It was the same as if we were married. This had the desired effect. The boat left New Orleans, and proceeded up the river. I had at different times obtained little sums of money, which I had reserved for a "rainy day." I procured some cotton cloth, and made me a bag to carry provisions in. The trials of the past were all lost in hopes for the future. The love of liberty, that had been burning in my bosom for years, and had been well nigh extinguished, was now resuscitated. At night, when all around was peaceful, I would walk the decks, meditating upon my happy prospects. I should have stated, that before leaving St. Louis, I went to an old man named Frank, a slave, owned by a Mr. Sarpee. This old man was very distinguished (not only among the slave population, but also the whites) as a fortune-teller. He was about seventy years of age, something over six feet high, and very slender. Indeed, he was so small around his body that it looked as though it was not strong enough to hold up his head. Uncle Frank was a very great favorite with the young ladies, who would go to him in great numbers to get their fortunes told. And it was generally believed that he could really penetrate into the mysteries of futurity. Whether true or not, he had the name, and that is about half of what one needs in this gullible age. I found Uncle Frank seated in the chimney corner, about ten o'clock at night. As soon as I entered, the old man left his seat. I watched his movement as well as I could by the dim light of the fire. He soon lit a lamp, and coming up, looked me full in the face, saying, "Well, my son, you have come to get uncle to tell your fortune, have you?" "Yes," said I. But how the old man should know what I had come for, I could not tell. However, I paid the fee of twenty-five cents, and he commenced by looking into a gourd, filled with water. Whether the old man was a prophet, or the son of a prophet, I cannot say; but there is one thing certain, many of his predictions were verified. I am no believer in soothsaying; yet I am sometimes at a loss to know how Uncle Frank could tell so accurately what would occur in the future. Among the many things he told was one which was enough to pay me for all the trouble of hunting him up. It was that I should be free! He further said, that in trying to get my liberty, I would meet with many severe trials. I thought to myself, any fool could tell me that! The first place in which we landed in a free State was Cairo, a small village at the mouth of the Ohio river. We remained here but a few hours, when we proceeded to Louisville. After unloading some of the cargo, the boat started on her upward trip. The next day was the first of January. I had looked forward to New Year's day as the commencement of a new era in the history of my life. I had decided upon leaving the peculiar institution that day. During the last night that I served in slavery, I did not close my eyes a single moment. When not thinking of the future, my mind dwelt on the past. The love of a dear mother, a dear sister, and three dear brothers, yet living, caused me to shed many tears. If I could only have been assured of their being dead, I should have felt satisfied; but I imagined I saw my dear mother in the cotton-field, followed by a merciless taskmaster, and no one to speak a consoling word to her! I beheld my dear sister in the hands of a slave-driver, and compelled to submit to his cruelty! None but one placed in such a situation can for a moment imagine the intense agony to which these reflections subjected me. CHAPTER XIII. At the time for action arrived. The boat landed at a point which appeared to me the place of all others to start from. I found that it would be impossible to carry anything with me, but what was upon my person. I had some provisions, and a single suit of clothes, about half worn. When the boat was discharging her cargo, and the passengers engaged carrying their baggage on and off shore, I improved the opportunity to convey myself with my little effects on land. Taking up a trunk, I went up the wharf, and was soon out of the crowd. I made directly for the woods, where I remained until night knowing well that I could not travel, even in the State of Ohio, during the day, without danger of being arrested. I had long since made up my mind that I would not trust myself in the hands of any man, white or colored. The slave is brought up to look upon every white man as an enemy to him and his race; and twenty-one years in slavery had taught me that there were traitors, even among colored people. After dark, I emerged from the woods into a narrow path, which led me into the main travelled road. But I knew not which way to go. I did not know North from South, East from West. I looked in vain for the North Star; a heavy cloud hid it from my view. I walked up and down the road until near midnight, when the clouds disappeared, and I welcomed the sight of my friend,--truly the slave's friend,--the North Star! As soon as I saw it, I knew my course, and before daylight I travelled twenty or twenty-five miles. It being in the winter, I suffered intensely from the cold; being without an overcoat, and my other clothes rather thin for the season. I was provided with a tinder-box, so that I could make up a fire when necessary. And but for this, I should certainly have frozen to death; for I was determined not to go to any house for shelter. I knew of a man belonging to Gen. Ashly, of St. Louis, who had run away near Cincinnati, on the way to Washington, but had been caught and carried back into slavery; and I felt that a similar fate awaited me, should I be seen by any one. I travelled at night, and lay by during the day. On the fourth day, my provisions gave out, and then what to do I could not tell. Have something to eat, I must; but how to get it was the question! On the first night after my food was gone, I went to a barn on the road-side, and there found some ears of corn. I took ten or twelve of them, and kept on my journey. During the next day, while in the woods, I roasted my corn and feasted upon it, thanking God that I was so well provided for. My escape to a land of freedom now appeared certain, and the prospects of the future occupied a great part of my thoughts. What should be my occupation, was a subject of much anxiety to me; and the next thing what should be my name? I have before stated that my old master, Dr. Young, had no children of his own, but had with him a nephew, the son of his brother, Benjamin Young. When this boy was brought to Doctor Young, his name being William, the same as mine, my mother was ordered to change mine to something else. This, at the time, I thought to be one of the most cruel acts that could be committed upon my rights; and I received several very severe whippings for telling people that my name was William, after orders were given to change it. Though young, I was old enough to place a high appreciation upon my name. It was decided, however, to call me "Sandford," and this name I was known by, not only upon my master's plantation, but up to the time that I made my escape. I was sold under the name of Sandford. But as soon as the subject came to my mind, I resolved on adopting my old name of William, and let Sandford go by the board, for I always hated it. Not because there was anything peculiar in the name; but because it had been forced upon me. It is sometimes common at the south, for slaves to take the name of their masters. Some have a legitimate right to do so. But I always detested the idea of being called by the name of either of my masters. And as for my father, I would rather have adopted the name of "Friday," and been known as the servant of some Robinson Crusoe, than to have taken his name. So I was not only hunting for my liberty, but also hunting for a name; though I regarded the latter as of little consequence, if I could but gain the former. Travelling along the road, I would sometimes speak to myself, sounding my name over, by way of getting used to it, before I should arrive among civilized human beings. On the fifth or sixth day, it rained very fast, and it froze about as fast as it fell, so that my clothes were one glare of ice. I travelled on at night until I became so chilled and benumbed--the wind blowing into my face--that I found it impossible to go any further, and accordingly took shelter in a barn, where I was obliged to walk about to keep from freezing. I have ever looked upon that night as the most eventful part of my escape from slavery. Nothing but the providence of God, and that old barn, saved me from freezing to death. I received a very severe cold, which settled upon my lungs, and from time to time my feet had been frost-bitten, so that it was with difficulty I could walk. In this situation I travelled two days, when I found that I must seek shelter somewhere, or die. The thought of death was nothing frightful to me, compared with that of being caught, and again carried back into slavery. Nothing but the prospect of enjoying liberty could have induced me to undergo such trials, for "Behind I left the whips and chains, Before me were sweet Freedom's plains!" This, and this alone, cheered me onward. But I at last resolved to seek protection from the inclemency of the weather, and therefore I secured myself behind some logs and brush, intending to wait there until some one should pass by; for I thought it probable that I might see some colored person, or, if not, some one who was not a slaveholder; for I had an idea that I should know a slaveholder as far as I could see him. CHAPTER XIV. The first person that passed was a man in a buggy-wagon. He looked too genteel for me to hail him. Very soon, another passed by on horseback. I attempted speaking to him, but fear made my voice fail me. As he passed, I left my hiding-place, and was approaching the road, when I observed an old man walking towards me, leading a white horse. He had on a broad-brimmed hat and a very long coat, and was evidently walking for exercise. As soon as I saw him, and observed his dress, I thought to myself, "You are the man that I have been looking for!" Nor was I mistaken. He was the very man! On approaching me, he asked me, "if I was not a slave." I looked at him some time, and then asked him "if he knew of any one who would help me, as I was sick." He answered that he would; but again asked, if I was not a slave. I told him I was. He then said that I was in a very pro-slavery neighborhood, and if I would wait until he went home, he would get a covered wagon for me. I promised to remain. He mounted his horse, and was soon out of sight. After he was gone, I meditated whether to wait or not; being apprehensive that he had gone for some one to arrest me. But I finally concluded to remain until he should return; removing some few rods to watch his movements. After a suspense of an hour and a half or more, he returned with a two horse covered-wagon, such as are usually seen under the shed of a Quaker meeting-house on Sundays and Thursdays; for the old man proved to be a Quaker of the George Fox stamp. He took me to his house, but it was some time before I could be induced to enter it; not until the old lady came out, did I venture into the house. I thought I saw something in the old lady's cap that told me I was not only safe, but welcome, in her house. I was not, however, prepared to receive their hospitalities. The only fault I found with them was their being too kind. I had never had a white man to treat me as an equal, and the idea of a white lady waiting on me at the table was still worse! Though the table was loaded with the good things of this life, I could not eat. I thought if I could only be allowed the privilege of eating in the kitchen, I should be more than satisfied! Finding that I could not eat, the old lady, who was a "Thompsonian," made me a cup of "composition," or "number six;" but it was so strong and hot, that I called it "_number seven_!" However, I soon found myself at home in this family. On different occasions, when telling these facts, I have been asked how I felt upon finding myself regarded as a man by a white family; especially just having run away from one. I cannot say that I have ever answered the question yet. The fact that I was in all probability a freeman, sounded in my ears like a charm. I am satisfied that none but a slave could place such an appreciation upon liberty as I did at that time. I wanted to see mother and sister, that I might tell them "I was free!" I wanted to see my fellow slaves in St. Louis, and let them know that the chains were no longer upon my limbs. I wanted to see Captain Price, and let him learn from my own lips that I was no more a chattel, but a man! I was anxious, too, thus to inform Mrs. Price that she must get another coachman. And I wanted to see Eliza more than I did either Mr. or Mrs. Price! The fact that I was a freeman--could walk, talk, eat and sleep as a man, and no one to stand over me with the blood-clotted cowhide--all this made me feel that I was not myself. The kind friend that had taken me in was named Wells Brown. He was a devoted friend of the slave; but was very old, and not in the enjoyment of good health. After being by the fire awhile, I found that my feet had been very much frozen. I was seized with a fever which threatened to confine me to my bed. But my Thompsonian friends soon raised me, treating me as kindly as if I had been one of their own children. I remained with them twelve or fifteen days, during which time they made me some clothing, and the old gentleman purchased me a pair of boots. I found that I was about fifty or sixty miles from Dayton, in the State of Ohio, and between one and two hundred miles from Cleaveland, on lake Erie, a place I was desirous of reaching on my way to Canada. This I know will sound strangely to the ears of people in foreign lands, but it is nevertheless true. An American citizen was fleeing from a Democratic, Republican, Christian government, to receive protection under the monarchy of Great Britain. While the people of the United States boast of their freedom, they at the same time keep three millions of their own citizens in chains; and while I am seated here in sight of Bunker Hill Monument, writing this narrative, I am a slave, and no law, not even in Massachusetts, can protect me from the hands of the slaveholder! Before leaving this good Quaker friend, he inquired what my name was besides William. I told him that I had no other name. "Well," said he, "thee must have another name. Since thee has got out of slavery, thee has become a man, and men always have two names." I told him that he was the first man to extend the hand of friendship to me, and I would give him the privilege of naming me. "If I name thee," said he, "I shall call thee Wells Brown, after myself." "But," said I, "I am not willing to lose my name of William. As it was taken from me once against my will, I am not willing to part with it again upon any terms." "Then," said he, "I will call thee William Wells Brown." "So be it," said I; and I have been known by that name ever since I left the house of my first white friend, Wells Brown. After giving me some little change, I again started for Canada. In four days I reached a public house, and went in to warm myself. I there learned that some fugitive slaves had just passed through the place. The men in the bar-room were talking about it, and I thought that it must have been myself they referred to, and I was therefore afraid to start, fearing they would seize me; but I finally mustered courage enough, and took my leave. As soon as I was out of sight, I went into the woods, and remained there until night, when I again regained the road, and travelled on until the next day. Not having had any food for nearly two days, I was faint with hunger, and was in a dilemma what to do, as the little cash supplied me by my adopted father, and which had contributed to my comfort, was now all gone. I however concluded to go to a farm-house, and ask for something to eat. On approaching the door of the first one presenting itself, I knocked, and was soon met by a man who asked me what I wanted. I told him that I would like something to eat. He asked where I was from, and where I was going. I replied that I had come some way, and was going to Cleaveland. After hesitating a moment or two, he told me that he could give me nothing to eat, adding, "that if I would work, I could get something to eat." I felt bad, being thus refused something to sustain nature, but did not dare tell him that I was a slave. Just as I was leaving the door, with a heavy heart, a woman, who proved to be the wife of this gentleman, came to the door, and asked her husband what I wanted? He did not seem inclined to inform her. She therefore asked me herself. I told her that I had asked for something to eat. After a few other questions, she told me to come in, and that she would give me something to eat. I walked up to the door, but the husband remained in the passage, as if unwilling to let me enter. She asked him two or three times to get out of the way, and let me in. But as he did not move, she pushed him on one side, bidding me walk in! I was never before so glad to see a woman push a man aside! Ever since that act, I have been in favor of "woman's rights!" After giving me as much food as I could eat, she presented me with ten cents, all the money then at her disposal, accompanied with a note to a friend, a few miles further on the road. Thanking this angel of mercy from an overflowing heart, I pushed on my way, and in three days arrived at Cleaveland, Ohio. Being an entire stranger in this place, it was difficult for me to find where to stop. I had no money, and the lake being frozen, I saw that I must remain until the opening of navigation, or go to Canada by way of Buffalo. But believing myself to be somewhat out of danger, I secured an engagement at the Mansion House, as a table waiter, in payment for my board. The proprietor, however, whose name was E.M. Segur, in a short time, hired me for twelve dollars per month; on which terms I remained until spring, when I found good employment on board a lake steamboat. I purchased some books, and at leisure moments perused them with considerable advantage to myself. While at Cleaveland, I saw, for the first time, an anti-slavery newspaper. It was the "Genius of Universal Emancipation" published by Benjamin Lundy, and though I had no home, I subscribed for the paper. It was my great desire, being out of slavery myself, to do what I could for the emancipation of my brethren yet in chains, and while on Lake Erie, I found many opportunities of "helping their cause along." It is well known, that a great number of fugitives make their escape to Canada, by way of Cleaveland; and while on the lake, I always made arrangement to carry them on the boat to Buffalo or Detroit, and thus effect their escape to the "promised land." The friends of the slave, knowing that I would transport them without charge, never failed to have a delegation when the boat arrived at Cleaveland. I have sometimes had four or five on board, at one time. In the year 1842, I conveyed, from the first of May to the first of December, sixty-nine fugitives over Lake Erie to Canada. In 1843, I visited Maiden, in Upper Canada, and counted seventeen, in that small village, who owed their escape to my humble efforts. Soon after coming North, I subscribed for the Liberator, edited by that champion of freedom, William Lloyd Garrison. I labored a season to promote the temperance cause among the colored people, but for the last three years, have been pleading for the victims of American slavery. William Wells Brown. Boston, Mass., June, 1847. 
17820	----	Struggles for Freedom. [Illustration: (signed) Yours Truly, Lucy A. Delaney] FROM THE DARKNESS COMETH THE LIGHT OR STRUGGLES FOR FREEDOM. [Illustration] ST. LOUIS, MO. PUBLISHING HOUSE OF J. T. SMITH, No. 11, Bridge Entrance. Dedication. To those who by their valor have made their name immortal, from whom we are daily learning the lessons of patriotism, in whom we respect the virtues of charity, patience and friendship as displayed towards the colored race and to those "Whose deeds crowd History's pages And Time's great volume make," is this little volume reverently dedicated-- THE GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC. Preface. So many of my friends have urged me to give a short sketch of my varied life that I have consented, and herewith present it for the consideration of my readers. Those who were with me in the days of slavery will appreciate these pages, for though they cannot recur with any happiness to the now "shadowy past, or renew the unrenewable," the unaccountable longing for the aged to look backward and review the events of their youth will find an answering chord in this little book. Those of you who have never suffered as we have, perhaps may suppose the case, and therefore accept with interest and sympathy the passages of life and character here portrayed and the lessons which should follow from them. If there is a want of unity or coherence in this work, be charitable and attribute it to lack of knowledge and experience in literary acquirements. As this is a world of varied interests and many events, although we are each but atoms, it must be remembered, that we assist in making the grand total of all history, and therefore are excusable in making our affairs of importance to ourselves, and endeavoring to impress them on others. With this reason of my seeking your favor, I leave you to the perusal of my little tale. L. A. D. STRUGGLES FOR FREEDOM. CHAPTER I. "Soon is the echo and the shadow o'er, Soon, soon we lie with lid-encumbered eyes And the great fabrics that we reared before Crumble to make a dust to hide who dies." In the year 18--, Mr. and Mrs. John Woods and Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Posey lived as one family in the State of Illinois. Living with Mrs. Posey was a little negro girl, named Polly Crocket, who had made it her home there, in peace and happiness, for five years. On a dismal night in the month of September, Polly, with four other colored persons, were kidnapped, and, after being securely bound and gagged, were put into a skiff and carried across the Mississippi River to the city of St. Louis. Shortly after, these unfortunate negroes were taken up the Missouri River and sold into slavery. Polly was purchased by a farmer, Thomas Botts, with whom she resided for a year, when, overtaken by business reverses, he was obliged to sell all he possessed, including his negroes. Among those present on the day set apart for the sale was Major Taylor Berry, a wealthy gentleman who had travelled a long distance for the purpose of purchasing a servant girl for his wife. As was the custom, all the negroes were brought out and placed in a line, so that the buyers could examine their good points at leisure. Major Berry was immediately attracted by the bright and alert appearance of Polly, and at once negotiated with the trader, paid the price agreed upon, and started for home to present his wife with this flesh and blood commodity, which money could so easily procure in our vaunted land of freedom. Mrs. Fanny Berry was highly pleased with Polly's manner and appearance, and concluded to make a seamstress of her. Major Berry had a mulatto servant, who was as handsome as an Apollo, and when he and Polly met each other, day after day, the natural result followed, and in a short time, with the full consent of Major Berry and his wife, were married. Two children were the fruit of this marriage, my sister Nancy and myself, Lucy A. Delaney. While living in Franklin county, Major Berry became involved in a quarrel with some gentleman, and a duel was resorted to, to settle the difficulty and avenge some fancied insult. The major arranged his affairs and made his will, leaving his negroes to his wife during her life-time and at her death they were to be free; this was his expressed wish. My father accompanied Major Berry to New Madrid, where the fatal duel was fought, and stayed by him until the end came, received his last sigh, his last words, and closed his dying eyes, and afterwards conveyed the remains of his best friend to the bereaved family with a sad heart. Though sympathizing deeply with them in their affliction, my father was much disturbed as to what disposition would be made of him, and after Major Berry was consigned with loving hands to his last resting place, these haunting thoughts obtruded, even in his sleeping hours. A few years after, Major Berry's widow married Robert Wash, an eminent lawyer, who afterwards became Judge of the Supreme Court. One child was born to them, who, when she grew to womanhood, became Mrs. Francis W. Goode, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance as long as life lasts, and God bless her in her old age, is my fervent prayer for her kindness to me, a poor little slave girl! We lived in the old "Wash" mansion some time after the marriage of the Judge, until their daughter Frances was born. How well I remember those happy days! Slavery had no horror then for me, as I played about the place, with the same joyful freedom as the little white children. With mother, father and sister, a pleasant home and surroundings, what happier child than I! As I carelessly played away the hours, mother's smiles would fade away, and her brow contract into a heavy frown. I wondered much thereat, but the time came--ah! only too soon, when I learned the secret of her ever-changing face! CHAPTER II. Mrs. Wash lost her health, and, on the advice of a physician, went to Pensacola, Florida, accompanied by my mother. There she died, and her body was brought back to St. Louis and there interred. After Mrs. Wash's death, the troubles of my parents and their children may be said to have really commenced. Though in direct opposition to the will of Major Berry, my father's quondam master and friend, Judge Wash tore my father from his wife and children and sold him "way down South!" Slavery! cursed slavery! what crimes has it invoked! and, oh! what retribution has a righteous God visited upon these traders in human flesh! The rivers of tears shed by us helpless ones, in captivity, were turned to lakes of blood! How often have we cried in our anguish, "Oh! Lord, how long, how long?" But the handwriting was on the wall, and tardy justice came at last and avenged the woes of an oppressed race! Chickamauga, Shiloh, Atlanta and Gettysburgh, spoke in thunder tones! John Brown's body had indeed marched on, and we, the ransomed ones, glorify God and dedicate ourselves to His service, and acknowledge His greatness and goodness in rescuing us from such bondage as parts husband from wife, the mother from her children, aye, even the babe from her breast! Major Berry's daughter Mary, shortly after, married H. S. Cox, of Philadelphia, and they went to that city to pass their honeymoon, taking my sister Nancy with them as waiting-maid. When my father was sold South, my mother registered a solemn vow that her children should not continue in slavery all their lives, and she never spared an opportunity to impress it upon us, that we must get our freedom whenever the chance offered. So here was an unlooked-for avenue of escape which presented much that was favorable in carrying out her desire to see Nancy a free woman. Having been brought up in a free State, mother had learned much to her advantage, which would have been impossible in a slave State, and which she now proposed to turn to account for the benefit of her daughter. So mother instructed my sister not to return with Mr. and Mrs. Cox, but to run away, as soon as chance offered, to Canada, where a friend of our mother's lived who was also a runaway slave, living in freedom and happiness in Toronto. As the happy couple wandered from city to city, in search of pleasure, my sister was constantly turning over in her mind various plans of escape. Fortune finally favored Nancy, for on their homeward trip they stopped at Niagara Falls for a few days. In her own words I will describe her escape: "In the morning, Mr. and Mrs. Cox went for a drive, telling me that I could have the day to do as I pleased. The shores of Canada had been tantalizing my longing gaze for some days, and I was bound to reach there long before my mistress returned. So I locked up Mrs. Cox's trunk and put the key under the pillow, where I was sure she would find it, and I made a strike for freedom! A servant in the hotel gave me all necessary information and even assisted me in getting away. Some kind of a festival was going on, and a large crowd was marching from the rink to the river, headed by a band of music. In such a motley throng I was unnoticed, but was trembling with fear of being detected. It seemed an age before the ferry boat arrived, which at last appeared, enveloped in a gigantic wreath of black smoke. Hastily I embarked, and as the boat stole away into the misty twilight and among crushing fields of ice, though the air was chill and gloomy, I felt the warmth of freedom as I neared the Canada shore. I landed, without question, and found my mother's friend with but little difficulty, who assisted me to get work and support myself. Not long afterwards, I married a prosperous farmer, who provided me with a happy home, where I brought my children into the world without the sin of slavery to strive against." On the return of Mrs. Cox to St. Louis she sent for my mother and told her that Nancy had run away. Mother was very thankful, and in her heart arose a prayer of thanksgiving, but outwardly she pretended to be vexed and angry. Oh! the impenetrable mask of these poor black creatures! how much of joy, of sorrow, of misery and anguish have they hidden from their tormentors! I was a small girl at that time, but remember how wildly mother showed her joy at Nancy's escape when we were alone together. She would dance, clap her hands, and, waving them above her head, would indulge in one of those weird negro melodies, which so charm and fascinate the listener. Mrs. Cox commenced housekeeping on a grand and extended scale, having a large acquaintance, she entertained lavishly. My mother cared for the laundry, and I, who was living with a Mrs. Underhill, from New York, and was having rather good times, was compelled to go live with Mrs. Cox to mind the baby. My pathway was thorny enough, and though there may be no roses without thorns, I had thorns in plenty with no roses. I was beginning to plan for freedom, and was forever on the alert for a chance to escape and join my sister. I was then twelve years old, and often talked the matter over with mother and canvassed the probabilities of both of us getting away. No schemes were too wild for us to consider! Mother was especially restless, because she was a free woman up to the time of her being kidnapped, so the injustice and weight of slavery bore more heavily upon her than upon me. She did not dare to talk it over with anyone for fear that they would sell her further down the river, so I was her only confidant. Mother was always planning and getting ready to go, and while the fire was burning brightly, it but needed a little more provocation to add to the flames. CHAPTER III. Mrs. Cox was always very severe and exacting with my mother, and one occasion, when something did not suit her, she turned on mother like a fury, and declared, "I am just tired out with the 'white airs' you put on, and if you don't behave differently, I will make Mr. Cox sell you down the river at once." Although mother turned grey with fear, she presented a bold front and retorted that "she didn't care, she was tired of that place, and didn't like to live there, nohow." This so infuriated Mr. Cox that he cried, "How dare a negro say what she liked or what she did not like; and he would show her what he should do." So, on the day following, he took my mother to an auction-room on Main Street and sold her to the highest bidder, for five hundred and fifty dollars. Oh! God! the pity of it! "In the home of the brave and the land of the free," in the sight of the stars and stripes--that symbol of freedom--sold away from her child, to satisfy the anger of a peevish mistress! My mother returned to the house to get her few belongings, and straining me to her breast, begged me to be a good girl, that she was going to run away, and would buy me as soon as she could. With all the inborn faith of a child, I believed it most fondly, and when I heard that she had actually made her escape, three weeks after, my heart gave an exultant throb and cried, "God is good!" A large reward was offered, the bloodhounds (curse them and curse their masters) were set loose on her trail. In the day time she hid in caves and the surrounding woods, and in the night time, guided by the wondrous North Star, that blessed lodestone of a slave people, my mother finally reached Chicago, where she was arrested by the negro-catchers. At this time the Fugitive Slave Law was in full operation, and it was against the law of the whole country to aid and protect an escaped slave; not even a drink of water, for the love of the Master, might be given, and those who dared to do it (and there were many such brave hearts, thank God!) placed their lives in danger. The presence of bloodhounds and "nigger-catchers" in their midst, created great excitement and scandalized the community. Feeling ran high and hundreds of people gathered together and declared that mother should not be returned to slavery; but fearing that Mr. Cox would wreak his vengeance upon me, my mother finally gave herself up to her captors, and returned to St. Louis. And so the mothers of Israel have been ever slain through their deepest affections! After my mother's return, she decided to sue for her freedom, and for that purpose employed a good lawyer. She had ample testimony to prove that she was kidnapped, and it was so fully verified that the jury decided that she was a free woman, and papers were made out accordingly. In the meanwhile, Miss Martha Berry had married Mr. Mitchell and taken me to live with her. I had never been taught to work, as playing with the babies had been my sole occupation; therefore, when Mrs. Mitchell commanded me to do the weekly washing and ironing, I had no more idea how it was to be done than Mrs. Mitchell herself. But I made the effort to do what she required, and my failure would have been amusing had it not been so appalling. In those days filtering was unknown and the many ways of clearing water were to me an unsolved riddle. I never had to do it, so it never concerned me how the clothes were ever washed clean. As the Mississippi water was even muddier than now, the results of my washing can be better imagined than described. After soaking and boiling the clothes in its earthy depths, for a couple of days, in vain attempt to get them clean, and rinsing through several waters, I found the clothes were getting darker and darker, until they nearly approximated my own color. In my despair, I frantically rushed to my mother and sobbed out my troubles on her kindly breast. So in the morning, before the white people had arisen, a friend of my mother came to the house and washed out the clothes. During all this time, Mrs. Mitchell was scolding vigorously, saying over and over again, "Lucy, you do not want to work, you are a lazy, good-for-nothing nigger!" I was angry at being called a nigger, and replied, "You don't know nothing, yourself, about it, and you expect a poor ignorant girl to know more than you do yourself; if you had any feeling you would get somebody to teach me, and then I'd do well enough." She then gave me a wrapper to do up, and told me if I ruined that as I did the other clothes, she would whip me severely. I answered, "You have no business to whip me. I don't belong to you." My mother had so often told me that she was a free woman and that I should not die a slave, I always had a feeling of independence, which would invariably crop out in these encounters with my mistress; and when I thus spoke, saucily, I must confess, she opened her eyes in angry amazement and cried: "You _do_ belong to me, for my papa left you to me in his will, when you were a baby, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk so to one that you have been raised with; now, you take that wrapper, and if you don't do it up properly, I will bring you up with a round turn." Without further comment, I took the wrapper, which was too handsome to trust to an inexperienced hand, like Mrs. Mitchell very well knew I was, and washed it, with the same direful results as chronicled before. But I could not help it, as heaven is my witness. I was entirely and hopelessly ignorant! But of course my mistress would not believe it, and declared over and over again, that I did it on purpose to provoke her and show my defiance of her wishes. In vain did I disclaim any such intentions. She was bound to carry out her threat of whipping me. I rebelled against such government, and would not permit her to strike me; she used shovel, tongs and broomstick in vain, as I disarmed her as fast as she picked up each weapon. Infuriated at her failure, my opposition and determination not to be whipped, Mrs. Mitchell declared she would report me to Mr. Mitchell and have him punish me. When her husband returned home, she immediately entered a list of complaints against me as long as the moral law, including my failure to wash her clothes properly, and her inability to break my head for it; the last indictment seemed to be the heaviest she could bring against me. I was in the shadow of the doorway as the woman raved, while Mr. Mitchell listened patiently until the end of his wife's grievances reached an appeal to him to whip me with the strength that a man alone could possess. Then he declared, "Martha, this thing of cutting up and slashing servants is something I know nothing about, and positively will not do. I don't believe in slavery, anyhow; it is a curse on this land, and I wish we were well rid of it." "Mr. Mitchell, I will not have that saucy baggage around this house, for if she finds you won't whip her, there will be no living with her, so you shall just sell her, and I insist upon it." "Well, Martha," he answered, "I found the girl with you when we were married, and as you claim her as yours, I shall not interpose any objections to the disposal of what you choose to call your property, in any manner you see fit, and I will make arrangements for selling her at once." I distinctly overheard all that was said, and was just as determined not to be sold as I was not to be whipped. My mother's lawyer had told her to caution me never to go out of the city, if, at any time, the white people wanted me to go, so I was quite settled as to my course, in case Mr. Mitchell undertook to sell me. Several days after this conversation took place, Mrs. Mitchell, with her baby and nurse, Lucy Wash, made a visit to her grandmother's, leaving orders that I should be sold before her return; so I was not surprised to be ordered by Mr. Mitchell to pack up my clothes and get ready to go down the river, for I was to be sold that morning, and leave, on the steamboat Alex. Scott, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon. "Can't I go see my mother, first?" I asked. "No," he replied, not very gently, "there is no time for that, you can see her when you come back. So hurry up and get ready, and let us have no more words about it!" How I did hate him! To hear him talk as if I were going to take a pleasure trip, when he knew that if he sold me South, as he intended, I would never see my dear mother again. However, I hastily ran up stairs and packed my trunk, but my mother's injunction, "never to go out of the city," was ever present in my mind. Mr. Mitchell was Superintendent of Indian Affairs, his office being in the dwelling house, and I could hear him giving orders to his clerk, as I ran lightly down the stairs, out of the front door to the street, and with fleet foot, I skimmed the road which led to my mother's door, and, reaching it, stood trembling in every limb with terror and fatigue. I could not gain admittance, as my mother was away to work and the door was locked. A white woman, living next door, and who was always friendly to mother, told me that she would not return until night. I clasped my hands in despair and cried, "Oh! the white people have sold me, and I had to run away to keep from being sent down the river." This white lady, whose name I am sorry I cannot remember, sympathized with me, as she knew my mother's story and had written many letters for her, so she offered me the key of her house, which, fortunately, fitted my mother's door, and I was soon inside, cowering with fear in the darkness, magnifying every noise and every passing wind, until my imagination had almost converted the little cottage into a boat, and I was steaming down South, away from my mother, as fast as I could go. Late at night mother returned, and was told all that had happened, and after getting supper, she took me to a friend's house for concealment, until the next day. As soon as Mr. Mitchell had discovered my unlooked-for departure, he was furious, for he did not think I had sense enough to run away; he accused the coachman of helping me off, and, despite the poor man's denials, hurried him away to the calaboose and put him under the lash, in order to force a confession. Finding this course unavailing, he offered a reward to the negro catchers, on the same evening, but their efforts were equally fruitless. CHAPTER IV. On the morning of the 8th of September, 1842, my mother sued Mr. D. D. Mitchell for the possession of her child, Lucy Ann Berry. My mother, accompanied by the sheriff, took me from my hiding-place and conveyed me to the jail, which was located on Sixth Street, between Chestnut and Market, where the Laclede Hotel now stands, and there met Mr. Mitchell, with Mr. H. S. Cox, his brother-in-law. Judge Bryant Mullanphy read the law to Mr. Mitchell, which stated that if Mr. Mitchell took me back to his house, he must give bond and security to the amount of two thousand dollars, and furthermore, I should not be taken out of the State of Missouri until I had a chance to prove my freedom. Mr. H. S. Cox became his security and Mr. Mitchell gave bond accordingly, and then demanded that I should be put in jail. "Why do you want to put that poor young girl in jail?" demanded my lawyer. "Because," he retorted, "her mother or some of her crew might run her off, just to make me pay the two thousand dollars; and I would like to see her lawyer, or any other man, in jail, that would take up a d---- nigger case like that." "You need not think, Mr. Mitchell," calmly replied Mr. Murdock, "because my client is colored that she has no rights, and can be cheated out of her freedom. She is just as free as you are, and the Court will so decide it, as you will see." However, I was put in a cell, under lock and key, and there remained for seventeen long and dreary months, listening to the "----foreign echoes from the street, Faint sounds of revel, traffic, conflict keen-- And, thinking that man's reiterated feet Have gone such ways since e'er the world has been, I wondered how each oft-used tone and glance Retains its might and old significance." My only crime was seeking for that freedom which was my birthright! I heard Mr. Mitchell tell his wife that he did not believe in slavery, yet, through his instrumentality, I was shut away from the sunlight, because he was determined to prove me a slave, and thus keep me in bondage. Consistency, thou art a jewel! At the time my mother entered suit for her freedom, she was not instructed to mention her two children, Nancy and Lucy, so the white people took advantage of this flaw, and showed a determination to use every means in their power to prove that I was not her child. This gave my mother an immense amount of trouble, but she had girded up her loins for the fight, and, knowing that she was right, was resolved, by the help of God and a good lawyer, to win my case against all opposition. After advice by competent persons, mother went to Judge Edward Bates and begged him to plead the case, and, after fully considering the proofs and learning that my mother was a poor woman, he consented to undertake the case and make his charges only sufficient to cover his expenses. It would be well here to give a brief sketch of Judge Bates, as many people wondered that such a distinguished statesman would take up the case of an obscure negro girl. Edward Bates was born in Belmont, Goochland county, Va., September, 1793. He was of Quaker descent, and inherited all the virtues of that peace-loving people. In 1812, he received a midshipman's warrant, and was only prevented from following the sea by the influence of his mother, to whom he was greatly attached. Edward emigrated to Missouri in 1814, and entered upon the practice of law, and, in 1816, was appointed prosecuting lawyer for the St. Louis Circuit. Toward the close of the same year, he was appointed Attorney General for the new State of Missouri, and in 1826, while yet a young man, was elected representative to congress as an anti-Democrat, and served one term. For the following twenty-five years, he devoted himself to his profession, in which he was a shining light. His probity and uprightness attracted to him a class of people who were in the right and only sought justice, while he repelled, by his virtues, those who traffic in the miseries or mistakes of unfortunate people, for they dared not come to him and seek counsel to aid them in their villainy. In 1847, Mr. Bates was delegate to the Convention for Internal Improvement, held in Chicago, and by his action he came prominently before the whole country. In 1850, President Fillmore offered him the portfolio of Secretary of War, which he declined. Three years later, he accepted the office of Judge of St. Louis Land Court. When the question of the repeal of the Missouri Compromise was agitated, he earnestly opposed it, and thus became identified with the "free labor" party in Missouri, and united with it, in opposition to the admission of Kansas under the Lecompton Constitution. He afterwards became a prominent anti-slavery man, and in 1859 was mentioned as a candidate for the presidency. He was warmly supported by his own State, and for a time it seemed that the opposition to Governor Seward might concentrate on him. In the National Republican Convention, 1860, he received forty-eight votes on the first ballot, but when it became apparent that Abraham Lincoln was the favorite, Mr. Bates withdrew his name. Mr. Lincoln appointed Judge Bates Attorney General, and while in the Cabinet he acted a dignified, safe and faithful part. In 1864, he resigned his office and returned to his home in St. Louis, where he died in 1869, surrounded by his weeping family. "----loved at home, revered abroad. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God.'" On the 7th of February, 1844, the suit for my freedom began. A bright, sunny day, a day which the happy and care-free would drink in with a keen sense of enjoyment. But my heart was full of bitterness; I could see only gloom which seemed to deepen and gather closer to me as I neared the courtroom. The jailer's sister-in-law, Mrs. Lacy, spoke to me of submission and patience; but I could not feel anything but rebellion against my lot. I could not see one gleam of brightness in my future, as I was hurried on to hear my fate decided. Among the most important witnesses were Judge Robert Wash and Mr. Harry Douglas, who had been an overseer on Judge Wash's farm, and also Mr. MacKeon, who bought my mother from H. S. Cox, just previous to her running away. Judge Wash testified that "the defendant, Lucy A. Berry, was a mere infant when he came in possession of Mrs. Fannie Berry's estate, and that he often saw the child in the care of its reputed mother, Polly, and to his best knowledge and belief, he thought Lucy A. Berry was Polly's own child." Mr. Douglas and Mr. MacKeon corroborated Judge Wash's statement. After the evidence from both sides was all in, Mr. Mitchell's lawyer, Thomas Hutchinson, commenced to plead. For one hour, he talked so bitterly against me and against my being in possession of my liberty that I was trembling, as if with ague, for I certainly thought everybody must believe him; indeed I almost believed the dreadful things he said, myself, and as I listened I closed my eyes with sickening dread, for I could just see myself floating down the river, and my heart-throbs seemed to be the throbs of the mighty engine which propelled me from my mother and freedom forever! Oh! what a relief it was to me when he finally finished his harangue and resumed his seat! As I never heard anyone plead before, I was very much alarmed, although I knew in my heart that every word he uttered was a lie! Yet, how was I to make people believe? It seemed a puzzling question! Judge Bates arose, and his soulful eloquence and earnest pleading made such an impression on my sore heart, I listened with renewed hope. I felt the black storm clouds of doubt and despair were fading away, and that I was drifting into the safe harbor of the realms of truth. I felt as if everybody _must_ believe _him_, for he clung to the truth, and I wondered how Mr. Hutchinson could so lie about a poor defenseless girl like me. Judge Bates chained his hearers with the graphic history of my mother's life, from the time she played on Illinois banks, through her trials in slavery, her separation from her husband, her efforts to become free, her voluntary return to slavery for the sake of her child, Lucy, and her subsequent efforts in securing her own freedom. All these incidents he lingered over step by step, and concluding, he said: "Gentlemen of the jury, I am a slave-holder myself, but, thanks to the Almighty God, I am above the base principle of holding anybody a slave that has as good right to her freedom as this girl has been proven to have; she was free before she was born; her mother was free, but kidnapped in her youth, and sacrificed to the greed of negro traders, and no free woman can give birth to a slave child, as it is in direct violation of the laws of God and man!" At this juncture he read the affidavit of Mr. A. Posey, with whom my mother lived at the time of her abduction; also affidavits of Mr. and Mrs. Woods, in corroboration of the previous facts duly set forth. Judge Bates then said: "Gentlemen of the jury, here I rest this case, as I would not want any better evidence for one of my own children. The testimony of Judge Wash is alone sufficient to substantiate the claim of Polly Crockett Berry to the defendant as being her own child." The case was then submitted to the jury, about 8 o'clock in the evening, and I was returned to the jail and locked in the cell which I had occupied for seventeen months, filled with the most intense anguish. CHAPTER V. "There's a joy in every sorrow, There's a relief from every pain; Though to-day 'tis dark to-morrow HE will turn all bright again." Before the sheriff bade me good night he told me to be in readiness at nine o'clock on the following morning to accompany him back to court to hear the verdict. My mother was not at the trial. She had lingered many days about the jail expecting my case would be called, and finally when called to trial the dear, faithful heart was not present to sustain me during that dreadful speech of Mr. Hutchinson. All night long I suffered agonies of fright, the suspense was something awful, and could only be comprehended by those who have gone through some similar ordeal. I had missed the consolation of my mother's presence, and I felt so hopeless and alone! Blessed mother! how she clung and fought for me. No work was too hard for her to undertake. Others would have flinched before the obstacles which confronted her, but undauntedly she pursued her way, until my freedom was established by every right and without a questioning doubt! On the morning of my return to Court, I was utterly unable to help myself. I was so overcome with fright and emotion,--with the alternating feelings of despair and hope--that I could not stand still long enough to dress myself. I trembled like an aspen leaf; so I sent a message to Mrs. Lacy to request permission for me to go to her room, that she might assist me in dressing. I had done a great deal of sewing for Mrs. Lacy, for she had showed me much kindness, and was a good Christian. She gladly assisted me, and under her willing hands I was soon made ready, and, promptly at nine o'clock, the sheriff called and escorted me to the courthouse. On our way thither, Judge Bates overtook us. He lived out a short distance in the country, and was riding on horseback. He tipped his hat to me as politely as if I were the finest lady in the land, and cried out, "Good morning Miss Lucy, I suppose you had pleasant dreams last night!" He seemed so bright and smiling that I was imbued with renewed hope; and when he addressed the sheriff with "Good morning Sir. I don't suppose the jury was out twenty minutes were they?" and the sheriff replied "oh! no, sir," my heart gave a leap, for I was sure that my fate was decided for weal or woe. I watched the judge until he turned the corner and desiring to be relieved of suspense from my pent-up anxiety, I eagerly asked the sheriff if I were free, but he gruffly answered that "he didn't know." I was sure he did know, but was too mean to tell me. How could he have been so flinty, when he must have seen how worried I was. At last the courthouse was reached and I had taken my seat in such a condition of helpless terror that I could not tell one person from another. Friends and foes were as one, and vainly did I try to distinguish them. My long confinement, burdened with harrowing anxiety, the sleepless night I had just spent, the unaccountable absence of my mother, had brought me to an indescribable condition. I felt dazed, as if I were no longer myself. I seemed to be another person--an on-looker--and in my heart dwelt a pity for the poor, lonely girl, with down-cast face, sitting on the bench apart from anyone else in that noisy room. I found myself wondering where Lucy's mother was, and how she would feel if the trial went against her; I seemed to have lost all feeling about it, but was speculating what Lucy would do, and what her mother would do, if the hand of Fate was raised against poor Lucy! Oh! how sorry I did feel for myself! At the sound of a gentle voice, I gathered courage to look upward, and caught the kindly gleam of Judge Bates' eyes, as he bent his gaze upon me and smilingly said, "I will have you discharged in a few minutes, Miss Lucy!" Some other business occupied the attention of the Court, and when I had begun to think they had forgotten all about me, Judge Bates arose and said calmly, "Your Honor, I desire to have this girl, Lucy A. Berry, discharged before going into any other business." Judge Mullanphy answered "Certainly!" Then the verdict was called for and rendered, and the jurymen resumed their places. Mr. Mitchell's lawyer jumped up and exclaimed: "Your Honor, my client demands that this girl be remanded to jail. He does not consider that the case has had a fair trial, I am not informed as to what course he intends to pursue, but I am now expressing his present wishes?" Judge Bates was on his feet in a second and cried: "For shame! is it not enough that this girl has been deprived of her liberty for a year and a half, that you must still pursue her after a fair and impartial trial before a jury, in which it was clearly proven and decided that she had every right to freedom? I demand that she be set at liberty at once!" "I agree with Judge Bates," responded Judge Mullanphy, "and the girl may go!" Oh! the overflowing thankfulness of my grateful heart at that moment, who could picture it? None but the good God above us! I could have kissed the feet of my deliverers, but I was too full to express my thanks, but with a voice trembling with tears I tried to thank Judge Bates for all his kindness. As soon as possible, I returned to the jail to bid them all good-bye and thank them for their good treatment of me while under their care. They rejoiced with me in my good fortune and wished me much success and happiness in years to come. I was much concerned at my mother's prolonged absence, and was deeply anxious to meet her and sob out my joy on her faithful bosom. Surely it was the hands of God which prevented mother's presence at the trial, for broken down with anxiety and loss of sleep on my account, the revulsion of feeling would have been greater than her over-wrought heart could have sustained. As soon as she heard of the result, she hurried to meet me, and hand in hand we gazed into each other's eyes and saw the light of freedom there, and we felt in our hearts that we could with one accord cry out: "Glory to God in the highest, and peace and good will towards men." Dear, dear mother! how solemnly I invoke your spirit as I review these trying scenes of my girlhood, so long agone! Your patient face and neatly-dressed figure stands ever in the foreground of that checkered time; a figure showing naught to an on-looker but the common place virtues of an honest woman! Never would an ordinary observer connect those virtues with aught of heroism or greatness, but to me they are as bright rays as ever emanated from the lives of the great ones of earth, which are portrayed on historic pages--to me, the qualities of her true, steadfast heart and noble soul become "a constellation, and is tracked in Heaven straightway." CHAPTER VI. After the trial was over and my mother had at last been awarded the right to own her own child, her next thought reverted to sister Nancy, who had been gone so long, and from whom we had never heard, and the greatest ambition mother now had was to see her child Nancy. So, we earnestly set ourselves to work to reach the desired end, which was to visit Canada and seek the long-lost girl. My mother being a first-class laundress, and myself an expert seamstress, it was easy to procure all the work we could do, and command our own prices. We found, as well as the whites, a great difference between slave and free labor, for while the first was compulsory, and, therefore, at the best, perfunctory, the latter must be superior in order to create a demand, and realizing this fully, mother and I expended the utmost care in our respective callings, and were well rewarded for our efforts. By exercising rigid economy and much self-denial, we, at last, accumulated sufficient to enable mother to start for Canada, and oh! how rejoiced I was when that dear, overworked mother approached the time, when her hard-earned and long-deferred holiday was about to begin. The uses of adversity is a worn theme, and in it there is much of weak cant, but when it is considered how much of sacrifice the poverty-stricken must bear in order to procure the slightest gratification, should it not impress the thinking mind with amazement, how much of fortitude and patience the honest poor display in the exercise of self-denial! Oh! ye prosperous! prate of the uses of adversity as poetically as you please, we who are obliged to learn of them by bitter experience would greatly prefer a change of surroundings. Mother arrived in Toronto two weeks after she left St. Louis, and surprised my sister Nancy, in a pleasant home. She had married a prosperous farmer, who owned the farm on which they lived, as well as some property in the city near-by. Mother was indescribably happy in finding her child so pleasantly situated, and took much pleasure with her bright little grandchildren; and after a long visit, returned home, although strongly urged to remain the rest of her life with Nancy; but old people are like old trees, uproot them, and transplant to other scenes, they droop and die, no matter how bright the sunshine, or how balmy the breezes. On her return, mother found me with Mrs. Elsie Thomas, where I had lived during her absence, still sewing for a livelihood. Those were the days in which sewing machines were unknown, and no stitching or sewing of any description was allowed to pass muster, unless each stitch looked as if it were a part of the cloth. The art of fine sewing was lost when sewing machines were invented, and though doubtless they have given women more leisure, they have destroyed that extreme neatness in the craft, which obtained in the days of long ago. Time passed happily on with us, with no event to ruffle life's peaceful stream, until 1845, when I met Frederick Turner, and in a few short months we were made man and wife. After our marriage, we removed to Quincy, Ill., but our happiness was of short duration, as my husband was killed in the explosion of the steamboat Edward Bates, on which he was employed. To my mind it seemed a singular coincidence that the boat which bore the name of the great and good man, who had given me the first joy of my meagre life--the precious boon of freedom--and that his namesake should be the means of weighting me with my first great sorrow; this thought seemed to reconcile me to my grief, for that name was ever sacred, and I could not speak it without reverence. The number of killed and wounded were many, and they were distributed among friends and hospitals; my husband was carried to a friend's, where he breathed his last. Telegraphs were wanting in those times, so days passed before this wretched piece of news reached me, and there being no railroads, and many delays, I reached the home of my friend only to be told that my husband was dead and buried. Intense grief was mine, and my repining worried mother greatly; she never believed in fretting about anything that could not be helped. My only consolation from her was, "'Cast your burden on the Lord.' _My_ husband is down South, and I don't know where he is; he may be dead; he may be alive; he may be happy and comfortable; he may be kicked, abused and half-starved. _Your_ husband, honey, is in heaven; and mine--God only knows where he is!" In those few words, I knew her burden was heavier than mine, for I had been taught that there was hope beyond the grave, but hope was left behind when sold "down souf"; and so I resolved to conceal my grief, and devote myself to my mother, who had done so much and suffered so much for me. We then returned to St. Louis, and took up the old life, minus the contentment which had always buoyed us up in our daily trials, and with an added sorrow which cast a sadness over us. But Time, the great healer, taught us patience and resignation, and once more we were "Waiting when fortune sheds brightly her smile, There always is something to wait for the while." CHAPTER VII. Four years afterward, I became the wife of Zachariah Delaney, of Cincinnati, with whom I have had a happy married life, continuing forty-two years. Four children were born to us, and many were the plans we mapped out for their future, but two of our little girls were called from us while still in their childhood. My remaining daughter attained the age of twenty-two years, and left life behind, while the brightest of prospects was hers, and my son, in the fullness of a promising youth, at the age of twenty-four, "turned his face to the wall." So my cup of bitterness was full to the brim and overflowing; yet one consolation was always mine! Our children were born free and died free! Their childhood and my maternity were never shadowed with a thought of separation. The grim reaper did not spare them, but they were as "treasures laid up in heaven." Such a separation one could accept from the hand of God, with humble submission, "for He calleth His own!" Mother always made her home with me until the day of her death; she had lived to see the joyful time when her race was made free, their chains struck off, and their right to their own flesh and blood lawfully acknowledged. Her life, so full of sorrow, was ended, full of years and surrounded by many friends, both black and white, who recognized and appreciated her sufferings and sacrifices and rejoiced that her old age was spent in freedom and plenty. The azure vault of heaven bends over us all, and the gleaming moonlight brightens the marble tablet which marks her last resting place, "to fame and fortune unknown," but in the eyes of Him who judgeth us, hers was a heroism which outvied the most famous. * * * * * I frequently thought of father, and wondered if he were alive or dead; and at the time of the great exodus of negroes from the South, a few years ago, a large number arrived in St. Louis, and were cared for by the colored people of that city. They were sheltered in churches, halls and private houses, until such time as they could pursue their journey. Methought, I will find him in this motley crowd, of all ages, from the crowing babe in its mother's arms, to the aged and decrepit, on whom the marks of slavery were still visible. I piled inquiry upon inquiry, until after long and persistent search, I learned that my father had always lived on the same plantation, fifteen miles from Vicksburg. I wrote to my father and begged him to come and see me and make his home with me; sent him the money, so he would be to no expense, and when he finally reached St. Louis, it was with great joy that I received him. Old, grizzled and gray, time had dealt hardly with him, and he looked very little like the dapper master's valet, whose dark beauty won my mother's heart. Forty-five years of separation, hard work, rough times and heart longings, had perseveringly performed its work, and instead of a man bearing his years with upright vigor, he was made prematurely old by the accumulation of troubles. My sister Nancy came from Canada, and we had a most joyful reunion, and only the absence of our mother left a vacuum, which we deeply and sorrowfully felt. Father could not be persuaded to stay with us, when he found his wife dead; he longed to get back to his old associations of forty-five years standing, he felt like a stranger in a strange land, and taking pity on him, I urged him no more, but let him go, though with great reluctance. * * * * * There are abounding in public and private libraries of all sorts, lives of people which fill our minds with amazement, admiration, sympathy, and indeed with as many feelings as there are people, so I can scarcely expect that the reader of these episodes of my life will meet with more than a passing interest, but as such I will commend it to your thought for a brief hour. To be sure, I am deeply sensible that this story, as written, is not a very striking performance, but I have brought you with me face to face with but only a few of the painful facts engendered by slavery, and the rest can be drawn from history. Just have patience a little longer, and I have done. I became a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church in 1855; was elected President of the first colored society, called the "Female Union," which was the first ever organized exclusively for women; was elected President of a society known as the "Daughters of Zion"; was matron of "Siloam Court," No. 2, three years in succession; was Most Ancient Matron of the "Grand Court of Missouri," of which only the wives of Masons are allowed to become members. I am at present, Past Grand Chief Preceptress of the "Daughters of the Tabernacle and Knights of Tabor," and also was Secretary, and am still a member, of Col. Shaw Woman's Relief Corps, No. 34, auxiliary to the Col. Shaw Post, 343, Grand Army of the Republic. Considering the limited advantages offered me, I have made the best use of my time, and what few talents the Lord has bestowed on me I have not "hidden in a napkin," but used them for His glory and to benefit those for whom I live. And what better can we do than to live for others? Except the deceitfulness of riches, nothing is so illusory as the supposition of interest we assume that our readers may feel in our affairs; but if this sketch is taken up for just a moment of your life, it may settle the problem in your mind, if not in others, "Can the negro race succeed, proportionately, as well as the whites, if given the same chance and an equal start?" "The hours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling; And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be; And we all shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoiling The fairest and the finest of a grand humanity. It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper; They are giving of their millions as they never gave before; They are learning the new Gospel; man must be his brother's keeper, And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more." Finis. * * * * * =Transcriber's Notes= Spelling variations have been retained for: Chapter I, Page 10: Polly Crocket (Living with Mrs. Posey was a little negro girl, named Polly Crocket, who had made it her home there, in peace and happiness, for five years.) Chapter IV, Page 43: Polly Crockett Berry (The testimony of Judge Wash is alone sufficient to substantiate the claim of Polly Crockett Berry to the defendant as being her own child.) Other minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected from the original to reflect the author's intent. 
17827	----	THE STORY OF MATTIE J. JACKSON; HER PARENTAGE--EXPERIENCE OF EIGHTEEN YEARS IN SLAVERY--INCIDENTS DURING THE WAR--HER ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY. A TRUE STORY. WRITTEN AND ARRANGED BY DR. L. S. THOMPSON, (FORMERLY MRS. SCHUYLER,) AS GIVEN BY MATTIE. LAWRENCE: PRINTED AT SENTINEL OFFICE, 123 ESSEX STREET. 1866. PREFACE The object in publishing this book is to gain sympathy from the earnest friends of those who have been bound down by a dominant race in circumstances over which they had no control--a butt of ridicule and a mark of oppression; over whom weary ages of degradation have passed. As the links have been broken and the shackles fallen from them through the unwearied efforts of our beloved martyr President Lincoln, as one I feel it a duty to improve the mind, and have ever had a thirst for education to fill that vacuum for which the soul has ever yearned since my earliest remembrance. Thus I ask you to buy my little book to aid me in obtaining an education, that I may be enabled to do some good in behalf of the elevation of my emancipated brothers and sisters. I have now arrived at the age of twenty. As the first dawn of morning has passed, and the meridian of life is approaching, I know of no other way to speedily gain my object than through the aid and patronage of the friends of humanity. * * * * * NOTE: Miss Jackson sustains a high moral character--has been much respected since she has been in Lawrence. She is from St. Louis, Missouri, and arrived here on the 11th of April, 1866. To gain the wish of the heart is utterly impossible without more means than she can obtain otherwise. Her friends have borne her expenses to Lawrence, and have and are still willing to render her aid as far their limited means will allow. She was in the same condition of all the neglected and oppressed. Her personal requirements are amply supplied. She now only craves the means to clothe and qualify the intellect. My humble prayer is that she may meet with unlimited success. This young lady is highly worthy of all the aid our kind friends feel a duty to bestow upon her. She purposes lecturing and relating her story; and I trust she may render due satisfaction and bear some humble part in removing doubts indulged by the prejudices against the natural genius and talent of our race. May God give her grace and speed her on her way. Respectfully yours, L. S. T. MATTIE'S STORY My ancestors were transported from Africa to America at the time the slave trade flourished in the Eastern States. I cannot give dates, as my progenitors, being slaves, had no means of keeping them. By all accounts my great grandfather was captured and brought from Africa. His original name I never learned. His master's name was Jackson, and he resided in the State of New York. My grandfather was born in the same State, and also remained a slave for some length of time, when he was emancipated, his master presenting him with quite an amount of property. He was true, honest and responsible, and this present was given him as a reward. He was much encouraged by the cheering prospect of better days. A better condition of things now presented itself. As he possessed a large share of confidence, he came to the conclusion, as he was free, that he was capable of selecting his own residence and manage his own affairs with prudence and economy. But, alas, his hopes were soon blighted. More heart rending sorrow and degradation awaited him. He was earnestly invited by a white decoyer to relinquish his former design and accompany him to Missouri and join him in speculation and become wealthy. As partners, they embarked on board a schooner for St. Charles, Mo. On the passage, my grandfather was seized with a fever, and for a while was totally unconscious. When he regained his reason he found himself, near his journey's end, divested of his free papers and all others. On his arrival at St. Charles he was seized by a huge, surly looking slaveholder who claimed him as his property. The contract had previously been concluded by his Judas-like friend, who had received the bounty. Oh, what a sad disappointment. After serving for thirty years to be thrust again into bondage where a deeper degradation and sorrow and hopeless toil were to be his portion for the remaining years of his existence. In deep despair and overwhelmed with grief, he made his escape to the woods, determined to put an end to his sorrows by perishing with cold and hunger. His master immediately pursued him, and in twenty-four hours found him with hands and feet frost-bitten, in consequence of which he lost the use of his fingers and toes, and was thenceforth of little use to his new master. He remained with him, however, and married a woman in the same station in life. They lived as happily as their circumstances would permit. As Providence allotted, they only had one son, which was my father, Westly Jackson. He had a deep affection for his family, which the slave ever cherishes for his dear ones. He had no other link to fasten him to the human family but his fervent love for those who were bound to him by love and sympathy in their wrongs and sufferings. My grandfather remained in the same family until his death. My father, Westly Jackson, married, at the age of twenty-two, a girl owned by James Harris, named Ellen Turner. Nothing of importance occurred until three years after their marriage, when her master, Harris failed through the extravagance and mismanagement of his wife, who was a great spendthrift and a dreaded terror to the poor slaves and all others with whom she associated in common circumstances, consequently the entire stock was sold by the sheriff to a trader residing in Virginia. On account of the good reputation my mother sustained as a worthy servant and excellent cook, a tyrannical and much dreaded slaveholder watched for an opportunity to purchase her, but fortunately arrived a few moments too late, and she was bid off in too poor a condition of health to remain long a subject of banter and speculation. Her husband was allowed to carefully lift her down from the block and accompany her to her new master's, Charles Canory, who treated her very kindly while she remained in his family. Mr. Canory resided in St. Charles County for five years after he purchased my mother. During that time my father and mother were in the same neighborhood, but a short distance from each other. But another trial awaited them. Her master removed twenty miles away to a village called Bremen, near St. Louis, Mo. My father, thereafter, visited my mother once a week, walking the distance every Saturday evening and returning on Sunday evening. But through all her trials and deprivations her trust and confidence was in Him who rescued his faithful followers from the fiery furnace and the lion's den, and led Moses through the Red Sea. Her trust and confidence was in Jesus. She relied on His precious promises, and ever found Him a present help in every time of need. Two years after this separation my father was sold and separated from us, but previous to his delivery to his new master he made his escape to a free State. My mother was then left with two children. She had three during the time they were permitted to remain together, and buried one. Their names were Sarah Ann, Mattie Jane and Esther J. When my father left I was about three years of age, yet I can well remember the little kindnesses my father used to bestow upon us, and the deep affection and fondness he manifested for us. I shall never forget the bitter anguish of my parents' hearts, the sighs they uttered or the profusion of tears which coursed down their sable cheeks. O, what a horrid scene, but he was not her's, for cruel hands had separated them. The strongest tie of earthly joy that bound the aching heart-- His love was e'er a joyous light that o'er the pathway shone-- A fountain gushing ever new amid life's desert wild-- His slightest word was a sweet tone of music round her heart-- Their lives a streamlet blent in one. O, Father, must they part? They tore him from her circling arms, her last and fond embrace-- O never again can her sad eyes gaze upon his mournful face. It is not strange these bitter sighs are constant bursting forth. Amid mirth and glee and revelry she never took a part, She was a mother left alone with sorrow in her heart. But my mother was conscious some time previous of the change that was to take place with my father, and if he was sold in the immediate vicinity he would be likely to be sold again at their will, and she concluded to assist him to make his escape from bondage. Though the parting was painful, it afforded her solace in the contemplation of her husband becoming a free man, and cherishing a hope that her little family, through the aid of some angel of mercy, might be enabled to make their escape also, and meet to part no more on earth. My father came to spend the night with us, according to his usual custom. It was the last time, and sadness brooded upon his brow. It was the only opportunity he had to make his escape without suspicion and detection, as he was immediately to fall into the hands of a new master. He had never been sold from the place of his birth before, and was determined never to be sold again if God would verify his promise. My father was not educated, but was a preacher, and administered the Word of God according to the dictation and revelation of the spirit. His former master had allowed him the privilege of holding meetings in the village within the limits of his pass on the Sundays when he visited my mother. But on this Saturday evening he arrived and gave us all his farewell kiss, and hurried away. My mother's people were aware of my father's intention, but rather than spare my mother, and for fear she might be detected, they secreted his escape. His master called a number of times and enquired for him and strongly pressed my mother to give him an account of my father, but she never gave it. We waited patiently, hoping to learn if he succeeded in gaining his freedom. Many anxious weeks and months passed before we could get any tidings from him, until at length my mother heard that he was in Chicago, a free man and preaching the Gospel. He made every effort to get his family, but all in vain. The spirit of slavery so strongly existed that letters could not reach her; they were all destroyed. My parents had never learned the rescuing scheme of the underground railroad which had borne so many thousands to the standard of freedom and victories. They knew no other resource than to depend upon their own chance in running away and secreting themselves. If caught they were in a worse condition than before. THEIR ATTEMPT TO MAKE THEIR ESCAPE Two years after my father's departure, my mother, with her two children, my sister and myself, attempted to make her escape. After traveling two days we reached Illinois. We slept in the woods at night. I believe my mother had food to supply us but fasted herself. But the advertisement had reached there before us, and loafers were already in search of us, and as soon as we were discovered on the brink of the river one of the spies made enquiries respecting her suspicious appearance. She was aware that she was arrested, consequently she gave a true account of herself--that she was in search of her husband. We were then destitute of any articles of clothing excepting our wearing apparel. Mother had become so weary that she was compelled to leave our package of clothing on the way. We were taken back to St. Louis and committed to prison and remained there one week, after which they put us in Linch's trader's yard, where we remained about four weeks. We were then sold to William Lewis. Mr. Lewis was a very severe master, and inflicted such punishment upon us as he thought proper. However, I only remember one severe contest Mr. Lewis had with my mother. For some slight offence Mrs. Lewis became offended and was tartly and loudly reprimanding her, when Mr. L. came in and rashly felled her to the floor with his fist. But his wife was constantly pulling our ears, snapping us with her thimble, rapping us on the head and sides of it. It appeared impossible to please her. When we first went to Mr. L.'s they had a cowhide which she used to inflict on a little slave girl she previously owned, nearly every night. This was done to learn the little girl to wake early to wait on her children. But my mother was a cook, as I before stated, and was in the habit of roasting meats and toasting bread. As they stinted us for food my mother roasted the cowhide. It was rather poor picking, but it was the last cowhide my mother ever had an opportunity to cook while we remained in his family. Mr. L. soon moved about six miles from the city, and entered in partnership with his brother-in-law. The servants were then divided and distributed in both families. It unfortunately fell to my lot to live with Mrs. Larry, my mistress' sister, which rendered my condition worse than the first. My master even disapproved of my ill treatment and took me to another place; the place my mother resided before my father's escape. After a short time Mr. Lewis again returned to the city. My mother still remained as cook in his family. After six years' absence of my father my mother married again a man by the name of George Brown, and lived with her second husband about four years, and had two children, when he was sold for requesting a different kind and enough food. His master considered it a great insult, and declared he would sell him. But previous to this insult, as he called it, my step-father was foreman in Mr. L.'s tobacco factory. He was trusty and of good moral habits, and was calculated to bring the highest price in the human market; therefore the excuse to sell him for the above offence was only a plot. The morning this offence occurred, Mr. L. bid my father to remain in the kitchen till he had taken his breakfast. After pulling his ears and slapping his face bade him come to the factory; but instead of going to the factory he went to Canada. Thus my poor mother was again left alone with two more children added to her misery and sorrow to toil on her weary pilgrimage. Racked with agony and pain she was left alone again, With a purpose nought could move And the zeal of woman's love, Down she knelt in agony To ask the Lord to clear the way. True she said O gracious Lord, True and faithful is thy word; But the humblest, poorest, may Eat the crumbs they cast away. Though nine long years had passed Without one glimmering light of day She never did forget to pray And has not yet though whips and chains are cast away. For thus said the blessed Lord, I will verify my word; By the faith that has not failed, Thou hast asked and shall prevail. We remained but a short time at the same residence when Mr. Lewis moved again to the country. Soon after, my little brother was taken sick in consequence of being confined in a box in which my mother was obliged to keep him. If permitted to creep around the floor her mistress thought it would take too much time to attend to him. He was two years old and never walked. His limbs were perfectly paralyzed for want of exercise. We now saw him gradually failing, but was not allowed to render him due attention. Even the morning he died she was compelled to attend to her usual work. She watched over him for three months by night and attended to her domestic affairs by day. The night previous to his death we were aware he could not survive through the approaching day, but it made no impression on my mistress until she came into the kitchen and saw his life fast ebbing away, then she put on a sad countenance for fear of being exposed, and told my mother to take the child to her room, where he only lived one hour. When she found he was dead she ordered grave clothes to be brought and gave my mother time to bury him. O that morning, that solemn morning. It appears to me that when that little spirit departed as though all heaven rejoiced and angels veiled their faces. My mother too in concert joined,-- Her mingled praise with them combined. Her little saint had gone to God Who saved him with his precious blood. Who said "Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not." THE SOLDIERS, AND OUR TREATMENT DURING THE WAR Soon after the war commenced the rebel soldiers encamped near Mr. Lewis' residence, and remained there one week. They were then ordered by General Lyons to surrender, but they refused. There were seven thousand Union and seven hundred rebel soldiers. The Union soldiers surrounded the camp and took them and exhibited them through the city and then confined them in prison. I told my mistress that the Union soldiers were coming to take the camp. She replied that it was false, that it was General Kelly coming to re-enforce Gen. Frost. In a few moments the alarm was heard. I told Mrs. L. the Unionists had fired upon the rebels. She replied it was only the salute of Gen. Kelly. At night her husband came home with the news that Camp Jackson was taken and all the soldiers prisoners. Mrs. Lewis asked how the Union soldiers could take seven hundred men when they only numbered the same. Mr. L. replied they had seven thousand. She was much astonished, and cast her eye around to us for fear we might hear her. Her suspicion was correct; there was not a word passed that escaped our listening ears. My mother and myself could read enough to make out the news in the papers. The Union soldiers took much delight in tossing a paper over the fence to us. It aggravated my mistress very much. My mother used to sit up nights and read to keep posted about the war. In a few days my mistress came down to the kitchen again with another bitter complaint that it was a sad affair that the Unionists had taken their delicate citizens who had enlisted and made prisoners of them--that they were babes. My mother reminded her of taking Fort Sumpter and Major Anderson and serving them the same and that turn about was fair play. She then hastened to her room with the speed of a deer, nearly unhinging every door in her flight, replying as she went that the Niggers and Yankees were seeking to take the country. One day, after she had visited the kitchen to superintend some domestic affairs, as she pretended, she became very angry without a word being passed, and said--"I think it has come to a pretty pass, that old Lincoln, with his long legs, an old rail splitter, wishes to put the Niggers on an equality with the whites; that her children should never be on an equal footing with a Nigger. She had rather see them dead." As my mother made no reply to her remarks, she stopped talking, and commenced venting her spite on my companion servant. On one occasion Mr. Lewis searched my mother's room and found a picture of President Lincoln, cut from a newspaper, hanging in her room. He asked her what she was doing with old Lincoln's picture. She replied it was there because she liked it. He then knocked her down three times, and sent her to the trader's yard for a month as punishment. My mistress indulged some hopes till the victory of New Orleans, when she heard the famous Union song sang to the tune of Yankee Doodle: The rebels swore that New Orleans never should be taken, But if the Yankees came so near they should not save their bacon. That's the way they blustered when they thought they were so handy, But Farragut steamed up one day and gave them Doodle Dandy. Ben Butler then was ordered down to regulate the city; He made the rebels walk a chalk, and was not that a pity? That's the way to serve them out--that's the way to treat them, They must not go and put on airs after we have beat them. He made the rebel banks shell out and pay the loyal people, He made them keep the city clean from pig's sty to church steeple. That's the way Columbia speaks, let all men believe her; That's the way Columbia speaks instead of yellow fever. He sent the saucy women up and made them treat us well He helped the poor and snubbed the rich; they thought he was the devil, Bully for Ben. Butler, then, they thought he was so handy; Bully for Ben Butler then,--Yankee Doodle Dandy. The days of sadness for mistress were days of joy for us. We shouted and laughed to the top of our voices. My mistress was more enraged than ever--nothing pleased her. One evening, after I had attended to my usual duties, and I supposed all was complete, she, in a terrible range, declared I should be punished that night. I did not know the cause, neither did she. She went immediately and selected a switch. She placed it in the corner of the room to await the return of her husband at night for him to whip me. As I was not pleased with the idea of a whipping I bent the switch in the shape of W, which was the first letter of his name, and after I had attended to the dining room my fellow servant and myself walked away and stopped with an aunt of mine during the night. In the morning we made our way to the Arsenal, but could gain no admission. While we were wandering about seeking protection, the girl's father overtook us and persuaded us to return home. We finally complied. All was quiet. Not a word was spoken respecting our sudden departure. All went on as usual. I was permitted to attend to my work without interruption until three weeks after. One morning I entered Mrs. Lewis' room, and she was in a room adjoining, complaining of something I had neglected. Mr. L. then enquired if I had done my work. I told him I had. She then flew into a rage and told him I was saucy, and to strike me, and he immediately gave me a severe blow with a stick of wood, which inflicted a deep wound upon my head. The blood ran over my clothing, which gave me a frightful appearance. Mr. Lewis then ordered me to change my clothing immediately. As I did not obey he became more enraged, and pulled me into another room and threw me on the floor, placed his knee on my stomach, slapped me on the face and beat me with his fist, and would have punished me more had not my mother interfered. He then told her to go away or he would compel her to, but she remained until he left me. I struggled mightily, and stood him a good test for a while, but he was fast conquering me when my mother came. He was aware my mother could usually defend herself against one man, and both of us would overpower him, so after giving his wife strict orders to take me up stairs and keep me there, he took his carriage and drove away. But she forgot it, as usual. She was highly gratified with my appropriate treatment, as she called it, and retired to her room, leaving me to myself. I then went to my mother and told her I was going away. She bid me go, and added "May the Lord help you." I started for the Arsenal again and succeeded in gaining admittance and seeing the Adjutant. He ordered me to go to another tent, where there was a woman in similar circumstances, cooking. When the General found I was there he sent me to the boarding house. I remained there three weeks, and when I went I wore the same stained clothing as when I was so severely punished, which has left a mark on my head which will ever remind me of my treatment while in slavery. Thanks be to God, though tortured by wrong and goaded by oppression, the hearts that would madden with misery have broken the iron yoke. MR. LEWIS CALLS AT THE BOARDING HOUSE At the expiration of three weeks Mr. Lewis called at my boarding house, accompanied by his brother-in-law, and enquired for me, and the General informed him where I was. He then told me my mother was very anxious for me to come home, and I returned. The General had ordered Mr. Lewis to call at headquarters, when he told him if he had treated me right I would not have been compelled to seek protection of him; that my first appearance was sufficient proof of his cruelty. Mr. L. promised to take me home and treat me kindly. Instead of fulfilling his promise he carried me to the trader's yard, where, to my great surprise, I found my mother. She had been there during my absence, where she was kept for fear she would find me and take my brother and sister and make her escape. There was so much excitement at that time, (1861), by the Union soldiers rendering the fugitives shelter and protection, he was aware that if she applied to them, as he did not fulfill his promise in my case, he would stand a poor chance. If my mother made application to them for protection they would learn that he did not return me home, and immediately detect the intrigue. After I was safely secured in the trader's yard, Mr. L. took my mother home. I remained in the yard three months. Near the termination of the time of my confinement I was passing by the office when the cook of the Arsenal saw and recognized me and informed the General that Mr. L. had disobeyed his orders, and had put me in the trader's yard instead of taking me home. The General immediately arrested Mr. L. and gave him one hundred lashes with the cowhide, so that they might identify him by a scarred back, as well as his slaves. My mother had the pleasure of washing his stained clothes, otherwise it would not have been known. My master was compelled to pay three thousand dollars and let me out. He then put me to service, where I remained seven months, after which he came in great haste and took me into the city and put me into the trader's yard again. After he received the punishment he treated my mother and the children worse than ever, which caused her to take her children and secrete themselves in the city, and would have remained undetected had it not been for a traitor who pledged himself to keep the secret. But King Whiskey fired up his brain one evening, and out popped the secret. My mother and sister were consequently taken and committed to the trader's yard. My little brother was then eight years of age, my sister sixteen, and myself eighteen. We remained there two weeks, when a rough looking man, called Capt. Tirrell, came to the yard and enquired for our family. After he had examined us he remarked that we were a fine looking family, and bid us retire. In about two hours he returned, at the edge of the evening, with a covered wagon, and took my mother and brother and sister and left me. My mother refused to go without me, and told him she would raise an alarm. He advised her to remain as quiet as possible. At length she was compelled to go. When she entered the wagon there was a man standing behind with his hands on each side of the wagon to prevent her from making her escape. She sprang to her feet and gave this man a desperate blow, and leaping to the ground she made an alarm. The watchmen came to her assistance immediately, and there was quite a number of Union policemen guarding the city at that time, who rendered her due justice as far as possible. This was before the emancipation proclamation was issued. After she leaped from the wagon they drove on, taking her children to the boat. The police questioned my mother. She told them that Capt. Tirrell had put her children on board the boat, and was going to take them to Memphis and sell them into hard slavery. They accompanied her to the boat, and arrived just as they were casting off. The police ordered them to stop and immediately deliver up the children, who had been secreted in the Captain's private apartment. They were brought forth and returned. Slave speculation was forbidden in St. Louis at that time. The Union soldiers had possession of the city, but their power was limited to the suppression of the selling of slaves to got out of the city. Considerable smuggling was done, however, by pretending Unionism, which was the case with our family. RELEASED FROM THE TRADER'S YARD AND TAKEN TO HER NEW MASTER Immediately after dinner my mother called for me to accompany her to our new home, the residence of the Captain, together with my brother and sister. We fared very well while we were there. Mrs. Tirrell was insane, and my mother had charge of the house. We remained there four months. The Captain came home only once a week and he never troubled us for fear we might desert him. His intention was to smuggle us away before the State became free. That was the understanding when he bought us of Mr. Lewis, as it was not much of an object to purchase slaves while the proclamation was pending, and they likely to lose all their property; but they would, for a trifle purchase a whole family of four or five persons to send out of the State. Kentucky paid as much, or more than ever, for slaves. As they pretended to take no part in the rebellion they supposed they would be allowed to keep them without interference. Consequently the Captain's intention was to keep as quiet as possible till the excitement concerning us was over, and he could get us off without detection. Mr. Lewis would rather have disposed of us for nothing than have seen us free. He hated my mother in consequence of her desire for freedom, and her endeavors to teach her children the right way as far as her ability would allow. He also held a charge against her for reading the papers and understanding political affairs. When he found he was to lose his slaves he could not bear the idea of her being free. He thought it too hard, as she had raised so many tempests for him, to see her free and under her own control. He had tantalized her in every possible way to humiliate and annoy her; yet while he could demand her services he appreciated and placed perfect confidence in mother and family. None but a fiendish slaveholder could have rended an honest Christian heart in such a manner as this. Though it was her sad and weary lot to toil in slavery But one thing cheered her weary soul When almost in despair That she could gain a sure relief in attitude of prayer CAPT. TIRRELL REMOVES THE FAMILY--ANOTHER STRATEGY One day the Captain commenced complaining of the expense of so large a family, and proposed to my mother that we should work out and he take part of the pay. My mother told him she would need what she earned for my little brother's support. Finally the Captain consented, and I was the first to be disposed of. The Captain took me in his buggy and carried me to the Depot, and I was put into a Union family, where I remained five months. Previous to my leaving, however, my mother and the Captain entered into a contract--he agreeing not to sell us, and mother agreeing not to make her escape. While she was carrying out her promise in good faith, he was plotting to separate us. We were all divided except mother and my little brother, who remained together. My sister remained with one of the rebels, but was tolerably treated. We all fared very well; but it was only the calm before the rending tornado. Captain T. was Captain of the boat to Memphis, from which the Union soldiers had rescued us. He commenced as a deck hand on the boat, then attained a higher position, and continued to advance until he became her Captain. At length he came in possession of slaves. Then his accomplishments were complete. He was a very severe slave master. Those mushroom slaveholders are much dreaded, as their severity knows no bounds Bondage and torture, scourges and chains Placed on our backs indelible stains. I stated previously, in relating a sketch of my mother's history, that she was married twice, and both husbands were to be sold and made their escape. They both gained their freedom. One was living,--the other died before the war. Both made every effort to find us, but to no purpose. It was some years before we got a correct account of her second husband, and he had no account of her, except once he heard that mother and children had perished in the woods while endeavoring to make their escape. In a few years after his arrival in the free States he married again. When about sixteen years of age, while residing with her original master, my mother became acquainted with a young man, Mr. Adams, residing in a neighboring family, whom she much respected; but he was soon sold, and she lost trace of him entirely, as was the common occurrence with friends and companions though united by the nearest ties. When my mother arrived at Captain Tirrell's, after leaving the boat, in her excitement she scarce observed anything except her little group so miraculously saved from perhaps a final separation in this world. She at length observed that the servant who was waiting to take her to the Captain's residence in the country was the same man with whom she formed the acquaintance when sixteen years old, and they again renewed their acquaintance. He had been married and buried his wife. It appeared that his wife had been in Captain Tirrell's family many years, and he also, for some time. They had a number of children, and Capt. Tirrell had sold them down South. This cruel blow, assisted by severe flogging and other ill treatment, rendered the mother insane, and finally caused her death. In agony close to her bosom she pressed, The life of her heart, the child of her breast-- Oh love from its tenderness gathering might Had strengthed her soul for declining age. But she is free. Yes, she has gone from the land of the slave; The hand of oppression must rest in the grave. The blood hounds have missed the scent of her way, The hunter is rifled and foiled of his prey. After my mother had left the Captain to take care of herself and child, according to agreement with the Captain, she became engaged to Mr. Adams. He had bought himself previously for a large price. After they became acquainted, the Captain had an excellent opportunity of carrying out his stratagem. He commenced bestowing charity upon Mr. Adams. As he had purchased himself, and Capt. T. had agreed not to sell my mother, they had decided to marry at an early day. They hired a house in the city and were to commence housekeeping immediately. The Captain made him a number of presents and seemed much pleased with the arrangement. The day previous to the one set for the marriage, while they were setting their house in order, a man called and enquired for a nurse, pretending he wanted one of us. Mother was absent; he said he would call again, but he never came. On Wednesday evening we attended a protracted meeting. After we had returned home and retired, a loud rap was heard at the door. My Aunt enquired who was there. The reply was, "Open the door or I will break it down." In a moment in rushed seven men, four watchmen and three traders, and ordered mother to take my brother and me and follow them, which she hastened to do as fast as possible, but we were not allowed time to put on our usual attire. They thrust us into a close carriage. For fear of my mother alarming the citizens they threw her to the ground and choked her until she was nearly strangled, then pushed her into a coach. The night was dark and dreary; the stars refused to shine, the moon to shed her light. 'Tis not strange the heavenly orbs In silence blushed neath Nature's sable garb When woman's gagged and rashly torn away Without blemish and without crime. Unheeded by God's holy word:-- Unloose the fetters, break the chain, And make my people free again, And let them breath pure freedom's air And her rich bounty freely share. Let Eutopia stretch her bleeding hands abroad; Her cry of anguish finds redress from God. We were hurried along the streets. The inhabitants heard our cries and rushed to their doors, but our carriage being perfectly tight, and the alarm so sudden, that we were at the jail before they could give us any relief. There were strong Union men and officers in the city, and if they could have been informed of the human smuggling they would have released us. But oh, that horrid, dilapidated prison, with its dim lights and dingy walls, again presented itself to our view. My sister was there first, and we were thrust in and remained there until three o'clock the following afternoon. Could we have notified the police we should have been released, but no opportunity was given us. It appears that this kidnapping had been in contemplation from the time we were before taken and returned; and Captain Tirrell's kindness to mother,--his benevolence towards Mr. Adams in assisting him to furnish his house,--his generosity in letting us work for ourselves,--his approbation in regard to the contemplated marriage was only a trap. Thus instead of a wedding Thursday evening, we were hurled across the ferry to Albany Court House and to Kentucky through the rain and without our outer garments. My mother had lost her bonnet and shawl in the struggle while being thrust in the coach, consequently she had no protection from the storm, and the rest of us were in similar circumstances. I believe we passed through Springfield. I think it was the first stopping place after we left East St. Louis, and we were put on board the cars and secreted in the gentlemen's smoking car, in which there were only a few rebels. We arrived in Springfield about twelve o'clock at night. When we took the cars it was dark, bleak and cold. It was the 18th of March, and as we were without bonnets and clothing to shield us from the sleet and wind, we suffered intensely. The old trader, for fear that mother might make her escape, carried my brother, nine years of age, from one train to the other. We then took the cars for Albany, and arrived at eight o'clock in the morning. We were then carried on the ferry in a wagon. There was another family in the wagon, in the same condition. We landed at Portland, from thence to Louisville, and were put into John Clark's trader's yard, and sold out separately, except my mother and little brother, who were sold together. Mother remained in the trader's yard two weeks, my sister six, myself four. THE FARE AT THEIR NEW HOMES Mother was sold to Captain Plasio. My sister to Benj. Board, and myself to Capt. Ephraim Frisbee. The man who bought my mother was a Spaniard. After she had been there a short time he tried to have my mother let my brother stop at his saloon, a very dissipated place, to wait upon his miserable crew, but my mother objected. In spite of her objections he took him down to try him, but some Union soldiers called at the saloon, and noticing that he was very small, they questioned him, and my brother, child like, divulged the whole matter. The Captain, fearful of being betrayed and losing his property, let him continue with my mother. The Captain paid eight hundred dollars for my mother and brother. We were all sold for extravagant prices. My sister, aged sixteen, was sold for eight hundred and fifty dollars; I was sold for nine hundred dollars. This was in 1863. My mother was cook and fared very well. My sister was sold to a single gentleman, whose intended took charge of her until they were married, after which they took her to her home. She was her waiter, and fared as well as could be expected. I fared worse than either of the family. I was not allowed enough to eat, exposed to the cold, and not allowed through the cold winter to thoroughly warm myself once a month. The house was very large, and I could gain no access to the fire. I was kept constantly at work of the heaviest kind,--compelled to move heavy trunks and boxes,--many times to wash till ten and twelve o'clock at night. There were three deaths in the family while I remained there, and the entire burden was put upon me. I often felt to exclaim as the Children of Israel did: "O Lord, my burden is greater than I can bear." I was then seventeen years of age. My health has been impaired from that time to the present. I have a severe pain in my side by the slightest over exertion. In the Winter I suffer intensely with cold, and cannot get warm unless in a room heated to eighty degrees. I am infirm and burdened with the influence of slavery, whose impress will ever remain on my mind and body. For six months I tried to make my escape. I used to rise at four o'clock in the morning to find some one to assist me, and at last I succeeded. I was allowed two hours once in two weeks to go and return three miles. I could contrive no other way than to improve one of these opportunities, in which I was finally successful. I became acquainted with some persons who assisted slaves to escape by the underground railroad. They were colored people. I was to pretend going to church, and the man who was to assist and introduce me to the proper parties was to linger on the street opposite the house, and I was to follow at a short distance. On Sunday evening I begged leave to attend church, which was reluctantly granted if I completed all my work, which was no easy task. It appeared as if my mistress used every possible exertion to delay me from church, and I concluded that her old cloven-footed companion had impressed his intentions on her mind. Finally, when I was ready to start, my mistress took a notion to go out to ride, and desired me to dress her little boy, and then get ready for church. Extensive hoops were then worn, and as I had attached my whole wardrobe under mine by a cord around my waist, it required considerable dexterity and no small amount of maneuvering to hide the fact from my mistress. While attending to the child I had managed to stand in one corner of the room, for fear she might come in contact with me and thus discover that my hoops were not so elastic as they usually are. I endeavored to conceal my excitement by backing and edging very genteelly out of the door. I had nine pieces of clothing thus concealed on my person, and as the string which fastened them was small it caused me considerable discomfort. To my great satisfaction I at last passed into the street, and my master and mistress drove down the street in great haste and were soon out of sight. I saw my guide patiently awaiting me. I followed him at a distance until we arrived at the church, and there met two young ladies, one of whom handed me a pass and told me to follow them at a square's distance. It was now twilight. There was a company of soldiers about to take passage across the ferry, and I followed. I showed my pass, and proceeded up the stairs on the boat. While thus ascending the stairs, the cord which held my bundle of clothing broke, and my feet became entangled in my wardrobe, but by proceeding, the first step released one foot and the next the other. This was observed only by a few soldiers, who were too deeply engaged in their own affairs to interfere with mine. I seated myself in a remote corner of the boat, and in a few moments I landed on free soil for the first time in my life, except when hurled through Albany and Springfield at the time of our capture. I was now under my own control. The cars were waiting in Jefferson City for the passengers for Indianapolis, where we arrived about nine o'clock. MATTIE IN INDIANAPOLIS--THE GLORY OF FREEDOM--PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S REMAINS EXHIBITED My first business, after my arrival at Indianapolis was to find a boarding place in which I at once succeeded, and in a few hours thereafter was at a place of service of my own choice. I had always been under the yoke of oppression, compelled to submit to its laws, and not allowed to advance a rod from the house, or even out of call, without a severe punishment. Now this constant fear and restless yearning was over. It appeared as though I had emerged into a new world, or had never lived in the old one before. The people I lived with were Unionists, and became immediately interested in teaching and encouraging me in my literary advancement and all other important improvements, which precisely met the natural desires for which my soul had ever yearned since my earliest recollection. I could read a little, but was not allowed to learn in slavery. I was obliged to pay twenty-five cents for every letter written for me. I now began to feel that as I was free I could learn to write, as well as others; consequently Mrs. Harris, the lady with whom I lived, volunteered to assist me. I was soon enabled to write quite a legible hand, which I find a great convenience. I would advise all, young, middle aged or old, in a free country to learn to read and write. If this little book should fall into the hands of one deficient of the important knowledge of writing, I hope they will remember the old maxim:--"Never too old to learn." Manage your own secrets, and divulge them by the silent language of your own pen. Had our blessed President considered it too humiliating to learn in advanced years, our race would yet have remained under the galling yoke of oppression. After I had been with Mrs. Harris seven months, the joyful news came of the surrender of Lee's army and the capture of Richmond. Whilst the country's hearts were throbbing, Filled with joy for victories won; Whilst the stars and stripes were waving O'er each cottage, ship and dome, Came upon like winged lightning Words that turned each joy to dread, Froze with horror as we listened: Our beloved chieftain, Lincoln's dead War's dark clouds has long held o'er us, They have rolled their gloomy fold's away, And all the world is anxious, waiting For that promised peaceful day. But that fearful blow inflicted, Fell on his devoted head, And from every town and hamlet Came the cry our Chieftain's dead. Weep, weep, O bleeding nation For the patriot spirit fled, All untold our country's future-- Buried with the silent dead. God of battles, God of nations to our country send relief Turn each lamentation into joy whilst we mourn our murdered chief. On the Saturday after the assassination of the President there was a meeting held on the Common, and a vote taken to have the President's body brought through Indianapolis, for the people to see his dear dead face. The vote was taken by raising the hands, and when the question was put in favor of it a thousand black hands were extended in the air, seemingly higher and more visible than all the rest. Nor were their hands alone raised, for in their deep sorrow and gloom they raised their hearts to God, for well they knew that He, through martyred blood, had made them free. It was some time before the remains reached Indianapolis, as it was near the last of the route. The body was placed in the centre of the hall of the State House, and we marched in by fours, and divided into two on each side of the casket, and passed directly through the hall. It was very rainy,--nothing but umbrellas were to be seen in any direction. The multitude were passing in and out from eight o'clock in the morning till four o'clock in the afternoon. His body remained until twelve o'clock in the evening, many distinguished persons visiting it, when amid the booming of cannon, it moved on its way to Springfield, its final resting-place. The death of the President was like an electric shock to my soul. I could not feel convinced of his death until I gazed upon his remains, and heard the last roll of the muffled drum and the farewell boom of the cannon. I was then convinced that though we were left to the tender mercies of God, we were without a leader. Gone, gone is our chieftain, The tried and the true; The grief of our nation the world never knew. We mourn as a nation has never yet mourned; The foe to our freedom more deeply has scorned. In the height of his glory in manhood's full prime, Our country's preserver through darkest of time; A merciful being, whose kindness all shared Shown mercy to others. Why was he not spared? The lover of Justice, the friend of the slave, He struck at oppression and made it a grave; He spoke for our bond-men, and chains from them fell, By making them soldiers they served our land well. Because he had spoken from sea unto sea Glad tidings go heavenward, our country is free, And angels I'm thinking looked down from above, With sweet smiles approving his great works of love. His name with the honor forever will live, And time to his laurels new lustre will give; He lived so unselfish, so loyal and true, That his deeds will shine brighter at every view. Then honor and cherish the name of the brave, The champion of freedom, the friend to the slave, The far-sighted statesman who saw a fair end, When north land and south land one flag shall defend. Rest, rest, fallen chieftain, thy labors are o'er, For thee mourns a nation as never before; Farewell honored chieftain whom millions adore, Farewell gentle spirit, whom heaven has won. SISTER LOST--MOTHER'S ESCAPE In two or three weeks after the body of the President was carried through, my sister made her escape, but by some means we entirely lost trace of her. We heard she was in a free State. In three months my mother also escaped. She rose quite early in the morning, took my little brother, and arrived at my place of service in the afternoon. I was much surprised, and asked my mother how she came there. She could scarcely tell me for weeping, but I soon found out the mystery. After so many long years and so many attempts, for this was her seventh, she at last succeeded, and we were now all free. My mother had been a slave for more than forty-three years, and liberty was very sweet to her. The sound of freedom was music in our ears; the air was pure and fragrant; the genial rays of the glorious sun burst forth with a new lustre upon us, and all creation resounded in responses of praise to the author and creator of him who proclaimed life and freedom to the slave. I was overjoyed with my personal freedom, but the joy at my mother's escape was greater than anything I had ever known. It was a joy that reaches beyond the tide and anchors in the harbor of eternal rest. While in oppression, this eternal life-preserver had continually wafted her toward the land of freedom, which she was confident of gaining, whatever might betide. Our joy that we were permitted to mingle together our earthly bliss in glorious strains of freedom was indescribable. My mother responded with the children of Israel,--"The Lord is my strength and my song. The Lord is a man of war, and the Lord is his name." We left Indianapolis the day after my mother arrived, and took the cars at eleven o'clock the following evening for St. Louis, my native State. We were then free, and instead of being hurried along, bare headed and half naked, through cars and boats, by a brutal master with a bill of sale in his pocket, we were our own, comfortably clothed, and having the true emblems of freedom. MOTHER'S MARRIAGE It appeared to me that the city presented an entirely new aspect. The reader will remember that my mother was engaged to be married on the evening after we were kidnapped, and that Mr. Adams, her intended, had prepared the house for the occasion. We now went in search of him. He had moved about five miles into the country. He had carefully preserved his furniture and was patiently awaiting our return. We were gone two years and four months. The clothing and furniture which we had collected were all destroyed. It was over a year after we left St. Louis before we heard from there. We went immediately from the cars to my aunt's, and from there went to Mr. Adams' residence and took him by surprise. They were married in a week after our return. My mother is comfortably situated on a small farm with a kind and affectionate companion, with whom she had formed an early acquaintance, and from whom she had been severed by the ruthless hand of Wrong; but by the divine hand of Justice they were now reunited forever. MATTIE MEETS HER OLD MASTER--GOES TO SERVICE--IS SENT FOR BY HER STEP-FATHER IN LAWRENCE, MASS. In a short time I had selected a place of service, and was improving my studies in a small way. The place I engaged was in the family where I was born, where my mother lived when my father Jackson made his escape. Although Mr. Canory's family were always kind to us, I felt a great difference between freedom and slavery. After I had been there a short time my step-father sent for me and my half brother to come to Lawrence. He had been waiting ever since the State was free, hoping to get some account of us. He had been informed, previously, that mother, in trying to make her escape, had perished by the way, and the children also, but he was never satisfied. He was aware that my aunt was permanently in St. Louis, as her master had given her family their freedom twenty years previous. She was formerly owned by Major Howe, harness and leather dealer, yet residing in St. Louis. And long may he live and his good works follow him and his posterity forever. My father well knew the deception of the rebels, and was determined to persevere until he had obtained a satisfactory account of his family. A gentleman moved directly from Lawrence to St. Louis, who made particular enquiries for us, and even called at my aunt's. We then heard directly from my father, and commenced correspondence. He had not heard directly from us since he made his escape, which was nine years. He had never heard of his little son who my mother was compelled by Mrs. Lewis to confine in a box. He was born eight months after he left. As soon as possible after my mother consented to let my little brother go to his father he sent means to assist us to make preparations for our journey to the North. At first he only sent for his little son. My mother was anxious about sending him alone. He was only eleven years old, and perfectly unused to traveling, and had never been away from his mother. Finally my father came to the conclusion that, as my mother had endured such extreme hardships and sufferings during the nine years he was not permitted to participate or render her any assistance, that it would afford him much pleasure in sending for us both, bearing our expenses and making us as comfortable as his means would allow. Money was sent us, and our kind friend, Mr. Howe, obtained our tickets and voluntarily assisted us in starting. We left for the North on Monday, April 9th, and arrived safe and sound, on the 11th. We found my step-father's residence about six o'clock in the evening. He was not expecting us till the next day. Our meeting is better imagined than told. I cannot describe it. His little son was only two years old when he left, and I was eleven, and we never expected to meet him again this side of eternity. It was Freedom that brought us together. My father was comfortably situated in a nice white cottage, containing some eight rooms, all well furnished, and attached to it was a fine garden. His wife, who is a physician, was absent, but returned on the following day. The people were kind and friendly. They informed me there was no other colored family in the city, but my step-mother was continually crowded with friends and customers without distinction. My step-mother had buried her only son, who returned from the war in a decline. The white friends were all in deep sympathy with them. I felt immediately at home among such kind and friendly people, and have never felt homesick, except when I think of my poor mother's farewell embrace when she accompanied us to the cars. As soon as my step-mother had arrived, and our excitement was over, they commenced calculating upon placing me in the Sabbath school at the church where my mother belonged. On the next Sabbath I accompanied her and joined the Sabbath school, she occupying a side seat about middle way up the house. I was not reminded of my color except by an occasional loafer or the Irish, usually the colored man's enemy. I was never permitted to attend a white church before, or ride in any public conveyance without being placed in a car for the especial purpose; and in the street cars we were not permitted to ride at all, either South or West. Here I ride where I please, without the slightest remark, except from the ignorant. Many ask me if I am contented. They can imagine by the above contrast. My brother and myself entered the public school, and found a host of interested friends and formed many dear acquaintances whom I shall never forget. After attending school a month the term closed. I advanced in my studies as fast as could be expected. I never attended school but one month before. I needed more attention than my kind teacher could possibly bestow upon me, encumbered as she was by so many small children. Mother then proposed my entering some select school and placing myself entirely under its discipline and influence. I was much pleased with the idea, but as they had already been to so much expense for me, I could not wish to place them under any heavier contribution. I had previously told my step-mother my story, and how often my own mother had wished she could have it published. I did not imagine she could find time to write and arrange it, but she immediately proposed writing and publishing the entire story, by the sale of which I might obtain the aid towards completing my studies. I am glad I came to the old Bay State, the people of which the rebels hate with an extreme hatred. I found it just such a place as I had imagined by the appearance of the soldiers and the kindness they manifested. New England, that blessed land, All in a happy Union band; They with the needy share their bread And teach the weak the Word of God. We never heard from my sister Hester, who made her escape from Kentucky, except when she was on the cars, though we have no doubt she succeeded in gaining her freedom. SUMMARY On my return to St. Louis I met my old master, Lewis, who strove so hard to sell us away that he might avoid seeing us free, on the street. He was so surprised that before he was aware of it he dropped a bow. My mother met Mrs. Lewis, her old mistress, with a large basket on her arm, trudging to market. It appeared she had lived to see the day when her children had to wait upon themselves, and she likewise. The Yankees had taken possession, and her posterity were on an equality with the black man. Mr. Lewis despised the Irish, and often declared he would board at the hotel before he would employ Irish help, but he now has a dissipated Irish cook. When I was his slave I was obliged to keep away every fly from the table, and not allow one to light on a person. They are now compelled to brush their own flies and dress themselves and children. Mr. Lewis' brother Benjamin was a more severe slave master than the one who owned me. He was a tobacconist and very wealthy. As soon as the war commenced he turned Unionist to save his property. He was very severe in his punishments. He used to extend his victim, fastened to a beam, with hands and feet tied, and inflict from fifty to three hundred lashes, laying their flesh entirely open, then bathe their quivering wounds with brine, and, through his nose, in a slow rebel tone he would tell them "You'd better walk a fair chalk line or else I'll give yer twice as much." His former friends, the guerrillas, were aware he only turned Union to save his cash, and they gave those persons he had abused a large share of his luxury. They then, in the presence of his wife and another distinguished lady, tortured him in a most inhuman manner. For pretending Unionism they placed him on a table and threatened to dissect him alive if he did not tell them where he kept his gold. He immediately informed them. They then stood him against the house and fired over his head. From that, they changed his position by turning him upside down, and raising him two feet from the floor, letting him dash his head against the floor until his skull was fractured, after which he lingered awhile and finally died. There was a long piece published in the paper respecting his repentance, benevolence, & c. All the slaves who ever lived in his family admit the Lord is able to save to the uttermost. He saved the thief on the cross, and perhaps he saved him. When I made my escape from slavery I was in a query how I was to raise funds to bear my expenses. I finally came to the conclusion that as the laborer was worthy of his hire, I thought my wages should come from my master's pocket. Accordingly I took twenty-five dollars. After I was safe and had learned to write, I sent him a nice letter, thanking him for the kindness his pocket bestowed to me in time of need. I have never received any answer to it. When I complete my education, if my life is spared, I shall endeavor to publish further details of our history in another volume from my own pen. CHRISTIANITY Christianity is a system claiming God for its author, and the welfare of man for its object. It is a system so uniform, exalted and pure, that the loftiest intellects have acknowledged its influence, and acquiesced in the justness of its claims. Genius has bent from his erratic course to gather fire from her altars, and pathos from the agony of Gethsemane and the sufferings of Calvary. Philosophy and science have paused amid their speculative researches and wonderous revelations, to gain wisdom from her teachings and knowledge from her precepts. Poetry has culled her fairest flowers and wreathed her softest, to bind her Author's "bleeding brow." Music has strung her sweetest lyres and breathed her noblest strains to celebrate His fame; whilst Learning has bent from her lofty heights to bow at the lowly cross. The constant friend of man, she has stood by him in his hour of greatest need. She has cheered the prisoner in his cell, and strengthened the martyr at the stake. She has nerved the frail and sinking heart of woman for high and holy deeds. The worn and weary have rested their fainting heads upon her bosom, and gathered strength from her words and courage from her counsels. She has been the staff of decrepit age, and the joy of manhood in its strength. She has bent over the form of lovely childhood, and suffered it to have a place in the Redeemer's arms. She has stood by the bed of the dying, and unveiled the glories of eternal life; gilding the darkness of the tomb with the glory of the resurrection. Christianity has changed the moral aspect of nations. Idolatrous temples have crumbled at her touch, and guilt owned its deformity in her presence. The darkest habitations of earth have been irradiated with heavenly light, and the death shriek of immolated victims changed for ascriptions of praise to God and the Lamb. Envy and Malice have been rebuked by her contented look, and fretful Impatience by her gentle and resigned manner. At her approach, fetters have been broken, and men have risen redeemed from dust, and freed from chains. Manhood has learned its dignity and worth, its kindred with angels, and alliance to God. To man, guilty, fallen and degraded man, she shows a fountain drawn from the Redeemer's veins; there she bids him wash and be clean. She points him to "Mount Zion, the city of the living God, to an innumerable company of angels, to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the new Covenant," and urges him to rise from the degradation of sin, renew his nature and join with them. She shows a pattern so spotless and holy, so elevated and pure, that he might shrink from it discouraged, did she not bring with her a promise from the lips of Jehovah, that he would give power to the faint, and might to those who have no strength. Learning may bring her ample pages and her ponderous records, rich with the spoils of every age, gathered from every land, and gleaned from every source. Philosophy and science may bring their abstruse researches and wonderous revelations--Literature her elegance, with the toils of the pen, and the labors of the pencil--but they are idle tales compared to the truths of Christianity. They may cultivate the intellect, enlighten the understanding, give scope to the imagination, and refine the sensibilities; but they open not, to our dim eyes and longing vision, the land of crystal founts and deathless flowers. Philosophy searches earth; Religion opens heaven. Philosophy doubts and trembles at the portals of eternity; Religion lifts the veil, and shows us golden streets, lit by the Redeemer's countenance, and irradiated by his smile. Philosophy strives to reconcile us to death; Religion triumphs over it. Philosophy treads amid the pathway of stars, and stands a delighted listener to the music of the spheres; but Religion gazes on the glorious palaces of God, while the harpings of the blood-washed, and the songs of the redeemed, fall upon her ravished ear. Philosophy has her place; Religion her important sphere; one is of importance here, the other of infinite and vital importance both here and hereafter. Amid ancient lore the Word of God stands unique and pre-eminent. Wonderful in its construction, admirable in its adaptation, it contains truths that a child may comprehend, and mysteries into which angels desire to look. It is in harmony with that adaptation of means to ends which pervades creation, from the polypus tribes, elaborating their coral homes, to man, the wonderous work of God. It forms the brightest link of that glorious chain which unites the humblest work of creation with the throne of the infinite and eternal Jehovah. As light, with its infinite particles and curiously blended colors, is suited to an eye prepared for the alterations of day; as air, with its subtle and invisible essence, is fitted for the delicate organs of respiration; and, in a word, as this material world is adapted to man's physical nature; so the word of eternal truth is adapted to his moral nature and mental constitution. It finds him wounded, sick and suffering, and points him to the balm of Gilead and the Physician of souls. It finds him stained by transgressions and defiled with guilt, and directs him to the "blood that cleanseth from all unrighteousness and sin." It finds him athirst and faint, pining amid the deserts of life, and shows him the wells of salvation and the rivers of life. It addresses itself to his moral and spiritual nature, makes provision for his wants and weaknesses, and meets his yearnings and aspirations. It is adapted to his mind in its earliest stages of progression, and its highest state of intellectuality. It provides light for his darkness, joy for his anguish, a solace for his woes, balm for his wounds, and heaven for his hopes. It unveils the unseen world, and reveals him who is the light of creation, and the joy of the universe, reconciled through the death of His Son. It promises the faithful a blessed re-union in a land undimmed with tears, undarkened by sorrow. It affords a truth for the living and a refuge for the dying. Aided by the Holy Spirit, it guides us through life, points out the shoals, the quicksands and hidden rocks which endanger our path, and at last leaves us with the eternal God for our refuge, and his everlasting arms for our protection. 
22534	----	A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH of the LIFE AND CHARACTER of JOSEPH CHARLESS, IN A SERIES OF LETTERS TO HIS GRANDCHILDREN. Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. Phil., chap.4, verse 8. SAINT LOUIS: A. F. COX, PRINTER, OFFICE OF THE MISSOURI PRESBYTERIAN. 1869. Letter One MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN: We are reminded daily of the uncertainty of human life: for the young and the old, the gay and the grave, the good and the wicked, are subject to death. Young people do not realize this, but it is nevertheless true, and before you are old enough, my children, to understand and lay to heart all that your mother would tell you of her dearly beloved father, she may be asleep with grandma, close beside him in Bellefontaine. An earthly inheritance is highly esteemed among men. For this reason great efforts are made by them to lay up treasures for their children. They know not, however, who shall gather them, for �riches take to themselves wings and fly away.� But a good man leaveth an inheritance to his children, and to his children�s children, which is as stable as the throne of the Most High. Like the stream that gathers strength from every rivulet, and grows deeper, and broader, and more majestic, until the myriads of crystal drops are received into the bosom of the mighty deep, so likewise is the legacy of a good man. It descends to his child by birthright, and through the rich mercy of a covenant-keeping God, widens and extends its life-giving power, flowing on and on, as rivers of water, into the boundless ocean of God�s love. Your grandfather, my beloved children, was a great man. Not as a warrior, nor as a statesman, nor in any sense which is simply of the earth, earthy. But he was great by being the possessor of a rare combination of moral worth and Christian excellence, which made him a blessing to his race. In other words, he was great because he was truly good. In the midst of his days of usefulness he was cut off from the land of the living. His precious remains rest quietly in the fresh made grave; his immortal spirit has winged its flight to the mansions of the blessed, for �blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them.� While endeavoring, in much weakness, to put together for your perusal such facts as may present to your minds a faithful likeness of the noble man from whom you have descended, I sincerely pray that you may be stimulated, by the grace of God, to follow him even as he followed Christ. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. BELMONT, January 7, 1860 Letter Two MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN: If you will look in your mother�s Bible, you will find that your grandfather, JOSEPH CHARLESS, was born in Lexington, Kentucky, on the 17th of January, 1804; that his father, whose name was also Joseph Charless, was born July 16th, 1772, in Westmeath, Ireland, being the only son of Captain Edward Charles, whose father, (or paternal ancestor, John Charles), was born in Wales and emigrated to Ireland in the year 1663. Your great-grandfather, Jos. Charles, fled from his native country to France, in consequence of his having been implicated in the Rebellion of 1795, �at the head of which figured the young and noble Emmet, who fell a sacrifice for loving too well his enslaved country.� After remaining a short time in France, he sailed for the United States of America, where he arrived in 1796, landing at the city of New York. Upon his arrival in the United States he added an s to his name to secure the Irish pronunciation of Charles, which makes it two syllables instead of one, as pronounced by us. He settled in Philadelphia, and being a printer by trade, he secured a situation with Matthew Carey, �who, at that time, did the largest publishing business in the Quaker City.� He often boasted of having printed the first quarto edition of the Bible that was ever issued in the United States. In 1798 he married Mrs. Sarah McCloud, a widow (with one child), whose maiden name was Jorden. Sarah Jorden was born January 28, 1771, near Wilmington, Delaware. During the American Revolution her parents, with their family, were driven by the Hessians from their home in Delaware, and resided subsequently in Philadelphia. In the year 1800 Mr. and Mrs. Charless removed from Philadelphia to Lexington, Kentucky; to Louisville in 1806, and to St. Louis in 1808. In July of that year Mr. Charless founded the �Missouri Gazette,� now known as the �Missouri Republican,� of which he was editor and sole proprietor for many years. This is the first newspaper of which St. Louis can boast, and I am told it still has the largest circulation of any paper west of the Alleghany Mountains. As regards the character of your great-grandfather, he was a noble specimen of the Irish gentleman-�impulsive-warm-heartedness being his most characteristic trait. He was polite and hospitable, his countenance cheerful, his conversation sprightly and humorous. Sweet is the memory of the times when his children and friends gathered around his plentiful board. Often have we seen him entering his gateway, followed by the mendicant, who would soon return thither literally laden down with provisions from his well-stored larder. His wife was no less hospitable, not less charitable and kind to the poor, but more cautious. She was of the utilitarian school, and could not bear to see anything go to waste, or anything unworthily bestowed. Not so easily touched with the appearance of sorrow as her husband was, but always ready to relieve the wants of those she knew to be destitute, she would herself administer to the sick with a full heart and a generous hand. But she had a natural aversion to indolence, and would not give a penny to any she esteemed so, lest it should tend to increase this unmeritorious propensity. She was herself exceedingly industrious, and took great delight in making her family comfortable, and, in fact, supplying the wants of every living thing about her, even to the cat and the dog. �She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff. She riseth also while it is yet dark, and giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.� Both possessed honorable pride, and were plain, unpretending people, making no claim to an aristocratic ancestry, but, after a long life spent in a growing city of considerable size, they died, leaving many to speak their praises, and not one, that I have ever heard of, to say aught against them. He departed this life at the age of sixty-two, having enjoyed robust health until within two weeks of his death. His widow was �gathered as a shock of corn, fully ripe, into the garner of the Lord,� at the advanced age of eight-one. From an obituary notice of her I will quote the following lines: �Mrs. Sarah Charless was an exemplary Christian, and was one of the most zealous and untiring in her exertions to build up the Presbyterian Church established in this city under the pastoral care of the Rev. Salmon Giddings. Eminently charitable in her disposition, and ever willing to alleviate the evils of others, she endeared to her all upon whom the hand of misfortune hung heavily. Well was it said of her by one of the most eminent men of our State�-the Hon. Edward Bates�-that she was a woman upon whom the young man, far from friends and home, could always rely.� Of a family of eight children, viz: Robert McCloud, Edward, John, Joseph, Anne, Eliza, Chapman, and Sarah Charless, Joseph alone was left in this pilgrimage word to mourn for his mother. Eliza Wahrendorff, daughter of Anne Charless Wahrendorff, and Lizzie Charless, your own dear mother, were the only grandchildren left to mingle their tears with his. Great was the void caused in our small family circle when this excellent woman, this aged Christian, this revered and much loved parent was laid in the silent tomb. It is sweet now to think about her love of flowers, and how often she would say, when they commenced shooting up in early spring, that they reminded her of the resurrection morning. May you, my dear mother, realize the blessedness of this truth�-when Jesus shall bid his redeemed ones rise from the cold ground which has so long shrouded them-�and come forth, more beautiful than the hyacinth, to bloom forever on the borders of the river of life! And may you, my sweet children, have a pleasant and happy childhood, loving all that is lovely and hating all this is evil, that you may grow up to be good men and women; and in old age, when memory fails, may you, like her, rejoice and revel again amid the innocent scenes of early life, looking through them up to that glorious world above us, where the �inhabitant shall no more say he is sick,� or shall feel the infirmities of age. Affectionately, GRANDMA. Letter Three MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN: You, Charless and Louis, often say to me, �Grandma, tell me about when you were a little girl,� and many a little story have I told you. But now I am going to tell you about �Grandpa,� when he was a little boy. That dear, good grandpa, who looked young to grandma, but who looked so old to you, with his pretty, glossy grey hair, was once a little boy, just like you are. He had a dear mamma, too, who tenderly loved him, but she used to punish him when he was naughty, and kiss him when he was good, just as your mamma does to you. He was a very obstinate little fellow, though, and generally submitted to a good deal of punishment before he would confess his fault and beg for forgiveness. His mamma would sometimes tie him to the bed-post, but he would pull against the string until his arm would almost bleed, and frequently he would free himself by gnawing the cord in two. But he was a good-humored little boy for all that, and �mischievous as a house pig,� his mother used to say. Once she locked him up, for some naughty trick, in a room where there were a number of nice fresh made cheeses, arranged around for the purpose of drying, and said to him, �Stay there, Joe, until you mean to be good, and then I will let you out.� He very soon knocked at the door, calling out, �Mamma, mamma, I�ll be good now,� and his mamma thought �my little son is conquered very soon this time; he is certainly improving.� She opened the door, but what, do you suppose, was her dismay, when she found that the �little rogue� had bit a mouthful out of every cheese! When he was a small child he strayed off from the house, away down to the spring, and, stooping down to see the pretty clear water, fell in, and came near being drowned. Oh, how his poor mother did cry, when her sweet little boy was brought to her so pale, and almost lifeless. But she rubbed him and warmed him until he came to, and was as well as ever; and his mamma thought �surely such an accident will never again happen to my dear little son.� But when he grew to be a larger boy, some time after his parents had removed from Kentucky to St. Louis, he went one day with some boys to have a swimming match in the Mississippi river. Most boys like to swim or wade in the water, and sometimes are so eager for the sport that they forget, or give no heed to the expressed commands of their parents; and many a boy has lost his life by breaking the fifth commandment, which says, �Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.� Many a boy who, had he lived, might have become a good and noble-hearted man, doing much good in the world, has thus early been summoned suddenly and unprepared before the judgment bar of God, simply for having forgotten, in a moment of pleasurable excitement, to honor his parents by a strict obedience to their commands. But, thanks to our Heavenly Father, this was not the case with little Joseph Charless, for, although he was drawn by the current of the terrible Mississippi into a whirling eddy, he was saved from such a dreadful doom. A good, brave boy, who was larger than he, and a better swimmer, rushed into the whirl and pulled him out to the shore. Poor little fellow! he was almost gone, for he was insensible, and it was some time before he breathed freely again. He was carried home�-to that dear home which came so near being made desolate-�and with deep penitence did he confess his fault and beg for pardon. His last thoughts when he was drowning (as he thought) were, �I have disobeyed my mother! It will break my poor mother�s heart!� Children have a great deal of curiosity, and perhaps you will ask, �how did grandma know so much about grandpa when he was a little boy? Was she a little girl then, and did she live in St. Louis, too?� No, my children, when my parents moved to St. Louis I was a young lady and grandpa was a young gentleman. We soon became acquainted, however, and after awhile we were married, and then I took a strange fancy to learn all about him from the time he was a little baby in his mother�s arms; and when I ventured to ask his mother a few questions about him, I found it pleased her so much that I was encouraged to ask many more. And now it seems to me I have known grandpa always, and was with him when he used to go with his mamma and little brothers and sisters into the country, with a company of the neighbors, all in little French carts, to gather strawberries and blackberries, which grew in abundance in Lucas Place, Chouteau avenue, and all about, where now are elegant mansions and paved streets. It was then a prairie, with clumps of trees here and there, springs of water and sweet wild flowers. He told me himself about his frolics with the French boys (many of whom were his earliest and truest friends), how they used to have match-eating pancake parties, in the day of the pancake festival in the Catholic Church; and about his youthful gallantries, and how desperately in love he was once with a very smart, pretty creole girl, and how the discovery of �a hole in her stocking� drove the little god of love from his breast. But these anecdotes and incidents were, perhaps, more interesting to his wife than they will be to you. Well, then, I will tell you an Indian story, for I have never known a boy yet that did not like to hear about the Indians. You know the poor things are now nearly exterminated from the face of the earth. In the early history of St. Louis, I find that they lived not far off, having pitched their wigwams only a little farther to the west, for the white man, in intruding upon their hunting grounds, had driven them, with the elk, the deer and the buffalo, still farther from the Atlantic coast, which they once claimed as their own rightful property. These poor savages, however, would often come into the town to see �the white-faced children of the Great Spirit;� to buy their beads and other fine things to dress up in; and that they might show them how fierce they looked, their faces streaked with every variety of paint, and their hair all shaved off excepting a little bunch on the top of their heads which they reserved as a fastening for their feathers and other head ornaments, of which they were very fond. But, I dare say, if you have never seen Indians, you have seen their pictures. It was real sport for the boys to see them dance, and listen to their wild songs and savage yells. But to my story. There was an old Indian who was a great thief. He was seen alone, generally, prowling about the town, peeping through the fences into the yards, watching out for chickens, or anything he could shoot with his arrow, or slip under his blanket. Little Joseph Charless had watched this famous old Indian thief, and determined to punish him for his wickedness. To accomplish this purpose, he armed himself with plenty of dried squashes, which he kept in the garret of his father�s house, near to the gable window, that fronted on the street. He watched his opportunity, and one day, as the Indian passed by, he threw a squash down upon the old fellow�s head. Soon after he peeped out to see if it had struck him, when whiz went the arrow, just grazing his face and sticking tight and firm into the window beam above his head! This fright cured him of �playing tricks upon travelers,� at least for awhile. You see now, my dear children, from what I have told you, that �grandpa� was just such a boy as you are�-fond of fun and frolic, and of playing tricks. I have said nothing of his love of school and books. But I think he was about as fond of both as boys usually are. When a little boy he was sent to the village school, and after he became large enough to work, he was put to work in his father�s printing office. By the time he became a pretty good printer, a school of a higher grade than any St. Louis had yet afforded was opened in the country, and his father gladly availed himself of this opportunity to continue the education of his son. He was a pupil in this school for some time, after which he commenced the study of the law, agreeably to his father�s wishes, under the supervision of Francis Spalding, who was at that time an eminent lawyer in St. Louis. After having read law awhile, he was sent to complete his legal education at the Transylvania University, Kentucky. While in the printing office he and another boy received a terrible flogging one day for laughing at a poor, unfortunate man, who had a very bad impediment in his speech, which being accompanied, with ludicrous gestures and grimaces, was more than their youthful risibility could withstand. They made a manly, but vain attempt to suppress a roar of laughter, which only gathered strength from being dammed up, and at last burst over all bounds. I never could forgive his father for whipping the poor boys so severely for what they could not avoid. He was too just and generous a man, however, to have been so unmerciful, if his better feelings and his better judgment had not been warped by a burst of passion. The following is from the pen of his old friend and playmate, Mr. N. P., of St. Louis: �You ask me to state what I know of the early character of your late husband. This I proceed to do. In his boyhood there were not the same temptations in St. Louis to irregularity of habits and vice that assail the young men of the present day. I do not think I err when I say that Joseph Charless was a good boy-�kind, tractable, obedient to his parents, and giving them no further solicitude than such as every parent may well feel when watching the progress of a son to manhood. He had no bad habits. As a boy, there was nothing dishonorable about him, and he had quite as few frailties, or weaknesses, as attach to any of us. In the sports and amusements of that day he stood well with his fellows, and was well received in ever society. Of course, from what I have said, you will infer that he was of an amiable disposition, exhibiting less of heated temper than most of us. Not quick in inviting a quarrel, but, being in, defending himself resolutely and manfully. I do not think he was the favorite of his parents at that day. Edward was. John, another brother, was passionate and hard to govern, but he was the only one of the family who had these qualities in a marked degree. �I think Joseph gave as little cause for anxiety to his parents and friends as any boy could possibly do. He has been taken from us, and I have written in a more public manner (as editor of �The Republican�) my estimate of his character in all the relations of life,� &c.,&c. At the age of twelve years, his brother John, who was two years older than himself, was taken sick and died. This was the first great sorrow that your dear grandfather ever knew. I have often heard him speak of it, but never without a shade passing over his countenance, denoting that time could not efface the recollection of that painful event. Oh, how his loving young heart must have swelled with unutterable grief when his playmate brother lay in his coffin, so still and cold, his hands clasped upon his breast, with cheeks so pale, and his bright blue eyes dimmed and closed! But grandpa still had brothers and sisters left, and a kind father and mother. The world which looked so dark, soon became a pleasant world to him again; the flowers looked pretty and the air was fresh, and he was again seen sporting and romping. But at night, when he knelt down to pray, and his thoughts went up to Heaven, he would think of his brother, and, weeping, to relieve his little, aching heart, he would go to bed, feeling lonely and sad. Did you ever think what a blessing it is to go to sleep, my dear little children? What pleasant dreams; and how gay and bright the morning appears after a good night�s rest upon a comfortable bed. And do you ever think how good God is to have given you a praying mother, when so many little children have never heard of God or Heaven? Grandpa had a Christian mother, too, and she taught him to pray. She told him all about the great God who made Heaven and earth, and all things, and about his SON JESUS, who came into the world as a little child; that, though rich, he became poor, and was laid in a manger. This blessed Jesus is your friend. He can hear, and he can answer your prayers, and knows all you think and feel, all that you say and do. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. BELMONT, January, 1860. Letter Four MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN: Twelve months have elapsed since I first made an attempt, by writing, to make you acquainted with your beloved grandfather, who departed this life on the 4th of June, 1859. I am still a mourner-�such an one as I hope, as I earnestly pray, none of you may ever be. My poor heart is desolate! I have no home in this world, and I long for Heaven. I would gladly lay me down in the grave, but God knows what is best for me, and He does all things well. Then to my task, for I have a portrait to make-�a portrait for you to look at, to imitate, to love, and to reverence. Not a likeness of the external man: you have that to perfection-�so perfect that a friend, who knew him well, remarked, upon looking at it, that the artist must have been inspired. But to show the inner life and the daily walk of that dear man who, for twenty-seven years, six months and twenty-seven days, was the sharer of my joys and sorrows, and the prop of my earthly existence, is a more delicate task. In a few words I could sum up his life and character, for there was nothing extraordinary in it, excepting extraordinary goodness; but, then, how could my dear children, from a few abstract ideas thrown hastily together, see the path he trod, in all its windings, compare it with that of others, and with their own, and learn the lessons it teaches? I do not mean by �extraordinary goodness� that your grandfather had no faults-�that he never did wrong-�for then, you know, he would have been an angel, not a man. With these preliminaries, I shall endeavor, in much weakness, to set him before you in such a light that you will not fail to see and understand him, and to feel, too, the sweet influences of a presence that always brought with it happiness and peace. On the 8th of May, 1830, my father, Captain Peter Blow, arrived at St. Louis with his family, consisting of my mother, my two sisters, my four brothers, and myself. We landed at the wharf of our future home on the steamer Atlantic. This being the finest boat that had ever reached this distant western city, the Captain, who was evidently proud of it, proposed to give to the good citizens of this goodly city of ten thousand inhabitants a select pleasure-party on board of her, that, with music, dancing and feasting, they might, to the best advantage, appreciate its dimensions, its comforts and elegancies. My sisters and self having accepted the cordial invitation of the Captain, who had treated us with great kindness and consideration while passengers on his boat, and, attended by our father and a gentleman whom we had formerly known, and who had been residing in the city for a few months, made our appearance for the first time in St. Louis society. Our mother, who was a perfect pattern of propriety, advised us to equip ourselves in our nicest street dresses, and, being strangers, not to participate at all in the dance. Consequently, we were there in the position of �lookers-on in Vienna.� We made good use of our eyes, and kept time to the music in our hearts, but used our feet only in promenading. During the evening I observed several ladies with much interest, but was greatly attracted with but one gentleman, whom I first noticed sitting opposite to us, leaning back in his chair. There was a calm serenity overspreading his handsome features, which wore a joyousness of expression that was irresistible. I pointed him out to our escort, and inquired who he was. He could not tell me; still I could not but observe him. He waltzed once with the belle of the evening (a Miss Selby). My eyes followed them; and I see your dear grandfather now, just as he looked then. He was about the medium size �-five feet nine inches high, and well proportioned; his complexion rather fair, hair dark. His beard was closely shaved, but showed, from the soft, penciled tints about his mouth and chin, that it was likewise black. His eyes were grey. With considerable gaiety of disposition, he evinced a gentleness, a suavity, and a modest grace of deportment, which I have never seen surpassed, if equaled. In a few weeks Mr. Charless sought an introduction to us, and from that time he became a constant visitor at our house, and in fifteen months from our first acquaintance, he declared himself a suitor for my hand and heart, promising to use the best efforts of his life to make me happy. I could tell you a good many incidents of our early acquaintance �-of our pleasure-rides in pleasant weather, in gig or on horseback, and of our merry sleigh-rides in winter. Delightful recollections crowd upon me, and, if I were given to novel-writing, I could weave them into a very pretty little love-story; but then I would have to make myself the heroine. There was a little Scotch song, however, that he used to sing to me, and as it will afford me a sweet, sad pleasure to recall it, I will do so, at least as much of it as I can recollect: �Come over the heather, we�ll trip thegither All in the morning early; With heart and hand I�ll by thee stand, For in truth I lo�e thee dearly, There�s mony a lass I lo�e fu� well, And mony that lo�e me dearly, But there�s ne�er a lass beside thysel� I e�er could lo�e sincerely, Come over the heather, we�ll trip thegither, All in the morning early; With heart and hand I�ll by thee stand, For in truth I lo�e thee dearly.� I have before me now the first letter I ever received from him, expressing what he had several times in vain attempted to speak. For although he was at no loss for thoughts, or words in which to clothe them, in ordinary conversation, yet, whenever he felt a desire to open his heart to me on the subject of his love, he became so much agitated that he had not the courage to venture, and finally wrote and sent me the following letter: After a brief and simple introduction, he says: "That I love, you is but a faint expression of my feelings, and should I be so happy as to have that feeling reciprocated by you, I pledge you the best efforts of my life to promote your happiness. Nature, I fear, has wrought me in her rougher mould, and unfitted me to appear to advantage in an undertaking like this, in which so much delicacy of sentiment seems to be required in these, our days of refinement. Such as I am-�and I have endeavored to appear without any false coloring--I offer myself a candidate for your affections, for your love. You have known me long enough to find out my faults--for none are without them--and to discover what virtues I may have (if any), and, from these, to form a just estimate of my character. "I feel that my future happiness, in a great measure, depends on your answer. But suspense to me is the greatest source of unhappiness. Naturally impatient and sanguine, I cannot rest until the result is known. May I hope that my offer will be favorably received, and that hereafter I may subscribe myself, as now, Your devoted, JOS. CHARLESS, Jr.� If this seems like a "love-letter" to you, my dear children, it does not to me, for it does not embody half of the love and devotion which I ever received from my husband, from the time we stood at the hymenial altar, until, in his last, faint whisper, while he gazed with unutterable tenderness, he said, "I--love--you!" But I must try to forget, while I am writing to you, my dear children, that I am bereaved. I must not let my sorrows give a coloring to every page, for I know how natural it is to the young to delight in pleasant things, and to flee from that which is gloomy; and, besides, I cannot leave a faithful impression upon your minds of what he was, unless I enter into the spirit of the past, when our sweet home was full of joy, and gladness. And why should I not be joyous again? Have I not dear children to love me, and is not my dear husband alive, and shall I not see him again? Is not God still good, and has he ever tried me more than I am able to bear? Was he not with me in the deep waters? "I know that in very faithfulness Thou hast afflicted me." Then let me cease my murmurings; or, rather, let me check my yearnings for what I can never have again--a faithful, loving heart, to bear with me my sorrows, and a strong arm to lean upon. Yes, there is a strong arm upon which I can lean. May I have faith to make use of it! There is a "Friend who sticketh closer than a brother," to whom I can unburden my heart. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. BELMONT, January, 1861. Letter Five My DEAR GRANDCHILDREN: We were married on the 8th of November, 1831. No costly arrangements were made for the occasion. The death of my sweet mother having occurred a few months previous would alone have prevented display and revelry; but, besides this sad event, my father had become greatly reduced in circumstances, and could afford no better preparations for the wedding of his child than such as could be made at home. Evergreens, provided by my little brothers, and festooned with flowers by my sisters, set off to great advantage the transparent white curtains, and gave a look of freshness and gaiety to our neat, but plain parlor; and the cake, with its plain icing, showed more than the confectioner's skill in its whiteness and flavor. The circle of Mr. Charless' own immediate family, and a few friends he wished to invite, with some of our own, composed the company. And, since I am dealing in minutiae, I will tell you how the bride was dressed. She wore a plain, white satin dress, (made by herself), trimmed about the waist and sleeves with crape-lisse, which gave a becoming softness to the complexion of the arms and neck, which were bare. A simple wreath of white flowers entwined in her black hair, without veil, laces or ornaments, (save the pearls which were the marriage gift of her betrothed), completed her toilet. The graceful and talented Dr. Potts (Mr. then) performed the marriage ceremony, saying, "what God hath joined together, let not man put asunder." My father, who had always been in comfortable circumstances, had, however, never been rich; and, notwithstanding he had been called to encounter many untoward events in life, we had never known what it was to want, until we came to St. Louis. This last move, which was fraught with brilliant hopes, in a monetary point of view, proved most disastrous, and, in a few short months, his little all of earthly goods was gone, and his faithful, loving help-meet laid away to sleep in the cold earth, and he, himself, declining in health, depressed and discouraged. Our new home was a sad place, and it was joyous, too; for young hearts were there throbbing with pleasurable emotions, which sorrow and disappointment, though they checked, could not destroy. And young heads were there, big with the future; and Hope, which could not be hid by the darkness that surrounded us, sat enthroned as a queen, ever pointing us to the beautiful castle in the distant mist, and by her reflex influence coloring even the dreary present with her rainbow-tints. A few days after our marriage we were received, as members of the family, at the house of my husband's parents. Upon our arrival there, we found the house brilliantly illuminated, for "Joseph was coming home with his bride," and the old people must have a grand reception! Everybody came that evening, and everybody called on the bride afterwards. Next morning, however, some of the realities of life commenced. We were late to breakfast, and, to my dismay, the breakfast was over. I glanced at my husband, who seemed a little embarrassed. But a cordial greeting from his mother, who was busy in the adjoining room "ridding up," and an affectionate kiss from his sister (Mrs. Wahrendorff), who immediately advanced upon our entrance into the room, made things a little more pleasant. We sat down together, and alone. Hot batter-cakes, etc., which were covered up near the fire, were soon placed upon the table, by the servant, and our plain, old-fashioned mother (who was no woman for nonsense) very unceremoniously told me to "pour out the coffee." What a downfall for a bride! But this was not all. Upon my return to my room, after the departure of Mr. Charless to the store, I found that it was just as we had left it, and not cleaned and put in order, as I supposed it would have been. Mrs. Wahrendorff followed me, and offered (smiling) to assist me in making my bed, which I courteously accepted; and, finding that I was to be my own chamber-maid, I asked for a broom, which she sent to me. How long I had had that broom in hand I do not remember, but, while standing in the middle of the room, leaning on its handle, absorbed in rather disagreeable reflections, (all of which I might have been saved if I had known then, as I do now, that no disrespect was intended by these stranger relations), I happened to look out of the window, down into the street, when what should I see but the uplifted countenance of my husband, beaming with happiness and joy. Our eyes met, and, in a few moments, he entered the apartment, which had been very prettily fitted up, expressly for us. There was a shade of mortification on his whole-souled face, mingled with a playful humor, as he said: "Has mother put you to work already?" A kind embrace, with "I must make some other arrangement, dear--this will not do"--brought me to my senses, and I insisted (without prevailing, however), upon conforming to his mother's wishes in all things. "I had been accustomed to do house-work (much to the credit of my sensible mother, who, although a Virginian, taught her daughters self-reliance and many useful lessons in house-wifery), but I only felt strange, and a little home-sick; I would soon get over that, however." A few crystal tears fell, not mixed with sorrow; for how could sorrow find a place for such trifles in a heart so conscious of having just obtained a treasure, in a noble and devoted husband? The next event of consequence that will aid in developing to your minds the character and disposition of your revered grandfather, occurred a few weeks after the circumstances related above. Mr. Edward Charless, who was married and settled a few squares from us, sent one evening an invitation to his brother to come over and make one of a card-party-�to be sure to come, for they could not do without him. He went. Upon his return, about twelve o'clock, he found me still up, waiting for him. He saw I felt badly. Not an unpleasant word passed between us, and nothing was said about it afterwards, that I recollect. Again his brother sent a similar message--"one wanting in a game of whist." He promptly replied, (very good-humoredly), "tell your master I am a married man now, and cannot come. He will have to look out for some one else to fill that chair." And if my husband ever spent half a dozen evenings from me in his life--except when attending to business of importance, or when necessarily separated--I do not now remember it. His pleasures were with his heart, and that was with his family. Not long after this, news came that his half-brother (Robert McCloud) was in a declining state of health. His mother expressed a desire to have him brought home. Joseph immediately offered to go for him, and in a few days he took leave of me for the first time; left in his sister's (Mrs. Kerr's) carriage, with two good horses and a careful driver. And it was fortunate that he was so well equipped, for it was a hard trip, at best, for a poor invalid who was a good many miles distant. He returned in a few weeks with his emaciated brother, who lingered a few months, and died. During this winter my own dear father declined rapidly, and no hopes were entertained of his recovery. This state of things passed heavily upon me. It was painful enough to know that he, too, had to die soon. But what was to become of my dear sisters, and our brothers --all of whom were younger than ourselves? The eldest, who was about sixteen years old, and our second brother (two years younger), had just commenced business as store-boys--one in a dry-goods store; the other, my father had placed under the care of my husband. Mr. Charless had, but a few years previous to this time, become a partner of his father in the drug business, (having abandoned the profession of the law, as it was not at all suited to his taste, and, perhaps, not to his talents), and, as he had frankly told me, immediately after our engagement, he was a new beginner in the world, and poor; under such circumstances I could not hope that it would be in his power to do anything for my father's helpless family. Tears, scalding tears, nightly chafed my cheeks, and it was only when emotions were too strong to be suppressed that I would sob out in my agony sufficiently loud to awake my husband from sound repose; for, through the day, I always controlled myself, and waited at night until deep sleep had fallen upon him before I would give vent to my burdened heart. At such times he would sympathize with me, and speak words of encouragement and comfort: not embracing promises, however, for he was not a man to make promises, unless he felt at least some assurance of an ability to perform them them. True, to his heart's core, he could not, even under the excitement of the moment, awaken hopes, perhaps to be blasted. And, young and warm-hearted as he was, so alive to the sufferings of others, I wonder now, when I think of it, that sympathy such as his, and love such as his, had not overbalanced his better judgment, and induced him, in such trying circumstances, to promise any and everything to soothe the troubled soul of one he loved better than himself. He weighed matters. He planned, and thought of every expedient. As respectful as he ever had been to his parents, and tenderly as he loved them--fearful as he was of any step which they might not cordially approve--a new and nobler feeling was struggling in his breast; for a sorrowing one, whom he had promised to love and cherish, looked up to him as her only solace; and, while a thousand conflicting emotions forbade her utterances and requests, he divined all, and, folding me tenderly to his breast, said, emphatically: "Charlotte, your sisters and your brothers are mine." Sweet words, that acted "like oil poured upon the troubled waters." And has he not proved himself faithful to that declaration? Has he not been to us, in our destitute orphanage, more than a husband and a brother? Did a father ever bear more patiently with the foibles and imperfections of his children? Was a father ever less selfish than he has been? Has not his loving arm embraced us all? But, my children, I forgot I was writing to you, and I have already written a long letter--so, will conclude with the injunction: If you want to be happy--if you want to make others happy--if you want to be truly noble, make this dear grandsire your model. It was truly said of him by his pastor, Rev. S. B. McPheeters, that "Mr. Charless was a man of unusual loveliness of character, irrespective of his religious principles. By nature frank and generous, full of kindly emotions and noble impulses, if he had remained a man of the world, he would have been one of those who often put true Christians to the blush, by his deeds of benevolence and acts of humanity." As regards his devotion to me and mine, I would say, there are but few brothers-in-law, and they hard-hearted, and regardless of the world's opinion, who could have refused to be the friend and brother of a helpless family, thus left in the midst of strangers. But how often do you see men so steadfast, so disinterested and devoted through life? Where is the man to be found that would not have murmured--that would not, at some time, have let an impatient word drop, showing that he felt the burden of the care and responsibility brought on him by marrying, and thus, at least, have wounded the wife of his bosom? Where is the man to be found, that, under such circumstances, has secured to himself the devoted love, and the unbounded confidence and admiration of a proud-spirited family, such as mine are? Many, indeed, must have been his virtues, clear and sound his judgment, upright and pure his daily walk and conversation, cheerful and confiding his demeanor. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. BELMONT, January, 1861. Letter Six MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN: In my previous letters I have endeavored, with the best lights I have, to show you the circumstances and surroundings of your grandfather�s early life, by giving you a sketch of his parentage, associations, youthful characteristics, etc. But now, I am entering upon a new era. He is a married man-�has left the paternal roof, and is forming new associations. The romance of the vine-covered cottage, with the girl of his heart-�which, as fortune smiled, should gradually grow into the stately mansion, with none to share or distract the peculiar joys of early married life, when all is couleur de rose-�were not for him. Life is too earnest for romance; for high and holy responsibilities, in the dispensations of an all-wise Providence, he has to meet and to discharge. He is young and inexperienced, but here are boys, bound to him by a new, but tender tie, just entering the most dangerous period of life, without their natural guides; here are girls, unused to the hard usages of misfortune, suddenly deprived of all �save innocence and Heaven,� and he is their only earthly protector and friend. Our parents were both of English descent, and Virginians by birth. They were married young, and settled upon the hereditary estate of my mother, which consisted of a well-improved Virginia plantation. There they lived, with nothing to interrupt the quiet and ease of their existence, excepting the war of 1812-13, between the United States and England, when my father had to shoulder the musket, as captain of a volunteer company, and leave his family, to fight for his country. This was the only eventful period of their lives, until my father became fired with the Western Fever, that about that time (the year 1818) began to rage, and which resulted in the purchase and settlement of a cotton plantation in North Alabama. Alabama was then the Eldorado of the far West, and I well remember the disappointment I felt, upon our arrival there, at not seeing �money growing upon trees,� and �good old apple brandy flowing from their trunks!� From this period commenced our misfortunes, which, although trying to my parents, were, by dint of energy and perseverance, readily overcome, at least so as to enable them to support and educate their growing family-�securing the comforts of life, with some of its luxuries�-until, very naturally, aiming at more than this, my father again made a sacrifice of much, with the hope of gaining the more, by removing to St. Louis-�the result of which I have already told you. My father was honest, frank, social, communicative, and confiding. He possessed an unbounded confidence in his species, believing every man a gentleman who seemed to be one, or was by others esteemed as such, and, in transactions with them, considered their �word as good as their bond.� From which, as soon as the old and well-tried associations of his native State were dissolved, he suffered many pecuniary losses. He was passionate, but not revengeful; gay and animated, but subject to occasional reactions, when he became much depressed. He was a high-toned, honorable gentleman, very neat and exact in his personal appearance, but entirely free from pretension. My mother was orphaned in infancy, and brought up by her grand-parents �-Mr. and Mrs. Etheldred Taylor. She was proud of her ancestry. I can see and hear her now, when, under circumstances where her pride was touched, she would say, �Daughter, remember that pure and rich blood flows in your veins-�the best in the land. If your mother had to live in a hollowed stump, she would be what she is; no outward circumstances could lower or elevate her one iota;� and she would raise her proud head with the air of an unrighteously dethroned queen. This, I may say, was mother�s great, if not her only fault. She was a pure, lovely, estimable woman; quick and sensitive, but, as a friend, a wife, and mother, she was unexceptionable. Like the Grecian matron, her children were her jewels. Her education would have been considered limited for these days, yet she was a woman of fine sense and quick intellect. She possessed great delicacy of feeling, an inflexible will, an unusual energy (for a woman) in carrying out what she esteemed right, and an uncontrollable aversion to whatever was mean or cowardly. The training of their children devolved mostly up her, my father finding enough out of doors, in business or pleasure, to occupy him. And faithful she was in teaching them the practical lessons of industry and economy; faithful in dealing with their faults. The only one never checked was pride. This she appealed to as a stimulant to every other virtue; for virtue she esteemed it-�and virtue it is, in its proper place, and under proper control. My parents were brought up in the Episcopal church-�with a form of godliness, without the substance. But the sufferings and death of my eldest sister, who had become a true convert to the religion of Jesus Christ, in the Methodist church, and who died rejoicing in the hope of everlasting life, so impressed my mother that she, too, sought and found the �one thing needful�-�which happy change, although it took place late in life, was long enough to evince to her children the genuineness of her faith, and the power of the Gospel in making the �proud in spirit� meek and lowly at the feet of Jesus. She united with the Presbyterian church a few years before her death; and now, as I look back at the days of my childhood and youth, and call to mind all the pleasant and sweet things which memory cherishes, there is nothing so refreshing as the piety of my mother, and that of the dear sister, who, like a pioneer, went before to show us the "straight and narrow path� through the rugged scenes of this sinful world. Like an oasis in the desert of life, it lives, fresh and green, and ever and anon directs my vision above the storm and tempest to the pure and bright realms of the redeemed. With this short sketch of the life and character of my parents, from which you can form an idea of the peculiar characteristics and dispositions of their children, who now have become so intimately associated with your grandfather, I will proceed to say, that, after the death of my father, which occurred in June, just eleven months after that of my mother, he at once became our loving and beloved head. We took an affectionate leave of his dear parents, and removed into our own "rented house;" and that you may be enabled to place us there, I will describe our two best rooms, which were separated by a folding-door, and used as parlor and dining rooms. They were neatly furnished, with nice ingrain carpets, cane-bottom chairs, an extension dining table, and very pretty, straw-colored Venetian window-blinds, trimmed with dark blue cords and tassels. A mahogany work-stand--the only article ordered from "the east," because it was a gift for his wife--was placed in the parlor, for it was too pretty to stay up stairs, (perhaps the emptiness of the parlor made me think so). Now, my dear children, you may laugh, and, perhaps, feel ashamed that your grandparents should have started in life with so little, and that so plain, especially if you hear others boasting of the wealth and grandeur of theirs. But, when I tell you that after awhile we had a nice sofa, (bought at auction, because it was cheap), and that at another time a small side-board was provided, in like manner, by that dear grandpa, who always did the best he could; and when I tell you that "grandma" was so happy, and so well satisfied; that nobody's house--not even those furnished in the most expensive manner, with the richest carpets, the most massive and elegant furniture, mirrored and draped in costly brocatelle--looked half so sweet and pretty to her; when you know, my dear children, and understand, that those people who have so far deteriorated, by false teaching, and the glitter of the world, as to esteem such things more highly than the far richer treasures of the heart, which alone can garnish a home with unsullied beauty, and feel the pity and contempt for them that I do, these trifling baubles will take their appropriate place, and you will see life as it is, and value it for what is pure and genuine--not for that which is false and worthless. On the 8th of November--exactly one year after our marriage --your dear mother (then our sweet little Lizzie) was born. Not long after this, I was taken extremely ill with a fever, which lasted many, many weeks. My dear husband is now seen as the tender and devoted nurse. With my sisters, he watched beside me, with his own hands wringing out the flannels from strong, hot lotions, and applying them to my aching limbs, which gave relief (but that only momentary) when as hot as could be borne. No nurse could be procured. The few that were in the city had left from fright when the cholera made its appearance there that fall, and had not returned. But "grandpa" never wearied in attentions to his wife. After the violence of my disease had abated, and I was pronounced by my physicians "out of danger," I continued weak and in a bad state of health for months. Still, how thoughtful, how watchful and attentive he was! Often at night have I waked, and the first object that would meet my eyes would be my husband, walking to and fro with the baby in his arms, trying to hush her to sleep, lest she should disturb me. For at least six months after my partial recovery my limbs had to be bandaged, to lessen the swelling. No one but he could do this properly. At night he would prepare the bandages, by rolling them tightly, and in the morning, immediately after returning from market, (that he might not lose time from business), he would go through with the tedious process of bandaging--meanwhile keeping up a cheerful conversation, which is so reviving to the invalid; and, after breakfast, he would return to my room, to bid me an affectionate adieu, before leaving for the store. During this sorrowful year, my dear husband lost both of his sisters. Mrs. Wahrendorff died in November; Mrs. Kerr the May following. In this severe dispensation he derived comfort from the belief that they had exchanged this for a better world, for they both had a well-grounded hope in the merits of a crucified Redeemer; and, even while he mourned for his sisters, he was cheerful. It is surprising how much real happiness we can have in the midst of trouble, when the heart is right; and it is surprising, too, how much real misery we can have in the midst of prosperity, when there is everything apparently to make life pleasant and blissful, when the heart is wrong. You know the little song, "Kind words can never die." "Grandma" realizes to-day that they never do; nor kind looks either, nor good deeds. With the God of love, nothing is small. He stoops "to feed the young ravens when they cry," and yet there are men, (not many, I hope), who, from pride, selfishness, and ill-nature, imagine that, as "lords of creation," it is utterly beneath them to minister with their own hands to the sick and feeble, not even excepting the wife of their bosoms. Life is made up of little things. "A cup of cold water" from the hand of a loving, gentle, sympathizing friend, does more to alleviate suffering than rich gifts bestowed by the unfeeling and the proud; than many luxuries provided by the harsh and exacting. I have first particularized, and then drawn a contrast, my dear children, that you may be the better able to see the beauty and excellency of true goodness; and that, like your grandfather, who has gone to reap the reward, through grace, of a well-spent life, you may be self-denying, gentle, loving, and kind. Devotedly yours, GRANDMA. Belmont, January, 1861. Letter Seven My Dear Grandchildren: With a return of comparative good health, "grandma" is again enabled to resume her duties as housekeeper, and is daily seen, with "grandpa," presiding at their family board. Our sisters and brothers, with two young men from "the store," (who, from motives of economy, board with us), and our little daughter, who sits to the left of her father, in her baby dining-chair, constitute the family. How cheerful the scene, after months of sickness and anxiety! "Grandpa," at least, is radiant with happiness and good-humor. No unpleasant word or look is seen or heard during our family repast. Perhaps an awkward boy upsets his cup of coffee, but the quaint remark, "accidents will happen in the best regulated families," spoken with a native courtesy, rarely seen, restores his equilibrium; and thus peacefully, (in the main), day after day passes along, although many little perplexities and cares arise, such as every family are subject to, especially where there are sons just entering the dangerous and tempting paths of youth. In my particular duties and unavoidable anxieties I had a warm and sympathizing friend, and a good counsellor, in the person of my precious husband. But I felt that I needed more than this to sustain me in the cares, and trials, and sorrows of life. And, besides, I carried about with me a troubled conscience. For, at the commencement of my illness, in the fall of 1832, I was perfectly aware of the approach of danger, and, as I took a look from this world into Eternity, all was dark and void, and the thought of having to meet death thus alarmed me. While a raging fever was fast making me wild, I drew the sheet up over my face, and said, "Let me be quiet." All was stilled, no sound being heard, save an occasional whisper from some loved one, (who was too anxious to be mute), and my own quick breathing, while my heart was struggling for communion with God. Vague as were my ideas of that glorious Being, I prayed that He might spare my life, promising, most solemnly, that if He should do so, I would, upon my recovery, turn my attention to the consideration of Divine Truth; that I would search the Scriptures, to know what they taught, and, should I be assured that the Bible contained a revelation from Heaven, I would, in the future, govern my life by its precepts and doctrines. Weak and sinful as this prayer was, I believe the God of pity heard and answered it; for, notwithstanding my disinclination to the fulfilment of this vow, made under circumstances so appalling, He bore with me, but never allowed me to forget it. Every appearance of evil --and especially the return of the cholera in our midst the next fall --seemed to me, "like the fingers upon the wall," ready to write my doom. I often tried to become interested in reading the Bible, but that sacred book possessed no charm to me. I found it a hard and unpleasant task to read it at all. At length I summoned up courage to communicate my difficulties and fears to my husband. Prompt in action, he immediately purchased for me "Scott's Commentary," which, he said, would aid me in understanding the Bible; the want of which, he thought, was the reason I could feel no interest in it. He was right; for, before I had finished the book of Matthew, with the systematic and attentive reading of "the notes" and "practical observations," I was convinced that this was none other than the word of that great Being who had made and preserved me all the days of my life. This blessed book--which, hitherto, had been a sealed book to me--now seemed to glow with real life, and unwonted beauty! It was no difficult task for me then, hour after hour, to pore over its sacred pages. Your grandfather, at this time, was only a nominal believer. He had not earnestly examined this all-important matter, and made it a personal one. Engrossed in business, young and healthy, he no doubt felt, like thousands of others, that there was time enough for him to attend to the interests of his soul, (which, to the natural heart, is insipid, if not distasteful); but, when he saw his wife so deeply interested, he did all he could to encourage her. He knelt with her at the bedside in secret prayer, conversed with her on the subject, went with her to church, and sympathized with her; until, as a reward, I truly believe, for all his kindness to me, at a time when I was ashamed of myself--ashamed to let anyone know (even him) that I felt the weight of unpardoned sin-��God touched his heart as with a live coal from off His altar." So, hand and heart, we went together. Sweet is the memory of the ever-to-be-remembered day, when, "in the presence of men and of angels, we avouched the Lord JEHOVAH to be our God, the object of our supreme love and delight; the Lord Jesus Christ to be our Saviour from sin and death, our Prophet, Priest, and King; and the Holy Ghost, our Illuminator, Sanctifier, Comforter, and Guide;" when we gave ourselves away in "a covenant, never to be revoked, to be his willing servants forever, humbly believing that we had been redeemed, not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with the precious blood of the Son of God." How different is the scene now presented at that fireside, where no God had heretofore been acknowledged! For, morning and evening, we surround the Throne of Grace; the Bible is read, a hymn sung, and that sweet voice, which we shall hear no more on earth, with a full confession of sin and unworthiness, humbly pleads with Him "in whom we live, and move, and have our being." A blessing is asked at our meals; preparations are made on Saturday for the holy Sabbath, that no unnecessary work may be done on that day, and servants are exhorted to improve its sacred hours. After having dedicated ourselves to the service of the living God, we took our little Lizzie--the dearest, richest treasure of our heart and life--and presented her, in the solemn ordinance of baptism, to that Saviour who, when all earth, "took little children in his arms and blessed them," and there promised to pray with, and for her; to impart to her the knowledge of God's holy word, and to bring her up, not for this vain and perishing world, but for Heaven. Now, my dear children, that I have given you a peep into the home and household of your grandparents, when your mamma was a little babe--before and after they became members of the Church--I will proceed, by telling you that, during that summer, (in July, 1834), your beloved grandfather met with another heavy bereavement, in the death of his father. None were then left of all that united and happy family circle, which caused the homestead to ring with mirth when "grandma," as a bride, first became a member of it, excepting his mother, his brother Edward, and himself. Deep sorrow pervaded our souls, most of all because, before this sad event, we had learned to feel, most keenly, the importance of a careful preparation for "the great change," which we do not know that his father ever made. But, (as I once heard a minister say at a funeral), "we will leave him where he left himself, in secret with his God," with the hope that he was enabled, by that grace which is rich in Christ Jesus, to "make his calling and election sure." Life is made up of lights and shadows, and, before closing this letter, I will give you an account of a delightful little journey which we made early in September of that year. Your mamma, who was then just twenty-two months old, was quite delicate, and we thought a little trip into the country would be of service to her; and her papa, having some business in Illinois that would cause an absence of ten or twelve days, concluded to hitch up our little barouche and take us with him. So we started, in fine style, on a beautiful morning--"grandpa," and "grandma," our little Lizzie; and her nurse--which, with a small trunk, a carpet-bag, and a little basket, containing some crackers, etc., for the baby, quite filled the carriage. I�ll tell you there is no such traveling these days of railroads and steam boats! Every body is in too great a hurry to stop and go slowly, as we did in our little barouche, trotting gently along across the prairies of Illinois. How balmy and bracing the air; how quiet the scene; how beautiful the prairies! Some four, some ten, some twenty miles in width--all covered with tall grasses and a profusion of large autumn flowers that waved in graceful undulations before the sweeping breeze. An apt representation of a gently swelling sea, upon whose dark green waves, nature had emptied her lap of richly varied blossoms. We traveled from twenty-five to thirty miles per day; starting early in the morning--while yet the dew glittered before the rising sun. We always took care to learn from our host, the distance and situation of the next good stopping place, where we might dine, and rest a few hours in the heat of the day, after which we would again "hitch up" and start refreshed and strengthened for our evening ride. What magnificent sunsets! How picturesque the woodland bordering of these beautiful prairies, with here and there an humble residence, and a cultivated field. We could not but lift our hearts in adoration and praise. �If God has made this world so fair, where sin and death abound, How beautiful, beyond compare, will Paradise be found.� On we went--passing occasionally through neat little villages, sometimes large towns, such as, Springfield and Jacksonville--until we reached Lewiston, where we spent the Sabbath and attended the village church. In the afternoon of the next day we went to Canton which was the end of our journey. And when "grandpa" had transacted his business there we turned our faces homeward. The first day upon our return, we lost our way--then appeared clouds and mists, just enough rain falling, to make the high hills we had to climb, slippery and hard upon our poor horse, who manfully pulled away without flagging, until we found a shelter for the night; which, although a wretched one we were very thankful for. From this time, there is but a faint impression left upon my mind of our return, until within a few miles of Alton, when, as the sun was fast sinking into his glorious bed of cloud and fire (giving strong indications of an approaching storm), my anxious husband, after having made a strenuous but vain attempt to obtain a shelter for the night "whipped up" his jaded horse and pressed forward. It grew dark rapidly. As we passed from the open prairie into the dense forest, we seemed to leave light and hope behind us--for cloud and tempest, lightning, and loud claps of thunder quickly succeeded. For awhile we could discern the road; at length, enveloped in total darkness, it was to be seen, only by the flashes of lightning, which, while it horrified our horse and ourselves, served to guide us and also to show us our danger, from the tall trees as they swung to and fro above and around us. About nine o'clock we discovered (as we thought) in the distance a light from a window, of which we were soon assured --and our fears allayed by hearing "the watch-dog's honest bark." Next day we reached our snug little home, where we entertained the family with the incidents of our trip--its pleasures, hair-breadth escapes, &c. None were more delighted in that group than our sweet Lizzie, who brought the roses of the prairie home upon her little checks, which were more than a reward for a few untoward events of that delightful and long remembered journey. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. Belmont, January, 1861 Letter Eight My Dear Grandchildren: There is a circumstance connected with the death of my father Charless, which I cannot pass over without omitting a very striking feature in the character of my husband, delineating his unselfishness, brotherly affection, and his strict sense of justice. I think his father had deferred making his will until his last illness. At any rate it was not until then that his son, Joseph, learned (from his brother-in-law, Mr. John Kerr), the contents of his father's will, which were, in substance, as follows: Joseph was to inherit all of his father's estate, excepting a lot of ground, fronting on Walnut street, of sixty feet, which was bequeathed to his mother. Thus his brother, Edward, was disinherited. Eliza Wahrendorff, the only child of your grandfather's sister, who afterwards became the wife of my brother, Taylor Blow, had, by the death of her parents, inherited a beautifully improved lot of sixty feet front, on Market street, which was the gift of Eliza's grandfather to her mother, Ann Charless. Edward Charless had unfortunately displeased his father; for, although he was a genial, honorable, and kind-hearted man, he had, in early life, contracted habits of dissipation, which clung to him through life, and which were very displeasing to his father. He had been married a number of years, too, but had no children. The information of Mr. Kerr, respecting the will of my husband's father, was anything but pleasing to him--for he loved his brother, and had a very tender regard for his feelings--and as much as he valued the love and approbation of his father, he could not enjoy it at the expense of his brother. He was very much worried, and seemed scarcely to know what to do. Finally he repaired to the bedside of his father, and, painful as it must have been to him, at such a time, he gently, but earnestly, expostulated with him on the subject. The old gentleman, for some time, persisted in saying, Joseph, you are my favorite son; you have a child, too; while Edward has none. I do not wish my property to be squandered, or to go out of my family: but always received the reply, father, you have but two children, do not, I beg you, make a difference between us, or something equivalent to that. At length he prevailed, and his father had a codicil added to his will, which made his brother an equal heir with himself, the property to come into their possession after the death of their mother, and should these brothers die, leaving no heirs, the estate should belong to his granddaughter, Eliza Wahrendorff. I am sure you will agree with me, dear boys, that your grandfather was right, but how seldom do we see an exhibition of such firm integrity among men, (even among brothers), of whom the poet truthfully says, "If self the wavering balance shake, it's rarely right adjusted." In the winter of 1836 my husband paid a visit to the eastern cities, for the purpose of purchasing a stock of goods. Previous to this I had always accompanied him, so that, excepting the time he went for his sick brother, (Robert McCloud), to which I have alluded, we had never been separated. He was absent seven weeks, during which time he wrote me twenty-one letters, of which I will quote one entire, and give a few extracts from others, that you may read from his own pen. "Steamboat Potosi, below Cincinnati, Jan. 1st, 1836. "A happy new year to my dear Charlotte and to all my dear friends at home! I feel that I should be happy to spend today with you, but though absent, still, in spirit, I am with you, for my thoughts have dwelt all the morning with my dear friends in St. Louis. We left Louisville last night at seven o'clock and are now passing "Rising Sun," a village in Indiana, thirty-five miles below Cincinnati, which we hope to reach by dinner time. I saw no one in Louisville that we knew. Mr. B. was not there and I made no inquiries about his family, as I do not know his partner, Mr. G., and we remained there but a few hours. I read, this morning, the 46th chapter of Isaiah, and, from the fact of this being new year�s day, my mind has been carried to the goodness of God to usward, in granting all the blessings we enjoy:--His infinite greatness, wisdom and mercy. I feel greater reliance on the atonement of our divine Saviour, and a full assurance that if we are faithful unto the end, we shall reap a crown of immortality and be forever blessed by His presence. Let us then, dear Charlotte, endeavor to realize more than we ever yet have done the reality of eternal things, and fix our minds more on the attainment of the salvation, not only of our own souls, but of all those who are near and dear to us. Let us "seek first the kingdom," feeling assured that all things else will be given us that is best for us. I am satisfied that love to God will purify our souls, and make us better fitted for the trials of this world, and will ensure eternal happiness to us hereafter. "I send you a kiss, which you must share with our dear little girl, not forgetting aunt Loo's share. When you write, let me know how the boys (my brothers Taylor and Wm.) get on at St. Charles, and the news generally of all the family." CINCINNATI. "I have just called on Dr. Drake and family, and find them very pleasant people. We stay here but a few hours, and leave for Wheeling, at 8 o'clock to-night. Remember me to mother, and to all our dear friends at home. Yours truly, JOS. CHARLESS." This is a very characteristic letter, and I will take occasion here to acknowledge, with shame, that, with my ardent temperament, I was not always pleased with my husband's universal care, and love, and consideration of everybody, without a stronger expression of his feelings for me. When he presented me with a set of pearls, before our marriage, he brought two sets for me to select from, not being able himself to decide which was the prettiest. As soon as I expressed a preference, he handed that set to me, and the other to my sister, politely asking her acceptance of it. While I was pleased to see my sweet sister with a set of pearls, like mine, I would have been more pleased with his attention if it had been directed to me only; and often have I lost sight of his devotion to me--by every act of his life, not less in his love to those most dear to me, than in thousands of other ways--because he did not make a more marked difference in his acts, and bestow upon me, in words, a stronger expression of his love. But I have lived long enough to find out what empty things words are: how poor and mean, compared with a life which, like "a living epistle, is known and read of all men." "A happy New Year to my dear C., and all my dear friend�s," etc. His was a courtesy which sprung from the heart--which was seen alone with his wife in the cordial New Year's greeting, or at the fireside, with familiar loved ones there; that came from his pen, or flew upon the telegraph; a courtesy that carried soul with it, and made everyone feel the value of his friendship and love; not that which is the result of false teaching, or a false heart--to be put on, or put off, as it suits the place or the whim of its possessor. But I promised to quote some extracts from other letters. Well, here is one: "I hope, dear Charlotte, you have taken care of your health in my absence, and that I shall have the happiness to see you yourself again. I pray the Lord to be merciful unto us, and grant that we may meet again, and that our hearts may once more be raised, with our voices, around our family altar, to Him who purchased us by His blood, and, as we hope, redeemed us unto a new life; and that His blessing may extend to all who are near and dear to us; that all our family may be united in serving the Lord fervently and affectionately." Again he says: "I hope that, in the letters you have written, you have told me all about the business of the store, and house, and farm, and generally all the news of home, as I will not be able to receive an answer to this, or any of my subsequent letters from the east." My husband made me his confidant. He did not think me so far beneath him as not to be able to understand, and to appreciate all that interested him--his "business," his "farm.� At "the house" he ever considered me the head, while he relieved me of every possible care, by strict personal attention to all out-of-door work connected with housekeeping. This little farm to which he refers was his delight; for it served as recreation from the toils of mercantile life, and afforded him unalloyed pleasure. He was fond of flowers, of fruits, of trees, of meadows, and everything pertaining to country life. It was impossible for him to stand and look at others who were at work in the garden. He would throw off his coat, seize the spade or the hoe, and go to work himself with the most intense relish. Not the most minute little wild flower ever escaped his notice, or was ruthlessly trodden under foot; but, stooping down, he would take up the tiny thing, and hold it up for admiration, seeming to think that others could not but admire it as he did. Oh, my husband! how sweet and pure was your life! Tears fall as I think of thee. Before this period in the history of your grandfather, we had exchanged our old residence for a very delightful one, near to his paternal home, on Market and Fifth streets. It had been built by Mr. and Mrs. Wahrendorff, for their own use; had a large yard, and every improvement necessary to make it second to none in the city. Here your dear mother passed seven years of her happy childhood, and still remembers what romps she used to have with her papa; how she would watch for him at the alley-gate, with hands full of snow-balls to pelt him with, and how he would catch her up in his arms, kiss her cheeks, plunge them into the snowbank, and then give her a fair chance to pay him back. She remembers what assistance he would render her in the very grave business of catching pigeons, by creeping up behind them, and sprinkling "a little fresh salt upon their tails." She has not forgotten the happy Christmas mornings, when old Santa Claus was sure to load her with presents; nor her school-girl parties, which would have been no parties at all without "papa" to make fun for them; and many other things, perhaps, which I never knew, or noticed, she could tell you. But "grandma" remembers some things, which, as she wants you to see "grandpa" just as he was, she will relate to you. About this time, we had a dining-room waiter, who, one day, was such a luckless wight as to be very impertinent to me. He was an "exquisite," (in his way), although as black as the "ace of spades;" wore a stiff shirt collar, that looked snow-white, from the contrast, and combed his hair so nicely that it appeared as fleecy as zephyr-worsted. He had, however, a habit of going off, without anybody's knowing where, and staying a long time, neglecting his work, and provoking "grandma." Upon his return, when she would inquire where he had been, his answer invariably was, "To the barber�s, ma'am"--accompanied by a bow, and an odoriferous compound of barbarous perfumes, presenting altogether such a ludicrous picture that I could not possibly avoid laughing; after which, of course, I would have to excuse him, with the mild injunction not to stay so long again. Anthony presumed upon this mode of treatment until it ceased to be amusing to me, when, with a good grace, I was enabled to administer a severe reproof, which he returned with the most unheard-of impudence. As soon as his master came in, I related the fact to him. In an instant, as Anthony was passing the dining-room door, my husband sprang at him--caught him by the collar, shook and twirled him around into the gallery, and pounded him with his bare fists to his heart's content. In this changing world, I do not know but that, in the course of time, you little Southerners may become fanatical abolitionists, and, losing sight, in the above case, of the cause of provocation, in your tenderness and sympathy for the slave, will attribute this unceremonious treatment of poor Anthony to the fact that he was one of those "colored unfortunates." Therefore, to set you right, at least, with regard to the character of your grandfather, I will give you another instance of his impulsiveness, which, perhaps, may be considered a flaw in the character of this singularly pure and noble man. Some years after the circumstance related above, a young friend was living with us who had a hired white girl for a nurse. I soon discovered that she was an unprincipled, saucy girl; but she was smart enough to get on the "blind side" of this young mother, by nursing the babe (as she thought) admirably well. When I could no longer put up with her encroachments, I took the girl to one side, and laid down the law; whereupon the enraged creature was excessively impertinent. After finding that my dear little friend had not the moral courage to dismiss the girl (which she might have done, for I offered to take care of the baby myself until another could be procured), I suppressed my emotions, and bore it as well as I could. From reasons of consideration for my husband, who seemed much wearied that evening after returning home from business, I concluded not to consult him about what was best to be done until next morning, when, upon hearing the particulars of this little episode in domestic life, he arose in great haste, and so excited as scarcely to be able to get into his clothes. I begged him to be calm, but there was no calmness for him until he got hold of the girl, ran her down two flights of stairs, and out of the door into the street, having ordered her, in no very measured terms, never again to cross his threshold. In the course of his whole life, I witnessed but one (or perhaps two) other instances of like impetuosity. They were rare, indeed, and always immediately followed, as in the cases above referred to, by his usual calmness and good humor, no trace being left of the storm within, save a subdued smile, which had in it more of shame than triumph. I have been told that, in his counting-room, he has occasionally produced a sensation by like demonstrations, caused, in every case, by the entrance of some person who, not knowing the stuff he was made of, would venture to make an attack upon the character of some friend of his; or, perhaps, would make a few insidious remarks, "just to put Mr. Charless on his guard." But the slanderous intruder would soon find out the quicker he was outside of the store the better for him, much to the astonishment, and amusement, too, of his partners and clerks, who, but for those rare flashes of temper, and an occasional "stirring up" of a milder sort among the boys in the store, could not be made to believe it possible that Mr. Charless could be otherwise than mild and genial as a sunbeam. He was never known to resent, in this kind of way, any indignity shown to himself, which was rarely done by any one. Unfortunately, however, on one occasion, he gained the displeasure of an Irishman, (from whom he had borrowed some money), who was half lawyer, half money-broker. Standing with a group of gentlemen, in conversation about money matters, per centage, etc., your grandfather remarked that he had borrowed a certain amount from Mr. M., for a certain per cent., (naming it). One of the gentlemen asked, "Are you sure, Mr. Charless? for that was my money Mr. M. lent you, and he informed me that you were to pay him only so much," (naming the per cent., which happened to be less than that agreed upon). Mr. Charless, perceiving his faux pas, expressed a regret that he had so unwittingly mentioned what, it seemed, should have been kept secret; which was all he could do. Mr. M., of course, heard of it. He knew well that he could not revenge himself upon him who was the innocent cause of his exposure, in St. Louis; but in New York, where neither were so well known, he did all he could to injure Mr. Charless' reputation. The friends of the latter, having heard of Mr. M.'s unprincipled conduct, in insidiously striving to undermine the confidence reposed in him there, informed him of it, expecting that he would take some notice of the matter--which he did not do. They came again, and protested against his allowing �that fellow� to continue these aspersions. He smiled, and replied, �I am not afraid of his doing me any harm; let him go on.� He did go on, and after awhile he returned to St. Louis, when some mutual friend (poor Mr. M. still had friends among gentlemen) informed him that certain reports against Mr. Charless, which had reached St. Louis, as coming from him, were doing him considerable injury; not Mr. C, for he stood too high in the estimation of the community to be injured by slanderous reports of any kind whatever. Whereupon Mr. M. denied having made them, and expressed a determination to explain, and make the matter all right with Mr. Charless. For this purpose, one day, as the latter was passing a livery stable, where Mr. M. was waiting for his buggy to be brought out, he called to Mr. Charless, who passed along without noticing him. Again he called saying, �Mr. Charless, I want to speak to you.� Mr. Charless waved his hand back at him, and went on. Elevating his voice, said he, �Do you refuse to speak to me, sir?� Still a wave of the hand-�nothing more. This was too much for the hot-headed gentleman. His raving and abuse attracted the attention of everybody about there to the hand, which still waved, as �grandpa� walked on, and said, too plainly to be mistaken, in its silent contempt, � I can�t lower myself by speaking to such a dirty fellow as you are.� Without a word or circumstance from your grandfather, it circulated from mouth to mouth, with considerable gusto; from which, I need not say, Mr. M. had the worst of it. It has given me some pain, my dear children, to speak of these incidents; and, indeed, there are many things (some very sweet to me) that I feel constrained to write which I would gladly keep secret and sacred in my soul, but for a firm conviction that such a halo of light as has shone about my path, from the pure life of your beloved grandfather, should not be allowed to go out. And the faithful historian cannot give the light without the shadows. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. Belmont, February, 1861. Letter Nine My Dear Grandchildren: Before the fire companies were properly organized in St. Louis, or, perhaps, before there were any at all, I was perfectly miserable whenever a fire occurred, for �grandpa� would be sure to rush to the spot, and up, probably, to the most dangerous places on the tops of houses, or anywhere else, to assist in protecting life or property. Besides the fear that he might lose his life in this way, I felt considerable anxiety on account of his health; for, after these extraordinary exertions, he would return home nearly exhausted. No entreaties or arguments, in urging him to desist, had any weight, until he found that his services were no longer needed. With this impetuosity of character, he possessed a large share of moral courage. He dared to do right, or what he deemed right, always, and that without display or fear, and entirely indifferent to the opinion of the world. With a modest estimate of himself was blended a quiet satisfaction in the discharge of duty. But not over-careful about what others did or did not do, or at all dictatorial, he cheerfully accorded to all what he claimed for himself, viz: independence of thought and action. No one was more willing to give advice, when asked; none more free from obtruding it uninvited. Thankfully and courteously he always received it, even when pressed upon him beyond what was proper; and although to some of it he might not give a second thought, perceiving at once its invalidity; yet he was too modest, and too polite to intimate the fact�-leaving an impression upon the mind of the giver (without the slightest intention to deceive) that he had conferred a favor: which, indeed, by considering the kindness of the motive, he appreciated as such. This was the result of a profound respect for the opinions and feelings of his fellow-men, to whom he would listen patiently, even to the ignorant and the weak, meanwhile giving kind and considerate responses, causing them (no less than his equals) to feel satisfied with themselves and with him, whom each one, high and low, rich and poor, esteemed as his own particular friend: and all this without study, without an effort, because the offspring of a kind, generous, and appreciative nature. A circumstance occurs to my mind, which, perhaps will give you an idea of your grandfather�s kindness and consideration towards those in the humbler walks of life: One morning a plain, honest looking youth, from whom he had purchased some marketing, accompanied him to the house, for the purpose of bringing it. They went into the kitchen together, to warm and dry themselves, and when, in a few moments afterwards, breakfast was announced, �grandpa� asked me to have a plate placed for the lad; to which I demurred, inquiring if I had not better send breakfast to the kitchen for him? He replied, �No. The golden rule directs us to do unto others as we would they should do unto us.� Whereupon an argument ensued, I insisting that, according to that rule, his breakfast should be sent out, as I had no doubt that the boy would feel more at ease, and would enjoy his breakfast more in the kitchen than he would at our table. Fixing his eyes upon me, with that kind but reproving expression which was characteristic of him, he said: �Charlotte, if we were to stop at the house of that young man�s father, I doubt not but that he would give us the best place, and the best of everything he has.� Even this did not convince me; when, with his usual dislike to argument, and with that conciliatory kindness which ever marked his intercourse with his family, he yielded the point, gracefully, as though it was a matter of little consequence, so that the young man was only well provided for; but not without a mild, and well-merited reproof, in which he playfully reminded me of my �Virginia pride.� And thus it ever was, my dear children, with your honored grandfather. Firm in principle�-kind in action; but most kind to those who had the first and highest claim upon him. Never afraid of compromising his dignity or position as head of his family, he always retained it unabated. How unlike some men, who, by attempting to maintain their rights by an overbearing, arbitrary manner, and harsh and unbecoming words, evince a weakness which makes them contemptible, if not in the estimation of the wife and children, at least so in that of others, who plainly discern that littleness, in some shape or other, and not manly dignity and good sense, places them in their unenviable position of �master of my own house.� And yet how much do I regret, now, when it is too late to remedy it, that I did not, readily and cheerfully, accede to every wish of this dear friend, whose truly consistent and beautiful character shone out most clearly at home. How much do I regret now, that I should have allowed his few little foibles to annoy me. The greatest of these, and the one that caused more unpleasant words between us than any and all things else, was his carelessness in dress. I do not know that I am scrupulously neat, but I did pride myself in the personal appearance of my husband, which was sometimes seriously marred by an unshaved beard or a soiled shirt. We were once traveling on a steamboat, and, standing on the guards, I discovered him on the wheel-house, and called to him to come to me. A lady asked if �that old gentleman� was my husband, and said: �You look so young, I am surprised that you should have married so old a man.� She seemed to be an unoffending, simple-hearted woman, such as we frequently meet in traveling, and I replied, with a smile, �He suits me very well, ma�am;� but made use of the earliest opportunity to tell him of it�-really taking pleasure in doing so-�for I had often expressed my own views on that subject, assuring him that he looked at least twenty years older when he neglected to dress with care, especially if he had not shaved. Next morning he paid particular attention to making his toilet, declaring it to be his intention �to create a sensation,� which he certainly succeeded in doing, much to our mutual amusement; for the same lady, eyeing him closely at breakfast; expressed to me afterwards her amazement at the change, giving it as her opinion, that �he was the handsomest young gentleman she had ever seen.� I went too boldly to work in trying to correct his careless habits in dress. I formed an idea that it was my duty and my privilege, not only to attend to my husband�s wardrobe, but to direct, too, how it should be disposed of; but soon found that he was not to be made to do anything. And, as �straws show which way the wind blows,� I learned, in most things, to influence him by silken cords. He was willing to be led captive by love and tenderness. Why, when your dear mamma was not more than four or five years of age, she had learned the art of making �papa� do as she liked. I remember to have heard her say once (slyly to one side), �I am going to make papa let me do it.� And when asked �Make papa?� answered, �Yes, the way mamma does;� and immediately turned to him with her most bewitching little smile, and said, �Do please, dear papa, let me.� O! what a joyous home we had! And what changes time has made! The old Wahrendorff house has been rased to the ground, and stores stand in its place. Where domestic peace and happiness reigned-�where flowers bloomed-�where childhood held its sports and holidays, now is seen the busy mart of this bustling, plodding world. The merry little magnet of that grass-covered spot is now the mother of four children; and the beloved father, upon whom her mother fondly hoped to lean, as she tottered down the hill of life, lies low, at its base. One of my dear sisters was there seen in her bridals robes, pure and sweet. But now, she is among the angels (as I humbly trust,) clothed in the white robe of a Saviour�s righteousness. The other still lives to bless us with her presence and her love. Our brothers have passed their truant school-boy days-��sowed their wild oats��-have taken their stand among men, and are realizing themselves now the blessedness of a home of conjugal and paternal happiness, and begin to know something of the care and anxiety that has been felt for them, and of the hopes which stimulate to duty. And thus, Time, as he passes, leaves foot-prints, which make the children of to-day the men and women of to-morrow; brings changes which blight our fondest hopes, crush the heart, and leave us, in our tempest-tossed bark, to weather awhile longer the storms upon the voyage of life. But my mind still reverts to this home of my happy married life. It is Sabbath morning there, and we are around the family altar. The chapter has been read, and we are singing a favorite hymn of the one who reads and prays. It is spring time, and the fresh air comes in through the opened window, perfumed with the rose and the sweet-brier. But we are singing: �The rosy light is dawning, Upon the mountain�s brow: It is the Sabbath morning, Arise, and pay thy vow. Lift up thy voice to Heaven, In sacred praise and prayer, While unto thee is given The light of life to share. The landscape, lately shrouded By evening�s paler ray, Smiles beauteous and unclouded Before the eye of day; So let our souls, benighted Too long in folly�s shade, By the kind smiles be lighted To joys that never fade. O, see those waters streaming In crystal purity; While earth, with verdure teeming, Give rapture to the eye. Let rivers of salvation In larger currents flow, Till every tribe and nation Their healing virtue know.� The morning is past�-we have been to church, and dined; and now our little daughter is listening, most eagerly, to the Bible story, which was promised her as a reward for good behavior. The afternoon has passed. We have had an early tea, and again we surround the Throne of Grace before going to church. The same loved voice is heard again joining in another favorite hymn: �Sweet is the light of Sabbath eve, And soft the sunbeams lingering there: For this blest hour the world I leave, Wafted on wings of faith and prayer. The time, how lovely, and how still! Peace shines and smiles on all below; The vale, the wood, the stream, the hill, All fair with evening�s setting glow. Season of rest, the tranquil soul Feels the sweet calm, and melts to love: And while these peaceful moments roll, Faith sees a smiling Heaven above. Nor shall our days of toil be long; Our pilgrimage will soon be trod, And we shall join the ceaseless song, The endless Sabbath of our God.� Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. Belmont, February, 1861. Letter Ten My Dear Grandchildren: I see in casting a glance back, that I have passed over a good deal in the life of your grandfather, which will, perhaps, be of interest to you; without which, at any rate, this sketch would not be complete. And I intended, when I closed my last letter, to commence this with his career as a business man, and to continue the narrative to the close of his life; and then to give you a distinct account of his influence and deeds in the Church, and in the world, as a Christian. But I do not know, upon further reflection, that it is best to divide up his life in that way; and, indeed, it seems to me rather a difficult and unnatural task to do so, for he strictly followed the injunction of the Apostle: �Be diligent in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.� The dividing line, therefore, would be hard to find, if there was one at all. And these letters, which are a pleasant recreation to me while I write them�-and of profit, too, I hope, as I carefully review the life of him who, �though dead, still speaketh��-would, I fear, become a task, should I change the simple and pleasing plan I have adopted of recalling the past, with the incidents as they occurred, and from them selecting such as I think will best unfold to your view the real, every-day life of him, which, if fairly seen, cannot fail to plant in your young hearts a just pride for such an ancestor, and a holy desire to walk in his steps. With this view, I will retrace, and bring up, briefly and in order, the omissions to which I have alluded. You remember, I mentioned to you the fact, that your grandfather commenced life, as a business man, by becoming the partner of his father in the drug business. His father had, a few years previously, given up his interest in the �Missouri Republican� to his son Edward, and commenced a business which was new to him, and that upon a small capital. He found it so profitable, however, that he prevailed on Joseph to abandon his profession, (the practice of which he had but just commenced), and to join him, believing that it would ultimately be more to his advantage to do so. From the profits arising from this business�-which regularly increased, with the increase of the city, and that of the country, from the rapid emigration to the Western States-�combined with his success in an occasional speculation in land, I doubt not, if �grandpa� had been at all given to the love of money, or had been ambitious of attaining to great wealth, and had bent his powers of mind and body in that direction, he would have reached the desired goal, perhaps to becoming a millionaire. But very different from this were the tendencies of his nature. He appreciated money as the means of adding to the sum of human happiness; and, while he was by no means reckless in the use of it, it was a source of great pleasure to him to have it in his power to indulge his family in having what they desired and in living as they pleased, and still to have something over to distribute to the necessities of the indigent. To the Church of Christ he cheerfully contributed to the extent of his ability, esteeming it one of his highest privileges. Pursuing this course, his business meanwhile widening, and constantly becoming more profitable, in the year 1837 or �38, he decided to take a partner, and offered the situation to my brother Henry, which was gladly accepted. After this, (I do not know exactly how long), he purchased a valuable piece of ground in the city, upon a part of which �the firm� determined to build an oil and lead factory. This proved to be a very expensive and arduous undertaking; and, although it promised, after being fairly established, to be a most profitable investment, yet the capital of �the firm� was not sufficient to complete and to carry it on successfully until it should reach a self-sustaining point, without doing serious injury to �the store,� by depriving it of the necessary capital for its success. During this state of things, which grew worse every day, my husband discerned a portentous cloud in the sky of his commercial prosperity, which resulted after days and nights of anxiety and overtaxed strength of body and mind, in a low state of health and spirits that almost unfitted him for his accumulated business, which, nevertheless, he continued to prosecute with avidity. This was about the year 1841. I do not recollect how long his ill health lasted, but I well remember how his flesh went away�-how pale he was�-how he perspired at night, from nervous prostration, and how his skin seemed to cleave to his bones. He was still amiable and uncomplaining; but his elasticity, his free-hearted joyousness was gone. After pressing him for some time to tell me his troubles and difficulties, and sympathizing with him because of them, until a far deeper concern took possession of me on account of his health, and, finding that moderate expostulations did not better things, I determined to make an effort by trying a wife�s skill in arousing him from this state of despondency, which threatened such serious consequences; for I might well feel that fortune would be nothing to me without my husband-�my husband as he ever had been. And �if the worst came to the worst,� if he only had sufficient means to pay his debts, (which he said, without doubt, he had), I cared for nothing better than to begin life afresh, with such a husband as I had, with health, youth, business capacity, and a good reputation. This conversation was not without effect; and he determined, by way of recruiting, to �knock off� from business, and to make an excursion into the country. This little trip�-which was not simply without aim, other than for his health, as he had some business to attend to on the way-�acted like a charm, by restoring his wasted energies and his cheerfulness. He returned, in ten or fifteen days, more like himself than he had been for months. After this, he soon recovered entirely; and never again did he lose his equanimity for more, perhaps, than a day or two at a time, although the dreaded blow did come, but not before he had taken a step in the divine life, which served to buoy him up above the ills of this checkered existence. During the year 1839, about five years after we became members of the Church, your grandfather was ordained �Ruling Elder� in the Second Presbyterian church. We united with the �First Presbyterian church� (which I believe, I told you in a previous letter), which was then the only one in the city, but were induced, from a sense of duty, to go out, with a few others, to assist in strengthening a small colony that had been struggling for existence almost from the time it had left the mother church, some two or three years previous. In the building up of this church he was one of its most efficient agents. Besides having the duties of an Elder to perform, he was appointed a Trustee, and, with others, was very active in planning, and carrying forward to its completion, a large and expensive building, bearing a heavy part of the debt of it for years, until the means were provided for his relief, which was not until long after he had met with heavy pecuniary losses. He was regularly in his place at all the meetings of the church, both for spiritual and secular purposes. Now, my dear children, if you have conceived an idea, from the insight I have given you, of the numerous occupations of your grandfather, that he must have been bustling about, having so much to do--hurrying things at home, and having no time for pleasure or recreation-�you are greatly mistaken. A day rarely passed that he did not take a ride with his family, or some member of it, to �the farm,� (except during the period of his ill health, when he oftener sought repose in the afternoon), enjoying, with the fresh air, exercise, and charms of the country, the society of those so dear to him. He never came home with a surly look�-like some people who want to make an impression that they have the world on their shoulders-�to talk about hard work, and hard times, or disagreeable matters, or to recount all the wonderful things he had done, or had to do. But, with a step and a countenance that seemed to say, �What a blessed and happy man I am!� his presence always brought with it happiness and peace. He was not a great talker, but he generally had something pleasant to say, or an interesting anecdote to relate; for, with a keen perception of the ludicrous, he possessed a talent for telling anecdotes admirably well, and a humor that was irresistibly pervasive. No one could help feeling its influence, and being all the happier for it. I wish I could remember some of his anecdotes, and do them justice in the relation; but I know the attempt would be futile: for there was so much in the look and manner that gave a zest to his conversation, and rendered it attractive, that it would be impossible to convey a correct idea of it in words. None can feel, or fully appreciate it, without having had the privilege of being in his presence. A friend, to whom he was much attached, and at whose house he frequently visited, mentioned to me, since his death, that he and his wife had, from their early acquaintance with him, been in the habit of referring often to what �Mr. Charless� would say, recalling his conversation, and talking so much about him, that one day he asked, �Wife, how is it we cannot help talking of Mr. Charless?�-what is there about him that impresses us so? It is not really what he says, but the way he says it. It is his humor, his benevolence of manner, his inimitable pleasantry, etc.� With these qualities, I need not say that he was an acquisition to society. He enjoyed it at home or abroad; at the evening party, or with a few friends around the social board. With a genial nature, he had a facility for adaptation, so that it was easy for him to feel perfectly at home, and unrestrained, with all classes and conditions of men, young or old, gay or grave. He was particularly fond of young people, and generally had a �little sweetheart� among the girls, with whom he would occasionally carry on a spirited flirtation. In the fall of 1841, immediately after his period of dejection, and consequent ill health, your grandfather and myself mutually agreed that it would be best for us, by way of lessening our expenses, to sell our furniture, and break up housekeeping for a few years. My health, which had never been good since that severe illness, of which I have spoken, was the palpable cause; for my husband had often expressed a desire to try the effect of rest from the cares and fatigue of housekeeping, and now, that one sister and two of my brothers were married and settled, there was not difficulty in the way of our doing so. This proved to be a very fortunate step, for at the time things, almost anything, sold well. The city was prosperous, and everybody felt rich. Our furniture, of which we reserved sufficient to furnish two bed-rooms, besides our valuables of plate, etc., sold for as much, some of it for more, than we paid for it when new. And in one year from that time, suddenly, there was a monetary pressure, which brought every kind of property down to less than half of its value or original cost. It was one of those pecuniary tornadoes which occasionally sweep through the whole length and breadth of the land, levelling and blighting everything as it passes, putting a stop to the wheels of commerce, and bringing terror into almost every family. It came with an astounding effect upon St. Louis. Many who felt themselves rich were in a few days reduced to a state of poverty, not having the means wherewith to pay their honest debts. The firm of �Charless & Blow� were compelled to �suspend payment.� This reverse came upon them like a shock, for, notwithstanding my husband�s fears, a year or two previous, with regard to his mercantile affairs, he had informed me, but a short time before, that he had no doubt now but that they would be enabled to get through with the difficulties that had been pressing him down; for, as he expressed it, �we begin now to see our way clear.� They had had no apprehensions with regard to their endorser (for whom they also endorsed), for �his house� was one of the oldest and (it was thought) one of the most opulent in the city. But when the fact was known that Mr. T had failed, and when his creditors called upon the firm of �Charless & Blow� to respond to his notes, which were then due, it was too much for them. At first my husband (pale from emotion) thought all was over!�-all for which he had been toiling for years; reduced to poverty, his reputation as a merchant, perhaps, greatly weakened; and, what was worse still, (not knowing the extent of his losses by Mr. T.), he might not be able, after sacrificing everything he had in the world, to pay his debts! In a crisis like this, developments are exceedingly rapid, and revulsion of feeling just as much so. The excitement is too intense to endure delay. The best and the worst must be known, if possible, and that at once. It was soon ascertained, therefore, in the case of �Charless & Blow,� that their loss, by the failure of our good and honorable old friend, was not much; and the chief difficulty with them, as with all other sufferers, lay in the loss of confidence between men, and the consequent scarcity of money in circulation. Your grandparents passed one troubled night in consequence of this event, in which sleep�-�tired nature�s sweet restorer�-�forsook them. But the next afternoon found them taking a drive in grandpa�s buggy, calmly talking about their new circumstances, and resolving, with a courageous heart, to meet them, whatever they might be. Of course, I did all I could to encourage him, (else I would not have been worthy the name of wife); became very self-sacrificing for a lady�-willing to part with my tea service, and all my silver-ware-�any and everything I had of value, except my bridal gifts; and then began to speculate upon how very nice it would be to live in a neat little cottage, etc., etc. For I was not too old to be romantic; and I do really believe now, as I recall my enthusiasm on the subject, that I would have been disappointed had anything occurred to prevent me from exhibiting to my husband how cheerfully I could submit to misfortune. No such test came; for the very next day a widow, who had deposited a few hundred dollars with �the firm� for safe keeping, hearing of their reverses, called to get her money. They had none; and my husband, remembering my offer, sent a messenger, with a note, requesting me to send the tea-service, with which to secure her. Cheerfully�-for I was glad it was in my power to secure the widow against loss, and to relieve the mind of my husband to some little extent-�but with a beating heart, (for this was a birth-day gift from him), I parted with my beautiful tea-service, and have never seen it since. It was sold to pay that debt. Our dear old mother was greatly afflicted because of our reverses in fortune, and wept like a child; but her amazement was to see me so unmoved. I thought then it was Christian submission that enabled me to bear up so well; but I see now there was a great deal of human love, and sympathy, and human pride, too, mixed with it. Although we were not keeping house, at that time, we were very delightfully and happily situated, for we were boarding (as an especial favor) at our eldest brother�s. He had a sweet wife, and they lived in their beautiful new house, which, years after, �grandpa� purchased. It was there your dear mamma passed her young lady days-�where she was married-�where her little sons, Charless, Louis and Edward, were born; and where their loving grandpa breathed away his precious life. But the same reasons which made it necessary for us to submit to loss and inconvenience, made it incumbent on my brother to sell his residence. Consequently, we accepted the kind invitation of our mother to occupy a part of her house; and, by strict economy in every practicable thing -�paying her a very low price for our board, which the old lady would receive, but �not a cent more�-�we passed three of the happy years of our life, at the end of which time, we had regained a considerable amount of our losses; and, what was better still, your dear grandfather had become firmly and prosperously re-established in business, without having lost an atom of his reputation as a judicious and energetic merchant. �The suspension� of Charless & Blow did not result in a complete failure, by any means. They solicited an examination into their affairs, exhibited their books, making a complete and full exposition of the condition of their business, and it was unanimously agreed upon, by the committee chosen for the purpose, that it would be greatly to the advantage of their creditors for �the firm� not to close up, but to continue the business, each binding himself to extract, for the two succeeding years, only a small (stated) sum for private use, from the proceeds of the store. As soon as the adverse condition of �C. & B.� was relieved, and they had regained their former position-�which, I think, was in about two years from the time of the crisis-�they made up their minds to dissolve partnership: one to take �the store;� the other, �the oil and lead factory.� Accordingly, terms of dissolution were drawn up. Mr. Charless, being the elder, had the privilege of choosing, and, after reflection, decided upon retaining the store. My two younger brothers afterwards became his partner in the business, and remained as �Charless, Blow & Co.� until dissolved by the death of their beloved senior. This is a long letter, my dear children, and I will close it, with the promise of letting you know something more about our three years� sojourn at your great-grandmamma�s: in which I hope to show you how happy we can be under adverse circumstances, and how much less the evil of �coming down in the world� is, than generally is supposed. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. Letter Eleven My Dear Grandchildren: Man is naturally aspiring, and the more he attains to in life, the more earnestly he reaches after something higher still. And it is well that it is so, for, without this spirit, there would necessarily be but little or no advance in the world. The old land-marks would stand unmolested, forever; and the human family, instead of developing, could not but deteriorate, from generation to generation. But for the fall of man, his highest aim would have been such as the angels have, viz: to see, and to be with God, whose exceeding greatness and glory would tend to ravish the soul with delight, enlarge its capacity, and yet keep it at an humble distance, reverent and lowly. But I am stepping beyond my reach, and will come back again to what is, not what might have been. As soon as you observe at all, you must perceive what a constant struggle there is going on here below. Some aim at �fortune�s gaudy show,� while others strive to catch the wreath of fame, and crown themselves with that. Few are so indifferent, unless besotted by ignorance and degradation, as not to aspire, in some shape or other, to something more or better than they ever had, or better than others have; and, in this age of the world-�at any rate in this country-�money seems to be esteemed the chief good. Not the miser�s money, for, while that is locked up, and he hoards, and hoards, and still locks it up, it narrows down the soul, and expunges from it all the milk of human kindness. What are the orphan�s tears, or the widow�s groans�-what is human suffering to him? Gold! gold! His precious gold fills the contracted, dark place, which the soul, made in the image of its Creator, has forsaken, and leaves him more brute than man. Money is a good and valuable possession, but not to the spendthrift, to whom it becomes a temptation to vice. Better be poor forever, and, by the sweat of the brow, eat your daily bread, maintaining, at the same time, a pure and unblemished character, than to have a fortune that only induces idleness and self-indulgence, opening to you an avenue for the destruction of soul and body; and, perhaps, too, as is often the case, cause you to blindly drag your wife and children with you, if not to vice, at least to want and to disgrace. Money is only good when properly valued, and properly used. It is desirable as a means of education, and of refinement; for the cultivation of one�s taste in the field of nature, or in the arts and sciences. It is gratifying, and not wrong, to have handsome houses and grounds, tasteful furniture, fine paintings, or statuary, libraries, and everything pertaining to an elegant establishment. It is very good when used to make people happy who, in the providence of God, are not supplied with the necessaries of life. �The poor ye have always with you�-�why if not to keep the stream of benevolence running fresh and sweet? And money helps materially, perhaps too much, toward giving one position in society. All things considered, it is hard to lose it. It is trying to feel, as you pass along, people are saying, �There goes poor Mrs. A., or B. She has come down in the world!� Some malicious ones will say, �Well, she deserved it, for she was very extravagant, and she held her head too high.� Women, no doubt, are more susceptible to suffering and mortification, from reverses in fortune than men are; yet there are many ways in which they feel it, too-�according to their characters and dispositions. And, my dear children, if I were to say that we had not felt or cared for the reverses in life of which I told you in my last letter, it would not be true. We did feel it, and that in many ways. My husband was humbled, and disappointed, but entirely submissive to the will of God; for he believed that adversity, as well as prosperity, came from His loving hand, and was designed for the highest good of His people. Instead of having the effect to lessen, it strengthened his faith. Instead of making him more anxious and striving for the accumulation of wealth, he was less so; and he continued to be less so throughout the remainder of his life. Notwithstanding he was quite as industrious, just as energetic; yet there was less of dross mixed up with the pure metal in his soul. To me, it was evident that he advanced rapidly in the divine life; of which I felt the influence, if I caught none of its spirit. In a letter from him, dated that fall, soon after our removal to his mother�s, he says: �The scenery of the Mississippi, from the rapids north, is very beautiful. The frost having changed the color of part of the leaves, the forest presents an endless variety of colors; and the great number of farms and villages add much to the beauty of the landscape. But everywhere I find the people complaining, and many suffering from actual want. Although Providence has provided a most bountiful harvest, many, who have been accustomed to have every comfort, and many luxuries, around them, are now almost destitute. It makes me feel more resigned to our losses and poverty, seeing we are so much better off than thousands who are more deserving than we. They, it seems, are resigned, and submit most cheerfully to all the dispensations of their Heavenly Father. Let us, dear Charlotte, hereafter endeavor to show, in our lives, greater devotedness to Him who has done so much for us, and who promises to be our support and stay in every hour of need; who will never desert any who put their trust in Him. �Let us, therefore, exhort one another, and provoke each other to well-doing, in the service of our God. Let us love each other more and more, and make Jesus the great object of our praise and prayer. I hope and pray that the chastenings of our blessed Lord, in depriving us of our worldly possessions, may be sanctified to us, and lead us, more earnestly and undoubtingly, to seek for possessions in that Kingdom where all is joy, and peace, and love. Oh! That we may be enabled, with all our dear kith and kin, and kind friends, to attain unto this glorious and happy state, to dwell forever in the presence of our God, and enjoy Him throughout eternity. Dear C., are not these things worth our most strenuous efforts? And yet how little do we do! How poor our best attempts to serve Him who has done everything for us.� With these earnest desires for closer communion with God, and for those treasures which fade not away, he necessarily had a hard struggle to prosecute his worldly affairs, under circumstances so disadvantageous as that of carrying on a large business without the necessary capital, greatly weakened, in fact, by pecuniary losses, and more still by the misfortune of being compelled to �suspend payment,� and the consequent exposure of the internal difficulties with which �the firm� had to contend. Anxious and toiling, week after week, he was always rejoiced when Saturday night came, that he might, as he generally expressed it in his prayer that night, �lay aside the world, and engage in the delightful exercises of the holy Sabbath.� And I will here mention, for the benefit of those among you (if there are any such) who, in your eager pursuit of wealth, or honor, or are battling, as he was, with the untoward events of life, are tempted to desecrate the Sabbath to secular purposes, that I have often heard your grandfather say (about that time) that on Monday his mind was clearer, and his hopes stronger of success, than at any other time. And towards the close of the week, after his mental energies had been on the stretch for days, things looked darker; that sometimes he felt as though he must give up; that it would be impossible to meet his payments; but that on Monday, with both mind and body invigorated from the holy rest of the Sabbath day, the mists had cleared away, and everything looked bright again-�so bright that he often felt surprised that he should have been in such a desponding condition on Saturday. There is sound philosophy in this; but I will leave it for you to work out the problem, and will proceed to say, that with the opening of the spring of 1843, business prospects really did brighten. And our new home, though humble, we had found vastly comfortable. It looked familiar and home-like, too; for the furniture to which we had been accustomed had been removed into our suite of rooms, one of the bedsteads minus only the cornice and the feet, which had to be taken off to accommodate it to the height of the ceiling-�of which, for awhile, I had so constant and disagreeable an impression that often, when rising suddenly from my chair, I would dodge, from fear of bumping my head against it. And no wonder! For this was an old house, built in �the year one,� before people (poor things!) found out the necessity of having their ceilings pitched so high above them! But our front room was otherwise capacious; for several partitions had been knocked down, which added a small room and part of a hall to the main one, and extended it entirely across the front of the house. It was so large that it accommodated the piano, and a pier-stand, besides every necessary article for a completely furnished bed-room. The piano and pier-stand-�the latter of which was a particular object of attraction to your mamma (for bon-bons were kept in that)-�gave to the room the air somewhat of a parlor. At least, we esteemed it so cosy, and appropriate for the purpose, that we more frequently received the calls of friends there than in our mother�s little reception-room. What right had we to murmur? It would have been ungrateful if we had done so; for, although not by any means elegant, we were comfortable. True, my nice carriage and beautiful horses had been sold; but mother had quite a nice little carriage, and a fine old gray horse, that would have appeared very respectable, if (as the stable boy said) the calves had not �chawed of his tail!� However, that was a source of amusement. We rode often, for both mother and I needed the exercise; and the rides were delightful, as �Joseph� was generally our driver; and a merry chase he would lead us sometimes, for when he no longer had �the farm� to go to, (that had likewise been sold), he seemed determined to find out the merits, or demerits, of every road in the vicinity. This made quite a variety for us, for, besides the change of scenery, it usually called forth ejaculations from his mother, and answers from him, which were very amusing. She saw no sense in �rambling the country over, going into every nook and corner, and jolting people to death!� But he would earnestly assure her that he had not gone into half yet-�looking round at her with a provokingly mischievous expression, which seemed to intimate that he meant to try it, though-�and as for the roads, he could �find much worse roads than that! And as to driving�-he hadn�t begun to show how many stumps he could go over, without upsetting.� This playful, jocose, merry mood of her son, frequently recalled to the old lady�s mind some incidents of early times, when she was young, and Joseph was a boy, which she would relate, and laugh all over at, shaking her fat sides most merrily. And, notwithstanding her outbursts of hastily spoken words of disapprobation to him for his temerity, she always wondered, after being safely landed at home, why she enjoyed her rides so much more when Joseph drove! When we think about it, there are really no enjoyments in this wide world equal to home enjoyments. And when we have to go away from that hallowed spot, to seek for some longing of the soul which we cannot find there, or return to it with distaste, after having dipped into the pleasures (even the refined and reasonable ones) of the world, we are to be pitied, greatly pitied; for we are strangers to the purest and sweetest joys that are known this side of Paradise. And, thank God! this happiness is not confined to the mansion of the rich and the great. Perhaps it is less felt there than in the cottage of the virtuous and intelligent poor. At our mother�s we had quite as much of domestic peace and happiness as we had ever known. Our little daughter, who, to us at least, looked just as sweet and pretty in her bit calicos as she had ever done in better and more expensive clothes, beguiled a portion of our evenings with her music. She played delightfully on the piano, for a child of her age; and then she had conceived an idea (perhaps from something her father or mother had said) that the day might come when, by teaching music and French, she would be their support in old age. This was a new and beautiful stimulant to study, and we were no less pleased with this virtuous devotion of her young life, because we confidently believed that no such necessity would ever arise. We enjoyed society, too�-not quite so much or half as often as when we could return civilities; but there was an abandonment of feeling, or freedom from care, when we did participate; something like that expressed by a clerical friend of ours, who, upon beholding the beautiful grounds of a wealthy gentleman, congratulated himself upon his capacity for enjoying them as much as the proprietor could, �without having his responsibility and care,� which, in some measure, compensated us. And, then, your grandfather found out what �a jewel of a wife� he had; how, as with a magic touch, she could make old things perfectly new, in which she appeared more charming to his eye than ever before. We are really not dependent upon external circumstances for happiness. That ingredient of life is found within us; and every one has a share in promoting it. One gentle, patient, unselfish, cheerful member of a household, can do wonders towards making the whole atmosphere of home redolent with his soul-reviving influences. From what you have seen of your grandfather, you will readily imagine that he must have been a good son. He was: one of the best, if not the best, I have ever known. But facts speak for themselves. I have never once heard him speak a hasty or unkind word to his mother. He was her staff, upon whom she lovingly leaned; and yet, at her bidding, he was her boy, obedient, and respectful. As she declined in life, �when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way,� and many infirmities made her irritable and exacting, the charm of his loving voice, playfully and skillfully giving a turn to the current of her feelings, would alternately soothe, comfort, and amuse her. He was thoughtful of her every wish and comfort, and did all that he could to fill the void which death had made in that aged heart. Some of the most striking proofs of his pure and elevated character, of his disinterested friendship and love, delicacy forbids me to speak of, as there are those living who might be touched by them. But I have given facts enough to show that he was no ordinary man. He was fond of reading, quick of perception, and given to investigation. There were but few subjects with which he was not more or less acquainted. For, notwithstanding his close business habits, he found much time for his favorite occupation of reading; by which means he kept up with the religious, political, and literary news of the day. He was a good historian, and possessed a retentive memory. I never thought of referring to an encyclopedia, or to a dictionary, when he was present; for I found it so much easier, and more pleasant, to obtain needed information from him. As regards the intellectual character of his mind, however, I do not think it was of the highest stamp. Of all practical things he had a decided opinion. His judgment was sound. Not marred by prejudice, nor warped by self-love, or self-praise, or self-aggrandisement, he was enabled coolly to exercise his powers of mind in forming a just estimate of men and things. He possessed strong common sense, which, being balanced by a high moral tone, and refined sensibilities, enabled him to be quick in discerning the characters of men, but tenderly careful of their feelings and reputation. I do not think his mind was of a metaphysical cast. He never willingly engaged in argument of any kind, nor conversed upon abstruse subjects. He might have said, with David, �Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty, neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me.� Yet he had a profound respect, and great admiration, for the highly gifted, and the learned; especially for those who, with these extraordinary gifts and attainments, possessed sincere piety. He enjoyed learned disquisitions just as he did a fine painting, the excellencies and beauties of which he appreciated, and could point out, without knowing how to use the brush or the pencil. He had a keen appreciation of natural beauty, and of the art which could represent it, either on canvas or in marble. He was fond of poetry. But of all the poets, Burns stood first in his estimation. He could enter so easily into the spirit of this writer, because, in some respects, they were kindred spirits. Burns� touching pathos, his humor, his love and pity for man and beast, penetrated his own humorous and nature-loving soul. When the centenary celebration of the birth of this great poet took place in St. Louis, a few years ago, he was absent, and I attended, not only for personal gratification, but that I might, upon his return, give him an account of it. In a letter to your mother (who was at Belmont) I alluded to the celebration, and said, �It only needed �father� to read the �Cotter�s Saturday Night� to have made it complete in interest.� He did read those poems beautifully; and many of his anecdotes embodied Scotch and Irish nature, and every-day life, which he would relate with all their native simplicity and humor, using the brogue of the one, and the accent and provincialism of the other, to perfection. He was fond of music; but that, like his love of poetry, was a simple taste, his decided preference being for Scotch and Irish ballads. He could speak and read French well-�very well, when in practice. In much weakness, my dear children, but looking up to God to guide me into all truth concerning this matter, I have endeavored to give you a faithful history of the life (as far as it goes) and character of your beloved grandfather. I am afraid it does not do him justice, for I have often felt how meager words are to convey an idea of what he really was. But look at his portrait, and that benevolent, honest, cheerful countenance, may, in some measure, make up to you what my pen has failed to do. I do not believe I have spoken to you of his kindness to the poor. But ask, in St. Louis, who were among those who wrung their hands and wept big tears around his cold remains, and you will find he was the poor man�s friend. I have made but slight allusions to his self-denying labors in the Church of Christ, because I know comparatively, but little of them. He never spoke of his good works, as such, not even to me. �Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth� was no difficult task for one who, alone conscious of his �many infirmities,� was kept truly humble before the eye of the heart-searching God. His humility was his crowning virtue. It adorned all the rest, and gave a certain kind of grace, even to his greatest faults. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. Letter Twelve My Dear Grandchildren: In this simple sketch of the life of an unpretending Christian man, whose highest aim was to discharge his duties, as such, in the position in which God had placed him, I am aware there is nothing particularly interesting, or congenial, to the feelings or taste of the worldling. By �the worldling� I mean a man, or woman, who-�perhaps without deliberately weighing things as they exist, and regardless of the future-�is content with the short-lived pleasures and advantages of this world. But I cannot better describe the worldling than in the language of your grandfather, taken from a letter which lies open before me. In speaking of a certain lady who expressed to him a regret that she had not fifty thousand dollars per annum to spend in living, he says: �She is a poor, worldly woman, whose chief end in life is to dash!�-shine, and out-shine-�consequently envies those who have more means, or appear to out-shine her. I would not swap my old woman for as many of such as could stand between this and Mobile, and the fifty thousand per annum in the bargain!� To such among you (God forbid that there should be such!) I do not write; for I know how the world blinds by its dazzle, and you could see no beauty or use in living for the glory of that Being who made and preserves you, and before whom you must stand to be judged. Made in His image, with an immortal soul, you might dwell forever with the Redeemer, in the mansions he has gone to prepare. But, like the butterfly, you fritter away your earthly existence, and, by so doing, throw away the only cup of real, unadulterated pleasure of this present life; and, when Time, with all its fleeting joys, has passed away forever, where, oh, where! do you expect to dwell? But for those who are the worthy descendants of him who lived the life of the righteous, and who find pleasure in reading these imperfect letters, I will recommence a review of the past, recording, as I have done, such facts as I think will interest you, and acquaint you still better with him. You have seen his Christianity exhibited in many ways; and I have not kept from your view his faults and imperfections. You have seen him as a son, and as a brother, a friend, and a husband. As a father, you know but little of him; and now I will relate the circumstances which led to a temporary separation from his child and her mother, and will quote from his letters, that you may learn, from himself, his views and desires as a father, and his manner of intercourse with this only child of his heart. During the winter of 1846�-after we had removed from your great-grandmamma�s, and were again enjoying a home of our own--my health gave way, to an alarming extent. Although able to go about the house, it was evident (declared so by my physicians) that I was in a decline. When I grew no better from the concentrated wisdom of three of the Faculty, my husband determined to try the effect of a change of air and scene, first having consulted the doctors as to the expediency of it, and having been assured by them that, if it did me no good, it could do me no harm. With his accustomed dispatch he hastened to the river, secured our passage on a boat, which was to leave in three days, and at dinner asked me if I would not like to take a trip to Havana? The question startled me, for there was more business done in March and April than in any other two months of the whole year, and I could not see the practicability�-indeed, it had previously seemed almost impossible for him to leave home at that time. But his answer to my exclamations of surprise-��Business is of no importance compared to health,� and the question, �Can you be ready by day after tomorrow?� accompanied by the assurance that our state-rooms were already engaged �-put a stop to further discussion, and set my sister earnestly to work to get me ready. �Lizzie must leave school,� (�papa� said), �for she, too, may go along to help take care of mamma�-�and never was a mamma better taken care of, with two such nurses as she had. This arrangement acted like a charm, for I began to mend before we started, from the effect upon my mind, in being drawn off from myself and my ailments to the necessary thought required in giving directions for the packing of trunks, and in making arrangements generally for leaving home. After reaching New Orleans, we were advised that it was too late in the season to visit Havana, and we determined to steer our course toward Pensacola; but, upon our arrival in Mobile, our friends there suggested Pascagoula, as a better place, and, as it was more accessible than the former, we decided upon trying the effect of the sea-breeze there. It was early in the season to visit a watering-place, but we were not the less welcomed by the proprietors of a delightful hotel, (which has since been burned down), for, as it happened, they were old acquaintances of ours. This hotel was a commodious, and cheerful looking establishment, with its large dancing saloon attached, and had every convenience for the amusement and comfort of the gay crowd that assembled there in the summer months for pastime or health. It stood on an eminence, and commanded a beautiful view of the bay. The large yard in front, which gradually sloped down to the beach, was planted with evergreens and shrubbery, presenting a gay contrast, which, with the flowered vines, so prettily trained around the pillars of the long piazza, made it rurally picturesque, and filled the air with odors of the sweetest kind. But nothing was so sweet to me as the unadulterated sea air, which I delighted to drink in, every breath of which seemed to send vigor into my wasted and weakened frame. At first, I could walk but a little way along the beach; but soon, by leaning on the arm of my husband, I could walk half a mile out on the pier, and, sitting down in a chair (provided for me), would remain there, with the rest of the party, for hours, as deeply interested in fishing as ever that famous old angler, Sir Izaak Walton, could have been. And if he had been as successful as we were in hooking and pulling out the great variety of fish, large and small�-with an occasional monster of the deep, which caused us to open our eyes in amazement-�I am sure he could not have ruminated to his heart�s content, as he did, and made the world so much the wiser for his having lived and angled in it. Pascagoula, as it was then, was by far the most fascinating place I had ever seen. Besides its natural beauties and advantages, (its health-giving influences being, no doubt, the greatest to the invalid), we had a pleasant little society of cultivated people, all bent on pleasure and sport. Sometimes we would go rowing, and then sailing. At other times we would course up the Pascagoula river-�a beautiful little stream, all studded with the gardens of cottagers. One of these was an Italian, who, devoted to the land of his birth, had, as it were, transplanted the home of his heart to this romantic spot in the far-off world. It looked decidedly foreign; but its greatest beauty (to my taste) was the background, which was composed a grand old forest of towering pines. In contrast with this little river, were the island which dotted the bay, adding beauty to the scene and affording tempting attractions to those who are fond of pic-nics. One especially-��Island Casot,� formed by the beautiful bayou of the same name-�is shaded by immense live-oak trees, and lies just south on the border of the finest oyster bed (for flavor) in the South. We spent a whole day there, having first amply provided ourselves with every luxury, even to comforts and pillows to lounge on. Your grandfather admired this beautiful little island so much that he thought seriously of purchasing it, to improve in a cheap and simple way, to be used as an occasional resort for health and pleasure. He and your mother were evidently as much charmed with Pascagoula, and its surroundings, as I was. Both were the picture of happiness. They engaged in many amusements, of which I was incapable, and could only look on and laugh at-�such as catching crabs, and speering flounders by torchlight. They bathed and swam, too, (the latter with a life-preserver), but they were afraid to venture out too far, on account of sharks, which were occasionally seen near the shore. At a certain season of the year there was frequently heard, near the bath-houses, a strain of music, like the Aeolian harp, which had never been satisfactorily accounted for, although many wise heads had pondered over it. Some supposed that it proceeded from a certain kind of small fish, which, in their perambulations through the mighty deep, for some secret reason best know to themselves, touched at this point at the stated season, just to whisper a few sweet notes, and would then retire. Other said it was only an echo borne upon the waters (when the wind was in a certain direction), from the playing of the waves against the sandy shore of an island, three miles distant. There is an Indian legend, which I will relate, that gives a more interesting account of this phenomenon than either of these. A war party of the Pascagoula tribe, headed by their chief, having been hotly pursued by a victorious enemy, had rushed into the bay (sooner than submit), and were drowned, while singing a melancholy dirge, which annually returns in token of the sad event. They: �Sing of death and life undying, In the Islands of the Blest In the kingdom of Ponemah, In the Land of the Hereafter.� But perhaps it is irrelevant to my subject to dwell so minutely upon scenes and incidents so remotely associated with it. He was with me then, and it makes me for awhile forget my loneliness. The result of this little excursion, which proved so beneficial to my health, was a sojourn of one whole winter and spring, and part of another, in Mobile. We found there a boarding-school for young ladies, of high standing, in which we determined to place our daughter; and a very delightful boarding place for me, about three miles from the city, in the family of an old friend and relative, who, some years previous, had been the family physician of my father, in North Alabama. Feeling quite at home here, among these kind friends, with the advantages resulting from a mild climate, and the sea-breeze, my health steadily improved, which was some consolation for the long and tedious separation from my beloved husband. In the meanwhile our daughter was pursuing her studies at Madame De Fellon�s. I often visited her at the Academy, and she always came out to the Doctor�s on Friday afternoon, and remained until Monday morning, when she would make an early start for school. We had many pleasures and recreations in the city and neighborhood of Mobile, the country especially presenting a very beautiful appearance from the highly cultivated gardens, picturesque and tasteful cottages, and elegant mansions, contrasted, as they were, with the magnificent groves of pine and magnolia, with their rich and fragrant undergrowth of yellow jessamine, and other sweet flowers, which were indigenous to the soil of this lovely country. In these pleasant groves were many springs of soft, clear water, which, flowing together, formed little creeks, whose gentle meanderings added freshness and increasing loveliness to the already charming scene. Some of these creeks flowed over their shining beds of sand, and some over the waving grass and lily. It tranquillizes me, even now, to recall the rustic bridge, where I have often stood (it seems to me for hours) and gazed at the gentle stream, as it murmured over the log that lay half-imbedded in the sand, and watched the never-ceasing motion of the graceful �water lilies� which arched the stream below. But our highest enjoyment, with the exception of the visits, were the letters of our beloved husband and father, who necessarily had to remain, a greater part of the time, in St. Louis. I find, in looking over your mother�s package of letters from him, one dated �October 15th, 1842,� at which time she was not quite ten years of age. After writing the particulars of his journey, and expressing a desire that she and her mother were with him �to enjoy the beautiful scenery of the Mississippi,� etc., he says: �I hope you have been a good girl, and that �mother� will be able to tell me how well you have behaved during my absence, and what a comfort it is to have so dutiful a daughter, who never has to be told a second time to go to her piano, or to learn her Sabbath school lesson. I am satisfied if children knew how it gladdens the hearts of parents, and how cheerfully they labor to educate good children, that my little girl would give her whole energy to acquire such a habit of obedience, and attention to her parents, as would make her beloved by all who know her; and, more than all, would meet the approbation of Him who has said, �Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.� But I feel assured that the unwearied attentions of the best of mothers will not be in vain; but that the blessed God will make them serve his own wise purpose, and, �father� prays, will eventually make her a bright and shining light in this world, and place her in the world to come among the redeemed of our Lord and Saviour JESUS CHRIST. I have been reading to-day the Life of the Rev. Mr. Newton, who was a very wicked man,� etc., etc. �Mr. Newton was, like little Samuel, devoted to the Lord, when a child, by his mother, who died, leaving him an orphan, at three years of age. Yet, after many trials, He saves him from his sins �-and, might we not almost say, for his mother�s sake? Surely for the Saviour�s sake. �I have heard nothing from home since I left, and am extremely anxious to hear from you all. Has dear �mother�s� health improved? How is �grandma,� and �Cousin Eliza,� and little Joe and Ella, and �aunt Loo,� and all our dear friends?" etc. �Your affectionate father, JOS. CHARLESS.� Here is the first page of another letter, dated �New York, December 22, 1843." �My Dear Daughter: Having finished my business arrangements for the day, and having a spare moment, I thought I would occupy it by writing to my dear child. Since I left home, I have been hurried along, from place to place, and from scene to scene, so that I have nothing very pleasing to detail to you of my journey. Since I have been in this great city I have also been very closely engaged with my business, and have visited, as yet, none of its wonders. We have tonight, at the house where I am staying, a very large company, assembled to celebrate the landing of the Puritans in New England. They had a most splendid table, filled with every luxury; and they have Mr. Webster, who is to make a speech to them. Mr. Choate delivered an address to-day, in the Tabernacle. So, you see, we have grand doings. �Well, I feel more happy up in my little room, away from the noise and bustle, writing to my daughter, and thinking of her dear mother and grandma, and cousin Eliza, and all that are so dear to us. My dear, when I think how God has blessed you, and all of us, and when I think how wicked we have been, what stubborn and disobedient children we have all been, and how little we love that Saviour who has done so much for us, I feel very much condemned. God would be just, if he should at once punish us. We should be very prayerful, and pray earnestly and continually, for a new heart and a right spirit, and that we may all be truly converted, and fitted to serve Him with our whole hearts.� His humility is plainly seen in this quotation, as it often was in his prayers, when he seemed more like a little child, seeking his Father�s face, than an elder in the Church, conscious of setting an example to the flock. In the first letter your mother received from her father, in the winter of 1846-7, after we were settled in Mobile, he says: �My dear child, I hope, needs no hint to urge her in attention and kindness to a mother whose happiness is so dependent upon her child. Your father, immersed in the business of the world, and his feelings hardened by the adverse and trying scenes which he is constantly called to breast, is not so alive to, and dependent for happiness, as the mother is upon her husband and child; and, in the absence of the former, the weightier duties devolve on you, and I confidently feel that you will fulfil them all cheerfully, and partake of the happiness their performance affords. I pray that the Spirit of all Grace may impart to you all the strength and grace you need, and that you may be guided to the Saviour, in whom you will find fullness of joy, and a peace which passeth all knowledge.� After writing another page, in which he gives all �the news,� he says: ��Grandma� says, �tell Lizzie I do miss her so much!� She says the birds are fine and healthy, and are well taken care of. So are the pigeons, for several of the neighboring boys have erected more comfortable winter quarters for them, than they had in your boxes, and they have nearly all left us and gone to the neighbors, much to the distress of John, who cannot be reconciled to such ingratitude, not even in pigeons. For he says, �I feeds them every morning, and as soon as they get the corn they fly away.� So you will find the world, my dear girl; when they get nothing more from us either in a pecuniary or other point of view, they cease to care for, or to be interested in us. We are therefore warned to seek happiness at home. And the well cultivated, and well balanced mind will always find it there, where no one can deprive us of it. Will you not seek that happiness? It is to be found with the blessed Saviour. He alone can impart it; but He promises that all who seek shall find, and that none shall be turned away without it, if they will seek Him in the appointed way.� This letter was written on thanksgiving day. Further on, he continues: �And have we not great reason to render thanks to our heavenly Father, when we see how great are his mercies to us, that we have such an abundant harvest while nearly all Europe is in a starving condition? I really think that we have, for these mercies are most undeserved and unmerited; for we have not sought the Lord as we should have done, but have widely departed from him, as a people, and followed the guidance of our own wicked hearts. But let us fear and humble ourselves and repent; and seek the pardon of our sins, and determine that let others do as they will, as for us we will seek and serve the Lord our God! Oh, I pray that the Blessed Spirit may incline the heart of my dear child to consecrate her heart and soul to the service of her Saviour, and her Redeemer.� His concern for the conversion of his child was not always seen in his letters to her. I have just read one embracing seven pages of large letter paper, in which he tells much of interest about every thing and every body, in a lively jocose strain, but says not a word on the subject of religion. Among other things he says, �But I have never told you about our dog, Nimrod. Why, he has improved wonderfully in size, beauty, manners, &c. You will be perfectly delighted with him. He is no longer a country dog, but is becoming a real city bred gentlemanly dog. The fond companion of Miss Annie Blow in her rambles around the well, cistern, and even out into the alley. And never comes into the dining room, kitchen, or your grandma�s room, without being pressingly invited. Having upon his first arrival received divers striking hints, his intellect has become very sharp, and his sense of propriety very much quickened in regard to all these matters.� Towards the close of January instead of the usual reception of letters every few days, we experienced the far greater happiness of seeing him, which was only marred by the stern necessity of his having to leave us again. In May he returned, bringing my sister with him, to remain until after �the examination� of Madame De Fellon�s school. In the meanwhile we made up our mind to pay another visit to Pascagoula, from whence I see he wrote to our daughter as follows: Pascagoula, May 18, 1847. �Dear Daughter: We avail ourselves of the return of Dr. F. to send you a few lines to let you know how we are getting on in these diggings. We arrived safely last Friday evening, and found Mrs. F. and O. pleased to see us. The General is over on �Round Island,� whither we attempted, this morning, to go, but were driven back by the head winds. Your mother and aunt were wet by the spray but have experienced no inconvenience from it. They are both well. We missed you very much this morning when the fish were biting almost as fast as we could bate our lines and throw them into the water. Your mother caught nearly two dozen cats before breakfast. But you need not come as there are no redfish or sheepshead, or trout, nothing to be caught but cats and croakers, and I know you are too fastidious in your piscal taste to delight in such sport. We would have been much pleased to have had dear daughter with us. But hope that you have improved the time, so that when the examination comes off we shall be delighted with the proficiency you have made in your studies. �Mother� and �aunt� send their love to you. Ever your devoted, FATHER.� After the examination, in June, we returned to St. Louis. The encouragement we felt from the effect of the last winter upon my health, induced us to try another winter�s sojourn in the South, with the hope that a permanent restoration would be the result. Consequently in December following, your grandfather took us to Mobile and settled us for the winter. Soon after which we returned home, by way of the eastern cities, for the purpose of purchasing his stock of goods for the next spring. After again taking leave of the dearest objects of his earthly affection, he pursues his solitary way. From �Charleston, Dec. 22nd, 1847,� he writes: �My Dear Daughter: To redeem my promise to write alternately to you and dear mother, I date my first to you from this City of Palms. I wrote from Montgomery, the capital of Alabama, last, sitting in the Senate chamber, which was beautifully adorned with curtains, and furnished with rosewood desks and rosewood and damask velvet cushioned chairs; everything having the air of majesty-�the majesty of the sovereign people. Since which time, I have been compelled to descend from my lofty flights to the real democracy, as I have had rough traveling, and the roughest kind of fare. After two and one-half days� hard traveling (night and day), I arrived her yesterday afternoon, completely worn out, and determined to lay over one day at this place. Having slept soundly, and removed the lamp-black and dust, I feel this morning quite well again, and shall leave to-day for Wilmington, North Carolina, by sea, in a fine steamer. The weather is very fine, and I think I shall have a quick and pleasant journey." �I had the honor of traveling with Maj. Gen. Quitman and family from Montgomery to Augusta, George, where he was invited to remain and receive the congratulations of the citizens. The General, accustomed to command, could not well put up with the little deference paid him by his fellow-travelers, and was much annoyed that they were not restrained until he and his family were provided for. He is expected here to-day, and all the military are ordered out to receive him. General Shields has been here for several days, feasted and honored by this city, and the capital, Columbia, where the Legislature have voted him a splendid sword, the use of which he has so well practiced in Mexico." �This is really a very beautiful and pleasant city, and has much of a business appearance. The streets are wide. It has a fine market-house. The Citadel is an old-fashioned fort, now used as a military school; for you must know that South Carolina is, or claims to be, the most chivalrous State in the Union; and her great men�-Mr. Calhoun, Preston, McDuffy, and a host of others�-stand high among the great men of the nation." �I suppose you are, long before this, comfortably fixed at school, and mother has�-�etc., etc. You see, my children, from these several specimen letters, that your grandfather allowed no opportunity to pass unimproved. That, however, limited his time, he always found time to observe and to write. Neglect of duty had no place in his head or heart. It gratified him to serve his friends in any and in every way; but his devotion to his immediate family, in every respect, was remarkable. No display, no effort marked his intercourse with them, which made it only the more precious, for they well knew that love and kindness prompted his every act. He wrote from New York�-after having written from every stopping-place on his way thither-�giving a more detailed account of his duties and pleasures which occupied every moment of his time there. In one of these letters he says: �I have been this evening to see Powers� Greek Slave, and think it the most beautiful thing I ever saw. It is a perfect model of the human form, and as you gaze at it you perceive new beauties every moment. The face, the neck, the arms, and hands, in fact every limb, and every muscle, are perfect; and the marble seems to have that softness and delicacy which we see in a young and beautiful girl. But you must see it to realize all its beauties, which I hope you will have an opportunity of doing next spring." �I am very well, and have nothing to trouble me but our separation, and the thoughts of the long and wearisome months that must elapse before I can again clasp my dear wife and child to my arms. But I trust that it will be best for us both, and that it will be the last time on this earth.� In another letter from New York, dated January 4th, 1848, after a good deal of good advice to his child, and a faithful dealing with her peculiar faults, he writes: �With all the other matters, do not, my dear daughter, forget to learn the most important of all lessons-�the end for which you were placed on this earth; for which mind and body were given you: �that you glorify God here, and enjoy Him forever� in the world to come. That you know, experimentally, Jesus Christ, now in the morning of life, whom to know aright is eternal life; who is love, and who has promised to love all who come unto Him by faith. I am sure that there is nothing that would gratify your parents so much as to see you, with all the fervor and ardor of youth, seeking and serving this, the best of masters; devoting your best affections to Him who sticketh closer, under every trial, than parent or friend.� I will quote another short extract from a letter dated �St. Louis, March 3d, 1848.� In giving an account of a revival of religion, naming the number of persons who were about to unite with the Second Presbyterian church, he says: �How delighted would I be, could I see dear daughter a bright Christian, devoting all her powers and energies to the service of the blessed Saviour! How much more important is it to be educated to shine in Heaven than to be a star in this world of sorrow and affliction, where there is no solid enjoyment, and where all is transitory and evanescent. I pray that you may be led to a wise choice in these things.� As soon as the winter months were over-�becoming impatient under such a long separation-�we determined to cut short our stay in the �Sunny South.� The greatly improved health of her for whose sake the sacrifice had been made, was ever afterwards a cause of gratulation. In April we returned to St. Louis, with joyous anticipations of the future. The darling of our hearts was fast blooming into womanhood. Her father had purchased the residence which my brother had built for his own use, and which, above all others, we preferred, (especially as it was near to that of his aged mother), and we hoped before long to be permanently settled. But as this letter has reached its full length, I will close it, with the best love poor grandma has to offer from her desolate and stricken heart. Letter Thirteen My Dear Grandchildren: In the summer of 1848 your beloved grandfather, to whom no discharge of duty in the Church of God was felt to be a sacrifice, again determined to change his church connection. A feeble little church, painting for existence, without a pastor or house to worship in, solicited help from the mother church. Every Christian felt that the increasing wants of our growing city demanded more churches, but how many in the Second Presbyterian could obtain their own consent to exchange the comfort and ease of this elegant temple, which at length, after much self-denial of its members, was almost free from debt, and whose pulpit was adorned with the gifted and talented Dr. Potts! who could give up their cushioned and carpeted pews, the choice choir, the grand organ, and the many sweet Christian associations of past years, and throw in their lot with a little handfull of Jesus� praying disciples, who had few possessions, save that faith which made them lovingly cling to their Master�s cause? My husband had been one of the first to assist in building up the Second Presbyterian church. He was an Elder, and a Trustee, and, after much anxiety, and the utmost straining of his ability to raise and to contribute funds towards the completion of their house of worship, he was just beginning to enjoy the comfort of seeing the debt, which had hung as an incubus over it for years, wiped out, when this new call was made upon him. A few young people proposed to go out to the assistance of the feeble church, upon the condition that Mr. Charless and Mr. Keith would go with them -�wisely concluding that the attempt to sustain it without some such efficient aid, would be utterly in vain. It was thought, however, by the members generally, that it was a useless undertaking to keep the little church, as such, alive; and that it would be better for its few advocates to be merged into the different churches already established. Yet all seemed to think that St. Louis, growing as it was so rapidly in population and in wickedness, needed more houses of public worship; but most of the members of this church evidently shrank from the self-denial necessary thereto. Your grandfather did not at once accede to this proposal, without first consulting his wife, as to her views, and especially her feelings, and she could not have it in her heart to consider her own comfort and pleasure, or that of their daughter, when he so evidently felt that, for him, this was the path of duty. I cheerfully consented; but, looking back at the �flesh-pots of Egypt� (and there is no doubt a great deal of this kind of worldliness carried even into the Holy place), I requested that we should retain our pew, calculating, as soon as the young church was fairly established, again to occupy it. We both loved and admired, and, like everybody else, felt proud of our minister�-for, without doubt, he stood among the first, if not at the head of the Presbyterian church in the West-�and we knew that no Dr. Potts could be obtained for this poor little church, which seemed to be tossed upon the breakers, and ready to sink. But my husband, like the early disciples, would have been pleased to toil all night upon the sea of Galilee, and at early dawn would have been seen mending the meshes of the broken net, making ready for another day or night of toil, while I would have preferred to sit with the five thousand upon the green grass, to be fed. But I never could gainsay or resist the few, simply spoken words, that revealed the cherished purpose of his soul, adorned, as they were, with eloquence of his unobtrusive and devoted piety. Of the difficulties and hardships endured by that faithful little band before a flourishing church was really established, and what part the subject of this brief history took in it, I must refer you to others, who know the particulars better than I do, and will proceed to other matters. Early in the fall of 1848 we placed our dear Lizzie at school in Philadelphia, under the care of Mrs. Gardell, who deservedly enjoyed the highest reputation as an instructress of young ladies, being untiring in her efforts to cultivate their hearts, no less than their minds and manners. From the letters of her father, written during that time, I will make but one quotation, merely to show how earnestly he ever longed for the spiritual good of his beloved daughter: �Do you ever think on the subject of your soul�s salvation?-�of its value-�of the importance of giving the subject that attention its magnitude demands, in the morning of life, when the feelings and emotions of the heart are warm and generous-�before the temper and disposition are soured by disappointment? It was for this reason our blessed Saviour desired the young to come unto Him. My dear daughter, you cannot tell how happy your mother and I would be to know that you had consecrated yourself, heart, soul, and body, to the Lord, to serve Him faithfully in this world, that you might be permitted to enjoy Him in mansions of peace in that which is to come. This is the tenor of our morning and evening prayers, and, we trust, of yours also.� It was our intention to keep our Lizzie at this school for two years, but, the cholera making its appearance in the United States-�a more terrible epidemic than ever before, in the spring of 1849-�determined us to bring her home at the expiration of the first year. Especially as this fearful disease had exhausted itself in St. Louis during that summer, while we were with her at Newport and Nahant, out of its reach, and as it had not yet swept through Philadelphia, we deemed it safest to bring her home, where she might still pursue her studies under the instruction of private teachers. From the time we had solemnly vowed at the baptismal font to train our child, not for this perishing world, but for Heaven, and thereby could claim the rich promise of a covenant-keeping God-��I will be a God to you, and to your seed��-nothing had caused us more anxiety than to know how wisely and faithfully to discharge our duties towards her. Whether strictly to force her into measures, or, by a mild and firm treatment, to win her to love the religion of her parents, was often discussed by us when alone in our chamber. We observed, with pain, that many of the children of our beloved church, whose parents believed that they could do no better part by them than strictly to carry out the rules of the church concerning worldliness, and would not, for any consideration, allow them to learn how to dance, or to attend a dancing party, were by far the giddiest and most reckless of young people. Some, first uniting with the Church, and afterwards disgracing their profession, while still under parental guidance; others, waiting until they were married, and were countenanced by a worldly husband, before throwing off all restraint, and showing these �long-faced Presbyterians� how amazingly dashy and gay they could be. With what natural grace and ease they can now discuss the merits or demerits of the last play! What a keen relish they have for balls! How charming the masquerade was! What delightful sport, in masque, to tell disagreeable and sarcastic truths (or falsities, perhaps), to some luckless ones who very innocently, but ignorantly, preferred to look on at the droll sight with their faces uncovered! Oh, what a disgrace to the child, who, for the sake of a few years (perhaps days) of false and empty pleasure, can do such violence to the feelings of parents, who, whatever their errors, truly love, and would sacrifice everything, except their hope of Heaven, to bless their children and do them good. Your grandfather, my dear children, who was no extremist, but was �moderate in all things,� thought it best to let his child enjoy everything that was innocent; that, while an act of disobedience-�an untruth, or any direct breach of �The Commandments�-�would cause his displeasure, and was followed by a look that penetrated your mother�s soul, and was a far greater punishment than the rod of her mother, yet she might dance as much as she pleased, for �dancing was children�s sport.� But when she would gravely ask, if, like her school-mates, she might not go to a dancing school, she would be told that her papa and mamma had promised God to bring her up for Heaven, and that they would not be doing that if they fitted her for the gay world: that she must not forget that she was a baptized child of the Church. If she looked doubtful, or was inclined to urge the matter, we would ask her if she wanted us to break our word to God-�which, like any other conscientious child, she would recoil from. When in her sixteenth year, however, while at boarding-school in Mobile, she expressed a greater desire than ever before to take lessons in dancing. They were given in the school, and confined to the pupils; not at night, but in the afternoon, when she required exercise instead of sleep; and we determined, after serious and prayerful reflection, to indulge her in this very natural wish, believing that longer opposition might be attended with a still stronger desire for the forbidden thing, which she could see no harm in, nor we, if confined to the social circle. We knew that God alone could make her a Christian�-could turn her heart from the love of the world to that of holiness-�and we did not believe that He would be less willing to do so because of our yielding to her wishes in this respect, which, our child clearly understood, was done, not from inconsistency on our part, or a vain desire to see her admired in the world; but from a conviction that, at her age, some consideration should be shown to her reasonable desires; especially as she was far from esteeming this indulgence as a license to unbounded worldliness; that the theater and the ball-room were to be conscientiously avoided, as the road that led directly away from all that was pure, holy and happy. And I am now gratified in saying that we have never had cause to regret the course we pursued in this matter -�which ceased to be overrated as soon as its depths were sounded-�our daughter finding, by experience, how empty and shallow this greatly overrated enjoyment is, compared to others, even of a worldly and social nature; how far it falls below the more refined joys of a less conspicuous but more reasonable and choice character, which the cultivated alone can appreciate. The young lady days, no less than those of her childhood, your mother will tell you, were happy days. Restrained in that only which her parents, and her own conscience, deemed wrong, she was as free and joyous as the birds that carol in their native air. When her sprightly and impulsive nature inclined her to go beyond the bounds of propriety, she was checked. Readily indulged in every reasonable desire, and knowing that nothing worldly afforded her parents so much happiness as that of her own, she did not long mourn over occasional disappointments in personal gratification, which, if indulged in, might have reasonably reflected discredit, if not on her, at least on the religious position of her parents. She had to be reminded, now and then, that she was the child of an Elder of the Church; but never did she intentionally do violence to the feelings or views of him she so much reverenced and loved. This reminds me of a circumstance, that I will relate: One evening, when your mother was dressing for a party, which was to be given at the house of a friend, a very serious accident occurred a few squares from us. A May-day celebration of school-girls, with their teachers, parents and friends, were suddenly startled with the sound and movement of a falling house, and, in a moment, from the giving way of the floor, they were precipitated from the second story of the house down to the first, and, after a moment�s pause, into the cellar. The alarm was soon noised abroad, and, in a very short time, the building was surrounded by persons-�some, who had relatives there, in agony to know the worst concerning them, some from curiosity, and others to render assistance to the sufferers. Your grandfather rushed to the spot, and remained there as long as there was anything for him to do, in encouraging the sufferers, and in assisting them to their homes. No one was killed�-though I think one person died from the injuries received there, a few days after the event; but many were dreadfully bruised, and some had limbs broken. After learning who constituted the assembly, who was hurt, and how much, and finding that, although we knew two or three of the injured persons, and entertained a high respect for them, they were not among our particular friends, nor even in our visiting circle--daughter and I concluded that there could be no impropriety in her attending the party: the time of starting having been delayed for awhile, until we were fully assured of all the facts, and had recovered from the shock felt upon the first alarm. In less than half an hour after she had gone, her father returned from the scene of the disaster, and, learning that Lizzie had gone to the party, was amazed and greatly excited, that, �when our neighbors were dying around us,� our child, knowing the fact, should be permitted to make one of a gay and thoughtless crowd! I was taken aback, for I had not realized the distressing condition of the wounded, and undertook to explain; but feeling condemned, mortified, and chagrined, I immediately proposed to send for her, which he promptly approved of, and, in a few moments, the carriage (which had just returned) was sent back, with an explanatory note from me. Lizzie had that moment taken her place in a cotillion, when the note was handed her. She read it, made an apology to her partner, an explanation to her hostess, bidding her �good evening,� and, in a few minutes more, she was handed into the parlor at home by her friend and escort, regretting, most of all, that she had wounded that kind and tender father, who so deeply sympathized in the sorrows and sufferings of others. Our house was a gay one. It was thought too much so by some, and perhaps gave umbrage to the feelings of a few of them, who, judging from without, as they passed to and fro, and heard music, and could discern from the street the moving of the heads in the brilliantly lighted parlors, thought, and said, too, �what a shame to reflect discredit upon the cause of Christ by revelry and dancing.� �How much better it would be to appropriate the expenditure of money in these costly preparations to the poor,� etc., etc. But, could they have seen and felt the influence of a Christian light, of which he alone who reflected it was unconscious, as he moved about in congenial mood with the young and gay, or, quietly conversed with the grave, perhaps his own dear pastor; had they but known that the calls upon the benevolence of the Christian man were as sacred, and as cheerfully granted, as those of the indulgent father, perhaps more so, they would not, I am sure, have been so censorious. And then, had they known the facts in the case, that no instrument of music, excepting the piano and guitar, and occasionally a flute, and no professor to play on them, for the purpose of keeping up a dance, had ever been in our house, these worthy people, fastidious Christians as they may have been, could not have felt so grieved. We used wine too, but only at dinner and at suppers, with the ladies. No side-board drinking was ever done in our house. In our early married life even this was not our custom, for several reasons, two of which I will name: We were members of the old temperance society, which, however, did not forbid the moderate use of wine; but to be consistent with the spirit of our pledge, we used it only when some friend dined with us, whom we supposed was so accustomed to it, that he could not dine with comfort or pleasure without it. We did at one time introduce claret, as an every-day drink at dinner. We had been South for the first time, where the use of this mild wine is a universal practice, especially in New Orleans and Mobile. My husband and sister became quite fond of it, and so did our little Lizzie, who was then only five years old. Her father, consequently, purchased a cask for home use, had it bottled and sent to the house. But we found that our �cold water� brothers became quite excited after drinking it, one saying-��Sister, I felt like walking over the tops of houses, yesterday, after dinner.� Another complained of the wine flying up into his face, making it so red, and all three appearing a little more merry than usual. Their good brother-in-law, never having known what a selfish feeling was, thought this may be the first step towards giving these boys a taste for drink, and determined at once to forego personal gratification in the use of a beverage which he really enjoyed, and felt all the better for. Next day, by order, the wine was not brought, as usual, to the table. No remark was made about it, until one of �the boys� asked the servant to hand it. My husband then in his ordinary modest cheerful way, explained the reason why the wine was not there. From which time we relapsed into our previous habit of offering a glass of sherry or madeira, only when politeness suggested it. But by the time our daughter was grown up, these brother-sons of his were men, with their habits formed, and capable of judging for themselves, and he no longer felt it incumbent upon him to be over strict. �Let every one be fully persuaded in his own mind.� �To his own Master he standeth or falleth.� The religion of Jesus Christ is designed for all nations and people, whatever may be their peculiar views, tastes, or vices, and while it cannot exist in a corrupt heart --and when that has been changed, savingly touched by the Holy Spirit, the true light will shine out of it-�yet we should all be careful not to measure other Christians in our measure, which, while it may be the best one for us, may not be exactly adapted to them. �By their fruits you shall know them,� which the Apostle defines thus: �The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance. Against such there is no law.� Pleasant and merry times your dear mother had at home, with her young friends, and long to be remembered. But more cherished still to her are the recollections of our religious hours. The same sweet hymns of praise that she loved to sing, while away at school, that would bring tears trickling down her sunny face, and with them that relief which her home-sick heart required, ascended in former times at our morning and evening orison. A few friends dropping in to tea were no excuse to evade the worship of our God. Regularly the Bible and hymn books were placed, before retiring from table, in front of your grandfather, and without an apology, excepting occasionally he might say, �it is our habit,� as he turned the leaves of the Blessed Book. There were a few restrictions with regard to how often your mother, when a young lady, should accept invitations to spend the evening out, or have invited company at home, but none was so strictly regarded as the one concerning Saturday night: for, as in early childhood she had been taught to put away her toys and irreligious books before the dawn of the Sabbath, she now found it easy and natural, if not to prepare her mind for the sacred day, at least to engage in nothing which might physically unfit her for its enjoyments. And the Sabbath was esteemed �the day of all the week the best.� Often felt so by her, who, in the midst of this fascinating and beautiful world, never forgot that it was the burden of her father�s prayers that like �Mary of old, she might choose that good part which should never be taken from her, and learn like her, to sit humbly at the feet of Jesus.� And this quiet day of rest, so still, so sweet, so unlike the bustle of the world without, is well calculated to arrest the current of worldly thought, and cause the mind to revert to the impressions of happy childhood, and often to incite a desire for joys more pure and stable than Earth can afford. Christians of an ardent temperament, who have come out from the world without having had previous religious training, are apt to go to extremes, and in trying to keep the Sabbath holy sometimes become slaves to the day, and only breathe freely when Monday comes. This was not the case with your grandfather. The Sabbath seemed to be made for him, not he for the Sabbath. It was his day of sacred rest, in which, however, he was not afraid to laugh as heartily as on other days; nor was he so absorbed in religious duties as to make him less thoughtful of the ordinary claims of life. I have often seen him on the afternoon of that day, when the servants were all out, lay down his religious book or newspaper, and go out to the stable, lead the horses into the yard, water them at the hydrant, and then turn them loose on the grass plot; and, seemingly with the greatest delight, he would watch them as they alternately nipped the green grass, or engaged in those extraordinary fantastic exercises which horses that have been pent up in the stable, or in harness all the week, know so well how to perform. Our back yard was separated from the front by a grape arbor, which extended entirely across, and beyond which boundary the horses were not allowed to pass. In this yard they had carte blanche in their Sabbath day recreation, with one exception; they were not to touch the grape vines. And they well understood from the wave of the book or handkerchief in the hand of their master (who generally, on these occasions, sat in one of the arches of the arbor) that they were to approach no nearer the forbidden thing. Even horses know what kindness is; and I have often been amused in looking at them, from the gallery, as they would follow �grandpa� about the yard evincing evident satisfaction in the many caresses he bestowed upon them. And had he lived, my precious little children, you would soon have learned, in your happy experience of his playfulness, and sympathy with you, on the holy day, that he was far from being a Puritan in his views and feelings. In the fall of 1852, again in search of health, which of all things belonging to this life (save an unblemished character) was ever the most prized by your dear grandfather, we determined to pass the whole of the approaching winter in the South. We started early in November, went to �Bailey�s Springs,� in North Alabama, intending to proceed from thence to Charleston, then to Mobile, and take New Orleans in our way home in the spring. But after reaching �the Springs� we concluded to give them a fair trial before proceeding further, as we understood from friends, who had tested these waters, that they often proved as beneficial in winter as in summer. Accordingly as we had learned that the accommodations were very indifferent, we made arrangements with the proprietor to rent us three nice, new log cabins, telegraphed to St. Louis for our servants, carriage and horses, and were speedily set up for ourselves. With our own kitchen and cook we needed nothing, for Bailey Springs were situated only nine miles from Florence, where my parents had lived seven years, more than twenty years previous, and our experience did not prove the old adage, �out of sight out of mind,� or the truth of the poetical effusion, �what is friendship but a name.� For our old friends were friends indeed, evincing the most delicate attentions, and making up to us the deficiency in our supplies, from a carpet, to keep the wind from penetrating our open cabin floors, to dog-irons, or a dutch oven, and the like useful articles, besides many rare sweetmeats from their own choice kitchens. Our main supply of provisions, however,--for these Baileys could not understand that mortal man needed more than �hog and hominy�-�came every week from my nephew�s, who is a cotton planter, residing eighteen miles from the Springs. As sure as Friday or Saturday came, so sure came the pack horse, laden with fresh butter, mutton, &c. The presiding genius of these luxuries, who safely guided the richly laden vessel into port, was a grinning, half grown cuffy, whom they called �Bowlegs.� But my only object in telling you of this delightful, but very novel winter sojourn, made so pleasant because of the unwearied attentions, and choice society of a small circle of friends, is to give you a peep at your beloved grandfather in these new circumstances. Cut off, necessarily, a greater part of the time from society, in a wild country, without occupation or recreation, excepting such as we could originate, with many it would have been esteemed unendurable. Especially to men possessing the active and stirring habits of a city life, and to young ladies accustomed to a large circle of congenial friends. But we did not find it unendurable by any means. Your mother often said to me while there, �Mother, I did not know before that my father was such a delightful man, we really need no other society.� In his gunning excursions, which, in pleasant weather, were frequent, she often accompanied her father, and, from her account of them, upon their return, you would imagine that nothing could have been more charming; but, from the appearance of both father and daughter, you would think they had been rambling over hill and dale, scrambling through briars and wading creeks, without design, for the game that they sought was rarely found, or if found, lost again, before the inexperienced huntsman could level his gun. But who cared for that when they had so much pleasure and sport notwithstanding, and always such glorious anticipations for the morrow. Sometimes, in their eager pursuit after game, they would paddle up and down the creek, watching out on either side for ducks. On these occasions, Lizzie would hold the steering oar, while her father made vigorous use of the propelling ones; but one day his �Lady of the Lake,� (as he called her), in her excitement, at the prospect over the bluffs, of flying ducks, rose to her feet; and, reeling, tipping, over she went, which was the finale of the ducking for that day. From the beneficial effect of the exercise in walking back to �the cabins� no ill result ensued, and next day they were eager to resume their search. In rainy weather and of evenings your grandfather would often read aloud, while your mother and I were engaged in kitting or sewing; or, she would take up her guitar and sing some of those pretty Scotch airs, of which he was so fond; or, the more deep-toned German songs, which were favorites of mine. And thus we passed nearly thee months, happy months, never to be forgotten; and bidding adieu to these wilds, with improved health, and taking an affectionate leave of the kindest friends, we pursued our way farther south. The only time that your dear mother and I were separated from her father, after her return from school until her marriage, was in the summer of 1853. In a letter received from him at that time he says, �I hope and pray that daughter will seriously bring her mind to the consideration of this most momentous subject. Oh, that she would remember how good and kind and merciful God has always been to her, and how strong is the obligation she is under to consecrate herself, with all her energies, to God�s service. How happy would we be, could we be permitted to meet her at the table of our Lord, as an humble follower of the blessed Saviour, to feel that her peace is made with God, and that her calling and her election is sure. Nothing which this earth offers could confer so great happiness upon her parents. And will she not now try to find the Saviour, who is always found of them that seek Him earnestly and faithfully? Let us, dear wife, pray more earnestly, that our kind heavenly Father would add this, our greatest mercy and blessing, to the innumerable ones that have followed us all the days of our lives.� Our kind heavenly Father did �add this, our greatest mercy and blessing, to the innumerable ones that had followed us all the days of our lives,� for not long after this we were permitted to sit together, father, mother, and child, at the table of our Lord. Your beloved mother having consecrated her heart to the blessed Saviour, determined to make a public profession of her faith on the Sabbath morning of February 5th, 1854, when, in the presence of the congregation of �Pine Street Presbyterian Church,� she went forward to the pulpit (accompanied by her precious father), and there, under the ministration of Rev. S. B. McPheeters, dedicated herself, soul and body, to the service of �the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, the only living and true God.� As soon as this solemn ceremony was concluded, the sweet tones of the organ, accompanied by the choir, came floating over our heads, and seemed like the music of heaven to our souls. They sang: 1. �People of the living God, I have sought the world around, Paths of sin and sorrow trod, Peace and comfort no where found: Now to you my spirit turns, Turns a fugitive unblest; Brethren, where your altar burns, O! receive me into rest. 2. �Lonely I no longer roam, Like the cloud, the wind, the wave; Where you dwell shall be my home, Where you die shall be my grave; Mine the God whom you adore, Your Redeemer shall be mine; Earth can fill my soul no more, Every idol I resign. 3. �Tell me not of gain or loss, Ease, enjoyment, pomp and power; Welcome poverty and cross Shame, reproach, affliction�s hour: �Follow me!� I know thy voice; Jesus, Lord, thy steps I see; Now I take thy yoke by choice; Light thy burden now to me.� On the 23rd of February, 1854, we gave our dearly beloved child away, to your own dear father. And the light and joy of our house and hearts, the free and joyous hearted girl, became a wife. Affectionately yours, GRANDMA. Letter Fourteen My Dear Grandchildren: Before speaking of the changes, the marriage of your mother brought, and the life of self-denial led by her father, in consequence of it, I will relate a few incidents of his every day life. I have already said he was kind to the poor. He was systematic in his contribution for the benefit of this large class in every city; but that did not deprive him of the pleasure of throwing a few dimes into the hands of every applicant, although he often felt that they might be used for a bad purpose and do more harm than good to the recipient. On one occasion as I entered the dining room, just before breakfast, he was having a kind and merry chat at the window, with a shabby looking son of Erin, in the yard below, who declared to his �honor� that he �hadn�t tasted a drop!� (upon which fact the matter of giving, or not giving, seemed to turn). He threw him a piece of money, saying, as he did so, �look out, my friend, or that quarter will get you into the calaboose.� Next morning it so happened that your grandfather was called to that useful, but uninteresting place, to bail out a colored servant, who was prone, occasionally, to get into scrapes, which subjected him to temporary imprisonment, when, whom should he find there, safely ensconced in one of the cells, but the Irishman, his �old customer,� as he called him, in relating the anecdote, which he did with considerable point and humor, making all around the breakfast table laugh heartily. At another time, when we were spending the summer at our country place, near the city, another citizen of the �auld country� presented himself and asked for work. �What kind of work can you do?� inquired your grandfather. �Work, sir! I am not over particular at all, at all.� �Can you dig potatoes?� �Praities! Your honor, jist thry me.� �Well, I will hire you by the day.� �By the day, and sure I�ve no place to put my head at night.� �Well then, my man, I can�t hire you, for I have no place for you to sleep.� �Sleep, is it? I�d never want a better place than with the horses-�the stable, to be sure, on a bit of straw-�there�s no better place to my mind, sir.� The poor fellow�s destitution, his worn and tattered clothes, his tangled hair, with a face young and simple, but not vicious looking, touched my husband�s heart. Poor Tommy did know how to dig potatoes, if he knew nothing else, and his new master set him to work at his small patch, with the understanding that when he got through with that, he had nothing more for him to do. But Tommy took good care not to get through with that potatoe patch, yet he was always as busy as a bee when he saw �the master� coming that way, who would praise him for his industry and wink at his tricks. Tommy was quite a Merry Andrew, and more knave than fool, after all; and when he became a decent looking man, from the present of a bran new suit�-cap-a-pie�-and a comb into the bargain, which his thoughtful benefactor procured for him, he was decidedly the lion of the kitchen cabinet. But how to get rid of Tommy became at length a serious question. Just before returning to the city in the fall, he was sent with a note, from �the master,� to a farmer, hard by, who gave him a trial, but finding that he was not capable of earning a living, or from some other cause, he soon dismissed him; and, Tommy, much to my dismay, found his way to our city residence. But as the developments of his character in civilized life, were not of the most encouraging nature, it was not a difficult matter for your grandfather to drive him from the premises. But there was another poor man, of whom I never speak or think, but with feelings of kindness and respect. His remains lie in Bellefontaine, and I have no doubt but that his spirit is happy in the presence of his God. He had lived a poor, but honest life in the west of Ireland, with his wife and children, until, like thousands of his countrymen, he was driven, by hardship and poverty, to seek a better future in this �land of the free and the home of the brave.� In extreme poverty they arrived in St. Louis. Not so many in family as when they bade adieu to their native land, having buried one or two children on the banks of the Mississippi. They had all had �ship fever,� and a more wretched looking family I had never seen. But notwithstanding their squalid poverty and wretchedness we found them industrious, good people, and Protestants, which was an unusual circumstance among this class of Irish. Your grandfather, who, in his charities, never seemed to forget that God caused his sun to shine upon the evil as well as the good, and who could not allow even a beast to suffer from want, took peculiar pleasure in ministering to the necessities of this virtuous family, and reaped the rare reward of a rich return in gratitude and love. Poor David appeared to look up to him as to a superior being, always addressing him as �Your honor,� in the most respectful manner. One day as I was coming out of church I was attracted by the subdued look of this good man, whose tearful eyes were fixed on Rev. Mr. McPheeters and your grandfather, as they walked together down the aisle. I had a good excuse to stop as I was in the advance of my husband, and off to one side I saw him bow most reverently, as he said, �Your riverence�-��Your honor,� and out of the abundance of his heart, while tears streamed down his honest face, he gave utterance to his feelings of gratitude to God, and to them, for the blessedness of this holy day. The pathos and eloquence of the sermon had completely overcome him. David was a farmer, and after having been in your grandfather�s employ, at first one thing and then another, for a year or two, he finally accepted an advantageous offer, to take charge of a gentleman�s farm, some eight or ten miles from the city; and we had heard nothing from the family for several months, when, one cold rainy day in autumn, a wagon was driven up to our front door, containing his remains. His poor afflicted wife came with them, and told, that David had said, �Take me to Mr. Charless to bury me.� He had died of congestive fever. No doubt but that it was a comfort to the poor fellow in his dying hour to feel that in this distant land of strangers, he had found a friend who would not neglect �the widow and the fatherless in their affliction,� and his confidence was not misplaced, for, from the time of his death, his family lived near us, and never knew, as long as David�s good friend lived, what it was to want a friend indeed. Another anecdote of the poor just occurs to my mind, and as it exhibits your grandfather in another light, I will relate it. Immediately after dinner, on a pleasant day, my two sisters-in-law, who resided together, less than a square from us, came over to our house, with a man, who had just applied to them for assistance. They were deeply interested in behalf of this poor fellow, who was a Frenchman, and �Frenchmen,� they said, �were not apt to beg unless in real want.� They were sure he was an honest man. One of my sisters was a French Creole, and both were new beginners in active effort for the benefit of the indigent, and did not know exactly the best method of relieving the unfortunate man, �who had just arrived and had a poor sick wife and six little children on the boat at the wharf. A kind-hearted gentleman had offered them a home at his farm in Illinois, a few miles from the river, and all he wished was money sufficient to hire a horse and wagon in which to move his helpless family.� While the ladies were presenting his case to me, the Frenchman manifested great anxiety, and made the most touching appeals in the piteous expression of his face and manner. Presently, my husband, who had been indulging in his usual siesta, awoke and came down stairs. �Now, the poor fellow can tell his own story,� and �Mr. Charless� was pathetically appealed to, to listen to his tale of woe. Unfortunately for the man he was immediately recognized by your grandfather, who had but a short time before given him a cup of coffee, etc., from the kitchen, and had also procured work for him as a day laborer in a factory, which mode of subsistence not suiting the Frenchman�s taste, he had slipped out of, and ran off, before commencing work. It was soon evident, from the juxtaposition of the two, one as accusant, the other defendant, which was not to be mistaken, even by a person ignorant of the language in which they spoke, that all was not right. His friends, the ladies, stared, when, upon each renewed attempt to convict him, he would assure, in the most self-possessed and polite manner, �Your are mistaken, Monsieur, I have no doubt but that the man to whom you refer, was very like me, but not myself, I assure you, sir.� Whereupon your grandfather proposed to accompany him to the boat for the purpose of seeing his family, promising to procure him a wagon and every thing necessary for their comfort and removal. But they had not gone far before the Frenchman began to sidle off, as it to turn a corner, but finding that it was no easy matter to get away from the persevering gentleman, who insisted upon being �introduced to the Madame,� he made a clean breast of the whole thing, �Monsieur, I have no wife and little children, but you know when a poor man want he get nothing from the ladies unless he have one sick wife, and some poor little children. Excuse me, Monsieur, I mean no disrespect to you.� No one liked a joke better than your grandfather, and being something of a tease too, he more than once slily referred to the pitiable condition of the poor Frenchman, which, although enjoyed by others, was not quite so keenly relished by the ladies, who had manifested so much interest in the welfare of the honest man, and his distressed family. You are not old enough, my dear little children, to remember how devotedly fond �Grandpa� was of children, and how they all loved him, notwithstanding he was always playing some trick upon them. Sometimes at dinner when any of your little cousins were with us and would show by the interest expressed in their faces, when the dessert was being brought in, how eager they were to be �helped,� �Grandpa� would quietly and gravely say, ��Aunty,� you needn�t give Peter (or perhaps it might be Charless) any of that, he is not fond of �Charlotte Russe,�� (or whatever the nice thing might happen to be), when Peter, taken aback, half believing, half doubting, would present such a ludicrous picture, by the mingled expression of his countenance that no one present, not even little Peter himself, (when he found out it was all a joke), could avoid a hearty laugh. And thus with a thousand little ways which fascinated the children he was decidedly a favorite among them. He never forgot what he liked, and how he felt, when a boy, and could easily enter into the feelings of a boy and be a sympathizing friend and companion. I know some little boys whose parents lived on Pine Street, and although this was by no means the direct road from �the garden,� they used to watch for �dear Mr. Charless�� return from that oft-frequented place in the cool of the evening, for he would be sure to come that way and stop a minute to fill their hats with peaches or apples, etc. One of these little boys, attracted one evening by a glorious sunset, which stretched its golden streaks and varied hues far and wide, lighting up the azure blue with unusual brilliancy and beauty, asked, �Mamma, is n�t that like heaven?� �Something like it, I expect, my son.� �There�s where good Mr. Charless will go, when he dies!� said the little boy. And thus it was, even children felt the influence of such a godly life, as that of your beloved grandfather. The marriage of your dear mother, and the necessity of her being so far separated from the home of her parents, away here in Louisiana, where there is no Protestant Church, and among strangers, whose isolated lives throw an almost impassable barrier in the way of social intercourse, made it incumbent on me to remain with her a greater part of the time. Your father gave your mother�s parents a very cordial and pressing invitation to spend their winters with them, promising that they would always pass the summer with us, and that we should never be separated from our precious only child. But the business relations of your grandfather made it impossible for him to do more than to pay a visit of five or six weeks during the winter; but with the tender feeling of the father he was willing to submit to the self-denial of separation from his wife, that she might be with the darling of their united hearts. In one of his letters he says, �You ask me, in your last, how I am getting on, I must be honest and say, bad enough. If I were not tied hand and foot I would cut loose from these cold regions and lonely habitations, and fly away to my �ain wifey, and my ain bairns� in the sunny south.� Again he says, when longing to see me, �But I would not have you come too soon, as I know how changeable March and April are here, and how delightful they must be in Louisiana.� At another time he says, �Kiss Louis, Lizzie and the babies for me, and believe me that whatever claims business or other ties, may have one me, my heart is ever with my dear ones.� In the winter of 1855 he was elected �President of the Bank of Missouri.� I find among my newspaper slips, an article relative to that fact which I will copy: �We announced in our article of Friday last that the name of Joseph Charless, Esq., would probably pass through the Legislature, as the new President of the 'Bank of the State of Missouri.� The Telegraph of this morning announces his election to that important post. �It is proper for us to say to our distant readers, who Mr. Charless is, and we shall assume to speak of his capacity for the important post confided to him, by the Legislative wisdom of the State. �The Bank of Missouri is a State institution; were it otherwise we question whether we would refer to the matter at all. It is also by the wisdom of our fathers constituted (vide the Constitution) a monopoly, a moneyed monopoly too, and therefore, wields great power, and it is important to the people of this State to know in whose hands this great moneyed power is to be vested for the next two years, by the act of Legislature, if (perchance) the Bank is not turned into a private corporation, by act of Assembly, with the concurrence of private stockholders. We do not intend to tire our readers with a �long yarn,� and therefore proceed to say, that, Mr. Charless has lived, man and boy, in this State and in this city 45 years, being the worthy son of a most respected sire, and is now about 50 years of age. Mr. Charless is a gentleman of fair financial ability, and has managed his own private affairs in the prosecution of a large business, with prudence, skill and judgment, and the firm, of which he is head, enjoys a high credit, both at home and abroad. �He is a gentleman, too, of great suavity of manner, and exhibits a kind spirit in all his intercourse with men (a good quality for the post he is called to) and withal is a man of great firmness of purpose, not stubborn, of indomitable industry, perseverance and energy, and even in moneyed panics (the worst of all panics) would probably be as calm as a summer morning, while at the same time he would act, and act, too, efficiently, looking to the interest and safety of the corporation of which he is the head, and to the interests of the mercantile and trading community, at the same time. �The private character of the new President is beyond reproach, he is a gentleman of unwavering integrity, and possesses the confidence of his fellow-citizens in an eminent degree. To use the western phrase, he is �very popular,� but we don�t esteem this of much account. It is an idle wind, and may blow south or north to-morrow and proves nothing. �The new President, however, has not only a good character but a good reputation, and whether he will mar or advance the latter during his presidency, time only can determine.� �Reputation� based upon such a characters as his, could not be marred. But, ah! it was as President of this Bank, he was brought into contact with the wretched being who has robbed the world of a benefactor, and where can I find a word in which to embody an idea of the loss of those he so dearly loved. He served two years in the State Bank, at which time the term expired, and he determined to be no longer tied down to St. Louis, more than was necessary to attend to his own business. But in the formation of the �Mechanics� Bank� the Board of Directors insisted upon have Mr. Charless for their President. He refused positively, but they still insisted; and, at length, urgently requested that he would accept the presidency of this new institution until fairly established, if for no longer time. He finally acceded to the latter proposition. But after once getting in, there was no getting out of it; for he found the gentlemen with whom he was there associated so very congenial, and his duties not onerous but pleasant, so that he continued to serve them until the day of his death, having signed the last notes on the 1st of June. It only remains for me to say, my dear children, that after the marriage of your mother, the summers were our gala time, for Lizzie and the boys and grandma were all at home, and happy Grandpa would in his excess of joy forget the lonely winters, which he had endeavored by constant occupation at the store, the bank, and in the Church, to make the best of. His evenings were spent in reading, and in holding communion, by letter writing, with his loved ones far away: which, excepting on Church evenings, he would occasionally vary by a visit to some friend, of whom, I need not say, he had many, who would have esteemed it a privilege, during my absence, to have admitted him into their family circle as a member, but, as he often said, in his letters, he preferred to visit friends, and make his home in the old familiar spot, where he could so readily call up to his mind the earthly idols of his heart. I shall ever be thankful, to the Ruler of all events, that I was with him during the whole winter immediately preceding his death. We accompanied our daughter and her three little boys to their home in Louisiana in December; staid two weeks with them, and returned together, fully determined to be no more separated; that, in future, together we would visit our children, and together return to our lonely home. For the light that had gone out when our daughter married, was no more kindled in our aching hearts, notwithstanding the joy we felt in the possession of our precious little grandchildren. In earlier life when we pictured to ourselves a green old age, with our �bairn and bairn�s bairns� about us, it was a different scene from the reality when it came with its long separations and anxieties. Our greatest solace during this last winter of our pilgrimage together, was the service of our God. And oh, with what gratitude I shall ever remember His loving kindness and tender mercies towards us. �He leadeth us in ways we know not of.� He can comfort in the darkest hour. The spring came, and with it, a month or two earlier than usual, our beloved ones returned to the longed for homestead, around which were so many tender recollections of a happy, very happy life. How your dear mother clung to that precious father! How she feasted upon his every look. She followed him every where; in his rides, in his strolls through the garden. She accompanied him at night, and at all times to Church, preferring (when we did not ride) to take the long walk with �father� to going with �mother� across the street to �the Second Church.� When business called him away from his much prized domestic circle, she would walk, with her arm wrapped around him, to the door, and follow him with her eyes down the street until out of sight. After her return home that spring, when she first saw his portrait, that he had had taken for her, she wept, and could not tell why, except that it was �faultless.� And now, my dear children, I am treading so closely upon that last morning, that I begin to tremble. On Friday, June 3, 1859, your dear grandfather arose early, and drove, as he was wont to do, to the garden. While there he gathered and tied together a bunch of flowers for his daughter, and when I came down stairs to breakfast he was sitting at the window, where he had evidently read the morning paper and laid it aside, and was enjoying the sports of his little �sonny boys� who were at play on the grass plot. I gave him my last �good morning� kiss, little thinking that in joy our lips would no more be pressed, and turning to the beautiful bouquet, which was placed in a glass of water at our daughter�s plate, I took it up and admired it. He had gathered his first fuchsia to put in her bouquet. Our last breakfast is over. At worship little Charless seated himself opposite his grandpa, and observed him attentively as he read the Bible and one of the metre Psalms. We knelt in prayer, the only words of which, that I remember, are, �We thank thee, O God, that thy mercies are new to us every morning, and fresh every evening.� After worship he stood erect before us, his countenance full of his usual look of benevolence and love, as he asked, �What�s the order of the day? I will go around to the Planters� House, and see if Dr. and Mrs. Palmer have arrived, and will be back in ten minutes to let you know.� (Dr. and Mrs. Palmer of New Orleans were on their return from the �General Assembly� of the Presbyterian Church, and had been invited to stay with us, while they remained in St. Louis). In ten or fifteen minutes the door bell rang violently. A young man entered and tremblingly said, �Mr. Charless is badly hurt on Market Street.� I heard nothing more, but running, and hoping that he was not hurt so seriously, I found myself among a crowd of people, and then beside my dying husband! He lay on the floor in the back part of a small store, pale and sweet. Like an angel he looked to me. I did not lose my senses, and I was so impressed with the sanctity of the spot that it seems to me I dropped, but dropped very softly beside him. �Be still and know that I am God,� seemed to be spoken by the Holy One, into my ear and heart. And I was still. I thought, of course, this was an accident, but when I heard from his own pale, slightly parted lips, as he answered some one who asked, �Who did this, Mr. Charless,� that he was murdered! Where! Who! I exclaimed, could do this deed! But instantly turning to my husband, I said, �He is more to be pitied than your are, my dear, for he is a fiend! not a man.� Oh, Oh, Oh! If my Father, God, had then lifted up the veil and showed me all I have passed through since, I must have died. But he does not try us more than we are able to bear. Indeed he bestowed such rich spiritual blessings upon us (your dear mother and myself) in that dark hour, that we were astonishingly sustained. We were filled with gratitude because �dear father� was ready. We knew that he had nothing to do, but to die. Like Stephen, he �fell asleep.� My beloved children, I have his dying words written down, and after I show you �what the newspapers say,� and you have read his funeral sermon, perhaps I will tell you more about the last moments of your honored, it must be forever honored, grandfather. Yours, affectionately, GRANDMA. Belmont, March, 1861. Letter Fifteen My Dear Grandchildren: It has been nearly two years since I last wrote to you, since which time, war has desolated our once prosperous and happy country, and drenched its soil with the blood of her sons. All has been excitement and turmoil. Many widows and orphans have been made-�and the wail of anguish has been poured into the ear of the God of Sabbath. But I turn from the revolting facts which belong to the history of the nation�-to consider the last sad hours of your revered grandfather, and to copy for your instruction and admonition his dying words. After having seen something of his daily walk through life, thought upon his sad and unexpected death, and in imagination mingled with the throng that followed him to his last resting place-�your mind will naturally revert to the lonely homestead and its desolate inmates. But words cannot picture the anguished of our hearts, the gloom and loneliness of our home--after the last relic of its light and glory had passed away from our view. So you will follow me, my dear children, to that little store on Market Street; look upon the bare floor, and behold your grandfather-�the gentle and loving man, in his dying agony! Listen to his words. He knew he was dying, for he said, in answer to a hope expressed, that he might live�-�No, no, no! I am a dead man.� After a pause he uttered, fervently, �Lord Jesus, come quickly.� Again, said he, �I am a great sinner.� Some one directed him to look to Jesus. �I do look to him. He is my all. He is very precious to my soul.� Again, he said, �I deserve all I suffer, for I am a great sinner.� I heard all this, but do not know how long I had been by him, when he said to me, �Charlotte, I have loved you always-�dearly loved you�-and I love you to the end.� Then turning his eye towards your father, who was on the opposite side of him, said he, �Louis, I leave my family to you�-my wife I leave to you.� Some gentleman came up and asked, �Mr. Charless, who shot you?� He replied, �A man by the name of Thornton. I was called upon to testify against him in court last fall. While President of the Bank of Missouri, he brought me some bank notes to redeem. They were stained and had the appearance of having been buried. I asked him where he got those notes. He replied, he had bought them from some boatmen, who said they had found them under a stump, which had been pulled up from a boat having been tied to it. I told him that was a very unlikely story. When called upon to testify, I told, upon oath, what I knew about the matter, but I had no unkind feeling towards the poor fellow. I would have done him a kindness if it had been in my power. I have always tried to be a good neighbor-�to do justly-�and to love mercy. But I honor my country, and the majesty of her laws, and I have never shrunk from discharging my duty as a man, and as a Christian.� Sometime afterwards he said, �How little we know what is before us.� I remember, my children, in that dark hour, to have seen your dear mother, kneeling at the head of her precious father, in the deepest woe, alternating between glimmerings of hope, and agonizing fear. To some remark of Col Grimsley, he said, �No, Colonel, no! I forgive my murderer; from the bottom of my heart, I forgive him.� Some one asked him if he would not like to see a minister. He answered, �Send for Mr. McPheeters. You will find him at the Second Presbyterian Church, at the meeting of the Church Extension Committee.� �My dear Pastor, I am glad to see you, I have always loved you. You have tried to instruct men, and I thank you for it.� My beloved sister, for whom my heart is now bleeding�-for she too has left us and gone away, to return no more to cheer, to sympathize with, and to comfort us in our sorrows-�was at my brother�s, six miles from the city, and was late in meeting with us at this mournful scene. When she arrived, in broken accents she asked, �Is there no hope? Is there no hope?� �No hope here,� replied my husband, �but a bright hope beyond!� Thank God! for the bright hope which I have that they met again, not, as then, in sorrow, but in the full enjoyment of the blissful presence of the adorable Jesus! But, come back my thoughts from that joyous abode, to the once happy little earthly home, I used to have, and go with me, dear children, to the same parlors, where your dear mother has had so much pleasure in the days of her youth, and behold, laid on a narrow couch, in agony and blood, that noble form. The beloved and admired of all who knew him. The rooms, the halls, are filled with anxious friends, but stillness reigns. Not a sound is heard save the involuntary groans of the dying Christian. In the midst of them he would sometimes exclaim, �God have mercy upon me a sinner!� Through that long dark day, little was said. After many paroxysms of intense pain, Mr. McPheeters said, �Mr. Charless, you know something now about the sufferings of Jesus.� �Yes,� he faintly replied, �I have been thinking about that, while lying here.� Again, Mr. McPheeters repeated, �Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.� In broken accents he replied, �Nevertheless not my will, but Thine be done.� Several times, looking full in my face, said he, �I love you.� Once, with some difficulty, as if to leave his blessing, he placed his hand upon the head of your poor mother, and said, �My precious daughter.� Again and again he uttered, �My poor wife.� He well knew how desolate his poor wife would be in this bleak world without him. Towards the close of his sufferings, said he, �Will my heart strings never break? �Not my will but thine be done.�� When he was almost gone, he whispered to me, �I�-love--you.� His last words were, �I am satisfied.� PEACEFULLY HE LIVED-�PEACEFULLY HE DIED! And now, my dear children, I have but little more to say. It has been a hard struggle for me to write much that I have written; for it seemed like tearing open my heart. But the ardent desire that the virtues of my husband should not die out as his name has done, and the fear that, as one by one of those who knew and loved him, should be laid in the grave, and the bare fact that he was murdered only remain, a blush might tinge your cheeks, at the mention of his name, lest the ancestor, who thus fell, might by his evil deeds have provoked his untimely end. I have often felt, too, while penning these letters, it is useless; my grandchildren will perhaps never even take the pains to read them, and if read they may not be impressed by them or stimulated to a single effort, to imitate the being I so much love and admire, and whose blood still flows in their own veins. One of the few friends to whom I communicated my intention to write this sketch, and for whose opinion I have a high regard, wrote me as follows: �Do not suffer yourself to forget that when your grandchildren shall have become old enough to understand what you write, the present and the future will be the object of their interest, not the past and the dead. They will be unlike humanity, if they take any interest, in what so much interests you. I very much fear that your labors will wholly fail of accomplishing the good your earnest and loving heart intends.� In the same letter he also expresses a fear that it will be impossible for me to make any attempt of the kind which will not be a very partial one. In reference to this, he says: �The memory comes insensibly to dwell on all that was agreeable, and to intensify it; impartiality ceases; and the almost certain result is, a picture which all who read it, having known the object, see to be colored by the hand of love.� If I had not already written twelve or thirteen letters before this damper to my efforts came to hand; I do not know that I would have had the courage to proceed, and I am now gratified to see, in reperusing the letters of condolence which we received after the death of your grandfather, that they, no less than the public manifestations of the community where he lived and died, corroborate what I have said in relation to him. Of the forty-seven letters received from friends, from every part of the country, there is but one opinion. All speak of him as an uncommon man, whose loss is irreparable. I will copy a few extracts from these letters, scarcely knowing, however, which to select, so full they all are of praises of him, whose memory, I humbly pray, his children may ever cherish as their richest earthly inheritance. A gentleman of Cincinnati writes: �After the first stunning realization of the horrible crime of which your dear and universally beloved husband has been the victim, we continue to ask ourselves, if such a man is murdered, who can be safe? A man so kind, so just, so gentle, so good. I never knew a man whose whole life and character would have seemed a better guarantee against all violence, even of feeling.� A lady, who had passed the greater part of her life in St. Louis, writes to my brother Henry, from �East Rockport.� She says, (after an expression of her heart-felt sympathy for him, and for the bereaved wife and child): �St. Louis has not been alone in her just indignation and horror at the cruel and ruthless deed committed on one of her principal streets; the bitter lament she so recently sent forth to all parts of the country has been re-echoed back again by many hearts and voices, that never knew our poor friend. May I not then, who have known him from his early youth, be permitted to bear my testimony to his many excellencies of character, so justly portrayed by his own Pastor, and others, with whom he was associated? Yes! there is but one voice on that subject, as there should be but one earnest wish, by all who mourn this sad event, �May I die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his.� I know that on the face of the widowed wife and her only child, there rests the expression of unutterable sorrow, but her Maker is her husband, and her fatherless one, His peculiar care. The cold grave does not contain the immortal spirit that she saw contending in its agony for freedom from its clay casket, but it has soared away forever to the fields of light and immortality. May all with whom he has been associated, and all who shall hereafter learn the history of his amiable character, of his serene, and exalted piety, his peaceful conscience, and his martyr death, be so impressed as to join themselves to the �followers of the Cross,� and bear the same noble testimony to the excellence of our holy religion that our friend, Mr. Charless, has done.� Another lady writes, from Cumberland, Penn., thus: �My heart bleeds for you all, for well I know what a treasure you have lost. Few persons beyond your family circle had a better opportunity of knowing your beloved husband, and none, I venture to say, loved and admired him more. The world at large knew and valued him as a noble Christian gentleman, as a man of sterling integrity, and enlarged benevolence, but who could understand all his excellence and all his loveliness, but those who have been privileged, as I have so often been, to see him in the sweet relations of husband and father, to bow with him at his family altar, and to hear the fervent, yet humble, outpourings of the Christian heart before the mercy seat? Ah! well do I remember how tenderly, how sweetly, his petitions were wont to ascend for me, at the time of my deep and overwhelming sorrow; and when about to leave his hospitable roof, how affectionately he would commend the stricken one to our heavenly Father�s gracious care. These remembrances will linger about the heart as long as it throbs with life. Oh! sad, sad is the thought that I shall no more hear that sweet voice pleading with our Father God in behalf of the sorrowing ones, or for the Church of God, so dear to his heart, or committing his loved ones into his gracious care; while, with lowly meekness, he confessed and bewailed his sins, and plead for pardon with a childlike love and trust in our blessed Saviour. But oh! delightful thought, his prayers are now turned to praise.� I will copy a part of a letter, from a gentleman in the city of New York, to show what kind of an impression your dear grandfather made upon strangers. �June 4, 1859." �Very dear Madam: Although a stranger to you, I cannot repress the expression of the heart-felt sympathy of myself and my whole family for you in your late terrible bereavement. Language is totally at fault in its poverty to convey what we feel, or give words that shall comfort you in your heavy affliction. Our acquaintance with your dear husband was recent and short, but it was long enough to endear him to our hearts in no ordinary way. We had gone to the house of God in company, and taken sweet counsel together. We had mingled our songs of praise around the domestic altar, and at the same holy place had poured out our united petitions to God for his blessing on our dear families, as well as on the cause of our divine Master. Indeed, I can truly say that our intercourse with your dear husband was all that was sweet and refreshing to the Christian�s heart, and time can never efface the delightful impression he left in our family when he took an affectionate leave of us all in order to join you and his dear daughter, and grandchildren. Every look and every word as is fresh as yesterday, and his sweet memory will be cherished by Mrs. S. and myself, and all our children, every one of whom became warmly attached to him. �I feel that I am doing that which will re-open the bleeding wound, but I cannot help it, as my own emotions must have the relief which this note of sympathy only partially affords. O, how unspeakably dear to us is the thought of his readiness for the great change, and that he is now walking those golden streets, and basking in the smiles of his Saviour. And how consoling the many sweet assurances of our heavenly Father that he doth not willingly afflict, that all things work together for good to them that love God, and that as our day is, so shall our strength be.� In explanation of your grandfather having been a guest of the gentleman who wrote this letter, and yet a stranger to him, it may be of interest to you to know, that in the spring of 1859, just before the return of your dear mother and yourselves to St. Louis, from your Southern home, he paid a short visit to the city of New York, to attend to some business for the Mechanics� Bank, which brought him in contact with Mr. S., �President of the Bank of the Republic,� who gave him a pressing invitation to pass the Sabbath day with him, at his country seat, on the Hudson river. He accepted the invitation, accompanied his new made friend on Saturday afternoon, and returned Monday morning; and was thus made acquainted with a charming family, of whom he several times spoke in terms of admiration and affection. A gentleman, residing in the interior of the State of Missouri, says, in a letter to my brother Taylor: �I cannot in justice to my own feelings refrain from expressing to you the deep, deep grief I felt at the loss of our dear friend, Mr. Charless. In all my intercourse with the world I can safely say that he was the purest and best man I have ever known. Thousands have lost their best friend, society one of its brightest ornaments, and his family-�Great God, how can their loss be described. I have been proud for twenty years to claim him as my friend, and if I had no other reason for thinking well of human nature, a knowledge of his character would be sufficient. He was a credit to human nature, and I never, sir, expect to meet his equal again in all that is essential to make a good and true man.� Another gentleman, who dates his letter, Sarcoxie, June 10, in addressing the same brother, after offering his sincere condolence to him, and through him to the immediate family of the deceased, says: �My relations with Mr. Charless it is true were mostly of a business character, yet a relation of this kind of twenty years standing, could not exist with such a man without producing feelings of a kindly character. Such I entertain for him, though I never saw his face; and I am persuaded that he entertained similar feelings toward me. I shall ever cherish his memory as one of the best friends I ever had in my life.� Before closing his letter he requests a �lithograph likeness� of your grandfather, which was sent him. What a rare testimonial is this! Known only as a business man, without ever having seen his face. Your mother, in reading �Macaulay�s Essays,� a few days since, was struck with his description of the late Lord Holland, as being so much like her father. She pointed it out to me, and it so exactly accords with my views of him, also, that I think I may be excused by transferring it to this letter, for your perusal. He says of the expression of Lord Holland�s face, that it was �singularly compounded of sense, humor, courage, openness, a strong will and a sweet temper,� and that he had the �most gracious and interesting countenance that was ever lighted up by the mingled luster of intelligence and benevolence. As it was with the faces of the men of this noble family (referring to Lord Holland and his ancestors) so was it with their minds. Nature had done much for them all. She had moulded them all of that clay, of which she is most sparing. To all she had given strong reason and a sharp wit; a quick relish for every physical and intellectual enjoyment; constitutional intrepidity, and that frankness by which constitutional intrepidity is generally accompanied; spirits which nothing could depress; tempers easy, generous and placable; and that genial courtesy which has its seat in the heart, and of which artificial politeness is only a faint and cold imitation. Such a disposition is the richest inheritance that ever was entailed on any family.� Rev. Mr. Cowen, of Carondelet, on the Sabbath of June 12, 1859, preached to his congregation from the text, �He being dead yet speaketh.� After giving an exposition of the text, he calls the attention of his congregation to the lessons of instruction �which this solemn providence� (alluding to the sad death of your grandfather) teaches: 1st. �The death of Mr. Charless teaches us the mysteriousness of God�s providence.� �In the calamity, dear hearers, which has removed from our midst one of the best men of this, or any previous age of the world, and overwhelmed so many in deep sorrow, we are pointed to the cruel and murderous hand of the assassin, but this was only the proximate cause of his sudden and violent death. There is a high and remote cause to which we must look, if we would find the true source of this event, which has thrilled the heart of this whole community. That cause, dear hearers, is the providence of God.� Rev. Dr. Palmer of New Orleans, whom you recollect was to be our guest when in St. Louis, in June, 1859, told me that on that Sabbath day, when so many tearful eyes were looking for the last time upon the placid countenance of the beloved, who lay so still and cold in his coffin, he saw at the hotel where he was staying, among others who were lamenting the untimely end of Mr. Charless, men of rough appearance, who would one moment use the most horrible oaths of vengeance against the perpetrator of the bloody dead, and the next, their voices softening with expressions of tender regret, big tears were seen streaming down their cheeks, showing, as Dr. Palmer said, �how they loved the man from whom, in a moral point of view, they were so far separated, and the extraordinary influence of his life and character.� Among the many copies that were sent to us of �the Resolutions,� which were passed by the various associations of St. Louis, in honor of this dear friend, I will extract but a portion of one: �Resolved, That in the death of JOSEPH CHARLESS, Esq., we, as representatives of �The Home of the Friendless,� are called to grieve for the loss of our First Patron. He whose benefactions, stimulated into action the earliest impulses that led to the establishing of this institution, and whose sympathizing heart and ready hand followed us to the end of his life. Truly of him it may be said, �The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon him, and he caused the widow�s heart to sing for joy.�� In conclusion, my dear children, I am reminded as I often have been while writing these letters, that my husband was not fond of praise, and that he particularly disliked any approach to it from his wife, for he thought it almost as unbecoming in her to extol his virtues as it would have been to speak in praise of her own. He was, as I have said, an humble man, for he seemed never to forget that he had been redeemed from the curse of a broken law and was indebted to God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, for all that he had or was. And to God truly does the glory belong! Nature had done much for him, but Grace far more. And while, my dear children, I would again and again point you to your noble grandfather as an example worthy of your imitation, I would more earnestly direct your attention higher still, even to the Great Exemplar whom he followed at so great a distance. Attempt to compare any human standard, however exalted to this, and it wanes until it ceases to be seen before the dazzling purity of the Sun of Righteousness! Man, although he was originally made pure, has fallen very low in the scale of moral being, on account of sin. And notwithstanding he may by nature be endowed with many amiable qualities and many excellencies of character, the atmosphere of this sinful world is not favorable to their proper development, so that the virtuous and happy youth, gifted as he may be with intellectual capacity, and having ever so large a share of moral courage, may yet not be able to resist evil; and at last may become a bad, and, consequently, a discontented man. And it is certain, that, although he may live above reproach before his fellows, and achieve wonders in his career through life, he can never be noted for true moral excellence without Christianity. And now, my dear, very dear children, I am done. But I linger in saying, farewell! Oh, that you all, �children, and children�s children, even to the third and fourth generation,� may be enabled to give your hearts away, in early life, to that blessed Saviour, who alone is able to fit you for living and for dying, who alone can effectually soothe your sorrows, sweeten every earthly enjoyment, and impart to you, in the midst of the cares, trials, and dangers of life, that calm confidence so beautifully expressed by David, �The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.� That you may be guided by the precepts of God�s Holy Word, which is so faithfully taught you from week to week by your own sweet mother, my precious grandchildren, and that the dews of Divine Grace may distil from heaven upon you, making you true men and women, that you may live the life of the righteous, and at last be found among those who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, is, and ever will be, the sincere and earnest prayer of, YOUR LOVING GRANDMA, C. T. CHARLESS. Belmont, December 24, 1862. Letter from Rev. S. B. McPheeters, D.D. Shelby Co., Kentucky, Sept. 5, 1865. TO THE GRANDCHILDREN OF MR. JOSEPH CHARLESS. My Dear Young Friends: Your Grandmother has told me of the letters she has addressed to you, concerning the life of your Grandfather Charless, giving many incidents and recollections of him, which I doubt not will be of the greatest interest to you, and to those who will come after you; at her request, I will also add a letter on the same subject. Before doing so, however, I wish to say, that as you are all, at the time I am writing, quite young, and as you will not probably read this until some years are passed, I shall not address you as small children, but anticipating a little, I will have you in my mind, and address you, as you will be a few years hence. I wish very much that I could give you the picture of your Grandfather, as he was, and as he lives in my memory. And when I first undertook the pleasant task, so distinct was his whole character upon my memory, and so dear was the recollection of Mr. Charless to my heart, that I thought it would be easy to transfer to paper the image that was in my mind. But I have not found it so. I have once and again failed to satisfy myself in efforts I made to draw his moral and social portrait, nor do I know that I will succeed better now. But you may ask what is the difficulty? I will reply by an illustration from nature. When one is familiar with a landscape that is marked by bold mountains, prominent headlands, or rushing torrents, it is not difficult to describe such scenery so that it is at once recognized. Very different, however, it is when one attempts to tell in detail, what it is that makes a rich valley, in a bright spring morning, such an object of beauty and delight to the soul. There are a thousand objects too minute for detailed description, which, blended, charm the eye and please the fancy, and make us exclaim, How beautiful! The verdant grass, and modest flower, and budding tree, and singing bird, and genial sun, and balmy air, and light, and shade, all combine to make a scene, which he who sees it feels, but cannot easily reproduce in the mind of another. So it is with Mr. Charless. That which gave him his peculiar charm was not one or two striking characteristics which distinguished him from other men, but it was a beautiful combination of many noble and lovely traits, in proportions so just, and in harmony so pleasing, that when I have attempted to select this and that characteristic for description, I feel that I have succeeded about as well, as if I had collected a bouquet from the valley of which I just spoke, and should give it to a friend as a picture of the landscape itself. The truth is, my young friends, you will never truly know your Grandfather unless you are so happy as to meet him in heaven. And yet this is no reason that you should not desire to know something of him, and form some true idea of his character. And it is with the hope that I may add to your pleasure that I shall try and give you some account of him from my own personal knowledge and intercourse with him. My relations to Mr. Charless were intimate for about eight years, I being, during that time, the Pastor of the Church in which he was a Ruling Elder. This official connection necessarily brought me in frequent intercourse with him, and as it was hardly possible to know such a man at all, without wishing to know him better, our intercourse soon ripened into friendship, which continued while he lived. How well do I remember the first time I saw Mr. Charless, and the impression he made upon me. I had just come to St. Louis, from Virginia, to visit Westminster Church, with a view of settlement as its Pastor, if we should be mutually pleased. Being comparatively young and inexperienced, I felt much diffidence in undertaking the charge of a Church in a large city. It would have taken little to have discouraged me and made me abandon the thought; when I saw St. Louis, I felt so unfit to labor in such a place, that I was more than half regretting that I had listened to the invitation. As soon as he learned that I had arrived he called to see me. And there was something so cordial and winning in his manner, he was so frank and kind, that I at once felt that I could give him my confidence, and that with such men I would love to live and labor. It was Mr. Charless, more than all others in St. Louis, that induced me to make it my home. It would be easy for me to fill sheets with my recollections of personal kindnesses shown me. I never went to him discouraged or dispirited that he did not impart some of the cheerful hope, which was so characteristic of his own mind. I never sought his advice when perplexed, or in doubt, that he did not, by his wise counsel, throw light on the matters presented. But I will not dwell on these things, yet I can never forget them. I have had other friends who were very dear to me, but never such a friend as Mr. Charless; and what he was to me in our peculiar relations, such he was also to many, many others, in the various relations of life. But while so true and valuable a friend, I do not think I ever knew a man who made fewer declarations or professions of friendship. You will get a very good idea of your grandfather�s personal appearance from the excellent portraits of him in the family. He was slightly above the average height, well developed, without being corpulent, had a firm elastic step, and motions indicating vigor and health. His eye was bright, but mild, his features regular and unusually handsome, and his countenance was habitually lighted up by an intelligence and benignity which gave it a peculiar charm, and inspired even strangers with a confidence that such a face could not belong to any but a good and upright man. Mr. Charless was an exceedingly pleasant companion, and, without being either brilliant or witty in conversation, his society was courted and his arrival was always hailed with pleasure by the company in which he mingled, for he brought with him a bright face, a cheerful heart, a genial humor and hearty cordiality that seemed to diffuse itself through all around-�children, young people and old people seemed alike to enjoy his society�-yet he never seemed to me to make an effort to �be agreeable,� he only acted out his natural feelings and disposition, and this was agreeable. I hesitate some in describing your grandfather as a very polished and polite man. I fear you might put a meaning to those words which would lead you into a wrong view of his character: there is a polish and politeness that is the result of art and painstaking-�a thing on the surface-�often a disguise, having its root in expediency, always self-conscious and often selfish-�something that may please us because it flatters us, but does not win us because we cannot trust it. Nothing could be more unlike Mr. Charless than this. Yet there is a polish which flows from a nice sense of what is fitting and proper to be done in social intercourse, from ease and self-possession, from a kind heart and desire to make others happy; a politeness that is made up of a thousand little acts of self-denial for the comfort of others; that does not obtrude itself upon your notice, but is felt in making you easy; that flows, not from rules, but from good principles and a generous nature, in this sense Mr. Charless was eminently a polished and polite man. I have seen him with persons in humble life, he made them easy and treated them with kindness. I have seen him with men of eminent positions and great reputation, he was at perfect ease himself and commanded their marked respect. Mr. Charless was not a learned man, and made no pretensions to learning, yet he was remarkably well informed; kept himself acquainted with the current literature of the day, and conversed with intelligence and good sense on all matters that came up in general society. On more than one occasion he surprised me, by showing an amount and accuracy of acquaintance with subjects which I had supposed lay out of the range of his investigation, and of which I should never have known that he had a knowledge had they not casually come up in conversation. I met him one day, and after some general conversation he gave me a book, remarking, �Here is a work to which a friend called my attention. I have read it with so much pleasure that I sent for a copy for you.� When I got home I was surprised to find it an elaborate and scientific treatise on the nature of the Church, a work which, I venture the assertion, not one layman in five hundred would have thought of reading, or would have finished if he had begun it. You will never hear any one who knew your grandfather speak of him without mentioning his great generosity, liberality and kindness to the poor, but no one will ever be able to tell you how much he did to alleviate the sorrows of the distressed, or to help the needy, for he did these things so quietly that none knew it but those received, and Him who sees our secret things; but in my visits to the poor I have seen the tears start in the eyes of widows and orphans at the mention of his name, which told better than words who was their friend and benefactor. Mr. Charless was one of the few men I have ever known who seemed to think, as much as they should, that the manner of bestowing a benefaction, while it adds nothing to the cost of what is given, adds immensely to the value of the thing given, in the estimation of those who receive it. A friend of mind, who was soliciting funds for a charitable purpose, said to me, as he returned from an interview with your grandfather, �It is a pleasure to ask a subscription from Mr. Charless. He gives as though you conferred a favor on him in affording him the opportunity of �giving.�� This was very characteristic. Mr. Charless was a modest and very unassuming man, and never pushed himself forward, yet he had a just estimate of his abilities, knew what he could do, and when called upon by circumstances, or by those with whom he acted, to take the lead, if the thing commended itself to his judgment, without ado or apology, he went forward and did it; and I have often been surprised to see how much he could accomplish and how well he did what he undertook. Besides his private business which was large, and complicated, one would think, enough for any man, he took a most active part in all the operations of the Church, in the various benevolent and educational schemes, in commercial and municipal enterprises, and still found time to attend to a multitude of little business matters for friends, who would avail themselves of his experience, and, I will add, (being one of the number myself), impose upon his kindness. But while always busy he never seemed in a hurry. The fact is, he had, in addition to great energy, a most uncommon amount of business talent. He was a thorough business man, and conducted all his affairs on strict business principles; a little circumstance will illustrate this: I was settling with him an account of a few dollars, in some matter which he had attended to for me. I handed him the money and there was a few cents in change, which neither he nor I could make. It was so insignificant that I said, �Never mind, Mr. Charless, that makes no difference.� He replied, promptly, �But it does make a difference; the account is not settled until that is paid,� and away he went to the other end of the store, stepped to his cashier, got the exact change, and handing it to me, said, with a smile, �You preachers are too often poor business men, and I want my Pastor to be not only a good preacher, but a good business man. The rule is, meet your engagements to the minute and pay your debts to the cent.� The whole thing made, as he designed it should, an impression on my mind, and has been of great advantage to me. I have often repeated the anecdote to other clergymen, and hope it has been an advantage to them. You will often hear from those who knew your grandfather speak of his great kindness, his habitual placidity of temper, and uncommon sweetness of disposition, and all this was eminently true of him; but if you are led by such accounts to think of him as in any degree what is called a yea-nay sort of character, or as destitute of spirit, or even incapable of passion, you will make a great mistake. He was not at all deficient in firmness, and had not only moral but physical courage in an eminent degree. As he never wantonly gave so he never tamely brooked an indignity. His eye could flash as well as laugh. I was one day conversing pleasantly with him in his private office in the Bank, of which he was President. A gentleman came in, evidently in a pet, and addressing Mr. Charless, spoke in a very harsh way, and with broad insinuations against one of the Bank Directors, in relation to some transaction. Before he had well finished his invective Mr. Charless rose to his feet, his eye kindling, every feature of his faced marked by sternness, and replied, �Sir, the gentleman of whom you speak is my personal friend. The charge you bring against him is not true; the facts were these (mentioning them concisely but clearly), and now, sir, you must retract what you have said.� The gentleman evidently taken aback, both Mr. Charless� statement of the case, and manner, immediately calmed down, made an explanation and withdrew. I could not resist a hearty laugh at the storm which had so suddenly burst upon us and had been as suddenly quelled, and turning to him said, �Mr. Charless, I had no idea you had so much pluck.� He joined the laugh and said, �My Irish will sometimes come up. Besides,� he added, more gravely, �that man took no pains to learn the facts of the case, and has a way of bullying that I wanted to put a stop to.� Few men had a keener relish for what was humorous or enjoyed a laugh better than Mr. Charless, and with little children he was playful and would sometimes even join in their sports, and if he did not join them he would look on and seemed to relish with great zest their pranks and joyous shouts and gambols. Perhaps some persons would not have mentioned such a trait of character, as it might seem to imply a want of dignity. I beg leave to differ from such. There is a dignity of manner and a dignity of character, not only quite separable, but often separated. I have known men who had great dignity of manner and very little dignity of character, and they are to me among the most irksome of mortals. Mr. Charless, while not deficient in dignity of manner, when occasion called for it, was truly dignified in character. The one he might drop for a little while, the other he never dropped. The children, with whom he might sport or familiarly talk, respected him just as much as if he had the manner of a Judge on the bench, and then they loved him far better; and there was to me in these occasional overflowings of a genial nature, this return of youthful feeling in mature manhood, this sympathy with children, something very beautiful. It showed how large his heart was, how little he been soured or soiled by contact with the world, how broad, and healthy and true a nature God had endowed him with. The very same large humanity that disposed him to enter into the sports of children led him also to help the widow, to befriend the friendless and soothe the sorrowing. I have said nothing yet about your grandfather�s religious character, and yet this was by far his greatest excellence. He was truly and sincerely pious. By which I mean he truly loved, trusted in, and obeyed Christ. But, although I am a preacher, I do not intend to write you a sermon, and I hope you will not take it as so intended, in what I am about to say to you of the religious character of Mr. Charless. I esteem it by far your greatest loss, in his death before you were old enough to understand him, that you are deprived of the means of learning something about true religion as it was exemplified in him. Most young people, if not pious themselves, have an idea that religion is in its nature gloomy, or at least that it would interfere with the happiness and vivacity of youth. I know this, for I once thought and felt so myself. And it is just to correct this that I so much regret that you did not know your grandfather Charless; you could not have known him without knowing that he was truly pious, nor could you have helped seeing that he was a happy man, and that his religion, yes, his religion, so far from interfering with, promoted his happiness. You may meet with other examples, but you will rarely find one so striking as his. And I hold, as a matter of fairness, that religion should be judged by just such examples. I know that there are truly pious persons who are not attractive, who are melancholy, or who are sometimes even repulsive in their characters. Do you ask, Why not judge the effect of religion from these as well as from better and more pleasing cases? My reply is: What you see and judge may not be religion at all. In the repulsive it may be only the coarse, rough natural character; with the melancholy it may be dyspepsia. You do not form your estimate of what the glorious light of the sun does in gladdening and beautifying the earth, by its vain struggles with mists and fogs; it may fail to make a potato patch sublime or grand, and yet be in itself both sublime and grand. No, you judge of it by objects in themselves calculated to reflect its excellence, by the life and joy it diffuses on all animated nature, and especially by the exquisite beauty it imparts to some lovely valley, or to grand old mountains whose snow summits it drenches in light until they glitter and radiate like the gates of heaven. So, precisely, in fairness, you should judge religion. Hence I insist that men like Mr. Charless are examples by which religion should be judged. Nature did much for him, made him generous and kind, gave him a large heart and noble impulses. Grace elevated, strengthened, purified all these natural qualities, and brought him in harmony and fellowship with God; set before him, as an object of love, confidence, and imitation, the blessed Saviour; gave him a hope which earthly losses could not dim, and a peace which they only know who have felt it. Why should it not have added to his happiness? Had he lived he would have told you himself that what real happiness he had in this life came more from his religion than all other sources. My young friends if you still stand in doubt on this point I can only say make the experiment yourselves, and if you find what I have said not true, judge me a false witness. There is a special promise made by Christ, to those who enter their closet and shut the door and pray to their Father which is in secret. How often Mr. Charless brought those words to my mind; and as I used to see him coming from home, with such a cheerful, happy face, as I saw how good men and wicked men respected and honored him, I have said to myself over and often: His Father who seeth in secret is rewarding him openly. In truth this passage was so associated with Mr. Charless in my mind, that I do not know that I have read these words for a number of years before his death and since without thinking of him as a striking illustration of its truth and beauty. I need not, in concluding, say much to you of the circumstances that snatched from his family, from you, from the Church and the community, such a man. The record of the whole event you will see in the journals, secular and religious, which your Grandmother has so thoughtfully preserved for you. I remember nothing that occurred in St. Louis, during the fourteen years that I resided there, which produced a more profound impression on the public mind, or so stirred its hot indignation, as the death of Mr. Charless by the hand of the assassin who slew him. Nothing, I believe, but the urgent request of Mr. Charless, from his bed of death, prevented the community from avenging themselves without the forms of law for the dark crime committed. And when, at the request of Mr. Charless, the community spared the life of the felon, there was all the sterner purpose that Justice should be meted out to his crime by the hand of law. And no jury could have been found in the city, who, if they had been so disposed, would have ventured to acquit him on false or frivolous pretexts, such as secured the acquittal of many a culprit. No one felt that the death of the poor wretch who did the deed was any atonement for what he had done, any more than a household can feel that the death of the viper is any atonement for the life of a favorite son it has slain. The viper is crushed and forgotten, the child is remembered, honored and cherished-�so it was in this case. The execution of the murderer created no excitement; all that men appeared to desire with regard to him was to know that he was executed, and he was dismissed with loathing and detestation from all minds. I think it exceedingly probably that there are multitudes in St. Louis who could not, without an effort recall the name of Thornton-�I do not now myself remember his given name,--but there is not a little boy or girl, there is not a citizen, living there at that time, who does not remember JOSEPH CHARLESS. And I have been struck with the fact that a number of persons who have been at my house in this State, and have asked me, as they looked at your Grandfather�s miniature that hangs on my walls-�Who is this? When I have told them, all remembered what they had heard, or seen in the papers, of his virtuous life and tragic death; but not one ever asked me the name of his assassin. So true to nature and the orderings of Providence is the proverb of Solomon: �The memory of the just is blessed: but the name of the wicked shall rot.� And now, my dear young friends, let me say to each of you, if you would be virtuous, or happy, or useful, if you would be loved and deserve to be loved, honored and deserve honor, be like JOSEPH CHARLESS. And to this end may the rich blessing of God rest on each of you. Your Friend SAM�L B. McPHEETERS. 
1318	----	THE TWIN HELLS A Thrilling Narrative of Life in the Kansas and Missouri Penitentiaries By John N. Reynolds ATCHISON, KANSAS. TO MY DEAR OLD MOTHER AND TO THE MEMORY OF MY SAINTED WIFE THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. PREFACE The following pages treat of hell--A Kansas hell and a Missouri hell. Those who desire to peruse works that tell about Heaven only, are urged to drop this book and run. I was an inmate of the Kansas penitentiary for sixteen months, and make mention of what came under my own observation in connection with what I experienced. While an inmate of this prison I occupied cells at various times with convicts who had served terms in the Missouri prison. From these persons I gathered much useful material for my book. After my release I visited the Missouri penitentiary, and verified the statements of those criminals, and gathered additional material from the prison records and the officials. I have written chiefly for the youth of the country, but all ages will be deeply interested in the following pages. A large majority of the convicts are young men from sixteen to twenty-five years of age. They had no idea of the terrible sufferings of a convict life, or they surely would have resisted temptation and kept out of crime. The following pages will impart to the reader some idea of what he may expect to endure in case he becomes entangled in the meshes of the law, and is compelled to do service for the State without any remuneration. Every penitentiary is a veritable hell. Deprive a person of his liberty, punish and maltreat him, and you fill his life with misery akin to those who wander in the darkness of "eternal night," I think, when the reader has perused the following pages, he will agree with me, that the book has the proper title. That this volume may prove an "eye-opener" to the boys who may read it, and prove interesting and instructive to those of mature years, is the earnest wish of the author. A KANSAS HELL CHAPTER I. MY INITIATION AND CRIME Guilty! This word, so replete with sadness and sorrow, fell on my ear on that blackest of all black Fridays, October 14, 1887. Penitentiary lightning struck me in the city of Leavenworth, Kansas. I was tried in the United States District Court; hence, a United States prisoner. The offense for which I was tried and convicted was that of using the mails for fraudulent purposes. My sentence was eighteen months in the penitentiary, and a fine of two hundred dollars. I served sixteen months, at the end of which time I was given my liberty. During the period I was in prison I dug coal six months in the penitentiary coal mines, and was one of the clerks of the institution the remainder of the term. Getting permission to have writing material in my cell, I first mastered short-hand writing, or phonography, and then wrote my book: "A Kansas Hell; or, Life in the Kansas Penitentiary." My manuscript being in short-hand, none of the prison officials were able to read it, and did not know what I was doing until I obtained my liberty and had my book published. This, no doubt, will be the proper place to give some of my antecedents, as well as a few of the details of the crime for which I was sent to the penitentiary. I spent my youth and early manhood at Indianola, Iowa, from which place I removed to Nebraska. After residing for some time in Columbus, of that State, I was appointed by the governor to assist in organizing the Pawnee Indian Reservation into a county. When organized it was called Nance County, being named for Hon. Albinus Nance, then governor of the State. I held the position of county clerk of that county for four consecutive years. During this time I organized the Citizens' Bank. I was its cashier at first, and, later on, its president. I had a lucrative business and was doing well. My wife's health failed her; she became consumptive. My family physician advised a removal to the South. I closed out my business at a great sacrifice, and came to Atchison, Kansas. Here I located, and made it my future home. Soon after my arrival I commenced the publication of a daily newspaper, known as the "Times." In the county in which I located I found one of the worst and most corrupt political rings on the face of the earth. This combination had controlled the politics of the county for almost a quarter of a century. Soon I became involved in a terrific newspaper war with the members of this political organization. An election of county and State officials was soon to take place. In order to test the strength of the contending elements, in my newspaper, I presented the name of Hon. W. D. Gilbert as a candidate for district judge in opposition to the ring candidate. A sharp fight ensued. Mr. Gilbert was elected by an overwhelming majority. This was the first time for twenty-five years that this ring had been defeated. The members of it were very sore. Looking upon me as the principal spirit, I was the object toward which they directed all their shafts of spite. Some time before this an insurance company had been organized in the city of Atchison. I was invited to become its president. I examined the books of the corporation, and found it to be organized according to the laws of Kansas; that the company had a charter from the State, and also certified authority to issue policies of insurance, granted by the State insurance commissioner. I accepted the presidency on condition that the company was simply to have the use of my name, and that I was not expected to give any of my time to the company, as I was otherwise engaged. I was editor of a daily newspaper, and could not attend to anything else. While this company was doing business a printed circular was used, stating that the corporation had one hundred thousand dollars PAID up capital. This circular was sent out through the mails over the State advertising the business. It was charged this circular was fraudulent; that the company did not have that amount of capital paid in. My name was attached to this printed circular. For this, I was indicted in the United States District Court, on the charge of using the mails for fraudulent purposes. The advertised capital of this corporation was SUBSCRIBED, but not all paid in, as it was not needed in the business of the company. After indictment I was arrested, and gave bonds for my appearance at the next term of court, which was held soon after. Not being able to secure the attendance of all my witnesses, my attorney wrote the prosecuting attorney asking his consent that my case be continued. The request was granted. When the case was called, my attorney appeared and introduced a motion to continue the case, filing affidavits necessary in such cases. The prosecuting attorney having given his consent, there was no doubt in the minds of those interested as to the continuance of the case. For some cause best known to himself, the judge would not grant the continuance, and forced me to trial without having a single witness. It was my intention to have some fifty witnesses subpoenaed, to prove that the insurance company of which I was president was not a fraud. Not being allowed to have my witnesses, I was, under the instructions of the court, which were, indeed, exceedingly pointed, found guilty, and sentenced to eighteen months' imprisonment and to pay a fine of two hundred dollars. The political ring now triumphed for a brief period. In order to prove conclusively to the reader that this was a piece of spite work, I have only to state that I was the only one of all the officers of that company that was ever tried for running a bogus insurance company. Why was it that I was the only one sent to the penitentiary when there was the secretary, treasurer, and six directors equally as guilty as myself? To prove more conclusively that it was political spite work that sent me to prison, let me inform the readers that about the time the insurance company at Atchison was organized, a similar one was organized in Topeka. They were similar in EVERY RESPECT. I was president of the one at Atchison, while a distinguished gentleman by the name of Gen. J. C. Caldwell was president of the one at Topeka. Both of these companies failed. The president of the Atchison company was sent to the penitentiary, while the president of the Topeka company was appointed by the governor of the State to the responsible position of chairman of the State Board of Pardons. Many persons have asked why this difference in the treatment of the presidents of these two companies. The only answer that can be given is that General Caldwell stood in with the Kansas political ring, while I did not. Every sensible man must admit that if it was just for me to serve a term in prison for the offense charged against me, General Caldwell should have been prescribed for in the same manner. I have no fight to make upon Mr. Caldwell. He is an excellent gentlemen. He was in luck. The fates were against me. Had I been a State instead of a United States prisoner, no doubt Mr. Caldwell, as chairman of the Board of Pardons, would have used his influence to secure for me my liberty. That I was sent to prison is wholly due to politics. It is unnecessary, therefore, for me to inform the reader that I am now "out of politics." Having served out my term I returned to my home in Atchison. As to the ring that sent me to prison, some of them are dead, others have left Atchison to make their homes in other places, others have failed financially, and still others have fallen so low that they have scarcely friends enough to bury them should they happen to die. The big wheel of life keeps on revolving. Those who are up to-day may be down to-morrow, and vice versa. But to continue my narrative. Immediately after my conviction and sentence I was taken to the Leavenworth County jail. Here I remained until the following Tuesday in the company of a dozen or more prisoners who were awaiting trial. On Sunday, while in this jail, my wife, who died during my imprisonment of a broken heart, and an account of which is given in a subsequent chapter, came to see me. I can never forget this visit. She remained with me during the entire day. During the conversation of the day I said to her that, it seemed that the future appeared very gloomy. That it would be a miracle if I ever was able to survive the disgrace that had been so cruelly placed upon me. That all ambition and hope as to the future had fled, and that I could not blame her if she should now free herself by means of divorce, as my conviction of crime was a legal ground for divorce in Kansas. In reply to this, the noble little woman, her face aglow with the radiance of womanly devotion, said, that for twenty years of married life our home had been one of sunshine; that I had been kind to her and made her life one of happiness, and that now, when misfortune came, it was not only a duty, but the highest pleasure, to prove her fidelity. She kept her word. She was true to the last. When dying, her last words were a petition for the blessings of God upon her husband who was far away behind frowning prison walls. On Tuesday morning a deputy United States marshal came to the jail and gave me notice that in a few moments we would leave for the penitentiary. This officer was a gentleman, and did not seek to further humiliate me by placing irons on my person. I have often thought of this act of kindness on the part of this humane official. We took the train at Leavenworth, and in a very few moments were at my future place of residence. Lansing, the small village where the penitentiary is located, is about five miles from the city of Leavenworth. The entrance to the prison is from the west. Under the watchful care of the officer who had me in charge, I passed under a stone archway, to the left of which was a small office, where a guard was on duty during the day time. We were halted by this officer, who inquired if we had any firearms. No one visiting the penitentiary is allowed to carry fire-arms within the enclosure. The marshal who had me in custody handed over a large navy revolver. Between this archway and the western wall of the prison is a beautiful lawn. The walks are lined with fragrant flowers; beautiful fountains send aloft their silvery sprays. Passing up the roadway leading to the entrance door, and looking about me upon the rich carpet of green, the flowers and fountains, I came to the conclusion that the penitentiary was not so bad a place as I had imagined. I changed my mind, however, as soon as I had seen inside the walls. The prison enclosure contains about ten acres of ground. This is surrounded by a stone wall some fifteen feet high, and six feet thick at the base. It is not more than four feet at the top. At each of the four corners may be found a tower rising some ten feet above the wall. A guard is on duty in each of these towers during the day. He carries a double-barreled shotgun loaded with buckshot. In case a prisoner tries to escape he is liable to get a dose of lead, provided the officer on duty is a good marksman. The western wall is almost entirely made of a large stone building with its two long wings. The main building is four stories. The wings stretching to the north and south, each two hundred and fifty feet, contain the cells. On the first floor of the main building are the offices of the warden, clerk, deputy warden and turnkey. The upper rooms are used by the warden's family. I was first conducted into the clerk's office and introduced to Mr. Jones, the clerk. He is a very pleasant gentleman, and spoke kindly to me, which I can assure all was very acceptable, for just about that time I was feeling very badly. His remark was: "I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Reynolds, but sorry to meet you under these sad circumstances." On his invitation I took a chair and sat down to await the next part of the progamme. As I sat there and thought of the kind words spoken to me by the clerk, I quickly reached the conclusion that if all the officers of that institution were as kind as Mr. Jones, it would not be as bad a place as I had anticipated. I had no experience then that would justify any other conclusion. Soon a side door of the office opened and in came the deputy warden, Mr. John Higgins. Mr. H. is the sourest appearing man I ever met in my life. At least, it seemed so to me on that day. He can get more vinegar on the outside of his face than any other person in the State of Kansas. He did not wait to be introduced to me. He never craves an introduction to a criminal. As soon as he came into the room he got a pole with which to measure me. Then, looking at me, in a harsh, gruff voice he called out: "Stand up here." At first I did not arise. At the second invitation, however, I stood up and was measured. My description was taken by the clerk. In this office there is to be found a description of all the criminals that ever entered the Kansas penitentiary. I was asked if I was a married man, how many children I had, and how much property I possessed. These questions were easily answered. After the deputy warden had discharged his duty he retired. I soon discovered that it was according to the rules of the prison for the officers to talk in a harsh and abrupt manner to the prisoners. This accounted for the way in which I was greeted by the deputy warden, who is the disciplinarian of the prison. I may say, in passing, that all the harsh manners of Mr. Higgins are simply borrowed for the occasion. Away from the presence of prisoners, over whom he is to exert his influence, there is not to be found a more pleasant and agreeable gentleman. In came a second official, and, in the same gruff manner, said to me, "Come along." I followed him out to the wash-house, where I took a bath. A prisoner took my measure for a suit of clothes. After he had passed the tape-line around me several times, he informed the officer that I was the same size of John Robinson, who had been released from the penitentiary the day before. "Shall I give him John Robinson's clothes?" asked the convict. In the same gruff manner the officer said, "Yes, bring on Robinson's old clothes." So I was furnished with a second-hand suit! The shoes were second-hand. I am positive about this last statement, judging by the aroma. After I had been in the penitentiary some four months, I learned that John Robinson, whose clothes I had secured, was a colored man. Being arrayed in this suit of stripes I was certainly "a thing of beauty." The coat was a short blouse and striped; the stripes, white and black, alternated with each other, and passed around the body in a horizontal way. The pantaloons were striped; the shirt was striped; the cap was striped. In fine, it seemed that everything about that penitentiary was striped--even to the cats! Being dressed, I was next handed an article that proved, on examination, to be intended for a handkerchief. It was covered with large blue letters--"Leavenworth Mills. XXX Flour," etc. It was a quarter section of a flour sack! Nine hundred prisoners very soon empty a great many flour sacks. After the flour has been consumed the sack is cut up into quarter sections, washed, hemmed and used for handkerchiefs. No better handkerchief can be invented. They are stout, stiff and durable! They will bear all manner of nasal assaults! There is no danger of blowing them into atoms, and the officials are not afraid to give them out to convicts sent there charged with the use of dynamite! One of them has been known to last a prisoner for five years. After I had donned my suit and taken possession of my handkerchief, I was ordered to fold my arms. Prisoners marching in ranks, or going to and fro about the prison enclosure, are required to have their arms in this position. The object is to prevent them from passing articles. I was marched to the building known as the south wing of the cell house. In this building, which is two hundred and fifty feet long, there are cells for the accommodation of five hundred convicts. The prisoners who occupy this wing work in the shops located above ground, and within the prison enclosure. The officer in charge conducted me to cell number one. Click went the lock. The door was pulled open, and in his usual style, he said, "Get in." I stepped in. Slam went the door. Click went the lock, and I was in a felon's cell! These rooms are about four feet wide, seven feet long, and seven feet high. In many of the cells two men are confined. These rooms are entirely too small for the accommodation of two prisoners. A new cell house is being built, which, when completed, will afford sufficient additional room so that each prisoner can have a cell. In these small rooms there are two bunks or beds when two convicts occupy the same cell. The bed-rack is made of iron or wood slats, and the bed-tick is filled with corn-husks; the pillow is also filled with the latter material, and when packed down becomes as hard as a board. When the beds are not in use they are fastened to the side of the wall with a small chain. When down and in use they take up nearly the entire space of the cell, so that it is impossible for the two occupants to pass each other in walking to and fro. The other furniture consists of a small tin bucket, holding about two quarts of water, and a wash-basin. A short-handled broom is also found in one corner of the cell, with which the convict brushes it out every morning. The walls are of stone, decorated with a small looking-glass and a towel. Each cell contains one chair and a Holy Bible. There is no rich Brussels carpet on the floor, although prisoners are allowed one if they furnish it themselves. No costly upholstered furniture adorns these safe retreats! Nothing in that line is to be discovered except one cane-bottomed chair for the accommodation of two prisoners, so that when one sits on the chair the other stands, or occupies a seat on the stone floor. There is not room for two chairs, or the State would furnish another chair. These rooms are built of stone. The door is of one-half inch iron bars, crossing each other at right angles, leaving small spaces about two by six inches; through these spaces come the air, light and heat for the health and comfort of the inmates. When I entered my cell on that eventful morning I found it occupied by a prisoner. He was also a new arrival; he had preceded me about an hour. When I entered he arose and gave me his chair, taking a seat on the floor in the opposite corner. After I had been locked in, before going away the officer said, "Now I don't want you fellows to get to talking, for that is not permitted in this institution." We sat in silence, surveying each other; in a few moments my companion, seeing something in my personal appearance that caused him to lose his self control, laughed. That he might give full vent to his laughing propensities, and not make too much noise, he drew from his pocket his quarter section of a flour bag and put it into his mouth. He soon became as red in the face as a lobster. I was curious, of course, to know what it was that pleased him so much. Rising from my chair, going to the door and looking through the openings I could see no officer near, so I asked my companion, in a whisper, what it was that pleased him so. It was with difficulty and after several trials before he could succeed in telling me what it was that caused him to be so convulsed. I told him to take his time, cool off gradually, as I had eighteen months, and could wait patiently. At last, being able to control his feelings sufficiently to tell me, in the midst of his outbursts of laughter, he said, "You look just like one of them zebras in Barnum's Circus!" When my attention was called to the matter, sure enough, I did look rather striped, and I, amused at his suggestion, laughed also. Soon an officer came gliding around in front of the cell, when our laughing ceased. My companion was a young fellow from Doniphan County. He got drunk and tried to rob an associate, still drunker, of a twenty dollar gold piece. He was arrested, tried and convicted of robbery, receiving a sentence of one year. Directly an officer came, took him out of my cell and conducted him to another department. All alone, I sat in my little parlor for nearly an hour, thinking over the past. My reverie was at length broken by the turning of my door lock. A fresh arrival was told to "git in." This prisoner had the appearance of just having been lassoed on the wild western prairies. He resembled a cow-boy. His whiskers were long and sandy. His hair, of the same color, fell upon his shoulders. As soon as the officer had gone away and everything had become quiet, I asked this fellow his name. "Horserider," was his reply, from which I inferred that he was a horse-thief. "How long a term have you?" was my next question. "Seven years," was his reply. I comforted him by saying it would be some time before he rode another horse. The next part of the programme consisted in a little darkey coming in front of our cell with a rudely constructed barber's chair. The cell door opened, and an officer said to me, as if he would hit me with a club the next moment, "Git out of there." I went out. Pointing to the barber's chair, he said, "Squat yourself in that chair." I sat down. "Throw back your head." I laid it back. It was not long before my raven mustache was off, and my hair cut rather uncomfortably short for fly time. After this tonsorial artist had finished his work then came the command once more, "Git in." I got in. It now came Mr. Horserider's turn to bid a long farewell to his auburn locks. He took his place in the chair, and the little darkey, possibly for his own amusement, cut off the hair on one side of the head and left the other untouched. He then shaved one side of his face without disturbing the other. At this moment the bell for dinner rang, and the little colored fellow broke away and ran to his division, to fall in ranks, so that he would not miss his noon meal. Once more Mr. Horserider entered his cell and we were locked in. A more comical object I never beheld; he did not even possess the beauty of a baboon; he might certainly have passed for the eighth wonder of the world. When he came in I handed him the small looking-glass and asked him how he liked his hair-cut. Remember, one side of his head and face was shaved close, and the other covered with long sandy hair and beard. Looking into the glass, he exclaimed: "Holy Moses! and who am I, anyway?" I answered his question by stating that he favored Mr. What-Is-It. He was very uneasy for a time, thinking that he was going to be left in that condition. He wanted to know of me if all horse-thieves of the penitentiary wore their hair and whiskers in this style. I comforted him all I could by imparting the information that they did. He was much relieved when the darkey returned after dinner and finished the shaving. I was next taken out of my cell to pass a medical examination. Dr. Mooney, the gentlemanly officer in charge of the hospital, put in an appearance with a large book under his arm and sat down by a table. I was ushered into his presence. He began asking me questions, and wrote down my answers in his book, which proved to be the physician's register. "Have you any decayed teeth?" was his first question, "No, sir," was my reply. "Have you ever lost any teeth?" "No, sir." "Have you ever had the measles?" "Yes, sir." "Have you ever had the mumps?" "Yes, sir." "Have you ever had the chicken-pox?" "Yes, sir." "Have you ever had the thresh?" Well, I didn't know what was meant by the thresh. I knew that I had been "thrashed" a great many times, and inferred from that fact that I must have had the disease at some time or other in my youth, so I answered, "Yes, sir." "Have you ever had the itch?" "What kind?" said I. "The old fashioned seven year kind? Y-e-s, sir, I have had it." He then continued asking me questions, and wanted to know if I ever had a great many diseases, the names of which I had never heard before. Since I catch almost everything that comes along, I supposed, of course, that at some period during my childhood, youth or early manhood I had suffered from all those physical ills, so I always answered, "Yes, sir." He wound up by inquiring if I ever had a stroke of the horse glanders. I knew what was meant by that disease, and replied in the negative. He then looked at me over the top of his spectacles, and, in a rather doubting manner, said, "and you really have had all these diseases? By the way," he continued, "are you alive at the present moment after all that you have suffered?" Mr. Mooney is an Irishman. He was having a little cold-blooded sport at my expense. Whenever you meet an Irishman you will always strike a budget of fun. His next question was, "Are you a sound man?" My reply was to the effect that I was, physically, mentally and morally. So he wrote down in his book opposite my name "physically and mentally a sound man." He said he would take my word for being sound morally, but that he would not put that down on the books for the present, for fear there might be a mistake somewhere. Before discharging me, he calmly stated that I would make a good coal miner. All the prisoners undergo this medical cross-examination. After I had run the doctor's gauntlet, I was conducted from the south wing of the cell-house to the north wing. Here I met for the first time Mr. Elliott, who has charge of this building during the daytime. It is a part of this highly efficient officer's duty to cross-examine the prisoners as to where they have lived and what they have been doing. His examinations are very rigid. He is a bright man, a good judge of human nature, and can tell a criminal at sight. He would make an able criminal lawyer. He is the prison detective. By means of these examinations he often obtains clues that lead to the detection of the perpetrators of crime. I have been told by good authority that on account of information obtained by this official, two murderers were discovered in the Kansas penitentiary, and, after their terms had expired, they were immediately arrested, and, on requisition, taken back to the Eastern States, where the crimes had been committed, and there tried, convicted and punished according to the laws of those States. After I had been asked all manner of questions by this official, he very kindly informed me that I came to the penitentiary with a bad record. He further stated that I was looked upon as one of the worst criminals in the State of Kansas. This information was rather a set-back to me, as I had no idea that I was in possession of any such record as that. I begged of him to wait a little while before he made up his mind conclusively as to my character, for there might be such a thing as his being mistaken. There is no man that is rendering more effective service to the State of Kansas in the way of bringing criminals to justice than Mr. Elliott. He has been an officer of the prison for nearly nine years. As an honest officer he is above reproach. As a disciplinarian he has no superior in the West. After this examination I was shown to my cell. It was now about two o'clock in the afternoon of my first day in prison. I remained in the cell alone during the entire afternoon. Of all the dark hours of my eventful history, none have been filled with more gloom and sadness than those of my first day in prison. Note my antecedents--a college graduate, a county clerk, the president of a bank, and an editor of a daily newspaper. All my life I had moved in the highest circles of society, surrounded by the best and purest of both sexes, and now, here I was, in the deplorable condition of having been hurled from that high social position, down to the low degraded plane of a convict. As I sat there in that desolate abode of the disgraced, I tried to look out down the future. All was dark. For a time it seemed as if that sweet angel we call hope had spread her wings and taken her departure from me forever. The black cloud of despair seemed settling down upon me. But very few persons possess the ability to make any thing of themselves after having served a term in the penitentiary. Having once fallen to so low a plane it is almost impossible to rise again. Young man, as you peruse this book, think of these things. Once down as a felon it is a miracle if one ever regains what he has lost. I sat brooding over these things for an hour or more, when my manhood asserted itself. Hope returned. I reasoned thus: I am a young man. I enjoy good health. There will be only a few months of imprisonment and then I will be free. I thought of my loving wife, my little children, my aged mother, my kind friends, and for their sake I would not yield to despair. Soliciting the aid of a kind Heavenly Father, I resolved to do the best I could toward regaining what I had lost. My father was a minister of the gospel for fifty years prior to his death. He was not blessed with much of this world's goods. For this reason I began in very early life to aid myself. I spent seven years in college preparing for the struggles that awaited me. I earned every dollar of the money which paid my expenses while securing my education. I carried the hod to assist in building the college in which I afterward graduated. Few men can truthfully make this statement of themselves. While working my way through the institution where I received my education, I learned one useful lesson--self reliance. I learned to depend upon my own efforts for success. Every one must learn this useful lesson before he can become anything in life. After I had met with misfortune and found myself in a prison cell, I was glad that I had learned to rely upon my own efforts. The question: "What shall I do in the future?" now came to me. That afternoon I laid my plans which I would carry out out in the years to come. I was financially ruined in the great battle I carried on with the Atchison ring. I was aware of the fact that, when I got out of the penitentiary, all the money that I would have with which to make another start in life would be five dollars. The United States presents her prisoners, when discharged, with a suit of citizen's clothes and five dollars. This was my capital. What could I do with five dollars, in the way of assisting me in getting another financial foot-hold in life? After my release it was necessary for me to do something at once to get money. It never entered my mind to borrow. It will be interesting to the reader to know what I did, after my prison days were past, to make a "quick raise." Sixteen months of imprisonment slipped away. I regained my liberty on Monday. I received my five dollars and immediately started for my home, in Atchison. On my arrival, Monday night, I had four dollars and ten cents. On Tuesday morning I went to the proprietor of the Opera House, in Atchison, and inquired how much money was necessary to secure the use of the building for the next evening. "Fifty dollars," was his reply. I gave him all the money I had, and persuaded him to trust me for the rest. I informed him that I was going to deliver a lecture on my prison life. He asked if I thought anybody would come to hear a convict talk. In answer, I told him that was the most important question that was agitating my mind at the present moment, and if he would let me have the use of the Opera House we would soon settle that question. I further told him that if the receipts of the evening were not enough to pay him for the use of the house, that I would pay him as soon as possible. He let me have the use of the house. I advertised in the daily papers of the city that I would lecture in the Opera House the following evening on my prison life,--admission fifty cents. I thought if the good people wanted to come at all they would come even if they had to pay well for it. I was very restless from the morning that I engaged the Opera House until the next evening, at which time I was to speak. I did not know whether I would have any audience. If not, I was fifty dollars deeper in debt. The evening for the lecture came, I went to the Opera House prepared to interest anyone that might put in an appearance; I entered the building in the rear, and took my position on the platform. The signal was given and up went the curtain. I was highly pleased when I saw my audience. The building was packed. The lecture was a financial success. In this manner I secured a nice "stake" for future use. I delivered that lecture for several weeks in Kansas, and made a thousand dollars above expenses. To return to my first afternoon in the cell. I thought of another scheme. I conceived the idea that a book about, a penitentiary, giving its history, and also the history of many of the leading criminals, modes of punishment, escapes, etc., would be very interesting, and would sell. I decided to write such a book while in prison. In order to write a book it became necessary to have writing material. How was I to secure this? It was against the prison regulations for a prisoner to have a lead-pencil or scrap of paper. The officials were very strict on this point. It was essential they should be. If the prisoners could pass notes, it would not be long before a prison insurrection would be the result. The plan that I adopted to secure writing material was rather unique, and perhaps the reader will like to know how I managed this difficult matter. It is wonderful what a man can accomplish, with adverse surroundings, if he wills it. As I have stated before, I had much to do in securing the election of Hon. W. D. Gilbert to the district judgeship. This made him feel very kind toward me. He came often to visit me at the prison. One day while visiting me, I asked him to use his influence with the warden to secure for me the privilege of having writing material in my cell. "What do you want with writing material," said he. The answer I gave was, that I might pass away my leisure hours in learning to write short-hand. He called on Warden Smith, and got his consent. He told the warden that if I would master this useful art while in prison, on my release, he would appoint me his district court reporter, at a salary Of $2,500 a year. The scheme was a success. I sent and got my short-hand books and writing material. I mastered short-hand, and can now write as fast as one would care to dictate. It was not long before I began writing my book in short-hand. The officials, as was their custom, would examine my cell daily to see if anything had crept in that did not belong there. They could not read short-hand. They did not know what so many little straight marks and curves indicated. I persevered, and one month before my time expired I had my book completed, and sent it out by a friend who visited the prison, who kept it for me until I secured my liberty. As before stated, I lectured until I got money sufficient, and then I published my first book on prisons, giving it the impressive title of "A Kansas Hell." This book sold rapidly, and soon the first edition was disposed of. I made enough money out of this book to place me on my feet, financially. But, to return to my cell the first afternoon. I remained alone until time for the prisoners to come in from their work, when I found that I was to have a "life man" for my cell-mate, whose name was Woodward R. Lopeman. I have given his history in a subsequent chapter. I remained in my cell during the evening, until the prison bell rang for retiring. Strange to say, after going to bed, I soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the prison bell rang on the following morning. When I did awake, it was to find myself, not in my own pleasant little home in the city of Atchison, Kansas, but in a felon's cell. I arose and dressed, and then waited and wondered what would be the next thing on the programme. CHAPTER II. THE COAL MINES I was next taken to the coal mines. These mines are located just outside of the prison enclosure, and are surrounded by high stone walls and stone buildings, which, by their location, take the place of walls. The coal yards are separated from the prison campus by a partition wall, which constitutes the south wall of the coal department and the north wall of the prison. Passing from one of these departments to the other, through a large gateway, the gate being kept by a convict, an old man who murdered his son, and who has a life sentence. Reader, how would you like to spend your entire life, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, in the monotonous employment of opening and closing a large gate? When my escort and myself reached the mines, I was placed in charge of Mr. Dodds, the official in control of the mines at the surface. Mr. Dodds is a very competent officer, and has been on duty at that place more than twenty years. From this officer I received a mining cap. This piece of head-wear was turban-shaped, striped, of course, with a leather frontlet, on which was fastened the mining lamp. This lamp, in shape, resembled an ordinary tea-pot, only it was much smaller. In place of the handle was a hook, which fastened to the leather frontlet. The bowl of the lamp contained the oil; a wick passes up through the spout, at the end of which is the light. The miner carrying his lamp in this position has it out of his way. With the cap on my head and lamp lighted, I stood on the verge of a ten by twelve hole in the earth, that was almost eight hundred feet deep. We think that a well one hundred feet deep is quite a distance down into the ground, but here was a hole eight times deeper. In the mining vernacular this hole is termed a shaft--the term that will be employed in speaking of it hereafter. There are two of these shafts, about one hundred yards apart. Each shaft is divided by a wooden partition which descends from the top to the bottom. Two elevators, or cages, as they are called, ascend and descend along the shaft. While one cage is coming up the other is going down. They derive their motor power from two large engines, one for each shaft. The officer in charge inquired, before making my descent into the mines, if I ever fainted. "Never," was my reply. Persons sometimes faint in going down this shaft. "Step into the cage," was the order given. I obeyed, and, reaching up, took hold of some iron bars that went across the top. The signal was given, down I started. After I had descended a few feet a current of air coming up from below put out my light, which left me in the darkness of an Egyptian night. Down, down, down I went. There are a great many things in life that I have forgotten. There are a great many more that I expect to forget, but that first ride down the coal shaft I never can forget. Thug! I had struck bottom. It is said that when one starts down hill in this world he keeps on going until he strikes bottom. My readers will certainly agree with me that reaching a resting place eight hundred feet under the surface I had found the lowest round of the ladder. Whatever I may be in the future, to whatever heights I may ascend, I shall not forget that my starting point was nearly a thousand feet under the Kansas penitentiary. Water seeks its level. You may force one below the surface, and to whatever depth you please, to the extent of your power, but if he does not belong there, you cannot keep him down: in the course of time he will rise. It was six long, dreary months before I was able to reach the first round in the ladder. Through that period I lay in the penitentiary mines, or at the bottom of "The Kansas Hell." It is said the old fashioned Hell has fire and brimstone; while the "Kansas Hell" has no fire, one thing is certain, it has plenty of material out of which to make it, and an abundant supply of sulphur. At the end of my descent I found an officer there on duty. He told me to step off and occupy a seat on a small bench near by. He desired to impart some information. He advised me that while I was there, a convict, it would not be proper to assume the warden's privileges or endeavor to discharge his duties. In other words, the best thing to do was to keep my place, revolve about in my own orbit, carefully regarding all laws, both centripetal and centrifugal; otherwise, I might burst by the natural pressure of too highly confined interior forces! I confess that, though not subject to such infliction, I very nearly fainted over these ponderous polysyllables! He also informed me that the beautifully paved highway to popularity in the coal mines was to excavate large quantities of the carboniferous substance contained in the subterranean passages of the mine; the more coal I got out the more popular would I be! After his lecture was over the officer gave a low whistle, and out from a dark recess there emerged a convict in his stripes. His face and hands were covered with coal dust. He came out grinning, showing his white teeth. As I caught sight of him I thought, surely, this is a fiend from the lower regions. Take one of those prisoners with his striped clothes, a light burning on his head, his face black and shining like ebony, behold him in the weird darkness of the mines, and if he does not call to your mind the picture of one of the imps of Eternal Night there is nothing in this world that will. This prisoner was the runner or messenger for this officer at the foot of the shaft. Each officer in the penitentiary who has charge of a division of men has a messenger to run errands for him. When this messenger came up to the officer he made his obeisance. Convicts are taught to observe good manners in the presence of the officials. He was told to take me to another officer in a distant part of the mines, a Mr. Johns, who would give me work. From the foot of the shaft there go out in almost all directions, roadways or "entries." These underground roadways are about six feet in width and height. I could walk erect in most of them. Along these entries was a car track, over which the small coal cars pass to and from the rooms where the coal is taken out, to the shaft, and hoisted to the top with their load of coal. Some of these entries extend more than a mile out into the earth from the base of the shaft. As my fellow-prisoner and I were passing along one of these roadways to the place where I was to work, he asked me my name and the nature of my offense. At this place let me inform, the reader that the prisoners are given permission to converse with each other in the mines. Their instructions are to the effect that they are not to talk about anything but their work, but in the penitentiary the same rule holds good as on the outside: "Give a man an inch and he will take a yard." So, when permission is given to the convict to talk about his work, he talks about everything else. In answer to my escort's question as to the length of my sentence, I informed him that I had eighteen months. He dryly remarked that was nothing, and if the judge who sent me up could not give me a longer term than that, he should have sent me home to my family. He also remarked that he was afraid I would get into trouble in the mines on account of my short sentence. There were a great many long-term fellows down there, who were envious of short-term men, and were likely to put up jobs on them by reporting their mistakes and violations of regulations to the officer in charge, and thus get them punished. I informed my guide that I thought I would get along some way with the prisoners, and keep out of trouble. I then inquired of him as to the length of his sentence. "Twenty-five stretches," was his reply. I did not know what he meant by the term "stretches" and asked for information. "That is the prison term for years, a stretch meaning a year," was his reply. I learned that my companion, having twenty-five stretches, was carrying about with him a twenty-five years' sentence. A quarter of a century in prison! This was a young man. He had been in the prison for three years. When he entered this living tomb he had the bloom of youth upon his cheek. When he goes out, at the end of his term, if he lives so long, he will be an old, broken down man. He will not be likely to live that long. The average life of a convict is but fourteen years under the most favorable surroundings, but in the coal mines it cannot exceed five years at most. Let me tell you of this man's crime, and then you can determine for yourself how easy it is to get in the penitentiary. This young fellow is the son of one of the most respectable farmers in the State. He attended a dance one night in company with some of the neighbor boys at a village near by. While there, he got under the influence of strong drink, became involved in a quarrel over one of the numbers with the floor managers, and in the fight that ensued he drew his knife and disemboweled the man with whom he was fighting. In a few moments the wounded man died. The young fellow was tried, convicted of murder, and sent to the penitentiary for twenty-five years at hard labor. It is awful to contemplate. Young man, as you read this, had you not better make up your mind to go rather slow in pouring whisky down your throat in future? As we passed along through the mines I thought about that word "stretch," and as I did not like the idea of having jobs put up on me, came to the conclusion that I would render myself popular by telling the prisoners in the mines who might ask me as to my sentence, that I had eighteen "stretches." I did not think that calling a month a "stretch" would be "stretching" my conscience to such a degree as to cause me any particular distress, for I knew that by the time I had served out a month it would seem equivalent to a year on the outside. After following along the entry for some distance, almost a mile, we came to that portion of the mines where I was to work. Coming up to the place where the officer was seated, the headquarters of this division, my guide made a low bow, and informed the officer in charge that he had brought him a man. Then bowing himself out, he returned to his place at the foot of the shaft. The officer in whose division I was to work now signaled his messenger, and there came out of the darkness another convict, stripes, cap, lamp and all. "Get Reynolds a set of mining tools," said the officer. These were soon brought, and consisted of a pick, a short-handled shovel, two iron wedges and a sledge hammer. "Take him," said the officer, "to room number three, and tell George Mullen, who is working in that room, to teach him how to mine." I got my arms around those implements of coal warfare, and following my escort, passed along the entry for some distance, possibly two hundred yards, when the roadway in which we were walking suddenly terminated, and instead, there was a small hole that went further on into the earth. When we came to this place my guide dropped down on his hands and knees and passed into the room. I halted. I had never been in such a place before. I did not know what there was in that dark hole. Soon my escort called out, "Come along, there is nothing in here to hurt you." So I dropped down on my hands and knees and into the dark hole I went. These rooms where the miners work are about twenty-eight inches in height, twenty-four inches wide, and about fifty feet long. Think of working in such a place as that! Oh, how often have I sighed for room enough to spread myself! How I would have made that coal fly had the vein been on top where I could have stood on my feet and mined. George Mullen, the convict who was to teach me to mine, was at the farther end of the room at work when we entered. We crawled on our hands and knees to him, and when my guide had delivered his message he withdrew and hastened back to his headquarters near the stand where his officer sat. After he had gone and my room-mate and myself were left alone, about the first question that George asked me was, "How long have you got?" "Eighteen stretches," was my quick reply. George loved me dearly from that moment. I very soon discovered that I was very popular with him on account of my long sentence. "How long are you in for?" said I to him. "Always," was his answer. He was a life prisoner. At one time he was marshal of a Kansas town, and while acting in that capacity he killed his man. He was trying to arrest him, so he informed me, and the fellow showed fight, when he took out his gun and shot him. It was claimed by the authorities that the shooting was unprovoked, and that the man could have been arrested without killing him. Aside from the fact that he had killed his man, I must say that I never met a man for whom I had a higher regard. He was very kind to me, very patient, and made my work as easy for me as he possibly could. I remained with him for nearly a month, when, having learned the business, I was taken to another part of the mines and given a task. "Have you ever mined any?" inquired my instructor. "No; I never was in a coal mine before coming here." He then gave me my first lesson in mining. I lay on my right side in obedience to his orders, stretched out at full length. The short-handled shovel was inverted and placed under my right shoulder. This lifted my shoulder up from the ground a little distance and I was thus enabled to strike with my pick. The vein of coal is about twenty-two inches in thickness. We would mine out the dirt, or fire-clay as it was called, from under the coal to the distance of two feet, or the length of a pick-handle, and to the depth of some six inches. We would then set our iron wedges in above the vein of coal, and with the sledge hammer would drive them in until the coal would drop down. Imagine my forlorn condition as I lay therein that small room. It was as dark down there as night but for the feeble light given out by the mining lamp; the room was only twenty-eight inches from the floor to the ceiling, and then above the ceiling there were eight hundred feet of mother earth. Two feet from the face of the coal, and just back of where I lay when mining, was a row of props that held up the roof and kept it from falling in upon me. The loose dirt which we picked out from under the coal vein was shoveled back behind the props. This pile of dirt, in mining language, is called the "gob." I began operations at once. I worked away with all my might for an hour or more, picking out the dirt from under the coal. Then I was tired completely out. I rolled over on my back, and, with my face looking up to the pile of dirt, eight hundred feet thick, that shut out from me the light of day, I rested for awhile. I had done no physical work for ten years. I was physically soft. To put me down in the mines and set me to digging coal was wicked. It was murder. Down in that dark pit how I suffered! There was no escape from it. There was the medicine. I had to take it. I do not know, but it seems to me that when a man is sent to that prison who has not been in the habit of performing physical labor, he should not be put to work in the mines until he becomes accustomed to manual labor. It would seem that it would be nothing more than right to give him an easier task at first and let him gradually become hardened to his work at coal digging. Nothing of this kind is done. The young, the old, the middle-aged are indiscriminately and unceremoniously thrust into the mine. Down there are nearly five hundred prisoners. Among them are boys from seventeen to twenty years of age, many of whom are in delicate health. Here are to be found old men, in some cases sixty years of age. I do not wish to be understood as casting any reflections upon the officers of this institution. They cannot help these things. If Warden Smith could avoid it there would not be a single man sent down to that region of death. The mines are there and must be worked. Let this blame fall where it belongs. I must say injustice to our common humanity, that to work these two classes, the boys and old men, in those coal mines is a burning shame and outrage. It is bad enough, as the sequel will show, to put able-bodied, middle-aged men to work in that pit. The great State of Kansas has opened those mines. Her Legislature has decided to have them worked. It becomes the duty, therefore, of the prison directors to work them as long as they are instructed to do so, even if scores of human beings are maimed for life or murdered outright each year. The blame cannot rest on the prison officials, but upon our lawmakers. CHAPTER III. THE COAL MINES (Continued) After we had mined some twenty-five feet we took down the coal. To do this the wedges are set and driven in at the top of the vein of coal, with the sledge hammer. After my companion had struck the coal several times it began to pop and crack as if it would fall at any moment. I became alarmed. I was never in such a place before, and I said: "George, had I not better get out of this place? I don't want the coal to fall on me the first day." His reply was, that if I wanted to learn how to mine I must remain near the coal and take my chances of being killed. This was indeed comforting! Then he informed me that he was going to knock on the coal and wanted me to catch the sound that was produced. He thumped away, and I got the sound--a dull, heavy thud. Now, says he, "when coal sounds in that manner it is not ready to drop." So he continued to pound away at it. The more he pounded the more the coal cracked and the more alarmed I became. I was afraid it would drop at any moment and crush me. I begged of him to cease pounding until I got into the entry out of the way of danger. He tried to make me believe there was no danger. I was hard to convince of that fact. There I lay stretched out on my side next to the coal, he driving in the wedges, and the coal seeming to me to be ready to drop at each stroke of the hammer. "Now listen," said he, "while I knock on the coal once more." I listened. The sound was altogether different from the first. "Now," said he, "the coal is about ready to fall." It is necessary for the miner to know this part of his business. It is by the sound that he determines when it is ready to fall. If he is ignorant of this part of his work, he would be in great danger of getting killed from the coal falling unexpectedly. "Well," said I, "if this coal is about ready to drop, had I not better get out of here into the entry, so that I may be out of danger?" "No," was his reply; "just crawl up behind that row of props and remain in the 'gob' until after the coal falls." In obedience to his command I cheerfully got up behind the props and embraced that pile of dirt. He struck the wedges a few more blows and then darted behind the props out of danger. No sooner had he got out of the way than the coal came thundering down. "Now," said my room-mate "go out into the entry and bring in the buggy." "All right." And out I went on my hands and knees. I soon found my way into the entry, but found no buggy; so back I crawled into the room and reported. At this my instructor crawled out to see what had become of that singular vehicle known as a mining buggy. I followed after. I did not want to remain behind in that coal mine. I did not know what might happen should I be left there in that dark hole alone. After we had reached the entry where we could stand erect my teacher pointed to an object which lay close to our feet, and said to me, "Man, where are your eyes?" "In my head," I calmly replied. "Do you see that thing there?" "Of course I see that thing." "Well, that is the buggy." "Indeed!" I exclaimed. "I am certainly glad to know it, for I never would have taken that for a buggy." It had a pair of runners which were held in their places by a board being nailed across them. On this was a small box; at one end there was a short iron handle. On our knees we pushed the buggy into the room, took up the hammer, broke up the coal into lumps we could handle, filled up the small box, dragged it out into the entry and emptied it into a heap. This is called "buggying" coal. It is the most laborious part of mining. Whenever a new man would be placed with the convicts for instructions in mining he would have to buggy coal just as long as it was possible to get him to do so. After a time, however, he would want to take turn about with his teacher. After we had finished getting out what we had down the noon hour had arrived. At certain places in the entries or roadways there are large wooden doors which, when shut, close up the entire passage. These doors are for the regulations of the currents of air which pass through the mines. The loud noise produced by pounding on one of these doors was the signal for dinner. It was now noon. Bang, bang, bang, bang, went the door. I had now put in one-half day of my sentence in the mines. Oh! the many long, dreary, monotonous days I passed after that! At the call for dinner the convict, ALWAYS HUNGRY, suddenly drops his tools and makes his way at a rapid pace along the entry until he comes to the place where the division officer has his headquarters. Arriving at this place each convict takes his position in a line with his fellow-convicts. All talking now ceases. They sit on the ground while eating, with their lower limbs crossed. There are no soft cushioned chairs on which the tired prisoner may rest his weary limbs. When seated, a small piece of pine board, about a foot square, is placed across his knees. This is the table. No table cloth, no napkins, no table linen of any kind. Such articles as these would paralyze a convict! Thus seated in two rows along the sides of the entry, with their mining lamps lighted and hanging in their caps, they present a weird and interesting sight. The dinner had been brought down from the top about an hour before on coal cars. Three of the prisoners are now detailed to act as waiters. One passes down between the two rows of convicts, carrying in his hand a wooden pail filled with knives and forks. These culinary instruments have iron handles. Were they made of wood or horn, the convicts would soon break off the handles and make trinkets out of them. This waiter, passing along, drops a knife and fork on each table. He is followed by another who drops down a piece of corn bread; then another with a piece of meat for each man, which he places on the pine board. There is no "Please pass the meat," or "Hand over the bread." Not a word is spoken. After the knives and forks have been passed around this waiter returns and gives each man a quart of water. THIS IS DINNER. The bill of fare is regular, and consists of cold water, corn bread and meat. Occasionally we have dessert of cold cabbage, or turnips or cracked corn. When we have these luxuries they are given to us in rotation, and a day always intervenes between cabbage and turnips. In the coal mines the prisoner never washes himself before eating. Although he gets his hands and face as black as the coal he has been digging, yet he does not take time to wash himself before eating. Reader, how would you like to dine in this condition? The old saying is, we must all eat our "peck of dirt." I think I have consumed at least two bushels and a half! I can never forget my first meal in the mines. I was hungry, it was true, but I couldn't manage to eat under the circumstances. I sat there on the ground, and in silence watched the other prisoners eat. I thought, "You hogs! I can never get so hungry as to eat as you are now eating." In this I was mistaken. Before ten days had gone by I could eat along with any of them. The first day I thought I would do without my dinner, and when supper time came go to the top and enjoy a fine meal. I imagined that after digging coal all day they would surely give us a good meal in the evening. My mouth "watered" for some quail on toast, or a nice piece of tenderloin, with a cup of tea. Think of my surprise, when hoisted to the top at the close of day, after marching into the dining-room and taking our places at the table, when I saw all that was put before the prisoners was a piece of bread, a cup of tea without sugar or milk, and two tablespoonfuls of sorghum molasses. It did not require a long time for me to dispose of the molasses, as I was very hungry, and handed up my cup for an additional supply; this was refused. It is considered in the penitentiary an excess of two tablespoonfuls of sorghum is unhealthy! There is danger of its burning out the stomach! So at each supper after that I had to get along with two spoonfuls. As far as the tea was concerned, it was made of some unknown material whose aroma was unfamiliar to my olfactory; the taste was likewise unfamiliar, and in consequence of these peculiarities of the prison tea I never imbibed of it but the one time, that being amply sufficient to last through the entire period of my confinement. From that day on I took cold water, which, after all, is God's best beverage for the human race. The penitentiary, so far as I know, is the only place in the State of Kansas where prohibition actually works prohibition as contemplated by the laws of the State! There are no "joints" in the Pen. No assistant attorney generals are necessary to enforce prohibition there. I never saw a drunken man in the prison. The Striped Temperance Society of Kansas is a success. For breakfast in the prison we have hash, bread, and a tin cup of coffee, without sugar or milk; no butter, no meat. The hash is made of the pieces of bread and meat left over from the preceding day. We had it every day in the year for breakfast. During my entire time in the prison I had nothing for breakfast but hash. One day I was talking to an old murderer who had been there for eighteen years, and he told me he had eaten hash for his breakfast during his entire term--six thousand five hundred and seventy days. I looked at the old man and wondered to myself whether he was a human being or a pile of hash, half concluding that he was the latter! In conversation with the chaplain of the prison I received the following anecdote, which I will relate for the benefit of my readers. It is customary in the prison, after the Sunday exercises, for such as desire to remain and hold a sort of class meeting, or, as some call it, experience meeting. In one of these, an old colored man arose, and said: "Breddren, ebber since Ize been in dis prison Ize been tryin' to git de blessin'; Ize prayed God night and day. Ize rascelled wid de Almighty 'till my hips was sore, but Ize nebber got it. Some sez its la'k ob faith. Some its la'k of strength, but I b'l'eves de reason am on 'count ob de quality ob dis hash we hab ebbery day!" Accidents are occurring almost daily. Scarcely a day passes but what some man receives injuries. Often very severe accidents happen, and occasionally those which prove fatal. Many men are killed outright. These accidents are caused by the roof of the little room in which the miner works falling in upon him, and the unexpected drop of coal. Of course there are many things that contribute to accidents, such as bad machinery, shafts, dirt rolling down, landslides, etc. One day there was a fellow-prisoner working in the room adjoining me; he complained to the mining boss that he did not want to go into that room to work because he thought it was dangerous. The officer in charge thought differently, and told him to go in there and go to work or he would report him. The prisoner hadn't been in the place more than a half hour before the roof fell and buried him. It took some little time to get him out. When the dirt was removed, to all appearances he was dead. He was carried to the hospital on a stretcher, and the prison physician, Doctor Neeally, examined him, and found that both arms were broken in two places, his legs both broken, and his ribs crushed. The doctor, who is a very eminent and successful surgeon, resuscitated him, set his broken bones, and in a few weeks what was thought to be a dead man, was able to move about the prison enclosure, although one of his limbs was shorter than the other, and he was rendered a cripple for life. On another occasion a convict was standing at the base of the shaft. The plumb-bob, a piece of lead about the size of a goose egg, accidentally fell from the top of the shaft, a distance of eight hundred feet, and, striking this colored man on the head, it mashed his skull, and bespattered the walls with his brains. I had three narrow escapes from death. One day I lay in my little room resting, and after spending some time stretched out upon the ground, I started off to another part of my room to go to work, when all of a sudden the roof fell in, and dropped down just where I had been lying. Had I remained a minute longer in that place, I would have been killed. As it happened, the falling debris just struck my shoe as I was crawling out from the place where the material fell. At another time I had my room mined out and was preparing to take down the coal. I set my wedges in a certain place above the vein of coal and began to strike with my sledge hammer, when I received a presentiment to remove my wedges from that place to another. Now I would not have the reader believe that I was in any manner superstitious, but I was so influenced by that presentiment that I withdrew my wedges and set them in another place; then I proceeded to strike them a second time with the sledge hammer, when, unexpectedly, the vein broke and the coal fell just opposite to where my head was resting, and came within an inch of striking it. Had I remained in the place where I first set my wedges, the coal would have fallen upon me; it had been held in its place by a piece of sulphur, and when it broke, it came down without giving me any warning. On still another occasion, my mining boss came to my room and directed me to go around to another part of the mine and assist two prisoners who were behind with their work. I obeyed. I hadn't been out of my room more than about half an hour when there occurred a land-slide in it, which filled the room entirely full of rock, slate and coal. It required several men some two weeks to remove the amount of debris that had fallen on that occasion. Had I been in there, death would have been certain at that time. Gentle reader, let me assure you, that although some persons misunderstanding me, assert that I am without belief in anything, yet I desire to say, when reflecting upon these providential deliverances, that I believe in the Eternal Will that guides, directs, controls and protects the children of men. While many of my fellow-prisoners were maimed for life and some killed outright, I walked through that valley and shadow of death without even a hair of my head being injured. Why was this? My answer is the following: Over in the State of Iowa, among the verdant hills of that beautiful commonwealth, watching the shadows as they longer grow, hair whitened with the frosts of many seasons, heart as pure as an angel's, resides my dear old mother. I received a letter from her one day, and among other things was the following: "I love you now in your hour of humiliation and disgrace as I did when you were a prattling babe upon my knee. * * * "I would also have you remember that every night before I retire to rest, kneeling at my bedside, I ask God to take care of and watch over my boy." Of the nine hundred convicts in the penitentiary not one of their mothers ever forgot or deserted them. A mother's prayers always follow her prodigal children. Go, gather the brightest and purest flowers that bend and wave in the winds of heaven, the roses and lilies, the green vine and immortelles, wreathe them in a garland, and with this crown the brow of the truest of all earthly friends--Mother! Another reason I give for my safe keeping in that hour of darkness and despair: In the city of Atchison, on a bed of pain and anguish, lay my true, devoted and dying wife. Every Sunday morning regularly would I receive a letter dictated by her. Oh! the tender, loving words! "Every day," said she, "I pray that God will preserve your life while working in the jaws of death." The true and noble wife, the helpmeet of man, clings to him in the hour of misfortune and calamity as the vine clings to the tree when prostrate on the ground. No disgrace can come so shameful that it will cause the true wife to forsake. She will no more forsake than the true soldier will desert on the battlefield. For those imps in human form that endeavor to detract from the honor belonging to the wives of the country there ought to be no commiseration whatever. Let us honor the wifehood of our native land. It is the fountain of all truth and righteousness, and if the fountain should become impure, all is lost. One more reason: Before I was sent to the prison I was an evangelist, and was instrumental in the hands of God of persuading hundreds of people to abandon a wicked life and seek the good. During my imprisonment I received many letters from these men and women who had been benefited on account of what I had said to them, and they informed me that they still retained confidence in me and were praying God for my deliverance. Now, I believe, in answer to a mother's prayers, in answer to the prayers of my sainted wife, in answer to the prayers of good men and women, who were converts to "the faith once delivered to the saints" under my earnest endeavors--in answer to all these prayers, God lent a listening ear and preserved me from all harm and danger. PATHETIC OCCURRENCES IN THE MINES It is a great consolation for prisoners to receive letters from their friends. One day a convict working in the next room to me inquired if I would like to see a letter. I replied I would. He had just received one from his wife. This prisoner was working out a sentence of five years. He had been in the mines some two years. At home, he had a wife and five children. They were in destitute circumstances. In this letter his wife informed him that she had been taking in washing for the support of herself and children, and that at times they had to retire early because they had no fuel to keep them warm. Also, that, on several occasions, she had been compelled to put the children to bed without supper. But this noble woman stated to her husband that their lot was not so bad as his. She encouraged him to bear up under his burdens, and that the time would soon come when his sentence would expire and he would be permitted to return home again, and that the future would be bright once more as it had been before the unfortunate circumstances that led to his imprisonment. It was a good letter, written by a noble woman. A couple of days after this, as I was mining, I heard a voice in the adjoining room. I listened. At first I thought it was the mining boss, but I soon discovered I was mistaken. Listening again I came to the conclusion that the convict who was working in the next room was becoming insane, a frequent occurrence in the mines. Many of the poor convicts being unable to stand the strain of years and the physical toil, languish and die in the insane ward. To satisfy my curiosity, I took my mining lamp from my cap, placed it on the ground, covered it up as best I could with some pieces of slate, and then crawled up in the darkness near where he was. I never saw such a sight as was now presented to me. This broad-shouldered convict on his knees, with his frame bent over, his face almost touching the floor of the room, was praying for his wife and children. Such a prayer I never heard before, nor do I expect to hear again. His petition was something like the following: "Oh, Heavenly Father, I am myself a wicked, desperate man. I do not deserve any love or protection for my own sake. I do not expect it, but for the sake of Jesus do have mercy on my poor wife and helpless children." I have been able, many times in my life, to spend an hour or more in the prayer circle, and, unmoved, could listen to the prayers of the children of God. But I could not remain there in the darkness and listen to such a prayer as that going forth from the lips of that poor convict; so I glided back through the darkness into my own room, and left him there alone, pleading with his Creator for his lone and helpless ones at home. Reader, did God listen to the wails of that poor heart-stricken prisoner? Yes! yes! yes! For though a prodigal, sinful child, yet he is still a child of the universal Father. Who of us dare excommunicate him? What frail mortal of passing time would dare lift up his hand and say, this poor wanderer is forgotten of his God? What a glorious privilege is communion with God. What a sweet consolation to know God hears, though we may be far removed from the dear ones we love. And who can tell the glorious things that have been wrought by the wonderful Father of the race by that strong lever of prayer. How often has the rough ways of life been made smooth. How often do we fail to credit the same to the kind intercession of friends with the Father of us all. But to continue, it often happens that in the coal mines, persons, no longer able to sustain the heavy load that is placed upon them of remaining in prison for a long time, give way, and they become raving maniacs. One day a prisoner left his room, and crawling out on his hands and knees into the entry, sat down on a pile of coal and commenced to sing. He had a melodious voice, and these were the words, the first stanza of that beautiful hymn: "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly." After he had completed the first stanza two of the officers came to him and directed him to go back into the room to work. He replied that he did not have to work; that he had religion, and that when a man had religion he did not have to work. Said he, "We are now going to have a prayer meeting, and" addressing one of the officers, "you you will please lead us in prayer." The officer replied, "I don't pray in coal mines; I pray above the surface so that God can hear." At this the insane convict picked up a large piece of coal and was going to hurl it after him, and threatened that if he did not get on his knees and go to praying he would compel him to do so. While he was thus addressing one officer the other slipped around in his rear and striking his arm knocked the piece of coal out of his hand. Then the officers seized him, one on each side, and forced him to go with them down the roadways to the shaft, from whence he was taken to the top and placed in the insane ward, where he remains at this writing. As he was passing down the entries, away in the distance we heard him singing-- "Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. Leave, oh leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me." I can never forget the impression made upon me as those words rang down through the dark passages, coming from the lips of that insane convict as they led him away from the confinement of the mines to the confinement of insanity. How true those beautiful words were in his case! THE COAL MINES A COLLEGE OF INFAMY The mines of this Penal institution are a college for the education and graduation of hardened criminals, and for illustration, and the instruction of those not familiar with the subject matter referred to, I will relate what came under my personal observation, and some things that I heard while in there. One day, in company with me while engaged in mining, were two other convicts. One of these was a hardened old crook. He was serving out a term on the charge of making and passing counterfeit money. The other fellow-convict was a young man seventeen years of age--a mere boy. Tired of mining, we laid off awhile, resting. During this time the old convict gave us instructions in the manner of making counterfeit money. He told us how he would construct his counterfeit molds out of plaster paris, which he would use in the same manner that bullet molds are used. He would purchase some britannica metal. On some dark night he would go into the forest, build up a fire, melt the metal, pour the melted liquor into the molds, and in this manner make silver dollars. He informed us that it didn't take very long to make a hatful of money. A few days thereafter this young man, who was with us in the room at the time, informed me that when he went out again into the world, if he was unable to secure work, he would try his hand at making counterfeit money. I advised him not to do this, as it was almost a certainty that he would be detected. He thought differently. About a month thereafter he was released from the prison. He went out into the world, and, unable to obtain work, DID try his hand at making counterfeit money. Shortly before my time expired here came this young man to prison again, with a sentence of three years at hard labor for making and passing counterfeit money. He had received his criminal instruction in the penitentiary mines, the result of which will be that he will spend the greater portion of his life a convict. There are a great many instances where these young convicts, having received their education in the coal mines, go into the world to become hardened criminals. Down in this school of crime, in the midst of the darkness, they learn how to make burglary tools, to crack safes, and to become expert as pickpockets; they take lessons in confidence games, and when their time expires they are prepared for a successful career of crime. It is utterly impossible for the officers of the coal mines to prevent these men from conversing with each other. If these mines were sold, and the money obtained from the sale of them was used in building workhouses on the surface, and these men placed at work there under the watchful care of the official, they would then be unable to communicate with each other, and would be saved from the debasing contamination of the hardened criminals. They would be saved from all this that degrades and makes heartless wretches. A scene occurred in the mines one day that illustrates the fact that judges sometimes, in their anxiety to enforce the laws, overstep the bounds of justice, and inflict excessive punishment and place burdens upon human beings which they are unable to bear. One afternoon in the city of Emporia ten tramps were arrested and thrown into the county jail. During the succeeding night one of these persons thrust a poker into the stove, and heating it red hot, made an effort to push the hot iron through the door, thus burning a large hole in the door-casing. The next morning the sheriff, entering the jail, perceiving what this vagrant had done, was displeased, and tried to ascertain which one of the ten was guilty of the offense. The comrades of the guilty party refused to disclose the perpetrator of the act. Court was then in session. The sheriff had these ten fellows brought into court, hoping that when placed upon the witness stand, under oath, they would tell which had committed the offense. Even in court they were true to each other, and would not reveal the perpetrator. They were then all convicted, and the judge passed a sentence of ten years upon each of these vagrants for that trivial offense. They came to the penitentiary. The day after their arrival they were all sent to the coal mines. For two years they worked day after day down in the Kansas bastile. One morning, after they had been in the mines for two years, one of the number, at the breakfast table in the dining-room, unperceived secreted a knife in his clothing and carried it with him down to his place of work. He went into his little room and began the labors of the day. After toiling for a few hours he took a stone and sharpened his knife the best he possibly could, then stepped out into the entry where he could stand erect, and with his head thrown back drew that knife across his throat, cutting it from ear to ear, thus terminating his life, preferring death to longer remaining in the mines of the Kansas Hell! Who is there that is not convinced of the fact that the blood of this suicide stains the garments of the judge who placed this unbearable burden of ten years upon this young man, and who, I subsequently learned, was innocent of the offense. I would advise the good people of Lyons County, and of Emporia particularly, after they have perused this book, if they come to the conclusion that they have no better material out of which to construct a district judge, to go out on the frontier and lassoo a wild Comanche Indian and bring him to Emporia and place him upon the ermined bench. I do not even know the name of this judge, but I believe, if I am correctly informed in this case, that his judgment is deficient somewhere. But I must say in this connection, when the good people of Lyons County heard of this suicide, they immediately thereafter petitioned the Board of Pardons for the release of these prisoners, and the board at once reported favorably upon their cases, and Governor Martin promptly granted their pardons and they were released from the prison. If the pardon had not been granted, others of them had resolved upon taking their lives as did their comrade. One of these prisoners was for a time a companion of mine in one of my mining rooms, and told me if he was required to remain in the coal mines digging coal another three months he had made up his mind to follow the example of his comrade, preferring death to the horrors of the mines. For the further information of the reader, as to the dread of the prisoners of work in the mines, I cite the following which I call to recollection. The gentlemanly physician of the institution, Dr. Neeally, told me that at four different times men had feigned death in the mines and had been carried on stretchers to the hospital; the particulars in one case is as follows: One of these men feigned death and was carried to the hospital, and was reported by his comrades to be dead. He had suppressed his breathing. The physician felt his pulse, and finding it regular, of course knew he was simply endeavoring to deceive. In order to experiment, the physician coincided with the statements of the attending convicts who had carried him from the mines, and announced that he would try electricity, and if he failed to restore him to life he would then have to bury him in the regular way. The doctor retired for the purpose of getting his electrical apparatus. In a few moments he returned, bringing it with him, and placing the magnetic cups, one in each hand, commenced generating the electricity by turning the generator attached to the machine. After a few turns of the crank the prisoner opened his eyes; one or two more and he sat up; a few more and he stood on his feet; another turn or two and he commenced dancing around, and exclaimed, "For God's sake, doctor, do quit, for I ain't dead, but I can't let loose!" Reader, what do you suppose was the object this convict had in view in thus feigning death? What did he hope to gain thereby? Being well acquainted with this prisoner, a few days after the doctor had told me of the circumstances I met him, and asked him what object he had in feigning death the time that he was taken from the mines to the hospital? His reply was that he hadn't the nerve to take his own life, as he believed in a future state of punishment, and that he did not desire to step from the Kansas Hell to the hell of the future, and that by feigning death he hoped to be taken to the hospital, placed in a coffin, then taken out to the prison graveyard, and buried alive, so that he would suffocate in his grave! There is not a man in those mines but would leave them quickly for a place on the surface. I now call to mind one instance where a heart-broken father came to the prison and offered one of the leading prison officials one thousand dollars if he would take his son out of the coal mines and give him a place on the surface during the remainder of his term. A man who labors in these mines simply spends his time, not knowing but the next hour will be his last. As I have stated heretofore the prisoners are allowed to converse in the mines, and as a result of this almost necessary rule, every convict has an opportunity to listen to the vilest obscenity that ever falls upon human ears. At times, when some of these convicts, who seem veritable encyclopedias of wickedness, are crowded together, the ribald jokes, obscenity and blasphemy are too horrible for description. It is a pandemonium--a miniature hell! But worse than this horrible flow of language are the horrible and revolting practices of the mines. Men, degraded to a plane lower than the brutes, are guilty of the unmentionable crimes referred to by the Apostle Paul in his letter to the Romans, chapter I, verse 27, which is as follows: "And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lusts one toward another, men with men, working that which is unseemly, and receiving in themselves that recompense of their error which was meet." Every opportunity is here offered for this vile practice. They are far removed from the light and even from the influences of their officers, and in the darkness and silence old and hardened criminals debase and mistreat themselves and sometimes the younger ones that are associated with them in their work. These cases of self-abuse and sodomy are of daily occurrence, and, although the officials of the prison take every precaution to prevent such evil practices, yet, as a matter of fact, so long as prisoners are permitted to work in the mines it will be impossible to break up these terribly degrading and debasing practices. Oh, Kansan! you that boast of the freedom and liberty, the strength of your laws, and the institutions in your grand young State, what do you think of this disclosure of wickedness, equalling if not excelling the most horrible things ever pictured by the divine teachers of humanity,--the apostles and their followers? A hint is only here given, but to the wise it will be sufficient, and but a slight exercise of the imaginative powers will be necessary to unfold to you the full meaning of this terrible state of affairs. It is believed by the writer that if the people of the State of Kansas knew under what circumstances men in the prison were compelled to work, there would be a general indignation, which would soon be expressed through the proper channels, and which might lead to a proper solution of the difficulty. In many of the rooms of the mines there are large pools of water which accumulate there from dripping down from the crevices above; this, taken in connection with the natural damps of the mines, which increases the water, makes very large pools, and in these mud-holes convicts are compelled to work and wallow about all day long while getting out their coal, more like swine than anything else. How can this be in the line of reformation, which, we are taught to believe outside of the prison walls, is the principal effort of all discipline within the prison. The result of work under such unfavorable circumstances is that many of the convicts contract rheumatism, neuralgia, pneumonia and other lung troubles, and, of course, malaria. Many persons that enter these mines in good health come out physical wrecks, often to find homes in the poor-houses of the land when their prison days are over, or die before their terms expire. In the judgment of the writer the coal mines should be sold; until that is done, prisoners who contract diseases there that will carry them to untimely graves should be pensioned by the State, and thus kept from spending the rest of their natural lives in some of the country poor-houses. Each person in the mines is assigned a task; he is required to get out a certain amount of coal each week. In case the convict fails to mine the task that has been assigned him he must endure punishment, a description of which will be given later on. It is the opinion of the author that something should be done to remedy this. The young men from seventeen to twenty, together with the old men from fifty to sixty, and those suffering from diseases, are often required to dig as much coal as middle-aged and able-bodied men. I have seen old men marching to their cells after a hard day's work scarcely able to walk, and many times have I laid in the mines along with these young boys who would spend hours crying like whipped children for fear they would be unable to get out their regular task of coal, and would therefore have to spend the Sabbath in the dungeon, suffering unspeakable anguish. Because of the dangers to which the inmate is exposed; because of the debasing influences by which lie is surrounded, it is wrong, it is WICKED to work our criminals in such a place as those mines of the Kansas penitentiary. CHAPTER IV. THE PUNISHMENTS OF THE PRISON The discipline of this institution is of the very highest character, and is unequaled in any similar institution of the United States. The officers are very watchful and strict. The inmates who work on the surface are not permitted to converse with each other only within the hearing of an officer, and then only with regard to matters that pertain to work. The convict attends to his duties, observing the strictest silence. When visitors pass about the prison the inmate is not permitted to lift up his head to gaze at them. Not even is he permitted to take a drink of water or to leave his place of work for anything without the permission of the officer in charge. As soon as a criminal enters the prison and is clothed in stripes, a copy of the rules and regulations is placed in his hands for perusal. If he cannot read, an officer reads them to him. On the first day of his admission the prisoner receives certain tickets, which are permits for privileges granted to him. One of these tickets allows him to have tobacco if he used the same before coming to the penitentiary; one allows him to receive visits from his friends; another to write a letter, monthly, to his relatives; and still another gives him the privilege to draw a book from the library, weekly. These privileges are highly appreciated by the prisoners. For the first offense in violation of any of the rules and regulations the refractory prisoner is deprived of his ticket; and in extreme cases these tickets have been kept from the prisoner for six months. To deprive the convict of his tobacco for a month or two, if he uses it, and many do, is a severe punishment. This kind of punishment is usually effectual in securing good discipline. There are extreme cases, however, that require severer punishment. To meet this contingency, dungeons are provided. As their name implies, they are dark. They resemble an ordinary cell with the exception of the door, which, in the common cell, contains open spaces for the admission of light; but the dark cell admits neither light nor a sufficient quantity of air. There is no furniture in this dark cell. While undergoing punishment, if a prisoner desires to rest, he can do so by reclining on the stone floor. No refractory prisoner ever grows corpulent while confined in these dark cells, as he only receives one meal of bread and water in twenty-four hours! The prisoner is often kept in these cells from eight to ten days. Sleep is almost impossible. When a prisoner enters the dungeon he is required to leave behind him his coat, cap and shoes. During the winter months it is often very cold in these cells, requiring the prisoner to walk up and down the dungeon in his stocking feet to prevent his freezing, and this for a period of ten days, in nearly every instance compels submission. After the dark cells thaw out, during the summer months, they are excessively hot. Sometimes in winter the temperature is below zero, and in summer it often rises to one hundred degrees. They are then veritable furnaces. Generally, after the prisoner undergoes the freezing or baking process for eight or ten days, he is willing to behave himself in the future. They are sometimes so reduced and weak when brought out of the dark cell that they can scarcely walk without aid. I have seen them reel to and fro like drunken men. They are often as pale as death. That in many cases the prisoner contracts cold which later on terminates fatally, is one of the principal objections to this mode of punishment. There is no doubt that the dark cells of the Kansas Hell have hastened the death of many a poor, friendless convict. If a person in the mines does not get out his regular weekly task of coal, on Saturday night he is reported to the deputy warden by the officer in charge, and is sent to the blind cell before supper, and is kept there until the following Monday morning, when he is taken out and sent to his work in the mines. While in there he gets only bread and water once in twenty-four hours. This is a great inducement to work; it certainly prevents criminals from shirking their labor, and soon converts a lazy tramp into a rustling coal miner. There is one thing, however, that is connected with this system of punishment that I will criticise. The officer under whose immediate control the prisoner is placed fixes the period of his confinement in the dungeon. It gives the officer a good opportunity to abuse a prisoner he may dislike. These subordinate officers are not all angels. Some of them are lacking in sympathy. They have become hardened, and frequently treat their men like beasts. These persons should not possess such a dangerous power. The warden or deputy warden should decide the character as well as the period of punishment. If in this dark cell ten days and nights is insufficient to subdue the rebellious spirit of the convict, he is taken out and placed in the solitary cell. This is similar to the ordinary cell, with the exception that it contains no furniture. Here the convict remains on bread and water until he is starved almost to death, or until he is willing to submit and do his work as ordered. Another mode of punishment resorted to in a few cases, is even more brutal than the dark cell. The obdurate prisoner is stripped naked and tied to a post. The hose which is connected with the water-works is turned upon his naked body. The water pressure is sixty pounds to the square inch. As the water strikes the nude body the suffering is intense. This mode of punishment is but rarely resorted to. It is exceedingly wicked and barbarous. It is a shame to treat a human being in such a manner. There are many hardened criminals and desperate characters in the penitentiary, and it may sometimes be necessary to resort to extreme measures, but there have been many instances when, as it seemed to me, these excessive punishments might have been avoided and still the good discipline of the prison maintained. "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." But the author would have you recollect that the punishments of the Kansas penitentiary are not as severe as the discipline in her sister institutions. Many of the inmates of this prison who have formerly served terms in others of like character, have shown him the scars and marks of brutal punishment. One of these poor unfortunates showed me his back, which is covered with great furrows in the flesh caused by the cat-o'-nine-tails in the hands of a merciless official of the Missouri penitentiary. Another prisoner carries thumbs out of joint and stiffened by the inhuman practice of hanging up by the thumbs in vogue in a former place of imprisonment, and still another carries about with him ugly wounds inflicted by bloodhounds which overtook him when trying to escape from a Southern prison. The foregoing is a view of the punishments inflicted from a prisoner's standpoint. That the reader may arrive at just conclusions, I quote the statements on the same subject made by the warden, Captain Smith, in his able biennial report of last year. In doing so, I beg leave to state that the convict who had ever been the object of the prison discipline, or who had spent his ten days and nights in one of those dismal dungeons, subsisting on bread and water, would readily say that the warden had treated the subject in a manner "very mild." "The discipline has been carefully looked after, and as a general thing prisoners yield to strict discipline quicker than most people think. They seem to see and realize the necessity of rules, and very seldom complain, if they violate them, at the punishment that is sure to follow. Our punishments are of such a character that they do not degrade. Kansas, when she established her penitentiary, prohibited corporal punishment. She is one of the few States that by law prohibits the use of the whip and strap; taking the position that it is better to use kindness than to resort to brutal measures. I have often been told, and that, too, by old prison men, that it was impossible to run a prison and have first-class discipline without the whip. Such is not my experience. We have had within our walls perhaps as desperate men as ever received a sentence. We have controlled them, and have maintained a discipline second to none in the country, How did we accomplish this? Our answer is, by being kind but firm; treating a man, although he may be a prisoner, as a man. If he violates rules, lock him up. Give him an opportunity to commune with himself and his Maker; also give him to understand that he is the executioner of his own sentence, and when he concludes that he can do right, release him. It matters not how vicious, how stubborn, or what kind of a temper he may have, when left with no one to talk to, and an opportunity to cool down, and with a knowledge that when he comes to the conclusion that he will do better he can be released, he leaves the cell feeling much different than the prisoner who leaves the whipping-post, after having received any number of lashes that a brutal officer may desire to inflict. One goes to his work cheerful, and determined to behave himself; the other dogged, revengeful, completely humiliated, and only lives in hope that he may at some time take his revenge upon the person that ordered or inflicted the punishment, and upon the State or country that would, by its laws, tolerate such a brutal or slavish practice." CHAPTER V. SUNDAY IN THE PRISON A prisoner is always thankful for the Sabbath. He has been working hard all week, and Sunday affords the opportunity of resting. On the Sabbath morning, the bell for rising rings at eight o'clock. At its ringing each person must rise and dress; he is not permitted to do so before it rings. If he gets tired of remaining in his bunk so late as eight o'clock, and should wish to get up and dress, it would do him no good; it would be a violation of rules and result in punishment. After the prisoner is up and dressed, he washes and marches out in ranks to breakfast. It is hash, hash, hash, for Sunday breakfast, the same as any other day, except once a month it is codfish hash instead of beef hash. After breakfast, instead of going from the dining-room to work, the prisoners are marched back into their cells where they remain until time for chapel exercises. There is a dining-room for the prisoners and another for the officers. The room where the prisoners dine is a large hall capable of seating fully twelve hundred men. Each table is long enough to accommodate twenty men, and resembles an ordinary school-desk. There are no table-cloths or napkins; nothing but a plain, clean board. The table furniture consists of a tin quart cup, a small pan of the same precious metal, which holds the hash, an iron knife, fork and spoon. No beautiful silverware adorns this table; on the contrary, all the dining service is very plain and cheap. The convicts are marched into the dining-room in divisions, and seated at the table. Here they remain in perfect silence, with their heads bowed. No talking or gazing about the dining-room is permitted. After all the divisions are in and seated, the deputy Warden taps a small bell, and the convicts begin the work of "concealing the hash." Before the men enter the dining-room the coffee, bread and hash are placed on the table for each man. The prisoners are given all the food they can eat. It is not the quantity, but the quality, that is objectionable. If more bread is wanted, instead of calling out "Please pass the bread," the convict holds up his hand, and the waiter comes along and puts a piece of bread in it. He gets but a pint of coffee, and if he wishes a second supply he holds up his cup and it is refilled--but with water instead of coffee. If he wishes more hash he holds aloft his meat dish, and an officer hands him a large pan of hash, out of which he fills his dish. Not a word is spoken during the meal. Ample time is given the convicts to get all the food they desire; then the deputy warden, who occupies a raised seat at the end of the dining-room, taps a small bell, and the men march out in divisions, back to their cells on Sunday mornings, and to their work on week days. Breakfast over, and the men in their cells, the choir, which leads the singing and furnishes the instrumental music for the occasion, is taken out, and, under the watchful care of an officer, is conducted to the chapel where they practice until time for the regular services. The choir was composed of convicts who could sing, regardless of the crimes for which they were sent to prison. I recollect at one time we had two horse-thieves, two rapists--one with a sentence of forty years--three murderers, two hog-thieves, and several others of equally villainous records, and, last of all, the author! But this choir will compare favorably with some of the high-toned church choirs outside! To return, think of such a choir singing: "Oh, how happy are they, Who their Saviour obey, And have laid up their treasures above!" At eleven o'clock, the prison bell rings, and the men are marched in ranks to the chapel. When the first division or company reaches the room where the services are to be held, the string band commences to play, and as the divisions march in one after another they are greeted with music. The instruments used are a piano, organ, violin, cornet and bass viol. Very fine music is rendered by the prison band. All being seated, the chaplain, the Rev. Dr. Crawford, a genuine Christian and God-fearing man, rises, and in his happy style reads some beautiful hymn which is familiar to the congregation. The choir leads and the entire congregation sings. Such singing! The convicts have only one opportunity a week to try their voices in a musical way, and when that opportunity comes around it is improved. Nearly one thousand voices unite in singing those beautiful gospel hymns! A prayer is offered; more singing; then the chaplain, or some visiting minister who may be present, preaches a short discourse. There is a large field for usefulness, and for doing good, in the penitentiary. The harvest is truly great. Chaplain Crawford comprehends the situation, and is putting forth strenuous efforts to save these men who have drifted thus far down the currents of sin. His labors are abundantly blessed of God. Many men go out of that institution a great deal better than when they first entered. Were it not for the cruel treatment the prisoners suffer in the coal mines of that institution many more of them would be reformed. This treatment tends to harden the criminal. The chaplain has many evils to counteract, yet he contends nobly for the right, and some of these men are being redeemed from a sinful life. After the sermon, the choir and the string band furnish more soul-stirring music, which enlivens the spirits of the prisoners, and then the chapel exercises are over. The prisoners are now returned to their cells. Occasionally the convicts are permitted to remain after the chapel exercises proper are over and have a social meeting. The chaplain remains with them. These men sing, pray and give in their religious experience. It is novel to hear these Christian criminals telling how they love Jesus. Immediately after the religious services are over the prison school begins. Nearly one hundred of the convicts attend this school. The common branches, reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, etc., are taught. This school is graded, and under the management of the chaplain, who is an excellent instructor, is a great blessing to the prisoners. Numbers have fitted themselves here so that when they went out they were able to pass examination and obtain certificates as teachers. On entering the institution many of the prisoners who are unable to read and write soon acquire these useful arts if they have any ambition for self-improvement. If there was room, and this school could be conducted in the evening, as well as on Sunday afternoons, much more good could be accomplished. I would suggest that it would be a good act on the part of the State to employ an officer who should devote all his time to teaching and imparting instruction in the common branches, and let a room be fitted up for evening school, so that all prisoners who might desire to improve themselves could attend this place of instruction after the work of the day was over. Nothing could be done that would be more advantageous to the convict. The teachers for the prison school are selected from among the prisoners, some of them being very fine scholars. After school is over the Sunday dinner is served. The prisoners once more march into the dining-room and take their places at the table. The Sunday dinner is the "crack" meal of the institution. At this meal the prisoners have as a luxury, beans, a small piece of cheese and some beet pickles, in addition to their regular diet. This meal is served at 2:30. The prisoners are then returned to their cells, where they remain until the following morning. They spend their time in the cells which is not taken up by sleeping, in reading. The prison has a fine library of five thousand volumes. The State Legislature annually appropriates five hundred dollars to be expended in purchasing books. This collection consists of histories, scientific works and books of fiction. The greater part of the criminals prefer the works of fiction. Were it not for this privilege of reading, the Sunday afternoons and winter evenings would seem very long and dreary. Several officers are on duty during the time the men are locked in their cells on Sunday, and the cell houses are very quiet and orderly, there is no talking, as officers are constantly walking backward and forward in front of the cells. This is the manner and style of spending the Sabbath in prison. The convicts who do the cooking for the officers and convicts, are compelled to work on Sundays as any other day of the week. It would be nothing more than right to give these men credit for this extra work, and in this manner reduce their sentences. The law does not contemplate that criminals in the penitentiary should work seven days in the week and fifteen hours each day. There are more than fifty men who are forced to put in this extra time in hard labor. CHAPTER VI. SCENES IN THE HOSPITAL When a prisoner gets sick he reports to the prison physician in the morning, before working hours. As the men march out of their cells to go to their breakfast, those who are sick and desire to see the doctor fall out of the ranks and occupy seats in the cell house. Soon the prison physician, Dr. Nealley, calls and examines them. Many try to deceive the physician and thus get into the hospital, simply to avoid work. But the shirkers are pretty well known, and have to be very sick and give unmistakable symptoms of their illness before they can get excused. It is very difficult to deceive Dr. Nealley. He has been with the prisoners so long, nearly six years, that he knows them and can tell without much effort when one of them is sick or is not in condition to work. At these morning examinations, sometimes there are nearly one hundred who report as being sick. Most of them, instead of being excused, get a dose of medicine and are sent to work. When a prisoner takes sick during the day while at work, he is excused by his officer, and permitted to go to the hospital to see the physician. Fully nine-tenths of the sickness of the prison is contracted in the coal mines. The principal physical disabilities are prison fever, colds, pneumonia, lung diseases and rheumatism. Very few contagious diseases ever find their way into the prison, and those that do are quickly discovered and checked by the prison physician. When a convict is unable to work he is sent to the hospital. This department contains two wards, in the first of which those remain who are not sick enough to be confined to their beds, while the very sick are kept in the second ward. Convicts, detailed for that purpose, are the hospital nurses. It is gratifying to know that these convict nurses have a sympathy for their sick comrades truly admirable. Many of these sick men die. It is sad to die in the State's Prison! I recollect one case that came under my own observation which was indeed pathetic. A man had been sentenced for five years, and had served out his time save one week, when, taken suddenly ill, he was sent to the hospital and died the day before his term would have expired. This poor fellow piteously begged of the doctor to try and extend his life so that he could die a free man; but all in vain! On the day which would have brought liberty he was borne through the large gate and buried in the prison graveyard. It is heartrending to hear those men dying in the hospital, call for their mothers, wives or sisters! The convict nurses are as kind and sympathetic as possible, but in sickness and death there is no one that can take the place of mother, wife or sister. There was one man who died a few days before my term expired, for whom I felt the greatest sympathy. His name was Frank Rhodes. He was sent from Holton. While in jail and awaiting trial at that place he was converted. Several Christian ladies had visited the jail and left with the inmates a few Bibles and other religious literature. At his trial Frank was convicted of crime and sentenced to the penitentiary for five years. When he came to the State's prison he brought his religion with him. For two years this man performed his duties faithfully. He soon gained the good will of the officers. He was a true Christian man; he showed it in his life while in prison. After awhile his religion got the better of him; he could not control his emotions. Often during the chapel services, when the convicts were singing their Christian songs, overcome by his feelings, Frank would weep like a child. Time passed. It was a bright Sabbath morning. The prisoners were marching out of the cell houses to the chapel, to attend divine service. All nature seemed to be rejoicing. Frank could not longer restrain himself. The glowing sunshine has much to do with causing a man's religion to boil over. All of a sudden, clapping his hands, Frank shouted at the top of his voice, "Glory to God in the highest I peace on earth, good will to men!" This was too much for the discipline of the prison. Convicts are expected to keep quiet. A couple of officers seized him and led him back into the cell house, where he was placed in a cell of the insane ward and was called a religious crank. He remained in this cell for the following eighteen months. He told me afterward these were the happiest months of his life. He would read his Bible, sing, pray, and exhort the officers to be religious. The deputy warden would often tell him that when he could control his religion enough to keep quiet he should be taken out of the insane ward and sent to work again. When eighteen months had passed he concluded he could keep quiet, and so informed the deputy warden. He was immediately released from his place of confinement and went to work. While at work he was honest and quiet. His only trouble was, too much religion! Months went by. His wife came to see him frequently. These visits were enjoyable affairs to them. On a certain Friday his wife was to visit him. I met him the day before, and he was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his wife the next day. She came. They had a joyful time. Little did either think they should see each other in this life no more. When the hour of her departure came they separated not to meet again until in the world of perpetual sunshine. The next day this poor convict was taken with the prison fever, and in one short week he was a corpse. He died trusting in his Saviour. The chaplain, speaking of this man's death, said if officers or convicts at death go from the Kansas penitentiary to heaven, then Frank Rhodes was among the saved; he was a true Christian man. After death his body was sent to his former home, Holton, where it was buried. The following is my experience with a poor friendless colored boy who had a six years' sentence for burglary. I took the prison fever and was sent to the hospital. This colored convict was detailed as my nurse. He had been sick, but was then convalescent. He was very kind to me; because of this kindness and good care I began to like him. He seemed anxious to make me comfortable. "Be kind to the sick and you will win their friendship." I was quite sick for two weeks, but began to recover slowly. About this time my nurse suffered a relapse. He grew worse and worse. The doctor gave him up. "Bob must die," he said to the head nurse one day in my hearing. A day or two after this, Bob, for that was the sick prisoner's name, sent for me to come to his couch. I sat down on the edge of his bed and asked him what he wanted. He said: "I am going to die, and want a friend. In all this wide world," continued he, "there is not a single human being that I can look upon as my friend." He then told me how he had lost his father and mother when a mere child, had drifted out into the world an orphan boy, got into bad company, into crime and into prison. As I sat there looking into the face of that little darkey, I thought how sad his lot must be, and my sympathies were aroused. I said, "Bob, is there anything I can do for you? I am your friend, and will do all I can to aid you." I spoke words of encouragement, and tried to cheer him up by saying that I thought he would not die. In this I used a little deceit, but it was to assuage his grief. I really thought he would die very soon. Then he told me what he wanted. He said, "I am going to die; my angel mother came to my bedside last night; I saw her as plainly as I see you now. She said she was coming soon to take me out of prison and out of this world of sorrow. Yes, I am going to die, but I am afraid to cross the dark river. When I am dying I want you to sit by my bedside, take hold of my hand and go with me down the vale of death as far as possible. It will do me so much good. Will you do this for me? It is the only favor I ask." I told him I would only be too glad to do so if it would aid him in the moment when life shrinks from the shadow of death, but told him I thought he would not die--another little fib on my part. However, that did no harm, for I failed to convince him he would live. About 1 o'clock A. M. a couple of nights after this, one of the watchers came to my cot and said Bob wanted to see me immediately. I felt his time had come. Hastily dressing, I went to his bedside. I found him dying. I sat down by his side and took his hand in mine. I was going with him to the dark river. He pressed my hand and a smile of satisfaction passed over his countenance. He said, "You are so kind." I spoke words of hope and encouragement suitable to the time and occasion. I sat thus for some little time; his limbs grew cold; his eyes became glassy; the death dew was dampening his brow. It was evident he would soon breathe his last. Poor, helpless, friendless negro! What was your life's mission? Many similar pious thoughts flitted through my mind. Without a friend! Among all the millions of earth he could not call one by the endearing name of friend! Sad, sad thought! After I had remained there some time, expecting every breath to be his last, what was my astonishment to discover his hands and limbs growing warmer. The crisis of his disease was passed. No dark river this time! Soon his "glassy" eyes were closed, and in a few moments he began to snore! Disappointed, I dropped that black "paw," and went back to my cot. That little darkey is still alive. He often asked me after that if I wanted to take another trip down to "de da'k ribbah!" The prisoners who die in the penitentiary are buried in the graveyard of the institution, unless they have friends who will pay for the removal of the body. Just outside the prison walls is the cemetery. Its location is a walnut grove in a deep ravine. The first graves were dug near the eastern side of the cemetery and as near to each other as possible. As fast as this space is filled with graves it is covered over many feet deep with the slate and dirt taken from the coal mines, a few yards distant. Beneath this rubbish will the prisoners sleep until the trump shall sound and the dead arise. Prisoners dying are dressed in a neat suit of black clothes, if the body is to be forwarded to the friends; otherwise, the burial suit consists of a cotton shirt and a pair of drawers of the same material. The coffin is very plain, and is made in one of the prison shops. CHAPTER VII. ESCAPES FROM PRISON Occasionally there is a man shrewd enough to make his escape from prison. When a convict has almost served out his time he is generally selected to perform the duties of a "trusty," and allowed to go outside the prison enclosure. By good conduct other prisoners gain the confidence of the officials, and there are instances where these men, though they may have several months to serve, are permitted to go beyond the walls, doing duty for the prison. But they are rare. Generally a convict, if he has long to serve, is not trusted to any great extent. At times these "trusties," although they may have but a few weeks to remain, cannot successfully resist the temptation to escape. Ordinarily the escaped convict is overtaken and brought back. I recollect an instance where two young fellows were thus trusted. One of them had two months to serve, and the other but twenty-seven days. They were given employment at the reservoir, over a mile from the prison. No officer was guarding them. They made an attempt to get away. After being absent a few hours they were missed from their post of duty. The alarm was given, and officers started in pursuit. They were overtaken and caught about five miles distant, hid in the brush. They had concealed themselves in this place, intending to make their escape in the darkness of the coming night. The officers in search accidentally came upon them in this brush patch. They were taken back to prison. They were compelled to work for thirty days with a ball and chain attached to each of their limbs, after which they were taken to Leavenworth, to the District Court, where they plead guilty to the charge of attempting to escape from the prison. Each of them received a sentence of one year at hard labor in the penitentiary for this foolishness. After their present sentence has expired, they will have to enter immediately upon the other for trying to escape. At this writing, both of these convicts are digging coal in the mines. They are not trusted now. Another prisoner, a much older man than these two whom I have described, tried to escape; he got as far as Ohio before the officers secured him. During the late rebellion this man was a captain in the army. He became involved in a quarrel with some of his relatives and was sent to the penitentiary for forgery. On account of his previous good character, on coming to the penitentiary he was immediately set to work as a "trusty." Some few months after he was sent to the Missouri River, over a mile from the prison, to do some work. No officer was with him. Going down to the banks of the river he discovered a boat tied to the shore. In a subsequent conversation, he told me when he saw that boat it suggested the thought of escaping. His wife and children were in the State of Ohio. They had removed there since his conviction. "The boat," said he, "seemed to say, 'get in and cross the river.' I thought of my family. Oh, how I longed to be with them! I could not resist the temptation. I had some old overalls, and I drew these on over the stripes. I got into the boat, rowed across, and hid in the woods on the Missouri side until night. During the night-time I walked, and during the daytime would lay by in the woods, occasionally going out to a house begging something to eat. At last I reached my home in Ohio. I was footsore and almost starved when I arrived." Continuing his narrative, he informed me that he had no peace of mind. He was in constant dread of pursuing officers. Every man he saw he took to be a detective in search of him. At last, so great was his alarm and uneasiness, that he telegraphed the prison officials where he was. The warden went and brought him back, For punishment he remained in the dungeon several days and nights, and wore the ball and chain for over a month. This man has not been tried yet for making his escape. It will probably be overlooked because of the change in the prison administration. His original sentence was five years. Another prisoner made his escape, was away for five years; was then discovered, brought back, and is at present eight hundred feet below the surface, digging coal. One day a young man was brought to the penitentiary under three years' sentence. He was handsome and had winning ways. It was not long before the officers had learned to like him. He was a natural confidence man. It was difficult to resist his influence. After he had been in the penitentiary a short time he was made a "trusty." For awhile he was very dutiful and obedient. He was no fool. He gained the confidence of the officers so that many of them would have confided their pocketbooks to his care. He was permitted to go beyond the prison walls to quite a distance. Finally he walked off. That convict has never been heard of since. He was a slick one. After his departure it was found out that he had walked away from the Colorado prison in the same manner. The following is an instance of the shrewdness practiced in effecting escapes. A hog-thief was convicted and sent to the prison. He related that while traveling through the southern part of Kansas, a mere tramp, passing by a farmer's residence, he saw a number of hogs in a lot adjoining a grove some distance to the rear of the house. Passing up through the grove, unperceived, he removed one of the boards and drove the hogs out through the woods into a small pond where they covered themselves with mud. Then driving them around on to the main traveled road, he started with them for town some five miles off. As he was driving along the highway, the owner of the hogs met him and inquired where he was taking them. He replied that he was going to market. The farmer said he was making up a car load and would give him as much as he could get in town. After some further conversation the parties agreed upon the price, the farmer buying his own hogs from the tramp, who went on his way rejoicing. An hour or two thereafter the farmer, going out into his field to see his hogs, found they were gone, and upon examining those recently purchased, which by this time had rubbed all the mud off, he discovered it was his own hogs he had purchased from the tramp. He immediately set out in pursuit of the thief, whose whereabouts were soon determined. The thief, after receiving the money, went to town, took a train, but stopped off at a little place nearby, and instead of secreting himself for a time, began to drink. While dissipating he was overtaken, arrested, and held for trial. Had he left whisky alone, he could have escaped. At the trial, which soon followed, he was convicted of grand larceny, and on his arrival at the prison was immediately put into the coal mines. After working there for a week or ten days he became dissatisfied, and decided to secure a position on the surface. One morning, as the prisoners were being let down into the mines, apparently in a fit he fell into the arms of a prisoner; when he landed at the bottom he was in the worst part of his spasm; the officer in charge ordered him sent to the top as soon as he had partially recovered, stating that it was dangerous to have a man working in the mines who was subject to fits, as he might not only kill himself but be the cause of the death of others with him in the cage. To make his case more plausible, when the convict learned that the officer had ordered him to the top, he began pleading to remain in the mines and work, stating that he enjoyed the work and would rather do service there than on the top. But the officer persisted; he was sent up and reported to the deputy warden, who set him to quarrying rock. This was no better job than working in the coal mines. Providing himself for the occasion, by putting a piece of soap in his mouth, assuming a frenzy and frothing at the mouth, he would almost deceive a physician as to the nature of his malady. Later, it was decided that he was unable to do duty on the rock pile, and was placed in the "Crank House" with the cranks. Those prisoners, who have either lost their mind or are suffering with temporary insanity, not incurable insane, or wholly idiotic, are classed as "cranks," and have an apartment by themselves. As a rule this class of individuals are harmless and not guarded very closely. Their cells are not locked up until nine o'clock at night; the others at six o'clock. During the noon hour the officers leave them alone, in fact, being of a supposed harmless disposition they are at no time closely guarded. This fellow improved the opportunities afforded by the noon hour. He would go into one of the towers and work as long as he dared cutting the bars with a saw he had made out of a knife. He labored in this manner until one of the bars was sawed so near off that a little push would remove it. One afternoon he bade the other cranks good-bye, telling them he was going to fly that night. They made sport of him, thinking he was growing more insane. He went so far as to say good-bye to the officer, stating that he had received a revelation from God the previous night, and that an angel was coming to liberate him. The officer, of course, thought he was getting more and more insane. When night came he slipped out of his cell and secreted himself in a portion of the cell house where it was dark, and when the officer came to lock up, the crazy hog-thief was not missed. Along in the night he pushed aside the bars and made his escape. This was the last the prison authorities heard of him until they learned he was arrested at St. Joseph, Missouri, and held there on a charge of grand larceny for the same thing that he was in the Kansas penitentiary--stealing hogs. An officer went up there to get and bring him back to the Kansas penitentiary, but the St. Joseph authorities refused to give him up. He was tried there and sent to the Missouri penitentiary. After his term expires in that place he will have to serve out his original term in the Kansas penitentiary. "The way of the transgressor is hard," even if he does pretend to have fits. One of the most interesting and perilous attempts at escaping from the penitentiary was the following: In the evening, after the day's work is over in the mines, the convicts are all lifted to the top, as before stated, and remain in their cells over night. One Saturday night a convict, with a twenty years' sentence, resolved that he would remain in the mines, and try to effect his escape. He had supplied himself with an extra lot of bread and meat, and hid himself in the darkness of the mines when the men were marched out in the evening at six o'clock. When the count of the prisoners was made at the evening lock up, this man was found missing. As he had not been seen since the prisoners were taken from the mines, it was believed, correctly, that he had remained below. There was nothing done about the matter that night, the officers knowing there would be no opportunity of effecting his escape during the night-time, as they had carefully closed the shafts at the top. They did not set any watch until the next day. During that Saturday night this convict climbed eight hundred feet to the top of one of the shafts. The wooden beams running across the shaft are about five feet apart. Standing erect on one of these beams he threw his arms over the one above his head, and would swing up to it. In this manner he worked his way to the top of the shaft. When he reached the surface how great was his disappointment, for instead of finding the shaft open, as he supposed it would be, he found that the cover was down and that he was unable to get out of the shaft, and thus out of the coalfields into the woods adjoining. When he discovered this there was nothing to do but descend, This was a perilous undertaking. The cross-beams were covered with oil which, dripping down from the machinery above, made them very slippery. A number of times he came near falling, and if he had done so, he would have reached the bottom a mangled mass. It required nearly the entire night for the ascent and descent. When he reached the bottom he took a lunch of bread and meat, went to the base of the other shaft, which is about one hundred yards distant, and began his ascent of it, with the hope he would find it open. It was daylight when he reached the top. Two officers had been stationed there to watch him. Arriving at the surface and just ready to get out, they took charge of, and marched him into the presence of the deputy warden. When the convict related the narrow escapes from death in his efforts for liberty, the deputy warden was so affected he refused to punish him. Out in the world, with the blessings of liberty all around us, we do not realize the priceless boon they are to us; but when we stand in the presence of the perils that are undertaken in order to gain them when deprived of their benefits, we begin to comprehend the real value of these sacred immunities of citizenship. CHAPTER VIII. THE PRISONERS Thinking that it may be interesting to some of my readers, I will now give, in brief form as possible, a history of some of the most noted inmates of the penitentiary. FEMALE CONVICTS He must be of a very unsympathizing nature who does not feel for his brother, who, though sinful and deserving, is imprisoned, and excluded from the society of friends. While we are sad when we behold our fellowmen in chains and bondage, how much sadder do we become when, passing through the prisons, we behold those of the same sex with our sisters, wives and mothers. In this land, blessed with the most exalted civilization, woman receives our highest regard, affection and admiration. While she occupies her true sphere of sister, wife or mother, she is the true man's ideal of love, purity and devotion. When, overcome by temptation, she falls from her exalted sphere, not only do men feel the keenest sorrow and regret, but, if it is possible, the angels of God weep. In the Kansas penitentiary, just outside the high stone wall, but surrounded by a tight board fence some fifteen feet high, stands a stone structure--the female prison. In this lonely place, the stone building, shut out from society, there are thirteen female prisoners. During the week these women spend their time in sewing, patching and washing. But very few visitors are allowed to enter this department, so that the occupants are permitted to see very few people. Their keepers are a couple of Christian ladies, who endeavor to surround them with all the sunshine possible. For these inmates the week consists of one continual round of labor. It is wash, patch and sew from one year's end to the other. The Sabbath is spent in reading and religious exercises. In the afternoon the chaplain visits them and preaches a discourse. Several of these women are here for murder. When a woman falls she generally descends to the lowest plane. A few days before I was discharged, there came to the prison a little old grandmother, seventy years of age. She had lived with her husband fifty-two years, was the mother of ten children, and had fifteen grand-children. She and her aged husband owned a very beautiful farm and were in good circumstances, probably worth $50,000. Her husband died very suddenly. She was accused of administering poison. After the funeral, she went over into Missouri to make her home with one of her married daughters. She had not been there but a short time when her eldest son secured a requisition, and had his aged mother brought back to Kansas and placed on trial for murder. She was convicted. The sentence imposed, was one year in the penitentiary, and at the end of which time she was to be hung by the neck until dead, which in Kansas is equivalent to a life sentence. The old woman will do well if she lives out one year in prison. She claims that her eldest son desires her property, and that was the motive which induced him to drag her before the tribunal of justice to swear her life away, During her long life of three score and ten years, this was the only charge against her character for anything whatever. She always bore a good name and was highly esteemed in the neighborhood in which she lived. Another important female prisoner is Mary J. Scales. She is sixty-five years of age, and is called Aunt Mary in the prison. She is also a murderess. She took the life of her husband, and was sentenced to be hung April 16, 1871. Her sentence was commuted to a life imprisonment. For eighteen years this old woman has been an inmate of the Kansas penitentiary. While she is very popular inside the prison, as all the officers and their families are very fond of Aunt Mary, it seems that she has but few, if any, friends on the outside. Several old men have been pardoned since this old woman was put into prison, and if any more murderers are to be set at liberty, it is my opinion that it will soon be Aunt Mary's turn to go out into the world to be free once more. MRS. HENRIETTA COOK This woman was twenty-five years of age when she came to the Kansas penitentiary to serve out a life's sentence. She was charged with having poisoned her husband. For fifteen years she remained in close confinement, at the end of which time she received a pardon, it being discovered that she was innocent. When Mrs. Cook entered the prison she was young and beautiful, but when she took her departure she had the appearance of an old, broken-down woman. Fifteen years of imprisonment are sufficient to bring wrinkles to the face, and change the color of the hair to gray. This prisoner made the mistake of her life in getting married. She, a young woman, married an old man of seventy. She was poor, he was rich. After they had been married a short time she awoke one morning to find her aged husband a corpse at her side. During the night he had breathed his last. The tongue of gossip soon had it reported that the young and beautiful wife had poisoned her husband to obtain his wealth, that she might spend the rest of her days with a younger and handsomer man, After burial the body was exhumed and examined. The stomach showed the presence of arsenic in sufficient quantity to produce death. The home of the deceased was searched and a package of the deadly poison found. She was tried, and sufficient circumstantial evidence produced to secure her conviction, and she was sent to prison for life. A short time before this sad event happened, a young drug clerk took his departure from the town where the Cook family resided, where he had been employed in a drug store, and took up his abode in California. After fifteen years of absence he returned. Learning of the Cook murder, he went before the board of pardons and made affidavit that the old gentleman was in the habit of using arsenic, and that while a clerk in the drug store he had sold him the identical package found in the house. Other evidence was adduced supporting this testimony, and the board of pardons decided that the husband had died from an overdose of arsenic taken by himself and of his own accord. The wife was immediately pardoned. How is she ever to obtain satisfaction for her fifteen years of intense suffering. The great State of Kansas should pension this poor woman, who now is scarcely able to work; and juries in the future should not be so fast in sending people to the penitentiary on flimsy, circumstantial evidence. The other female prisoners are nearly all in for short terms, and the crime laid to their charge is that of stealing. INDIANS IN THE PENITENTIARY John Washington and Simmons Wolf are two young Indians tried and convicted in the U. S. District Court on the charge of rape. They were sentenced to be hung. After conviction these Indians were taken to the penitentiary to await the day set for their execution. In the meantime an application was made to the President to change the sentence of death to that of life imprisonment. The change was made. These two Indians were placed in the coal mines on their arrival, where they are at the present time getting out their daily task of coal. They both attend the school of the prison, and are learning very rapidly. Prior to this, Washington served out a one-year sentence in the Detroit house of correction for stealing. He is a bad Indian. At present there are fourteen Indians incarcerated in the Kansas penitentiary. The Indian pines for his liberty more than the white man or negro. The burdens of imprisonment are therefore greater for him to bear. One young Indian was sent to the penitentiary whose history is indeed touching. Ten Indians had been arrested in the Territory by U. S. marshals for horse-stealing. They were tried and convicted in the U. S. District Court. Their sentence was one year in the State's prison. On their arrival at the penitentiary they were sent to the mines to dig coal. This was a different business from being supported by the government and stealing horses as a diversion. The Indians soon wanted to go home. One of them was unable to get out his task of coal. The officer in charge thought he was trying to shirk his work and reported him to the deputy warden. The young Indian was placed in the dungeon. He remained there several days and nights. He begged piteously to get out of that hole of torture. Finally the officers released him and sent him back to the mines. While in the dungeon he contracted a severe cold. He had not been in the mines more than a couple of days, after being punished, when he gave suddenly out and was sent to the hospital, where in a few days he died. That young Indian was murdered, either in that dungeon or in the mines. A few weeks before, he came to the penitentiary from roaming over the prairies, a picture of health. It did not take long for the Kansas penitentiary to "box him up" for all time to come. He now sleeps "in the valley," as the prison graveyard is called. Another one of the same group did not fare quite so badly as his associate. The one I am now describing was sent with the rest of his companions to the bottom of the mines. He remained there during the first day. A short time after he went down on the following morning he became sick. He began to cry. The officer in charge sent him to the surface. He was conducted to the cell-house officer, Mr. Elliott. I was on duty that day in the cell house, and Mr. Elliott, on the arrival of the Indian, ordered me to show him to the hospital. After we had started on our journey from the cell house to the hospital building to see the doctor, and had got out of hearing of the officer, I said, "Injun, what's the matter with you?" This question being asked, he began to "boo-hoo" worse than ever, and, rubbing his breast and sides with his hands, said, between his sobs, "Me got pecce ecce." I was not Indian enough to know what "pecce ecce" meant. In a few moments we reached the hospital building, and I conducted my charge into the nicely furnished room of the prison physician, and into the immediate presence of that medical gentleman. Removing my cap, and making a low bow, as required, I said, "Dr. Nealley, permit me to introduce a representative of the Oklahoma district, who needs medical attention." While I was relieving myself of this little declamation the young Indian was standing at my side sobbing as if he had recently buried his mother. "Reynolds, what is the matter with him?" asked the doctor. I then turned to my charge and said, "Injun, tell the doctor what ails you." Mister Indian then began rubbing his sides and front, with tears rolling down his face, and sobbing like a whipped school-boy, he exclaimed, "Me got pecce ecce." "There, doctor," said I, "you have it. This Indian has got that dreadful disease known as 'pecce ecce. '" The physician, somewhat astonished, frankly informed me that he never had heard of such a disease before. I was in a similar boat, for I had never heard of such words prior to this. The sick Indian was unable to talk the language of the white man. The doctor then sent down into the mines for another of the Indians who could speak English and had acted as an interpreter. On entering the office, the doctor said to him, "Elihu," for that was his name, "this Indian says he has an attack of pecce ecce. Now what does he mean by that?" During all this time the sick Indian kept rubbing his body and sobbing. What was our great astonishment and amusement when the interpreter informed us that "pecce ecce" meant nothing more nor less than "belly-ache." The doctor administered the proper remedy for this troublesome disease, and the Indian was sent back to the mines. He had not dug coal more than an hour when he had another attack, and began his crying, and was sent to the top. He kept this up until he wore out the patience of the officers, and they finally decided to take him out of the mines altogether and give him work at the surface. Even here, every few minutes the Indian would have an attack of "pecce ecce," and would start for the hospital. At last, the chaplain, taking pity on the poor outcast, wrote to President Cleveland, and putting the case in a very strong light, was successful in securing a pardon for the Indian. That "cheeky" red youth was no fool. He belly-ached himself out of that penitentiary. I trust I may never have to spend any more of my time in prison. If I do, I think about the first day I will get a dose of "pecce ecce," and keep it up, and see if I can't get a pardon. MALE PRISONERS Ed. Stanfield.--The history of this prisoner is as follows: He was about nineteen years of age when he entered the prison, which was some five years ago. His people reside in South Bend, Indiana. His father, prior to his death, was a prominent judge. The family was wealthy, influential and highly respected. It consisted of the parents and two sons. Ed. proved to be the black lamb of the flock. At the early age of nine years, being sent away to school, he bade all good-bye one day and followed in the wake of a circus show which was holding forth in the town where he was attending school, He was not heard of anymore for several years. His parents spent vast sums of money attempting to ascertain his whereabouts. They finally heard of him in the following accidental manner: His father, Judge Stanfield, had been out in Nebraska looking after some land he had recently purchased, and, on his return home, sitting in the cars, purchased a newspaper of the newsboy as he came around. Looking over the paper he caught the name of his prodigal son. There, before him, was the account of his son who, having knocked down a prosecuting attorney in broad daylight with a coupling pin, with the intention of robbery, had been tried, convicted and sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years, and was on that day safely lodged behind the walls. The sad father, on reaching home, dispatched his elder son to the Kansas prison to ascertain if it was his younger son who was a convict. The young man came on and soon satisfied himself of the identity of the long-lost brother. He returned home and made the report to his parents. From that day Judge Stanfield was a broken-hearted man. He soon grieved himself to death over the sad fate of his boy, and the disgrace he had brought upon the family. In making his will, however, he gave Ed. an equal share in the estate with his brother. After the death of the father, the mother began to put forth efforts to secure a pardon for her son. His crime was so heinous and so uncalled for that it was necessary for some time to elapse before an application was presented. At the earliest moment possible the wheel began to turn. The prosecuting attorney of Bourbon County, who had been knocked down with an iron coupling pin, was soon satisfied, for the family had wealth. It is of course unknown how much money was passed to him to make his heart tender and his eyes weep over the erring child that had come so near getting away with his gold watch and chain. A petition was soon in circulation for his release, signed by many prominent citizens. An open pocketbook will easily secure a petition for pardon, it makes but little difference as to the "gravamen" of the crime. The convict promised not to engage again in this pleasant pastime for filthy lucre. The mother of the young man came on from the East and remained until she had secured a pardon for her boy. The young man stated in our hearing that it took one thousand big dollars to secure his pardon. A great many who are acquainted with the facts in the case are not slow in saying that if Stanfield had been a poor, friendless boy, he never would have received a pardon, but would have had to serve his time out. There are more than five hundred men in that prison whose crimes are of a less serious nature, and who are far more deserving of executive clemency than Stanfield. It is said that "rocks talk" in the penitentiaries as well as on the outside. The history of this criminal will show my boy readers the future of many of those who, in early youth, ran away from home, and go out into the world to mingle in bad company. Cyrenius B. Hendricks.--This man was sent from Chatauqua County. He was twenty-seven years of age when sentenced. His crime was murder in the first degree. The particulars are as follows: He had been down to the Indian Territory looking after his own and his father's cattle. He was absent on this business some little time. On his return his wife informed him that a neighbor had been talking about her in his absence, and had given her a bad character, and that on account of it she had become the talk of the entire neighborhood. The enraged husband compels his wife to go with him, and they proceed to the neighbor's house. Hendricks took his gun with him. When they reached the neighbor's gate they halted and called the unsuspecting man out of his home. Hendricks then asked him if the charges were true as to his talking about Mrs. Hendricks. The neighbor neither affirmed nor denied the statement. At this Hendricks leveled his gun and shot him dead on the spot. He and his wife in a few hours after were arrested, and, as it was too late to take them to the county seat that night, they were guarded in an old log house in the neighborhood. Hendricks was fastened to the wall with a log-chain. During the night some one, supposed to be the brother of the murdered man, came to the window of the house in which they were confined, and, placing the muzzle of a gun through the window, shot Hendricks. The ball struck him near one of the eyes, rendering him blind in that eye, but did not kill him. The next day the two prisoners were taken to jail. They were tried, and both found guilty of murder in the first degree. The husband was sentenced to be hanged, while the wife received a life sentence. They were both taken to the penitentiary. After they had been there a short time Hendricks lost the other eye, from sympathy, as they call it. For a time the husband and wife remained on good terms. They were allowed to visit each other once a month. After a while she tired of him and would have nothing more to do with him. She served four years, and received a pardon. Hendricks still remains in prison, and is a pitiable and helpless wreck. He is totally blind, and his nervous system entirely shattered. He can scarcely lift food to his mouth. He is so weak that it is with difficulty he walks about the prison park. An aged prisoner waits on him constantly to care for his wants, and to see that he does not commit suicide. Abandoned by his wife and friends, left to his own sad fate, totally blind and physically helpless, he is another testimonial to the truth that "the way of the transgressor is hard," and it also illustrates how much trouble may arise from using that little member called the tongue in an indiscriminate manner. Since my discharge from the prison I have learned of the death of Hendricks. Ed. Miner.--One of the men whose history will be interesting to the general reader is Ed. Miner. This man is forty-nine years of age. He served in the Missouri penitentiary two years on the charge and conviction of assault and battery with intent to kill. After the expiration of his sentence, drifting down the current of crime, he next embarked in stealing horses. He was arrested, tried and convicted. He received a five years' sentence, served his time, and went out into the world a free man. Again falling into bad company, he tries his hand once more at the same old trade of riding fast horses, is again caught, tried, convicted, and received another sentence of five years in the prison, which he is now serving out. As a prisoner, Miner is one of the very best. He never violates a prison regulation and was never known to be punished. During the war he served his country faithfully for four years as a member of the 12th Illinois Infantry. At the close of the war, and just before the troops were discharged, one day on review, the governor of the State of Illinois being present, Miner was asked by the commanding officer to step from the ranks, and was introduced to the governor as the bravest and most daring man in the command. The governor gave him a hearty shake of the hand, and afterward sent him a neat little golden medal as a token of his esteem. Miner now wears this suspended on a small gold chain about his neck. He is very proud of it. One of our prison officers, Mr. Elliott, was in the army with Miner, and says there never was a braver man. It may be a surprise to the reader that such a brave man, such a bold defender of his country's rights, would now be filling a felon's cell. The answer to this is easily given. It is all contained in the one word--liquor. Miner loves strong drink, and when he is under its influence appears to have no sense. He is then ready for the commission of any offense, ready to participate in any kind of deviltry. Were it not for this baneful appetite there is every reason to believe he would be a highly respected citizen. I asked him one day what he would do when he got out. His reply was, "I don't know; if I could not get the smell of whisky I could be a man; it has downed me so many times that I fear my life is now a wreck; the future looks dreary; awful dreary." With this remark Ed. went away to attend to his duties. My eyes followed the old soldier, and, reader, do you blame me when I say to you that from within my heart there came forth the earnest desire that God in some way would save that man, who, away from strong drink and the influence of wicked companions, is a good-hearted, generous man. Gordon Skinner.--A young man of twenty, possessed of an innocent, boyish appearance, whom none would take for a murderer, was sent up from Ellis County. His victim was Andrew Ericson, a respectable and worthy citizen about thirty-seven years of age. Skinner claims the shooting was purely accidental; that he was carelessly handling a six-shooter when it went off, the ball striking Ericson. He claims, also, that he and his victim were good friends, and that he never had any intention of killing him. The other side of the story is that there lived near Hayes City a beautiful girl, and that Skinner and Ericson were rivals for her heart and hand. Ericson, being much older than young Skinner, possessed of some property, and doubtless more skillful in the art of winning hearts, was beginning to crowd his rival to the wall. Young Skinner, not being able to endure the sight of his fair one being thus ruthlessly torn away by an old bachelor of thirty-seven, met him one day and the two engaged in a spirited controversy, when Skinner drew his revolver and shot him. Ericson lived several days afterward. Just before death, Ericson begged of his friends not to have Skinner arrested, stating he was not to blame. Skinner, moneyless, friendless, a comparative stranger in the neighborhood, his people all residing in Phillips County, this State, and, with the prejudices of the Ericson people against him, was tried, convicted and sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment. If the Board of Pardons ever takes the trouble to investigate this case, with a view of tempering justice with mercy, they will find it worthy. Skinner is a good prisoner, and has ingratiated himself in the good opinion of the officers. But the weight of a twenty years' term is heavy, and is visibly affecting his health. Death should not be left to accomplish what the Board of Pardons should take pleasure in doing. This delicate boy should be sent home to his parents. FREAKS OF JUSTICE Robert W. Corey was sent from Wyandotte County with a sentence of three years for stealing cattle. This is a remarkable case. Corey is a blind man, and had been totally blind for thirteen months prior to his arrival at the prison; he was a taxidermist, and some years ago had taken a contract for furnishing stuffed birds for the museum of the Agricultural College of Ames; Iowa. This business requires the use of arsenic; carelessly handling it destroyed his eyesight. How a man, blind as he is, and was, at the commission of the alleged offense, could drive off and sell these cattle, is a mystery. The man who swore that he committed the theft is now an inmate of the institution, sent here for stealing since the arrival of blind Corey. This man now says that he is not positive that Corey took the cattle. On the trial, however, he swore it was Corey, and that he was positive of that fact! About the the truth of the matter is, he was the villain that took the cattle and swore it on the blind man. Corey has only a few months to remain in prison at this writing. It is terrible to heap such a disgrace upon as helpless a creature as Corey. His case calls to mind another in the penitentiary. He is a colored man who cannot write, by the name of Thomas Green, from Fort Scott, serving out a five years' sentence for forging a check for $1,368. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Taking an appeal to the Supreme Court, the judgment of the lower court was set aside; but at his second trial, he was found guilty again, and is now in prison serving out his sentence. How can one commit the crime of forgery who cannot write? Probably some "Smart Aleck" of a district judge can explain. I admit that it is beyond my powers of comprehension. It may be law, but there is not much COMMON SENSE in it. OH! RIGHTEOUS JUDGE! Gus Arndt is the next. The history of this man will show the freaks of whisky when enclosed in the hide of a raw Dutchman. Gus came to this country a number of years ago, and went to work for his uncle in Wabaunsee County. Not being able to speak English, his uncle took advantage of him, no doubt, for he paid him only ten dollars a month for his services as a farm hand during the summer season, and nothing but his board during the winter. Gus remained here for some time, three or four years, working at these wages. He had learned and could understand and speak English a little. One day as he was pitching grain in the field an Irishman came by who resided on a farm a few miles distant. Needing a hand and noticing that Arndt handled himself in a satisfactory manner, he offered him twenty dollars per month to go and work for him. Arndt accepted his proposition, and agreed to report at the Irishman's farm the following Monday, this being Thursday when the bargain was made. That night the German settled up with his uncle, and received the balance of his wages, some $75. He had been in America long enough to reach that point in our civilization that, after working awhile, and getting a balance ahead, he must take a rest and go on a "spree." He started for the nearest town. For a couple of days he fared sumptuously, constantly drinking. He at length reached a point below zero. Half crazed, he staggers off to the fence across the way where the farmers who had come to town to do their shopping on Saturday had hitched their teams, and, untying a horse that was hitched to a buggy, Gus thought he would take a ride. Lumbering into the buggy, as a drunken man can, he drove down the main street of the town in broad daylight and out into the country. In an hour or so the owner getting ready to return, misses his horse and buggy. Making numerous inquiries about them and getting nothing satisfactory, he places the matter in the hands of a sheriff, who commences a search for the missing property. Not finding it in town he sends men out on the roads leading to the country, himself taking one. In a very short time he overtakes the noted horse-thief. Gus was sitting in the buggy sound asleep; the lines were hanging down over the dashboard, and the old horse was marching along at a snail's pace. He was out some two miles from town, and, no doubt, had traveled at this gait all the way. He was faced about, and, assisted by the sheriff, drove back to town. He was then placed under arrest and sent to jail, subsequently had his trial, and for this little drive was sent to the penitentiary for five years. Of a more unjust sentence I never heard. Gus served his time out and a better behaved person was never behind the walls. When he regained his liberty, instead of returning to Wabaunsee County, and to his uncle's house, he finds his way to Marysville, Kansas. Here reside a number of prosperous German farmers, and the ex-convict soon got work. When he applied for work he forgot to tell his employer that he had just finished up a contract for the State of Kansas. Some months had elapsed and Gus had worked hard and industriously, had accumulated a neat little sum of money, and began to feel happy once more. At this time a man passed through the country that was acquainted with Arndt's antecedents, and being a dirty dog he thought it was his duty to inform the farmer that his hired man was an ex-convict, horse-thief and a desperado of the worst type. Some men are so officious and are so anxious to do their duty when it is in their power to injure a fellow-man who is trying to earn an honest living. Gus immediately got the "bounce." He was informed by his employer that he did not want to make his home a harbor for horse-thieves. Gus took his wages and clothes and started for Marysville. He could not bear the idea of being discharged because of his former misfortune. He again applies to the bottle for consolation. He goes on another spree. When crazed with liquor he acted just as he did before; he goes to a hitching post, and unties a team of horses attached to a buggy. One of the horses had had its leg broken at some former time, and was almost worthless, while the other one was very old. He seemed to select the very worst team he could find. Maybe it was the buggy he was after! He was probably very tired and wanted an easy place to rest. He unhitched them just as if they had been his own. It was in the afternoon. The streets were full of people. Gus crawled into the buggy in his half drunken manner and started off down the road. When found by the sheriff some two hours after he had gone, about half a mile from town, the old horses were standing at one side of the road and the drunken Dutchman was lying in the buggy sound asleep, with one bottle of whisky uncorked, the contents of which had run out and over his clothes, and another bottle in his pocket untouched. He had evidently gone out for a drive. He was taken to jail, and the news soon spread that he was an ex-convict and horse-thief. He was tried on a charge of stealing horses, and was returned to the penitentiary for a term of two years. Here were seven years' service for two drunks! Ancient Jacob, "how tuff!" After Gus had completed his narration to me he wound up by saying, "Ven I shall oudt git this time, I let von visky alones." BOVINE TROUBLE Woodward R. Lopeman was sent up from Neosho County for murder in the first degree. Under his sentence he was to be hanged at the close of the first year. This part of the sentence is never carried out in Kansas. The particulars of his crime are as follows: He was a well-to-do farmer residing in Neosho County, and never had any difficulty to amount to anything before this time. He was an old soldier and served his country faithfully and bravely for four years. For some trivial cause he and one of his neighbors had a little difficulty, but it was thought nothing would ever come of it, as each of them had been advised by their friends to bury their animosity before it should lead to graver results. Lopeman seemed willing to do this, but his irate neighbor would not meet him half way. One day a calf of Lopeman's, worth but a few dollars, got through the fence and over into his neighbor's pasture. Word was sent to the owner of the calf that if he would come over and pay damages for the trouble of penning it up he could have his property. This had a tendency to arouse a bad feeling in the heart of Lopeman; so, placing his revolver in his pocket, and asking his grown up son to accompany him, they went to the house of the neighbor and directly to the lot where the calf was shut in and commenced to lay down the bars to let it out, when the neighbor came from the house with his son, and Lopeman was ordered to leave the bars alone. The neighbor, who was a strong, muscular man, proceeded to chastise Lopeman; the two sons also got ready for an encounter. Lopeman, being by far the smaller man of the two, began to retreat slowly as his enemy advanced brandishing a club. When almost near enough Lopeman to strike him with the uplifted club, Lopeman, in self-defense, as he claims, drew his revolver and shot him. He fell lifeless to the ground. The son of the murdered man perceiving what was done, ran quickly into the house, and getting a double-barreled shotgun, came out and fired twice at Lopeman and his son. The shots did not take effect. Lopeman fired two shots at him. At this the son retired into the house, and Lopeman and son taking the almost worthless calf, which had been the cause of so much trouble, went to their home. Lopeman then went to the county seat and gave himself up to the authorities. As soon as the news spread over the neighborhood, excitement ran high and there was loud talk of lynching. The murdered man was very popular. His old neighbors smelled blood, and it was with some difficulty that they were prevented from taking the law into their own hands. Better judgment prevailed, however, and after six months the trial came off and the murderer was convicted and sentenced as aforesaid. THIS MAN WAS MY CELL MATE. He is something over sixty years of age, of medium height, and during his younger days must have been very hard to handle. The first evening we occupied the cell together he told me of all his troubles, and I learned from his own lips that I was to room with a murderer. I felt I would much rather be at home, than locked in that 4x7 cell with a man whose hands were dyed with the blood of his neighbor. My alarm somewhat subsided when the time came for retiring. The old man, as solemnly as the Apostle Paul would have done, took down the Bible, read a few verses, and then knelt down and prayed. I sat there in mute astonishment at the proceedings of this gray haired criminal. How was it possible for a man who was guilty of such a grave crime to be devout. He often told me that he had no consciousness whatever of guilt, nor the fear and dread of a murderer. I asked him if in his dreams he could not often see the face of his victim. With a shrug of the shoulders he admitted that he could. For six months this old man and myself occupied that small cell together, so small that it was very difficult for us to get by each other when the sleeping bunks were down. We never had the least trouble during the entire time. A kinder hearted man I never met. Whenever he received any little delicacies from home he would always divide with me, and in such a cheerful spirit that I soon came to think a good deal of the old man. If we had both been on the outside world I would not have desired a kinder neighbor. His son, later on, was convicted as an accomplice, and sent up for two years. The old man has hopes of a pardon in a few years. He has a wife and several children who are highly respected and much beloved in the neighborhood where they reside. They have the sympathy of all their neighbors in this affliction and bereavement. WHISKY AND WOMEN Doc. Crunk.--One of the many desperadoes now behind the prison walls of the Kansas penitentiary is this noted Texas outlaw. He is a native Texan, now nearly fifty years of age. After years of crime he was finally caught in the Indian Territory while introducing whisky among the Indians. He had his trial in the U. S. District Court, was convicted and sent to the penitentiary for three years. For a time during the war he was a confederate soldier. Becoming dissatisfied with the profession of arms, he deserted and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He gathered about him a few kindred spirits with which Southern Texas was infested, and organized a band of cattle and horse thieves. This band of banditti became so numerous that after a time it extended along the lower line of Texas into the Indian Territory and up into Kansas. Their ravages were also felt in Arkansas. They had a regular organized band, and stations where they could dispose of their stolen property. The cattle that were stolen were run to the frontiers and sold to cattlemen who were in collusion with them, and which latter were getting immensely rich out of the operations of these thieves. They would steal horses, run them off and sell them to buyers who knew they were purchasing stolen property. For years this gang flourished. Another mode of securing stock was the following: A great many estrays would be taken up and advertised. In every instance some member of the Crunk gang would claim the property under oath and take it away. The leader of these outlaws stood trial for nineteen different murders, and was acquitted each time. He could always prove an alibi. His assistants would come in and swear him clear every time. He was an intimate acquaintance and on friendly terms with the James boys, and related many trips that he had made with these noted and desperate men in their work of "seeking revenge," as he styled it. He has no love for a colored man, and as he works now in the prison with a number, pointing to them one day he said to me, "I wish I had a five-dollar note for each one of them black skunks I have killed since the wa'." He said he considered "a 'niggah' that wouldn't vote the way decent people wanted him to should not vote at all." Said he: "I know of a number that will not vote any mo'. I saw them pass in their last ballot." "The most money, made the easiest and quickest, was made by our men," said he, "as moonshiners in Montague County. We carried on this business successfully for a long time, but finally the U. S. marshals became too much for us, and we had to close up shop. We had several engagements with them; men were dropped on both sides, until finally we concluded to quit the business and return to our old trade of stealing cattle and horses. The way our moonshiner's nest was found out was very romantic. A young woman came into the district, and tried to get up a school, seemingly, but failed. I guess she did not try very hard to get scholars. At any rate she remained with a family in the neighborhood for some time, whom she claimed were her relatives. One of my men fell desperately in love with this young woman. He would be out riding with her, and, as none of us suspected anything, he would at times bring her over to our camp, and we taught her how to make whisky. She seemed deeply interested in the business. I told the boys several times that I was a little afraid of that 'gal,' but they laughed at me, and so I said, 'I can stand it if the rest of you can.' She even went so far as to become familiarly acquainted with all of us. We all got to thinking that she was a nice young woman, and her lover simply thought he had secured the finest prize in the world. But alas! At the proper time she fixed our camp. She proved to be a female detective from New York city. She gave away our fellows, and soon we were surrounded by a posse of U. S. marshals and their deputies. Her lover was captured and is now in the Texas penitentiary. Several of our boys were killed or wounded, and those of us who escaped made up our minds to go back to the old cattle trade." "What are you going to do, Doc.," said I, "when you get out of this place?" "Going back to Texas; hunt up the boys, and see if we can't find some more horses and cattle. One thing is certain I will never go to another penitentiary. I will swallow a dose of cold lead first." And, with this, the famous outlaw went off to his room in the mine to get out his task of coal to keep from being punished. Of the nine hundred criminals in the prison, probably there is not one of them who has seen so much of a life of crime as the famous Doc. Crunk. EIGHT TIMES A CONVICT Thomas A. Currens.--One of the most unique characters to be found in the striped ranks of the Kansas penitentiary is that of the man who is herein described. This convict is fifty-two years of age, and a native of Kentucky. His life, save a short time spent in the army, has been one of crime. He was a courageous lad. Leaving his home at the early age of ten years, thus deprived of all parental protection and restraints, he formed bad associations, and soon his future career was in the direction of crime. The greater part of his boyhood was spent in city and county jails and reform schools. At the age of twenty-two years he was convicted on a charge of horse-stealing and sent to the Frankfort, Ky., penitentiary for six years. After serving four years he was pardoned by the Legislature. He remained out of prison for the two following years. We next find him in "limbo" in Indiana. He was arrested, and twenty different charges were preferred against him. By pleading guilty to the count of stealing a wagon, the court dismissed the other cases and gave him a sentence of three years at hard labor. He was taken to the State's prison. Shortly after his arrival he was put to work running an engine during the night-time. After five months had passed away, Thomas, reaching the conclusion that he did not enjoy watching over an engine during the lonely hours of the night, determined to escape. Stealing an old suit of clothes belonging to an officer, which he drew on over his suit of stripes, he scaled the walls and was once more a free man. It was a cold winter's night. After traveling some distance through the woods his feet were almost frozen. Daylight was now approaching. He must find a place of hiding during the coming day. In a few hours he would be missed at the penitentiary. The alarm being given, the usual reward being offered, scores would be on the lookout for him. Approaching a farmyard, he sat down and cut up his striped pantaloons and wrapped up his almost frozen feet. He then crawled under a hay-stack. In this place he came near being discovered, for in a couple of hours the farmer came out to feed his cattle, and as chance would have it took the hay from the stack under which the convict was secreted. As he was removing the hay, several times prongs of the fork sank deep enough to penetrate the flesh of the runaway. He endured this pitchfork probing heroically while it lasted, and was thankful when the cattle had received sufficient provender. Here he remained until nightfall. He did not renew his journey until the farmer and his family had retired and were in the land of dreams. Almost starved, uninvited he enters the kitchen and helps himself to what he can find. His hunger being appeased, his old habit of taking things that he should leave alone, forced him into the bed-room of the sleeping farmer, and forced his hand into the pocket of the aforesaid granger's pantaloons, from which he took his pocketbook containing twenty dollars in money. He was now prepared for traveling. Continuing his journey for several miles, becoming very tired, he decided not to walk any longer as there was so much good horse-flesh in the vicinity. Near the hour of midnight, this weary tramp entered the farmyard of a wealthy old Indiana farmer, and going into the barn led out one of his fleetest steeds. Once more astride a good horse, Thomas felt like a free man. During the rest of the night he made good headway, and by the morning sun was up the rider and horse were many miles away from the place where first they met. Entering a small village, the horse was fed and nicely groomed. At the same time Thomas partook of a good breakfast, which he heartily enjoyed. The fates seemed to favor the man of crime. It is an old saying: "The devil looks after his own." A horse-buyer had arrived in the village a few days before. When the noon train came whistling up to the station, the convict having converted his horse into one hundred and twenty-five dollars, purchased a new suit of clothes, a silk hat, and a pair of kid gloves, and, representing himself to be a traveling salesman, getting aboard, soon reaches Chicago, where, soon after his arrival, he joined a band of crooks. He was never discovered by the Indiana prison officials. Fifteen years after his escape, he got a "pal" to wire the authorities of the Indiana penitentiary, and inquired of them what reward they would pay for the return of Thomas A. Currens, a convict who had effected his escape many years before. An answer came that if he would remain out of the State, he would never be molested. Wandering about several months after his escape, he arrives in Sedalia, Missouri. Among other little articles he was accused of stealing at this place was an eight hundred dollar barouche, the property of Judge Ferguson, of that place. Again this noted thief was arrested and confined in the county jail to await trial. He was not anxious for trial, for he knew the "yawning pen" was waiting to receive him. For eleven months he remained in this jail, having his trial continued from term to term. When his case was called up for the first time he feigned sickness. The next time one of the principal witnesses was absent, and thus for eleven months his case was continued. Thomas now yearned for freedom. How to get out of that jail was the problem. Another term of court would soon convene. He had no grounds for further continuance. Fortune favored him. At this time a man was arrested and placed in the same cell with Currens. The face of the new arrival was covered over with blotches. The next morning Currens in a confidential manner stated to the sheriff that his cell mate had the small-pox. Being interrogated the prisoner said he had been exposed recently, and a physician being called, on examination it was decided to remove him to the pest-house. Currens was sent along on account of his exposure to the contagion. An officer was placed in charge of the two jail-birds at the pest-house. During the night following their arrival at this out-of-the-way place, the officer was pounced upon by the two desperate criminals, bound hand and foot, and with a large cork placed between his teeth, was gently laid on the floor. His gold watch and chain, and all the loose change he had with him were taken from his person, and the two small-pox patients walked forth into the darkness and gloom of that night unattended by any friendly official. Thomas never believed in criminals traveling in groups, so he bade his companion an affectionate farewell. Wending his way to the southwestern portion of the State he was arrested for additional crimes and misdemeanors. Knowing that the officers had not sufficient evidence against him he bravely stood trial and was acquitted. However, as he was going forth from his prison cell a free man, much to his surprise, an official from Sedalia put in an appearance and took him back to the scene of his small-pox escapade. At his trial he was convicted and received a sentence of six and one-half years. He now took a cell in the Jefferson City penitentiary. After four years of imprisonment this notorious criminal makes an application for pardon, setting up an alibi as the basis of the application, and succeeded in influencing the Governor to believe the testimony, and was set at liberty, promising that he would leave the State of Missouri, never to return. The conscience of the said Thomas never troubled him over failing to keep his word with the officers of the law. He did not leave Missouri, as he agreed, but betook himself to the pleasant little city of Carthage. Scarcely three moths had elapsed before he found himself again in durance vile for stealing horses. He was tried, convicted and returned to Jefferson City penitentiary under a sentence of six years. He took an appeal to the Supreme Court. The judgment of the lower court was reversed. He was taken back to Carthage for another trial, and was convicted the second time, and again received a sentence of six years at hard labor in the penitentiary. As before, he appealed the case, and the governor, thinking the State was getting the worst of the matter, and that a large amount of costs were being made, pardoned the convict under another promise that he would leave the State. Currens, now following Greeley's advice, turns his eyes toward the setting sun. He crosses the Big Muddy, and plants his feet upon the sacred soil of Kansas. He makes a raid upon Lawrence, breaks into a house, and is caught in the act of trying to carry off the household goods. A courteous policeman takes charge of him--now deeply steeped in crime--soon landing him behind the bars. In the presence of the court he next makes a solemn statement that, prior to this, he had been a Sunday-school teacher; that misfortune had overtaken him, and he was forced to enter some friend's kitchen or starve. Those who listened to his pathetic appeal inform me that the stern judge was moved to tears, and that while he had contemplated giving the wayward Thomas six years, he made it three. This was the first introduction of our hero to the principal brown stone front of Lansing. It was not long after his arrival at the Kansas penitentiary before he gained the confidence of the authorities, and was made a "trusty." He had an easy place given him. His three years' sentence soon passed away. His term was reduced three months because of his excellent conduct while in prison. Bearing with him the good wishes of a majority of the prison officials, and followed by the prayers of the pious chaplain, he goes forth to engage in life's battle again. Thomas could not fully enjoy the sweets of liberty unless on horseback. He makes his way to the capital of Kansas, and engages at once in the dangerous business of stealing horses. He had not continued this course long before he was arrested, tried, convicted and returned to Lansing for five years more. Thomas had not been in the Kansas penitentiary the second time but a few months, when he called upon the chaplain, and with tears rolling down his face confessed he was a great sinner, promised to lead a different life, and urged the chaplain to pray for him. Delighted at the prospect of snatching such a brand from the eternal burning, the man of God took Thomas into a private room, and the two knelt down. The chaplain offered a fervent prayer that the loving Father would take to His embrace the returning, sinful prodigal. At the conclusion of this prayer the chaplain called upon the "sin sick soul" to pray for himself. This was an unexpected movement by the chaplain, and Thomas was hardly prepared for the emergency. However, he prayed. He was converted on the spot. At least, the chaplain thought so. Strange as it may appear to my readers, instead of this noted convict having to remain and serve out his five years' sentence, through the influence of this minister he secured a pardon. At the expiration of eighteen months the shrewd convict was a free man. That chaplain was "worked." The fortunate Thomas next visits Atchison. A farmer came to the city one day, driving a beautiful horse. The temptation was too great, and the man who had been an inmate of a penitentiary seven different times followed the unsuspecting farmer to his home, and that night rode away the coveted prize. The Atchison County Vigilance Committee traced and soon caught the guilty horse-thief, landing him in Atchison County's beautiful jail. Shortly after, Thomas had an interview with the county attorney, and it was agreed by and between them, if the horse-thief would plead guilty, he should be let off with one year in the penitentiary. To this the grave offender agreed, and, presenting himself before the tribunal of justice, Hon. W. D. Gilbert presiding, plead guilty. The county attorney being absent, the court gave Thomas, instead of twelve months, a year and a half at hard labor. I met him in the penitentiary a few days ago, and learned that he is putting forth an effort to secure a pardon on the ground that had he not been promised only a one year's sentence, he would have stood trial and been acquitted. He claims that he should be given his liberty when his one year is up. Thomas was out of the penitentiary long enough to go into the army and get a bullet through his ankle, and therefor draws a pension of twenty-four dollars per month. He takes good care of his money, and has enough on hand to enable him to get a good start in life when he obtains his freedom. He is a well-behaved prisoner. He is true to his pals in crime, never having been known to turn State's evidence. He has a mania for taking things that do not belong to him. He claims that he never would have been caught the last time had not his housekeeper "given him away." The two had a domestic quarrel, and in her efforts to get even, she told the authorities of his theft. After his trial and conviction, womanlike, she repented in sackcloth and ashes, but Thomas would have no more to do with her. Later, she went over into Missouri, where she has since died. One of the first things Thomas will do on regaining his liberty will be to secure another housekeeper, and probably the the next thing will be to steal some farmer's horse. This convict is now serving out his eighth term in the penitentiary. It is fearful to contemplate these human wrecks. A wasted life, golden opportunities unimproved, a dark and dismal future will constitute the death knell of such fallen beings. Young man, remember the life of this convict, and shun such a course. SKILLED LABOR William Hurst.--Some of the narratives in this book read like the story of Aladin's Lamp, and we have no doubt some of them so reading are absolutely true, while for the Lamp story nothing is claimed. For many ages men, and particularly those engaged in the literary field of thought, have discanted on the baseness of the passion of jealousy. There is no sense in being jealous. You are either loved or you are not, and hence the absolute foolishness of indulging the passion. William Hurst, whose history we now relate, is a man of rough personal appearance, Irish descent, and his age is now about fifty-five. Coming to Kansas at an early day, he settled in Doniphan County, and there courted and subsequently married one of Doniphan County's pretty girls. Time went along as usual, and in a few years there were several little cherubs that blessed the household of Hurst. But, as sometimes happens, the husband began to drink, love grew colder, the necessities of the family hourly grew greater, poverty in all its hideousness came to curse the home once so happy. The poor, distracted wife and mother did all she could, by taking in washing and ironing, to prevent the starvation of her little ones. The husband through his bleared eyes imagined he could see that other men were too friendly to his wife. He charged her with unfaithfulness to the marriage vows. She denied the charge. Only incensed by this he would beat and mistreat her out of all reason. For protection she had him arrested, intending to bind him over to keep the peace, but on the advice of officers, who are so full of it, she withdrew the charge and he was set at liberty. For a few days he was quiet, but soon the red liquor poured down his throat, and like a mountain devil stirred all the dark passions of his lost and ruined nature. He attempted to debauch his own daughter, and was only prevented by the physical force of the ever-watchful mother. The father (great God! is such a human being entitled to the endearing term?) turned upon her, and again, as had often happened, abused, kicked and mistreated her in a most shameful manner. She had him arrested a second time with the intention of binding him over to keep the peace. He pretended, while in charge of the officer, that he must see his wife, and together they started toward the hovel where they lived. They met the wife and mother at the outskirts of the little village, had some words, and before the officer could prevent it, Hurst sprang upon the woman and cut her throat from ear to ear jumped away, and made good his escape to the woods, the officer, meanwhile, deeming it more important to aid the woman, not knowing, for a moment, that the cutting was fatal. That fact was very soon apparent. Others were called who took charge of the body, and the officer struck out in hot pursuit of the murderer. He was followed to the woods a few miles from White Cloud, in Doniphan County, there overtaken and conducted to the county seat, tried, convicted of murder in the first degree, sentenced to be hung, sent to the penitentiary to await the final execution, which, in our State, never comes. He remained in there about twenty months when he became insane, and was sent to the asylum; was there about three and a half years, when he was pronounced cured and returned to the penitentiary. He is now insane a second time. You have all in your younger-days read the story of the maniac that paced his cell, repeating "once one is two," and now comes the queerest part of this narrative. Hurst seems anxious to talk to every one that calls, and especially anxious to shake hands; but if you say anything to him, or ask any question, his only answer is "skilled labor," and keeps on repeating these words as he walks up and down his place of confinement. Who knows but the infinite God has destroyed reason to prevent the power of darkness over this poor, unfortunate being. Or who knows but the demands of justice are met in the terrible conscience blows which have staggered and shattered that which originally was in the image of God. LIFE INSURANCE AND MURDER McNutt and Winner.--These are two of the most noted criminals in the penitentiary, rendered so because of the dastardly crime committed by them, and the high social relations of the latter. They came from Wichita, and have been in prison almost fifteen years. McNutt is a fine artist and painter. He had his paint shop in Wichita, and was doing a very successful business. Winner was his associate, and the two plotted and carried into execution the following horrible crime: McNutt got his life insured for $5,000, his wife being his beneficiary. It was a dark, stormy night when McNutt and Winner enticed into this paint shop an unsuspecting mutual friend. Here they murdered him in cold blood. They then set fire to the paint shop and took to flight. After the fire was put out, the charred remains of the murdered man were found, and supposed to be those of McNutt, the owner of the building. The wife, cognizant of the awful deed which her husband had committed, followed the remains of the murdered man to the grave, dressed in her garb of mourning. Shortly after this she applied for the insurance money on her husband's life. Some doubts were raised as to the identity of the body. Detectives were employed to make an investigation of the case. They made use of a deception, and thus got the woman to confess. They told her that they had found an accomplice who had confessed the crime, and was in jail. They promised the wife that if she would tell the truth they would not prosecute her. She consented. She narrated the sickening events as they had been plotted in her presence and under her roof. Officers were now despatched to find the murderers. McNutt was found in Missouri plowing corn. Winner was found near Wichita. They were brought to trial, convicted, and sent to prison for life. Winner was unmarried at the time of his conviction. His father and only brother are very wealthy, and living in Kansas City. I have been told they offer $20,000 for Winner's pardon. McNutt is a very useful man in the prison. He has charge of the painting department. He has done some fine work on the walls of the prison chapel, covering them with paintings of the Grecian goddesses. Both of these prisoners hope to receive pardons. Whether they will regain their liberty is a question which the future alone can answer. THE HOG-THIEF In the coal mines, as before stated, the convicts are permitted to converse with each other. I improved this opportunity of acquiring the histories of the five hundred criminals with whom I daily worked, eight hundred feet below the surface. I would talk with a fellow prisoner, and get the details of his crime as we sat together in the darkness. Understanding "short-hand," I would go to my cell in the evening and jot down what I had learned during the day. I had no fears of any one reading my notes, as I was the only short-hand writer about the institution. Day after day I kept this up, until I had material sufficient of this nature to fill a book of more than two thousand pages. My readers should also know, that a convict will tell a fellow-prisoner the details of his crime, when he would not think of saying a word about it to others. As a rule they deny their crimes to those who are not, like themselves, criminals, pleading innocence. It is not difficult for a prisoner to get the confidence of a fellow-prisoner. In fact, criminals love to unburden their minds to those who possess their confidence. The truth is, convicts have related their crimes so often to me that it became tiresome. They say it relieves them to communicate their troubles. Pinkerton, of Chicago, the prince of detectives stated at one time that a criminal could not keep his secret. It is true. I know it to be a fact. It has been demonstrated a hundred times in my association with these convicts in the Kansas penitentiary. Securing their confidence, these men have not only told me of the crimes for which they have been sent to prison, but also of crimes that they have committed, and, in the commission of which, they had not been detected, which, if I should make them known, would cause a number of them to remain in the penitentiary the rest of their lives. I am not in the detective business, and will therefore keep what was confided to me. I have met but few criminals in the mines that would not admit their guilt. I have thought in many cases, convicts received sentences too severe, and not at all commensurate with the crime committed. I have met a few men, however, who would stubbornly deny their guilt and stoutly affirm their innocence. I have worked upon these men day after day, and never got anything out of them but that they were innocent. At times, in tears, they would talk of their sufferings, and wonder if there was a just God silently permitting the innocent to suffer for the guilty. I am satisfied these men are innocent, and they have my sympathy. They are exceptions. Others, while admitting their guilt on general principles, and assenting to the justice of imprisonment, yet maintain that they were innocent of the particular crime for which they stand convicted. I trust the reader will not get his sympathies wrought too high, as comparatively few angels find their way into modern prisons. I will give you a few illustrations. These are just samples of scores of histories in my possession. A hog-thief worked in the mines with me for a few days. His dose was five years at hard labor. He had stolen an old sandy female swine with six pigs. I asked him if he was really guilty of carrying on the pork business. "Yes," said he, with a low chuckle, "I have stolen pigs all my life, and my daddy and mammy before me were in the same business. I got caught. They never did." He then related the details of many thefts. He made a considerable amount of money in his wicked traffic, which he had squandered, and was now penniless. Money secured in a criminal manner never does the possessor any good. I asked him if he had enough of the hog business, and if it was his intention to quit it, and when he got out of the pen to earn an honest living. "No," he replied, "as long as there is a hog to steal and I am a free man, I propose to steal him." Imprisonment failed to reform this convict. Although a hog-thief he was an excellent singer and a prominent member of the prison choir. There are many murderers in the mines. In fact, nearly all the life men are there. Some of them speak of their crimes with a bravado simply astonishing, showing their utter depravity. Others, admitting their guilt, say but little of details. The following will give the reader some idea of the stories that greeted my ears almost daily, and led me to conclude that the coal mines of the penitentiary are not inhabited exclusively by Sunday-school scholars. This cruel and heartless wretch had murdered an old man and his wife. The old people lived on a farm adjoining the one where this criminal, who was then a hired man, worked, It was the talk of the neighborhood that they had money. This human fiend undertook to secure their "loose change," as he called it. He procured a shotgun and an axe, and, in the dead hour of night, went to the house of the old people. He forced open the kitchen door and went in. He had also brought with him a lantern. He quietly stole to the bedside of the innocent and aged sleepers. He had no use for his lantern as the moonlight shone through the window opposite and fell upon the faces of the unconscious victims. Setting his gun down by the side of the bed, so that he could have it handy for use, if necessary, he took the axe and struck each of his victims a blow upon the head. He said, with a demoniac chuckle, that it was more difficult to kill a woman than a man, as it required two blows from the axe to kill the woman, while one was sufficient for the man. He then ransacked the house, and, between some blankets underneath the straw-bed upon which the old folks were sleeping, he found a small bag, which contained some gold, silver and paper money, amounting to over one thousand dollars. In a cold-blooded manner he further stated (and as I pen his words my blood nearly freezes in my veins), in order to search the bed upon which his victims were lying, it became necessary for him to remove the bodies; so he lifted them up one at a time, and placed them upon the floor, face downward, for the reason, as he said, that their eyes bulged out and seemed to stare at him. After securing the money he fled and returned to the farm where he worked. He slept in the barn, as is very often the case with farm laborers during the summer season. Entering the barn he procured an old bucket, places his money in it, covers the top with a piece of board, and buries it in the earth east of the barn. He also buried the axe near the bucket. He said there were clots of blood and hair on the axe, and he thought best to put it out of sight. He then returned to the barn, and, strange to say, soon fell asleep and slept sweetly until morning. He went to work the next day as usual, and his mind was taken up more by thinking of what a good time he would have after a little, spending that money, than in worrying over the terrible crime he had committed. He reasoned that the money would do the old people no good, but that he could use it to advantage. The discovery of the murder was made the next day about noon. The alarm was given. The whole country was aroused and excited over the commission of such a horrible crime two innocent, helpless and highly-respected old people murdered for their money. A couple of tramps had passed through the neighborhood the day before, and, of course, everybody thought it must have been the tramps that committed the murder. The object now was to find them. They were overtaken the next day and brought back to the scene of the murder. They both stoutly denied any knowledge of the crime. They were separated, and each was told that the other had confessed. This was done that a confession might be forced from them. They continued in their affirmation of innocence. They were then taken to the woods near by and each hung up until life was almost extinct, but they still denied the commission of the crime. They were at length taken to the county seat, not far distant, and, on a preliminary examination, were bound over to appear at the next term of the District Court, and put in the county jail. The majority of the people believed that the perpetrators of this crime had been arrested and were now in durance vile; the excitement soon passed away, and very little was said about it. "It was at this time," said my informant, "that I made the mistake of my life. I had worked hard on the farm for several months, and thought I would take a lay off. I felt it was due me. I now made up my mind to have a time. I went to town and soon fell in with a harlot. I got to drinking. I am very fond of strong drink; it has been my ruin. I became intoxicated, and during this time I must have betrayed my secret to this wicked woman. A large reward had been offered for the murderer of these old people. This woman who kept me company having thus obtained my secret, went to the city marshal and made an arrangement that for half of the reward offered she would show him the man who had committed the crime. This was agreed to. While I was drinking and having a good time with my 'fast woman' three men were on the road to the farm where I had been working. They found and dug up the old bucket containing what money I had left in it, and the axe. All this I learned at the trial. I was arrested and bound over to the District Court on a charge of murder in the first degree. The officers had to keep me secreted for some time, as there was strong talk of lynching. In due time I had my trial and got a life sentence." I asked him if he had any hope of pardon. "Oh yes," said he, "in the course of eight or ten years I will be able to get out once more." "What became of the tramps that came so near being compelled to suffer the penalty of your crime?" "They were released as soon as I was arrested, a snug little sum of money was raised for them, a new suit of clothes purchased, and they went on their way rejoicing, thinking themselves creatures of luck." As we sat together in a secluded place in the mines, with the faint light of my miner's lamp falling on his hideous face, the cool, deliberate manner in which he related his atrocious doings, the fiendish spirit he displayed, led me to regard him as one among the most debased and hardened criminals I had met in the mines--a human being utterly devoid of moral nature--a very devil in the form of man! A NOTED COUNTERFEITER One of my companions in the mines, and with whom I worked a couple of weeks, lying almost side by side with him as we dug coal in the same room, was a noted counterfeiter. He had plied his trade for many years successfully. Whisky finally sent him to the penitentiary. If professional criminals would only let strong drink alone not half so many of them would get caught. They get drunk, and in this condition expose themselves. We don't mean to use this as an argument against the prohibitory law! It is, perhaps, proper for them to drink. This counterfeiter makes his dies out of plaster paris. They are very simple and easy of construction. He explained to me the manner in which they were made. I would give his method of making these dies were it not for the fact that some smart boy getting hold of this book and learning the method would undertake the business, and as a result his good old mother would be going to the penitentiary to visit him. When this counterfeiter would run short of funds he would purchase the necessary material, go into the woods on a dark night, and in a very short time would have plenty of bogus money. He taught the trade to his brother and to some bosom friends, and it was not long until they had a regular organized gang. Getting drunk one day one of them displayed too many shining new pieces of money. He was "spotted." A detective was put on his track. He was traced to the headquarters of the gang, and in a few hours thereafter the entire posse were locked up in jail on a charge of counterfeiting and passing "bogus money." They now formed plans for their escape from jail. They adopted the plan of seizing the jailor, as he brought in supper, thrusting him into a cell, locking him in, and then making good their escape. They made the attempt. The jailor was locked in the cell according to the programme, but so much noise was made in the struggle that the sheriff put in an appearance with a loaded revolver. The prisoners made a dash for liberty. A brother of my informant was killed; another of the gang was wounded and dragged back into his cell in the jail; the others got away. It was in the winter time. The succeeding night was extremely cold. Wandering about all night in the snow, their feet were frozen, and they were easily recaptured the next day. They had their trial, and all were sent to the penitentiary. They got eight years apiece, three for counterfeiting and five for breaking jail. In this manner was broken up one of the worst counterfeit gangs of the West. Whisky has trapped many a criminal. There are but very few that do not "indulge." In fact, I cannot now recall a single professional criminal but would take a drop if he could get it. They must have whisky to nerve them for their iniquitous business. When the crime is committed they drink again to soothe their wounded consciences. YELLOW BACK LITERATURE A boy was brought into the hospital one day while I was there, whose history is worth relating, as it shows the fatal effects of bad literature upon the human mind, and to what sad results it may lead. This youth had become suddenly ill in the mines, and had to be assisted from his place of work to the ward for the sick. He was very ill for several days, but began to grow convalescent. An opportunity presenting itself, I got into conversation with him, and he told me the history of his crime. He was an orphan. At the death of both his parents in the East he had come to Kansas to make his home with an uncle. This relative was very kind, and after a time adopted the boy. He had a pleasant home, and his prospects for the future were bright. How often is it the case that the sky of the future becomes overcast. This young criminal was a constant reader of the Life of Jesse James, and kindred literature, until he made up his mind to go on the "war path" and become Jesse James No. 2. With this in view, he provided himself with two large revolvers. One night, after all the household had retired, he crept stealthily into the bed-room of one of the hired men and stole seventy dollars. He goes to the barn and takes one of his uncle's horses and starts for the Indian Territory. The uncle was awakened an hour later on account of some unusual sound at the barn, and going thither discovered that one of his best horses was gone, and also that his nephew was away. He got together several of his neighbors and started in pursuit, and the next day, about noon, the youthful thief was overtaken and surrounded. The uncle rode up to him and began to question him as to his strange conduct, when the boy drew one of his revolvers, and, pointing at his uncle, shot him dead. He was going to play Jesse James to the last. When he saw his uncle fall dead from his horse, now realizing what he had done, the bravado spirit forsook him, and he began to quake with fear. The neighbors closed in upon him and soon took his firearms from him. In due time he had his trial and was sent to the penitentiary for life. Bad books are our worst companions. I have narrated the history of this young murderer, and now urge my boy readers to let yellow back literature alone. It wrecked the future of this youth, and what it did for one it may do for another. A YOUTHFUL MURDERER Willie Sells.--In the prison, this convict is called the "baby convict." When he came to the penitentiary in 1886, he was but sixteen years of age, and in appearance much younger. One of the most sickening murders committed in Kansas is charged to the account of this boy. His home is in Neosho County. His father, a prosperous farmer, lived happily with his wife and three children. Willie was the oldest of the children. Early one morning he rushed from his home and made his way to the nearest neighbor, about half a mile distant, and with his face and hands covered with blood conveyed the startling intelligence that the entire family had been murdered, and he only had escaped. Soon an excited crowd of neighbors gathered at the home of the murdered victims, and the sight that was presented has but few parallels in the fatal and fearful results of crime. The victims had been murdered while asleep. In one room lay the father and mother of the youthful murderer, on their bed of death. Their heads had been split open with an axe that lay nearby, and the blood of one mingled with that of the other. In an adjoining bed-room, covered with their own life's blood, were found the little brother and sister. They had been foully murdered with the same instrument that had caused the death of the parents. Who was the monster that had committed this terrible and atrocious act? A search of the premises disclosed the fact that robbery was not the motive. No property was missing. The survivor was questioned again and again. He said that a burly-looking tramp had effected an entrance into the house through a window during the night; that he being awake at the moment, and becoming alarmed, hid himself, and, unperceived, beheld his father and mother, his brother and sister, thus foully murdered. A thorough and extensive search was made, but no clue could be obtained that would warrant the arrest of any one. Finally, the surviving child was taken into custody. It was claimed that his statements of the circumstances connected with the crime varied, and in several instances were contradictory. The evidence introduced at his trial was purely circumstantial. After much deliberation and hesitancy, the jury decided on a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree, and this child criminal was sentenced to imprisonment for life. He conducts himself well in the prison. On account of his extreme youth he is given a great deal of liberty. It is with great reluctance that he talks about his crime, and longs for freedom. Is this boy guilty? This question has never been satisfactorily answered in the affirmative. I am informed there was a grave doubt in the mind of the judge who tried the case and imposed the sentence as to the guilt of this alleged youthful offender. A chill of horror creeps over us as we think of the members of this family weltering in each other's blood. Should he be innocent, it would be awful for this boy to remain in the Kansas Hell for a lifetime. A MOST REMARKABLE CASE William Baldwin furnishes the history of one of the most remarkable cases in the criminal annals of Kansas. He was charged with the atrocious crime of murdering his own sister. William and his sister were the only children of a widowed but wealthy mother. It is claimed that the son had received his portion of the estate prior to this sad occurrence, and that by taking the life of his sister he would become the sole heir of the Baldwin estate, which was supposed to be very large. Mary, the beautiful and accomplished sister was discovered dead one morning lying upon her bed in her chamber with a chloroform bottle at her side. A panel of the outside door of the house was found removed. Immediately upon the discovery of the murder it was supposed that the house had been burglarized, and that the thief had committed the murder. Upon an examination of the premises by the proper officials it was found that nothing had been taken from the house. In looking for a motive that would prompt a person to commit such a fiendish act, and it being known that William Baldwin, the brother, would be the sole heir in case of the death of his sister, he was at once suspected of having committed the crime. His arrest was prompt and immediate. He was bound over on preliminary examination, and in due course of time had his trial and was convicted. He was sentenced to the penitentiary for one year, at the expiration of which he was to be hung until dead. His case was taken on appeal to the Supreme Court of the State. Baldwin, in the meantime, was removed to the penitentiary. Here he was placed in the tailor shop, where he has remained since. He is a very obedient prisoner, and is highly esteemed by the prison officials. The judgment in his case upon hearing in the Supreme Court of the State was affirmed. From the Supreme Court of Kansas his case was taken by appeal to the Supreme Court of the United States; in this highest tribunal, the judgments of the lower courts were affirmed, and the fate of William Baldwin is forever sealed so far as the judiciary of the country is concerned. If he is permitted again to inhale the air of freedom, it must be through the clemency of the pardoning board and of the governor of Kansas. During one hundred and ten years of American jurisprudence, there had been only two similar cases taken to the Supreme Court of the United States. But a few days before my release I was talking with Billy Baldwin in the penitentiary, and he seemed to be very hopeful that after a time he would secure his pardon. His wife is one of the most highly respected ladies of Atchison; is true, faithful and devoted to her husband. She has enlisted the sympathies of the entire community in her behalf, because of her youth and great bereavement. His aged mother, who has been called upon to wade through deep waters of affliction because of the great calamity that has befallen her son and daughter, will also exert great influence in getting signers to a petition for his pardon. The question has often been asked me, because of my intimate relation with Baldwin in the penitentiary, whether I believed that he is guilty. I can answer as to my own belief. I have watched him carefully as I have the other fifty-five lifetime convicts, and I am free to say that I do not believe that William Baldwin ever committed the crime of killing his sister for the malicious desire of obtaining filthy lucre, or the estate of his sister. He does not conduct himself as scores of other criminals who have confessed their guilt. In conversation with him, while I was "in stripes," he has time and again told me, with tears rolling down his cheeks, that he was innocent of the terrible crime of which he stands accused, and that there was no brother had greater love for his sister than he, and that he had such faith in an overruling Providence that eventually he would be exonerated from the crime; and that the real perpetrator would be made known. If he is innocent and it should ever be clearly proven, his will be one of the saddest and most mysterious events ever recorded. There is beyond doubt an unsolved mystery hanging over this remarkable case. CHAPTER IX. FORTY-EIGHT HOURS IN HELL One of the most interesting cases of resuscitation that ever came to my knowledge was that of George Lennox, a notorious horse-thief of Jefferson County. He was serving his second term. Sedgwick County sent him to the prison, the first time for a similar offense--stealing horses. During the winter of 1887 and 1888, he worked in the coal mines. The place where he was laboring seemed dangerous to him. He reported the fact to the officer in charge, who made an examination, and deciding that the room was safe, ordered Lennox back to his work. The convict, obeying, had not continued his work more than an hour, when the roof fell in and completely buried him. He remained in this condition fully two hours. Missed at dinner-time, a search was instituted for the absent convict, and he was found under this heap of rubbish. Life seemed extinct. He was taken to the top, and on examination by the prison physician was pronounced dead. His remains were carried to the hospital, where he was washed and dressed preparatory for interment. His coffin was made and brought into the hospital. The chaplain had arrived to perform the last sad rites prior to burial. A couple of prisoners were ordered by the hospital steward to lift the corpse from the boards and carry it across the room and place it in the coffin. They obeyed, one at the head and the other at the feet, and were about half way across the room when the one who was at the head accidentally stumbled over a cuspidor, lost his balance, and dropped the corpse. The head of the dead man struck the floor, and to the utter surprise and astonishment of all present, a deep groan was heard. Soon the eyes opened, and other appearances of life were manifested. The physician was immediately sent for, and by the time he arrived, some thirty minutes, the dead man had called for a cup of water, and was in the act of drinking when the physician arrived. The coffin was at once removed, and later on was used to bury another convict in. His burial robes were also taken from him, and the prison garb substituted. On an examination he was found to have one of his legs broken in two places, and was otherwise bruised. He remained in the hospital some six months, and again went to work. I learned of his peculiar experience while apparently dead, soon after, from a fellow miner. Prompted by curiosity, I longed for an acquaintance with Lennox to get his experience from his own lips. This opportunity was not offered for several months. At last it came. After being removed from the mines I was detailed to one of the prison offices to make out some annual reports. The subject of this man's return to life was being discussed one day, when he happened to pass by the office door and was pointed out to me. It was not long until I had a note in his hand, and asked him to come where I was at work. He did so, and here I got well acquainted with him, and from his own lips received his wonderful story. He is a young man, probably not over thirty years of age. He is not a hardened criminal; is possessed of a very good education, and naturally very bright. The most wonderful part of his history was that during the time he was dead. Being a short-hand reporter I took his story from his dictation. Said he: "I had a presentiment all the morning that something terrible was going to happen. I was so uneasy on account of my feelings that I went to my mining boss, Mr. Grason, and told him how I felt, and asked him if he would not come and examine my 'coal room,' the place where I was digging coal. He came, and seemed to make a thorough examination, and ordered me back to work, saying, there was no danger, and that he thought I was going 'cranky.' I returned to my work, and had been digging away for something like an hour, when, all of a sudden, it grew very dark. Then it seemed as if a great iron door swung open, and I passed through it. The thought then came to my mind that I was dead and in another world. I could see no one, nor hear sound of any kind. From some cause unknown to myself, I started to move away from the doorway, and had traveled some distance when I came to the banks of a broad river. It was not dark, neither was it light. There was about as much light as on a bright star-lit night. I had not remained on the bank of this river very long until I could hear the sound of oars in the water, and soon a person in a boat rowed up to where I was standing. I was speechless. He looked at me for a moment, and then said that he had come for me, and told me to get into the boat and row across to the other side. I obeyed. Not a word was spoken. I longed to ask him who he was, and where I was. My tongue seemed to cling to the roof of my mouth. I could not say a word. Finally, we reached the opposite shore. I got out of the boat, and the boatman vanished out of sight. Thus left alone, I knew not what to do. Looking out before me, I saw two roads which led through a dark valley. One of these was abroad road, and seemed to be well traveled. The other was a narrow path that led off in another direction. I instinctively followed the well beaten road. I had not gone far when it seemed to grow darker. Ever and anon, however, a light would flash up from the distance, and in this manner I was lighted on my journey. Presently I was met by a being that it is utterly impossible for me to describe. I can only give you a faint idea of his dreadful appearance. He resembled a man somewhat, but much larger than any human being I ever saw. He must have been at least ten feet high. He had great wings on his back. He was black as the coal I had been digging, and in a perfectly nude condition. He had a large spear in his hand, the handle of which must have been fully fifteen feet in length. His eyes shone like balls of fire. His teeth, white as pearl, seemed fully an inch long. His nose, if you could call it a nose, was very large, broad and flat. His hair was very coarse, heavy and long. It hung down on his massive shoulders. His voice sounded more like the growls of a lion in a menagerie than anything I can recall. It was during one of these flashes of light that I first saw him. I trembled like an aspen leaf at the sight. He had his spear raised as if to send it flying through me. I suddenly stopped. With that terrible voice I seem to hear yet, he bade me follow him; that he had been sent to guide me on my journey. I followed. What else could I do? After he had gone some distance a huge mountain appeared to rise up before us. The part facing us seemed perpendicular, just as if a mountain had been cut in two and one part had been taken away. On this perpendicular wall I could distinctly see these words, 'This is Hell.' My guide approached this perpendicular wall, and with his spear-handle gave three loud raps. A large massive door swung back and we passed in. I was then conducted on through what appeared to be a passage through this mountain. For some time we traveled in Egyptian darkness. I could hear the heavy footfalls of my guide, and thus could follow him. All along the way I could hear deep groans, as of some one dying. Further on, these groans increased, and I could distinctly hear the cry for water, water, water. Coming now to another gateway, and, passing through, I could hear, it seemed, a million voices in the distance, and the cry was for water, water. Presently another large door opened at the knock of my guide, and I found that we had passed through the mountain, and now a broad plain layout before me. At this place my guide left me to direct other lost spirits to the same destination. I remained in this open plain for a time, when a being somewhat similar to the first one came to me; but, instead of a spear, he had a huge sword. He came to tell me of my future doom. He spoke with a voice that struck terror to my soul. 'Thou art in hell,' said he; 'for thee all hope is fled. As thou passed through the mountain on thy journey hither, thou didst hear the groans and shrieks of the lost as they called for water to cool their parched tongues. Along that passage there is a door that opens into the lake of fire. This is soon to be thy doom. Before thou art conducted to this place of torment never more to emerge--for there is no hope for those who enter there--thou shalt be permitted to remain in this open plain, where it is granted to all the lost to behold what they might have enjoyed, instead of what they must suffer.' With this I was left alone. Whether the result of the terrible fright through which I had passed I know not, but now I became stupified. A dull languor took fall possession of my frame. My strength departed from me. My limbs longer refused to support my body. Overcome, I now sank down a helpless mass. Drowsiness now took control of me. Half awake, half asleep, I seemed to dream. Far above me and in the distance I saw the beautiful city of which we read in the Bible. How wonderfully beautiful were its walls of jasper. Stretching out and away in the distance I saw vast plains covered with beautiful flowers. I, too, beheld the river of life and the sea of glass. Vast multitudes of angels would pass in and out through the gates of the city, singing, oh, such beautiful songs. Among the number I saw my dear old mother, who died a few years ago of a broken heart because of my wickedness. She looked toward me, and seemed to beckon me to her but I could not move. There appeared to be a great weight upon me that held me down. Now a gentle breeze wafted the fragrance of those lovely flowers to me, and I could now, more plainly than ever, hear the sweet melody of angel voices, and I said, oh, that I could be one of them. As I was drinking from this cup of bliss it was suddenly dashed from my lips. I was aroused from my slumbers. I was brought back from happy dreamland by an inmate of my dark abode, who said to me that it was now time to enter upon my future career. He bade me follow him. Retracing my steps I again entered the dark passage way, and followed my guide for a time, when we came to a door that opened in the side of the passage, and, going along this, we finally found ourselves passing through another door, and lo! I beheld the lake of fire. Just before me I could see, as far as the eye could reach, that literal lake of fire and brimstone. Huge billows of fire would roll over each other, and great waves of fiery flame would dash against each other and leap high in the air like the waves of the sea during a violent storm. On the crest of these waves I could see human beings rise, but soon to be carried down again to the lowest depth of this awful lake of fire. When borne on the crest, of these awful billows for a time their curses against a just God would be appalling, and their pitiful cries for water would be heartrending. This vast region of fire echoed and re-echoed with the wails of these lost spirits. Presently I turned my eyes to the door through which I had a few moments before entered, and I read these awful words: 'This is thy doom; Eternity never ends.' Shortly I began to feel the earth give way beneath my feet, and I soon found myself sinking down into the lake of fire. An indescribable thirst for water now seized upon me. And calling for water, my eyes opened in the prison hospital. "I have never told this experience of mine before, for fear the prison officials would get hold of it, think me insane, and lock me up in the crank-house. I passed through all this, and I am as well satisfied as I am that I live, that there is a Heaven and there is a Hell, and a regular old-fashioned Hell, the kind the Bible tells about. But there is one thing certain, I am never going to that place any more. As soon as I opened my eyes in the hospital, and I found that I was alive and on earth once more, I immediately gave my heart to God, and I am going to live and die a Christian. While the terrible sights of Hell can never be banished from my memory, neither can the beautiful things of Heaven I saw. I am going to meet my dear old mother after awhile. To be permitted to sit down on the banks of that beautiful river, to wander with those angels across the plains, through the vales and over the hills carpeted with fragrant flowers, the beauty of which far surpasses anything that mortal can imagine; to listen to the songs of the saved--all this will more than compensate me for living the life of a Christian here on earth, even if I have to forego many sensual pleasures in which I indulged before coming to this prison. I have abandoned my companions in crime, and am going to associate with good people when I am once more a free man." After he got through with this wonderful story I asked him if he was going to tell others of his experience when he got out. His reply was that people would not believe him, and he would keep it to himself. Should this little book fall into his hands, and he should read of his experience while in Hell for forty-eight hours, it will no doubt surprise him. We give the account to the reader just as we received it from Lennox. We do not pretend to solve the mystery. CHAPTER X. STOLEN HORSES Justice should be meted out to many who, though guilty, are shrewd enough to evade it. From one of the most notorious horse-thieves in the Kansas penitentiary I learned of the manner in which stolen horses were disposed of. This convict's name is John Watkins. He served a term of three years in the Missouri penitentiary, and is now serving out a ten years' sentence in the Kansas State's prison. He is the chief convict steward in the hospital, and an able assistant of the prison physician, by whom his services are highly appreciated. This prisoner has immediate care of all the sick. His heart is tender as that of a woman. To listen to this man, as he sat with tearful eye at the bedside of the dying prisoner, and spoke words of cheer to him, one would scarcely believe him to be the most daring and one of the shrewdest horse-thieves that ever visited our State. In conversation with him one night as I lay on my sick bed in the hospital, he gave me an outline of his life's history that reads much like a romance. I said to him, "John, tell me how many horses you have stolen during the time you have been engaged in that line of business?" His reply was, that if he had stolen one more he would have been successful in having stolen an even two hundred. "What did you do with them after you had stolen them?" He told me his headquarters were in Kansas City; that he would go up in the neighborhood of Omaha and Lincoln and get his horses, and tie them in the woods until he had picked up a number of them, and then he would make his way to the south. Horses stolen in Nebraska he would run south to sell. Those stolen in Missouri and Kansas he would take to the north. He told me that in Omaha, St. Joseph, Atchison, Leavenworth and Kansas City there were dealers, usually keepers of livery stables, who would purchase these stolen horses. He gave me the names of a number of these men, some of whom I know personally. Little would I ever have suspected that these men were engaged in such a wicked traffic as knowingly to deal in stolen property. "When I had a number of horses," he continued, "and wished to dispose of them in St. Joseph, for instance, I would ride into the suburbs of the city and send a note to the man who usually purchased my stock. I would never be seen about his barn. After night he would make his way to where I was and purchase my horses, paying me about one-half what they would really bring in the general market. I would get about fifty dollars for an average horse. After purchasing my stolen horses he would not take them to his livery barn, but to a private stable, usually at his residence. When he would pay over the money for this stolen property he would make out a bill of sale for each one, and would step into a store or grocery, and in the presence of some business man he would say to me, we will sign the bill of sale for that horse I bought of you, and have this gentleman to witness the transaction. I gave you fifty dollars at the barn, and now here is fifty dollars more, which makes the hundred, the sum I was to pay for the animal." I would take the money, sign the bill of sale, which would be witnessed by the business man in whose presence the trade was consummated. We would then go to another place of business and sign a bill of sale for another horse, and have that witnessed by another business man, and would continue this until all the horses I had sold were paid for. In this manner he would shift all responsibility of crime upon me. Securing my money I would rest for a time until 'I went broke,' and then I would make another trip. The horse merchant would sometimes keep his horses until he had picked up a car load, and then he would ship them out of the country to Chicago, St. Louis or some other horse market. Sometimes the horse buyer would run stolen property out into the country and exchange it for other property in which he would have a good title and which he could take to his livery barn and feel safe with it there. "What did you do with your money, John?" I inquired. To this question he answered that in Kansas City he had a suite of rooms fitted up in elegant style, and kept a mistress. Upon this woman he squandered all his money, obtained honestly and dishonestly. In addition to his horse-thieving raids he had several other sources of criminal revenue. One of these sources he described as follows: "I kept a horse and wagon, the wheels of which were covered with india rubber. The feet of the horse were also encased in the same material. I could move about the streets of the city in the late hours of the night without making any disturbance, and would pick up anything I could lay my hands on that I could convert into money. I have carried away many a stove and broken it up and sold it for old iron. I would also make my way out into the country and pillage. Often I would enter small towns and load up my noiseless wagon with stolen goods, which I would take out of the stores. All of this money I would foolishly spend on the woman I loved." "How did you happen to get caught?" "One day on the streets of Kansas City I accidentally met an ex-convict whom I knew while in Jefferson City penitentiary. He was penniless and somewhat shabby. He suspected me of crooked work, and wanted to go with me on a 'horse raid.' At first I refused to take him with me, as it has always been my rule to go alone when in the crooked business. He persisted and urged me to let him go along. At last I yielded to his appeals, and we started from Kansas City. I have never been back since. My 'pal' was caught on this trip and offered to turn State's evidence if he could regain his liberty. He was allowed to do this. I was tried and got a ten years' sentence. He went free." "What became of the woman?" I asked. "When in jail at Leavenworth and in need of money to pay my lawyer, I wrote her a letter informing her of my trouble, and begged her to send me some money. She forgot to answer that letter, and I have never seen or heard from her since that time." "I suppose when your time is up you will hunt her up and fit up another suite of rooms, won't you?" "Never," said he. "When I get out I am going to lead an honest life and take care of my money. It does not pay to get money by crookedness. Such money never does one any good." Having imparted this information he bade me good night and went over to another part of the ward, where he took his place beside the cot of a dying convict. CHAPTER XI. CANDIDATE FOR THE STATE SENATE The author of this book has been guilty of a great many bad breaks during the course of his earthly pilgrimage up to the present date. Making the race for State senator from the Atchison district while an inmate of the Kansas penitentiary, actually an occupant of a felon's cell, and robed in the livery of disgrace, probably eclipsed anything that maybe charged to my account in the past. One Sunday afternoon, after the usual exercises of the day were over, I was sitting in my little 4x7 of stone. The outside world was in convulsions over the presidential campaign. There were no convulsions, however, where I was. It was painfully quiet. Everywhere, all over the broad land, except behind prison walls, politics was the all-absorbing topic. As I sat there in my solitude the question came to my mind as to what part of the great political play I would be engaged in were I a free man. Some months prior to this a petition signed by 5,000 people had been forwarded to President Cleveland for my pardon. Had I secured my liberty it was my intention to make the race for State senator in my district for vindication. Mr. Cleveland interfered with my plan by refusing my pardon. Thinking over the matter in my cell that Sunday afternoon, I determined that while the President had the power of keeping me in prison he should not keep me from making the race for the position I coveted. Immediate action followed my decision. Within thirty minutes I had written a letter for publication, stating my intention of becoming an independent candidate. But how was I to get this letter out of the prison and into the newspapers of my district. It is expected of the convict that during Sunday afternoon he will sit quietly in his cell and meditate about his past misdeeds. I would be dishonest if I did not state that my thoughts were now more taken up with the probable outcome of the course I had adopted than of lamenting over my past shortcomings. I reasoned that I was not only pursuing an original, but a safe course. Original, in that no one, so far as my knowledge extended, had ever made the race for office while a convict; safe, in that I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I will frankly confess that when the thought, suppose I should not get more than a dozen votes, would rush into my mind, I would feel as if I had better not be so fresh while in limbo. Several times during the afternoon and evening I took up the piece of paper, on which was written my announcement, to tear it into shreds, and as often I would lay it down. I viewed the subject from almost every conceivable standpoint. I reasoned as follows: Prior to this I had decided to write a book on my penitentiary career, as well as to deliver a lecture at various points in the State on the same subject. To be successful in these enterprises I must be advertised. And I knew that should I announce myself as a candidate for such an important office while in the penitentiary I would get a good ventilation. In this I was not mistaken. When the announcement appeared in the Leavenworth "Times" it was quickly copied and commented upon by the newspapers all over the country. Some of these newspapers in their comments stated that I had more "cheek" than should be allotted to ordinary mortals. Some said "he is a nervy cuss." Others said his back isn't broken. Now and then one could be found that predicted my election. So the matter was discussed, pro and con, for several weeks, not only by the newspapers of Kansas, but whole columns would appear in the St. Louis, Chicago and Denver papers, as well as those of other cities. I was advertised. It would have cost me thousands of dollars to pay for the ventilation I received just for making that little simple announcement, had I been forced to pay the regular rates of advertising. But to return. It was at a late hour of the night when I closed my eyes in slumber. Before doing so I had made the final decision; I had crossed the Rubicon; I had looked the ground over, and had my plans well matured. The next morning, after the day's work had commenced, and the warden had come down to his office, I asked permission of my officer to see Captain Smith. The officer wanted to know what my business was with the warden. My reply was, "Official and strictly private." My request was granted. I was soon standing in the presence of the big-hearted Warden Smith, and being asked as to what I wanted, I said, "Captain, I thought I would come in and get your opinion as to whether I was crazy or not, and if you think I am not beside myself I would like to make a statement to you and ask your advice." A few days before this I had had several interviews with him as to my pardon, and other business matters, and I suppose he thought he was going to get something more along the same line. "Go ahead, John," he said, "and let me know what it is." I then told him of my intentions and plans. He made no reply until I had gone over the whole subject. Then he said. "You are certainly on the safe side, for you can lose nothing. I always thought," continued he, "that it was practical to engage in any enterprise where all was gain and nothing to lose. And, furthermore, knowing your standing at home, it would not surprise me very much if you would receive more votes than your competitors." This was encouraging. I then asked permission to write letters to a number of my friends, and also to receive letters from them. He informed me he could not do this, as it would be a violation of the rules of the prison, but if any of my friends should come down I could send out anything by them I wished. I then wired a personal friend, A. S. Hall, Esq., of Atchison, who called at the prison, to whom I gave my letter of announcement, and several letters I had written to political friends. The news spread rapidly, and in a few days I was squarely before the people as an independent candidate. Shortly after this announcement I wrote an article for the papers, stating my reasons for making the senatorial race. When writing this communication I forgot I was a prisoner, and said some things that reflected seriously upon some of the warden's personal friends. Here, I made a mistake. The warden, on reading this article, became enraged, and took away my writing material. At this juncture the senatorial outlook was rather discouraging. My friends championed my cause. Being an independent candidate, and my name not printed on any ticket, I received no accidental votes. An elector voting for me had to erase the name of my competitor and insert mine. There were four candidates in the field. While I was not elected, I was far from coming in last in the race. I received twice as many votes as one of my competitors. He is one of the best men in the senatorial district, one of the old settlers, and a gentleman highly esteemed. To receive twice as many votes as this man was highly complimentary to me, I certainly felt flattered. When the vote was made known I received an official copy of the returns, and forwarded it to President Cleveland. My term was then almost ended, and I felt confident that because of the splendid vote I had received, and consequent endorsement of the people who were personally acquainted with me, Mr. Cleveland would certainly grant a pardon. He did not so much as answer my communication. No one can imagine the anxiety I felt during that campaign. Had I received but a small vote it would have required more nerve than I possess to have induced me to return to my old home. But when the vote was counted, and I received the returns, I must write it down as one of the happiest hours of my life. I had many true friends, and they demonstrated that fact by voting for me. Although in the garb of a felon, was not the vote I received a grand vindication? Any person of sense must answer in the affirmative. Looking over the past, I can now see that I made no mistake in carrying into effect the scheme to which my mind gave birth on that Sunday afternoon as I sat in my little-cell. I will close this chapter by tendering my friends who voted and worked for me at the time when I so much stood in need of their aid, my heartfelt gratitude. CHAPTER XII. A DARK HOUR It was a bright Sabbath morning. I had been detailed to assist the prison choir in their preparation for the religious services of the day. While engaged in this duty, the deputy warden sent for me. Meeting this official, he said to me, "John, I have sad news for you. Governor Martin has just telephoned from Atchison that your wife is dead, and that it was his wish to have you sent home at once." This was a great surprise to me. I had heard from my wife only two days before this. At that time she was quite sick, but was thought to be improving. With a heart filled with sadness I now prepared for my journey home. The warden was absent, and the deputy warden said, "There was no precedent for permitting a prisoner to go home on a visit, as such a thing had never occurred before in the history of the State, but," continued he, "if you will give me your word that you will return to the prison I will let you go." I told him to set the time for my return and I would be back. Mr. Morgan, the turnkey of the prison, was my guard. My journey from the prison was the saddest of my life. It was a bright May morning. Everything around seemed joyful and happy, but to me the world was gloomy. I imagined my wife lying at home a corpse, surrounded by my weeping, motherless little ones. She had passed away without my being at her bedside to go with her to the brink of the dark river. Mr. Morgan, my attendant, had lost his mother but a short time before this, and he could sympathize with me in a manner that aided me in bearing my burdens. After riding for a couple of hours we arrived at Atchison. The train on reaching the city passes on some two blocks beyond the depot; then backs down. As I thus passed by the depot I saw numerous friends who had heard of my coming, and were there waiting to welcome me to my home. They saluted me as I sat in the car at the window and passed on by the depot. I thought they exhibited too much joy in receiving a friend who was coming back to see his dead wife. I wondered at it. When the train stopped to back down to the depot, I got off and took the nearest cut to my residence. Walking some four blocks I reached my home. When nearing the gate, one of my little daughters came bounding across the street, full of joy and gladness, welcoming me home. I thought she acted rather strange for her mother to be lying in the house a corpse. Without saying anything I stepped to the door; it was standing ajar. Looking in, I saw my wife lying in the adjoining room--not dead! Thank God! It seemed as if I had stepped into another world. My wife was very sick, but still conscious. Oh! what joy I felt at once more being able to see my wife and to talk with her. All the way from the prison to the door of my residence I was laboring under a false impression. I drank the cup to its very dregs. I could have suffered no more on that journey home if she had been dead. In fact I supposed she was. Governor Martin had made a mistake in transmitting the message, or had been wrongly informed. I do not know how it came that I was permitted to return home. I was a United States' prisoner. As such, Governor Martin had no control over me. No one had authority to send me home on such a furlough except President Cleveland. But I care nothing about this. I did not stop to inquire about the authority; when the prison doors came open I left for home. I was furnished a citizen's suit of clothes. I remained at home for nearly a week. Many friends came to see me. This to me was one of the best weeks of my life. A little occurrence took place, during this short stay at home, which I will mention here. I have a legal friend at Atchison by the name of Hon. D. C. Arnold. This man, when tested, proves himself true to those who have gained his good will. He conceived the idea that sending me out of the penitentiary, IN CITIZEN'S CLOTHING, was without WARRANT IN LAW OR PRECEDENT IN FACT, and that, by releasing me in that way, they had lost control of me. Unknown to me he had prepared an application in "habeas corpus." The judge of the District Court, Hon. W. D. Gilbert, who was on the bench at the time, was a personal friend of his and mine also, as I had something to do in his election, and had the application been presented to him, the judge would have inclined to turn me loose, and I would have been a free man. When Mr. Arnold informed me as to what he was doing, I told him that I had given my word of honor that I would return to the prison, and that I would keep it. At the expiration of a week I returned to my prison cell. A petition, signed by nearly five thousand people, had been forwarded to President Cleveland for my pardon. I had some hopes of securing relief. I bade my wife good-by. I thought sure I would be sent home in a few days. My wife hopefully entertained the same opinion. We were both deceived. When I reached the prison, the deputy warden, Mr. Higgins, when he was informed by the officer, Mr. Morgan, who attended me home, how I refused my chances of liberty by means of the proceedings in "habeas corpus," contemplated by my friends, choosing imprisonment rather than breaking my word, called me into his office, and said that there was not one man in ten placed in my circumstances that would have done as I did. He then said to me: "Reynolds, I will see that you have no more hard work to do while you are in the penitentiary; I would give you your liberty if I could, but that is beyond my power. I will make it as agreeable for you as possible in the prison." He got another man to take my place in the mines, and I was given an easy task from that on. I was detailed to make out reports for the prison officials, and was kept busy, and was, as I was informed, a very valuable man in that capacity. This kind of work was in keeping with my labors when on the outside, and was not hard on me like digging coal. I was given the liberty of the prison; was allowed to converse with the prisoners, and because of these favors shown me, I was able to secure the material for this book. The month following my return to the prison was the darkest, the most desolate, and the most sorrowful portion of my earthly pilgrimage yet experienced. My wife was at home dying! I was behind the prison walls! During that month I was entirely unfit for any kind of work. The prison officials, knowing my sorrows, took pity on me and did not insist upon my performing any kind of labor. I was left alone with my grief. None but God and the angels knew what I suffered. During the day I could think of nothing but my dying wife; in the night-time, when the angel Sleep closes the eyelids down to rest, none came to me; in my dreams the pale face of my dear one at home in the agonies of death was before me. I would but drop sometimes into a dull slumber when I fancied that I could hear her calling for me, and thus aroused, it seemed to me that I must burst the prison bars and go to her. Knowing how much deeper and stronger, purer and sweeter the affections and sympathies of woman are than those of man, what must my poor, dead wife have borne! For thirty days and nights I endured these torments. At last the hour came when her sufferings ceased. Reader, doubtless you have lost a loved one. If so, you were permitted to go down to the very brink of the River of Death; you were permitted to sit at the bedside and administer words of comfort and cheer. Not so with me. My loved one passed away, her husband kept from her side by prison bolts and bars. And, reader, when you buried your loved one, kind friends condoled with you, and in some degree assuaged your grief. Not so with me. When the news came that my wife was dead I sat down in my solitary cell and shed my tears alone. The cup that was placed to my lips was indeed a bitter one, and I drank to the dregs. My wife was one of earth's purest and best. We lived together as husband and wife the fifth of a century. During those twenty years of married life my wife never uttered a cross word to her husband. What greater eulogy could be pronounced! In the sunshine, and as certainly amid the storms of life, she was constant and true. Because of her goodness of heart my home was cloudless. Many times during life have the storms and waves swept against my trembling barque, but in that little harbor called home no storms ever came. Oh, how much a man loses when a good wife dies! So great was my distress that, had it not been for the strength imparted by a pitying God, I never could have passed through that long night of suffering. Gone, never to return. When my prison days were over, I returned to my old home in Atchison, but how changed it was. My wife in her grave; my motherless children among strangers; my home desolate. As I pen these lines, surrounded by the fogs and mists of time, the question comes to me ever and anon, when the hour shall come for me to close my eyes to the scenes of earth, will I be permitted to greet my sainted wife in the beautiful city above? Yes. I have the faith that the loving Galilean--the man of sorrows, who was acquainted with grief--will in that hour open the gates of pearl, and let me in. Until that happy hour--until we meet in the land where none of life's storms ever reach, my darling wife, farewell! CHAPTER XIII. FREEDOM To all things earthly there comes an end. Sixteen long, dreary months of imprisonment finally passed away. The dark clouds of sadness and gloom that for so long hung above me now parted, and folding themselves together rolled away in the distance. The large iron doors swung upon their hinges, and once more I breathed the air of freedom. Drowsy Nature was just being aroused from her wintry slumber by the gentle touch of Spring, as I began life anew. On that, to me, eventful morning the sky appeared brighter than I had ever beheld it before. O liberty! No one can ever appreciate thy blessings save him upon whose limbs have pressed the cruel fetters of slavery. The sunlight of freedom falls with its greatest refulgence upon him who has been surrounded for months and years by the baleful mists and darkness of abject bondage. The air of liberty comes doubly surcharged with the fragrance of the rarest flowers to him who has inhaled the feted breath of serfdom. Grateful to God that my life had been spared; retaining all the ambition of former years; possessed of my manhood; conscious of no guilt, I felt that, under the guiding hand of Providence, there was for me a bright future. With a determination to succeed, that can never be satisfied short of success, I returned to my home. I concluded that instead of going to some distant place, among strangers, it was best for me to return to the locality where all knew of my misfortunes and the true causes that led to them. On my arrival at the depot I was met by a multitude of friends. By the reception that was given me no one, ignorant of the facts, would have for a moment imagined that I had but a few hours before vacated the cell of a criminal. I pen these lines three months from the day when I began life anew, and during that time I have met with no one so base as to "snub" a man, who, having met with misfortune, is honestly endeavoring to regain what he lost. Is there any hope for the ex-convict? Is it possible for him to be clothed in the garments of respectability who once has been attired in the habiliments of disgrace? Can he ever be a man among men who has for a time been numbered with the debased of earth? To these questions, with all the powers of my being, I answer, YES! I do not know how the outlook may appear to others who have met a similar misfortune; but as for myself I can truthfully say I was never more hopeful in my life. There may be storms in the future, obstacles to meet and overcome, but self reliant, and trusting in Him who observes the struggles even of the worm, I hope to soon reach my proper place among men, and in the end reap the golden harvest of success. The world is full of kind-hearted people who are ready to help those who, though unfortunate, are willing to help themselves. Scores of men annually go out from the "Kansas Hell," having paid the penalties of their crimes, who are not so highly favored as myself, and whose struggles will have to be greater than mine if they ever secure a foothold of respectability in life. In behalf of these in their efforts to become better men I appeal to the great, loving heart of the true Kansan. HELP THE FALLEN IN HIS STRUGGLES TO RISE AGAIN. Since my return home, several times have I visited the grave of my wife, and often on these occasions would the hot blood go surging through my veins, and my baser nature would demand that I avenge the death of her who was so heartlessly sent to an untimely grave. A better judgment has prevailed, and as I drop the tear of affection upon the grave of her who is the mother of my children, I leave the wrongs of the past in the hands of an avenging God. May there fall upon those who were so kind to my sorrowing family and myself while we were passing through the deep waters, the radiant smiles of Him who says, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me." A MISSOURI HELL CHAPTER XIV. THE CONVICT'S HOME "Jefferson City is the next station," called out the train man as the Missouri Pacific rolled into the capital of the great commonwealth of Missouri. It was two o'clock in the morning. From an easy reclining chair, to an omnibus, and to a cozy room in the Madison House, was the work of but a few moments. It being rather an unseasonable hour to begin the investigation of a large penal institution, I made a brief journey to the land of dreams, and there remained until a noisy porter knocked at my bed-room door, and shouted, "Nine o'clock, last call for breakfast, old man; if you want any thing to eat you had better get a move on you." Being of the opinion this was rather a cheerful morning salutation, I arose, dressed, and soon felt better because of a good breakfast. I am now ready for my work--an investigation of the Missouri penitentiary. Before leaving my home in Atchison, Kansas, I procured a letter of introduction from Hon. B. P. Waggener, mayor of that city, to Governor Francis of Missouri. I found my way to the capitol, and to the office of the governor. After a brief delay I was shown into the private apartment of the obliging executive, where I presented my letter, stated the object of my visit, and received a letter to the warden of the prison, containing a request that the bearer be shown every thing there was to be seen in and about the penitentiary. From the capitol to the prison is a walk of but a few minutes. On my way there I met a one-legged ex-convict who was just leaving the institution. His pale face, shoddy suit of clothes and light-colored felt hat all spoke but too plainly of the fact that he was very recently "let loose," Entering into conversation with him, I found that he had a few moments before completed a term of five years at hard labor. From him I gathered a great deal of important information as to the treatment of the prisoners, of which he had been an eye-witness for five years. He also gave me his own history. In a saloon brawl, he became involved in a fight with a drunken comrade, half-crazed with drink. Pistols were drawn, and shots were exchanged. He received a bullet in his thigh, that caused the amputation of his limb. His antagonist was killed. On a trial for murder he received a sentence for manslaughter. Said he, "Whisky sent me to prison. Had I not been drunk I would never have taken the life of the man whom I shot. He had been, for years, a good friend of mine. I will never take another drink as long as I live. It has been my ruin." In the conversation he informed me that he had left behind him, when sent to prison, a wife and three children. During his confinement they had to depend for the most part on their relatives and public charity for support. On account of their poverty they had not been able to visit him at any time during his imprisonment. They had continued to love him, notwithstanding his misfortune; had been true to him during his days of bondage; and he was now anxious to reach his home to meet them. How true it is that the blow which falls upon the culprit, and which justice intends for him alone, often falls with equal force and effect upon wife, child or other helpless and dependent relative! I asked him how he felt on recovering his liberty after being in prison for five years. "Oh!" said he, "this is the happiest day of my life thus far; I never knew the blessings of liberty as I do now. I never saw the sun shine so brightly before. Everything about me seems so beautiful. From this time I will appreciate more than ever I have done, this beautiful world. It almost pays a man to be penned up for a time to enable him to appreciate what there is in the world for him. Behind the walls, however, banished from the presence of loved ones, it is a veritable hell. I cannot find a term that expresses my views of a prison life that is more suitable than that word--hell. Those long, dreary days of monotonous work--the same thing must be gone over, day after day; the food we eat, the treatment to which we are subjected, our loneliness and solitude, all combined, make prison life almost unbearable." "Do you know," I asked, "of any prisoners who are so satisfied with their condition as to be willing to remain in the penitentiary, did they have an opportunity of obtaining their liberty?" "There is not a person in that institution," he replied, "who would not hail with joy his release. Some of them are physical wrecks, and would have to go to the almshouse to be taken care of in case they should obtain their freedom, yet they would prefer any place to that of a prison cell, deprived of their freedom." After spending more than an hour in conversation with this ex-convict, and bidding him "good bye," I proceeded on my journey to the prison. As I walked along thinking of the poor ex-convict I had just passed, my imagination pictured for him a rather gloomy future. He is a cripple, and has a large family to support; he must bear with him along life's journey the heavy load of disgrace that whisky placed upon him. An ex-convict! Who will give him work to do? Who will lend him a helping hand in his struggle to regain a foothold in the outside world? After a few vain efforts to regain what he has lost, will he not yield to despair, as thousands have done before him, and, becoming a pitiless wreck, pass on down the current of crime until he drifts over Time's last precipice and drops into the arms of Death? To the average ex-convict there is but little hope for success in this life. The painful history of a majority of them is, after they have fallen into the meshes of a criminal life, they never have the moral power to extricate themselves. My musings are now at an end, for I have just reached the entrance to the penitentiary--"A Missouri Hell." A prison official on duty at the entrance conducted me into the presence of the warden, Hon. John L. Morrison. This genial gentleman is a resident of Howard County, where he was born and spent the greater portion of his life. He is sixty years of age, and by occupation a farmer. For four years he was sheriff of his county. He received his appointment as warden less than one year ago. He is without any prison experience. The reason, no doubt, for his being appointed warden of so great a penal institution is, that outside from his being a man of unimpeachable integrity, he exerts no little political influence in that portion of the State where he resides. We have no cause for criticising the governor's selection. Perhaps he is one of the very best men that could have been procured for the place. At any rate, he is credited with starting out well. But it is not every honest, upright man that makes a good warden. It requires a man with a special fitness to be a success in handling prisoners and making a penal institution beneficial to all interested. After Warden Morrison has been given a fair trial, and it becomes evident that he is a successful prison man, he should be retained many years in that responsible position. For the longer he is kept at the head of the institution the more valuable will his services be to the State. I remained several days, and through the kindness of the warden and other prison officials, saw everything about the institution that was noteworthy. The Missouri penitentiary is located in the southern suburbs of Jefferson City. Its entrance is from the north. It covers an area of seventeen acres. This tract of ground is surrounded by a stone wall twenty feet high and four feet thick. The prison enclosure is rectangular in form. At each of the four corners, and at stated intervals, towers arise eight feet, which are occupied by officers on duty. Occupying this elevated position, these officers can readily observe all that occurs within the prison walls, outside the buildings. At stated times the officers emerge from the towers and walk along on top of the wall to see if anything unusual is taking place about the prison. Loose stones are piled on top of portions of the wall that surrounds the prison, to prevent the convicts from securing a fastening for ladder hooks, should they attempt to escape. A portion of this wall was erected fifty-four years ago, the prison having been established in 1836. Could these towering stones speak, what scenes of misery and wretchedness they might describe! O, ye rocks, that make up this barrier between freedom and the worst form of human slavery, as you have been occupying your silent position for the past half hundred years, had your ears been unstopped, what countless groans of despair would you have heard? Could your eyes have opened, when first you took your place in that prison wall fifty years ago, how many indescribable scenes of anguish would you have witnessed? A heavy iron door swings upon its creaking hinges. Bolts fly back into their sockets. I step into a revolving iron cage, which, manipulated by a guard, turns half way round on its axis, and I emerge from this into the prison campus the space surrounded by the walls. What wonderful scenes now are discovered! Many of them, indeed, are heartrending. I will describe what I saw and make mention of what I heard. There are four large buildings of brick and stone; honeycombed with cells--the homes of the prisoners. The cells, in ONE of these buildings, are large and commodious, and contain four criminals. In dimension they are nine feet wide and thirteen feet long. The remainder of the cells are small and contain but one man in a cell. The large cells are objectionable, for the reason that the men, being locked up together in such small rooms, get to talking, and often quarrels and fights result. A number of convicts have been almost murdered in these larger cells, where there were more than one occupant. Again, if there be three in a cell who desire to have the fourth one removed, they combine against him and render his existence while in the cell unbearable. They abuse him constantly. If he reports them to the officer the three stoutly deny all accusations, often bringing upon the innocent one punishment which should have been meted out to the three guilty ones. It requires but little stretch of the imagination to enable one to see how miserable a prisoner may be rendered in one of these cells when three occupants of the same cell combine against him. The large cells are a source of great annoyance to prison officials, and are now, after trial, universally condemned. The small cells are about four feet wide, seven feet long, and seven feet high. The doors are very low, and the prisoner has to stoop as he enters. The low door gives to the cell a more gloomy appearance than it would possess if the entrance was higher. On going into one of these cells one has the same feeling as takes hold of him when he crawls into a low, dark hole in the ground. The cells are constructed of stone, with wooden floors. The cells of the Kansas and other penitentiaries are higher and better ventilated. The furniture of the cell consists of an iron rack, on which is placed a straw bed with sufficient covering to keep the convict warm. There are also a bucket, wash-basin and towel. The prisoner washes himself in the cell. He also has a chair to sit on and a Holy Bible to read. This is about all the furniture to be found in the cells. Occasionally a carpet covers the floor, but the prisoner furnishes this out of his own means. If he has no means he has no carpet. I was much surprised to learn that there was no way provided for the convicts to take a plunge bath, and that many of them became very filthy because of their not being compelled to bathe at stated times. Other penitentiaries are supplied with bath-houses, and once each week the inmates are required to take a bath. This certainly is conducive to good health. The cell-houses are lighted by electric lights, and each cell is provided with a lamp. Thus the prisoner has an opportunity of reading during the evenings, which is a great blessing, and should be highly appreciated. The prison is supplied with a large library of choice books to which the inmates have access. They also are allowed to read daily newspapers, if they have money with which to purchase them. The managing officials of the Kansas penitentiary are possessed of a very foolish notion in regard to the reading of daily newspapers. They will not under any circumstances allow a prisoner to take his home paper, or have access to any political daily. They claim that it excites the prisoner and makes his imprisonment more difficult to bear when he knows what is going on in the outside world. It seems that this custom smacks of barbarism, and the prison directors of the Kansas prison should discard it at once. Imagine the condition of a prisoner who has been in confinement for ten years, having no access to the daily or weekly newspapers. He would be an ignoramus of the worst type. Our penal institutions should try and improve their prisoners, instead of rendering them more ignorant and debased. We are glad to note that the Missouri penitentiary is in advance of the Kansas prison in this respect. If the prisoner can take a little pleasure in reading, daily or weekly, what takes place at his own home, why not give him the privilege, since it is evident that such a permission will not be detrimental to prison discipline? There are school books to be found in the prison library, and the prisoners, if they desire, can get these books and study them. A great many do improve these opportunities, and a number have made great advancement in their studies. They are also permitted to have writing materials in their cells, a privilege which is considered very dangerous, and which but few similar institutions grant. Many of the convicts who could not read or write on entering the prison make considerable progress in these studies. The Missouri prison does not go far enough in matters of education. It should be provided with a school. In this matter the Kansas and Iowa penitentiaries are far in advance. They have regular graded schools, and many convicts have acquired an education sufficient to enable them to teach when they went out again into the free world. It is to be hoped when the Legislature meets again the members will see to it that ample provision is made for a first-class school at the prison, with a corps of good teachers. The State will lose nothing by this movement. In the Iowa prison at Ft. Madison the convicts are taught in the evening, after the work of the day is over. In the Kansas prison, instruction is given Sunday afternoon. These schools are accomplishing great good. The chief object of imprisonment should be reformation. Ignorance and reformation do not affiliate. Some will argue that if prisoners are educated and treated so humanely they will have a desire to return to the prison, in fact, make it their home. Experience teaches us that, treat a human being as a prince, and deprive him of his liberty, and the greatest burden of life is placed upon him, and he is rendered a pitiable object of abject misery. There is no punishment to which a human being can be subjected which it is possible to endure, that is more to be dreaded than confinement. Those long, weary, lonely hours that the prisoner spends in his cell are laden with the greatest of all continuous sorrows. There is but little danger of surfeiting him with kindness and advantages, so long as he is deprived of his freedom. If there is any hope for the reformation of the vicious and depraved, no better place can be found to commence that reformation than while he is an inmate of the prison. While there, he is shut out from the society of his wicked companions; he is not subjected to the same temptations in prison as on the outside. Save being deprived of his freedom, he is placed in the most favorable position for reformation that it is possible for one to occupy. If he is not reformed here it is not likely he ever will be. It is to the highest interest of the State that these opportunities should be improved. Every effort should be put forth to make these men better while they are in prison. They are worth saving. It must not be forgotten that one of the essential features in a thorough reformation of a man, is to drive away the mists of ignorance by which he is surrounded. Other things being equal, he is the better prepared to wage successfully life's warfare, who is educated. He will be better able to resist the temptations which he will meet when his days of bondage are over. Yes, by all means, let every prison have its school. It is of the greatest importance to the prisoner, likewise to the State. As I was passing through these cell-houses, reading the names of the convicts, placed above the cell door, I came to one which contained four brothers. Five brothers were convicted of robbery and sent to the prison, but a short time ago one of them was pardoned, and the four now remain. The liberated one was on a visit to his brothers while I was at the prison. Reader, is it not a sad thought that these four young men, brothers, should spend ten of the best years of their lives in a prison? Surely the way of the transgressor is hard. Young man, you who have as yet never been an inmate of a prison, imagine, if possible, the loneliness experienced as one spends his days, weeks, months and years behind these frowning prison walls, shut up the greatest portion of the time in these small cells that I have described in this chapter. If you do not wish a life of this nature, shun the company of wicked and vicious associates, and strive with all your power to resist the tempter in whatever form he may approach you. It is not force he employs to drag you down to the plane of the convict, but he causes the sweet song of the syren to ring in your ear, and in this manner allures you away from the right, and gently leads you down the pathway that ends in a felon cell, disgrace and death. CHAPTER XV. THE WORK OF THE CONVICT It is a great blessing to the convict that he can have the privilege of working. When prisons were first started in this country it was thought best to keep the prisoner in solitary confinement; have him visited daily by a spiritual teacher, place the Bible and other good books in his hands, and in this manner reform him, and send him out into the world a better man than he was on entering the prison. The great penal institution of Auburn, New York, was for a time conducted in this manner. The plan, at first thought to be a good one, had to be abandoned. The criminal could not endure solitary confinement. HE MUST HAVE WORK. Many of them became insane, while still others died for want of the open air, out-door exercise, and some diversion for the mind. In all the penitentiaries of the country, at the present time, convicts are required to perform some kind of useful labor. That is one point of the prison question that is, doubtless, forever settled. All prison men agree that the convict must perform some kind of work. Labor to the prisoners means health of body and mind. Solitary confinement means the reverse. But what kind of labor the prisoner should perform, and what should be done with the results of his labor, is one of the most difficult questions to decide. All the prisoners of the Missouri penitentiary are let out to contractors, with the exception of those needed to do the work about the prison. The work consists chiefly of making saddle-trees and shoes. Several large three-story buildings are used in furnishing room for the convicts while at labor. Those contractors who have been at the prison for some time have grown rich. They get their men for forty-five cents a day, on an average. They have their choice of prisoners as they come in. Those convicts designated scrubs, do the work for the State. The contractors are charged with controlling the prison. If one of the officials, in the discharge of his duty, happens to do anything displeasing to the contractors, they combine against him and have him removed. They are charged with using their combined political influence, and even money, to carry their points. We have been told by some of the leading men of the State that it was a notorious fact that the penitentiary was controlled by a political ring, a set of jobbers, and this ring was largely influenced by the contractors. The contract system is wrong, and should not have a place in any of the penal institutions of the country. The contractor assigns the task. The prisoner must perform that task or be punished. If an avaricious contractor, in his desire to make money, places too great a task upon the prisoner, who is there to take the prisoner's part and shield him from abuse? Fully nine-tenths of the punishments inflicted is the result of the reports and complaints of the contractors. See how unjust and how hard this contract system is upon many of the prisoners! Two convicts enter the same day. In outward appearance they are strong, healthy men. The same task is assigned them. One of them being adapted to that line of work, and skilled, performs his task with ease; while the other, equally industrious, cannot get through with his. He is reported for shirking. He states his inability to do the amount of work assigned him. The contractor or his foreman makes a different report. The assertions of the convict amount to but little, as against the statements of the rich and influential contractor. He is punished and returned to his work. A second time he tries, again fails, and is reported as before. This being the second offense the prisoner is subjected to a more severe punishment. This brutal treatment is continued until the officer, growing weary with inflicting punishment upon the poor wretch, concludes he is unable to perform the task assigned him. If this contract system is to continue in Missouri, there should be some one whose duty it is to see that the prisoner is humanely treated, and not let a brutal officer decide, who is in league with the contractors. I have it from the lips of a prison official who has been connected with the prison for thirty-six years, that the treatment some of the prisoners receive because of the avariciousness of the contractors, is simply heartrending. After all, is not this contract system a regular jobbing business? If these men can employ the prisoners and pay forty-five cents a day for them, and make money and grow rich, why cannot the State work the convicts and save all these profits? Competent men can be secured as superintendents to carry on this work. Some will say, that it will open up too many avenues to jobbery; that the superintendents will get to stealing from the State, and in the end the State will not get as much benefit as under the present system. This seems like begging the question. If these superintendents, after a time, become thieves, treat them as thieves, and give them a term in the penitentiary. This kind of medicine will soon cure all cases of jobbery. Again, prisoners should be assigned tasks according to their ability. All men are not alike equally skilled in the same kind of labor. All these things should be taken into account. No prisoner should be forced to carry a burden that is oppressive, in order to fill the coffers of avaricious contractors. Again, I ask that there be some humane person, whose duty it is to see that these helpless men, whose lips are sealed, are not oppressed by this damnable contract system. Let us treat these unfortunate men humanely, and never forget that, if stern justice was meted out to those who had the control of convicts, as officers, guards, or contractors, many of them would be doing service for the State, clad in a suit of stripes. The penitentiary of Missouri is self-supporting, with the exception of the officer's pay-roll. At each session of the Legislature, an appropriation of $140,000 is made for this purpose. There are over one hundred officers on the pay-roll. The records show that it requires nearly a quarter of a million dollars annually to pay the expenses of this institution. Crime is an expensive luxury! During the past two years $347,000 have been paid into the treasury as the earnings of the prison. The goods manufactured are sold chiefly in the State of Missouri. This brings convict labor, which is very cheap, into competition with the labor of the poor, but honest man on the outside. The average labor value of the convict is forty-five cents a day. How is it possible for laboring men on the outside, who have families depending upon them, to support themselves and families on an amount, that will enable business men, for whom they work, to engage in business and compete with this cheap convict labor? This is the great argument against convict labor. The convict must be given work or he will become insane. To bring this cheap labor into conflict with the toil of honest but poor men on the outside, is unjust and cruel. What to do with convict labor is one of the unsolved problems. It is a subject that will furnish ample scope for the thinking mind. The prisoner is worked on an average of nine hours each day. He goes about his labor in silence. It is against the regulations for him to exchange a word or a knowing glance with a fellow-workman. When visitors pass through the workshops he is not permitted to lift his eyes from his work to look at them. An officer, perched upon a raised seat, who commands a view of the entire work-room, is constantly on the watch to see that no rule or regulation is violated. The convict cannot take a drink of water, or go from one part of the room to another in the discharge of his duties without permission from the officer. The prisoner is always conscious of being watched. This feeling is no small factor in making the life of a prisoner almost unbearable. Nearly all of the inmates work in shops, and all the exercise they receive in the open air is what they get in going to and from their meals and cells. It is this sameness of work, this daily and hourly going over the same routine, this monotonous labor, this being surrounded by hundreds of busy fellow-workmen, and not permitted to exchange a word with any of them, that makes the life of a prisoner to be so much dreaded. Young man, as you read these lines, it is impossible for you to conceive the misery that accompanies this kind of a monotonous life. In order to know all that it means, you must pass through it, as I have done. Things are entirely different with you. While you are at work on the outside of prisons, you can carry on conversation with those about you and thus pass the time in a pleasant manner. After the day's work is over, if you so desire, you can spend an hour or so with friends. Not so with the criminal. After his day's work, done in silence, is past, he is locked up in his solitary cell to spend the evening as best he can. There is no one to watch you constantly while at your daily toil, to see that you do not violate some insignificant rule or regulation. When you desire a holiday, and wish to take a stroll out into the woods, to look upon the beautiful flowers or admire nature in all her loveliness, to inhale the pure, fresh air--which is a stranger to packed workshops--to revel in the genial sunlight, there is no one to forbid you. You are a free man. Oh, what a wonderful difference between the laboring man who is free, and him who is forced to work, clad in the habiliments of disgrace! He who penned these lines has had to toil as a convict in the coal mines of the Kansas penitentiary, eight hundred feet below the surface, lying stretched out on his side, and he knows what he is talking about when he says, he would rather die and be laid away in his grave than to spend five years as a convict. Young man, think of these things when you are tempted to do those things that will send you to a felon's cell. Of course, it is no intention of yours ever to become an inmate of a prison. Permit one who has had experience, to tell you that it is one of the easiest things in the world to get into a prison, and that when once in, it is difficult to secure your liberty, until Time turns the bolt and lets you out, or in other words, until you serve out your term. May you never yield to a temptation that will make you a prisoner. CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSOURI PRISONERS The Missouri penitentiary contains 1,894 convicts. This is the most populous penal institution in the United States. Crime is on the increase. The number of prisoners is gradually becoming larger. Reformation is not the success that it should be. A great many of the prisoners return a second, third and many the fourth time. There is one old convict now an inmate who has served nine different terms in this prison. The highest number that was ever at any prior time in this penitentiary, was reached on Thanksgiving Day of 1889. In 1836, fifty-four years ago, when this prison was founded, there were eighteen prisoners received the first day. During the year one received a pardon, leaving at the close seventeen prisoners. At the close of 1889 there were nineteen hundred inmates. As the population of Missouri increases, she is generous enough to contribute her quota to the felon cells within her borders. The increase of from seventeen at the close of the first year to that of nineteen hundred at the close of the last year, speaks volumes. What can be done to lessen this fearful increase of crime? It is true that the population of the State has increased amazingly since 1836, but crime has increased too rapidly in proportion to the increase of population. When a man, accused of crime, is convicted and sentenced in any of the courts of the State, a commitment is furnished the sheriff, by the clerk of the court. This document is a writing, giving the name of the prisoner, the crime of which he stands committed, and the term for which he is sentenced. It is the authority given the sheriff to convey to the penitentiary the person named therein, and to deliver him to the warden. As soon as the warden receives the commitment he assumes control of the prisoner, and retains it until his term of service expires, or is liberated by pardon or some court decree. It is curious to note how differently prisoners act on coming to the penitentiary. Some of them quake with fear and tremble as the aspen leaf. Others weep like whipped children. While others do not seem to mind it much. This latter class is chiefly made up of those who have served terms before, and have had experience. The officers try to crush the spirit of the criminal the first day he enters. The poor culprit, already quaking with fear, is spoken to in a cross and harsh manner, as if he was going to be struck over the head with a club the next moment. He is locked up in the reception cell, a low, dark dungeon. To use the expressive language of the prison, he is left in this dungeon to "soak" for an indefinite time, often for a day and a night. In this dreaded spot, in his loneliness and shame he has an opportunity for meditation. I don't suppose there ever was a person who, in this reception cell for the first time, did not heartily regret the commission of his crime. Here he thinks of his past life. The days of his innocent childhood come flitting before him. The faces of loved ones, many of whom now dead, pass in review. It is here he thinks of his loving mother, of his kind old father, of his weeping sisters and sympathizing brothers. He travels, time and again, the road of his past life. In his reveries of solitude he sits once more in the old school-house of his boyhood days. It comes to him, now with greater force than ever before, what he might have been, had he taken a different course, Alas! it is too late. He is forever disgraced. There is but little hope for him now in the future. Reader, behold this unfortunate youth as he sits in his lonely dungeon, his first day in the penitentiary. On a low chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands, he sits and tries to imagine what is in store for him. He endeavors to peer into the future, and all is gloom. That sweet angel we call Hope, has spread her wings, taken her flight and left him comfortless. The cloud of despair, black as the Egyptian midnight, settles down upon him. He wishes that he was dead. I can never forget my first day in a felon's cell. Of all my eventful life, into which many dark days have crowded themselves, my first day in prison was the darkest. After the "soaking season" is over, an officer advances to the dungeon, throws back the bolts, pulls open the door, and, in a harsh manner, commands the broken-hearted culprit to follow. He is conducted to an apartment, takes a bath, and dons the suit of stripes. Ye angels! did you ever behold such a sight? Is it not a travesty on every thing that is good to dress a human being in such a suit of clothes. A striped coat, striped pataloons, striped shirt, striped cap, in fine everything he wears is striped. There is nothing in this world so humiliates a person as being compelled to wear these stripes. No language can describe the feelings of horror that took hold upon me the first time I saw myself arrayed in these emblems of disgrace. I passed through all the fiery ordeal of trial, sentence, reception cell, undaunted, but when I made my first toilet in the penitentiary, I must admit, I was "knocked out." Then I felt keenly the sting of disgrace. The prisoner is next introduced to a convict barber, who shaves him and "clips" his hair. By the time the barber gets through with his part of the programme, the prisoner has but little hair either on his face or head. The prison physician examines him and it is decided where he is to work. He is next shown the cell he is to occupy, and later on his place of work. Over his cell is placed his name and number. He now enters upon that indescribable, desolate, and dreary life of a convict. THE TREATMENT OF THE PRISONERS The inmates of the Missouri penitentiary are well clothed. In this respect, this prison has no rival. All the prisoners presented the appearance of being cleanly, so far as their clothing is concerned. All are dressed in stripes. None are exempt. Here are nearly two thousand men on an equality. None of them can look down upon others, and say, I am more nicely dressed than you. I never saw a convict dude in the entire lot. The prisoners are well fed. For breakfast, the bill of fare consists of bread, coffee, without milk or sugar, and hash. There is no change of this bill of fare. If the prisoner has been there for ten years, if not in the hospital, he has feasted upon hash every morning. Boiled meat, corn bread, potatoes and water make up the dinner, and for supper the convict has bread, molasses and coffee. The principal objection to this diet is its monotony. Whenever a change of diet becomes a strict necessity, the prisoner is permitted to take a few meals in the hospital dining-room. Here he receives a first-class meal. This is a capital idea. A great deal of sickness is prevented by thus permitting the convict to have an occasional change of diet. On holidays, such as Thanksgiving day, Christmas, etc., an extra dinner is given, which is keenly relished by all. I have before me a statement of the expenses for a Sunday breakfast and dinner. There are only two meals given on Sunday. The hash was made up of 612 pounds of beef, 90 pounds of bacon, and 30 bushels of potatoes. Fifty-one pounds of coffee were used, and four and a half barrels of flour. The entire meal cost $68.38. For dinner, 1,585 pounds of beef, 30 bushels of potatoes, and 4 1/2 barrels of flour, were used. This meal cost $100.61. It costs about ten cents each a day to feed the prisoners. Some of the convicts, after they get their daily tasks performed, do overwork. The contractors pay them small sums for this extra labor. With this money the convict is permitted to purchase apples from the commissary department, which he can take to his cell and eat at his leisure. The commissary keeps these apples on hand at all times in packages, which he sells to the prisoners at twenty cents each. In prison, apples are the most healthful diet the inmate can have. Should friends on the outside desire to send delicacies to any of the prisoners, they are permitted to receive the same, and, taking them to their cells, eat at their leisure. These luxuries are highly appreciated by the men in stripes, whose daily food is largely made up of hash and corn bread. The female prisoners must subsist on the same kind of food as the males. In some penal institutions, Kansas for example, the women have better diet than is furnished the men. Not so in this penitentiary. All are treated alike, so far as food is concerned. Three times each day the men march into the large dining-hall, which accommodates 1,500, and partake of their meals. The tableware is of tin and somewhat meager. The tables themselves present the appearance of the modern school-desk, being long enough that twenty men may be comfortably seated at each. No table-linen is used. When eating, the convict is not permitted to call for anything he may wish. When a dish is empty it is held aloft, and an officer or a convict waiter replenishes it. Ample time is given to eat. All have a sufficiency of food such as it is. Every thing is clean. After the meal is over, the prisoners, in ranks, return to their workshops, or to their cells in case it is the last meal of the day. It is a very interesting sight to witness 1,500 convicts eating at the same time. The officials are to be commended for the following privileges they grant the prisoners: On all holidays, such as Fourth of July, Christmas, etc., they are let out of their cells into a large open square, inside the prison walls, and are allowed to converse with each other, and are given full liberty to do as they wish. These are days of freedom. Officers, of course, are among them to see that no fighting occurs, and also to prevent any from effecting their escape by scaling the walls. The prisoners do certainly enjoy these times. They shake hands with each other, run about, shout, leap for joy, and have more real happiness than a lot of school-boys who have been shut up in a room all day at their studies and are in the evening turned out for play. The men are very careful not to abuse this privilege which they prize very highly. There never have been any disturbances, nor fights, nor attempts at escape during these holidays. These privileges granted the prisoners demonstrate the humaneness of the prison officials. The question often arises, why is it there are no more riots and insurrections in this prison. Here are nearly two thousand men huddled up together. They are prisoners, suffering the worst kind of bondage. Why is it they do not make a rush for liberty whenever an opportunity presents itself? Many of them are in for life, and may never again see beyond their prison walls. Why are they so docile? These questions can be easily answered. Many of the men are short-time prisoners, having from one to three years, and cannot afford to get into trouble, as their time is short. Added to this, if the prisoner behaves himself, and obtains a good prison record, he obtains a pardon and restoration to citizenship when three-fourths of his time has expired. If a man is sent for ten years, by good conduct he will be pardoned at the end of seven and a half years. This is a great inducement to good behavior. The reason the life-men cause but little, if any, disturbance in the prison is, that they all have a hope sometime or other of receiving a pardon, and they know very well that, if they do not have a good prison record, they can never obtain a pardon. A custom also prevails at the prison, that has much to do in causing the long-time men to behave themselves, and be obedient to the regulations of the institution. Every Fourth of July and Christmas the governor of the State grants pardons to two long-time men, so there are four chances annually for a man to obtain his freedom. Before the governor will pardon one of these men, he must be satisfied, among other things, that the convict has a good prison record. Any one can readily see that this is a great inducement for the prisoner to behave himself. Missouri is the only State, so far as my knowledge extends, that has this custom. It should become, not only a custom, but a law, in every State. It is founded on good sense. THE PRISONER'S SENTENCE I believe in capital punishment. When a man falls so low as maliciously, willfully and premeditatedly, to take the life of a human being, he should be hung by the neck until he is dead. Before it is just to impose such a sentence as this upon a human being he should have a fair and impartial trial, which many persons charged with crime do not get. If poor and unable to employ the best legal talent, the court should see that it is furnished. Too often is it the case when a poor man, charged with crime, makes affidavit that he is unable to procure counsel, that some young and inexperienced attorney is selected, in order to give him a start in practice. The consequence of this inexperience is that the man charged with crime has to suffer for his lawyer's inability to secure for him his rights. After the jury has brought in a verdict of guilty he should have the privilege of taking his case to the Supreme Court, and have it reviewed by that tribunal at the expense of the State. No human being should be hung on circumstantial evidence, unsupported by positive testimony. If the judgment below is confirmed, then let the murderer be kept in close confinement in the penitentiary for one year, and, if during that time no new evidence or mitigating circumstances arise let him be hung by the neck until he is dead. Let the execution take place in the prison, let it be private and witnessed by but few persons, designated by the executive of the State. It is better for the criminal to be hung than to be sent to the penitentiary for life. While serving out a lifetime sentence he suffers ten thousand deaths. Those States where the death penalty is inflicted have the least number of brutal murders, in proportion to their population. The dread of death is a better protection to society than a life of imprisonment. The fiend with murder in his heart thinks "while there is life, hope remains," and if he is sent to the penitentiary for life he may get a pardon after a time. But if he is aware of the fact that if he strikes the fatal blow he must atone for his crime on the gallows, he is more liable to think twice before striking his innocent victim once. There should be no such a thing as a life sentence. No criminal should be sent to the penitentiary for a term longer than fifteen years. The suffering he endures during this long sentence is enough to atone for any crime he may commit aside from a brutal murder, and for this he should be hung. Fifteen years of imprisonment is sufficient to break down almost any constitution. Having spent this length of time behind prison walls a man is a physical wreck, and, having atoned for his crime, let him have the last days of life in the world of freedom. The greatest desire of a life man in our penitentiaries is to die outside of prison walls. No criminal should be sent to the penitentiary for less than five years. After giving him one fourth off for good behavior, he has but little more than three years of actual service. This will give him plenty of time to learn a trade, so that when he goes out of prison he can make a living for himself and for those depending upon him. For crimes that require lighter sentences of imprisonment let jails or reformatories be brought into requisition. In the eyes of the world a jail sentence is not so disgraceful as one in the penitentiary. The plumage of a jail-bird is not so black as that of a penitentiary bird. The disgrace of being sent to the penitentiary for one year is as great as being sent for five or ten years. Whether he goes for one or five years, for all the future he is set down as an ex-convict. People do not stop to inquire as to the length of his sentence. The main question is: Was he in the penitentiary? If so, he wears the mark of Cain--the stamp of disgrace. Not so, if he simply has been in jail. There are a great many young men, while surrounded by bad company, yield to temptation and commit crime. A dose of jail service will do them as much good as a year in the penitentiary. After they get out they do not feel the disgrace so keenly, and there is some hope for their reformation. Send them to the penitentiary and it will be a miracle if they ever amount to anything in the future. If a jail sentence of a year does not reform a young criminal, or a man of older years, who has committed his first offense, then give a term in the penitentiary for five years for the second offense. It is too true that a sentence to the penitentiary for a first term is the irretrievable ruin of the young offender. This becomes an obstacle which, during all the future, he cannot surmount. This plan being adopted let everything be done to reform the youthful offender while in jail. It is much easier to carry forward the work of reformation in a jail or reformatory than in a penitentiary. CHAPTER XVII. THE MISSOURI PRISONERS--(Continued) During the years 1887 and 1888, 1,523 prisoners were received into the Missouri penitentiary. Of this number 1,082 were white males, 398 colored males, 17 white females, and 26 colored females. These figures show that the women of Missouri are a great deal better than the men, or they do not get their share of justice. TABLE SHOWING THE AGES OF CONVICTS RECEIVED DURING THE YEARS 1887 AND 1888. From 16 to 20.................320 " 20 to 25.................441 " 25 to 30.................344 " 30 to 35.................143 " 35 to 40.................113 " 40 to 45................. 70 " 45 to 50................. 34 " 50 to 55................. 31 " 55 to 60................. 15 " 60 to 65................. 5 " 65 to 70................. 4 " 70 and upward............ 5 ---- Total .......... 1,523 There is nothing that should interest the good people of Missouri more than the foregoing table. These appalling figures I copied from the prison records. Of the 1,523 criminals received during the past two years, more than one-fifth of them were mere children. Would it not be better to give these boys a term in the county jails, or in some reformatory, instead of sending them to a penitentiary? Coming in contact with hardened and vicious criminals, what hope is there for getting these boys into the paths of honesty and uprightness? Then there follows the large number of 441, representing the youthful age from twenty to twenty-five years. These are the years most prolific of criminals. Who can say these boys are vicious and hardened criminals? Then follow the young men of from twenty-five to thirty. Three hundred and fourty-four of this age find a home in felon cells. Are these boys and young men not worth saving? What can be done to snatch them from a career of crime, and to save them from becoming miserable wrecks? Father, if one of these boys was a son of yours, you would think seriously over this important question. Something should be done to save this large army of youth who are annually finding their way into felon cells. Is the penitentiary the proper place to send those youthful offenders? If so, then they should not come in contact with the older and hardened criminals. One of the most essential things to be done in a prison is the classification of the inmates. This is not done in the Missouri penitentiary. Here the mere youth often cells with a hardened old criminal of the worst description. I would rather a child of mine would be boxed up with a rattlesnake. In this institution there are nearly 2,000 criminals huddled up together--an indiscriminate mass. The officials are not to blame for this. They realize the terrible condition of things at the prison. They have not sufficient room for the classification and proper arrangement of the inmates. They know, perhaps better than anyone else, that the prison is not what it should be. Warden Marmaduke says, in his last report to the prison directors, "This prison is now too much crowded and it becomes a serious question at once, as to what disposition will be made of them in the future. If this prison is to accommodate them, another cell building should be built at once. If another prison is to be the solution, it should be commenced. If a reconstruction of our criminal laws, looking to the reduction of crime, it should be done now. And in any event, and whatever may be done, certainly our management of prisons should be so modified or changed that the practical, not the sentimental system of reform, should be adopted. I believe that our present system is making criminals instead of reforming them, and I believe that it is practicable to so classify, treat, feed, work and uniform these people, as to make better men instead of worse men out of them. I have profound respect for the good purposes of the benevolently disposed men and women, and they are numerous, who are devoting themselves to the effort of reforming criminals. Yet their efforts must be supplemented by a practical building up and the development of the better instincts of the man, which cannot be done under our present system. The surroundings are against it. We are constantly developing and stimulating the very worst instincts. I believe it practicable to institute methods for this reform, at once creditable to the State." Who can doubt our statements on this subject when we quote such high authority as the above. The last warden of this great institution comes out and officially announces that awful fact that our present system of prison treatment is constantly developing and stimulating the very worst instincts. Constantly making men worse, and when a young man enters the prison he is morally tainted, when he goes out he is completely saturated, with moral pollution. After such statements from so high an authority will the great State of Missouri, so well-known the world over for her numerous acts of benevolence, continue to have an institution within her borders for the complete demoralization and ruin of multitudes of her young men. Should a youth of Missouri, surrounded by influences and temptations which he could not resist, once fall from a position of honor and integrity, although it is his first violation of the law, he will be taken into custody of the State, hurled into a pit, where for a time he will inhale the fetid breath of wickedness, then, later on, to be released and sent out into the free world a moral leper. The State should not provide this machine for the moral destruction of her unfortunate youth. If this be the real and true condition of affairs, what can be done to change them? I would suggest the erection, at once, of a reformatory. Classify the prisoners. Let those who are in for the first offense be separated from those who are professional and debased criminals. Give these youthful offenders the benefit of schools, connected with the reformatory. Let them have moral instruction, and many of these young men will be reclaimed, However well a criminal is treated, when behind prison walls, however good the advantages granted him, all this will avail but little, if some provision is not made to aid him when he leaves the prison. Many prisoners, at the time of their discharge, may be, in heart, as pure as angels, and resolve to lead good lives, yet they are convicts, and carry out with them the shame and disgrace of such a life. They must live even if they are disgraced. They must have work. Who will employ a convict? Should a man, just from the prison, come to you and frankly inform you that he was recently discharged from a felon's cell, that he had been convicted of horse-stealing, for instance, and wanted employment with you on the farm, how many of you, my readers, would give him work? You would be afraid of him. You would decline his services, and who could blame you? But the convict must live, and it is easily seen, how, that after applying to several for work and being refused each time on account of his past trouble, he would, after a time, become discouraged and return to a life of a criminal. Hunger drives him to deeds of desperation, and more especially is this the case if he have a wife or helpless children depending upon him. On his discharge from the prison the State presents him, with a shoddy suit of clothes (very cheap), buys him a ticket for the town from which he came, and then lets him shift for himself. Disgraced, penniless, friendless, helpless, how is it possible for anyone of them ever to secure another foothold in life. Something should be done, to help these men to secure work for a time after their discharge from prison. This would prevent a vast majority of criminals from returning to the prison after their first term. That my views on this subject may not be considered visionary, and that I may not be regarded as standing alone in my suggestions, I will give a portion of the report of Rev. J. Gierlow, ex-chaplain of the Missouri penitentiary. "The increase of crime is necessarily attracting the attention of all thinking people, and there is abundant evidence that crime-causes are increasing, for which there seems to be no adequate prevention. It has been said, that nearly all crime originates in the saloon, but this statement requires discrimination. Very few professional thieves are inebriates. That class of criminals are sober men, they could not ply their trade without a clear head, nor do they go with those who drink, for they talk too much. No, intemperance to a considerable extent, is only a secondary cause of crime which must be reached by well-ordered, sanitary, hygienic and educational measures. Diseased bodies and unbalanced minds are largely characteristic of criminals; and these are two factors in producing crime. "There is a numerous class in whom crime seems to be hereditary, a taint in the blood. In the same family there are generations of criminals. Prison life adds another large section to the criminal class. By the congregate system the prison becomes a school of crime, where the young offender is both demoralized by contact with hardened criminals, and initiated into the mysteries of professional villainy. It is a question whether detention in prison, without remedial influences, is not more of a loss than a gain. The critical time of a prisoner, desirous of building up a new life, is when he crosses the threshold of the prison and goes out into the world. He is met with distrust wherever his past is known. He is in constant terror of exposure if he tries to keep it secret. And what does the State do to put him on his feet or to give him a chance? It gives him a few dollars to carry him here or there, and bids him shift for himself. And finding every avenue of honest employment closed against him, he is driven in desperation, however well disposed he may be, to renew his criminal habits and associates. What, then, are the remedies, as far as the prison system is concerned? Chiefly, classification. Let not one who desires to reform be compelled to associate with those who are almost sure to degrade and debase him. The neglect of discriminating classification of offenders is a dark stain upon civilization. Then, again, I believe it to be the duty of the State to reinstate the penitentiary man in society. This may be secured by a conditional discharge, the finding of work for him, and the obligation to report himself at stated periods to the proper authority. I have regarded it as within the province of my office to thus briefly set forth what I have gathered from experience in my intercourse with convicts, as well as from sober conviction, after mature deliberation. Let the State consider and act. TABLE SHOWING SENTENCES OF CONVICTS DURING THE YEARS 1887 AND 1888. Years. Mos. No. 1 2 1 ... 14 1 6 1 2 ... 745 2 3 1 2 6 15 2 8 8 3 ... 296 3 6 8 4 ... 86 4 4 1 4 6 1 5 ... 164 6 ... 12 7 ... 21 8 ... 6 10 ... 72 11 ... 3 12 ... 8 13 ... 1 14 ... 1 15 ... 13 18 ... 2 20 ... 10 21 ... 2 22 ... 1 25 ... 13 30 ... 2 35 ... 1 38 ... 2 48 ... 1 50 ... 2 99 ... 4 Life ... 4 ---- Total 1523 I have here inserted the foregoing table to show the reader about how the sentences are. It will be observed that of the one thousand five hundred and twenty-three prisoners admitted during the past two years, seven hundred and forty-five of them, or nearly one-half, have but a two-years' sentence. This shows that the crimes committed were not very "horrible in their nature," or the sentences imposed would have been more severe. This is probably the first offense for these offenders. By good conduct in the prison one-fourth of their time will be deducted. This will give them but eighteen months of actual service. What can they accomplish in so short a time? The contractors care but little for them, since their time will expire before they can master a trade and be of any service. Had these youthful offenders been given a term in a county jail or reformatory, would not justice been satisfied, and there would have been more hope for the prisoner as to the future. HE WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A PENITENTIARY CONVICT. I hope soon to see the day when the great State of Missouri will have a reformatory institution which will receive the wayward youth of that great commonwealth, and, after keeping and training them for a time, will send them out into the world stronger and better men than when first received. So far as reformation is concerned, the Missouri penitentiary is a dismal failure. CHAPTER XVIII. PRISON DISCIPLINE The Missouri penitentiary ranks among the leading penal institutions of the country in matter of discipline. The rules and regulations are placed in the hands of the prisoner as soon as he enters. If an inmate obeys these rules and regulations he will be let alone, and will go through his term of service without being punished. If he becomes unruly and disobedient he will be punished, and that, too, very severely. Each prisoner is allowed one pound of tobacco a month for chewing and smoking purposes. In this prison the inmate is permitted to smoke in his cell. This is the only institution with which I am acquainted that permits smoking. The prisoners seem to enjoy their smoke very much, and I do not see but that it is just the thing, for if a person on the outside takes comfort from the use of his pipe, much more will the man who sits in the solitude of a felon's cell. If a prisoner violates a prison rule his tobacco is taken away from him for a time. The majority of the inmates will obey the rules of the prison through fear of having their tobacco, taken away from them. Each prisoner also has access to the books of the library, and another mode of punishment is to deprive the offender the use of the library for a time. This, also, has a very salutary effect. Another mode of punishment, is to place the unruly convict in a dungeon and feed him nothing but bread and water. The prisoner on entering this dreary abode must leave behind him his hat, coat and shoes, and in this condition he is required often to spend days and weeks in solitary confinement. The dungeon contains no furniture of any description save a night bucket. Prisoners do not remain in these dark holes very long until they promise obedience. It is one of the most successful modes of prison punishment. In case of a second or third offense, and sometimes for the first, in case it is a bad one, the offender is liable to receive a flogging. This is one of the few penal institutions in our country where the cat-o'-nine-tails is used. When a prisoner's conduct has been such that it is deemed advisable to whip him, he is taken from his cell and led to a post in the rear of one of the large buildings, out of sight of the other convicts. His clothing is then removed, with the exception of his shoes. These are left on his feet to catch the blood that flows down his limbs. In this nude condition he is tightly bound to a post with chains. Standing at the post, in a helpless condition, he receives the lash. The whip consists of several leather straps, or thongs, at the ends of which small pieces of steel are fastened. Every blow brings the blood. I have been told by reliable persons that, at times, prisoners have been so severely flogged that the blood, flowing down their limbs into their shoes would fill them and run out over the tops. This seems barbarous in the extreme, and my humane reader at once cries out, "It should not be tolerated." In Missouri this flogging of human beings in prison has been going on for more than fifty years. After the punishment is over, the prisoner, half dead with fright and pain, is led back to his cell, where he remains for a day or two, that he may recuperate. He throws himself down on his "bunk," and remains there for hours, the blood still flowing from his lacerated back. Often the blanket on which he lies, sticks to his bleeding back, and a fellow convict is asked, often, to assist in removing it. Many a poor fellow carries with him through life the scars which were made while a convict in this prison. One day while I was working in the coal mines of the Kansas penitentiary, a fellow-convict showed me his scarred back. He had served a term in the Missouri penitentiary, and while there had been severely whipped. His back told the story too plainly that his whipping had been a severe and cruel one. It would seem that the day of the whipping-post had passed away; that the doors of our advanced civilization were shut against it. Many of the prison officials claim that it is the most healthy mode of inflicting punishment; that to place a convict in a dungeon and to feed him on bread and, water is far more injurious to his health than to give him a good "paddling," and it don't require so long to do the work. The same results are reached more quickly. Others claim that it is impossible to have good prison discipline without resorting to the lash. This statement is not correct. There is no better discipline to be found in any penal institution, than that in the Kansas penitentiary, where no prisoner ever receives a stroke from a whip. The laws of that State forbid it. In our humble judgment it would be the best thing that the Missouri Legislature could do at its next session, to prohibit any further use of the lash. Sometimes a paddle is used, with small holes bored in the end, and every time this paddle strikes the nude flesh, blisters are raised. Again, another instrument of punishment in use is a thick, broad, leather strap, fastened in a wooden handle, at the end of which lateral incisions are made that give it the appearance of a saw. There is no trouble in raising huge blisters "with this engine of warfare." All these modes are barbarous, and should be forbidden. Whenever severe punishment becomes essential, let the prisoner remain in the dungeon, living on bread and water until he promises, in good faith, to behave himself. A great deal of useless punishment can be avoided if the officer in charge of the prison discipline is a humane man and a good judge of human nature, and no other should be permitted to fill this important position. We must not, however, be too hasty in condemning prison officials for harsh treatment of those under their charge. They have some of the most desperate men on the face of the earth to deal with, and at times it becomes a necessity to use harsh measures. Notwithstanding this is all true, there are but very few human beings but what have white spots in their otherwise darkened souls, and often a word of kindness does more than a cruel blow from a merciless officer. The excellent discipline of this institution is due, in the main, to Captain Bradbury, the deputy warden. He is beyond doubt, one of the best, and most experienced prison men in the United States. He has been connected with the Missouri prison for thirty-three years. The warden looks after the finances of the institution, and it belongs to Captain Bradbury to hold in subjection the two thousand criminals that are crowded together in that small prison enclosure. This celebrated deputy warden is a Virginian by birth. He is sixty-two years of age. He served in the Mexican war, and now draws a pension from the Government, because of his services there. If a prisoner conducts himself properly, Captain Bradbury will treat him as humanely as he can under the circumstances. If he becomes willful and unruly, the Captain no doubt will take great pleasure in giving the offender "a good paddling," to use his own forcible expression. This official is a strong advocate of corporal punishment. He claims that a "little loosening up of the hide" of an obstreperous prisoner does the said prisoner a vast amount of good. Among the convicts the deputy warden is austere. He is never seen sauntering about the prison enclosure with his long arms entwined about any of "the boys in stripes." He claims, that too great a familiarity breeds contempt. This seeming harshness when in the presence of the prisoners is only borrowed for the occasion, for, away from the convicts, there is not a more social gentleman in the State of Missouri. Great credit is due to Captain Bradbury for his excellent management of this institution, under such unfavorable circumstances. Could he be persuaded to quit the use of the whipping post, and use other measures less barbarous, I think the same discipline could be secured, as now exists. The officers here do not seem to be so exacting as in many other prisons. In the Kansas penitentiary, when prisoners are in ranks going to and from their meals, their cells, or workshops, they are required to fold their arms, and keep their eyes fixed upon the back of the one's head just in front. No gazing about is permitted, and should a prisoner speak to one in the front of him and be detected, he would be summarily dealt with. In the Missouri prison I noticed that the convicts while marching would gaze about wherever they wished, and go swinging along with their arms dangling at their sides. In many prisons the inmates are required, while in ranks, to keep their hands on the shoulders of the man in front. This would seem to be the most desirable way of having the prisoners march. In this prison one can detect more of a homelike feeling, not so rigorous and exacting as in many institutions of this nature. Captain Todd, assistant deputy warden, is another official of long standing. He has been with this prison for eighteen years, and is very popular. In this connection we must not fail to mention Captain Crump, who has been connected with this prison for thirty-six years, but who was discharged during the last administration because of his making statements to the effect that the prison was run by a "political ring." He is now deputy marshal of Jefferson City, and is a faithful officer. He incurred the displeasure of the contractors because of the grave charges he made against them, because of their inhuman demands upon the prisoners, requiring of them more work than they were able to perform. Because of his humaneness, and because he wanted to see the helpless prisoner treated as he should be, after thirty-six years of faithful service was discharged from the institution. In 1883 there was an investigation made of many serious charges preferred against the contractors and some of the leading officials. The committee made their report to the governor, and some five hundred pamphlets containing this report were printed for distribution. When the Legislature met none of these books could be found, and the whole matter was a specimen of whitewash. The report contained some very damaging charges, but nothing was ever done with the matter. I visited the office of the secretary of state and asked to see one of these books, but even his office did not contain a copy of this State document. The Legislature should keep a watchful eye over this penal institution, and, while there should be good discipline maintained, the prisoners should not be treated in a barbarous manner. A PARDONING BOARD The governor has the pardoning power. He extends executive clemency to a number annually. He has not time to attend to the duties connected with this prerogative. There are 2,000 prisoners. No doubt many of them have excessive sentences. If a thorough investigation was made, many would be found innocent. The governor has not the time to attend to these matters. There should be a pardoning board appointed to investigate these cases and advise with the governor. To show the necessity of such a board, I have only to state that during the past year the Pardoning Board of Kansas has advised executive clemency to fifteen criminals who received their pardons on the grounds of innocency. One of the number being a Mrs. Henrietta Cook, who was sentenced for life, and who had served fifteen years of imprisonment, when, upon an investigation of her case by the Pardoning Board, she was discharged, there being no doubt as to her innocence. The great majority of these prisoners are poor and friendless. They have no one on the outside to aid them in securing their rights, and unless a pardoning board is appointed to investigate these cases, many a man and woman entirely innocent, will have to serve out a sentence in this prison. It is but natural for the contractors to use their influence to prevent the men under their control from receiving pardons. If a man is sentenced for ten years, and has been in one of the shops for two or three years, and has learned to do his work well, the contractor will want to keep him instead of letting him go, and will, no doubt, in an underhanded way, do all against the poor prisoner he can. This strong influence in many cases will have to be counteracted and overcome before the prisoner can receive his pardon and obtain his liberty. A pardoning board, when appointed, should be men who would not be in collusion with the contractors, but be men who would see that the prisoner had justice. CHAPTER XIX. NOTED CONVICTS At the present time there are fifty-six females who find homes in this living tomb. Two-thirds of them are colored. The greater portion are kept busy making underclothing for the prisoners. They are detained, during working hours, in a room, seated at tables, with a lady guard watching them. They are not allowed to converse with each other, only as they get permission from this officer. They are not permitted to see the male prisoners. In fact there is no way of entering the female prison from the male department. The dormitory is on the third floor. The female convicts wear striped calico dresses, the stripes running lengthwise. The female prison is kept scrupulously clean, which reflects great credit upon those having the management of this department. In company with Doctor Lewellyn, the prison physician, I passed through the dormitory. Here I found a great curiosity. It was a baby prisoner, six months old. The little convict was born in the penitentiary. It is a colored child--its mother being a mulatto, who was sent to prison for fifteen years for murdering two of her children. When on the outside, she lived with her paramour, a white man, and, as fast as children were born to them, she would murder them in cold blood. The white man was tried also as accessory to the murder, but, owing to her refusal to testify against him, there was not sufficient evidence to convict him, and he was set at liberty. He often visits her at the prison, bringing her eatables, which are very much relished in the penitentiary. I saw also the notorious Sadie Hayes, who was sent up from St. Louis for killing a policeman. She was under the influence of strong drink, and, thus crazed with whisky, the officer tried to arrest her. She drew a razor, and began to slash away at the officer, and, in spite of his club and large, muscular frame, she soon cut him to pieces. He expired on the sidewalk, where the engagement took place. She was sent up for ninety-nine years, and has now been in prison about three years. She is one of the most desperate looking women I ever saw, and, when crazed with drink, becomes an infuriated demon. She is an adept in the use of the razor. The oldest female prisoner is an aged German woman by the name of Oldstein, from Gasconade County. She has been in the penitentiary thirteen years, and, doubtless, would get a pardon if she had any place where she could make her home after securing her liberty. The old woman is entirely broken down and is a physical wreck. She spends the most of her time knitting. Aside from keeping her own bedding clean she is not required to perform any labor. She was charged with a cold-blooded murder. She, her husband and daughter murdered her daughter's husband. The old man was hung, the daughter was sent up for life, and died in a few months after entering prison. The old woman was sentenced to be hung also with her husband, but the governor commuted her sentence to that of life imprisonment. For thirteen long, dreary years she has lived behind these prison walls. She longs for death, but death refuses, as yet, to claim her as his own. Broken in health, friendless, penniless, this poor old woman is but another proof that "the way of the transgressor is hard." I also saw Anna Brown, another female prisoner, who, with her step-brother, planned and carried into execution a terrible cold-blooded murder. It was none other than the killing of her aged father. The boy was sent to prison for life and the woman received a sentence of forty-nine years. Her sentence might just as well have read "life imprisonment" as forty-nine years, for she cannot live but a few years longer in confinement. Nannie Stair is another interesting prisoner. She came from Vernon County. An old and crippled man was driving through the country. Night coming on found him near the house of the Stair family. He stopped and asked for a night's lodging. His request was granted. That was the old man's last night of earth. During the hours of the night Stair and his wife made their way into the bed-chamber where the helpless traveler lay asleep unconscious of his doom. It was not long until the husband sent an axe crushing through his brain, his wife standing by, a witness to the fearful deed. During the same night they dug his grave in the garden back of the house, and buried him. Next day the husband drove the murdered man's team to a town not far distant, and sold it. In a couple of weeks friends began to institute search for the missing man. He was traced to the home of the Stair family. The husband and wife being separated, and the officers telling the wife that she would be let out of the scrape without much punishment in case she would tell all she knew, she informed them of all the details of the bloody deed, where the victim lay buried, and what disposition was made of the murdered man's team and money. The two were arrested, tried and convicted. The husband was hung, and the wife sent to the penitentiary for six years. Her time will now soon be served out, and she will once more be a free woman. The desire of this family to obtain filthy lucre was too great. Of the fifty-six female inmates of of the Missouri penitentiary, fifteen of them were sent for murder. Kansas City has several female representatives. It is stated, on good authority, that the sentences imposed by the judges of the Kansas City district are far more excessive than in any other portion of the State. I was told that a number of these female convicts were very desperate characters, while others of them, driven to deeds of desperation on account of poverty, committed acts that for a time placed them behind prison bolts and bars. Something should be done to aid these poor women, when their terms expire, to get a start in life. If something is not done for them, it will be but a short time when they will drift back again into crime and prison. The author of this book believes that it is all right to send money to India and other remote countries to aid the heathen, but instead of sending it all away to lands beyond the seas, he thinks a portion of it, at least, could be well expended this side the briny deep in helping some of these poor unfortunate convicts to get another start in life, and thus lift them out of a life of crime. WHISKY AND CARDS Felix Bagan's history shows the career of many a boy, when thrown into bad company. At an early age Felix was left an orphan. When his parents both died he had not a relative living that cared anything for him. Taken from the grave of his mother, who died shortly after the death and burial of her husband, the unfortunate lad was placed in the orphan's home in St. Louis. Here he remained for several years, and acquired all the education that he possessed. After becoming old enough to do some work, he was given to a farmer, who took him to his home in the country. Possessed of a genial disposition, he soon made many friends. He was highly esteemed by the lady and gentleman who adopted him. He was honest and industrious. It was on election day that his down-fall took place. In company with several young men, who resided on neighboring farms, he went to a small town near by to pass the day. Being invited to participate in a game of cards, he and several of his companions found their way into the back part of a saloon, where the day was spent in drinking and gambling. Toward evening a dispute arose about the cards, a drunken fight was the result. Bagan, half crazed with drink, drew his knife and stabbed to the death one of his companions. The young man whom he murdered, prior to this had been one of his best friends. When he saw the life-blood of his companion ebb away, he came to his senses, and was soon sober. He wept like a child when he saw his friend sinking away into, the arms of death. The awful deed was done, and nothing was left to the unfortunate youth but to be led away to prison, with the blood of a human being upon his garments. In due time he had his trial, and was sent to the penitentiary for thirty years. He was twenty-two years of age when he received the sentence. He has now been in the prison thirteen years. For seven years he worked in the saddle-tree shop for Sullivan, Hayes & Co., prison contractors. At the end of that time his health failing, he refused to work. The prison authorities thought he was trying to shirk his work. After being severely flogged, he was placed in the dungeon and kept there in solitary confinement for three months. Half dead, he was taken to the hospital and left in the hands of the prison physician. For a time it was thought he would die. After a while he began to recover; large patches of hair fell from his scalp, leaving his head thickly covered with bald spots. When he entered the prison he was a fine-appearing young man, but thirteen years of imprisonment have converted him into a broken-down old man and physical wreck. That was a sad day for that unfortunate youth when he entered the saloon to take part in the game of cards. He will not live to the end of his sentence, but will die in the penitentiary, and find his last, long home in the prison grave-yard. Young man, as you read the history of this convict, can you not persuade yourself to let whisky and cards alone for the future? BILL RYAN Passing through the cell houses, I was shown the room occupied by the notorious Bill Ryan for seven years. He was a member of the James boys' gang. Being convicted of highway robbery he was sent to the prison for twenty years. After Jesse James had been killed by young Ford, and Frank's crimes had been pardoned, Ryan's sentence was commuted to ten years, and after serving seven he regained his liberty. Ryan was accredited with being one of the best prisoners in the penitentiary. On the outside, if reports be true, he was one of the most desperate men in Missouri. His time was spent in drinking, gambling, quarreling, fighting and killing. He is charged with killing a number of men. He was twice tried for murder, but proving an alibi, the jury brought in a verdict of "not guilty." The prison officials speak in the highest terms of his conduct while an inmate of the penitentiary. He was an obedient and hard-working convict. Now that he is once more a free man it is to be hoped that he will show himself as good a citizen on the outside, as he was on the inside, of prison walls. WILLIE HILDRUM This youthful convict is but sixteen years of age. He is the youngest prisoner in the penitentiary. He was formerly a boot-black on the streets of St. Louis. Getting into a fight one day with one of his boot-black companions over a nickel that they had jointly earned "shining up" a patron's boots, young Hildrum drew an old knife from his pocket, which he had found a few days before, and sent the rusty blade into the heart of the street Arab. The youthful murderer was tried and convicted of manslaughter, and on account of his youth was given but two years in the penitentiary. S. D. HENSON This convict was at one time county judge of Stoddard County, and highly respected. He is one of the finest appearing men I ever saw. His finely shaped head bespeaks intelligence. It is sad to see such grand looking specimens dressed in the garb of disgrace. Judge Henson became involved in a quarrel with one of his neighbors over some trivial matter, and killed him. His sentence is for twenty years, which for him at this advanced age means death in the prison. Great efforts are being put forth for his pardon, but it is a question left entirely with the governor, and no one can tell how he may act. Judge Henson is not at heart a criminal. On that open countenance there is no mark of Cain. Thinking of his sad case, more than ever am I convinced that we are creatures of circumstances. How many of my readers, had they in the past, been surrounded by the same circumstances, subject to the same temptations, would not have acted in the same manner, and like judge Henson found a home in a convict's cell. FORTY-EIGHT YEARS A PRISONER John Hicks is the veteran penitentiary convict of the United States. Under an alias he served one term in the Missouri penitentiary. Most of his time has been spent in prisons further east. He is now eighty-four years of age, and quite recently was released from the Michigan City penitentiary. Prison authorities have compared notes and find that he has actually served forty-eight years of prison life. He is the oldest living criminal in this country. He has served ten terms, the greater portion of them being in Indiana. His first crime was committed in 1839. In some way he learned that a man named Bearder had $360 in his house. While the family were at church Hicks rifled the house and stole their money. A marked coin led to his conviction, and he got a three years' sentence. He was never, afterward, out six months at a time, and was sent up successively for burglary, criminal assault, robbery, larceny, cattle-stealing and horse-stealing. At the expiration of his fifth term, at Michigan City, he made his way to the office, where the directors were in session. He begged them to allow him to build a shanty in a part of the prison in which he could sleep and call his home. All that he asked was that the scraps from the table be given him for food. The board refused to allow him this, and Hicks bade them good-by. He walked to a small town near by, where he soon was arrested for thieving, and was taken to prison to serve what he declared to be his last term. His head is as white as snow, and in keeping with his long, flowing beard, and he looks like a patriarch, yet is not stooped a particle. His desire now is to secure honest work, that will guarantee him a home. He wishes to spend the rest of his days a free man. Had this man been assisted just a little at the expiration of his first term, he might have become a useful citizen, but as it was, his life was spent behind the bars. When once the feet find themselves walking in the pathway of crime, it is very difficult for them ever to walk in paths of honesty and uprightness thereafter. NINE TIMES As I was walking through the penitentiary, in company with Deputy Warden Bradbury, he pointed out an old convict, and said, "There is a fellow that has seen prison life. He is here this time under the name of Gus Loman. He is now serving his NINTH term in this prison. At the expiration of one of his sentences he went away and was gone over a year, and when he came back I asked him where he had been so long. His reply was, 'Simply rusticating at Joliet, Ill., with some friends.' Every time he is sent to prison he gives in a new and different name and, of course, no one but himself knows what his real name is." When asked why he comes to the prison so often, he remarked that, when once in prison it is impossible to get work to do on the outside, and he had made up his mind to spend the rest of his days in prison. He claimed that the fates were against him and he could not make a living on the outside, as no one would employ him; that he had tried it several times and failed, and now he had given up all hope. He is a bold, bad and natural thief. As soon as his term is out he goes a little distance from the prison, gets on a spree, gets into trouble, steals something, and soon finds himself back again in the penitentiary. He is now over seventy years of age, and is both a physical and moral wreck. What an awful warning for the young is the history of such a wasted life. DESPERADO JOHNSON This convict is the most daring and desperate criminal in the Missouri penitentiary. The prison authorities have had more trouble with him than with any other man who ever found a home behind the walls of this great institution. He was sent up from Jackson County, and was charged with murdering two men before he was finally convicted of crime. On trial for these two murders be was successful in proving an alibi. The last time he was not so successful, and received a sentence of twelve years. Soon after his arrival at the prison he was set to work in one of the shops. When he became a little acquainted, his innate cussedness induced him to raise a riot in the prison. It was a desperate undertaking, but he was equal to the emergency. For days and weeks he was on the alert, and when a guard was not on the watch he would communicate with a convict, and enlist his services, and give him his instructions as to what part he should perform when the signal should be given. At last the day came when all was ready for the plans so well laid to be carried into execution. Each of the convicts who were to act in concert with him piled up a lot of kindling in their respective shops and saturated it with kerosene. When the prisoners were being marched out to supper, they threw matches into the piles of kindling-wood, and soon several buildings were on fire. Intense excitement now prevailed among the two thousand convicts. The ranks were quickly broken, and all was confusion. Some of the better disposed convicts tried to assist the officers in putting out the fires, and were in turn knocked down and trampled upon by those who were in favor of the riot. In the midst of this great excitement Johnson, the leader, with four of his associates, knocked down one of the guards and stripped him of his clothing. Johnson put on this suit of blue and started to one of the towers. Reaching the same, he asked permission of the officer on duty to let down the ladder and allow him to ascend and assist him in "holding the fort," as this was Captain Bradbury's orders. Johnson's intentions were to get on top of the wall and into the tower, where the guard opened the large gate below by the use of a lever. The convict, once inside the tower, would knock the officer down, seize his gun, raise the lever, throw open the large gate in the wall, and permit the prisoners all to rush out. This was a bold scheme, and it is a wonder, during the great excitement that prevailed, that it was not successful. The officer on duty, when requested by the convict to allow him to ascend the ladder, coolly drew his gun, and told him if he dared to ascend he would send buckshot into his body. Foiled in this, the desperado returns to where the officials are fighting the flames, and began cutting the hose so as to stop the supply of water. The fire raged furiously. A strong wind sprung up adding intensity to the flames. Over $200,000 worth of property was soon swept away in this direful storm of fire. After a fearful conflict the prisoners were overpowered and driven into their cells. A number of them were severely wounded. Several died of the injuries received. The prison directors had a called meeting and investigated the riot. The blame fell upon convict Johnson. A criminal charge was preferred against him in the courts, for arson. He was convicted and served an additional sentence of twelve years. This, added to his former sentence, makes twenty-four years of imprisonment for this desperado. When he was taken out of the penitentiary to stand trial for setting fire to the prison, he was heavily loaded with chains, and in the custody of six prison officials. It was feared he would make a desperate effort to escape during this trial. On his return to the prison he was placed in a dark dungeon, and has been kept caged up ever since, like a wild beast. When he is given exercise he wears a ball and chain and an officer walks immediately behind him, with a loaded Winchester, ready to shoot him down if he makes any bad breaks. The officials are very careful when they enter his cell for any purpose, as he is liable to kill them. Captain Bradbury, the deputy warden, in speaking of him, says, he is the most desperate criminal he has met during his thirty-three years of prison experience. HENRY BUTLER, a colored representative of Pettis County, has served the longest consecutive term of any of the male prisoners. Henry killed his man, and for this mistake has been doing service for the State of Missouri "without money and without price" for the past fifteen years. The story of his downfall is very romantic. He was a married man, and the father of an interesting family. There lived near him a young lady of color, very handsome and attractive, so the story goes, and for whom Henry had a great liking. There was nothing wrong about all this, perhaps, if Henry had not permitted his affections to go too far. Instead of admiring this dusky maiden at a distance, as he should have done, he brought her to his home, and cared for her there in a manner too affectionate for the tastes of his colored neighbors. Henry was remonstrated with, but to no purpose. At the close of church services one moonlight Sunday evening his neighbors held an indignation meeting, and it was resolved to put a stop to Henry's little love scheme, as it was now very evident that his wife was getting tired of having the maiden about her so much. The meeting adjourned that evening to have the next one the following night at Henry's front gate. During the ensuing day he was apprised of the intentions of his callers, and was urged to let the young lady depart from under his roof. Henry refused, since love is blind. He got his shotgun in readiness to protect his home and his rights. At the appointed hour some twenty-five or thirty neighbors gathered at the place selected, and demanded of Henry that he should give up the maiden loved, or pull hemp. At this juncture Henry called into requisition his double-barreled shotgun and turned both barrels loose on the excited throng. The result was a stampede, one negro killed and two wounded. For this brave deed he was arrested, tried and sent to prison for life. In solitude for fifteen years, Henry has had the privilege of thinking of his illicit love, none of his former neighbors daring to molest him or make him afraid. The case of a prisoner who was in the Missouri prison under the name of GEORGE ELLIS is very remarkable. Over in Kansas a cold-blooded murder had been committed. It seemed impossible for the authorities to discover any trace of the murderer. Shortly after this murder had been committed, Ellis was arrested and tried in Missouri on a charge of horse-stealing, and got a two years' sentence. He heard of this murder having been committed in Kansas, and, for some reason best known to himself, he went to Deputy Warden Bradbury and confidentially told him that he had committed the offense, and asked him to notify the authorities of Kansas. This was done and a pardon was granted Ellis that he might be taken to Kansas and tried for murder. No doubt, Ellis' motive in stating that he was guilty of this offense was to get out of the penitentiary. He supposed that after getting pardoned out of the Missouri prison, he would have no trouble in proving an alibi in the Kansas murder case, and in this way go free. He was taken to Kansas, tried, and failed to establish his alibi, and was found guilty of murder and sentenced to the penitentiary for life. If Ellis was guilty of murder, he surely would not have told on himself and exchanged a two years' sentence in the Missouri prison for a life sentence in the Kansas penitentiary. He is, no doubt, innocent of this crime, but should serve a few years in the Kansas institution because of his smartness. THE SUICIDE A young man by the name of John Welch was sent from Stoddard County for an heinous offense, under a sentence of ten years. His family were among the best people of that county, and highly respected. John proved to be a black lamb of the flock. He had not been in prison but a few weeks when he got enough of that kind of living, and, being unable to have his resignation accepted, he concluded to end his career by committing suicide. It was on a beautiful Sunday morning, and the prisoners having been to religious services, were on their way back to their cells to spend the rest of the day in solitude. The chapel where the services were held is in the third story of a large brick structure. An iron stairway is attached to the wall on the outside of the building. It was down this stairway the convicts were marching, one behind the other, when John, stepping out of the door on to the stairway, instead of following his comrades down and into his cell, as he had done on former occasions, leaped out into space and fell to the ground. When he was picked up, life was extinct. He received his pardon that day, but gave his life as the ransom. No one can imagine how much this youth suffered before he brought himself to that point when he decided to make that leap into eternity. CHAPTER XX. THE EX-CONVICT Heavy are the burdens which men in prison must bear. They are deprived of liberty, separated from friends, no social intercourse, and constantly maintaining an unnatural position. The convict's place is lower than the most degraded menial; he must ask for permission even to get a drink of water. No serf of earth, no slave, however wretched, has a sadder lot. These unhappy mortals have yielded to temptation, have fallen, and are paying the penalty of violated law. Who can think of these degraded beings, without, to some extent, its calling forth the sympathy of the human heart, for we must not forget that they, too, are children of one universal Father. However deplorable the condition of these men while in prison, is it much better when they regain their freedom? One morning about a month after my release from prison, as I was getting ready for breakfast, there came a knock at the door. Opening it I saw a young man--a tramp--who begged for something to eat. I recognized him immediately as a former fellow-convict. He had forgotten me. It has always been a rule in my home, when any one came to my door hungry, he should have something to eat. At times, adhering to this practice has almost converted my home into a hotel for tramps. I invited this young man in, and requested him to take a seat with me at the table. He did not wait for a second invitation. He was very hungry. During the meal I inquired as to his past history. He gave me the same old tramp "racket." I had listened to the same story many times. After breakfast was over I asked him if he would have a cigar. With a smile, he said, if I would furnish the cigar, he would be pleased to indulge. I invited him into another room, closed the door and locked it. The turning of the key rather took him by surprise. I reached out my hand to him, and said: "Charley D----, don't you know me? Don't you remember the man who worked with you for a couple of weeks in the penitentiary coal mines, room No. 3? Have you forgotten the last day we worked together, when a large piece of slate fell upon your leg, and I had to assist you in reaching the foot of the shaft as you were being conveyed to the hospital?" "My God! Reynolds, is this you?" he exclaimed. "I would never have known you in your pleasant surroundings. Had I met you in the penitentiary coal mines, dressed in prison stripes, your face and hands covered with coal dust, I would have recognized you." I gave him his much coveted cigar and invited him to a chair. I was anxious to learn his history since he left the prison. He had regained his liberty almost one year before I was released. After he had reached the quiet contentment which is the inevitable result of a well appreciated breakfast and a good cigar, I said to him: "Charley, just drop your tramp story and tell me your true history since leaving the prison. I am anxious to know just what an ex-convict must meet." This young fellow was twenty-five years of age. He served five years in the penitentiary for stealing horses. He had an inferior education, and might be considered an average ex-convict. His narrative will show what the great majority of these men are called upon to endure. His story revealed the fact that when he left the penitentiary he had thirteen dollars in money and a suit of inferior clothes, such as is furnished the prisoner when discharged. Having been closely confined for five years, without even a newspaper to read, with but few visitors, he was entirely ignorant of what had occurred during his period of incarceration. His parents had been dead for several years, and he had no friends to whom he could apply for aid. The large iron doors swung upon their hinges, and he went forth a free but bewildered man. He had liberty, it is true, but liberty replete with such trials as awaited this young man is certainly little better than prison confinement. Passing under the big stone archway, and out beyond the prison enclosure, he paused for a few moments upon the little eminence on which the prison stands, and viewed the surrounding country, not knowing what to do or where to go. Finally he takes the principal road that leads across the country, and in a half hour's walk reaches a farm house. He asks for work. The farmer needs a hand, but asks the applicant for whom he worked last. "I am just out of prison," was the reply. "I thought so," said the farmer, "for I have seen so many of these men coming out of that place wearing clothes similar to those you have on. How long were you in prison, and what was your offense?" "I served five years, and my crime was horse-stealing." At this frank confession the farmer slightly coughed, and stated that a man called the day before, and he had partially promised the place to him, and he did not feel like employing any one until he heard from him. Had the farmer been as frank as the convict he would have said, "I don't want a penitentiary-bird about me, and particularly one that has been a horse-thief." Finding no employment he moved on. For two weeks this friendless ex-convict walked about the country, going from one farm house to another, seeking employment. He practiced great economy, but at the expiration of this time his thirteen dollars were gone. He was now penniless, friendless and almost hopeless. For two weeks he had told the truth, and frankly confessed he was an ex-convict. He had a desire to do right. He felt that the first step down the hill toward the penitentiary was lying. But two weeks squandered in trudging about the country seeking employment and finding none, convinced him that it was impossible to obtain work and tell the truth as to his past history, so he imagined nothing was left but to practice deception, steal or starve. Reader, what would you have done? He did what you probably would, surrounded by the same circumstances--he made up his mind to lie. On making further inquiries for work, he learns of a farmer living several miles away, who desired hired help. He immediately set out for that place. This farmer, like all the rest, put the question, "For whom did you last work?" Instead of imparting the information that he was an ex-convict, he invented a little story to the effect that he had worked for a farmer living some miles distant, with whom he had become quite well acquainted, having spent a Sunday at his home, and whose name he gave his inquisitor. He received employment. A bargain was made, and our now happy ex-convict went to work. Three weeks passed away. The employer and the employee were mutually satisfied. The prisoner worked hard. He felt that at last the clouds which had so long obscured his sky were about to break away, and the sunshine of prosperity would soon be his. But how mistaken we sometimes are when forecasting the future! One afternoon, at the end of three weeks, the old farmer rode up for whom the ex-convict had stated that he worked. The ex-criminal was recognized. The old farmer had some business with the employer of the prisoner, and in the evening before leaving for his home, thinking to do humanity a great favor, confidentially informed his neighbor that he had an ex-penitentiary convict on his farm at work, and that he was an old, hardened horse-thief, and beyond all hope of redemption. That evening, after supper, the prisoner got the "grand bounce." The small amount of money he received for his three weeks' services on the farm was expended in paying his expenses while continuing his search for work. He at length arrives at Kansas City, with but a few cents, and completely discouraged about securing work. At this place he met a criminal, a former acquaintance. He, too, was without money. They talked over their misfortunes, and after duly considering the matter, came to the conclusion that out of crime there was no chance to get another start. They planned a burglary for the following night. A residence some distance from the central portion of the city was entered. They obtained ten dollars and a silver watch, and concluded to continue their criminal efforts the next evening. During the day, however, the "pal" was arrested on another charge, and locked up in the city prison. He thought it about time to fly, and so took his departure. He spent the rest of his time in Kansas, tramping about and stealing. When he had money he would live well; when his pocketbook was empty he would beg and steal. There was one crime he committed for which he could not be much blamed. The old farmer that went to so much trouble to convey the intelligence to his brother granger that the hero of our story was an ex-convict, was the sufferer. The ex-convict, to get "even," one dark night entered the barn, rode away a beautiful riding pony, sold him for fifty dollars in cash, and forgot to mention the fact to the farmer. In stealing, tramping and begging the time had been chiefly taken up from the day he had left the prison, to the morning he came to my house for something to eat. He will doubtless continue this course until caught in some criminal act, which will result in another term in the penitentiary. The great majority of the criminals in the penitentiary are young men. One dose of prison life is all they desire. Did they but have the least opportunity of living useful lives, and becoming respectable citizens when out of prison, they would improve it, instead of committing crime and being returned to hard labor without compensation. I am now pleading for hundreds of young men who are in prison for the first time, and have all the punishment along this line they desire, who would like to reform and become useful citizens. But how can they accomplish this? Unaided they will come out of the prison, drift about awhile, and then the current of sin and crime will bear them back again to a felon's cell. In an unguarded hour they succumbed to the tempter's power, and fell. The dark mantle of disgrace has enveloped them. And if there were some kind friend to lend a helping hand, how quickly would they tear it off and put on the robe of useful citizenship. Will not the great State of Missouri adopt some plan to afford aid to these men who would like to be extricated from this dangerous quagmire into which they have fallen? 
12068	----	CAMP-FIRE AND COTTON-FIELD: SOUTHERN ADVENTURE IN TIME OF WAR. LIFE WITH THE UNION ARMIES, AND RESIDENCE ON A LOUISIANA PLANTATION. BY THOMAS W. KNOX, HERALD CORRESPONDENT. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 1865. TO THE REPRESENTATIVES OF THE PRESS, WHO FOLLOWED THE FORTUNES OF THE NATIONAL ARMIES, AND RECORDED THE DEEDS OF VALOR THAT SECURED THE PERPETUITY OF THE REPUBLIC, THIS VOLUME IS SYMPATHETICALLY INSCRIBED. [Illustration: THE REBEL RAM ARKANSAS RUNNING THROUGH OUR FLEET.] TO THE READER. A preface usually takes the form of an apology. The author of this volume has none to offer. The book owes its appearance to its discovery of a publisher. It has been prepared from materials gathered during the Campaigns herein recorded, and from the writer's personal recollections. Whatever of merit or demerit it possesses remains for the reader to ascertain. His judgment will be unprejudiced if he finds no word of promise on the prefatory page. NEW YORK, _September 15th, 1865_. ILLUSTRATIONS. THE RAM _Arkansas_ RUNNING THROUGH OUR FLEET ABOVE VICKSBURG HAULING DOWN A REBEL FLAG AT HICKMAN, KENTUCKY THE OPENING GUN AT BOONEVILLE THE DEATH OF GENERAL LYON GENERAL SIGEL'S TRANSPORTATION IN MISSOURI SHELLING THE HILL AT PEA RIDGE GENERAL NELSON'S DIVISION CROSSING THE TENNESSEE RUNNING THE BATTERIES AT ISLAND NUMBER TEN THE REBEL CHARGE AT CORINTH, MISSISSIPPI ASSAULTING THE HILL AT CHICKASAW BAYOU STRATEGY AGAINST GUERRILLAS THE STEAMER _Von Phul_ RUNNING THE BATTERIES CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. ANTE BELLUM. At the Rocky Mountains.--Sentiment of the People.--Firing the Southern Heart.--A Midwinter Journey across the Plains.--An Editor's Opinion.--Election in Missouri.--The North springing to Arms.--An amusing Arrest.--Off for the Field.--Final Instructions.--Niagara.--Curiosities of Banking.--Arrival at the Seat of War. CHAPTER II. MISSOURI IN THE EARLY DAYS. Apathy of the Border States.--The Missouri State Convention.--Sterling Price a Union Man.--Plan to take the State out of the Union.--Capture of Camp Jackson.--Energy of General Lyon.--Union Men organized.--An Unfortunate Collision.--The Price-Harney Truce.--The Panic among the Secessionists.--Their Hegira from St. Louis.--A Visit to the State Capital.--Under the Rebel Flag.--Searching for Contraband Articles.--An Introduction to Rebel Dignitaries.--Governor Jackson.--Sterling Price.--Jeff. Thompson.--Activity at Cairo.--Kentucky Neutrality.--The Rebels occupy Columbus. CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. General Harney Relieved.--Price's Proclamation.--End of the Truce.--Conference between the Union and Rebel Leaders.--The First Act of Hostility.--Destruction of Railway Bridges.--Promptness of General Lyon.--Capture of the State Capital.--Moving on the Enemy's Works.--The Night before Battle.--A Correspondent's Sensation. CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST BATTLE IN MISSOURI. Moving up the River.--A Landing Effected.--The Battle.--Precipitous Retreat of the Rebels.--Spoiling a Captured Camp.--Rebel Flags Emblazoned with the State Arms.--A Journalist's Outfit.--A Chaplain of the Church Militant.--A Mistake that might have been Unfortunate.--The People of Booneville.--Visiting an Official.--Banking-House Loyalty.--Preparations for a Campaign. CHAPTER V. TO SPRINGFIELD AND BEYOND. Conduct of the St. Louis Secessionists.--Collisions between Soldiers and Citizens.--Indignation of the Guests of a Hotel.--From St. Louis to Rolla.--Opinions of a "Regular."--Railway-life in Missouri.--Unprofitable Freight.--A Story of Orthography.--Mountains and Mountain Streams.--Fastidiousness Checked.--Frontier Courtesy.--Concentration of Troops at Springfield.--A Perplexing Situation.--The March to Dug Spring.--Sufferings from Heat and Thirst. CHAPTER VI. THE BATTLE OF WILSON CREEK. The Return from Dug Spring.--The Rebels follow in Pursuit.--Preparations to Attack them.--The Plan of Battle.--Moving to the Attack--A Bivouac--The Opening Shot.--"Is that Official?"--Sensations of a Spectator in Battle.--Extension of Distance and Time.--Characteristics of Projectiles.--Taking Notes under Fire.--Strength and Losses of the Opposing Armies.--A Noble Record.--The Wounded on the Field.--"One More Shot."--Granger in his Element.--General Lyon's Death. CHAPTER VII. THE RETREAT FROM SPRINGFIELD. A Council of War.--The Journalists' Council.--Preparations for Retreat.--Preceding the Advance-Guard.--Alarm and Anxiety of the People.--Magnificent Distances.--A Novel Odometer.--The Unreliable Countryman.--Neutrality.--A Night at Lebanon.--A Disagreeable Lodging-place.--Active Secessionists.--The Man who Sought and Found his Rights.--Approaching Civilization.--Rebel Couriers on the Route.--Arrival at Rolla. CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL FREMONT'S PURSUIT OF PRICE. Quarrel between Price and McCulloch.--The Rebels Advance upon Lexington.--A Novel Defense for Sharp-shooters.--Attempt to Re-enforce the Garrison.--An Enterprising Journalist.--The Surrender.--Fremont's Advance.--Causes of Delay.--How the Journalists Killed Time.--Late News.--A Contractor "Sold."--Sigel in Front.--A Motley Collection.--A Wearied Officer.--The Woman who had never seen a Black Republican.--Love and Conversion. CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CAMPAIGN TO SPRINGFIELD. Detention at Warsaw.--A Bridge over the Osage.--The Body-Guard.--Manner of its Organization.--The Advance to Springfield.--Charge of the Body-Guard.--A Corporal's Ruse.--Occupation of Springfield.--The Situation.--Wilson Creek Revisited.--Traces of the Battle.--Rumored Movements of the Enemy.--Removal of General Fremont.--Danger of Attack.--A Night of Excitement.--The Return to St. Louis.--Curiosities of the Scouting Service.--An Arrest by Mistake. CHAPTER X. TWO MONTHS OF IDLENESS. A Promise Fulfilled.--Capture of a Rebel Camp and Train.--Rebel Sympathizers in St. Louis.--General Halleck and his Policy.--Refugees from Rebeldom.--Story of the Sufferings of a Union Family.--Chivalry in the Nineteenth Century.--The Army of the Southwest in Motion.--Gun-Boats and Transports.--Capture of Fort Henry.--The Effect in St. Louis.--Our Flag Advancing. CHAPTER XI ANOTHER CAMPAIGN IN MISSOURI. From St. Louis to Rolla.--A Limited Outfit.--Missouri Roads in Winter.--"Two Solitary Horsemen."--Restricted Accommodations in a Slaveholder's House.--An Energetic Quartermaster.--General Sheridan before he became Famous.--"Bagging Price."--A Defect in the Bag.--Examining the Correspondence of a Rebel General.--What the Rebels left at their Departure. CHAPTER XII. THE FLIGHT AND THE PURSUIT. From Springfield to Pea Ridge.--Mark Tapley in Missouri.--"The Arkansas Traveler."--Encountering the Rebel Army.--A Wonderful Spring.--The Cantonment at Cross Hollows.--Game Chickens.--Magruder _vs_. Breckinridge.--Rebel Generals in a Controversy.--Its Result.--An Expedition to Huntsville.--Curiosities of Rebel Currency.--Important Information.--A Long and Weary March.--Disposition of Forces before the Battle.--Changing Front.--What the Rebels lost by Ignorance. CHAPTER XIII. THE BATTLE OF PEA RIDGE. The Rebels make their Attack.--Albert Pike and his Indians.--Scalping Wounded Men.--Death of General McCulloch.--The Fighting at Elkhorn Tavern.--Close of a Gloomy Day.--An Unpleasant Night.--Vocal Sounds from a Mule's Throat.--Sleeping under Disadvantages.--A Favorable Morning.--The Opposing Lines of Battle.--A Severe Cannonade.--The Forest on Fire.--Wounded Men in the Flames.--The Rebels in Retreat.--Movements of our Army.--A Journey to St. Louis. CHAPTER XIV. UP THE TENNESSEE AND AT PITTSBURG LANDING. At St. Louis.--Progress of our Arms in the Great Valley.--Cairo.--Its Peculiarities and Attractions.--Its Commercial, Geographical, and Sanitary Advantages.--Up the Tennessee.--Movements Preliminary to the Great Battle.--The Rebels and their Plans.--Postponement of the Attack.--Disadvantages of our Position.--The Beginning of the Battle.--Results of the First Day.--Re-enforcements.--Disputes between Officers of our two Armies.--Beauregard's Watering-place. CHAPTER XV. SHILOH AND THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. The Error of the Rebels.--Story of a Surgeon.--Experience of a Rebel Regiment.--Injury to the Rebel Army.--The Effect in our own Lines.--Daring of a Color-Bearer.--A Brave Soldier.--A Drummer-Boy's Experience.--Gallantry of an Artillery Surgeon.--A Regiment Commanded by a Lieutenant.--Friend Meeting Friend and Brother Meeting Brother in the Opposing Lines.--The Scene of the Battle.--Fearful Traces of Musketry-Fire.--The Wounded.--The Labor of the Sanitary Commission.--Humanity a Yankee Trick.--Besieging Corinth.--A Cold-Water Battery.--Halleck and the Journalists.--Occupation of Corinth. CHAPTER XVI. CAPTURE OF FORT PILLOW AND BATTLE OF MEMPHIS. The Siege of Fort Pillow.--General Pope.--His Reputation for Veracity.--Capture of the "Ten Thousand."--Naval Battle above Fort Pillow.--The _John H. Dickey_.--Occupation of the Fort.--General Forrest.--Strength of the Fortifications.--Their Location.--Randolph, Tennessee.--Memphis and her Last Ditch.--Opening of the Naval Combat.--Gallant Action of Colonel Ellet.--Fate of the Rebel Fleet.--The People Viewing the Battle.--Their Conduct. CHAPTER XVII. IN MEMPHIS AND UNDER THE FLAG. Jeff. Thompson and his Predictions.--A Cry of Indignation.--Memphis Humiliated.--The Journalists in the Battle.--The Surrender.--A Fine Point of Law and Honor.--Going on Shore.--An Enraged Secessionist.--A Dangerous Enterprise.--Memphis and her Antecedents.--Her Loyalty.--An Amusing Incident.--How the Natives learned of the Capture of Fort Donelson.--The Last Ditch.--A Farmer-Abolitionist.--Disloyalty among the Women.--"Blessings in Disguise."--An American Mark Tapley. CHAPTER XVIII. SUPERVISING A REBEL JOURNAL. The Press of Memphis.--Flight of _The Appeal_.--A False Prediction.--_The Argus_ becomes Loyal.--Order from General Wallace.--Installed in Office.--Lecturing the Rebels.--"Trade follows the Flag."--Abuses of Traffic.--Supplying the Rebels.--A Perilous Adventure.--Passing the Rebel Lines.--Eluding Watchful Eyes. CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST SIEGE OF VICKSBURG. From Memphis to Vicksburg.--Running the Batteries.--Our Inability to take Vicksburg by Assault.--Digging a Canal.--A Conversation with Resident Secessionists.--Their Arguments _pro_ and _con_, and the Answers they Received.--A Curiosity of Legislation.--An Expedition up the Yazoo.--Destruction of the Rebel Fleet.--The _Arkansas_ Running the Gauntlet.--A Spirited Encounter.--A Gallant Attempt.--Raising the Siege.--Fate of the _Arkansas_. CHAPTER XX. THE MARCH THROUGH ARKANSAS.--THE SIEGE OF CINCINNATI. General Curtis's Army reaching Helena.--Its Wanderings.--The Arkansas Navy.--Troops and their Supplies "miss Connection."--Rebel Reports.--Memphis in Midsummer.--"A Journey due North."--Chicago.--Bragg's Advance into Kentucky.--Kirby Smith in Front of Cincinnati.--The City under Martial Law.--The Squirrel Hunters.--War Correspondents in Comfortable Quarters.--Improvising an Army.--Raising the Siege.--Bragg's Retreat. CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE OF CORINTH. New Plans of the Rebels.--Their Design to Capture Corinth.--Advancing to the Attack.--Strong Defenses.--A Magnificent Charge.--Valor _vs_. Breast-Works.--The Repulse.--Retreat and Pursuit.--The National Arms Triumphant. CHAPTER XXII. THE CAMPAIGN FROM CORINTH. Changes of Commanders.--Preparations for the Aggressive.--Marching from Corinth.--Talking with the People.--"You-uns and We-uns."--Conservatism of a "Regular."--Loyalty and Disloyalty.--Condition of the Rebel Army.--Foraging.--German Theology for American Soldiers.--A Modest Landlord.--A Boy without a Name.--The Freedmen's Bureau.--Employing Negroes.--Holly Springs and its People.--An Argument for Secession. CHAPTER XXIII. GRANT'S OCCUPATION OF MISSISSIPPI. The Slavery Question.--A Generous Offer.--A Journalist's Modesty.--Hopes of the Mississippians at the Beginning of the War.--Visiting an Editress.--Literature under Difficulties.--Jacob Thompson and his Correspondence.--Plans for the Capture of Vicksburg.--Movements of General Sherman.--The Raid upon Holly Springs.--Forewarned, but not Forearmed.--A Gallant Fight. CHAPTER XXIV. THE BATTLE OF CHICKASAW BAYOU. Leaving Memphis.--Down the Great River.--Landing in the Yazoo.--Description of the Ground.--A Night in Bivouac.--Plan of Attack.--Moving toward the Hills.--Assaulting the Bluff.--Our Repulse.--New Plans.--Withdrawal from the Yazoo. CHAPTER XXV. BEFORE VICKSBURG. Capture of Arkansas Post.--The Army returns to Milliken's Bend.--General Sherman and the Journalists.--Arrest of the Author.--His Trial before a Military Court.--Letter from President Lincoln.--Capture of Three Journalists. CHAPTER XXVI. KANSAS IN WAR-TIME. A Visit to Kansas.--Recollections of Border Feuds.--Peculiarities of Kansas Soldiers.--Foraging as a Fine Art.--Kansas and Missouri.--Settling Old Scores.--Depopulating the Border Counties.--Two Examples of Grand Strategy.--Capture of the "Little-More-Grape" Battery.--A Woman in Sorrow.--Frontier Justice.--Trial before a "Lynch" Court.--General Blunt's Order.--Execution of Horse-Thieves.--Auction Sale of Confiscated Property.--Banished to Dixie. CHAPTER XXVII. GETTYSBURG. A Hasty Departure.--At Harrisburg.--_En route_ for the Army of the Potomac.--The Battle-Field at Gettysburg.--Appearance of the Cemetery.--Importance of the Position.--The Configuration of Ground.--Traces of Battle.--Round Hill.--General Meade's Head-Quarters.--Appearance of the Dead.--Through the Forests along the Line.--Retreat and Pursuit of Lee. CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE NORTHWEST. From Chicago to Minnesota.--Curiosities of Low-Water Navigation.--St. Paul and its Sufferings in Earlier Days.--The Indian War.--A Brief History of our Troubles in that Region.--General Pope's Expeditions to Chastise the Red Man.--Honesty in the Indian Department.--The End of the Warfare.--The Pacific Railway.--A Bold Undertaking.--Penetrating British Territory.--The Hudson Bay Company.--Peculiarities of a Trapper's Life. CHAPTER XXIX. INAUGURATION OF A GREAT ENTERPRISE. Plans for Arming the Negroes along the Mississippi.--Opposition to the Movement.--Plantations Deserted by their Owners.--Gathering Abandoned Cotton.--Rules and Regulations.--Speculation.--Widows and Orphans in Demand.--Arrival of Adjutant-General Thomas.--Designs of the Government. CHAPTER XXX. COTTON-PLANTING IN 1863. Leasing the Plantations.--Interference of the Rebels.--Raids.--Treatment of Prisoners.--The Attack upon Milliken's Bend.--A Novel Breast-Work.--Murder of our Officers.--Profits of Cotton-Planting.--Dishonesty of Lessees.--Negroes Planting on their own Account. CHAPTER XXXI. AMONG THE OFFICIALS. Reasons for Trying an Experiment.--Activity among Lessees.--Opinions of the Residents.--Rebel Hopes in 1863.--Removal of Negroes to West Louisiana.--Visiting Natchez.--The City and its Business.--"The Rejected Addresses". CHAPTER XXXII. A JOURNEY OUTSIDE THE LINES. Passing the Pickets.--Cold Weather in the South.--Effect of Climate upon the Constitution.--Surrounded and Captured.--Prevarication and Explanation.--Among the Natives.--The Game for the Confederacy.--Courtesy of the Planters.--Condition of the Plantations.--The Return. CHAPTER XXXIII. ON THE PLANTATION. Military Protection.--Promises.--Another Widow.--Securing a Plantation.--Its Locality and Appearance.--Gardening in Louisiana.--How Cotton is Picked.--"The Tell-Tale."--A Southerner's Opinion of the Negro Character.--Causes and Consequences. CHAPTER XXXIV. RULES AND REGULATIONS UNDER THE OLD AND NEW SYSTEMS. The Plantation Record.--Its Uses.--Interesting Memoranda.--Dogs, Jail, and Stocks.--Instructions to the Overseer.--His Duties and Responsibilities.--The Order of General Banks.--Management of Plantations in the Department of the Gulf.--The two Documents. Contrasted.--One of the Effects of "an Abolition War". CHAPTER XXXV. OUR FREE-LABOR ENTERPRISE IN PROGRESS. The Negroes at Work.--Difficulties in the Way.--A Public Meeting.--A Speech.--A Negro's Idea of Freedom.--A Difficult Question to Determine.--Influence of Northern and Southern Men Contrasted.--An Increase of Numbers.--"Ginning" Cotton.--In the Lint-Room.--Mills and Machinery of a Plantation.--A Profitable Enterprise. CHAPTER XXXVI. WAR AND AGRICULTURE. Official Favors.--Division of Labor.--Moral Suasion.--Corn-gathering in the South.--An Alarm.--A Frightened Irishman.--The Rebels Approaching.--An Attack on Waterproof.--Falstaff Redivivus.--His Feats of Arms.--Departure for New Orleans. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN THE COTTON MARKET. New Orleans and its Peculiarities.--Its Loss by the Rebellion.--Cotton Factors in New Orleans.--Old Things passed away.--The Northern Barbarians a Race of Shopkeepers.--Pulsations of the Cotton Market.--A Quarrel with a Lady.--Contending for a Principle.--Inharmony of the "Regulations."--An Account of Sales. CHAPTER XXXVIII. SOME FEATURES OF PLANTATION LIFE. Mysteries of Mule-trading.--"What's in a Name?"--Process of Stocking a Plantation.--An Enterprising White Man.--Stratagem of a Yankee.--Distributing Goods to the Negroes.--The Tastes of the African.--Ethiopian Eloquence.--A Colored Overseer.--Guerrillas Approaching.--Whisky _vs_. Guerrillas.--A Hint to Military Men. CHAPTER XXXIX. VISITED BY GUERRILLAS. News of the Raid.--Returning to the Plantation.--Examples of Negro Cunning.--A Sudden Departure and a Fortunate Escape.--A Second Visit.--"Going Through," in Guerrilla Parlance.--How it is Accomplished.--Courtesy to Guests.--A Holiday Costume.--Lessees Abandoning their Plantations.--Official Promises. CHAPTER XL. PECULIARITIES OF PLANTATION LABOR. Resuming Operation.--Difficulties in the Way.--A New Method of Healing the Sick.--A Thief Discovered by his Ignorance of Arithmetic.--How Cotton is Planted.--The Uses of Cotton-Seed.--A Novel Sleeping-Room.--Constructing a Tunnel.--Vigilance of a Negro Sentinel. CHAPTER XLI. THE NEGROES AT A MILITARY POST. The Soldiers at Waterproof.--The Black Man in Blue.--Mutiny and Desertion.--Their Cause and Cure.--Tendering a Resignation.--No Desire for a Barber.--Seeking Protection.--Falsehood and Truth.--Proneness to Exaggeration.--Amusing Estimates. CHAPTER XLII. THE END OF THE EXPERIMENT. The Nature of our "Protection."--Trade Following the Flag.--A Fortunate Journey.--Our Last Visit.--Inhumanity of the Guerrillas.--Driving Negroes into Captivity.--Killing an Overseer.--Our Final Departure.--Plantations Elsewhere. CHAPTER XLIII. THE MISSISSIPPI AND ITS PECULIARITIES. Length of the Great River, and the Area it Drains.--How Itasca Lake obtained its Name.--The Bends of the Mississippi.--Curious Effect upon Titles to Real Estate.--A Story of Napoleon.--A Steamboat Thirty-five Years under Water.--The Current and its Variations.--Navigating Cotton and Corn Fields.--Reminiscences of the Islands. CHAPTER XLIV. STEAMBOATING ON THE MISSISSIPPI IN PEACE AND WAR. Attempts to Obstruct the Great River.--Chains, Booms, and Batteries.--A Novelty in Piloting.--Travel in the Days Before the Rebellion.--Trials of Speed.--The Great Race.--Travel During the War.--Running a Rebel Battery on the Lower Mississippi.--Incidents of the Occasion.--Comments on the Situation. CHAPTER XLV. THE ARMY CORRESPONDENT. The Beginning and the End.--The Lake Erie Piracy.--A Rochester Story.--The First War Correspondent.--Napoleon's Policy.--Waterloo and the Rothschilds.--Journalistic Enterprise in the Mexican War.--The Crimea and the East Indian Rebellion.--Experiences at the Beginning of Hostilities.--The Tender Mercies of the Insurgents.--In the Field.--Adventures in Missouri and Kentucky.--Correspondents in Captivity.--How Battle-Accounts were Written.--Professional Complaints. CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THE SOUTH. Scarcity of the Population.--Fertility of the Country.--Northern Men already in the South.--Kansas Emigrants Crossing Missouri.--Change of the Situation.--Present Disadvantages of Emigration.--Feeling of the People.--Property-Holders in Richmond.--The Sentiment in North Carolina.--South Carolina Chivalry.--The Effect of War.--Prospect of the Success of Free Labor.--Trade in the South. CHAPTER XLVII. HOW DISADVANTAGES MAY BE OVERCOME. Conciliating the People of the South.--Railway Travel and its Improvement.--Rebuilding Steamboats.--Replacing Working Stock.--The Condition of the Plantations.--Suggestions about Hasty Departures.--Obtaining Information.--The Attractions of Missouri. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE RESOURCES OF THE SOUTHERN STATES. How the People have Lived.--An Agricultural Community.--Mineral and other Wealth of Virginia.--Slave-Breeding in Former Times.--The Auriferous Region of North Carolina.--Agricultural Advantages.--Varieties of Soil in South Carolina.--Sea-Island Cotton.--Georgia and her Railways.--Probable Decline of the Rice Culture.--The Everglade State.--The Lower Mississippi Valley.--The Red River.--Arkansas and its Advantages.--A Hint for Tragedians.--Mining in Tennessee.--The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky.--Texas and its Attractions.--Difference between Southern and Western Emigration.--The End. CAMP-FIRE AND COTTON-FIELD. CHAPTER I. ANTE BELLUM. At the Rocky Mountains.--Sentiment of the People.--Firing the Southern Heart.--A Midwinter Journey across the Plains.--An Editor's Opinion.--Election in Missouri.--The North springing to Arms.--An amusing Arrest.--Off for the Field.--Final Instructions.--Niagara.--Curiosities of Banking.--Arrival at the Seat of War. I passed the summer and autumn of 1860 in the Rocky Mountain Gold Region. At that time the population of the young Territory was composed of emigrants from Northern and Southern States, those from the colder regions being in the majority. When the Presidential election took place, there was much angry discussion of the great questions of the day, and there were threats of violence on the part of the friends of the "institution." The residents of the Gold Region were unable to cast their votes for the men of their choice, but their anxiety to know the result was very great. When it was announced that the Republican candidate had triumphed, there were speedy signs of discontent. Some of the more impulsive Southerners departed at once for their native States, predicting a separation of Dixie from the North before the end of the year. Some went to New Mexico, and others to Texas, while many remained to press their favorite theories upon their neighbors. The friends of the Union were slow to believe that any serious difficulty would take place. Long after the secession of South Carolina they were confident our differences could be healed without an appeal to arms. My visit to the Rocky Mountains was a professional one. During my stay in that region I supplied several Eastern journals with letters from Colorado and New Mexico. One after another, the editors of these journals informed me that letters from the Territories had lost their interest, owing to the troubles growing out of the election. Wishing to take part in the drama about to be enacted, I essayed a midwinter journey across the plains, and, early in February, stood in the editorial room of _The Herald_. I announced my readiness to proceed to any point between the Poles, wherever _The Herald_ desired a correspondent. The editor-in-chief was busy over a long letter from some point in the South, but his response was promptly given. Half reading, half pausing over the letter, he briefly said:-- "A long and bloody war is upon us, in which the whole country will be engaged. We shall desire you to take the field; probably in the West. It may be several weeks before we need you, but the war cannot be long delayed." At that time few persons in the North looked upon the situation with any fears of trouble. There were some who thought a hostile collision was among the possibilities, but these persons were generally in the minority. Many believed the secession movement was only the hasty work of political leaders, that would be soon undone when the people of the South came to their senses. That the South would deliberately plunge the country into civil war was difficult to comprehend, even after the first steps had been taken. The majority of the Northern people were hoping and believing, day by day, that something might transpire to quell the excitement and adjust the difficulties threatening to disturb the country. Before leaving the Rocky Mountains I did not believe that war was certain to ensue, though I considered it quite probable. As I passed through Missouri, the only slave State that lay in my route, I found every thing comparatively quiet. In St. Joseph, on the day of my arrival, the election for delegates to the State Convention was being held. There was no disorder, more than is usual on election days in small cities. Little knots of people were engaged in discussion, but the discussions partook of no extraordinary bitterness. The vote of the city was decidedly in favor of keeping the State in the Union. Between the 7th of December and the 12th of April, the Northern blood warmed slowly. The first gun at Sumter quickened its pulsations. When the President issued his call for seventy-five thousand men for three months, to put down insurrection, the North woke to action. Everywhere the response was prompt, earnest, patriotic. In the Northern cities the recruiting offices were densely thronged. New York and Massachusetts were first to send their favorite regiments to the front, but they were not long in the advance. Had the call been for four times seventy-five thousand, and for a service of three years, there is little doubt the people would have responded without hesitation. For a short time after my arrival at the East, I remained in a small town in Southern New Hampshire. A few days after the first call was issued, a friend invited me to a seat in his carriage for a ride to Portsmouth, the sea-port of the State. On reaching the city we found the war spirit fully aroused. Two companies of infantry were drilling in the public square, and the citizens were in a state of great excitement. In the course of the afternoon my friend and myself were arrested, by a committee of respectable citizens, who suspected us of being Southern emissaries. It was with great difficulty we convinced them they had made a slight mistake. We referred them to the only acquaintances we had in the city. They refused to consider the truth established in the mouths of two witnesses, and were not induced to give us our liberty until all convenient proof of our identity had been adduced. To be arrested within twenty miles of home, on suspicion of being delegated from Charleston or Montgomery, was one of my most amusing experiences of the war. The gentleman who accompanied me was a very earnest believer in coercion. His business in Portsmouth on that occasion was to offer his services in a regiment then being formed. A few months later he received a commission in the army, but did not obtain it through any of our temporary acquaintances at Portsmouth. Our captors were the solid men of the city, any one of whom could have sat for the portrait of Mr. Turveydrop without the slightest alteration. On taking us into custody, they stated the grounds on which they arrested us. Our dark complexions and long beards had aroused suspicions concerning the places of our nativity. Suspicion was reduced to a certainty when one of them heard me mention my presence in Missouri on the day of choosing candidates for the Convention. Our purpose was divined when I asked if there was any activity at the Navy Yard. We were Rebel emissaries, who designed to lay their Navy Yard in ashes! On our release and departure we were followed to our homes, that the correctness of our representations might be ascertained. This little occurrence, in the center of New England, where the people claim to be thoroughly quiet and law-abiding, indicated that the war spirit in that part of the North was more than momentary. The West was not behind the Eastern States in the determination to subdue the Rebellion. Volunteers were gathering at Cairo, and threatening to occupy points further down the Mississippi. At St. Louis the struggle was active between the Unionists and the Secessionists. A collision was a mere question of time, and of short time at the best. As I visited _The Herald_ office for final instructions, I found that the managing editor had determined upon a vigorous campaign. Every point of interest was to be covered, so that the operations of our armies would be fully recorded from day to day. The war correspondents had gone to their posts, or were just taking their departure. One correspondent was already on the way to Cairo. I was instructed to watch the military movements in Missouri, and hastened to St. Louis as fast as steam could bear me. Detained twelve hours at Niagara, by reason of missing a railway train, I found that the opening war gave promise of affecting that locality. The hotel-keepers were gloomy at the prospect of losing their Southern patronage, and half feared they would be obliged to close their establishments. There were but few visitors, and even these were not of the class which scatters its money profusely. The village around the Falls displayed positive signs of dullness, and the inhabitants had personal as well as patriotic interest in wishing there was no war. The Great Cataract was unchanged in its beauty and grandeur. The flood from the Lakes was not diminished, and the precipice over which the water plunged was none the less steep. The opening war had no effect upon this wonder of the New World. In Chicago, business was prostrated on account of the outbreak of hostilities. Most of the banks in Illinois had been holding State bonds as securities for the redemption of their circulation. As these bonds were nearly all of Southern origin, the beginning of the war had materially affected their value. The banks found their securities rapidly becoming insecure, and hence there was a depreciation in the currency. This was not uniform, but varied from five to sixty per cent., according to the value of the bonds the respective banks were holding. Each morning and evening bulletins were issued stating the value of the notes of the various banking-houses. Such a currency was very inconvenient to handle, as the payment of any considerable sum required a calculation to establish the worth of each note. Many rumors were in circulation concerning the insecurity of a Northern visitor in St. Louis, but none of the stories were very alarming. Of one thing all were certain--the star of the Union was in the ascendant. On arriving in St. Louis I found the city far from quiet, though there was nothing to lead a stranger to consider his personal safety in danger. I had ample material for entering at once upon my professional duties, in chronicling the disordered and threatening state of affairs. On the day of my arrival, I met a gentleman I had known in the Rocky Mountains, six months before. I knew his courage was beyond question, having seen him in several disturbances incident to the Gold Regions; but I was not aware which side of the great cause he had espoused. After our first greetings, I ventured to ask how he stood. "I am a Union man," was his emphatic response. "What kind of a Union man are you?" "I am this kind of a Union man," and he threw open his coat, and showed me a huge revolver, strapped to his waist. There were many loyal men in St. Louis, whose sympathies were evinced in a similar manner. Revolvers were at a premium. Some of the Secessionists ordered a quantity of revolvers from New York, to be forwarded by express. To prevent interference by the Union authorities, they caused the case to be directed to "Colonel Francis P. Blair, Jr., care of ----." They thought Colonel Blair's name would secure the property from seizure. The person in whose care the revolvers were sent was a noted Secessionist, who dealt extensively in fire-arms. Colonel Blair learned of the shipment, and met the box at the station. Fifty revolvers of the finest quality, bought and paid for by the Secessionists, were distributed among the friends of Colonel Blair, and were highly prized by the recipients. CHAPTER II. MISSOURI IN THE EARLY DAYS. Apathy of the Border States.--The Missouri State Convention.--Sterling Price a Union Man.--Plan to take the State out of the Union.--Capture of Camp Jackson.--Energy of General Lyon.--Union Men organized.--An Unfortunate Collision.--The Price-Harney Truce.--The Panic among the Secessionists.--Their Hegira from St. Louis.--A Visit to the State Capital.--Under the Rebel Flag.--Searching for Contraband Articles.--An Introduction to Rebel Dignitaries.--Governor Jackson.--Sterling Price.--Jeff. Thompson.--Activity at Cairo.--Kentucky Neutrality.--The Rebels occupy Columbus. The Border States were not prompt to follow the example of the States on the Gulf and South Atlantic coast. Missouri and Kentucky were loyal, if the voice of the majority is to be considered the voice of the population. Many of the wealthier inhabitants were, at the outset, as they have always been, in favor of the establishment of an independent Southern Government. Few of them desired an appeal to arms, as they well knew the Border States would form the front of the Confederacy, and thus become the battle-field of the Rebellion. The greater part of the population of those States was radically opposed to the secession movement, but became powerless under the noisy, political leaders who assumed the control. Many of these men, who were Unionists in the beginning, were drawn into the Rebel ranks on the plea that it would be treason to refuse to do what their State Government had decided upon. The delegates to the Missouri State Convention were elected in February, 1861, and assembled at St. Louis in the following April. Sterling Price, afterward a Rebel general, was president of this Convention, and spoke in favor of keeping the State in the Union. The Convention thought it injudicious for Missouri to secede, at least at that time, and therefore she was not taken out. This discomfited the prime movers of the secession schemes, as they had counted upon the Convention doing the desired work. In the language of one of their own number, "they had called a Convention to take the State out of the Union, and she must be taken out at all hazards." Therefore a new line of policy was adopted. The Governor of Missouri was one of the most active and unscrupulous Secessionists. After the failure of the Convention to unite Missouri with the Confederacy, Governor Jackson overhauled the militia laws, and, under their sanction, issued a call for a muster of militia near St. Louis. This militia assembled at Lindell Grove, in the suburbs of St. Louis, and a military camp was established, under the name of "Camp Jackson." Though ostensibly an innocent affair, this camp was intended to be the nucleus of the army to hoist the Rebel flag in the State. The officers in command were known Secessionists, and every thing about the place was indicative of its character. The Governor of Louisiana sent, from the arsenal at Baton Rouge, a quantity of guns and munitions of war, to be used by the insurgent forces in Missouri. These reached St. Louis without hinderance, and were promptly conveyed to the embryonic Rebel camp. Captain Lyon, in command of the St. Louis Arsenal, was informed that he must confine his men to the limits of the United States property, under penalty of the arrest of all who stepped outside. Governor Jackson several times visited the grounds overlooking the arsenal, and selected spots for planting his guns. Every thing was in preparation for active hostility. The Union people were by no means idle. Captain Lyon had foreseen the danger menacing the public property in the arsenal, and besought the Government for permission to remove it. Twenty thousand stand of arms were, in a single night, loaded upon a steamer and sent to Alton, Illinois. They were conveyed thence by rail to the Illinois State Arsenal at Springfield. Authority was obtained for the formation of volunteer regiments, and they were rapidly mustered into the service. While Camp Jackson was being formed, the Union men of St. Louis were arming and drilling with such secrecy that the Secessionists were not generally aware of their movements. Before the close of the day Captain Lyon received permission for mustering volunteers; he placed more than six hundred men into the service. Regiments were organized under the name of "Home Guards," and by the 9th of May there were six thousand armed Union men in St. Louis, who were sworn to uphold the national honor. Colonel Francis P. Blair, Jr., commanded the First Regiment of Missouri Volunteers, and stood faithfully by Captain Lyon in all those early and dangerous days. The larger portion of the forces then available in St. Louis was made up of the German element, which was always thoroughly loyal. This fact caused the Missouri Secessionists to feel great indignation toward the Germans. They always declared they would have seized St. Louis and held possession of the larger portion of the State, had it not been for the earnest loyalty of "the Dutch." In the interior of Missouri the Secessionists were generally in the ascendant. It was the misfortune of the time that the Unionists were usually passive, while their enemies were active. In certain counties where the Unionists were four times the number of the Secessionists, it was often the case that the latter were the ruling party. The Union people were quiet and law-abiding; the Secessionists active and unscrupulous. "Peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must," was the motto of the enemies of the Republic. In some localities the Union men asserted themselves, but they did not generally do so until after the first blows were struck at St. Louis. When they did come out in earnest, the loyal element in Missouri became fully apparent. To assure the friends of the Union, and save Missouri from the domination of the insurgents, it was necessary for Captain Lyon to assume the offensive. This was done on the 10th of May, resulting in the famous capture of "Camp Jackson." On the night of the 9th, loyal parties in St. Louis supplied a sufficient number of horses to move the light artillery necessary to accomplish the desired object. On the morning of the 10th, Captain Lyon's command moved from various points, so as to surround the Rebel camp at three o'clock in the afternoon. At that hour General Frost, the Rebel commander, was surprised at the appearance of an overpowering force on the hills surrounding his position. A demand for surrender gave half an hour for deliberation. At the end of that time General Frost concluded to capitulate. The prisoners, less than a thousand in number, were marched to the arsenal and safely secured. This achievement destroyed Camp Jackson, and established the United States authority in full force over St. Louis. An unfortunate collision occurred between the soldiers and the crowd outside. Provoked by insults terminating in an assault with fire-arms, a portion of the German troops fired upon the multitude. Upward of thirty persons were killed or wounded in the affair. With the exception of this unhappy collision, the capture was bloodless. General Harney arrived at St. Louis soon after this event, and assumed command in Missouri. The agreement known as "the Price-Harney truce" was immediately made. Under an assurance from Governor Jackson that the State troops should be disbanded, General Harney promised that no hostilities should be undertaken, and attempted to cause the dispersal of the Union volunteers. The status of the latter had been so fixed that General Harney was not empowered to disarm them, and he so informed, the State authorities. His message announcing this read nearly as follows:-- "I have ascertained that I have no control over the Home Guards. "W. S. HARNEY, _Brig.-Gen_." This message was received at the Police Head-Quarters in St. Louis, on the morning of Sunday, May 15th. It was misunderstood by the parties who read it. They inferred, from the tenor of the dispatch, that General Harney was unable to restrain the Union volunteers. The most frightful stories had been circulated concerning the blood-thirsty character of these soldiers, particularly the German portion. Visions of murder, pillage, house-burning, and all the accompanying outrages committed by an unrestrained army, flitted through the minds of the Secessionists. The story spread, and gained intensity with each repetition. "The Dutch are rising; we shall all be slain in cold blood!" was the cry, echoed from house to house. Not less than five thousand people fled from the city on that day, and as many more within the succeeding twenty-four hours. Carriages, wagons, drays, every thing that could transport persons or valuables, commanded exorbitant prices. Steamboats were chartered as ferries to the Illinois shore or to go to points of safety, either up or down the river. Many persons abandoned their houses, taking with them only a few articles of value or necessity, while others carried away nothing, in their haste to escape. In a few days the excitement subsided and nearly all the refugees returned, but there are some who have never been in St. Louis since their remarkable hegira. In their determination to obtain their "rights," they entered the Rebel army and followed its checkered fortunes. Less than half of these persons are now alive. For a time after the appearance of General Harney's proclamation, there were no hostile demonstrations on either side. Governor Jackson had promised to disband the small force of militia at Jefferson City, but he failed to do so. The Rebel flag was flying in Jefferson City, from a staff in front of the Governor's mansion, and over the head-quarters of the Missouri State Guard. Missouri, through her State officers, was in favor of an armed neutrality, which really meant nothing less than armed secession. The Secessionists were quietly but earnestly at work to effect their object. They did not heed their promise to remain inactive. The Union authorities observed theirs to the letter. The Camp Jackson prisoners were paroled and restored to liberty. A portion of them observed the parole, but many did not. General Frost remained on his farm and took no part in the Rebellion until relieved from his parole, several months later. It is proper to add, that he was of very little account to the Rebels when he finally entered the field. While watching the progress of affairs in St. Louis, I determined upon a visit to Jefferson City. Though the Rebel flag was flying over the State Capitol, and the nucleus of the Missouri State Guard (Rebel) had its camp in the suburbs, the communication by railroad had not been interrupted. Taking the morning train from St. Louis, on the 27th of May, I found myself, at three o'clock of the afternoon, under the secession banner. The searching of the train for articles contraband of war was then a new feature. In the early days only the outside of a package was examined. If the "marks" indicated nothing suspicious, the goods were allowed to pass. Under this regulation, a large number of boxes marked "soap" were shipped on a steamboat for Lexington. So much soap going into Missouri was decidedly suspicious, as the people of the interior do not make extensive use of the article. An examination disclosed canisters of powder instead of bars of soap. The discovery was followed by the promulgation of an order requiring a rigid examination of all packages that might be of doubtful character. This order, with various modifications, was kept in force for a long time. In starting from St. Louis, I left a company of Union volunteers at the railway station. At Jefferson City I found the depot filled with the Rebel soldiers, or "neutrals," as Governor Jackson persisted in calling them. The particular duty they were performing I was unable to ascertain, but they bore unmistakable signs of being something more than a "neutral" body of men. Their camp was just in rear of the city. The Rebel flag, which floated above the camp, was recognized as the emblem of their neutrality. The proprietor of the hotel where I stopped held the reputation of an earnest friend of the Union, ready to Suffer any thing rather than sink his principles. He introduced me to several citizens, most of them, like himself, thoroughly loyal. We discussed freely the condition of affairs in Missouri. It was evident the State authorities intended war, as soon as the necessary preparations could be made. They were not quite ready to strike their first blow, but when they should be prepared, they would not hesitate a moment. Governor Jackson was exerting himself to the utmost to accumulate arms and military stores at various points in the State, where they would be of most value. In defiance of the truce between Generals Price and Harney, companies were being formed throughout the State, and were drilling for service in the field. Time was of great importance to the Rebels, and this they had secured by means of the truce. During my stay at Jefferson City, I met the three, men most prominent in bringing war upon Missouri. These were Governor Jackson, General Sterling Price, and Jeff. Thompson. Governor Jackson was elected in the previous December, before it was thought any serious trouble would grow out of Mr. Lincoln's election. He was not looked upon as a man of great ability, but no one doubted his desire to promote the best interests of the State. Those who knew him said his strength lay more in a public than in a private direction. He had few, if any, personal friends, and was considered dangerous when his passions were roused. Some said he was cold and treacherous, giving all around him a feeling of aversion. Even among the Secessionists, and those who should have been his ardent supporters, he was never mentioned with enthusiasm. Within two weeks from the day I saw him, Governor Jackson, by his own act, was a fugitive from the State capital. He never returned. After wandering in Arkansas and Louisiana, during the early part of the war, he died at Little Rock, in 1863, in a condition of extreme poverty. Of General Price, I heard many praises, even from those who opposed his course. He was said to be a man of warm friendship, of fair abilities, and quite popular among the masses of the inhabitants. He possessed much personal pride, and his ambition for public honor was very great. At the outset he deprecated secession, and prophesied a devastating war as the result. He was inclined to be loyal, but his ambition was greater than his patriotism. The offer of a high position in the Rebel service touched his weakest point, and carried him with the insurgents. In the Rebel service he never obtained much distinction. His principal successes were in saving his army after defeat. He displayed a capacity for annoying the Union armies without doing great damage. Though his oft-repeated promise of victory was never fulfilled, it served to keep many Missourians in the Rebel ranks. He was constantly expected to capture St. Louis. Some of the Rebel residents fully believed he would do so, and kept their wine-cellars ready for the event. Until the official announcement of the surrender of all forces west of the Mississippi, they did not abandon hope. General Price had given his promise, and, as they argued, was sure to keep it. Of Jeff. Thompson little can be said. Previous to that time he had been known as the mayor of St. Joseph, and a politician of some little importance in Northwest Missouri. He was famous for much gasconading, and a fondness for whisky and other material things. I could never learn that he commanded much respect. During the war the Rebels never trusted him with any command of importance. He made a very fair guerrilla, and, in 1861, gave our forces at Cairo and Bird's Point considerable annoyance. History is not likely to give him a very prominent place in the roll of distinguished military heroes. At this time Cairo was the most southerly point on the Mississippi in possession of the National forces. We could have occupied Columbus or Hickman, Kentucky, had not the sacredness of the soil prevented. Kentucky was neutral, and declared that neither party must set foot within her limits. Her declaration of neutrality was much like that issued by the Governor of Missouri. The United States forces were under great restrictions, while the Rebels could do pretty much as they pleased. General Prentiss sent a small expedition down the Mississippi, some sixty miles below Cairo. The Kentuckians were greatly enraged because our forces landed at Hickman and tore down a Rebel flag which the citizens had hoisted. It was an invasion of their soil, for which they demanded apology. A few weeks later the Rebels occupied both Hickman and Columbus, without any objection on the part of the neutrals. Columbus was made very strong by the Rebel engineers, and supplied with many heavy guns for its protection. At the same time, General Prentiss pushed forward the defenses of Cairo, in readiness for any attack by the Rebel gun-boats. For more than half a year Columbus was the northern limit of the Rebel domination of the Great River. On assuming command there, General Polk announced that Columbus was the throat of the Mississippi, and must be held at all hazards. The Rebels repeatedly urged the capture of Cairo, but it was never attempted. [Illustration: HAULING DOWN A REBEL FLAG AT HICKMAN, KY] CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. General Harney Relieved.--Price's Proclamation.--End of the Truce.--Conference between the Union and Rebel Leaders.--The First Act of Hostility.--Destruction of Railway Bridges.--Promptness of General Lyon.--Capture of the State Capital.--Moving on the Enemy's Works.--The Night before Battle.--A Correspondent's Sensation. On the first of June an order was received from Washington, relieving General Harney from command in Missouri. Captain Lyon had been promoted to the rank of a brigadier-general of volunteers, and was assigned to duty in General Harney's stead. On the 5th of June, General Price issued a proclamation, calling for the State Guard to be in readiness to defend Missouri against all enemies. The appearance of this proclamation was not altogether unexpected. It was far more satisfactory to the friends of the Union than to the Secessionists, as it showed the hostile position of Governor Jackson and his abettors, and gave an opportunity for proceeding actively against them. It demonstrated very clearly that the Secessionists were determined to make their actions correspond to their words. It was ascertained that, a few days before the publication of Price's proclamation, Governor Jackson was in consultation with an agent of the Rebel Government, who promised twenty-five thousand men, and arms and ammunition for fifty thousand more, if the State were fairly and unequivocally out of the Union. He had also conferred with an agent from the Indian Nation, with a view to putting several thousand Indians into the field on the side of the Rebels. General Lyon wanted an "overt act" on the part of the Rebels, before commencing actual hostilities. Price's proclamation was the thing desired. The troops in and around St. Louis were drilled as thoroughly as possible. Every day added to their effectiveness. Recruiting was pushed, trade with the interior was suspended, and boats passing down the river were made subject to stoppage and search at the arsenal. Every thing was assuming a warlike appearance. The Government was very tardy in supplying General Lyon's wants. In many cases it did not authorize him to do what was needed. Much of the money for outfitting the troops for the field was voluntarily contributed in the Eastern cities, or by patriotic men in St. Louis. In several things, General Lyon acted upon his own responsibility, under the advice and co-operation of Colonel Blair. On the 9th of June, Governor Jackson and General Price asked General Lyon to give them a safeguard to visit St. Louis. They wished to confer with General Lyon and Colonel Blair, upon the best means of bringing peace to the State and making an end of hostilities. The safeguard was granted, and, on the 11th of June, Jackson and Price reached St. Louis, and signified their readiness for the proposed conference. The meeting took place at the Planters' House, Governor Jackson declining to trust himself inside the walls of the arsenal, where General Lyon had invited him to be his guest. The interview began with many professions of goodwill on the part of Governor Jackson, and the assurance of his earnest desire for peace. He promised to disband the State troops, if General Lyon would first remove all United States troops from the limits of Missouri, and agree not to bring them back under any consideration. Of course, this proposition could not be entertained. A conversation then took place between General Lyon and General Price, but all to no purpose. Price and Jackson would do nothing, unless the United States troops were first sent out of Missouri. Lyon and Blair would not consent to any thing of the kind, and so the conference ended. Jackson and Price left St. Louis on a special train for Jefferson City, on the afternoon of the 11th. On the way up the road, they set fire to the bridges over the Gasconade and Osage Rivers, the former thirty-five miles from Jefferson City, and ninety from St. Louis, and the latter within nine miles of Jefferson City. If the conduct of these men had been neutral up to that time, this act made an end of their neutrality. General Lyon left the conference fully satisfied there was no longer any reason for hesitation. The course he should pursue was plain before him. Early in the forenoon of the 12th, he learned of the destruction of the bridges over the Gasconade and Osage Rivers. He immediately ordered a force to proceed up the road, and protect as much of it as possible from further damage. Within four hours of the reception of the order to move, the troops were on their way. On the next day, three steamers, with about two thousand men, left St. Louis for Jefferson City. General Lyon knew the importance of time, and was determined to give Governor Jackson very little opportunity for preparation. My first experience of a military campaign was on the expedition up the Missouri. I had seen something of Indian troubles on the Plains, in which white men were concerned, but I had never witnessed civilized warfare where white men fought against white men. A residence of several weeks in St. Louis had somewhat familiarized me with the appearance of troops at the arsenal and at the various camps in the city, but the preparations to take the field were full of novelty. I was on the boat which carried the First Missouri Infantry, and which General Lyon had selected for his head-quarters. The young officers were full of enthusiasm, and eagerly anticipating their first encounter with the Rebel battalions. Colonel Blair was less demonstrative than the officers of his regiment, but was evidently much elated at the prospect of doing something aggressive. General Lyon was in the cabin, quiet, reserved, and thoughtful. With Colonel Blair he conversed long and freely. Few others approached him. Outside the cabin the soldiers were ardently discussing the coming campaign, and wishing an early opportunity for winning glory in battle. To one who travels for the first time by steamboat from St. Louis in a northerly direction, a curious picture is presented. The water in the Mississippi above the mouth of the Missouri is quite clear and transparent. That from the Missouri is of a dirty yellow color, derived from the large quantity of earthy matter which it holds in solution. For several miles below the junction of the streams, the two currents remain separated, the line between them being plainly perceptible. The pilots usually endeavor to keep on the dividing line, so that one can look from the opposite sides of a boat and imagine himself sailing upon two rivers of different character at the same moment. Sometimes this distinctive line continues for fifteen or twenty miles, but usually less than ten. A soldier wittily remarked, that the water from the Upper Mississippi derived its transparency from the free States, from whence it came, while the Missouri, emerging from a slave State, was, consequently, of a repulsive hue. As Missouri is now a free State, the soldier's remark is not applicable. Steaming up the Missouri toward the State capital, we found the sentiment along the banks of the river strongly in favor of the Union. Home Guard organizations had been hastily formed, and were doing their best for the protection of the railway. Most of the villages along the Lower Missouri contained a strong German element, which needs no question of its loyalty. The railway bridges were thoroughly guarded, and each town had a small garrison to suppress any rising of the Secessionists. The conduct of the people in these villages was quite different from the course of those residing above Jefferson City. Where the inhabitants possessed no slaves, there was outspoken loyalty. In the most populous slave districts it was the reverse. Slaveholders declared that their interest lay in secession. There were a few exceptions, but they were very far in a minority. Our triumphal entry into Jefferson City was not marked by any noteworthy event. The Capitol was deserted. The Governor and most of the State officials had departed the previous day, in the direction of Booneville. We marched through the principal streets, and found many of the people delighted at our coming. We occupied the State House, and, of course, unfurled our flag from its cupola. A steamboat, seized at the landing, was pressed into our service for use further up the stream. An encounter with the Rebels was eagerly desired. We left a full regiment, a large force in those days, to retain possession of the place, and then pushed on in pursuit. The Rebels had disabled the railway, taking off nearly all the rolling stock and destroying a large bridge four miles west of the city. As the point where they had fled lay upon the river, we pursued them by water. At noon, on the 16th, General Lyon left Jefferson City for Booneville. Within twenty-four hours he fought his first battle in Missouri. It is slow work to proceed with a steamboat where one's way must be felt. Though we had only fifty miles to move, we advanced less than thirty before nightfall. Touching at a landing on the left bank of the river, fifteen miles below Booneville, a scout from the enemy's camp came easily into our hands. From being a scout of the enemy he became our scout, as he revealed in his fright all we wished to know. The enemy, confident of an easy victory, was waiting our approach, and expressed the most lively intention of destroying us all in the twinkling of an eye. Experience had not then demonstrated that there is little difference in the bravery of Americans, when well officered. Each side cherished the delusion that it had a monopoly of courage and endurance. One Southern man was thought equal to five Northern men in a fair contest, and if the former were given the advantage of a defensive position, any odds of numbers would be taken. There was nearly, though not quite, as much boasting on the part of our own press and people. The first severe battles made an end of the greater part of this gasconading. It is said the most trying moment on shipboard is when the deck, previous to an engagement, is sprinkled with saw-dust to receive the blood yet unshed. No man can know whose blood will be first to moisten that dust, or whose life will be passed away before the action is over. So on the eve of that first battle in Missouri, as I reclined in the cabin of our flag-boat, and saw the surgeons busy with their preparations for the coming day; as I saw them bring to light all the dreadful implements of their trade, and arrange them in readiness for sudden use--a coldness crept over me, and I fully realized we had earnest work before us. Since that time I have witnessed many a battle, many a scene of preparation and of bloody work with knife and saw and bandage, but I have never experienced a chill like that I felt on that early day of the Rebellion. The war has made us familiar with horrors. That which once touched us to the heart is now passed over with scarce a moment's thought. Our nerves have been hardened, our sensibilities blunted, our hearts steeled against suffering, in the terrible school through which we have passed. [Illustration: THE OPENING GUN AT BOONEVILLE] CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST BATTLE IN MISSOURI Moving up the River.--A Landing Effected.--The Battle.--Precipitous Retreat of the Rebels.--Spoiling a Captured Camp.--Rebel Flags Emblazoned with the State Arms.--A Journalist's Outfit.--A Chaplain of the Church Militant.--A Mistake that might have been Unfortunate.--The People of Booneville.--Visiting an Official.--Banking-House Loyalty.--Preparations for a Campaign. Daybreak on the 17th found us slowly moving up the river toward Booneville. General Lyon sat forward of the steamer's cabin, closely scanning both banks of the stream. Four miles below the town his glass sought out two pieces of artillery, partially concealed in a clump of trees, and trained upon the channel by which we were to pass. At once our engines were reversed, and the boats moved back to a landing about eight miles below Booneville. A little before seven o'clock we were on shore, and our column of fifteen hundred men began its advance upon the Rebel camp. It was the story that has found its repetition in many a battle since that time. The enemy's pickets were driven in. The enemy, in line of battle, was discovered on a long ridge, and our own line was formed on a ridge parallel to it. Then we opened fire with our artillery (one battery was all we possessed), and received no response, save by a desultory discharge of small-arms. Next our infantry added its tenor notes to the bass of the field-guns; the Rebel forces melted steadily away, and the field was in our possession, twenty minutes after the opening shot had been fired. Once in retreat, the Rebels did not halt until out of harm's reach. Their camp lay in the line of retreat, but they made no stop in passing it. Following in the rear of our column, I entered the camp, and found many signs of a hasty departure. I found the fires burning, and dozens of coffee-pots and frying-pans filled with the materials for breakfast. Here was a pan full of meat fried to a crisp, from the neglect of the cook to remove it before his sudden exodus. A few feet distant lay a ham, with a knife sticking in a half-severed slice. A rude camp-table was spread with plates and their accessories, and a portion of the articles of food were carefully arranged. The seats for the breakfast party were in position, two of them being overturned. I could not help fancying the haste with which that table had been abandoned, only a few moments before. The tents were standing, and in some the blankets were lying on the ground, as if they had been very suddenly vacated. In one tent was a side-saddle, a neat pair of gaiters, and a hoop-skirt. The proper connection of those articles with the battle-field I was unable to ascertain. In that camp was a fine lot of provisions, arms, equipments, and ammunition. Saddles were numerous, but there were no horses. It was evident that, the hasty evacuation left no time for the simple process of saddling. Early in the day I had come into possession of a horse with a very poor outfit. Once in camp, I was not slow to avail myself of the privilege of supply. I went into battle on foot, carrying only a knapsack containing a note-book and two pieces of bread. When the fight was over, I was the possessor of a horse and all the equipments for a campaign. I had an overcoat, a roll of fine blankets, and a pair of saddle-bags. The latter were well filled from the trunk of some one I had not the pleasure of knowing, but who was evidently "just my size." Mr. Barnes, of the Missouri _Democrat_, was my companion on that occasion. He was equally careful to provide himself from the enemy's stores, but wasted, time in becoming sentimental over two love-letters and a photograph of a young woman. The flags captured in this affair were excellent illustrations of the policy of the leading Secessionists. There was one Rebel flag with the arms of the State of Missouri filling the field. There was a State flag, with only fifteen stars surrounding the coat of arms. There was a. Rebel flag, with the State arms in the center, and there was one Rebel flag of the regular pattern. The rallying-cry at that time was in behalf of the State, and the people were told they must act for Missouri, without regard to any thing else. In no part of the country was the "State Rights" theory more freely used. All the changes were rung upon the sovereignty of States, the right of Missouri to exclude United States soldiers from her soil, the illegality of the formation of Union regiments, and the tyranny of the General Government. The flags under which Missouri soldiers were gathered clearly blended the interests of the State with secession. Our troops entered Booneville amid demonstrations of delight from one portion of the inhabitants, and the frowns and muttered indignation of the other. The Rebels had fled, a part of them by land, and the balance on a steamboat, toward Lexington. Quiet possession obtained, there was time to examine into the details of the fight. We had lost twelve men, the enemy probably twice as many. The action, three years later, would have been considered only a roadside skirmish, but it was then an affair of importance. Every man with General Lyon felt far more elation over the result than has since been felt over battles of much greater moment. We had won a signal victory; the enemy had suffered an equally signal defeat. During the battle, a chaplain, provided with four men to look after the wounded, came suddenly upon a group of twenty-four Rebels. An imperative demand for their surrender was promptly complied with, and the chaplain, with his force of four, brought twenty-four prisoners into town. He was so delighted at his success that he subsequently took a commission in the line. In time he was honored with the stars of a brigadier-general. General Lyon was my personal friend, but he very nearly did me great injustice. Seeing myself and a fellow-journalist on a distant part of the field, he mistook us for scouts of the enemy, and ordered his sharp-shooters to pick us off. His chief-of-staff looked in our direction, and fortunately recognized us in time to countermand the order. I was afterward on the point of being shot at by an infantry captain, through a similar mistake. A civilian's dress on the battle-field (a gray coat formed a part of mine) subjects the wearer to many dangers from his friends, as most war correspondents can testify. While approaching the town, I stopped to slake my thirst at a well. A group of our soldiers joined me while I was drinking. I had drank very freely from the bucket, and transferred it to a soldier, when the resident of a neighboring house appeared, and informed us that the well had been poisoned by the Rebels, and the water was certain to produce death. The soldiers desisted, and looked at me with much pity. For a moment, I confess, the situation did not appear cheerful, but I concluded the injury, if any, was already done, and I must make the best of it. The soldiers watched me as I mounted my horse, evidently expecting me to fall within a hundred yards. When I met one of them the following day, he opened his eyes in astonishment at seeing me alive. From that day, I entertained a great contempt for poisoned wells. In Booneville the incidents were not of a startling character. I found the strongest secession sympathy was entertained by the wealthier inhabitants, while the poor were generally loyal. Some cases of determined loyalty I found among the wealthy; but they were the exception rather than the rule. Accompanied by a small squad of soldiers, myself and companion visited the house of a gentleman holding office under the United States Government. We obtained from that house several Rebel cockades and small flags, which had been fabricated by the ladies. With the same squad we visited the principal bank of Booneville, and persuaded the cashier to give us a Rebel flag which had been floating for several days from a staff in front of the building. This flag was ten yards in length, and the materials of which it was made were of the finest quality. The interview between the cashier and ourselves was an amusing one. He protested he knew nothing of the flag or its origin, and at first declared it was not about the building. According to his own representation, he was too good a Union man to harbor any thing of the sort. Just as he was in the midst of a very earnest profession of loyalty the flag was discovered. "Somebody must have put that there to ruin me," was his exclamation. "Gentlemen, I hope you won't harm me; and, if you want me to do so, I will take the oath of allegiance this minute." Soon after the occupation of Booneville, General Lyon sent a small expedition to Syracuse, twenty-five miles in the interior. This force returned in a few days, and then preparations were begun for a march to Springfield. Colonel Blair left Booneville for St. Louis and Washington, while General Lyon attended to the preliminaries for his contemplated movement. The First Iowa Infantry joined him, and formed a part of his expeditionary force. The Rebels gathered at Lexington, and thence moved southward to reach the Arkansas line, to form a junction with the then famous Ben McCulloch. The prospect was good that Central Missouri would soon be clear of Rebels. Our general success in the State depended upon occupying and holding the Southwest. General Lyon was to move thither from Booneville. General Sweeney had already gone there by way of Rolla, while another force, under Major Sturgis, was moving from Leavenworth in a southeasterly direction. All were to unite at Springfield and form an army of occupation. Preparations went on slowly, as the transportation was to be gathered from the surrounding country. Foreseeing that the expedition would be slow to reach Springfield, I returned to St. Louis. There I made preparations to join the army, when its march should be completed, by a more expeditious route than the one General Lyon would follow. At Booneville, General Lyon established a temporary blockade of the Missouri River, by stopping all boats moving in either direction. In most cases a single shot across the bow of a boat sufficed to bring it to land. One day the _White Cloud_, on her way from Kansas City to St. Louis, refused to halt until three shots had been fired, the last one grazing the top of the pilot-house. When brought before General Lyon, the captain of the _White Cloud_ apologized for neglecting to obey the first signal, and said his neglect was due to his utter ignorance of military usage. The apology was deemed sufficient. The captain was dismissed, with a gentle admonition not to make a similar mistake in future. At that time the public was slow to understand the power and extent of military law and military rule. When martial law was declared in St. Louis, in August, 1861, a citizen waited upon the provost-marshal, in order to ascertain the precise state of affairs. After some desultory conversation, he threw out the question:-- "What does martial law do?" "Well," said Major McKinstry, the provost-marshal, "I can explain the whole thing in a second. Martial law does pretty much as it d--n pleases." Before the year was ended the inhabitants of St. Louis learned that the major's assertion was not far from the truth. CHAPTER V. TO SPRINGFIELD AND BEYOND. Conduct of the St. Louis Secessionists.--Collisions between Soldiers and Citizens.--Indignation of the Guests of a Hotel.--From St. Louis to Rolla.--Opinions of a "Regular."--Railway-life in Missouri.--Unprofitable Freight.--A Story of Orthography.--Mountains and Mountain Streams.--Fastidiousness Checked.--Frontier Courtesy.--Concentration of Troops at Springfield.--A Perplexing Situation.--The March to Dug Spring.--Sufferings from Heat and Thirst. The success of the Union arms at Booneville did not silence the Secessionists in St. Louis. They continued to hold meetings, and arrange plans for assisting their friends in the field. At many places, one could hear expressions of indignation at the restrictions which the proper authorities sought to put upon the secession movement. Union flags were torn from the front of private buildings--generally in the night or early morning. Twice, when Union troops were marching along the streets, they were fired upon by citizens. A collision of this kind had occurred at the corner of Fifth and Walnut streets, on the day after the capture of Camp Jackson. The soldiers returned the fire, and killed several persons; but this did not deter the Secessionists from repeating the experiment. In the affairs that took place after the battle of Booneville, the result was the same. Unfortunately, in each collision, a portion of those killed were innocent on-lookers. After a few occurrences of this kind, soldiers were allowed to march through the streets without molestation. About the first of July, there were rumors that an insurrection would be attempted on the National holiday. Ample provision was made to give the insurgents a warm reception. Consequently, they made no trouble. The printer of the bills of fare at a prominent hotel noticed the Fourth of July by ornamenting his work with a National flag, in colors. This roused the indignation of a half-dozen guests, whose sympathies lay with the Rebellion. They threatened to leave, but were so far in arrears that they could not settle their accounts. The hotel-keeper endeavored to soothe them by promising to give his printing, for the future, to another house. Several loyal guests were roused at this offer, and threatened to secede at once if it were carried out. The affair resulted in nothing but words. On the morning of the 11th of July I left St. Louis, to join General Lyon in the Southwest. It was a day's ride by rail to Rolla, the terminus of the Southwest Branch of the Pacific road. I well recollect the strange and motley group that filled the cars on that journey. There were a few officers and soldiers _en route_ to join their comrades in the field. Nearly all of them were fresh from civil life. They wore their uniforms uneasily, as a farmer's boy wears his Sunday suit. Those who carried sabers experienced much inconvenience when walking, on account of the propensity of those weapons to get between their legs. In citizen's dress, at my side, sat an officer of the old army, who looked upon these newly-made warriors with much contempt, mingled with an admiration of their earnestness. After an outburst of mild invective, he pronounced a well-merited tribute to their patriotism. "After all," said he, "they are as good as the material the Rebels have for their army. In some respects, they are better. The Northern blood is cold; the Southern is full of life and passion. In the first onset, our enemies will prove more impetuous than we, and will often overpower us. In the beginning of the struggle, they will prove our superiors, and may be able to boast of the first victories. But their physical energy will soon be exhausted, while ours will steadily increase. Patience, coolness, and determination will be sure to bring us the triumph in the end. These raw recruits, that are at present worthless before trained soldiers, distrusting themselves as we distrust them, will yet become veterans, worthy to rank with the best soldiers of the Old World." The civilian passengers on a railway in Missouri are essentially different from the same class in the East. There are very few women, and the most of these are not as carefully dressed as their Oriental sisters. Their features lack the fineness that one observes in New York and New England. The "hog and hominy," the general diet of the Southwest, is plainly perceptible in the physique of the women. The male travelers, who are not indigenous to the soil, are more roughly clothed and more careless in manner than the same order of passengers between New York and Boston. Of those who enter and leave at way-stations, the men are clad in that yellow, homespun material known as "butternut." The casual observer inclines to the opinion that there are no good bathing-places where these men reside. They are inquisitive, ignorant, unkempt, but generally civil. The women are the reverse of attractive, and are usually uncivil and ignorant. The majority are addicted to smoking, and generally make use of a cob-pipe. Unless objection is made by some passenger, the conductors ordinarily allow the women to indulge in this pastime. The region traversed by the railway is sparsely settled, the ground being generally unfavorable to agriculture. For some time after this portion of the road was opened, the natives refused to give it patronage, many of them declaring that the old mode of travel, by horseback, was the best of all. During the first week after opening the Southwest Branch, the company ran a daily freight train each way. All the freight offered in that time was a bear and a keg of honey. Both were placed in the same car. The bear ate the honey, and the company was compelled to pay for the damage. I have heard a story concerning the origin of the name of Rolla, which is interesting, though I cannot vouch for its truth. In selecting a name for the county seat of Phelps County, a North Carolinian residing there, suggested that it should do honor to the capital of his native State. The person who reduced the request to writing, used the best orthography that occurred to him, so that what should have been "Raleigh," became "Rolla." The request thus written was sent to the Legislature, and the name of the town became fixed. The inhabitants generally pronounce it as if the intended spelling had been adopted. The journey from Rolla to Springfield was accomplished by stage, and required two days of travel. For fifty miles the road led over mountains, to the banks of the Gasconade, one of the prettiest rivers I have ever seen. The mountain streams of Southwest Missouri, having their springs in the limestone rock, possess a peculiarity unknown in the Eastern States. In a depth of two feet or less, the water is apparently as clear as that of the purest mountain brook in New England. But when the depth reaches, or exceeds, three feet, the water assumes a deep-blue tinge, like that of the sky in a clear day. Viewed from an elevation, the picture is one that cannot be speedily forgotten. The blue water makes a marked contrast with surrounding objects, as the streams wind through the forests and fields on their banks. Though meandering through mountains, these rivers have few sharp falls or roaring rapids. Their current is usually gentle, broken here and there into a ripple over a slightly descending shallow, but observing uniformity in all its windings. My first night from Rolla was passed on the banks of the Gasconade. Another day's ride, extended far into the second night, found me at Springfield. When I reached my room at the hotel, and examined the bed, I found but one sheet where we usually look for two. Expostulations were of no avail. The porter curtly informed me, "People here use only one sheet. Down in St. Louis you folks want two sheets, but in this part of the country we ain't so nice." I appreciated my fastidiousness when I afterward saw, at a Tennessee hotel, the following notice:-- "Gentlemen who wish towels in their rooms must deposit fifty cents at the office, as security for their return." Travel in the Border and Southern States will acquaint a Northerner with strange customs. To find an entire household occupying a single large room is not an unfrequent occurrence. The rules of politeness require that, when bedtime has arrived, the men shall go out of doors to contemplate the stars, while the ladies disrobe and retire. The men then return and proceed to bed. Sometimes the ladies amuse themselves by studying the fire while the men find their way to their couches, where they gallantly turn their faces to the wall, and permit the ladies to don their _robes de nuit_. Notwithstanding the scarcity of accommodations, the traveler seeking a meal or resting-place will rarely meet a refusal. In New York or New England, one can journey many a mile and find a cold denial at every door. In the West and Southwest "the latch-string hangs out," and the stranger is always welcome. Especially is this the case among the poorer classes. Springfield is the largest town in Southwest Missouri, and has a fine situation. Before the war it was a place of considerable importance, as it controlled the trade of a large region around it. East of it the country is quite broken, but on the south and west there are stretches of rolling prairie, bounded by rough wood-land. Considered in a military light, Springfield was the key to that portion of the State. A large number of public roads center at that point. Their direction is such that the possession of the town by either army would control any near position of an adversary of equal or inferior strength. General Lyon was prompt in seeing its value, and determined to make an early movement for its occupation. When he started from St. Louis for Booneville, he ordered General Sweeney to march from Rolla to Springfield as speedily as possible. General Sweeney moved with three regiments of infantry and a battery of artillery, and reached Springfield in five days from the time of starting; the distance being a hundred and twenty miles. He then divided his forces, sending Colonel Sigel to Carthage, nearly fifty miles further toward the west, in the hope of cutting off the Rebel retreat in that direction. Major Sturgis was moving from Leavenworth toward Springfield, and expected to arrive there in advance of General Lyon. Major Sturgis was delayed in crossing a river, so that the Rebels arrived at Carthage before Colonel Sigel had been reinforced. The latter, with about eleven hundred men, encountered the Rebel column, twice as large as his own. The battle raged for several hours, neither side losing very heavily. It resulted in Sigel's retreat to avoid being surrounded by the enemy. Wonderful stories were told at that time of the terrific slaughter in the Rebel ranks, but these stories could never be traced to a reliable source. It is proper to say that the Rebels made equally large estimates of our own loss. On General Lyon's arrival all the troops were concentrated in the vicinity of Springfield. It was known that the Rebels were encamped near the Arkansas border, awaiting the re-enforcements which had been promised from the older States of the Confederacy. General Fremont had been assigned to the command of the Western Department, and was daily expected at St. Louis to assume the direction of affairs. Our scouts were kept constantly employed in bringing us news from the Rebel camp, and it is quite probable the Rebels were equally well informed of our own condition. We were able to learn that their number was on the increase, and that they would soon be largely re-enforced. After three weeks of occupation our strength promised to be diminished. Half of General Lyon's command consisted of "three-months men," whose period of enlistment was drawing to a close. A portion of these men went to St. Louis, some volunteered to remain as long as the emergency required their presence, and others were kept against their will. Meantime, General Lyon made the most urgent requests for re-enforcements, and declared he would be compelled to abandon the Southwest if not speedily strengthened. General Fremont promised to send troops to his assistance. After he made the promise, Cairo was threatened by General Pillow, and the re-enforcing column turned in that direction. General Lyon was left to take care of himself. By the latter part of July, our situation had become critical. Price's army had been re-enforced by a column of Arkansas and Louisiana troops, under General McCulloch. This gave the Rebels upward of twelve thousand men, while we could muster less than six thousand. General Price assumed the offensive, moving slowly toward Springfield, as if sure of his ability to overpower the National forces. General Lyon determined to fall upon the enemy before he could reach Springfield, and moved on the 1st of August with that object in view. On the second day of our march a strong scouting party of Rebels was encountered, and a sharp skirmish ensued, in which they were repulsed. This encounter is known in the Southwest as "the fight at Dug Spring." The next day another skirmish occurred, and, on the third morning, twenty-five miles from Springfield, General Lyon called a council of war. "Councils of war do not fight" has grown into a proverb. The council on this occasion decided that we should return to Springfield without attacking the enemy. The decision was immediately carried out. The beginning of August, in Southwest Missouri, is in the midst of the warm season. The day of the march to Dug Spring was one I shall never forget. In Kansas, before the war, I once had a walk of several miles under a burning sun, in a region where not a drop of water could be found. When I finally reached it, the only water to be found was in a small, stagnant pool, covered with a green scum nearly an inch in thickness. Warm, brackish, and fever-laden as that water was, I had never before tasted any thing half so sweet. Again, while crossing the Great Plains in 1860, I underwent a severe and prolonged thirst, only quenching it with the bitter alkali-water of the desert. On neither of these occasions were my sufferings half as great as in the advance to Dug Spring. A long ride in that hot atmosphere gave me a thirst of the most terrible character. Making a detour to the left of the road in a vain search for water, I fell behind the column as it marched slowly along. As I moved again to the front, I passed scores of men who had fallen from utter exhaustion. Many were delirious, and begged piteously for water in ever so small a quantity. Several died from excessive heat, and others were for a long time unfit for duty. Reaching the spring which gave its name to the locality, I was fortunate in finding only the advance of the command. With considerable effort I succeeded in obtaining a pint cupful of water, and thus allayed my immediate thirst. According to the custom in that region, the spring was covered with a frame building, about eight feet square. There are very few cellars in that part of the country, and the spring-house, as it is called, is used for preserving milk and other articles that require a low temperature. As the main portion of the column came up, the crowd around the spring-house became so dense that those once inside could not get out. The building was lifted and thrown away from the spring, but this only served to increase the confusion. Officers found it impossible to maintain discipline. When the men caught sight of the crowd at the spring, the lines were instantly broken. At the spring, officers and men were mingled without regard to rank, all struggling for the same object. A few of the former, who had been fortunate in commencing the day with full canteens, attempted to bring order out of chaos, but found the effort useless. No command was heeded. The officers of the two regiments of "regulars" had justly boasted of the superior discipline of their men. On this occasion the superiority was not apparent. Volunteers and regulars were equally subject to thirst, and made equal endeavor to quench it. Twenty yards below the spring was a shallow pool, where cattle and hogs were allowed to run. Directly above it was a trough containing a few gallons of warm water, which had evidently been there several days. This was speedily taken by the men. Then the hot, scum-covered pool was resorted to. In a very few minutes the trampling of the soldiers' feet had stirred this pool till its substance was more like earth than water. Even from this the men would fill their cups and canteens, and drink with the utmost eagerness. I saw a private soldier emerge from the crowd with a canteen full of this worse than ditch-water. An officer tendered a five-dollar gold piece for the contents of the canteen, and found his offer indignantly refused. To such a frenzy were men driven by thirst that they tore up handfuls of moist earth, and swallowed the few drops of water that could be pressed out. In subsequent campaigns I witnessed many scenes of hunger and thirst, but none to equal those of that day at Dug Spring. CHAPTER VI. THE BATTLE OF WILSON CREEK. The Return from Dug Spring.--The Rebels follow in Pursuit.--Preparations to Attack them.--The Plan of Battle.--Moving to the Attack--A Bivouac.--The Opening Shot.--"Is that Official?"--Sensations of a Spectator in Battle.--Extension of Distance and Time.--Characteristics of Projectiles.--Taking Notes under Fire.--Strength and Losses of the Opposing Armies.--A Noble Record.--The Wounded on the Field.--"One More Shot."--Granger in his Element.--General Lyon's Death. The return of General Lyon from Dug Spring emboldened the enemy to move nearer to Springfield. On the 7th of August the Rebels reached Wilson Creek, ten miles from Springfield, and formed their camp on both sides of that stream. General Ben. McCulloch was their commander-in-chief. On the night of the 8th, General Lyon proposed to move from Springfield for the purpose of attacking their position. The design was not carried out, on account of the impossibility of securing proper disposition of our forces in season to reach the enemy's camp at daylight. During the 8th and the forenoon of the 9th, preparations were made for resisting an attack in Springfield, in case the enemy should come upon us. In the afternoon of the 9th, General Lyon decided to assault the Rebel camp at daylight of the following morning. A council of war had determined that a defeat would be less injurious than a retreat without a battle, provided the defeat were not too serious. "To abandon the Southwest without a struggle," said General Lyon, "would be a sad blow to our cause, and would greatly encourage the Rebels. We will fight, and hope for the best." In arranging a plan of battle, Colonel Sigel suggested that the forces should be divided, so that a simultaneous attack would be made upon either extremity of the enemy's camp. The two columns were to move from Springfield at sunset, bivouac within four miles of the proposed battle-field, and begin their march early enough to fall upon the enemy's camp a little past daylight. We left Springfield about sunset on the 9th, General Lyon taking about three thousand men, while Colonel Sigel took less than two thousand. Exceptions have frequently been made to this mode of attack. Had it been successful, I presume no one would have found it faulty. It is an easy matter to criticise the plans of others, after their result is known. The columns moved by different roads to obtain the desired positions. The march was as silent as possible. The only sounds were the rumbling of wheels and the occasional clank of arms. No one was heavily encumbered, as we expected to return to Springfield before the following night. Midnight found us in a hay-field, four miles from the Rebel camp. There we rested till morning. On the previous night I had been almost without sleep, and therefore took speedy advantage of the halt. Two journeys over the Plains, a little trip into New Mexico, and some excursions among the Rocky Mountains, had taught me certain rules of campaign life. I rarely moved without my blankets and rubber "poncho," and with a haversack more or less well filled. On this occasion I was prepared for sleeping in the open air. One bivouac is much like another. When one is weary, a blanket on the ground is just as comfortable as a bed of down under a slated roof. If accustomed to lie under lace curtains, a tree or a bush will make an excellent substitute. "Tired nature's sweet restorer" comes quickly to an exhausted frame. Realities of the past, expectations of the future, hopes, sorrows, wishes, regrets--all are banished as we sink into sweet repose. At dawn we were in motion. At daylight the smoke hanging over the enemy's camp was fully before us. Sunrise was near at hand when the hostile position was brought to our view. It lay, as we had anticipated, stretched along the banks of Wilson Creek. Until our advance drove in the pickets, a thousand yards from their camp, the Rebels had no intimation of our approach. Many of them were reluctant to believe we were advancing to attack them, and thought the firing upon the pickets was the work of a scouting party. The opening of our artillery soon undeceived them, a shell being dropped in the middle of their camp. A Rebel officer afterward told me about our first shell. When the pickets gave the alarm of our approach, the Rebel commander ordered his forces to "turn out." An Arkansas colonel was in bed when the order reached him, and lazily asked, "Is that official?" Before the bearer of the order could answer, our shell tore through the colonel's tent, and exploded a few yards beyond it. The officer waited for no explanation, but ejaculated, "That's official, anyhow," as he sprang out of his blankets, and arrayed himself in fighting costume. Before the Rebels could respond to our morning salutation, we heard the booming of Sigel's cannon on the left. Colonel Sigel reached the spot assigned him some minutes before we were able to open fire from our position. It had been stipulated that he should wait for the sound of our guns before making his attack. His officers said they waited nearly fifteen minutes for our opening shot. They could look into the Rebel camp in the valley of the stream, a few hundred yards distant. The cooks were beginning their preparations for breakfast, and gave our men a fine opportunity to learn the process of making Confederate corn-bread and coffee. Some of the Rebels saw our men, and supposed they were their own forces, who had taken up a new position. Several walked into our lines, and found themselves prisoners of war. Previous to that day I had witnessed several skirmishes, but this was my first battle of importance. Distances seemed much greater than they really were. I stood by the side of Captain Totten's battery as it opened the conflict. "How far are you firing?" I asked. "About eight hundred yards; not over that," was the captain's response. I should have called it sixteen hundred, had I been called on for an estimate. Down the valley rose the smoke of Sigel's guns, about a mile distant, though, apparently, two or three miles away. Opposite Sigel's position was the camp of the Arkansas Division: though it was fully in my sight, and the tents and wagons were plainly visible, I could not get over the impression that they were far off. The explosions of our shells, and the flashes of the enemy's guns, a short distance up the slope on the opposite side of the creek, seemed to be at a considerable distance. To what I shall ascribe these illusions, I do not know. On subsequent battle-fields I have never known their recurrence. Greater battles, larger streams, higher hills, broader fields, wider valleys, more extended camps, have come under my observation, but in none of them has the romance exceeded the reality. The hours did not crowd into minutes, but the minutes almost extended into hours. I frequently found, on consulting my watch, that occurrences, apparently of an hour's duration, were really less than a half or a quarter of that time. As the sun rose, it passed into a cloud. When it emerged, I fully expected it would be some distance toward the zenith, and was surprised to find it had advanced only a few degrees. There was a light shower, that lasted less than ten minutes: I judged it had been twenty. The evolutions of the troops on the field appeared slow and awkward. They were really effected with great promptness. General Lyon was killed before nine o'clock, as I very well knew. It was some days before I could rid myself of an impression that his death occurred not far from noon. The apparent extension of the hours was the experience of several persons on that field. I think it has been known by many, on the occasion of their first battle. At Pea Ridge, an officer told me, there seemed to be about thirty hours between sunrise and sunset. Another thought it was four P.M. when the sun was at the meridian. It was only at Wilson Creek that I experienced this sensation. On subsequent battle-fields I had no reason to complain of my estimate of time. The first shell from the enemy's guns passed high over my head. I well remember the screech of that missile as it cut through the air and lost itself in the distance. "Too high, Captain Bledsoe," exclaimed our artillery officer, as he planted a shell among the Rebel gunners. In firing a half-dozen rounds the Rebels obtained our range, and then used their guns with some effect. The noise of each of those shells I can distinctly recall, though I have since listened to hundreds of similar sounds, of which I have no vivid recollection. The sound made by a shell, in its passage through the air, cannot be described, and, when once heard, can never be forgotten. I was very soon familiar with the whistling of musket-balls. Before the end of the action, I thought I could distinguish the noise of a Minié bullet from that of a common rifle-ball, or a ball from a smooth-bored musket. Once, while conversing with the officer in charge of the skirmish line, I found myself the center of a very hot fire. It seemed, at that instant, as if a swarm of the largest and most spiteful bees had suddenly appeared around me. The bullets flew too rapidly to be counted, but I fancied I could perceive a variation in their sound. After I found a position beyond the range of musketry, the artillery would insist upon searching me out. While I was seated under a small oak-tree, with my left arm through my horse's bridle, and my pencil busy on my note-book, the tree above my head was cut by a shell. Moving from that spot, I had just resumed my writing, when a shot tore up the ground under my arm, and covered me with dirt. Even a remove to another quarter did not answer my purpose, and I finished my notes after reaching the rear. It is not my intention to give the details of the battle--the movements of each regiment, battalion, or battery, as it performed its part in the work. The official record will be sought by those who desire the purely military history. It is to be regretted that the official report of the engagement at Wilson Creek displays the great hostility of its author toward a fellow-soldier. In the early campaigns in Missouri, many officers of the regular army vied with the Rebels in their hatred of "the Dutch." This feeling was not confined to Missouri alone, but was apparent in the East as well as in the West. As the war progressed the hostility diminished, but it was never entirely laid aside. The duration of the battle was about four and a half hours. The whole force under the National flag was five thousand men. The Rebels acknowledged having twelve thousand, of all arms. It is probable that this estimate was a low one. The Rebels were generally armed with shot-guns, common rifles, and muskets of the old pattern. About a thousand had no arms whatever. Their artillery ammunition was of poorer quality than our own. These circumstances served to make the disparity less great than the actual strength of the hostile forces would imply. Even with these considerations, the odds against General Lyon were quite large. Our loss was a little less than one-fifth our whole strength. Up to that time, a battle in which one-tenth of those engaged was placed _hors de combat_, was considered a very sanguinary affair. During the war there were many engagements where the defeated party suffered a loss of less than one-twentieth. Wilson Creek can take rank as one of the best-fought battles, when the number engaged is brought into consideration. The First Missouri Infantry went into action with seven hundred and twenty-six men. Its casualty list was as follows:-- Killed................................ 77 Dangerously wounded................... 93 Otherwise wounded..................... 126 Captured.............................. 2 Missing............................... 15 --- Total.......................... 313 The First Kansas Infantry, out of seven hundred and eighty-five men, lost two hundred and ninety-six. The loss in other regiments was quite severe, though not proportionately as heavy as the above. These two regiments did not break during the battle, and when they left the ground they marched off as coolly as from a parade. At the time our retreat was ordered our ammunition was nearly exhausted and the ranks fearfully thinned. The Rebels had made a furious attack, in which they were repulsed. General Sweeney insisted that it was their last effort, and if we remained on the ground we would not be molested again. Major Sturgis, upon whom the command devolved after General Lyon's death, reasoned otherwise, and considered it best to fall back to Springfield. The Rebels afterward admitted that General McCulloch had actually given the order for retreat a few moments before they learned of our withdrawal. Of course he countermanded his order at once. There were several battles in the late Rebellion in which the circumstances were similar. In repeated instances the victorious party thought itself defeated, and was much astonished at finding its antagonist had abandoned the struggle. In our retreat we brought away many of our wounded, but left many others on the field. When the Rebels took possession they cared for their own men as well as the circumstances would permit, but gave no assistance to ours. There were reports, well authenticated, that some who lay helpless were shot or bayoneted. Two days after the battle a surgeon who remained at Springfield was allowed to send out wagons for the wounded. Some were not found until after four days' exposure. They crawled about as best they could, and, by searching the haversacks of dead men, saved themselves from starvation. One party of four built a shelter of branches of trees as a protection against the sun. Another party crawled to the bank of the creek, and lay day and night at the water's edge. Several men sought shelter in the fence corners, or by the side of fallen trees. Two days before the battle, ten dollars were paid to each man of the First Kansas Infantry. The money was in twenty-dollar pieces, and the payment was made by drawing up the regiment in the customary two ranks, and giving a twenty-dollar piece to each man in the front rank. Three-fourths of those killed or wounded in that regiment were of the front rank. The Rebels learned of this payment, and made rigid search of all whom they found on the field. Nearly a year after the battle a visitor to the ground picked up one of these gold coins. During the battle several soldiers from St. Louis and its vicinity recognized acquaintances on the opposite side. These recognitions were generally the occasion of many derisive and abusive epithets. In the Border States each party had a feeling of bitter hostility toward the other. Probably the animosity was greater in Missouri than elsewhere. A lieutenant of the First Missouri Infantry reported that he saw one of the men of his regiment sitting under a tree during the battle, busily engaged in whittling a bullet. "What are you doing there?" said the officer. "My ammunition is gone, and I'm cutting down this bullet to fit my gun." (The soldier's musket was a "54-caliber," and the bullet was a "59.") "Look around among the wounded men," was the order, "and get some 54-cartridges. Don't stop to cut down that bullet." "I would look around, lieutenant," the soldier responded, "but I can't move. My leg is shot through. I won't be long cutting this down, and then I want a chance to hit some of them." Captain Gordon Granger was serving on the staff of General Lyon. When not actively engaged in his professional duties, he visited all parts of the field where the fight was hottest. Though himself somewhat excited, he was constantly urging the raw soldiers to keep cool and not throw away a shot. Wherever there was a weak place in our line, he was among the first to discover it and devise a plan for making it good. On one occasion, he found a gap between two regiments, and noticed that the Rebels were preparing to take advantage of it. Without a moment's delay, he transferred three companies of infantry to the spot, managing to keep them concealed behind a small ridge. "Now, lie still; don't raise your heads out of the grass," said Granger; "I'll tell you when to fire." The Rebels advanced toward the supposed gap. Granger stood where he could see and not be seen. He was a strange compound of coolness and excitement. While his judgment was of the best, and his resources were ready for all emergencies, a by-stander would have thought him heated almost to frenzy. The warmth of his blood gave him a wonderful energy and rendered him ubiquitous; his skill and decision made his services of the highest importance. "There they come; steady, now; let them get near enough; fire low; give them h--l." The Rebels rushed forward, thinking to find an easy passage. When within less than fifty yards, Granger ordered his men to fire. The complete repulse of the Rebels was the result. "There, boys; you've done well. D--n the scoundrels; they won't come here again." With this, the captain hastened to some other quarter. The death of General Lyon occurred near the middle of the battle. So many accounts of this occurrence have been given, that I am not fully satisfied which is the correct one. I know at least half a dozen individuals in whose arms General Lyon expired, and think there are as many more who claim that sad honor. There is a similar mystery concerning his last words, a dozen versions having been given by persons who claim to have heard them. It is my belief that General Lyon was killed while reconnoitering the enemy's line and directing the advance of a regiment of infantry. I believe he was on foot at the instant, and was caught, as he fell, in the arms of "Lehman," his orderly. His last utterance was, doubtless, the order for the infantry to advance, and was given a moment before he received the fatal bullet. From the nature of the wound, his death, if not instantaneous, was very speedy. A large musket-ball entered his left side, in the region of the heart, passing nearly through to the right. A reported wound in the breast was made with a bayonet in the hands of a Rebel soldier, several hours afterward. The body was brought to Springfield on the night after the battle. It was my fortune to be acquainted with General Lyon. During the progress of the war I met no one who impressed me more than he, in his devotion to the interests of the country. If he possessed ambition for personal glory, I was unable to discover it. He declared that reputation was a bubble, which no good soldier should follow. Wealth was a shadow, which no man in the country's service should heed. His pay as an officer was sufficient for all his wants, and he desired nothing more. He gave to the Nation, as the friend he loved the dearest, a fortune which he had inherited. If his death could aid in the success of the cause for which he was fighting, he stood ready to die. The gloom that spread throughout the North when the news of his loss was received, showed a just appreciation of his character. "How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest!" At that battle there was the usual complement of officers for five thousand men. Two years later there were seven major-generals and thirteen brigadier-generals who had risen from the Wilson Creek Army. There were colonels, lieutenant-colonels, and majors, by the score, who fought in the line or in the ranks on that memorable 10th of August. In 1863, thirty-two commissioned officers were in the service from one company of the First Iowa Infantry. Out of one company of the First Missouri Infantry, twenty-eight men received commissions. To the majority of the officers from that army promotion was rapid, though a few cases occurred in which the services they rendered were tardily acknowledged. [Illustration: DEATH OF GENERAL LYON] CHAPTER VII. THE RETREAT FROM SPRINGFIELD. A Council of War.--The Journalists' Council.--Preparations for Retreat.--Preceding the Advance-Guard.--Alarm and Anxiety of the People.--Magnificent Distances.--A Novel Odometer.--The Unreliable Countryman.--Neutrality.--A Night at Lebanon.--A Disagreeable Lodging-place.--Active Secessionists.--The Man who Sought and Found his Rights.--Approaching Civilization.--Rebel Couriers on the Route.--Arrival at Rolla. On the night after the battle, the army was quartered at Springfield. The Rebels had returned to the battle-ground, and were holding it in possession. The court-house and a large hotel were taken for hospitals, and received such of our wounded as were brought in. At a council of war, it was decided to fall back to Rolla, a hundred and twenty miles distant, and orders were given to move at daylight. The journalists held a council of war, and decided to commence their retreat at half-past two o'clock in the morning, in order to be in advance of the army. The probabilities were in favor of the enemy's cavalry being at the junction of certain roads, five miles east of the town. We, therefore, divested ourselves of every thing of a compromising character. In my own saddle-bags I took only such toilet articles as I had long carried, and which were not of a warlike nature. We destroyed papers that might give information to the enemy, and kept only our note-books, from which all reference to the strength of our army was carefully stricken out. We determined, in case of capture, to announce ourselves as journalists, and display our credentials. One of our party was a telegraph operator as well as a journalist. He did not wish to appear in the former character, as the Missouri Rebels were then declaring they would show no quarter to telegraphers. Accordingly, he took special care to divest himself of all that pertained to the transmission of intelligence over the wires. A pocket "instrument," which he had hitherto carried, he concealed in Springfield, after carefully disabling the office, and leaving the establishment unfit for immediate use. We passed the dangerous point five miles from town, just as day was breaking. No Rebel cavalry confronted us in the highway, nor shouted an unwelcome "halt!" from a roadside thicket. All was still, though we fancied we could hear a sound of troops in motion far in the distance toward Wilson Creek. The Rebels were doubtless astir, though they did not choose to interfere with the retreat of our army. As day broke and the sun rose, we found the people of both complexions thronging to the road, and seeking, anxiously, the latest intelligence. At first we bore their questions patiently, and briefly told them what had occurred. Finding that we lost much time, we began, early in the day, to give the shortest answers possible. As fast as we proceeded the people became more earnest, and would insist upon delaying us. Soon after mid-day we commenced denying we had been at the battle, or even in Springfield. This was our only course if we would avoid detention. Several residents of Springfield, and with them a runaway captain from a Kansas regiment, had preceded us a few hours and told much more than the truth. Some of them had advised the people to abandon their homes and go to Rolla or St. Louis, assuring them they would all be murdered if they remained at home. In pursuance of this advice many were loading a portion of their household goods upon wagons and preparing to precede or follow the army in its retreat. We quieted their alarm as much as possible, advising them to stay at home and trust to fortune. We could not imagine that the Rebels would deal severely with the inhabitants, except in cases where they had been conspicuous in the Union cause. Some of the people took our advice, unloaded their wagons, and waited for further developments. Others persisted in their determination to leave. They knew the Rebels better than we, and hesitated to trust their tender mercies. A year later we learned more of "the barbarism of Slavery." Southwest Missouri is a region of magnificent distances. A mile in that locality is like two miles in the New England or Middle States. The people have an easy way of computing distance by the survey lines. Thus, if it is the width of a township from one point to another, they call the distance six miles, even though the road may follow the tortuosities of a creek or of the crest of a ridge, and be ten or twelve miles by actual measurement. From Springfield to Lebanon it is called fifty miles, as indicated by the survey lines. A large part of the way the route is quite direct, but there are places where it winds considerably among the hills, and adds several miles to the length of the road. No account is taken of this, but all is thrown into the general reckoning. There is a popular saying on the frontier, that they measure the roads with a fox-skin, and make no allowance for the tail. Frequently I have been told it was five miles to a certain point, and, after an hour's riding, on inquiry, found that the place I sought was still five, and sometimes six, miles distant. Once, when I essayed a "short cut" of two miles, that was to save me twice that distance, I rode at a good pace for an hour and a half to accomplish it, and traveled, as I thought, at least eight miles. On the route from Springfield to Lebanon we were much amused at the estimates of distance. Once I asked a rough-looking farmer, "How far is it to Sand Springs?" "Five miles, stranger," was the reply. "May be you won't find it so much." After riding three miles, and again inquiring, I was informed it was "risin' six miles to Sand Springs." Who could believe in the existence of a reliable countryman, after that? Thirty miles from Springfield, we stopped at a farm-house for dinner. While our meal was being prepared, we lay upon the grass in front of the house, and were at once surrounded by a half-dozen anxious natives. We answered their questions to the best of our abilities, but nearly all of us fell asleep five minutes after lying down. When aroused for dinner, I was told I had paused in the middle of a word of two syllables, leaving my hearers to exercise their imaginations on what I was about to say. Dinner was the usual "hog and hominy" of the Southwest, varied with the smallest possible loaf of wheaten bread. Outside the house, before dinner, the men were inquisitive. Inside the house, when we were seated for dinner, the women were unceasing in their inquiries. Who can resist the questions of a woman, even though she be an uneducated and unkempt Missourian? The dinner and the questions kept us awake, and we attended faithfully to both. The people of this household were not enthusiastic friends of the Union. Like many other persons, they were anxious to preserve the good opinion of both sides, by doing nothing in behalf of either. Thus neutral, they feared they would be less kindly treated by the Rebels than by the National forces. Though they had no particular love for our army, I think they were sorry to see it departing. A few of the Secessionists were not slow to express the fear that their own army would not be able to pay in full for all it wanted, as our army had done. Horses and riders refreshed, our journey was resumed. The scenes of the afternoon were like those of the morning: the same alarm among the people, the same exaggerated reports, and the same advice from ourselves, when we chose to give it. The road stretched out in the same way it had hitherto done, and the information derived from the inhabitants was as unreliable as ever. It was late in the evening, in the midst of a heavy shower, that we reached Lebanon, where we halted for the night. I have somewhere read of a Persian king who beheaded his subjects for the most trivial or imaginary offenses. The officers of his cabinet, when awaking in the morning, were accustomed to place their hands to their necks, to ascertain if their heads still remained. The individuals comprising our party had every reason to make a similar examination on the morning after our stay in this town, and to express many thanks at the gratifying result. On reaching the only hotel at Lebanon, long after dark, we found the public room occupied by a miscellaneous assemblage. It was easy to see that they were more happy than otherwise at the defeat which our arms had sustained. While our supper was being prepared we made ready for it, all the time keeping our eyes on the company. We were watched as we went to supper, and, on reaching the table, found two persons sitting so near our allotted places that we could not converse freely. After supper several individuals wished to talk with us concerning the recent events. We made the battle appear much better than it had really been, and assured them that a company of cavalry was following close behind us, and would speedily arrive. This information was unwelcome, as the countenances of the listeners plainly indicated. One of our party was called aside by a Union citizen, and informed of a plan to rob, and probably kill, us before morning. This was not pleasing. It did not add to the comfort of the situation to know that a collision between the Home Guards and a company of Secessionists was momentarily expected. At either end of the town the opposing parties were reported preparing for a fight. As the hotel was about half-way between the two points, our position became interesting. Next came a report from an unreliable contraband that our horses had been stolen. We went to the stable, as a man looks in a wallet he knows to be empty, and happily found our animals still there. We found, however, that the stable had been invaded and robbed of two horses in stalls adjacent to those of our own. The old story of the theft of a saw-mill, followed by that of the dam, was brought to our minds, with the exception, that the return of the thief was not likely to secure his capture. The stable-keeper offered to lock the door and resign the key to our care. His offer was probably well intended, but we could see little advantage in accepting it, as there were several irregular openings in the side of the building, each of them ample for the egress of a horse. In assigning us quarters for the night, the landlord suggested that two should occupy a room at one end of the house, while the rest were located elsewhere. We objected to this, and sustained our objection. With a little delay, a room sufficient for all of us was obtained. We made arrangements for the best possible defense in case of attack, and then lay down to sleep. Our Union friend called upon us before we were fairly settled to rest, bringing us intelligence that the room, where the guns of the Home Guard were temporarily stored, had been invaded while the sentinels were at supper. The locks had been removed from some of the muskets, but there were arms enough to make some resistance if necessary. Telling him we would come out when the firing began, and requesting the landlord to send the cavalry commander to our room as soon as he arrived, we fell asleep. No one of our party carried his fears beyond the waking hours. In five minutes after dismissing our friend, all were enjoying a sleep as refreshing and undisturbed as if we had been in the most secure and luxurious dwelling of New York or Chicago. During several years of travel under circumstances of greater or less danger, I have never found my sleep disturbed, in the slightest degree, by the nature of my surroundings. Apprehensions of danger may be felt while one is awake, but they generally vanish when slumber begins. In the morning we found ourselves safe, and were gratified to discover that our horses had been let alone. The landlord declared every thing was perfectly quiet, and had been so through the night, with the exception of a little fight at one end of the town. The Home Guards were in possession, and the Secessionists had dispersed. The latter deliberated upon the policy of attacking us, and decided that their town might be destroyed by our retreating army in case we were disturbed. They left us our horses, that we might get away from the place as speedily as possible. So we bade adieu to Lebanon with much delight. That we came unmolested out of that nest of disloyalty, was a matter of much surprise. Subsequent events, there and elsewhere, have greatly increased that surprise. After a ride of thirteen miles we reached the Gasconade River, which we found considerably swollen by recent rains. The proprietor of the hotel where we breakfasted was a country doctor, who passed in that region as a man of great wisdom. He was intensely disloyal, and did not relish the prospect of having, as he called it, "an Abolition army" moving anywhere in his vicinity. He was preparing to leave for the South, with his entire household, as soon as his affairs could be satisfactorily arranged. He had taken the oath of allegiance, to protect himself from harm at the hands of our soldiers, but his negroes informed us that he belonged to a company of "Independent Guards," which had been organized with the design of joining the Rebel army. This gentleman was searching for his rights. I passed his place six months afterward. The doctor's negroes had run away to the North, and the doctor had vanished with his family in the opposite direction. His house had been burned, his stables stripped of every thing of value, and the whole surroundings formed a picture of desolation. The doctor had found a reward for his vigilant search. There was no doubt he had obtained his rights. Having ended our breakfast, we decided to remain at that place until late in the afternoon, for the purpose of writing up our accounts. With a small table, and other accommodations of the worst character, we busied ourselves for several hours. To the persona of the household we were a curiosity. They had never before seen men who could write with a journalist's ordinary rapidity, and were greatly surprised at the large number of pages we succeeded in passing over. We were repeatedly interrupted, until forced to make a request to be let alone. The negroes took every opportunity to look at us, and, when none but ourselves could see them, they favored us with choice bits of local information. When we departed, late in the afternoon, four stout negroes ferried us across the river. A hotel known as the California House was our stopping-place, ten miles from the Gasconade. As an evidence of our approaching return to civilization, we found each bed at this house supplied with two clean sheets, a luxury that Springfield was unable to furnish. I regretted to find, several months later, that the California House had been burned by the Rebels. At the time of our retreat, the landlord was unable to determine on which side of the question he belonged, and settled the matter, in conversation with me, by saying he was a hotel-keeper, and could not interfere in the great issue of the day. I inclined to the belief that he was a Union man, but feared to declare himself on account of the dubious character of his surroundings. The rapidity with which the Secessionists carried and received news was a matter of astonishment to our people. While on that ride through the Southwest, I had an opportunity of learning their _modus operandi_. Several times we saw horsemen ride to houses or stables, and, after a few moments' parley, exchange their wearied horses for fresh ones. The parties with whom they effected their exchanges would be found pretty well informed concerning the latest news. By this irregular system of couriers, the Secessionists maintained a complete communication with each other. All along the route, I found they knew pretty well what had transpired, though their news was generally mixed up with much falsehood. Even in those early days, there was a magnificence in the Rebel capacity for lying. Before the war, the Northern States produced by far the greatest number of inventions, as the records of the Patent Office will show. During the late Rebellion, the brains of the Southern States were wonderfully fertile in the manufacture of falsehood. The inhabitants of Dixie invent neither cotton-gins, caloric engines, nor sewing-machines, but when they apply their faculties to downright lying, the mudsill head is forced to bow in reverence. In the last day of this ride, we passed over a plateau twelve miles across, also over a mountain of considerable height. Near the summit of this mountain, we struck a small brook, whose growth was an interesting study. At first, barely perceptible as it issued from a spring by the roadside, it grew, mile by mile, until, at the foot of the mountain, it formed a respectable stream. The road crossed it every few hundred yards, and at each crossing we watched its increase. At the base of the mountain it united with another and larger stream, which we followed on our way to Rolla. Late in the afternoon we reached the end of our journey. Weary, dusty, hungry, and sore, we alighted from our tired horses, and sought the office of the commandant of the post. All were eager to gather the latest intelligence, and we were called upon to answer a thousand questions. With our story ended, ourselves refreshed from the fatigue of our long ride, a hope for the safety of our gallant but outnumbered army, we bade adieu to Rolla, and were soon whirling over the rail to St. Louis. CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL FREMONT'S PURSUIT OF PRICE. Quarrel between Price and McCulloch.--The Rebels Advance upon Lexington.--A Novel Defense for Sharp-shooters.--Attempt to Re-enforce the Garrison.--An Enterprising Journalist.--The Surrender.--Fremont's Advance.--Causes of Delay.--How the Journalists Killed Time.--Late News.--A Contractor "Sold."--Sigel in Front.--A Motley Collection.--A Wearied Officer.--The Woman who had never seen a Black Republican.--Love and Conversion. After the battle of Wilson Creek and the occupation of Springfield, a quarrel arose between the Rebel Generals, Price and McCulloch. It resulted in the latter being ordered to Arkansas, leaving General Price in command of the army in Missouri. The latter had repeatedly promised to deliver Missouri from the hands of the United States forces, and made his preparations for an advance into the interior. His intention, openly declared, was to take possession of Jefferson City, and reinstate Governor Jackson in control of the State. The Rebels wisely considered that a perambulating Governor was not entitled to great respect, and were particularly anxious to see the proclamations of His Excellency issued from the established capital. Accordingly, General Price, with an army twenty thousand strong, marched from Springfield in the direction of Lexington. This point was garrisoned by Colonel Mulligan with about twenty-five hundred men. After a siege of four days, during the last two of which the garrison was without water, the fort was surrendered. Price's army was sufficiently large to make a complete investment of the fortifications occupied by Colonel Mulligan, and thus cut off all access to the river. The hemp warehouses in Lexington were drawn upon to construct movable breast-works for the besieging force. Rolling the bales of hemp before them, the Rebel sharp-shooters could get very near the fort without placing themselves in great danger. The defense was gallant, but as no garrisons can exist without water, Colonel Mulligan was forced to capitulate. It afterward became known that Price's army had almost exhausted its stock of percussion-caps--it having less than two thousand when the surrender was made. General Fremont was highly censured by the Press and people for not re-enforcing the garrison, when it was known that Price was moving upon Lexington. One journal in St. Louis, that took occasion to comment adversely upon his conduct, was suddenly suppressed. After a stoppage of a few days, it was allowed to resume publication. During the siege a small column of infantry approached the north bank of the river, opposite Lexington, with the design of joining Colonel Mulligan. The attempt was considered too hazardous, and no junction was effected. Mr. Wilkie, of the New York _Times_, accompanied this column, and was much disappointed when the project of reaching Lexington was given up. Determined to see the battle, he crossed the river and surrendered himself to General Price, with a request to be put on parole until the battle was ended. The Rebel commander gave him quarters in the guardhouse till the surrender took place. Mr. Wilkie was then liberated, and reached St. Louis with an exclusive account of the affair. While General Price was holding Lexington, General Fremont commenced assembling an army at Jefferson City, with the avowed intention of cutting off the retreat of the Rebels through Southwest Missouri. From Jefferson City our forces moved to Tipton and Syracuse, and there left the line of railway for a march to Springfield. Our movements were not conducted with celerity, and before we left Jefferson City the Rebels had evacuated Lexington and moved toward Springfield. The delay in our advance was chiefly owing to a lack of transportation and a deficiency of arms for the men. General Fremont's friends charged that he was not properly sustained by the Administration, in his efforts to outfit and organize his army. There was, doubtless, some ground for this charge, as the authorities, at that particular time, were unable to see any danger, except at Washington. They often diverted to that point _matériel_ that had been originally designed for St. Louis. As the army lay at Jefferson City, preparing for the field, some twelve or fifteen journalists, representing the prominent papers of the country, assembled there to chronicle its achievements. They waited nearly two weeks for the movement to begin. Some became sick, others left in disgust, but the most of them remained firm. The devices of the journalists to kill time were of an amusing nature. The town had no attractions whatever, and the gentlemen of the press devoted themselves to fast riding on the best horses they could obtain. Their horseback excursions usually terminated in lively races, in which both riders and steeds were sufferers. The representatives of two widely-circulated dailies narrowly escaped being sent home with broken necks. Evenings at the hotels were passed in reviving the "sky-larking" of school-boy days. These scenes were amusing to participants and spectators. Sober, dignified men, the majority of them heads of families, occupied themselves in devising plans for the general amusement. One mode of enjoyment was to assemble in a certain large room, and throw at each other every portable article at hand, until exhaustion ensued. Every thing that could be thrown or tossed was made use of. Pillows, overcoats, blankets, valises, saddle-bags, bridles, satchels, towels, books, stove-wood, bed-clothing, chairs, window-curtains, and, ultimately, the fragments of the bedsteads, were transformed into missiles. I doubt if that house ever before, or since, knew so much noise in the same time. Everybody enjoyed it except those who occupied adjoining rooms, and possessed a desire for sleep. Some of these persons were inclined to excuse our hilarity, on the ground that the boys ought to enjoy themselves. "The boys!" Most of them were on the shady side of twenty-five, and some had seen forty years. About nine o'clock in the forenoon of the day following Price's evacuation of Lexington, we obtained news of the movement. The mail at noon, and the telegraph before that time, carried all we had to say of the affair, and in a few hours we ceased to talk of it. On the evening of that day, a good-natured "contractor" visited our room, and, after indulging in our varied amusements until past eleven, bade us good-night and departed. Many army contractors had grown fat in the country's service, but this man had a large accumulation of adipose matter before the war broke out. A rapid ascent of a long flight of stairs was, therefore, a serious matter with him. Five minutes after leaving us, he dashed rapidly up the stairs and entered our room. As soon as he could speak, he asked, breathing between, the words-- "Have you heard the news?" "No," we responded; "what is it?" "Why" (with more efforts to recover his breath), "Price has evacuated Lexington!" "Is it possible?" "Yes," he gasped, and then sank exhausted into a large (very large) arm-chair. We gave him a glass of water and a fan, and urged him to proceed with the story. He told all he had just heard in the bar-room below, and we listened with the greatest apparent interest. When he had ended, we told him _our_ story. The quality and quantity of the wine which he immediately ordered, was only excelled by his hearty appreciation of the joke he had played upon himself. Every army correspondent has often been furnished with "important intelligence" already in his possession, and sometimes in print before his well-meaning informant obtains it. A portion of General Fremont's army marched from Jefferson City to Tipton and Syracuse, while the balance, with most of the transportation, was sent by rail. General Sigel was the first to receive orders to march his division from Tipton to Warsaw, and he was very prompt to obey. While other division commanders were waiting for their transportation to arrive from St. Louis, Sigel scoured the country and gathered up every thing with wheels. His train was the most motley collection of vehicles it has ever been my lot to witness. There were old wagons that made the journey from Tennessee to Missouri thirty years before, farm wagons and carts of every description, family carriages, spring wagons, stage-coaches, drays, and hay-carts. In fact, every thing that could carry a load was taken along. Even pack-saddles were not neglected. Horses, mules, jacks, oxen, and sometimes cows, formed the motive power. To stand by the roadside and witness the passage of General Sigel's train, was equal to a visit to Barnum's Museum, and proved an unfailing source of mirth. [Illustration: GENERAL SIGEL'S TRANSPORTATION IN THE MISSOURI CAMPAIGN.] Falstaff's train (if he had one) could not have been more picturesque. Even the Missourians, accustomed as they were to sorry sights, laughed heartily at the spectacle presented by Sigel's transportation. The Secessionists made several wrong deductions from the sad appearance of that train. Some of them predicted that the division with _such_ a train would prove to be of little value in battle. Never were men more completely deceived. The division marched rapidly, and, on a subsequent campaign, evinced its ability to fight. One after another, the divisions of Fremont's army moved in chase of the Rebels; a pursuit in which the pursued had a start of seventy-five miles, and a clear road before them. Fremont and his staff left Tipton, when three divisions had gone, and overtook the main column at Warsaw. A few days later, Mr. Richardson, of the _Tribune_, and myself started from Syracuse at one o'clock, one pleasant afternoon, and, with a single halt of an hour's duration, reached Warsaw, forty-seven miles distant, at ten o'clock at night. In the morning we found the general's staff comfortably quartered in the village. On the staff there were several gentlemen from New York and other Eastern cities, who were totally unaccustomed to horseback exercise. One of these recounted the story of their "dreadful" journey of fifty miles from Tipton. "Only think of it!" said he; "we came through all that distance in less than three days. One day the general made us come _twenty-four_ miles." "That was very severe, indeed. I wonder how you endured it." "It _was_ severe, and nearly broke some of us down. By-the-way, Mr. K----, how did you come over?" "Oh," said I, carelessly, "Richardson and I left Syracuse at noon yesterday, and arrived here at ten last night." Before that campaign was ended, General Fremont's staff acquired some knowledge of horsemanship. At Warsaw the party of journalists passed several waiting days, and domiciled themselves in the house of a widow who had one pretty daughter. Our natural bashfulness was our great hinderance, so that it was a day or two before we made the acquaintance of the younger of the women. One evening she invited a young lady friend to visit her, and obliged us with introductions. The ladies persistently turned the conversation upon the Rebellion, and gave us the benefit of their views. Our young hostess, desiring to say something complimentary, declared she did not dislike the Yankees, but despised the Dutch and the Black Republicans." "Do you dislike the Black Republicans very much?" said the _Tribune_ correspondent. "Oh! yes; I _hate_ them. I wish they were all dead." "Well," was the quiet response, "we are Black Republicans. I am the blackest of them all." The fair Secessionist was much confused, and for fully a minute remained silent. Then she said-- "I must confess I did not fully understand what Black Republicans were. I never saw any before." During the evening she was quite courteous, though persistent in declaring her sentiments. Her companion launched the most bitter invective at every thing identified with the Union cause, and made some horrid wishes about General Fremont and his army. A more vituperative female Rebel I have never seen. She was as pretty as she was disloyal, and was, evidently, fully aware of it. A few months later, I learned that both these young ladies had become the wives of United States officers, and were complimenting, in high terms, the bravery and patriotism of the soldiers they had so recently despised. The majority of the inhabitants of Warsaw were disloyal, and had little hesitation in declaring their sentiments. Most of the young men were in the Rebel army or preparing to go there. A careful search of several warehouses revealed extensive stores of powder, salt, shoes, and other military supplies. Some of these articles were found in a cave a few miles from Warsaw, their locality being made known by a negro who was present at their concealment. Warsaw boasted a newspaper establishment, but the proprietor and editor of the weekly sheet had joined his fortunes to those of General Price. Two years before the time of our visit, this editor was a member of the State Legislature, and made an earnest effort to secure the expulsion of the reporter of _The Missouri_ _Democrat_, on account of the radical tone of that paper. He was unsuccessful, but the aggrieved individual did not forgive him. When our army entered Warsaw this reporter held a position on the staff of the general commanding. Not finding his old adversary, he contented himself with taking possession of the printing-office, and "confiscating" whatever was needed for the use of head-quarters. About twenty miles from Warsaw, on the road to Booneville, there was a German settlement, known as Cole Camp. When the troubles commenced in Missouri, a company of Home Guards was formed at Cole Camp. A few days after its formation a company of Secessionists from Warsaw made a night-march and attacked the Home Guards at daylight. Though inflicting severe injury upon the Home Guards, the Secessionists mourned the loss of the most prominent citizens of Warsaw. They were soon after humiliated by the presence of a Union army. CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CAMPAIGN TO SPRINGFIELD. Detention at Warsaw.--A Bridge over the Osage.--The Body-Guard.--Manner of its Organization.--The Advance to Springfield.--Charge of the Body-Guard.--A Corporal's Ruse.--Occupation of Springfield--The Situation.--Wilson Creek Revisited.--Traces of the Battle.--Rumored Movements of the Enemy.--Removal of General Fremont.--Danger of Attack.--A Night of Excitement.--The Return to St. Louis.--Curiosities of the Scouting Service.--An Arrest by Mistake. The army was detained at Warsaw, to wait the construction of a bridge over the Osage for the passage of the artillery and heavy transportation. Sigel's Division was given the advance, and crossed before the bridge was finished. The main column moved as soon as the bridge permitted--the rear being brought up by McKinstry's Division. A division from Kansas, under General Lane, was moving at the same time, to form a junction with Fremont near Springfield, and a brigade from Rolla was advancing with the same object in view. General Sturgis was in motion from North Missouri, and there was a prospect that an army nearly forty thousand strong would be assembled at Springfield. While General Fremont was in St. Louis, before setting out on this expedition, he organized the "Fremont Body-Guard," which afterward became famous. This force consisted of four companies of cavalry, and was intended to form a full regiment. It was composed of the best class of the young men of St. Louis and Cincinnati. From the completeness of its outfit, it was often spoken of as the "Kid-Gloved Regiment." General Fremont designed it as a special body-guard for himself, to move when he moved, and to form a part of his head-quarter establishment. The manner of its organization was looked upon by many as a needless outlay, at a time when the finances of the department were in a disordered condition. The officers and the rank and file of the Body-Guard felt their pride touched by the comments upon them, and determined to take the first opportunity to vindicate their character as soldiers. When we were within fifty miles of Springfield, it was ascertained that the main force of the Rebels had moved southward, leaving behind them some two or three thousand men. General Fremont ordered a cavalry force, including the Body-Guard, to advance upon the town. On reaching Springfield the cavalry made a gallant charge upon the Rebel camp, which was situated in a large field, bordered by a wood, within sight of the court-house. In this assault the loss of our forces, in proportion to the number engaged, was quite severe, but the enemy was put to flight, and the town occupied for a few hours. We gained nothing of a material nature, as the Rebels would have quietly evacuated Springfield at the approach of our main army. The courage of the Body-Guard, which no sensible man had doubted, was fully evinced by this gallant but useless charge. When the fight was over, the colonel in command ordered a retreat of twenty miles, to meet the advance of the army. A corporal with a dozen men became separated from the command while in Springfield, and remained there until the following morning. He received a flag of truce from the Rebels, asking permission to send a party to bury the dead. He told the bearer to wait until he could consult his "general," who was supposed to be lying down in the back office. The "general" replied that his "division" was too much exasperated to render it prudent for a delegation from the enemy to enter town, and therefore declined to grant the request. At the same time he promised to send out strong details to attend to the sad duty. At sunrise he thought it best to follow the movements of his superior officer, lest the Rebels might discover his ruse and effect his capture. Two days after the charge of the Body-Guard, the advance of the infantry entered Springfield without the slightest opposition. The army gradually came up, and the occupation of the key of Southwest Missouri was completed. The Rebel army fell back toward the Arkansas line, to meet a force supposed to be marching northward from Fayetteville. There was little expectation that the Rebels would seek to engage us. The only possible prospect of their assuming the offensive was in the event of a junction between Price and McCulloch, rendering them numerically superior to ourselves. During our occupation of Springfield I paid a visit to the Wilson Creek battle-ground. It was eleven weeks from the day I had left it. Approaching the field, I was impressed by its stillness, so different from the tumult on the 10th of the previous August. It was difficult to realize that the spot, now so quiet, had been the scene of a sanguinary contest. The rippling of the creek, and the occasional chirp of a bird, were the only noises that came to our ears. There was no motion of the air, not enough to disturb the leaves freshly fallen from the numerous oak-trees on the battle-field. At each step I could but contrast the cool, calm, Indian-summer day, with the hot, August morning, when the battle took place. All sounds of battle were gone, but the traces of the encounter had not disappeared. As we followed the route leading to the field, I turned from the beaten track and rode among the trees. Ascending a slight acclivity, I found my horse half-stumbling over some object between his feet. Looking down, I discovered a human skull, partly covered by the luxuriant grass. At a little distance lay the dismembered skeleton to which the skull evidently belonged. It was doubtless that of some soldier who had crawled there while wounded, and sunk exhausted at the foot of a tree. The bits of clothing covering the ground showed that either birds or wild animals had been busy with the remains. Not far off lay another skeleton, disturbed and dismembered like the other. Other traces of the conflict were visible, as I moved slowly over the field. Here were scattered graves, each for a single person; there a large grave, that had received a dozen bodies of the slain. Here were fragments of clothing and equipments, pieces of broken weapons; the shattered wheel of a caisson, and near it the exploded shell that destroyed it. Skeletons of horses, graves of men, scarred trees, trampled graves, the ruins of the burned wagons of the Rebels, all formed their portion of the picture. It well illustrated the desolation of war. The spot where General Lyon fell was marked by a rude inscription upon the nearest tree. The skeleton of the general's favorite horse lay near this tree, and had been partially broken up by relic-seekers. The long, glossy mane was cut off by the Rebel soldiers on the day after the battle, and worn by them as a badge of honor. Subsequently the teeth and bones were appropriated by both Rebels and Unionists. Even the tree that designated the locality was partially stripped of its limbs to furnish souvenirs of Wilson Creek. During the first few days of our stay in Springfield, there were vague rumors that the army was preparing for a long march into the enemy's country. The Rebel army was reported at Cassville, fifty-five miles distant, fortifying in a strong position. General Price and Governor Jackson had convened the remnant of the Missouri Legislature, and caused the State to be voted out of the Union. It was supposed we would advance and expel the Rebels from the State. While we were making ready to move, it was reported that the Rebel army at Cassville had received large re-enforcements from Arkansas, and was moving in our direction. Of course, all were anxious for a battle, and hailed this intelligence with delight. At the same time there were rumors of trouble from another direction--trouble to the commander-in-chief. The vague reports of his coming decapitation were followed by the arrival, on the 2d of November, of the unconditional order removing General Fremont from command, and appointing General Hunter in his stead. Just before the reception of this order, "positive" news was received that the enemy was advancing from Cassville toward Springfield, and would either attack us in the town, or meet us on the ground south of it. General Hunter had not arrived, and therefore General Fremont formed his plan of battle, and determined on marching out to meet the enemy. On the morning of the 3d, the scouts brought intelligence that the entire Rebel army was in camp on the old Wilson Creek battle-ground, and would fight us there. A council of war was called, and it was decided to attack the enemy on the following morning, if General Hunter did not arrive before that time. Some of the officers were suspicious that the Rebels were not in force at Wilson Creek, but when Fremont announced it officially there could be little room for doubt. Every thing was put in readiness for battle. Generals of division were ordered to be ready to move at a moment's notice. The pickets were doubled, and the grand guards increased to an unusual extent. Four pieces of artillery formed a portion of the picket force on the Fayetteville road, the direct route to Wilson Creek. If an enemy had approached on that night he would have met a warm reception. About seven o'clock in the evening, a staff officer, who kept the journalists informed of the progress of affairs, visited General Fremont's head-quarters. He soon emerged with important intelligence. "It is all settled. The army is ready to move at the instant. Orders will be issued at two o'clock, and we will be under way before daylight. Skirmishing will begin at nine, and the full battle will be drawn on at twelve." "Is the plan arranged?" "Yes, it is all arranged; but I did not ask how." "Battle sure to come off--is it?" "Certainly, unless Hunter comes and countermands the order." Alas, for human calculations! General Hunter arrived before midnight. Two o'clock came, but no orders to break camp. Daylight, and no orders to march. Breakfast-time, and not a hostile shot had been heard. Nine o'clock, and no skirmish. Twelve o'clock, and no battle. General Fremont and staff returned to St. Louis. General Hunter made a reconnoissance to Wilson Creek, and ascertained that the only enemy that had been in the vicinity was a scouting party of forty or fifty men. At the time we were to march out, there was not a Rebel on the ground. Their whole army was still at Cassville, fifty-five miles from Springfield. On the 9th of November the army evacuated Springfield and returned to the line of the Pacific Railway. General Fremont's scouts had deceived him. Some of these individuals were exceedingly credulous, while others were liars of the highest grade known to civilization. The former obtained their information from the frightened inhabitants; the latter manufactured theirs with the aid of vivid imaginations. I half suspect the fellows were like the showman in the story, and, at length, religiously believed what they first designed as a hoax. Between the two classes of scouts a large army of Rebels was created. The scouting service often develops characters of a peculiar mould. Nearly every man engaged in it has some particular branch in which he excels. There was one young man accompanying General Fremont's army, whose equal, as a special forager, I have never seen elsewhere. Whenever we entered camp, this individual, whom I will call the captain, would take a half-dozen companions and start on a foraging tour. After an absence of from four to six hours, he would return well-laden with the spoils of war. On one occasion he brought to camp three horses, two cows, a yoke of oxen, and a wagon. In the latter he had a barrel of sorghum molasses, a firkin of butter, two sheep, a pair of fox-hounds, a hoop-skirt, a corn-sheller, a baby's cradle, a lot of crockery, half a dozen padlocks, two hoes, and a rocking-chair. On the next night he returned with a family carriage drawn by a horse and a mule. In the carriage he had, among other things, a parrot-cage which contained a screaming parrot, several pairs of ladies' shoes, a few yards of calico, the stock of an old musket, part of a spinning-wheel, and a box of garden seeds. In what way these things would contribute to the support of the army, it was difficult to understand. On one occasion the captain found a trunk full of clothing, concealed with a lot of salt in a Rebel warehouse. He brought the trunk to camp, and, as the quartermaster refused to receive it, took it to St. Louis when the expedition returned. At the hotel where he was stopping, some detectives were watching a suspected thief, and, by mistake, searched the captain's room. They found a trunk containing thirteen coats of all sizes, with no pants or vests. Naturally considering this a strange wardrobe for a gentleman, they took the captain into custody. He protested earnestly that he was not, and had never been, a thief, but it was only on the testimony of the quartermaster that he was released. I believe he subsequently acted as a scout under General Halleck, during the siege of Corinth. After the withdrawal of our army, General Price returned to Springfield and went into winter-quarters. McCulloch's command formed a cantonment at Cross Hollows, Arkansas, about ninety miles southwest of Springfield. There was no prospect of further activity until the ensuing spring. Every thing betokened rest. From Springfield I returned to St. Louis by way of Rolla, designing to follow the example of the army, and seek a good locality for hibernating. On my way to Rolla I found many houses deserted, or tenanted only by women and children. Frequently the crops were standing, ungathered, in the field. Fences were prostrated, and there was no effort to restore them. The desolation of that region was just beginning. CHAPTER X. TWO MONTHS OF IDLENESS. A Promise Fulfilled.--Capture of a Rebel Camp and Train.--Rebel Sympathizers in St. Louis.--General Halleck and his Policy.--Refugees from Rebeldom.--Story of the Sufferings of a Union Family.--Chivalry in the Nineteenth Century.--The Army of the Southwest in Motion.--Gun-Boats and Transports.--Capture of Fort Henry.--The Effect in St. Louis.--Our Flag Advancing. Early in the December following the events narrated in the last chapter, General Pope captured a camp in the interior of the State, where recruits were being collected for Price's army. After the return of Fremont's army from Springfield, the Rebels boasted they would eat their Christmas dinner in St. Louis. Many Secessionists were making preparations to receive Price and his army, and some of them prophesied the time of their arrival. It was known that a goodly number of Rebel flags had been made ready to hang out when the conquerors should come. Sympathizers with the Rebellion became bold, and often displayed badges, rosettes, and small flags, indicative of their feelings. Recruiting for the Rebel army went on, very quietly, of course, within a hundred yards of the City Hall. At a fair for the benefit of the Orphan Asylum, the ladies openly displayed Rebel insignia, but carefully excluded the National emblems. This was the state of affairs when eight hundred Rebels arrived in St. Louis. They redeemed their promise to enjoy a Christmas dinner in St. Louis, though they had counted upon more freedom than they were then able to obtain. In order that they might carry out, in part, their original intention, their kind-hearted jailers permitted the friends of the prisoners to send a dinner to the latter on Christmas Day. The prisoners partook of the repast with much relish. The capture of those recruits was accompanied by the seizure of a supply train on its way to Springfield. Our success served to diminish the Rebel threats to capture St. Louis, or perform other great and chivalric deeds. The inhabitants of that city continued to prophesy its fall, but they were less defiant than before. General Fremont commanded the Western Department for just a hundred days. General Hunter, his successor, was dressed in brief authority for fifteen days, and yielded to General Halleck. The latter officer endeavored to make his rule as unlike that of General Fremont as could well be done. He quietly made his head-quarters at the Government Buildings, in the center of St. Louis, instead of occupying a "palatial mansion" on Chouteau Avenue. The body-guard, or other cumbersome escort, was abolished, and the new general moved unattended about the city. Where General Fremont had scattered the Government funds with a wasteful hand, General Halleck studied economy. Where Fremont had declared freedom to the slaves of traitors, Halleck issued his famous "Order No. 3," forbidding fugitive slaves to enter our lines, and excluding all that were then in the military camps. Where General Fremont had surrounded his head-quarters with so great a retinue of guards that access was almost impossible, General Halleck made it easy for all visitors to see him. He generally gave them such a reception that few gentlemen felt inclined to make a second call. The policy of scattering the military forces in the department was abandoned, and a system of concentration adopted. The construction of the gun-boat fleet, and accompanying mortar-rafts, was vigorously pushed, and preparations for military work in the ensuing spring went on in all directions. Our armies were really idle, and we were doing very little on the Mississippi; but it was easy to see that we were making ready for the most vigorous activity in the future. In the latter part of December many refugees from the Southwest began to arrive in St. Louis. In most cases they were of the poorer class of the inhabitants of Missouri and Northern Arkansas, and had been driven from their homes by their wealthier and disloyal neighbors. Their stories varied little from each other. Known or suspected to be loyal, they were summarily expelled, generally with the loss of every thing, save a few articles of necessity. There were many women and children among them, whose protectors had been driven into the Rebel ranks, or murdered in cold blood. Many of them died soon after they reached our lines, and there were large numbers who perished on their way. Among those who arrived early in January, 1862, was a man from Northern Arkansas. Born in Pennsylvania, he emigrated to the Southwest in 1830, and, after a few years' wandering, settled near Fayetteville. When the war broke out, he had a small farm and a comfortable house, and his two sons were married and living near him. In the autumn of '61, his elder son was impressed into the Rebel service, where he soon died. The younger was ordered to report at Fayetteville, for duty. Failing to do so on the day specified, he was shot down in his own house on the following night. His body fell upon one of his children standing near him, and his blood saturated its garments. The day following, the widow, with two small children, was notified to leave the dwelling, as orders had been issued for its destruction. Giving her no time to remove any thing, the Rebel soldiers, claiming to act under military command, fired the house. In this party were two persons who had been well acquainted with the murdered man. The widow sought shelter with her husband's parents. The widow of the elder son went to the same place of refuge. Thus there were living, under one roof, the old man, his wife, a daughter of seventeen, and the two widows, one with two, and the other with three, children. A week afterward, all were commanded to leave the country. No cause was assigned, beyond the fact that the man was born in the North, and had been harboring the family of his son, who refused to serve in the Rebel ranks. They were told they could have two days for preparation, but within ten hours of the time the notice was served, a gang of Rebels appeared at the door, and ordered an instant departure. They made a rigid search of the persons of the refugees, to be sure they took away nothing of value. Only a single wagon was allowed, and in this were placed a few articles of necessity. As they moved away, the Rebels applied the torch to the house and its out-buildings. In a few moments all were in flames. The house of the elder son's widow shared the same fete. They were followed to the Missouri line, and ordered to make no halt under penalty of death. It was more than two hundred miles to our lines, and winter was just beginning. One after another fell ill and died, or was left with Union people along the way. Only four of the party reached our army at Rolla. Two of these died a few days after their arrival, leaving only a young child and its grandfather. At St. Louis the survivors were kindly cared for, but the grief at leaving home, the hardships of the winter journey, and their destitution among strangers, had so worn upon them that they soon followed the other members of their family. There have been thousands of cases nearly parallel to the above. The Rebels claimed to be fighting for political freedom, and charged the National Government with the most unheard-of "tyranny." We can well be excused for not countenancing a political freedom that kills men at their firesides, and drives women and children to seek protection under another flag. We have heard much, in the past twenty years, of "Southern chivalry." If the deeds of which the Rebels were guilty are characteristic of chivalry, who would wish to be a son of the Cavaliers? The insignia worn in the Middle Ages are set aside, to make room for the torch and the knife. The chivalry that deliberately starves its prisoners, to render them unable to return to the field, and sends blood-hounds on the track of those who attempt an escape from their hands, is the chivalry of modern days. Winder is the Coeur-de-Leon, and Quantrel the Bayard, of the nineteenth century; knights "without fear and without reproach." Early in January, the Army of the Southwest, under General Curtis, was put in condition for moving. Orders were issued cutting down the allowance of transportation, and throwing away every thing superfluous. Colonel Carr, with a cavalry division, was sent to the line of the Gasconade, to watch the movements of the enemy. It was the preliminary to the march into Arkansas, which resulted in the battle of Pea Ridge and the famous campaign of General Curtis from Springfield to Helena. As fast as possible, the gun-boat fleet was pushed to completion. One after another, as the iron-clads were ready to move, they made their rendezvous at Cairo. Advertisements of the quartermaster's department, calling for a large number of transports, showed that offensive movements were to take place. In February, Fort Henry fell, after an hour's shelling from Admiral Foote's gun-boats. This opened the way up the Tennessee River to a position on the flank of Columbus, Kentucky, and was followed by the evacuation of that point. I was in St. Louis on the day the news of the fall of Fort Henry was received. The newspapers issued "extras," with astonishing head-lines. It was the first gratifying intelligence after a long winter of inactivity, following a year which, closed with general reverses to our arms. In walking the principal streets of St. Louis on that occasion, I could easily distinguish the loyal men of my acquaintance from the disloyal, at half a square's distance. The former were excited with delight; the latter were downcast with sorrow. The Union men walked rapidly, with, faces "wreathed in smiles;" the Secessionists moved with alternate slow and quick steps, while their countenances expressed all the sad emotions. The newsboys with the tidings of our success were patronized by the one and repelled by the other. I saw one of the venders of intelligence enter the store of a noted Secessionist, where he shouted the nature of the news at the highest note of his voice. A moment later he emerged from the door, bringing the impress of a Secessionist's boot. The day and the night witnessed much hilarity in loyal circles, and a corresponding gloom in quarters where treason ruled. I fear there were many men in St. Louis whose conduct was no recommendation to the membership of a temperance society. All felt that a new era had dawned upon us. Soon after came the tidings of a general advance of our armies. We moved in Virginia, and made the beginning of the checkered campaign of '62. Along the Atlantic coast we moved, and Newbern fell into our hands. Further down the Atlantic, and at the mouth of the Mississippi, we kept up the aggression. Grant, at Donelson, "moved immediately upon Buckner's works;" and, in Kentucky, the Army of the Ohio occupied Bowling Green and prepared to move upon Nashville. In Missouri, Curtis had already occupied Lebanon, and was making ready to assault Price at Springfield. Everywhere our flag was going forward. CHAPTER XI. ANOTHER CAMPAIGN IN MISSOURI. From St. Louis to Rolla.--A Limited Outfit.--Missouri Roads in Winter.--"Two Solitary Horsemen."--Restricted Accommodations in a Slaveholder's House.--An Energetic Quartermaster.--General Sheridan before he became Famous.--"Bagging Price."--A Defect in the Bag.--Examining the Correspondence of a Rebel General.--What the Rebels left at their Departure. On the 9th of February I left St. Louis to join General Curtis's army. Arriving at Rolla, I found the mud very deep, but was told the roads were in better condition a few miles to the west. With an _attaché_ of the Missouri _Democrat_, I started, on the morning of the 10th, to overtake the army, then reported at Lebanon, sixty-five miles distant. All my outfit for a two or three months' campaign, was strapped behind my saddle, or crowded into my saddle-bags. Traveling with a trunk is one of the delights unknown to army correspondents, especially to those in the Southwest. My companion carried an outfit similar to mine, with the exception of the saddle-bags and contents. I returned to Rolla eight weeks afterward, but he did not reach civilization till the following July. From Rolla to Lebanon the roads were bad--muddy in the valleys of the streams, and on the higher ground frozen into inequalities like a gigantic rasp. Over this route our army of sixteen thousand men had slowly made its way, accomplishing what was then thought next to impossible. I found the country had changed much in appearance since I passed through on my way to join General Lyon. Many houses had been burned and others deserted. The few people that remained confessed themselves almost destitute of food. Frequently we could not obtain entertainment for ourselves and horses, particularly the latter. The natives were suspicious of our character, as there was nothing in our dress indicating to which side we belonged. At such times the cross-questioning we underwent was exceedingly amusing, though coupled with the knowledge that our lives were not entirely free from danger. From Lebanon we pushed on to Springfield, through a keen, piercing wind, that swept from the northwest with unremitting steadiness. The night between those points was passed in a log-house with a single room, where ourselves and the family of six persons were lodged. In the bitter cold morning that followed, it was necessary to open the door to give us sufficient light to take breakfast, as the house could not boast of a window. The owner of the establishment said he had lived there eighteen years, and found it very comfortable. He tilled a small farm, and had earned sufficient money to purchase three slaves, who dwelt in a similar cabin, close beside his own, but not joining it. One of these slaves was cook and housemaid, and another found the care of four children enough for her attention. The third was a man upward of fifty years old, who acted as stable-keeper, and manager of the out-door work of the establishment. The situation of this landholder struck me as peculiar, though his case was not a solitary one. A house of one room and with no window, a similar house for his human property, and a stable rudely constructed of small poles, with its sides offering as little protection against the wind and storms as an ordinary fence, were the only buildings he possessed. His furniture was in keeping with the buildings. Beds without sheets, a table without a cloth, some of the plates of tin and others of crockery--the former battered and the latter cracked--a less number of knives and forks than there were persons to be supplied, tin cups for drinking coffee, an old fruit-can for a sugar-bowl, and two teaspoons for the use of a large family, formed the most noticeable features. With such surroundings he had invested three thousand dollars in negro property, and considered himself comfortably situated. Reaching Springfield, I found the army had passed on in pursuit of Price, leaving only one brigade as a garrison. The quartermaster of the Army of the Southwest had his office in one of the principal buildings, and was busily engaged in superintending the forwarding of supplies to the front. Every thing under his charge received his personal attention, and there was no reason to suppose the army would lack for subsistence, so long as he should remain to supply its wants. Presenting him a letter of introduction, I received a most cordial welcome. I found him a modest and agreeable gentleman, whose private excellence was only equaled by his energy in the performance of his official duties. This quartermaster was Captain Philip H. Sheridan. The double bars that marked his rank at that time, have since been exchanged for other insignia. The reader is doubtless familiar with the important part taken by this gallant officer, in the suppression of the late Rebellion. General Curtis had attempted to surround and capture Price and his army, before they could escape from Springfield. Captain Sheridan told me that General Curtis surrounded the town on one side, leaving two good roads at the other, by which the Rebels marched out. Our advance from Lebanon was as rapid as the circumstances would permit, but it was impossible to keep the Rebels in ignorance of it, or detain them against their will. One of the many efforts to "bag" Price had resulted like all the others. We closed with the utmost care every part of the bag except the mouth; out of this he walked by the simple use of his pedals. Operations like those of Island Number Ten, Vicksburg, and Port Hudson, were not then in vogue. Price was in full retreat toward Arkansas, and our army in hot pursuit. General Sigel, with two full divisions, marched by a road parallel to the line of Price's retreat, and attempted to get in his front at a point forty miles from Springfield. His line of march was ten miles longer than the route followed by the Rebels, and he did not succeed in striking the main road until Price had passed. I had the pleasure of going through General Price's head-quarters only two days after that officer abandoned them. There was every evidence of a hasty departure. I found, among other documents, the following order for the evacuation of Springfield:-- HEAD-QUARTERS MISSOURI STATE GUARD, SPRINGFIELD, _February_ 13, 1862. The commanders of divisions will instanter, and without the least delay, see that their entire commands are ready for movement at a moment's notice. By order of Major-General S. Price. H.H. Brand, A.A.G. There was much of General Price's private correspondence, together with many official documents. Some of these I secured, but destroyed them three weeks later, at a moment when I expected to fall into the hands of the enemy. One letter, which revealed the treatment Union men were receiving in Arkansas, I forwarded to _The Herald_. I reproduce its material portions:-- DOVER, POPE CO., ARKANSAS, _December_ 7, 1861. MAJOR-GENERAL PRICE: I wish to obtain a situation as surgeon in your army. * * * Our men over the Boston Mountains are penning and hanging the mountain boys who oppose Southern men. They have in camp thirty, and in the Burrowville jail seventy-two, and have sent twenty-seven to Little Rock. We will kill all we get, certain: every one is so many less. I hope you will soon get help enough to clear out the last one in your State. If you know them, they ought to be killed, as the older they grow the more stubborn they get. Your most obedient servant, JAMES L. ADAMS. In his departure, General Price had taken most of his personal property of any value. He left a very good array of desks and other appurtenances of his adjutant-general's office, which fell into General Curtis's hands. These articles were at once put into use by our officers, and remained in Springfield as trophies of our success. There was some war _matériel_ at the founderies and temporary arsenals which the Rebels had established. One store full of supplies they left undisturbed. It was soon appropriated by Captain Sheridan. The winter-quarters for the soldiers were sufficiently commodious to contain ten thousand men, and the condition in which we found them showed how hastily they were evacuated. Very little had been removed from the buildings, except those articles needed for the march. We found cooking utensils containing the remains of the last meal, pans with freshly-mixed dough, on which the impression of the maker's hand was visible, and sheep and hogs newly killed and half dressed. In the officers' quarters was a beggarly array of empty bottles, and a few cases that had contained cigars. One of our soldiers was fortunate in finding a gold watch in the straw of a bunk. There were cribs of corn, stacks of forage, and a considerable quantity of army supplies. Every thing evinced a hasty departure. CHAPTER XII. THE FLIGHT AND THE PURSUIT. From Springfield to Pea Ridge.--Mark Tapley in Missouri.--"The Arkansas Traveler."--Encountering the Rebel Army.--A "Wonderful Spring."--The Cantonment at Cross Hollows.--Game Chickens.--Magruder _vs_. Breckinridge.--Rebel Generals in a Controversy.--Its Result.--An Expedition to Huntsville.--Curiosities of Rebel Currency.--Important Information.--A Long and Weary March.--Disposition of Forces before the Battle.--Changing Front.--What the Rebels lost by Ignorance. When it became certain the army would continue its march into Arkansas, myself and the _Democrat's_ correspondent pushed forward to overtake it. Along the road we learned of the rapid retreat of the Rebels, and the equally rapid pursuit by our own forces. About twenty miles south of Springfield one of the natives came to his door to greet us. Learning to which army we belonged, he was very voluble in his efforts to explain the consternation of the Rebels. A half-dozen of his neighbors were by his side, and joined in the hilarity of the occasion. I saw that something more than usual was the cause of their assembling, and inquired what it could be. "My wife died this morning, and my friends have come here to see me," was the answer I received from the proprietor of the house. Almost at the instant of completing the sentence, he burst into a laugh, and said, "It would have done you good to see how your folks captured a big drove of Price's cattle. The Rebs were driving them along all right, and your cavalry just came up and took them. It was rich, I tell you. Ha! ha!" Not knowing what condolence to offer a man who could be so gay after the death of his wife, I bade him good-morning, and pushed on. He had not, as far as I could perceive, the single excuse of being intoxicated, and his display of vivacity appeared entirely genuine. In all my travels I have never met his equal. Up to the time of this campaign none of our armies had been into Arkansas. When General Curtis approached the line, the head of the column was halted, the regiments closed up, and the men brought their muskets to the "right shoulder shift," instead of the customary "at will" of the march. Two bands were sent to the front, where a small post marked the boundary, and were stationed by the roadside, one in either State. Close by them the National flag was unfurled. The bands struck up "The Arkansas Traveler," the order to advance was given, and, with many cheers in honor of the event, the column moved onward. For several days "The Arkansas Traveler" was exceedingly popular with the entire command. On the night after crossing the line the news of the fall of Fort Donelson was received. Soon after entering Arkansas on his retreat, General Price met General McCulloch moving northward to join him. With their forces united, they determined on making a stand against General Curtis, and, accordingly, halted near Sugar Creek. A little skirmish ensued, in which the Rebels gave way, the loss on either side being trifling. They did not stop until they reached Fayetteville. Their halt at that point was very brief. At Cross Hollows, in Benton County, Arkansas, about two miles from the main road, there is one of the finest springs in the Southwest. It issues from the base of a rocky ledge, where the ravine is about three hundred yards wide, and forms the head of a large brook. Two small flouring mills are run during the entire year by the water from this spring. The water is at all times clear, cold, and pure, and is said never to vary in quantity. Along the stream fed by this spring, the Rebels had established a cantonment for the Army of Northern Arkansas, and erected houses capable of containing ten or twelve thousand men. The cantonment was laid out with the regularity of a Western city. The houses were constructed of sawed lumber, and provided with substantial brick chimneys. Of course, this establishment was abandoned when the Rebel army retreated. The buildings were set on fire, and all but a half-dozen of them consumed. When our cavalry reached the place, the rear-guard of the Rebels had been gone less than half an hour. There were about two hundred chickens running loose among the burning buildings. Our soldiers commenced killing them, and had slaughtered two-thirds of the lot when one of the officers discovered that they were game-cocks. This class of chickens not being considered edible, the killing was stopped and the balance of the flock saved. Afterward, while we lay in camp, they were made a source of much amusement. The cock-fights that took place in General Curtis's army would have done honor to Havana or Vera Cruz. Before we captured them the birds were the property of the officers of a Louisiana regiment. We gave them the names of the Rebel leaders. It was an every-day affair for Beauregard, Van Dorn, and Price to be matched against Lee, Johnston, and Polk. I remember losing a small wager on Magruder against Breckinridge. I should have won if Breck had not torn the feathers from Mac's neck, and injured his right wing by a foul blow. I never backed Magruder after that. From Cross Hollows, General Curtis sent a division in pursuit of Price's army, in its retreat through Fayetteville, twenty-two miles distant. On reaching the town they found the Rebels had left in the direction of Fort Smith. The pursuit terminated at this point. It had been continued for a hundred and ten miles--a large portion of the distance our advance being within a mile or two of the Rebel rear. In retreating from Fayetteville, the Rebels were obliged to abandon much of the supplies for their army. A serious quarrel is reported to have taken place between Price and McCulloch, concerning the disposition to be made of these supplies. The former was in favor of leaving the large amount of stores, of which, bacon was the chief article, that it might fall into our hands. He argued that we had occupied the country, and would stay there until driven out. Our army would be subsisted at all hazards. If we found this large quantity of bacon, it would obviate the necessity of our foraging upon the country and impoverishing the inhabitants. General McCulloch opposed this policy, and accused Price of a desire to play into the enemy's hands. The quarrel became warm, and resulted in the discomfiture of the latter. All the Rebel warehouses were set on fire. When our troops entered Fayetteville the conflagration was at its height. It resulted as Price had predicted. The inhabitants were compelled, in great measure, to support our army. The Rebels retreated across the Boston Mountains to Fort Smith, and commenced a reorganization of their army. Our army remained at Cross Hollows as its central point, but threw out its wings so as to form a front nearly five miles in extent. Small expeditions were sent in various directions to break up Rebel camps and recruiting stations. In this way two weeks passed with little activity beyond a careful observation of the enemy's movements. There were several flouring mills in the vicinity of our camp, which were kept in constant activity for the benefit of the army. I accompanied an expedition, commanded by Colonel Vandever, of the Ninth Iowa, to the town of Huntsville, thirty-five miles distant. Our march occupied two days, and resulted in the occupation of the town and the dispersal of a small camp of Rebels. We had no fighting, scarcely a shot being fired in anger. The inhabitants did not greet us very cordially, though some of them professed Union sentiments. In this town of Huntsville, the best friend of the Union was the keeper of a whisky-shop. This man desired to look at some of our money, but declined to take it. An officer procured a canteen of whisky and tendered a Treasury note in payment. The note was refused, with a request for either gold or Rebel paper. The officer then exhibited a large sheet of "promises to pay," which he had procured in Fayetteville a few days before, and asked how they would answer. "That is just what I want," said the whisky vender. The officer called his attention to the fact that the notes had no signatures. "That don't make any difference," was the reply; "nobody will know whether they are signed or not, and they are just as good, anyhow." I was a listener to the conversation, and at this juncture proffered a pair of scissors to assist in dividing the notes. It took but a short time to cut off enough "money" to pay for twenty canteens of the worst whisky I ever saw. At Huntsville we made a few prisoners, who said they were on their way from Price's army to Forsyth, Missouri. They gave us the important information that the Rebel army, thirty thousand strong, was on the Boston Mountains the day previous; and on the very day of our arrival at Huntsville, it was to begin its advance toward our front. These men, and some others, had been sent away because they had no weapons with which to enter the fight. Immediately on learning this, Colonel Vandever dispatched a courier to General Curtis, and prepared to set out on his return to the main army. We marched six miles before nightfall, and at midnight, while we were endeavoring to sleep, a courier joined us from the commander-in-chief. He brought orders for us to make our way back with all possible speed, as the Rebel army was advancing in full force. At two o'clock we broke camp, and, with only one halt of an hour, made a forced march of forty-one miles, joining the main column at ten o'clock at night. I doubt if there were many occasions during the war where better marching was done by infantry than on that day. Of course, the soldiers were much fatigued, but were ready, on the following day, to take active part in the battle. On the 5th of March, as soon as General Curtis learned of the Rebel advance, he ordered General Sigel, who was in camp at Bentonville, to fall back to Pea Ridge, on the north bank of Sugar Creek. At the same time he withdrew Colonel Jeff. C. Davis's Division to the same locality. This placed the army in a strong, defensible position, with the creek in its front. On the ridge above the stream our artillery and infantry were posted. The Rebel armies under Price and McCulloch had been united and strongly re-enforced, the whole being under the command of General Van Dorn. Their strength was upward of twenty thousand men, and they were confident of their ability to overpower us. Knowing our strong front line, General Van Dorn decided upon a bold movement, and threw himself around our right flank to a position between us and our base at Springfield. In moving to our right and rear, the Rebels encountered General Sigel's Division before it had left Bentonville, and kept up a running fight during the afternoon of the 6th. Several times the Rebels, in small force, secured positions in Sigel's front, but that officer succeeded in cutting his way through and reaching the main force, with a loss of less than a hundred men. The position of the enemy at Bentonville showed us his intentions, and we made our best preparations to oppose him. Our first step was to obstruct the road from Bentonville to our rear, so as to retard the enemy's movements. Colonel Dodge, of the Fourth Iowa (afterward a major-general), rose from a sick-bed to perform this work. The impediments which he placed in the way of the Rebels prevented their reaching the road in our rear until nine o'clock on the morning of the 7th. Our next movement was to reverse our position. We had been facing south--it was now necessary to face to the north. The line that had been our rear became our front. A change of front implied that our artillery train should take the place of the supply train, and _vice versâ_. "Elkhorn Tavern" had been the quartermaster's depot. We made all haste to substitute artillery for baggage-wagons, and boxes of ammunition for boxes of hard bread. This transfer was not accomplished before the battle began, and as our troops were pressed steadily back on our new front, Elkhorn Tavern fell into the hands of the Rebels. The sugar, salt, and bread which they captured, happily not of large quantity, were very acceptable, and speedily disappeared. Among the quartermaster's stores was a wagon-load of desiccated vegetables, a very valuable article for an army in the field. All expected it would be made into soup and eaten by the Rebels. What was our astonishment to find, two days later, that they had opened and examined a single case, and, after scattering its contents on the ground, left the balance undisturbed! Elkhorn Tavern was designated by a pair of elk-horns, which occupied a conspicuous position above the door. After the battle these horns were removed by Colonel Carr, and sent to his home in Illinois, as trophies of the victory. A family occupied the building at the time of the battle, and remained there during the whole contest. When the battle raged most fiercely the cellar proved a place of refuge. Shells tore through the house, sometimes from the National batteries, and sometimes from Rebel guns. One shell exploded in a room where three women were sitting. Though their clothes were torn by the flying fragments, they escaped without personal injury. They announced their determination not to leave home so long as the house remained standing. Among other things captured at Elkhorn Tavern by the Rebels, was a sutler's wagon, which, had just arrived from St. Louis. In the division of the spoils, a large box, filled with wallets, fell to the lot of McDonald's Battery. For several weeks the officers and privates of this battery could boast of a dozen wallets each, while very few had any money to carry. The Rebel soldiers complained that the visits of the paymaster were like those of angels. CHAPTER XIII. THE BATTLE OF PEA RIDGE. The Rebels make their Attack.--Albert Pike and his Indians.--Scalping Wounded Men.--Death of General McCulloch.--The Fighting at Elkhorn Tavern.--Close of a Gloomy Day.--An Unpleasant Night.--Vocal Sounds from a Mule's Throat.--Sleeping under Disadvantages.--A Favorable Morning.--The Opposing Lines of Battle.--A Severe Cannonade.--The Forest on Fire.--Wounded Men in the Flames.--The Rebels in Retreat.--Movements of our Army.--A Journey to St. Louis. About nine o'clock on the morning of the 7th, the Rebels made a simultaneous attack on our left and front, formerly our right and rear. General Price commanded the force on our front, and General McCulloch that on our left; the former having the old Army of Missouri, re-enforced by several Arkansas regiments, and the latter having a corps made up of Arkansas, Texas, and Louisiana troops. They brought into the fight upward of twenty thousand men, while we had not over twelve thousand with which to oppose them. The attack on our left was met by General Sigel and Colonel Davis. That on our front was met by Colonel Carr's Division and the division of General Asboth. On our left it was severe, though not long maintained, the position we held being too strong for the enemy to carry. It was on this part of the line that the famous Albert Pike, the lawyer-poet of Arkansas, brought his newly-formed brigades of Indians into use. Pike was unfortunate with his Indians. While he was arranging them in line, in a locality where the bushes were about eight feet in height, the Indians made so much noise as to reveal their exact position. One of our batteries was quietly placed within point-blank range of the Indians, and suddenly opened upon them with grape and canister. They gave a single yell, and scattered without waiting for orders. The Indians were not, as a body, again brought together during the battle. In a charge which our cavalry made upon a Rebel brigade we were repulsed, leaving several killed and wounded upon the ground. Some of Pike's Indians, after their dispersal, came upon these, and scalped the dead and living without distinction. A Rebel officer subsequently informed me that the same Indians scalped several of their own slain, and barbarously murdered some who had been only slightly injured. On this part of the field we were fortunate, early in the day, in killing General McCulloch and his best lieutenant, General McIntosh. To this misfortune the Rebels have since ascribed their easy defeat. At the time of this reverse to the enemy, General Van Dorn was with. Price in our front. After their repulse and the death of their leader, the discomfited Rebels joined their comrades in the front, who had been more successful. It was nightfall before the two forces were united. In our front, Colonel Carr's Division fought steadily and earnestly during the entire day, but was pressed back fully two-thirds of a mile. General Curtis gave it what re-enforcements he could, but there were very few to be spared. When it was fully ascertained that the Rebels on our left had gone to our front, we prepared to unite against them. Our left was drawn in to re-enforce Colonel Carr, but the movement was not completed until long after dark. Thus night came. The rebels were in full possession of our communications. We had repulsed them on the left, but lost ground, guns, and men on our front. The Rebels were holding Elkhorn Tavern, which we had made great effort to defend. Colonel Carr had repeatedly wished for either night or re-enforcements. He obtained both. The commanding officers visited General Curtis's head-quarters, and received their orders for the morrow. Our whole force was to be concentrated on our front. If the enemy did not attack us at daylight, we would attack him as soon thereafter as practicable. Viewed in its best light, the situation was somewhat gloomy. Mr. Fayel, of the _Democrat_, and myself were the only journalists with the army, and the cessation of the day's fighting found us deliberating on our best course in case of a disastrous result. We destroyed all documents that could give information to the enemy, retaining only our note-books, and such papers as pertained to our profession. With patience and resignation we awaited the events of the morrow. I do not know that any of our officers expected we should be overpowered, but there were many who thought such an occurrence probable. The enemy was nearly twice as strong as we, and lay directly between us and our base. If he could hold out till our ammunition was exhausted, we should be compelled to lay down our arms. There was no retreat for us. We must be victorious or we must surrender. In camp, on that night, every thing was confusion. The troops that had been on the left during the day were being transferred to the front. The quartermaster was endeavoring to get his train in the least dangerous place. The opposing lines were so near each other that our men could easily hear the conversation of the Rebels. The night was not severely cold; but the men, who were on the front, after a day's fighting, found it quite uncomfortable. Only in the rear was it thought prudent to build fires. The soldiers of German birth were musical. Throughout the night I repeatedly heard their songs. The soldiers of American parentage were generally profane, and the few words I heard them utter were the reverse of musical. Those of Irish origin combined the peculiarities of both Germans and Americans, with their tendencies in favor of the latter. I sought a quiet spot within the limits of the camp, but could not find it. Lying down in the best place available, I had just fallen asleep when a mounted orderly rode his horse directly over me. I made a mild remonstrance, but the man was out of hearing before I spoke. Soon after, some one lighted a pipe and threw a coal upon my hand. This drew from me a gentle request for a discontinuance of that experiment. I believe it was not repeated. During the night Mr. Fayel's beard took fire, and I was roused to assist in staying the conflagration. The vocal music around me was not calculated to encourage drowsiness. Close at hand was the quartermaster's train, with the mules ready harnessed for moving in any direction. These mules had not been fed for two whole days, and it was more than thirty-six hours since they had taken water. These facts were made known in the best language the creatures possessed. The bray of a mule is never melodious, even when the animal's throat is well moistened. When it is parched and dusty the sound becomes unusually hoarse. Each hour added to the noise as the thirst of the musicians increased. Mr. Fayel provoked a discussion concerning the doctrine of the transmigration of souls; and thought, in the event of its truth, that the wretch was to be pitied who should pass into a mule in time of war. With the dawn of day every one was astir. At sunrise I found our line was not quite ready, though it was nearly so. General Curtis was confident all would result successfully, and completed the few arrangements then requiring attention. We had expected the Rebels would open the attack; but they waited for us to do so. They deserved many thanks for their courtesy. The smoke of the previous day's fight still hung over the camp, and the sun rose through it, as through a cloud. A gentle wind soon dissipated this smoke, and showed us a clear sky overhead. The direction of the wind was in our favor. The ground selected for deciding the fate of that day was a huge cornfield, somewhat exceeding two miles in length and about half a mile in width. The western extremity of this field rested upon the ridge which gave name to the battle-ground. The great road from Springfield to Fayetteville crossed this field about midway from the eastern to the western end. It was on this road that the two armies took their positions. The lines were in the edge of the woods on opposite sides of the field--the wings of the armies extending to either end. On the northern side were the Rebels, on the southern was the National army. Thus each army, sheltered by the forest, had a cleared space in its front, affording a full view of the enemy. [Illustration: SHELLING THE HILL AT PEA RIDGE.] By half-past seven o'clock our line was formed and ready for action. A little before eight o'clock the cannonade was opened. Our forces were regularly drawn up in order of battle. Our batteries were placed between the regiments as they stood in line. In the timber, behind these regiments and batteries, were the brigades in reserve, ready to be brought forward in case of need. At the ends of the line were battalions of cavalry, stretching off to cover the wings, and give notice of any attempt by the Rebels to move on our flanks. Every five minutes the bugle of the extreme battalion would sound the signal "All's well." The signal would be taken by the bugler of the next battalion, and in this way carried down the line to the center. If the Rebels had made any attempt to outflank us, we could hardly have failed to discover it at once. Our batteries opened; the Rebel batteries responded. Our gunners proved the best, and our shot had the greatest effect. We had better ammunition than that of our enemies, and thus reduced the disparity caused by their excess of guns. Our cannonade was slow and careful; theirs was rapid, and was made at random. At the end of two hours of steady, earnest work, we could see that the Rebel line was growing weaker, while our own was still unshaken. The work of the artillery was winning us the victory. In the center of the Rebel line was a rocky hill, eighty or a hundred feet in height. The side which faced us was almost perpendicular, but the slope to the rear was easy of ascent. On this hill the Rebels had stationed two regiments of infantry and a battery of artillery. The balance of their artillery lay at its base. General Curtis ordered that the fire of all our batteries should be concentrated on this hill at a given signal, and continued there for ten minutes. This was done. At the same time our infantry went forward in a charge on the Rebel infantry and batteries that stood in the edge of the forest. The cleared field afforded fine opportunity for the movement. The charge was successful. The Rebels fell back in disorder, leaving three guns in our hands, and their dead and wounded scattered on the ground. This was the end of the battle. We had won the victory at Pea Ridge. I followed our advancing forces, and ascended to the summit of the elevation on which our last fire was concentrated. Wounded men were gathered in little groups, and the dead were lying thick about them. The range of our artillery had been excellent. Rocks, trees, and earth attested the severity of our fire. This cannonade was the decisive work of the day. It was the final effort of our batteries, and was terrible while it lasted. The shells, bursting among the dry leaves, had set the woods on fire, and the flames were slowly traversing the ground where the battle had raged. We made every effort to remove the wounded to places of safety, before the fire should reach them. At that time we thought we had succeeded. Late in the afternoon I found several wounded men lying in secluded places, where they had been terribly burned, though they were still alive. Very few of them survived. Our loss in this battle was a tenth of our whole force. The enemy lost more than we in numbers, though less in proportion to his strength. His position, directly in our rear, would have been fatal to a defeated army in many other localities. There were numerous small roads, intersecting the great road at right angles. On these roads the Rebels made their lines of retreat. Had we sent cavalry in pursuit, the Rebels would have lost heavily in artillery and in their supply train. As it was, they escaped without material loss, but they suffered a defeat which ultimately resulted in our possession of all Northern Arkansas. The Rebels retreated across the Boston Mountains to Van Buren and Fort Smith, and were soon ordered thence to join Beauregard at Corinth. Our army moved to Keytsville, Missouri, several miles north of the battle-ground, where the country was better adapted to foraging, and more favorable to recuperating from the effects of the conflict. From Keytsville it moved to Forsyth, a small town in Taney County, Missouri, fifty miles from Springfield. Extending over a considerable area, the army consumed whatever could be found in the vicinity. It gave much annoyance to the Rebels by destroying the saltpeter works on the upper portion of White River. The saltpeter manufactories along the banks of this stream were of great importance to the Rebels in the Southwest, and their destruction seriously reduced the supplies of gunpowder in the armies of Arkansas and Louisiana. Large quantities of the crude material were shipped to Memphis and other points, in the early days of the war. At certain seasons White River is navigable to Forsyth. The Rebels made every possible use of their opportunities, as long as the stream remained in their possession. Half sick in consequence of the hardships of the campaign, and satisfied there would be no more fighting of importance during the summer, I determined to go back to civilization. I returned to St. Louis by way of Springfield and Rolla. A wounded officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Herron (who afterward wore the stars of a major-general), was my traveling companion. Six days of weary toil over rough and muddy roads brought us to the railway, within twelve hours of St. Louis. It was my last campaign in that region. From that date the war in the Southwest had its chief interest in the country east of the Great River. CHAPTER XIV. UP THE TENNESSEE AND AT PITTSBURG LANDING. At St. Louis.--Progress of our Arms in the Great Valley.--Cairo.--Its Peculiarities and Attractions.--Its Commercial, Geographical, and Sanitary Advantages.--Up the Tennessee.--Movements Preliminary to the Great Battle.--The Rebels and their Plans.--Postponement of the Attack.--Disadvantages of our Position.--The Beginning of the Battle.--Results of the First Day.--Re-enforcements.--Disputes between Officers of our two Armies.--Beauregard's Watering-Place. On reaching St. Louis, three weeks after the battle of Pea Ridge, I found that public attention was centered upon the Tennessee River. Fort Henry, Fort Donelson, Columbus, and Nashville had fallen, and our armies were pushing forward toward the Gulf, by the line of the Tennessee. General Pope was laying siege to Island Number Ten, having already occupied New Madrid, and placed his gun-boats in front of that point. General Grant's army was at Pittsburg Landing, and General Buell's army was moving from Nashville toward Savannah, Tennessee. The two armies were to be united at Pittsburg Landing, for a further advance into the Southern States. General Beauregard was at Corinth, where he had been joined by Price and Van Dorn from Arkansas, and by Albert Sidney Johnston from Kentucky. There was a promise of active hostilities in that quarter. I left St. Louis, after a few days' rest, for the new scene of action. Cairo lay in my route. I found it greatly changed from the Cairo of the previous autumn. Six months before, it had been the rendezvous of the forces watching the Lower Mississippi. The basin in which the town stood, was a vast military encampment. Officers of all rank thronged the hotels, and made themselves as comfortable as men could be in Cairo. All the leading journals of the country were represented, and the dispatches from Cairo were everywhere perused with interest, though they were not always entirety accurate. March and April witnessed a material change. Where there had been twenty thousand soldiers in December, there were less than one thousand in April. Where a fleet of gun-boats, mortar-rafts, and transports had been tied to the levees during the winter months, the opening spring showed but a half-dozen steamers of all classes. The transports and the soldiers were up the Tennessee, the mortars were bombarding Island Number Ten, and the gun-boats were on duty where their services were most needed. The journalists had become war correspondents in earnest, and were scattered to the points of greatest interest. Cairo had become a vast depot of supplies for the armies operating on the Mississippi and its tributaries. The commander of the post was more a forwarding agent than a military officer. The only steamers at the levee were loading for the armies. Cairo was a map of busy, muddy life. The opening year found Cairo exulting in its deep and all-pervading mud. There was mud everywhere. Levee, sidewalks, floors, windows, tables, bed-clothing, all were covered with it. On the levee it varied from six to thirty inches in depth. The luckless individual whose duties obliged him to make frequent journeys from the steamboat landing to the principal hotel, became intimately acquainted with its character. Sad, unfortunate, derided Cairo! Your visitors depart with unpleasant memories. Only your inhabitants, who hold titles to corner lots, speak loudly in your praise. When it rains, and sometimes when it does not, your levee is unpleasant to walk upon. Your sidewalks are dangerous, and your streets are unclean. John Phenix declared you destitute of honesty. Dickens asserted that your physical and moral foundations were insecurely laid. Russell did not praise you, and Trollope uttered much to your discredit. Your musquitos are large, numerous, and hungry. Your atmosphere does not resemble the spicy breezes that blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle. Your energy and enterprise are commendable, and your geographical location is excellent, but you can never become a rival to Saratoga or Newport. Cairo is built in a basin formed by constructing a levee to inclose the peninsula at the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. Before the erection of the levee, this peninsula was overflowed by the rise of either river. Sometimes, in unusual floods, the waters reach the top of the embankment, and manage to fill the basin. At the time of my visit, the Ohio was rising rapidly. The inhabitants were alarmed, as the water was gradually gaining upon them. After a time it took possession of the basin, enabling people to navigate the streets and front yards in skiffs, and exchange salutations from house-tops or upper windows. Many were driven from their houses by the flood, and forced to seek shelter elsewhere. In due time the waters receded and the city remained unharmed. It is not true that a steamer was lost in consequence of running against a chimney of the St. Charles Hotel. Cairo has prospered during the war, and is now making an effort to fill her streets above the high-water level, and insure a dry foundation at all seasons of the year. This once accomplished, Cairo will become a city of no little importance. Proceeding up the Tennessee, I reached Pittsburg Landing three days after the great battle which has made that locality famous. The history of that battle has been many times written. Official reports have given the dry details,--the movements of division, brigade, regiment, and battery, all being fully portrayed. A few journalists who witnessed it gave the accounts which were circulated everywhere by the Press. The earliest of these was published by _The Herald._ The most complete and graphic was that of Mr. Reid, of _The Cincinnati Gazette._ Officers, soldiers, civilians, all with greater or less experience, wrote what they had heard and seen. So diverse have been the statements, that a general officer who was prominent in the battle, says he sometimes doubts if he was present. In the official accounts there have been inharmonious deductions, and many statements of a contradictory character. Some of the participants have criticised unfavorably the conduct of others, and a bitterness continuing through and after the war has been the result. In February of 1862, the Rebels commenced assembling an army at Corinth. General Beauregard was placed in command. Early in March, Price and Van Dorn were ordered to take their commands to Corinth, as their defeat at Pea Ridge had placed them on the defensive against General Curtis. General A. S. Johnston had moved thither, after the evacuation of Bowling Green, Kentucky, and from all quarters the Rebels were assembling a vast army. General Johnston became commander-in-chief on his arrival. General Halleck, who then commanded the Western Department, ordered General Grant, after the capture of Forts Henry and Donelson, to move to Pittsburg Landing, and seize that point as a base against Corinth. General Buell, with the Army of the Ohio, was ordered to join him from Nashville, and with other re-enforcements we would be ready to take the offensive. Owing to the condition of the roads, General Buell moved very slowly, so that General Grant was in position at Pittsburg Landing several days before the former came up. This was the situation at the beginning of April; Grant encamped on the bank of the Tennessee nearest the enemy, and Buell slowly approaching the opposite bank. It was evidently the enemy's opportunity to strike his blow before our two armies should be united. On the 4th of April, the Rebels prepared to move from Corinth to attack General Grant's camp, but, on account of rain, they delayed their advance till the morning of the 6th. At daylight of the 6th our pickets were driven in, and were followed by the advance of the Rebel army. The division whose camp was nearest to Corinth, and therefore the first to receive the onset of the enemy, was composed of the newest troops in the army. Some of the regiments had received their arms less than two weeks before. The outposts were not sufficiently far from camp to allow much time for getting under arms after the first encounter. A portion of this division was attacked before it could form, but its commander, General Prentiss, promptly rallied his men, and made a vigorous fight. He succeeded, for a time, in staying the progress of the enemy, but the odds against him were too great. When his division was surrounded and fighting was no longer of use, he surrendered his command. At the time of surrender he had little more than a thousand men remaining out of a division six thousand strong. Five thousand were killed, wounded, or had fled to the rear. General Grant had taken no precautions against attack. The vedettes were but a few hundred yards from our front, and we had no breast-works of any kind behind which to fight. The newest and least reliable soldiers were at the point where the enemy would make his first appearance. The positions of the various brigades and divisions were taken, more with reference to securing a good camping-ground, than for purposes of strategy. General Grant showed himself a soldier in the management of the army after the battle began, and he has since achieved a reputation as the greatest warrior of the age. Like the oculist who spoiled a hatful of eyes in learning to operate for the cataract, he improved his military knowledge by his experience at Shiloh. Never afterward did he place an army in the enemy's country without making careful provision against assault. One division, under General Wallace, was at Crump's Landing, six miles below the battle-ground, and did not take part in the action till the following day. The other divisions were in line to meet the enemy soon after the fighting commenced on General Prentiss's front, and made a stubborn resistance to the Rebel advance. The Rebels well knew they would have no child's play in that battle. They came prepared for hot, terrible work, in which thousands of men were to fall. The field attests our determined resistance; it attests their daring advance. A day's fighting pushed us slowly, but steadily, toward the Tennessee. Our last line was formed less than a half mile from its bank. Sixty pieces of artillery composed a grand battery, against which the enemy rushed. General Grant's officers claim that the enemy received a final check when he attacked that line. The Rebels claim that another hour of daylight, had we received no re-enforcements, would have seen our utter defeat. Darkness and a fresh division came to our aid. General Buell was to arrive at Savannah, ten miles below Pittsburg, and on the opposite bank of the river, on the morning of the 6th. On the evening of the 5th, General Grant proceeded to Savannah to meet him, and was there when the battle began on the following morning. His boat was immediately headed for Pittsburg, and by nine o'clock the General was on the battle-field. From that time, the engagement received his personal attention. When he started from Savannah, some of General Buell's forces were within two miles of the town. They were hurried forward as rapidly as possible, and arrived at Pittsburg, some by land and others by water, in season to take position on our left, just as the day was closing. Others came up in the night, and formed a part of the line on the morning of the 7th. General Nelson's Division was the first to cross the river and form on the left of Grant's shattered army. As he landed, Nelson rode among the stragglers by the bank and endeavored to rally them. Hailing a captain of infantry, he told him to get his men together and fall into line. The captain's face displayed the utmost terror. "My regiment is cut to pieces," was the rejoinder; "every man of my company is killed." "Then why ain't you killed, too, you d----d coward?" thundered Nelson. "Gather some of these stragglers and go back into the battle." The man obeyed the order. [Illustration: NELSON CROSSING THE TENNESSEE RIVER.] General Nelson reported to General Grant with his division, received his orders, and then dashed about the field, wherever his presence was needed. The division was only slightly engaged before night came on and suspended the battle. At dawn on the second day the enemy lay in the position it held When darkness ended the fight. The gun-boats had shelled the woods during the night, and prevented the Rebels from reaching the river on our left. A creek and ravine prevented their reaching it on the right. None of the Rebels stood on the bank of the Tennessee River on that occasion, except as prisoners of war. As they had commenced the attack on the 6th, it was our turn to begin it on the 7th. A little past daylight we opened fire, and the fresh troops on the left, under General Buell, were put in motion. The Rebels had driven us on the 6th, so we drove them on the 7th. By noon of that day we held the ground lost on the day previous. The camps which the enemy occupied during the night were comparatively uninjured, so confident were the Rebels that our defeat was assured. It was the arrival of General Buell's army that saved us. The history of that battle, as the Rebels have given it, shows that they expected to overpower General Grant before General Buell could come up. They would then cross the Tennessee, meet and defeat Buell, and recapture Nashville. The defeat of these two armies would have placed the Valley of the Ohio at the command of the Rebels. Louisville was to have been the next point of attack. The dispute between the officers of the Army of the Tennessee and those of the Army of the Ohio is not likely to be terminated until this generation has passed away. The former contend that the Rebels were repulsed on the evening of the 6th of April, before the Army of the Ohio took part in the battle. The latter are equally earnest in declaring that the Army of the Tennessee would have been defeated had not the other army arrived. Both parties sustain their arguments by statements in proof, and by positive assertions. I believe it is the general opinion of impartial observers, that the salvation of General Grant's army is due to the arrival of the army of General Buell. With the last attack on the evening of the 6th, in which our batteries repulsed the Rebels, the enemy did not retreat. Night came as the fighting ceased. Beauregard's army slept where it had fought, and gave all possible indication of a readiness to renew the battle on the following day. So near was it to the river that our gun-boats threw shells during the night to prevent our left wing being flanked. Beauregard is said to have sworn to water his horse in the Tennessee, or in Hell, on that night. It is certain that the animal did not quench his thirst in the terrestrial stream. If he drank from springs beyond the Styx, I am not informed. CHAPTER XV. SHILOH AND THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. The Error of the Rebels.--Story of a Surgeon.--Experience of a Rebel Regiment.--Injury to the Rebel Army.--The Effect in our own Lines.--Daring of a Color-Bearer.--A Brave Soldier.--A Drummer-Boy's Experience.--Gallantry of an Artillery Surgeon.--A Regiment Commanded by a Lieutenant.--Friend Meeting Friend and Brother Meeting Brother in the Opposing Lines.--The Scene of the Battle.--Fearful Traces of Musketry-Fire.--The Wounded.--The Labor of the Sanitary Commission.--Humanity a Yankee Trick.--Besieging Corinth.--A Cold-Water Battery.--Halleck and the Journalists.--Occupation of Corinth. The fatal error of the Rebels, was their neglect to attack on the 4th, as originally intended. They were informed by their scouts that Buell could not reach Savannah before the 9th or 10th; and therefore a delay of two days would not change the situation. Buell was nearer than they supposed. The surgeon of the Sixth Iowa Infantry fell into the enemy's hands early on the morning of the first day of the battle, and established a hospital in our abandoned camp. His position was at a small log-house close by the principal road. Soon after he took possession, the enemy's columns began to file past him, as they pressed our army. The surgeon says he noticed a Louisiana regiment that moved into battle eight hundred strong, its banners flying and the men elated at the prospect of success. About five o'clock in the afternoon this regiment was withdrawn, and went into bivouac a short distance from the surgeon's hospital. It was then less than four hundred strong, but the spirit of the men was still the same. On the morning of the 7th, it once more went into battle. About noon it came out, less than a hundred strong, pressing in retreat toward Corinth. The men still clung to their flag, and declared their determination to be avenged. The story of this regiment was the story of many others. Shattered and disorganized, their retreat to Corinth had but little order. Only the splendid rear-guard, commanded by General Bragg, saved them from utter confusion. The Rebels admitted that many of their regiments were unable to produce a fifth of their original numbers, until a week or more after the battle. The stragglers came in slowly from the surrounding country, and at length enabled the Rebels to estimate their loss. There were many who never returned to answer at roll-call. In our army, the disorder was far from small. Large numbers of soldiers wandered for days about the camps, before they could ascertain their proper locations. It was fully a week, before all were correctly assigned. We refused to allow burying parties from the Rebels to come within our lines, preferring that they should not see the condition of our camp. Time was required to enable us to recuperate. I presume the enemy was as much in need of time as ourselves. A volume could be filled with the stories of personal valor during that battle. General Lew Wallace says his division was, at a certain time, forming on one side of a field, while the Rebels were on the opposite side. The color-bearer of a Rebel regiment stepped in front of his own line, and waved his flag as a challenge to the color-bearer that faced him. Several of our soldiers wished to meet the challenge, but their officers forbade it. Again the Rebel stepped forward, and planted his flag-staff in the ground. There was no response, and again and again he advanced, until he had passed more than half the distance between the opposing lines. Our fire was reserved in admiration of the man's daring, as he stood full in view, defiantly waving his banner. At last, when the struggle between the divisions commenced, it was impossible to save him, and he fell dead by the side of his colors. On the morning of the second day's fighting, the officers of one of our gun-boats saw a soldier on the river-bank on our extreme left, assisting another soldier who was severely wounded. A yawl was sent to bring away the wounded man and his companion. As it touched the side of the gun-boat on its return, the uninjured soldier asked to be sent back to land, that he might have further part in the battle. "I have," said he, "been taking care of this man, who is my neighbor at home. He was wounded yesterday morning, and I have been by his side ever since. Neither of us has eaten any thing for thirty hours, but, if you will take good care of him, I will not stop now for myself. I want to get into the battle again at once." The man's request was complied with. I regret my inability to give his name. A drummer-boy of the Fifteenth Iowa Infantry was wounded five times during the first day's battle, but insisted upon going out on the second day. He had hardly started before he fainted from loss of blood, and was left to recover and crawl back to the camp. Colonel Sweeney, of the Fifty-second Illinois Infantry, who lost an arm in Mexico and was wounded in the leg at Wilson Creek, received a wound in his arm on the first day of the battle. He kept his saddle, though he was unable to use his arm, and went to the hospital after the battle was over. When I saw him he was venting his indignation at the Rebels, because they had not wounded him in the stump of his amputated arm, instead of the locality which gave him so much inconvenience. It was this officer's fortune to be wounded on nearly every occasion when he went into battle. During the battle, Dr. Cornyn, surgeon of Major Cavender's battalion of Missouri Artillery, saw a section of a battery whose commander had been killed. The doctor at once removed the surgeon's badge from his hat and the sash from his waist, and took command of the guns. He placed them in position, and for several hours managed them with good effect. He was twice wounded, though not severely. "I was determined they should not kill or capture me as a surgeon when I had charge of that artillery," said the doctor afterward, "and so removed every thing that marked my rank." The Rebels made some very desperate charges against our artillery, and lost heavily in each attack. Once they actually laid their hands on the muzzles of two guns in Captain Stone's battery, but were unable to capture them. General Hurlbut stated that his division fought all day on Sunday with heavy loss, but only one regiment broke. When he entered the battle on Monday morning, the Third Iowa Infantry was commanded by a first-lieutenant, all the field officers and captains having been disabled or captured. Several regiments were commanded by captains. Colonel McHenry, of the Seventeenth Kentucky, said his regiment fought a Kentucky regiment which was raised in the county where his own was organized. The fight was very fierce. The men frequently called out from one to another, using taunting epithets. Two brothers recognized each other at the same moment, and came to a tree midway between the lines, where they conversed for several minutes. The color-bearer of the Fifty-second Illinois was wounded early in the battle. A man who was under arrest for misdemeanor asked the privilege of carrying the colors. It was granted, and he behaved so admirably that he was released from arrest as soon as the battle was ended. General Halleck arrived a week after the battle, and commenced a reorganization of the army. He found much confusion consequent upon the battle. In a short time the army was ready to take the offensive. We then commenced the advance upon Corinth, in which we were six weeks moving twenty-five miles. When our army first took position at Pittsburg Landing, and before the Rebels had effected their concentration, General Grant asked permission to capture Corinth. He felt confident of success, but was ordered not to bring on an engagement under any circumstances. Had the desired permission been given, there is little doubt he would have succeeded, and thus avoided the necessity of the battle of Shiloh. The day following my arrival at Pittsburg Landing I rode over the battle-field. The ground was mostly wooded, the forest being one in which artillery could be well employed, but where cavalry was comparatively useless. The ascent from the river was up a steep bluff that led to a broken table-ground, in which there were many ravines, generally at right angles to the river. On this table-ground our camps were located, and it was there the battle took place. Everywhere the trees were scarred and shattered, telling, as plainly as by words, of the shower of shot, shell, and bullets, that had fallen upon them. Within rifle range of the river, stood a tree marked by a cannon-shot, showing how much we were pressed back on the afternoon of the 6th. From the moment the crest of the bluff was gained, the traces of battle were apparent. In front of the line where General Prentiss's Division fought, there was a spot of level ground covered with a dense growth of small trees. The tops of these trees were from twelve to fifteen feet high, and had been almost mowed off by the shower of bullets which passed through them. I saw no place where there was greater evidence of severe work. There was everywhere full proof that the battle was a determined one. Assailant and defendant had done their best. It was a ride of five miles among scarred trees, over ground cut by the wheels of guns and caissons, among shattered muskets, disabled cannon, broken wagons, and all the heavier débris of battle. Everywhere could be seen torn garments, haversacks, and other personal equipments of soldiers. There were tents where the wounded had been gathered, and where those who could not easily bear movement to the transports were still remaining. In every direction I moved, there were the graves of the slain, the National and the Rebel soldiers being buried side by side. Few of the graves were marked, as the hurry of interment had been great. I fear that many of those graves, undesignated and unfenced, have long since been leveled. A single year, with its rain and its rank vegetation, would leave but a small trace of those mounds. All through that forest the camps of our army were scattered. During the first few days after the battle they showed much irregularity, but gradually took a more systematic shape. When the wounded had been sent to the transports, the regiments compacted, the camps cleared of superfluous baggage and _matériel_, and the weather became more propitious, the army assumed an attractive appearance. When the news of the battle reached the principal cities of the West, the Sanitary Commission prepared to send relief. Within twenty-four hours, boats were dispatched from St. Louis and Cincinnati, and hurried to Pittsburg Landing with the utmost rapidity. The battle had not been altogether unexpected, but it found us without the proper preparation. Whatever we had was pushed forward without delay, and the sufferings of the wounded were alleviated as much as possible. As fast as the boats arrived they were loaded with wounded, and sent to St. Louis and other points along the Mississippi, or to Cincinnati and places in its vicinity. Chicago, St. Louis, and Cincinnati were the principal points represented in this work of humanity. Many prominent ladies of those cities passed week after week in the hospitals or on the transports, doing every thing in their power, and giving their attention to friend and foe alike. In all cases the Rebels were treated with the same kindness that our own men received. Not only on the boats, but in the hospitals where the wounded were distributed, and until they were fully recovered, our suffering prisoners were faithfully nursed. The Rebel papers afterward admitted this kind treatment, but declared it was a Yankee trick to win the sympathies of our prisoners, and cause them to abandon the insurgent cause. The men who systematically starved their prisoners, and deprived them of shelter and clothing, could readily suspect the humanity of others. They were careful never to attempt to kill by kindness, those who were so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. It was three weeks after the battle before all the wounded were sent away, and the army was ready for offensive work. When we were once more in fighting trim, our lines were slowly pushed forward. General Pope had been called from the vicinity of Fort Pillow, after his capture of Island Number Ten, and his army was placed in position on the left of the line already formed. When our advance began, we mustered a hundred and ten thousand men. Exclusive of those who do not take part in a battle, we could have easily brought eighty thousand men into action. We began the siege of Corinth with every confidence in our ability to succeed. In this advance, we first learned how an army should intrench itself. Every time we took a new position, we proceeded to throw up earth-works. Before the siege was ended, our men had perfected themselves in the art of intrenching. The defenses we erected will long remain as monuments of the war in Western Tennessee. Since General Halleck, no other commander has shown such ability to fortify in an open field against an enemy that was acting on the defensive. It was generally proclaimed that we were to capture Corinth with all its garrison of sixty or seventy thousand men. The civilian observers could not understand how this was to be accomplished, as the Rebels had two lines of railway open for a safe retreat. It was like the old story of "bagging Price" in Missouri. Every part of the bag, except the top and one side, was carefully closed and closely watched. Unmilitary men were skeptical, but the military heads assured them it was a piece of grand strategy, which the public must not be allowed to understand. During the siege, there was very little for a journalist to record. One day was much like another. Occasionally there would be a collision with the enemy's pickets, or a short struggle for a certain position, usually ending in our possession of the disputed point. The battle of Farmington, on the left of our line, was the only engagement worthy the name, and this was of comparatively short duration. Twenty-four hours after it transpired we ceased to talk about it, and made only occasional reference to the event. There were four weeks of monotony. An advance of a half mile daily was not calculated to excite the nerves. The chaplains and the surgeons busied themselves in looking after the general health of the army. One day, a chaplain, noted for his advocacy of total abstinence, passed the camp of the First Michigan Battery. This company was raised in Coldwater, Michigan, and the camp-chests, caissons, and other property were marked "Loomis's Coldwater Battery." The chaplain at once sought Captain Loomis, and paid a high compliment to his moral courage in taking a firm and noble stand in favor of temperance. After the termination of the interview, the captain and several friends drank to the long life of the chaplain and the success of the "Coldwater Battery." Toward the end of the siege, General Halleck gave the journalists a sensation, by expelling them from his lines. The representatives of the Press held a meeting, and waited upon that officer, after the appearance of the order requiring their departure. They offered a protest, which was insolently rejected. We could not ascertain General Halleck's purpose in excluding us just as the campaign was closing, but concluded he desired we should not witness the end of the siege in which so much had been promised and so little accomplished. A week after our departure, General Beauregard evacuated Corinth, and our army took possession. The fruits of the victory were an empty village, a few hundred stragglers, and a small quantity of war _matériel_. From Corinth the Rebels retreated to Tupelo, Mississippi, where they threw up defensive works. The Rebel Government censured General Beauregard for abandoning Corinth. The evacuation of that point uncovered Memphis, and allowed it to fall into our hands. Beauregard was removed from command. General Joseph E. Johnston was assigned to duty in his stead. This officer proceeded to reorganize his army, with a view to offensive operations against our lines. He made no demonstrations of importance until the summer months had passed away. The capture of Corinth terminated the offensive portion of the campaign. Our army occupied the line of the Memphis and Charleston Railway from Corinth to Memphis, and made a visit to Holly Springs without encountering the enemy. A few cavalry expeditions were made into Mississippi, but they accomplished nothing of importance. The Army of the Tennessee went into summer-quarters. The Army of the Ohio, under General Buell, returned to its proper department, to confront the Rebel armies then assembling in Eastern Tennessee. General Halleck was summoned to Washington as commander-in-chief of the armies of the United States. CHAPTER XVI. CAPTURE OF FORT PILLOW AND BATTLE OF MEMPHIS. The Siege of Fort Pillow.--General Pope.--His Reputation for Veracity. --Capture of the "Ten Thousand."--Naval Battle above Fort Pillow.--The John II. Dickey.--Occupation of the Fort.--General Forrest.--Strength of the Fortifications.--Their Location.--Randolph, Tennessee.--Memphis and her Last Ditch.--Opening of the Naval Combat.--Gallant Action of Colonel Ellet.--Fate of the Rebel Fleet.--The People Viewing the Battle.--Their Conduct. While I was tarrying at Cairo, after the exodus of the journalists from the army before Corinth, the situation on the Mississippi became interesting. After the capture of Island Number Ten, General Pope was ordered to Pittsburg Landing with his command. When called away, he was preparing to lay siege to Fort Pillow, in order to open the river to Memphis. His success at Island Number Ten had won him much credit, and he was anxious to gain more of the same article. Had he taken Fort Pillow, he would have held the honor of being the captor of Memphis, as that city must have fallen with the strong fortifications which served as its protection. The capture of Island Number Ten was marked by the only instance of a successful canal from one bend of the Mississippi to another. As soon as the channel was completed, General Pope took his transports below the island, ready for moving his men. Admiral Foote tried the first experiment of running his gun-boats past the Rebel batteries, and was completely successful. The Rebel transports could not escape, neither could transports or gun-boats come up from Memphis to remove the Rebel army. There was a lake in the rear of the Rebels which prevented their retreat. The whole force, some twenty-eight hundred, was surrendered, with all its arms and munitions of war. General Pope reported his captures somewhat larger than they really were, and received much applause for his success. The reputation of this officer, on the score of veracity, has not been of the highest character. After he assumed command in Virginia, his "Order Number Five" drew upon him much ridicule. Probably the story of the capture of ten thousand prisoners, after the occupation of Corinth, has injured him more than all other exaggerations combined. The paternity of that choice bit of romance belongs to General Halleck, instead of General Pope. Colonel Elliott, who commanded the cavalry expedition, which General Pope sent out when Corinth was occupied, forwarded a dispatch to Pope, something like the following:-- "I am still pursuing the enemy. The woods are full of stragglers. Some of my officers estimate their number as high as ten thousand. Many have already come into my lines." [Illustration: THE CARONDELET RUNNING THE BATTERIES AT ISLAND NO. 10] Pope sent this dispatch, without alteration, to General Halleck. From the latter it went to the country that "General Pope reported ten thousand prisoners captured below Corinth." It served to cover up the barrenness of the Corinth occupation, and put the public in good-humor. General Halleck received credit for the success of his plans. When it came out that no prisoners of consequence had been taken, the real author of the story escaped unharmed. At the time of his departure to re-enforce the army before Corinth, General Pope left but a single brigade of infantry, to act in conjunction with our naval forces in the siege of Fort Pillow. This brigade was encamped on the Arkansas shore opposite Fort Pillow, and did some very effective fighting against the musquitos, which that country produces in the greatest profusion. An attack on the fort, with such a small force, was out of the question, and the principal aggressive work was done by the navy at long range. On the 10th of May, the Rebel fleet made an attack upon our navy, in which they sunk two of our gun-boats, the _Mound City_ and the _Cincinnati_, and returned to the protection of Fort Pillow with one of their own boats disabled, and two others somewhat damaged. Our sunken gun-boats were fortunately in shoal water, where they were speedily raised and repaired. Neither fleet had much to boast of as the result of that engagement. The journalists who were watching Fort Pillow, had their head-quarters on board the steamer _John H. Dickey_, which was anchored in midstream. At the time of the approach of the Rebel gun-boats, the _Dickey_ was lying without sufficient steam to move her wheels, and the prospect was good that she might be captured or destroyed. Her commander, Captain Mussleman, declared he was _not_ in that place to stop cannon-shot, and made every exertion to get his boat in condition to move. His efforts were fully appreciated by the journalists, particularly as they were successful. The _Dickey_, under the same captain, afterward ran a battery near Randolph, Tennessee, and though pierced in every part by cannon-shot and musket-balls, she escaped without any loss of life. As soon as the news of the evacuation of Corinth was received at Cairo, we looked for the speedy capture of Fort Pillow. Accordingly, on the 4th of June, I proceeded down the river, arriving off Fort Pillow on the morning of the 5th. The Rebels had left, as we expected, after spiking their guns and destroying most of their ammunition. The first boat to reach the abandoned fort was the _Hetty Gilmore_, one of the smallest transports in the fleet. She landed a little party, which took possession, hoisted the flag, and declared the fort, and all it contained, the property of the United States. The Rebels were, by this time, several miles distant, in full retreat to a safer location. It was at this same fort, two years later, that the Rebel General Forrest ordered the massacre of a garrison that had surrendered after a prolonged defense. His only plea for this cold-blooded slaughter, was that some of his men had been fired upon after the white flag was raised. The testimony in proof of this barbarity was fully conclusive, and gave General Forrest and his men a reputation that no honorable soldier could desire. In walking through the fort after its capture, I was struck by its strength and extent. It occupied the base of a bluff near the water's edge. On the summit of the bluff there were breast-works running in a zigzag course for five or six miles, and inclosing a large area. The works along the river were very strong, and could easily hold a powerful fleet at bay. From Fort Pillow to Randolph, ten miles lower down, was less than an hour's steaming. Randolph was a small, worthless village, partly at the base of a bluff, and partly on its summit. Here the Rebels had erected a powerful fort, which they abandoned when they abandoned Fort Pillow. The inhabitants expressed much agreeable astonishment on finding that we did not verify all the statements of the Rebels, concerning the barbarity of the Yankees wherever they set foot on Southern soil. The town was most bitterly disloyal. It was afterward burned, in punishment for decoying a steamboat to the landing, and then attempting her capture and destruction. A series of blackened chimneys now marks the site of Randolph. Our capture of these points occurred a short time after the Rebels issued the famous "cotton-burning order," commanding all planters to burn their cotton, rather than allow it to fall into our hands. The people showed no particular desire to comply with the order, except in a few instances. Detachments of Rebel cavalry were sent to enforce obedience. They enforced it by setting fire to the cotton in presence of its owners. On both banks of the river, as we moved from Randolph to Memphis, we could see the smoke arising from plantations, or from secluded spots in the forest where cotton had been concealed. In many cases the bales were broken open and rolled into the river, dotting the stream with floating cotton. Had it then possessed the value that attached to it two years later, I fear there would have been many attempts to save it for transfer to a Northern market. On the day before the evacuation of Fort Pillow, Memphis determined she would never surrender. In conjunction with other cities, she fitted up several gun-boats, that were expected to annihilate the Yankee fleet. In the event of the failure of this means of defense, the inhabitants were pledged to do many dreadful things before submitting to the invaders. Had we placed any confidence in the resolutions passed by the Memphians, we should have expected all the denizens of the Bluff City to commit _hari-kari_, after first setting fire to their dwellings. On the morning of the 6th of June, the Rebel gun-boats, eight in number, took their position just above Memphis, and prepared for the advance of our fleet. The Rebel boats were the _Van Dorn_ (flag-ship), _General Price_, _General Bragg_, _General Lovell_, _Little Rebel_, _Jeff. Thompson_, _Sumter_, and _General Beauregard_. The _General Bragg_ was the New Orleans and Galveston steamer _Mexico_ in former days, and had been strengthened, plated, and, in other ways made as effective as possible for warlike purposes. The balance of the fleet consisted of tow-boats from the Lower Mississippi, fitted up as rams and gun-boats. They were supplied with very powerful engines, and were able to choose their positions in the battle. The Rebel fleet was commanded by Commodore Montgomery, who was well known to many persons on our own boats. The National boats were the iron-clads _Benton, Carondelet, St. Louis, Louisville_, and _Cairo_. There was also the ram fleet, commanded by Colonel Ellet. It comprised the _Monarch, Queen of the West, Lioness, Switzerland, Mingo, Lancaster No. 3, Fulton, Horner_, and _Samson_. The _Monarch_ and _Queen of the West_ were the only boats of the ram fleet that took part in the action. Our forces were commanded by Flag-officer Charles H. Davis, who succeeded Admiral Foote at the time of the illness of the latter. The land forces, acting in conjunction with our fleet, consisted of a single brigade of infantry, that was still at Fort Pillow. It did not arrive in the vicinity of Memphis until after the battle was over. Early in the morning the battle began. It was opened by the gun-boats on the Rebel side, and for some minutes consisted of a cannonade at long range, in which very little was effected. Gradually the boats drew nearer to each other, and made better use of their guns. Before they arrived at close quarters the rams _Monarch_ and _Queen of the West_ steamed forward and engaged in the fight. Their participation was most effective. The _Queen of the West_ struck and disabled one of the Rebel gun-boats, and was herself disabled by the force of the blow. The _Monarch_ steered straight for the _General Lovell_, and dealt her a tremendous blow, fairly in the side, just aft the wheel. The sides of the _Lovell_ were crushed as if they had been made of paper, and the boat sank in less than three minutes, in a spot where the plummet shows a depth of ninety feet. Grappling with the _Beauregard_, the _Monarch_ opened upon her with a stream of hot water and a shower of rifle-balls, which effectually prevented the latter from using a gun. In a few moments she cast off and drifted a short distance down the river. Coming up on the other side, the _Monarch_ dealt her antagonist a blow that left her in a sinking condition. Herself comparatively uninjured, she paused to allow the gun-boats to take a part. Those insignificant and unwieldy rams had placed three of the enemy's gun-boats _hors de combat_ in less than a quarter of an hour's time. Our gun-boats ceased firing as the rams entered the fight; but they now reopened. With shot and shell the guns were rapidly served. The effect was soon apparent. One Rebel boat was disabled and abandoned, after grounding opposite Memphis. A second was grounded and blown up, and two others were disabled, abandoned, and captured. It was a good morning's work. The first gun was fired at forty minutes past five o'clock, and the last at forty-three minutes past six. The Rebels boasted they would whip us before breakfast. We had taken no breakfast when the fight began. After the battle was over we enjoyed our morning meal with a relish that does not usually accompany defeat. The following shows the condition of the two fleets after the battle:-- _General Beauregard_, sunk. _General Lovell_, sunk. _General Price_, injured and captured. _Little Rebel_, " " " _Sumter_, " " " _General Bragg_, " " " _Jeff. Thompson_, burned. _General Van Dorn_, escaped. THE NATIONAL FLEET. _Benton_, unhurt. _Carondelet_, " _St. Louis_, " _Louisville_, " _Cairo_, " _Monarch_ (ram), unhurt. _Queen of the West_ (ram), disabled. The captured vessels were refitted, and, without alteration of names, attached to the National fleet. The _Sumter_ was lost a few months later, in consequence of running aground near the Rebel batteries in the vicinity of Bayou Sara. The _Bragg_ was one of the best boats in the service in point of speed, and proved of much value as a dispatch-steamer on the lower portion of the river. The people of Memphis rose at an early hour to witness the naval combat. It had been generally known during the previous night that the battle would begin about sunrise. The first gun brought a large crowd to the bluff overlooking the river, whence a full view of the fight was obtained. Some of the spectators were loyal, and wished success to the National fleet, but the great majority were animated by a strong hope and expectation of our defeat. A gentleman, who was of the lookers-on, subsequently told me of the conduct of the populace. As a matter of course, the disloyalists had all the conversation their own way. While they expressed their wishes in the loudest tones, no one uttered a word in opposition. Many offered wagers on the success of their fleet, and expressed a readiness to give large odds. No one dared accept these offers, as their acceptance would have been an evidence of sympathy for the Yankees. Americans generally, but particularly in the South, make their wagers as they hope or wish. In the present instance no man was allowed to "copper" on the Rebel flotilla. CHAPTER XVII. IN MEMPHIS AND UNDER THE FLAG Jeff. Thompson and his Predictions.--A Cry of Indignation.--Memphis Humiliated.--The Journalists in the Battle.--The Surrender.--A Fine Point of Law and Honor.--Going on Shore.--An Enraged Secessionist.--A Dangerous Enterprise.--Memphis and her Antecedents.--Her Loyalty.--An Amusing Incident.--How the Natives learned of the Capture of Fort Donelson.--The Last Ditch.--A Farmer-Abolitionist.--Disloyalty among the Women.--"Blessings in Disguise."--An American Mark Tapley. The somewhat widely (though not favorably) known Rebel chieftain, Jeff. Thompson, was in Memphis on the day of the battle, and boasted of the easy victory the Rebels would have over the National fleet. "We will chaw them up in just an hour," said Jeff., as the battle began. "Are you sure of that?" asked a friend. "Certainly I am; there is no doubt of it." Turning to a servant, he sent for his horse, in order, as he said, to be able to move about rapidly to the best points for witnessing the engagement. In an hour and three minutes the battle was over. Jeff, turned in his saddle, and bade his friend farewell, saying he had a note falling due that day at Holly Springs, and was going out to pay it. The "chawing up" of our fleet was not referred to again. As the _Monarch_ struck the _Lovell_, sinking the latter in deep water, the crowd stood breathless. As the crew of the sunken boat were floating helplessly in the strong current, and our own skiffs were putting off to aid them, there was hardly a word uttered through all that multitude. As the Rebel boats, one after another, were sunk or captured, the sympathies of the spectators found vent in words. When, at length, the last of the Rebel fleet disappeared, and the Union flotilla spread its flags in triumph, there went up an almost universal yell of indignation from that vast crowd. Women tore their bonnets from their heads, and trampled them on the ground; men stamped and swore as only infuriated Rebels can, and called for all known misfortunes to settle upon the heads of their invaders. The profanity was not entirely monopolized by the men. This scene of confusion lasted for some time, and ended in anxiety to know what we would do next. Some of the spectators turned away, and went, in sullen silence, to their homes. Others remained, out of curiosity, to witness the end of the day's work. A few were secretly rejoicing at the result, but the time had not come when they could display their sympathies. The crowd eagerly watched our fleet, and noted every motion of the various boats. The press correspondents occupied various positions during the engagement. Mr. Coffin, of the Boston _Journal_, was on the tug belonging to the flag-ship, and had a fine view of the whole affair. One of _The Herald_ correspondents was in the pilot-house of the gun-boat _Cairo_, while Mr. Colburn, of _The World_, was on the captured steamer _Sovereign_. "Junius," of _The Tribune_, and Mr. Vizitelly, of the London _Illustrated News_, with several others, were on the transport _Dickey_, the general rendezvous of the journalists. The representative of the St. Louis _Republican_ and myself were on the _Platte Valley_, in rear of the line of battle. The _Platte Valley_ was the first private boat that touched the Memphis landing after the capture of the city. The battle being over, we were anxious to get on shore and look at the people and city of Memphis. Shortly after the fighting ceased, Colonel Ellet sent the ram _Lioness_, under a flag-of-truce, to demand the surrender of the city. To this demand no response was given. A little later, Flag-Officer Davis sent the following note to the Mayor, at the hands of one of the officers of the gun-boat _Benton_:-- UNITED STATES FLAG-STEAMER BENTON, OFF MEMPHIS, _June_ 6, 1862. SIR:--I have respectfully to request that you will surrender the city of Memphis to the authority of the United States, which I have the honor to represent. I am, Mr. Mayor, with high respect, your most obedient servant, C. H. DAVIS, _Flag-Officer Commanding_. To his Honor, the Mayor of Memphis. To this note the following reply was received:-- MAYOR'S OFFICE, MEMPHIS, _June_ 6, 1862. C. H. Davis, _Flag-Officer Commanding_: SIR:--Your note of this date is received and contents noted. In reply I have only to say that, as the civil authorities have no means of defense, by the force of circumstances the city is in your hands. Respectfully, John Park, _Mayor of Memphis_. At the meeting, four days before, the citizens of Memphis had solemnly pledged themselves never to surrender. There was a vague understanding that somebody was to do a large amount of fighting, whenever Memphis was attacked. If this fighting proved useless, the city was to be fired in every house, and only abandoned after its complete destruction. It will be seen that the note of the mayor, in response to a demand for surrender, vindicates the honor of Memphis. It merely informs the United States officer that the city has fallen "by the force of circumstances." Since that day I have frequently heard its citizens boast that the place was not surrendered. "You came in," say they, "and took possession, but we did not give up to you. We declared we would never surrender, and we kept our word." About eleven o'clock in the forenoon, the transports arrived with our infantry, and attempted to make a landing. As their mooring-lines were thrown on shore they were seized by dozens of persons in the crowd, and the crews were saved the trouble of making fast. This was an evidence that the laboring class, the men with blue shirts and shabby hats, were not disloyal. We had abundant evidence of this when our occupation became a fixed fact. It was generally the wealthy who adhered to the Rebel cause. As a file of soldiers moved into the city, the people stood at a respectful distance, occasionally giving forth wordy expression of their anger. When I reached the office of _The Avalanche_, one of the leading journals of Memphis, and, of course, strongly disloyal, I found the soldiers removing a Rebel flag from the roof of the building. The owner of the banner made a very vehement objection to the proceeding. His indignation was so great that his friends were obliged to hold him, to prevent his throwing himself on the bayonet of the nearest soldier. I saw him several days later, when his anger had somewhat cooled. He found relief from his troubles, before the end of June, by joining the Rebel army at Holly Springs. On the bluff above the levee was a tall flag-staff. The Rebels had endeavored to make sure of their courage by nailing a flag to the top of this staff. A sailor from one of the gun-boats volunteered to ascend the staff and bring down the banner. When he had ascended about twenty feet, he saw two rifles bearing upon him from the window of a neighboring building. The sailor concluded it was best to go no further, and descended at once. The staff was cut down and the obnoxious flag secured. With the city in our possession, we had leisure to look about us. Memphis had been in the West what Charleston was in the East: an active worker in the secession cause. Her newspapers had teemed with abuse of every thing which opposed their heresy, and advocated the most summary measures. Lynching had been frequent and never rebuked, impressments were of daily and nightly occurrence, every foundery and manufactory had been constantly employed by the Rebel authorities, and every citizen had, in some manner, contributed to the insurrection. It was gratifying in the extreme to see the Memphis, of which we at Cairo and St. Louis had heard so much, brought under our control. The picture of five United States gun-boats lying in line before the city, their ports open and their guns shotted, was pleasing in the eyes of loyal men. Outside of the poorer classes there were some loyal persons, but their number was not large. There were many professing loyalty, who possessed very little of the article, and whose record had been exceedingly doubtful. Prominent among these were the politicians, than whom none had been more self-sacrificing, if their own words could be believed. There were many men of this class ready, no doubt, to swear allegiance to the victorious side, who joined our standard because they considered the Rebel cause a losing one. They may have become loyal since that time, but it has been only through the force of circumstances. In many cases our Government accepted their words as proof of loyalty, and granted these persons many exclusive privileges. It was a matter of comment that a newly converted loyalist could obtain favors at the hands of Government officials, that would be refused to men from the North. The acceptance of office under the Rebels, and the earnest advocacy he had shown for secession, were generally alleged to have taken place under compulsion, or in the interest of the really loyal men. A Memphis gentleman gave me an amusing account of the reception of the news of the fall of Fort Donelson. Many boasts had been made of the terrible punishment that was in store for our army, if it ventured an attack upon Fort Donelson. No one would be allowed to escape to tell the tale. All were to be slaughtered, or lodged in Rebel prisons. Memphis was consequently waiting for the best tidings from the Cumberland, and did not think it possible a reverse could come to the Rebel cause. One Sunday morning, the telegraph, without any previous announcement, flashed the intelligence that Fort Donelson, with twelve thousand men, had surrendered, and a portion of General Grant's army was moving on Nashville, with every prospect of capturing that city. Memphis was in consternation. No one could tell how long the Yankee army would stop at Nashville before moving elsewhere, and it was certain that Memphis was uncovered by the fall of Fort Donelson. My informant first learned the important tidings in the rotunda of the Gayoso House. Seeing a group of his acquaintances with faces depicting the utmost gloom, he asked what was the matter. "Bad enough," said one. "Fort Donelson has surrendered with nearly all its garrison." "That is terrible," said my friend, assuming a look of agony, though he was inwardly elated. "Yes, and the enemy are moving on Nashville." "Horrible news," was the response; "but let us not be too despondent. Our men are good for them, one against three, and they will never get out of Nashville alive, if they should happen to take it." With another expression of deep sorrow at the misfortune which had befallen the Rebel army, this gentleman hastened to convey the glad news to his friends. "I reached home," said he, "locked my front door, called my wife and sister into the parlor, and instantly jumped over the center-table. They both cried for joy when I told them the old flag floated over Donelson." The Secessionists in Memphis, like their brethren elsewhere, insisted that all the points we had captured were given up because they had no further use for them. The evacuation of Columbus, Fort Pillow, Fort Henry, and Bowling Green, with the surrender of Donelson, were parts of the grand strategy of the Rebel leaders, and served to lure us on to our destruction. They would never admit a defeat, but contended we had invariably suffered. An uneducated farmer, on the route followed by one of our armies in Tennessee, told our officers that a Rebel general and his staff had taken dinner with him during the retreat from Nashville. The farmer was anxious to learn something about the military situation, and asked a Rebel major how the Confederate cause was progressing. "Splendidly," answered the major. "We have whipped the Yankees in every battle, and our independence will soon be recognized." The farmer was thoughtful for a minute or two, and then deliberately said: "I don't know much about war, but if we are always whipping the Yankees, how is it they keep coming down into our country after every battle?" The major grew red in the face, and told the farmer that any man who asked such an absurd question was an Abolitionist, and deserved hanging to the nearest tree. The farmer was silenced, but not satisfied. I had a fine illustration of the infatuation of the Rebel sympathizers, a few days after Memphis was captured. One evening, while making a visit at the house of an acquaintance, the hostess introduced me to a young lady of the strongest secession proclivities. Of course, I endeavored to avoid the topics on which we were certain to differ, but my new acquaintance was determined to provoke a discussion. With a few preliminaries, she throw out the question: "Now, don't you think the Southern soldiers have shown themselves the bravest people that ever lived, while the Yankees have proved the greatest cowards?" "I can hardly agree with you," I replied. "Your people have certainly established a reputation on the score of bravery, but we can claim quite as much." "But we have whipped you in every battle. We whipped you at Manassas and Ball's Bluff, and we whipped General Grant at Belmont." "That is very true; but how was it at Shiloh?" "At Shiloh we whipped you; we drove you to your gun-boats, which was all we wanted to do." "Ah, I beg your pardon; but what is your impression of Fort Donelson?" "Fort Donelson!"--and my lady's cheek flushed with either pride or indignation--"Fort Donelson was an unquestioned victory for the South. We stopped your army--all we wanted to; and then General Forrest, General Floyd, and all the troops we wished to bring off, came away. We only left General Buckner and three thousand men for you to capture." "It seems, then, we labored under a delusion at the North. We thought we had something to rejoice over when Fort Donelson fell. But, pray, what do you consider the capture of Island Number Ten and the naval battle here?" "At Island Ten we defeated you" (how this was done she did not say), "and we were victorious here. You wanted to capture all our boats; but you only got four of them, and those were damaged." "In your view of the case," I replied, "I admit the South to have been always victorious. Without wishing to be considered disloyal to the Nation, I can heartily wish you many similar victories." In the tour which Dickens records, Mark Tapley did not visit the Southern country, but the salient points of his character are possessed by the sons of the cavaliers. "Jolly" under the greatest misfortunes, and extracting comfort and happiness from all calamities, your true Rebel could never know adversity. The fire which consumes his dwelling is a personal boon, as he can readily explain. So is a devastating flood, or a widespread pestilence. The events which narrow-minded mudsills are apt to look upon as calamitous, are only "blessings in disguise" to every supporter and friend of the late "Confederacy." CHAPTER XVIII. SUPERVISING A REBEL JOURNAL. The Press of Memphis.--Flight of _The Appeal_.--A False Prediction.--_The Argus_ becomes Loyal.--Order from General Wallace.--Installed in Office.--Lecturing the Rebels.--"Trade follows the Flag."--Abuses of Traffic.--Supplying the Rebels.--A Perilous Adventure.--Passing the Rebel Lines.--Eluding Watchful Eyes. On the morning of the 6th of June, the newspaper publishers, like most other gentlemen of Memphis, were greatly alarmed. _The Avalanche_ and _The Argus_ announced that it was impossible for the Yankee fleet to cope successfully with the Rebels, and that victory was certain to perch upon the banners of the latter. The sheets were not dry before the Rebel fleet was a thing of the past. _The Appeal_ had not been as hopeful as its contemporaries, and thought it the wisest course to abandon the city. It moved to Grenada, Mississippi, a hundred miles distant, and resumed publication. It became a migratory sheet, and was at last captured by General Wilson at Columbus, Georgia. In ability it ranked among the best of the Rebel journals. _The Avalanche_ and _The Argus_ continued publication, with a strong leaning to the Rebel side. The former was interfered with by our authorities; and, under the name of _The Bulletin_, with new editorial management, was allowed to reappear. _The Argus_ maintained its Rebel ground, though with moderation, until the military hand fell upon it. Memphis, in the early days of our occupation, changed its commander nearly every week. One of these changes brought Major-General Wallace into the city. This officer thought it proper to issue the following order:-- HEAD-QUARTERS THIRD DIVISION, RESERVED CORPS, ARMY OF TENNESSEE, MEMPHIS, _June_ 17,1862. EDITORS DAILY ARGUS:--As the closing of your office might be injurious to you pecuniarily, I send two gentlemen--Messrs. A.D. Richardson and Thos. W. Knox, both of ample experience--to take charge of the editorial department of your paper. The business management of your office will be left to you. Very respectfully, LEWIS WALLACE, _General Third Division, Reserved Corps._ The publishers of _The Argus_ printed this order at the head of their columns. Below it they announced that they were not responsible for any thing which should appear editorially, as long as the order was in force. The business management and the general miscellaneous and news matter were not interfered with. Mr. Richardson and myself entered upon our new duties immediately. We had crossed the Plains together, had published a paper in the Rocky Mountains, had been through many adventures and perils side by side; but we had never before managed a newspaper in an insurrectionary district. The publishers of _The Argus_ greeted us cordially, and our whole intercourse with them was harmonious. They did not relish the intrusion of Northern men into their office, to compel the insertion of Union editorials, but they bore the inconvenience with an excellent grace. The foreman of the establishment displayed more mortification at the change, than any other person whom we met. The editorials we published were of a positive character. We plainly announced the determination of the Government to assert itself and put down and punish treason. We told the Memphis people that the scheme of partisan warfare, which was then in its inception, would work more harm than good to the districts where guerrilla companies were organized. We insisted that the Union armies had entered Memphis and other parts of the South, to stay there, and that resistance to their power was useless. We credited the Rebels with much bravery and devotion to their cause, but asserted always that we had the right and the strong arm in our favor. It is possible we did not make many conversions among the disloyal readers of _The Argus_, but we had the satisfaction of saying what we thought it necessary they should hear. The publishers said their subscribers were rapidly falling off, on account of the change of editorial tone. Like newspaper readers everywhere, they disliked to peruse what their consciences did not approve. We received letters, generally from women, denying our right to control the columns of the paper for our "base purposes." Some of these letters were not written after the style of Chesterfield, but the majority of them were courteous. There were many jests in Memphis, and throughout the country generally, concerning the appointment of representatives of _The Herald_ and _The Tribune_ to a position where they must work together. _The Herald_ and _The Tribune_ have not been famous, in the past twenty years, for an excess of good-nature toward each other. Mr. Bennett and Mr. Greeley are not supposed to partake habitually of the same dinners and wine, or to join in frequent games of billiards and poker. The compliments which the two great dailies occasionally exchange, are not calculated to promote an intimate friendship between the venerable gentlemen whose names are so well known to the public. No one expects these veteran editors to emulate the example of Damon and Pythias. At the time Mr. Richardson and myself took charge of _The Argus, The Tribune_ and _The Herald_ were indulging in one of their well-known disputes. It was much like the Hibernian's debate, "with sticks," and attracted some attention, though it was generally voted a nuisance. Many, who did not know us, imagined that the new editors of _The Argus_ would follow the tendencies of the offices from which they bore credentials. Several Northern journals came to hand, in which this belief was expressed. A Chicago paper published two articles supposed to be in the same issue of _The Argus_, differing totally in every line of argument or statement of fact. One editor argued that the harmonious occupancy of contiguous desks by the representatives of _The Herald_ and _The Tribune_, betokened the approach of the millennium. When he issued the order placing us in charge of _The Argus_, General Wallace assured its proprietors that he should remove the editorial supervision as soon as a Union paper was established in Memphis. This event occurred in a short time, and _The Argus_ was restored to its original management, according to promise. As soon as the capture of Memphis was known at the North, there was an eager scramble to secure the trade of the long-blockaded port. Several boat-loads of goods were shipped from St. Louis and Cincinnati, and Memphis was so rapidly filled that the supply was far greater than the demand. Army and Treasury regulations were soon established, and many restrictions placed upon traffic. The restrictions did not materially diminish the quantity of goods, but they served to throw the trade into a few hands, and thus open the way for much favoritism. Those who obtained permits, thought the system an excellent one. Those who were kept "out in the cold," viewed the matter in a different light. A thousand stories of dishonesty, official and unofficial, were in constant circulation, and I fear that many of them came very near the truth. In our occupation of cities along the Mississippi, the Rebels found a ready supply from our markets. This was especially the case at Memphis. Boots and shoes passed through the lines in great numbers, either by stealth or by open permit, and were taken at once to the Rebel army. Cloth, clothing, percussion-caps, and similar articles went in the same direction. General Grant and other prominent officers made a strong opposition to our policy, and advised the suppression of the Rebellion prior to the opening of trade, but their protestations were of no avail. We chastised the Rebels with one hand, while we fed and clothed them with the other. After the capture of Memphis, Colonel Charles R. Ellet, with two boats of the ram fleet, proceeded to explore the river between Memphis and Vicksburg. It was not known what defenses the Rebels might have constructed along this distance of four hundred miles. Colonel Ellet found no hinderance to his progress, except a small field battery near Napoleon, Arkansas. When a few miles above Vicksburg, he ascertained that a portion of Admiral Farragut's fleet was below that point, preparing to attack the city. He at once determined to open communication with the lower fleet. Opposite Vicksburg there is a long and narrow peninsula, around which the Mississippi makes a bend. It is a mile and a quarter across the neck of this peninsula, while it is sixteen miles around by the course of the river. It was impossible to pass around by the Mississippi, on account of the batteries at Vicksburg. The Rebels were holding the peninsula with a small force of infantry and cavalry, to prevent our effecting a landing. By careful management it was possible to elude the sentinels, and cross from one side of the peninsula to the other. Colonel Ellet armed himself to make the attempt. He took only a few documents to prove his identity as soon as he reached Admiral Farragut. A little before daylight, one morning, he started on his perilous journey. He waded through swamps, toiled among the thick undergrowth in a portion of the forest, was fired upon by a Rebel picket, and narrowly escaped drowning in crossing a bayou. He was compelled to make a wide detour, to avoid capture, and thus extended his journey to nearly a half-dozen miles. On reaching the bank opposite one of our gun-boats, he found a yawl near the shore, by which he was promptly taken on board. The officers of this gun-boat suspected him of being a spy, and placed him under guard. It was not until the arrival of Admiral Farragut that his true character became known. After a long interview with that officer he prepared to return. He concealed dispatches for the Navy Department and for Flag-Officer Davis in the lining of his boots and in the wristbands of his shirt. A file of marines escorted him as far as they could safely venture, and then bade him farewell. Near the place where he had left his own boat, Colonel Ellet found a small party of Rebels, carefully watching from a spot where they could not be easily discovered. It was a matter of some difficulty to elude these men, but he did it successfully, and reached his boat in safety. He proceeded at once to Memphis with his dispatches. Flag-Officer Davis immediately decided to co-operate with Admiral Farragut, in the attempt to capture Vicksburg. Shortly after the capture of New Orleans, Admiral Farragut ascended the Mississippi as far as Vicksburg. At that time the defensive force was very small, and there were but few batteries erected. The Admiral felt confident of his ability to silence the Rebel guns, but he was unaccompanied by a land force to occupy the city after its capture. He was reluctantly compelled to return to New Orleans, and wait until troops could be spared from General Butler's command. The Rebels improved their opportunities, and concentrated a large force to put Vicksburg in condition for defense. Heavy guns were brought from various points, earth-works were thrown up on all sides, and the town became a vast fortification. When the fleet returned at the end of June, the Rebels were ready to receive it. Their strongest works were on the banks of the Mississippi. They had no dread of an attack from the direction of Jackson, until long afterward. Vicksburg was the key to the possession of the Mississippi. The Rebel authorities at Richmond ordered it defended as long as defense was possible. CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST SIEGE OF VICKSBURG. From Memphis to Vicksburg.--Running the Batteries.--Our Inability to take Vicksburg by Assault.--Digging a Canal.--A Conversation with Resident Secessionists.--Their Arguments _pro_ and _con_, and the Answers they Received.--A Curiosity of Legislation.--An Expedition up the Yazoo.--Destruction of the Rebel Fleet.--The _Arkansas_ Running the Gauntlet.--A Spirited Encounter.--A Gallant Attempt.--Raising the Siege.--Fate of the _Arkansas_. On the 1st of July, I left Memphis with the Mississippi flotilla, and arrived above Vicksburg late on the following day. Admiral Farragut's fleet attempted the passage of the batteries on the 28th of June. A portion of the fleet succeeded in the attempt, under a heavy fire, and gained a position above the peninsula. Among the first to effect a passage was the flag-ship _Hartford_, with the "gallant old salamander" on board. The _Richmond, Iroquois_, and _Oneida_ were the sloops-of-war that accompanied the _Hartford_. The _Brooklyn_ and other heavy vessels remained below. The history of that first siege of Vicksburg can be briefly told. Twenty-five hundred infantry, under General Williams, accompanied the fleet from New Orleans, with the design of occupying Vicksburg after the batteries had been silenced by our artillery. Most of the Rebel guns were located at such a height that it was found impossible to elevate our own guns so as to reach them. Thus the occupation by infantry was found impracticable. The passage of the batteries was followed by the bombardment, from the mortar-schooners of Admiral Farragut's fleet and the mortar-rafts which Flag-Officer Davis had brought down. This continued steadily for several days, but Vicksburg did not fall. A canal across the peninsula was proposed and commenced. The water fell as fast as the digging progressed, and the plan of leaving Vicksburg inland was abandoned for that time. Even had there been a flood in the river, the entrance to the canal was so located that success was impossible. The old steamboat-men laughed at the efforts of the Massachusetts engineer, to create a current in his canal by commencing it in an eddy. Just as the canal project was agreed upon, I was present at a conversation between General Williams and several residents of the vicinity. The latter, fearing the channel of the river would be changed, visited the general to protest against the carrying out of his plan. The citizens were six in number. They had selected no one to act as their leader. Each joined in the conversation as he saw fit. After a little preliminary talk, one of them said: "Are you aware, general, there is no law of the State allowing you to make a cut-off, here?" "I am sorry to say," replied General Williams, "I am not familiar with the laws of Louisiana. Even if I were, I should not heed them. I believe Louisiana passed an act of secession. According to your own showing you have no claims on the Government now." This disposed of that objection. There was some hesitation, evidently embarrassing to the delegation, but not to General Williams. Citizen number one was silenced. Number two advanced an idea. "You may remember, General, that you will subject the parish of Madison to an expenditure of ninety thousand dollars for new levees." This argument disturbed General Williams no more than the first one. He promptly replied: "The parish of Madison gave a large majority in favor of secession; did it not?" "I believe it did," was the faltering response. "Then you can learn that treason costs something. It will cost you far more before the war is over." Citizen number two said nothing more. It was the opportunity for number three to speak. "If this cut-off is made, it will ruin the trade of Vicksburg. It has been a fine city for business, but this will spoil it. Boats will not be able to reach the town, but will find all the current through the short route." "That is just what we want," said the General. "We are digging the canal for the very purpose of navigating the river without passing near Vicksburg." Number three went to the rear. Number four came forward. "If you make this cut-off, all these plantations will be carried away. You will ruin the property of many loyal men." He was answered that loyal men would be paid for all property taken or destroyed, as soon as their loyalty was proved. The fifth and last point in the protest was next advanced. It came from an individual who professed to practice law in De Soto township, and was as follows: "The charter of the Vicksburg and Shreveport Railroad is perpetual, and so declared by act of the Louisiana Legislature. No one has any right to cut through the embankment." "That is true," was the quiet answer. "The Constitution of the United States is also a perpetual charter, which it was treason to violate. When you and your leaders have no hesitation at breaking national faith, it is absurd to claim rights under the laws of a State which you deny to be in the Union." This was the end of the delegation. Its members retired without having gained a single point in their case. They were, doubtless, easier in mind when they ascertained, two weeks later, that the canal enterprise was a failure. The last argument put forth on that occasion, to prevent the carrying out of our plans, is one of the curiosities of legislation. For a long time there were many parties in Louisiana who wished the channel of the Mississippi turned across the neck of the peninsula opposite Vicksburg, thus shortening the river fifteen miles, at least, and rendering the plantations above, less liable to overflow. As Vicksburg lay in another State, her interests were not regarded. She spent much money in the corrupt Legislature of Louisiana to defeat the scheme. As a last resort, it was proposed to build a railway, with a perpetual charter, from the end of the peninsula opposite Vicksburg, to some point in the interior. Much money was required. The capitalists of Vicksburg contributed the funds for lobbying the bill and commencing the road. Up to the time when the Rebellion began, it was rendered certain that no hand of man could legally turn the Mississippi across that peninsula. The first siege of Vicksburg lasted but twenty days. Our fleet was unable to silence the batteries, and our land force was not sufficient for the work. During the progress of the siege, Colonel Ellet, with his ram fleet, ascended the Yazoo River, and compelled the Rebels to destroy three of their gun-boats, the _Livingston, Polk_, and _Van Dorn_, to prevent their falling into our hands. The _Van Dorn_ was the only boat that escaped, out of the fleet of eight Rebel gun-boats which met ours at Memphis on the 6th of June. At the time of making this expedition, Colonel Ellet learned that the famous ram gun-boat _Arkansas_ was completed, and nearly ready to descend the river. He notified Admiral Farragut and Flag-Officer Davis, but they paid little attention to his warnings. This Rebel gun-boat, which was expected to do so much toward the destruction of our naval forces on the Mississippi, was constructed at Memphis, and hurried from there in a partially finished condition, just before the capture of the city. She was towed to Yazoo City and there completed. The _Arkansas_ was a powerful iron-clad steamer, mounting ten guns, and carrying an iron beak, designed for penetrating the hulls of our gun-boats. Her engines were powerful, though they could not be worked with facility at the time of her appearance. Her model, construction, armament, and propelling force, made her equal to any boat of our upper flotilla, and her officers claimed to have full confidence in her abilities. On the morning of the 15th of July, the _Arkansas_ emerged from the Yazoo River, fifteen miles above Vicksburg. A short distance up that stream she encountered two of our gun-boats, the _Carondelet_ and _Tyler_, and fought them until she reached our fleet at anchor above Vicksburg. The _Carondelet_ was one of our mail-clad gun-boats, built at St. Louis in 1861. The _Tyler_ was a wooden gun-boat, altered from an old transport, and was totally unfit for entering into battle. Both were perforated by the Rebel shell, the _Tyler_ receiving the larger number. The gallantry displayed by Captain Gwin, her commander, was worthy of special praise. Our fleet was at anchor four or five miles above Vicksburg--some of the vessels lying in midstream, while others were fastened to the banks. The _Arkansas_ fired to the right and left as she passed through the fleet. Her shot disabled two of our boats, and slightly injured two or three others. She did not herself escape without damage. Many of our projectiles struck her sides, but glanced into the river. Two shells perforated her plating, and another entered a port, exploding over one of the guns. Ten men were killed and as many wounded. The _Arkansas_ was not actually disabled, but her commander declined to enter into another action until she had undergone repairs. She reached a safe anchorage under protection of the Vicksburg batteries. A few days later, a plan was arranged for her destruction. Colonel Ellet, with the ram _Queen of the West_, was to run down and strike the _Arkansas_ at her moorings. The gun-boat _Essex_ was to join in this effort, while the upper flotilla, assisted by the vessels of Admiral Farragut's fleet, would shell the Rebel batteries. The _Essex_ started first, but ran directly past the _Arkansas_, instead of stopping to engage her, as was expected. The _Essex_ fired three guns at the _Arkansas_ while in range, from one of which a shell crashed through the armor of the Rebel boat, disabling an entire gun-crew. The _Queen of the West_ attempted to perform her part of the work, but the current was so strong where the _Arkansas_ lay that it was impossible to deal an effective blow. The upper flotilla did not open fire to engage the attention of the enemy, and thus the unfortunate _Queen of the West_ was obliged to receive all the fire from the Rebel batteries. She was repeatedly perforated, but fortunately escaped without damage to her machinery. The _Arkansas_ was not seriously injured in the encounter, though the completion of her repairs was somewhat delayed. On the 25th of July the first siege of Vicksburg was raised. The upper flotilla of gun-boats, mortar-rafts, and transports, returned to Memphis and Helena. Admiral Farragut took his fleet to New Orleans. General Williams went, with his land forces, to Baton Rouge. That city was soon after attacked by General Breckinridge, with six thousand men. The Rebels were repulsed with heavy loss. In our own ranks the killed and wounded were not less than those of the enemy. General Williams was among the slain, and at one period our chances, of making a successful defense were very doubtful. The _Arkansas_ had been ordered to proceed from Vicksburg to take part in this attack, the Rebels being confident she could overpower our three gun-boats at Baton Rouge. On the way down the river her machinery became deranged, and she was tied up to the bank for repairs. Seeing our gun-boats approaching, and knowing he was helpless against them; her commander ordered the _Arkansas_ to be abandoned and blown up. The order was obeyed, and this much-praised and really formidable gun-boat closed her brief but brilliant career. The Rebels were greatly chagrined at her loss, as they had expected she would accomplish much toward driving the National fleet from the Mississippi. The joy with which they hailed her appearance was far less than the sorrow her destruction evoked. CHAPTER XX. THE MARCH THROUGH ARKANSAS.--THE SIEGE OF CINCINNATI. General Curtis's Army reaching Helena.--Its Wanderings.--The Arkansas Navy.--Troops and their Supplies "miss Connection."--Rebel Reports.--Memphis in Midsummer.--"A Journey due North."--Chicago.--Bragg's Advance into Kentucky.--Kirby Smith in Front of Cincinnati.--The City under Martial Law.--The Squirrel Hunters.--War Correspondents in Comfortable Quarters.--Improvising an Army.--Raising the Siege.--Bragg's Retreat. About the middle of July, General Curtis's army arrived at Helena, Arkansas, ninety miles below Memphis. After the battle of Pea Ridge, this army commenced its wanderings, moving first to Batesville, on the White River, where it lay for several weeks. Then it went to Jacksonport, further down that stream, and remained a short time. The guerrillas were in such strong force on General Curtis's line of communications that they greatly restricted the receipt of supplies, and placed the army on very short rations. For nearly a month the public had no positive information concerning Curtis's whereabouts. The Rebels were continually circulating stories that he had surrendered, or was terribly defeated. The only reasons for doubting the truth of these stories were, first, that the Rebels had no force of any importance in Arkansas; and second, that our army, to use the expression of one of its officers, "wasn't going round surrendering." We expected it would turn up in some locality where the Rebels did not desire it, and had no fears of its surrender. General Curtis constructed several boats at Batesville, which were usually spoken of as "the Arkansas navy." These boats carried some six or eight hundred men, and were used to patrol the White River, as the army moved down its banks. In this way the column advanced from Batesville to Jacksonport, and afterward to St. Charles. Supplies had been sent up the White River to meet the army. The transports and their convoy remained several days at St. Charles, but could get no tidings of General Curtis. The river was falling, and they finally returned. Twelve hours after their departure, the advance of the lost army arrived at St. Charles. From St. Charles to Helena was a march of sixty miles, across a country destitute of every thing but water, and not even possessing a good supply of that article. The army reached Helena, weary and hungry, but it was speedily supplied with every thing needed, and put in condition to take the offensive. It was soon named in general orders "the Army of Arkansas," and ultimately accomplished the occupation of the entire State. During July and August there was little activity around Memphis. In the latter month, I found the climate exceedingly uncomfortable. Day after day the atmosphere was hot, still, stifling, and impregnated with the dust that rose in clouds from the parched earth. The inhabitants endured it easily, and made continual prophesy that the _hot_ weather "would come in September." Those of us who were strangers wondered what the temperature must be, to constitute "hot" weather in the estimation of a native. The thermometer then stood at eighty-five degrees at midnight, and ninety-eight or one hundred at noon. Few people walked the streets in the day, and those who were obliged to do so generally moved at a snail's pace. Cases of _coup-de-soleil_ were frequent. The temperature affected me personally, by changing my complexion to a deep yellow, and reducing my strength about sixty per cent. I decided upon "A Journey due North." Forty-eight hours after sweltering in Memphis, I was shivering on the shores of Lake Michigan. I exchanged the hot, fever-laden atmosphere of that city, for the cool and healthful air of Chicago. The activity, energy, and enterprise of Chicago, made a pleasing contrast to the idleness and gloom that pervaded Memphis. This was no place for me to exist in as an invalid. I found the saffron tint of my complexion rapidly disappearing, and my strength restored, under the influence of pure breezes and busy life. Ten days in that city prepared me for new scenes of war. At that time the Rebel army, under General Bragg, was making its advance into Kentucky. General Buell was moving at the same time toward the Ohio River. The two armies were marching in nearly parallel lines, so that it became a race between them for Nashville and Louisville. Bragg divided his forces, threatening Louisville and Cincinnati at the same time. Defenses were thrown up around the former city, to assist in holding it in case of attack, but they were never brought into use. By rapid marching, General Buell reached Louisville in advance of Bragg, and rendered it useless for the latter to fling his army against the city. Meantime, General Kirby Smith moved, under Bragg's orders, to the siege of Cincinnati. His advance was slow, and gave some opportunity for preparation. The chief reliance for defense was upon the raw militia and such irregular forces as could be gathered for the occasion. The hills of Covington and Newport, opposite Cincinnati, were crowned with fortifications and seamed with rifle-pits, which were filled with these raw soldiers. The valor of these men was beyond question, but they were almost entirely without discipline. In front of the veteran regiments of the Rebel army our forces would have been at great disadvantage. When I reached Cincinnati the Rebel army was within a few miles of the defenses. On the train which took me to the city, there were many of the country people going to offer their services to aid in repelling the enemy. They entered the cars at the various stations, bringing their rifles, which they well knew how to use. They were the famous "squirrel-hunters" of Ohio, who were afterward the subject of some derision on the part of the Rebels. Nearly twenty thousand of them volunteered for the occasion, and would have handled their rifles to advantage had the Rebels given them the opportunity. At the time of my arrival at Cincinnati, Major-General Wallace was in command. The Queen City of the West was obliged to undergo some of the inconveniences of martial law. Business of nearly every kind was suspended. A provost-marshal's pass was necessary to enable one to walk the streets in security. The same document was required of any person who wished to hire a carriage, or take a pleasant drive to the Kentucky side of the Ohio. Most of the able-bodied citizens voluntarily offered their services, and took their places in the rifle-pits, but there were some who refused to go. These were hunted out and taken to the front, much against their will. Some were found in or under beds; others were clad in women's garments, and working at wash-tubs. Some tied up their hands as if disabled, and others plead baldness or indigestion to excuse a lack of patriotism. All was of no avail. The provost-marshal had no charity for human weakness. This severity was not pleasant to the citizens, but it served an admirable purpose. When Kirby Smith arrived in front of the defenses, he found forty thousand men confronting him. Of these, not over six or eight thousand had borne arms more than a week or ten days. The volunteer militia of Cincinnati, and the squirrel-hunters from the interior of Ohio and Indiana, formed the balance of our forces. Our line of defenses encircled the cities of Covington and Newport, touching the Ohio above and below their extreme limits. Nearly every hill was crowned with a fortification. These fortifications were connected by rifle-pits, which were kept constantly filled with men. On the river we had a fleet of gun-boats, improvised from ordinary steamers by surrounding their vulnerable parts with bales of hay. The river was low, so that it was necessary to watch several places where fording was possible. A pontoon bridge was thrown across the Ohio, and continued there until the siege was ended. It had been a matter of jest among the journalists at Memphis and other points in the Southwest, that the vicissitudes of war might some day enable us to witness military operations from the principal hotels in the Northern cities. "When we can write war letters from the Burnet or the Sherman House," was the occasional remark, "there will be some personal comfort in being an army correspondent." What we had said in jest was now proving true. We could take a carriage at the Burnet House, and in half an hour stand on our front lines and witness the operations of the skirmishers. Later in the war I was enabled to write letters upon interesting topics from Detroit and St. Paul. The way in which our large defensive force was fed, was nearly as great a novelty as the celerity of its organization. It was very difficult to sever the red tape of the army regulations, and enable the commissary department to issue rations to men that belonged to no regiments or companies. The people of Cincinnati were very prompt to send contributions of cooked food to the Fifth Street Market-House, which was made a temporary restaurant for the defenders of the city. Wagons were sent daily through nearly all the streets to gather these contributed supplies, and the street-cars were free to all women and children going to or from the Market-House. Hundreds walked to the front, to carry the provisions they had prepared with their own hands. All the ordinary edibles of civilized life were brought forward in abundance. Had our men fought at all, they would have fought on full stomachs. The arrival of General Buell's army at Louisville rendered it impossible for Bragg to take that city. The defenders of Cincinnati were re-enforced by a division from General Grant's army, which was then in West Tennessee. This arrival was followed by that of other trained regiments and brigades from various localities, so that we began to contemplate taking the offensive. The Rebels disappeared from our front, and a reconnoissance showed that they were falling back toward Lexington. They burned the turnpike and railway bridges as they retreated, showing conclusively that they had abandoned the siege. As soon as the retirement of the Rebels was positively ascertained, a portion of our forces was ordered from Cincinnati to Louisville. General Buell's army took the offensive, and pursued Bragg as he retreated toward the Tennessee River. General Wallace was relieved, and his command transferred to General Wright. A change in the whole military situation soon transpired. From holding the defensive, our armies became the pursuers of the Rebels, the latter showing little inclination to risk an encounter. The battle of Perryville was the great battle of this Kentucky campaign. Its result gave neither army much opportunity for exultation. In their retreat through Kentucky and Tennessee, the Rebels gathered all the supplies they could find, and carried them to their commissary depot at Knoxville. It was said that their trains included more than thirty thousand wagons, all of them heavily laden. Large droves of cattle and horses became the property of the Confederacy. CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE OF CORINTH. New Plans of the Rebels.--Their Design to Capture Corinth,--Advancing to the Attack.--Strong Defenses.--A Magnificent Charge.--Valor _vs._ Breast-Works.--The Repulse.--Retreat and Pursuit.--The National Arms Triumphant. The Bragg campaign into Kentucky being barren of important results, the Rebel authorities ordered that an attempt should be made to drive us from West Tennessee. The Rebel army in Northern Mississippi commenced the aggressive late in September, while the retreat of Bragg was still in progress. The battle of Iuka resulted favorably to the Rebels, giving them possession of that point, and allowing a large quantity of supplies to fall into their hands. On the 4th of October was the famous battle of Corinth, the Rebels under General Van Dorn attacking General Rosecrans, who was commanding at Corinth. The Rebels advanced from Holly Springs, striking Corinth on the western side of our lines. The movement was well executed, and challenged our admiration for its audacity and the valor the Rebel soldiery displayed. It was highly important for the success of the Rebel plans in the Southwest that we should be expelled from Corinth. Accordingly, they made a most determined effort, but met a signal defeat. Some of the best fighting of the war occurred at this battle of Corinth. The Rebel line of battle was on the western and northern side of the town, cutting off our communications with General Grant at Jackson. The Rebels penetrated our line, and actually obtained possession of a portion of Corinth, but were driven out by hard, earnest work. It was a struggle for a great prize, in which neither party was inclined to yield as long as it had any strength remaining to strike a blow. The key to our position was on the western side, where two earth-works had been thrown up to command the approaches in that direction. These works were known as "Battery Williams" and "Battery Robbinette," so named in honor of the officers who superintended their erection and commanded their garrisons at the time of the assault. These works were on the summits of two small hills, where the ascent from the main road that skirted their base was very gentle. The timber on these slopes had been cut away to afford full sweep to our guns. An advancing force would be completely under our fire during the whole time of its ascent. Whether succeeding or failing, it must lose heavily. [Illustration: THE REBEL CHARGE AT CORINTH.] General Van Dorn gave Price's Division the honor of assaulting these works. The division was composed of Missouri, Arkansas, and Texas regiments, and estimated at eight thousand strong. Price directed the movement in person, and briefly told his men that the position must be taken at all hazards. The line was formed on the wooded ground at the base of the hills on which our batteries stood. The advance was commenced simultaneously along the line. As the Rebels emerged from the forest, our guns were opened. Officers who were in Battery Williams at the time of the assault, say the Rebels moved in splendid order. Grape and shell made frequent and wide gaps through their ranks, but the line did not break nor waver. The men moved directly forward, over the fallen timber that covered the ground, and at length came within range of our infantry, which had been placed in the forts to support the gunners. Our artillery had made fearful havoc among the Rebels from the moment they left the protection of the forest. Our infantry was waiting with impatience to play its part. When the Rebels were fairly within range of our small-arms, the order was given for a simultaneous volley along our whole line. As the shower of bullets struck the Rebel front, hundreds of men went down. Many flags fell as the color-bearers were killed, but they were instantly seized and defiantly waved. With a wild cheer the Rebels dashed forward up to the very front of the forts, receiving without recoil a most deadly fire. They leaped the ditch and gained the parapet. They entered a bastion of Battery Williams, and for a minute held possession of one of our guns. Of the dozen or more that gained the interior of the bastion, very few escaped. Nearly all were shot down while fighting for possession of the gun, or surrendered when the parapet was cleared of those ascending it. The retreat of the Rebels was hasty, but it was orderly. Even in a repulse their coolness did not forsake them. They left their dead scattered thickly in our front. In one group of seventeen, they lay so closely together that their bodies touched each other. An officer told me he could have walked along the entire front of Battery Williams, touching a dead or wounded Rebel at nearly every step. Two Rebel colonels were killed side by side, one of them falling with his hand over the edge of the ditch. They were buried where they died. In the attack in which the Rebels entered the edge of the town, the struggle was nearly as great. It required desperate fighting for them to gain possession of the spot, and equally desperate fighting on our part to retake it. All our officers who participated in this battle spoke in admiration of the courage displayed by the Rebels. Praise from an enemy is the greatest praise. The Rebels were not defeated on account of any lack of bravery or of recklessness. They were fully justified in retreating after the efforts they made. Our army was just as determined to hold Corinth as the Rebels were to capture it. Advantages of position turned the scale in our favor, and enabled us to repulse a force superior to our own. Just before the battle, General Grant sent a division under General McPherson to re-enforce Corinth. The Rebels had cut the railway between the two points, so that the re-enforcement did not reach Corinth until the battle was over. On the morning following the battle, our forces moved out in pursuit of the retreating Rebels. At the same time a column marched from Bolivar, so as to fall in their front. The Rebels were taken between the two columns, and brought to an engagement with each of them; but, by finding roads to the south, managed to escape without disorganization. Our forces returned to Corinth and Bolivar, thinking it useless to make further pursuit. Thus terminated the campaign of the enemy against Corinth. There was no expectation that the Rebels would trouble us any more in that quarter for the present, unless we sought them out. Their defeat was sufficiently serious to compel them to relinquish all hope of expelling us from Corinth. During the time of his occupation of West Tennessee, General Grant was much annoyed by the wandering sons of Israel, who thronged his lines in great numbers. They were engaged in all kinds of speculation in which money could be made. Many of them passed the lines into the enemy's country, and purchased cotton, which they managed to bring to Memphis and other points on the river. Many were engaged in smuggling supplies to the Rebel armies, and several were caught while acting as spies. On our side of the lines the Jews were Union men, and generally announced their desire for a prompt suppression of the Rebellion. When under the folds of the Rebel flag they were the most ardent Secessionists, and breathed undying hostility to the Yankees. Very few of them had any real sympathy with either side, and were ready, like Mr. Pickwick, to shout with the largest mob on all occasions, provided there was money to be made by the operation. Their number was very great. In the latter half of '62, a traveler would have thought the lost tribes of Israel were holding a reunion at Memphis. General Grant became indignant, and issued an order banishing the Jews from his lines. The order created much excitement among the Americans of Hebraic descent. The matter was placed before the President, and the obnoxious restriction promptly revoked. During the time it was in force a large number of the proscribed individuals were obliged to go North. Sometimes the Rebels did not treat the Jews with the utmost courtesy. On one occasion a scouting party captured two Jews who were buying cotton. The Israelites were robbed of ten thousand dollars in gold and United States currency, and then forced to enter the ranks of the Rebel army. They did not escape until six months later. In Chicago, in the first year of the war, a company of Jews was armed and equipped at the expense of their wealthier brethren. The men composing the company served their full time, and were highly praised for their gallantry. The above case deserves mention, as it is an exception to the general conduct of the Jews. CHAPTER XXII. THE CAMPAIGN FROM CORINTH. Changes of Commanders.--Preparations for the Aggressive.--Marching from Corinth.--Talking with the People.--"You-uns and We-uns."--Conservatism of a "Regular."--Loyalty and Disloyalty.--Condition of the Rebel Army.--Foraging.--German Theology for American Soldiers.--A Modest Landlord.--A Boy without a Name.--The Freedmen's Bureau.--Employing Negroes.--Holly Springs and its People.--An Argument for Secession. Two weeks after the battle of Corinth, General Rosecrans was summoned to the Army of the Cumberland, to assume command in place of General Buell. General Grant was placed at the head of the Thirteenth Army Corps, including all the forces in West Tennessee. Preparations for an aggressive movement into the enemy's country had been in progress for some time. Corinth, Bolivar, and Jackson were strongly fortified, so that a small force could defend them. The base of supply was at Columbus, Kentucky, eighty-five miles due north of Jackson, thus giving us a long line of railway to protect. On the first of November the movement began, by the advance of a column from Corinth and another from Bolivar. These columns met at Grand Junction, twenty-five miles north of Holly Springs, and, after lying there for two weeks, advanced to the occupation of the latter point. The Rebels evacuated the place on our approach, and after a day or two at Holly Springs we went forward toward the south. Abbeville and Oxford were taken, and the Rebels established themselves at Grenada, a hundred miles south of Memphis. From Corinth I accompanied the division commanded by General Stanley. I had known this officer in Missouri, in the first year of the war, when he claimed to be very "conservative" in his views. During the campaign with General Lyon he expressed himself opposed to a warfare that should produce a change in the social status at the South. When I met him at Corinth he was very "radical" in sentiment, and in favor of a thorough destruction of the "peculiar institution." He declared that he had liberated his own slaves, and was determined to set free all the slaves of any other person that might come in his way. He rejoiced that the war had not ended during the six months following the fall of Fort Sumter, as we should then have allowed slavery to exist, which would have rendered us liable to another rebellion whenever the Southern leaders chose to make it. We could only be taught by the logic of events, and it would take two or three years of war to educate the country to a proper understanding of our position. It required a war of greater magnitude than was generally expected at the outset. In 1861 there were few people who would have consented to interfere with "slavery in the States." The number of these persons was greater in 1862, but it was not until 1864 that the anti-slavery sentiment took firm hold of the public mind. In 1861 the voice of Missouri would have favored the retention of the old system. In 1864 that State became almost as radical as Massachusetts. The change in public sentiment elsewhere was nearly as great. During the march from Corinth to Grand Junction, I had frequent opportunity for conversing with the people along the route. There were few able-bodied men at home. It was the invariable answer, when we asked the whereabouts of any citizen, "He's away." Inquiry would bring a reluctant confession that he had gone to the Rebel army. Occasionally a woman would boast that she had sent her husband to fight for his rights and the rights of his State. The violation of State rights and the infringement upon personal prerogative were charged upon the National Government as the causes of the war. Some of the women displayed considerable skill in arguing the question of secession, but their arguments were generally mingled with invective. The majority were unable to make any discussion whatever. "What's you-uns come down here to fight we-uns for?" said one of the women whose husband was in the Rebel army. "We-uns never did you-uns no hurt." (This addition of a syllable to the personal pronouns of the second and third persons is common in some parts of the South, while in others it will not be heard.) "Well," said General Stanley, "we came down here because we were obliged to come. Your people commenced a war, and we are trying to help you end it." "We-uns didn't want to fight, no-how. You-uns went and made the war so as to steal our niggers." The woman acknowledged that neither her husband nor herself ever owned negroes, or ever expected to do so. She knew nothing about Fort Sumter, and only knew that the North elected one President and the South another, on the same occasion. The South only wanted its president to rule its own region, but the North wanted to extend its control over the whole country, so as to steal the negroes. Hence arose the war. Some of the poorer whites manifested a loyal feeling, which sprang from a belief that the establishment of the Confederacy would not better their condition. This number was not large, but it has doubtless increased with the termination of the war. The wealthier portion of the people were invariably in sympathy with the Rebel cause. After we reached Grand Junction, and made our camp a short distance south of that point, we were joined by the column from Bolivar. In the two columns General Grant had more than forty thousand men, exclusive of a force under General Sherman, about to move from Memphis. The Rebel army was at Holly Springs and Abbeville, and was estimated at fifty thousand strong. Every day found a few deserters coming in from the Rebels, but their number was not large. The few that came represented their army to be well supplied with shoes, clothing, and ammunition, and also well fed. They were nearly recovered from the effects of their repulse at Corinth, a month before. Our soldiers foraged at will on the plantations near our camp. The quantities of supplies that were brought in did not argue that the country had been previously visited by an army. Mules, horses, cattle, hogs, sheep, chickens, and other things used by an army, were found in abundance. The soldiers did not always confine their foraging to articles of necessity. A clergyman's library was invaded and plundered. I saw one soldier bending under the (avoirdupois) weight of three heavy volumes on theology, printed in the German language. Another soldier, a mere boy, was carrying away in triumph a copy of Scott's Greek Lexicon. In every instance when it came to their knowledge, the officers compelled the soldiers to return the books they had stolen. German theology and Greek Lexicons were not thought advantageous to an army in the field. One wing of our army was encamped at Lagrange, Tennessee, and honored with the presence of General Grant. Lagrange presented a fair example of the effects of secession upon the interior villages of the South. Before the war it was the center of a flourishing business. Its private residences were constructed with considerable magnificence, and evinced the wealth of their owners. There was a male and a female college; there was a bank, and there were several stores and commission houses. When the war broke out, the young men at the male college enlisted in the Rebel army. The young women in the female college went to their homes. The bank was closed for want of funds, the hotels had no guests, the stores had few customers, and these had no money, the commission houses could find no cotton to sell and no goods to buy. Every thing was completely stagnated. All the men who could carry muskets went to the field. When we occupied the town, there were not three men remaining who were of the arms-bearing age. I found in Lagrange a man who _could_ keep a hotel. He was ignorant, lazy, and his establishment only resembled the Fifth Avenue or the Continental in the prices charged to the guests. I staid several days with this Boniface, and enjoyed the usual fare of the interior South. Calling for my bill at my departure, I found the charges were only three dollars and fifty cents per day. My horse had been kept in a vacant and dilapidated stable belonging to the hotel, but the landlord refused to take any responsibility for the animal. He had no corn or hay, and his hostler had "gone to the Yankees!" During my stay I employed a man to purchase corn and give the desired attention to the horse. The landlord made a charge of one dollar per day for "hoss-keeping," and was indignant when I entered a protest. Outside of Newport and Saratoga, I think there are very few hotel-keepers in the North who would make out and present a bill on so small a basis as this. This taverner's wife and daughter professed an utter contempt for all white persons who degraded themselves to any kind of toil. Of course, their hostility to the North was very great. Beyond a slight supervision, they left every thing to the care of the negroes. A gentleman who was with me sought to make himself acquainted with the family, and succeeded admirably until, on one evening, he constructed a small toy to amuse the children. This was too much. He was skillful with his hands, and must therefore be a "mudsill." His acquaintance with the ladies of that household came to an end. His manual dexterity was his ruin. There was another hotel in Lagrange, a rival establishment, that bore the reputation of being much the worse in point of comfort. It was owned by a widow, and this widow had a son--a lank, overgrown youth of eighteen. His poverty, on one point, was the greatest I ever knew. He could have been appropriately selected as the hero of a certain popular novel by Wilkie Collins. No name had ever been given him by his parents. In his infancy they spoke of him as "the boy." When he grew large enough to appear on the street with other boys, some one gave him the _sobriquet_ of "Rough and Ready." From that time forward, his only praenomen was "Rough." I made several inquiries among his neighbors, but could not ascertain that he bore any other Christian appellative. The first comprehensive order providing for the care of the negroes in the Southwest, was issued by General Grant while his army lay at Lagrange and Grand Junction. Previous to that time, the negroes had been disposed of as each division and post commander thought best, under his general instructions not to treat them unkindly. Four months earlier, our authorities at Memphis had enrolled several hundred able-bodied negroes into an organization for service in the Quartermaster's Department, in accordance with the provisions of an order from District Head-Quarters. They threw up fortifications, loaded and unloaded steamboats, and performed such other labor as was required. In General Grant's army there was a pioneer corps of three hundred negroes, under the immediate charge of an overseer, controlled by an officer of engineers. No steps were then taken to use them as soldiers. The number of negroes at our posts and in our camps was rapidly increasing. Under the previous orders, they were registered and employed only on Government work. None but the able-bodied males were thus available. The new arrangements contemplated the employment of all who were capable of performing any kind of field labor. It was expected to bring some revenue to the Government, that would partially cover the expense of providing for the negroes. The following is the order which General Grant issued:-- HEAD-QUARTERS THIRTEENTH ARMY CORPS, DEPARTMENT OF THE TENNESSEE, LAGRANGE, TENNESSEE, _November_ 14, 1862. SPECIAL FIELD ORDER, NO. 4. I. Chaplain J. Eaton, Jr., of the Twenty-seventh Ohio Volunteers, is hereby appointed to take charge of all fugitive slaves that are now, or may from time to time come, within the military lines of the advancing army in this vicinity, not employed and registered in accordance with General Orders, No. 72, from head-quarters District of West Tennessee, and will open a camp for them at Grand Junction, where they will be suitably cared for, and organized into companies, and set to work, picking, ginning, and baling all cotton now outstanding in fields. II. Commanding officers of all troops will send all fugitives that come within the lines, together with such teams, cooking utensils, and other baggage as they may bring with them, to Chaplain J. Eaton, Jr., at Grand Junction. III. One regiment of infantry from Brigadier-General McArthur's Division will be temporarily detailed as guard in charge of such contrabands, and the surgeon of said regiment will be charged with the care of the sick. IV. Commissaries of subsistence will issue, on the requisitions of Chaplain Eaton, omitting the coffee ration, and substituting rye. By order of Major-General U.S. Grant. JNO. A. RAWLINS, A.A.G. Chaplain Eaton entered immediately upon the discharge of his duties. Many division and brigade commanders threw obstacles in his way, and were very slow to comply with General Grant's order. Some of the officers of the Commissary Department made every possible delay in filling Chaplain Eaton's requisitions. The people of the vicinity laughed at the experiment, and prophesied speedy and complete failure. They endeavored to insure a failure by stealing the horses and mules, and disabling the machinery which Chaplain Eaton was using. Failing in this, they organized guerrilla parties, and attempted to frighten the negroes from working in the field. They only desisted from this enterprise when some of their number were killed. All the negroes that came into the army lines were gathered at Grand Junction and organized, in compliance with the order. There were many fields of cotton fully ripened, that required immediate attention. Cotton-picking commenced, and was extensively prosecuted. The experiment proved a success. The cotton, in the immediate vicinity of Grand Junction and Lagrange was gathered, baled, and made ready for market. For once, the labors of the negro in the Southwest were bringing an actual return to the Government. The following year saw the system enlarged, as our armies took possession of new districts. In 1863, large quantities of cotton were gathered from fields in the vicinity of Lake Providence and Milliken's Bend, and the cultivation of plantations was commenced. In 1864, this last enterprise was still further prosecuted. Chaplain Eaton became Colonel Eaton, and the humble beginning at Grand Junction grew into a great scheme for demonstrating the practicability of free labor, and benefiting the negroes who-had been left without support by reason of the flight of their owners. As the army lay in camp near Lagrange for nearly four weeks, and the enemy was twenty-five miles distant, there was very little war correspondence to be written. There was an occasional skirmish near the front, but no important movement whatever. The monotony of this kind of life, and the tables of the Lagrange hotels, were not calculated to awaken much enthusiasm. Learning from a staff officer the probable date when the army would advance, I essayed a visit to St. Louis, and returned in season to take part in the movement into Mississippi. At the time General Grant advanced from Lagrange, he ordered General Sherman to move from Memphis, so that the two columns would unite in the vicinity of Oxford, Mississippi. General Sherman pushed his column as rapidly as possible, and, by the combined movement, the Rebels were forced out of their defenses beyond Oxford, and compelled to select a new line in the direction of Grenada. Our flag was steadily advancing toward the Gulf. Satisfied there would be no battle until our army had passed Oxford, I tarried several days at Holly Springs, waiting for the railway to be opened. I found the town a very pleasant one, finely situated, and bearing evidence of the wealth and taste of its inhabitants. When the war broke out, there were only two places in the State that could boast a larger population than Holly Springs. At the time of my arrival, the hotels of Holly Springs were not open, and I was obliged to take a room at a private house with one of the inhabitants. My host was an earnest advocate of the Rebel cause, and had the fullest confidence in the ultimate independence of the South. "We intend," said he, "to establish a strong Government, in which there will be no danger of interference by any abolitionists. If you had allowed us to have our own way, there would never have been any trouble. We didn't want you to have slavery in the North, but we wanted to go into the Territories, where we had a perfect right, and do as we pleased about taking our slaves there. The control of the Government belongs to us. The most of the Presidents have been from the South, as they ought to be. It was only when you elected a sectional President, who was sworn to break up slavery, that we objected. You began the war when you refused us the privilege of having a national President." This gentleman argued, further, that the half of all public property belonged to the South, and it was only just that the State authorities should take possession of forts and arsenals, as they did at the inception of the war. It was the especial right of the South to control the nation. Slavery was instituted from Heaven, for the especial good of both white and black. Whoever displayed any sympathy for the negro, and wished to make him free, was doing a great injustice to the slave and his master, particularly to the latter. Once he said the destruction of slavery would be unworthy a people who possessed any gallantry. "You will," he declared, "do a cruel wrong to many fine ladies. They know nothing about working with their hands, and consider such knowledge disgraceful. If their slaves are taken from them, these ladies will be helpless." This gentleman was the possessor of several negroes, though he lived in a house that he did not own. Of course, it was a great injustice to deprive him of his only property, especially as the laws of his State sanctioned such ownership. He declared he would not submit to any theft of that character. I do not think I ever saw a person manifest more passion than was exhibited by this individual on hearings one afternoon, that one of his slaves had taken refuge in our camp, with the avowed intention of going North. "I don't care for the loss," said he, "but what I do care for is, to be robbed by a nigger. I can endure an injury from a white man; to have a nigger defy me is too much." Unfortunate and unhappy man! I presume he is not entirely satisfied with the present status of the "Peculiar Institution." The cotton speculators at Holly Springs were guilty of some sharp transactions. One day a gentleman residing in the vicinity came to town in order to effect a sale of fifty bales. The cotton was in a warehouse a half-dozen miles away. Remaining over night in Holly Springs, and walking to the railway station in the morning, he found his cotton piled by the track and ready for shipment. Two men were engaged effacing the marks upon the bales. By some means they had obtained a sufficient number of Government wagons to remove the entire lot during the night. It was a case of downright theft. The offenders were banished beyond the lines of the army. In a public office at Holly Springs our soldiers found a great number of bills on the Northern Bank of Mississippi. They were in sheets, just as they had come from the press. None of them bore dates or signatures. The soldiers supplied all needed chirography, and the bills obtained a wide circulation. Chickens, pigs, and other small articles were purchased of the whites and negroes, and paid for with the most astonishing liberality. Counterfeits of the Rebel currency were freely distributed, and could only be distinguished from the genuine by their superior execution. Among the women in Holly Springs and its vicinity snuff was in great demand. The article is used by them in much the same way that men chew tobacco. The practice is known as "dipping," and is disgusting in the extreme. A stick the size of a common pencil is chewed or beaten at one end until the fibers are separated. In this condition it forms a brush. This brush is moistened with saliva, and plunged into the snuff. The fine powder which adheres is then rubbed on the gums and among the teeth. A species of partial intoxication is the result. The effect of continued "dipping" becomes apparent. The gums are inflamed, the teeth are discolored, the lips are shriveled, and the complexion is sallow. The throat is dry and irritated, and there is a constant desire to expectorate. I trust the habit will never become a Northern one. CHAPTER XXIII. GRANT'S OCCUPATION OF MISSISSIPPI. The Slavery Question.--A Generous Offer.--A Journalist's Modesty.--Hopes of the Mississippians at the Beginning of the War.--Visiting an Editress.--Literature under Difficulties.--Jacob Thompson and his Correspondence.--Plans for the Capture of Vicksburg.--Movements of General Sherman.--The Raid upon Holly Springs.--Forewarned, but not Forearmed.--A Gallant Fight. The people of Holly Springs were much excited over the slavery question. It was then early in December. The President's proclamation was to have its effect on all States, or portions of States, not represented in Congress on the first of January following. The slaveholders desired to have the northern district of Mississippi represented in Congress before the first of January. Three or four days after my arrival at Holly Springs I was with a small party of citizens to whom I had received introduction. The great question was being discussed. All were agreed that Northern Mississippi should be represented in Congress at whatever cost. "Grant has now been in Mississippi nearly two weeks," said the principal speaker; "we are clearly entitled to representation." "Certainly we are," responded another; "but who will represent us?" "Hold an election to-morrow, and choose our man." "Who will we send? None of us would be received. There isn't a man in the district who could swear he has taken no part in the Rebellion." "I have it," said the individual who first proposed an election. Turning to me, he made a somewhat novel proposition: "You can represent us in Congress. We've all been so d----d disloyal that we can't go; but that is no reason why we should not send a loyal men. Say yes, and we'll meet to-morrow, a dozen of us, and elect you." Here was an opportunity for glory. Only four days in a State from which I could go to Congress! I was offered all necessary credentials to insure my reception. My loyalty could be clearly and easily proved. My only duties would be to assist in fastening slavery upon my congressional district. Much as I felt honored at the offer of distinction, I was obliged to decline it. A similar proposition was made to another journalist. He, like myself, was governed by modesty, and begged to be excused from serving. The desire of this people to be represented in Congress, was a partial proof that they expected the national authority restored throughout the country. They professed to believe that our occupation would be temporary, but their actions did not agree with their words. They were greatly mortified at the inability of their army to oppose our advance, and frequently abused the Rebel Government without stint. They had anticipated an easy victory from the outset, and were greatly disappointed at the result, up to that time. "Just see how it is," said a Mississippian one day; "we expected to whip you without the slightest trouble. We threw the war into the Border States to keep it off our soil. Mississippi was very earnest for the Rebellion when Kentucky was the battle-ground. We no more expected you would come here, than that we should get to the moon. It is the fortune of war that you have driven us back, but it is very severe upon the cotton States." I ventured to ask about the possibilities of repudiation of the Rebel debt, in case the Confederacy was fairly established. "Of course we shall repudiate," was the response. "It would be far better for the Confederacy to do so than to attempt to pay the debt, or even its interest. Suppose we have a debt of a thousand millions, at eight per cent. This debt is due to our own people, and they have to pay the interest upon it. In twelve years and a half they would have paid another thousand millions, and still be as deeply in debt as ever. Now, if they repudiate the whole, the country will be a thousand millions richer at the end of twelve years and a half, than it otherwise would." In Mississippi, as well as in other Southern States, I frequently heard this argument. It is not surprising that the confidence of the people in their currency was shaken at a very early period. In its days of prosperity, Holly Springs boasted of two rival papers, each of them published weekly. One of these died just as the war broke out. The proprietor of the other, who was at the same time its editor, went, with his two sons, into the Rebel army, leaving the paper in charge of his wife. The lady wielded the pen for nearly a year, but the scarcity of printing-paper compelled her to close her office, a few months before our arrival. One afternoon, I accompanied Mr. Colburn, of _The World_, on a visit to the ex-editress. The lady received our cards and greeted us very cordially. She spoke, with evident pride, of her struggles to sustain her paper in war-time and under war prices, and hoped she could soon resume its publication. She referred to the absence of her husband and sons in the Rebel service, and was gratified that they had always borne a good record. She believed in the South and in the justness of its cause, but was prompt to declare that all the wrong was not on one side. She neither gave the South extravagant praise, nor visited the North with denunciation. She regretted the existence of the war, and charged its beginning upon the extremists of both sides. Slavery was clearly its cause, and she should look for its complete destruction in the event of the restoration of national authority. Through justice to itself, the North could demand nothing less, and the South must be willing to abide by the fortune of war. This woman respected and admired the North, because it was a region where labor was not degrading. She had always opposed the Southern sentiment concerning labor, and educated her children after her own belief. While other boys were idling in the streets, she had taught her sons all the mysteries of the printing-office, and made them able to care for themselves. She was confident they would vindicate the correctness of her theory, by winning good positions in life. She believed slavery had assisted the development of the South, but was equally positive that its effect upon the white race was ruinous in the extreme. She had no word of abuse for the Union, but spoke of it in terms of praise. At the same time she expressed an earnest hope for the success of the Rebellion. She saw the evil of slavery, but wished the Confederacy established. How she could reconcile all her views I was unable to ascertain. I do not believe she will take seriously to heart the defeat of the scheme to found a slaveholders' government. In the suppression of the Rebellion she will doubtless discover a brilliant future for "the land of the cypress and myrtle," and bless the day that witnessed the destruction of slavery. At Oxford, our forces found the residence of the ex-Hon. Jacob Thompson, who has since figured prominently as the Rebel agent in Canada. In his office a letter-book and much correspondence were secured--the letters showing that the design of a rebellion dated much further back than the first election of Mr. Lincoln. Some of this correspondence was given to the public at the time, and proved quite interesting. The balance was sent to the War Department, where it was expected to be of service. The books in Mr. Thompson's library found their way to various parts of the Union, and became scattered where it will be difficult for their owner to gather them, should he desire to restore his collection. If "misery loves company," it was doubtless gratifying to Mr. Thompson to know of the capture of the library and correspondence of Jefferson Davis, several months later. Our advance into Mississippi was being successfully pushed, early in December, 1862. There was a prospect that it would not accomplish the desired object, the capture of Vicksburg, without some counter-movement. A force was sent from Helena, Arkansas, to cut the railway in rear of the Rebel army. Though accomplishing its immediate object, it did not make a material change in the military situation. The Rebels continued to hold Grenada, which they had strongly fortified. They could only be forced from this position by a movement that should render Grenada of no practical value. General Grant detached the right wing of his army, with orders to make a rapid march to Memphis, and thence to descend the Mississippi by steamboats to Vicksburg. This expedition was commanded by General Sherman. While the movement was in progress, General Grant was to push forward, on the line he had been following, and attempt to join General Sherman at the nearest practicable point on the Yazoo River above Vicksburg. The fall of Vicksburg was thus thought to be assured, especially as General Sherman's attack was to be made upon the defenses in its rear. General Sherman moved, to Memphis with due celerity. The garrison of that city was reduced as much as possible to re-enforce his column. The Army of Arkansas, then at Helena, was temporarily added to his command. This gave a force exceeding twenty-eight thousand strong to move upon Vicksburg. It was considered sufficiently large to accomplish the desired object--the garrison of Vicksburg having been weakened to strengthen the army in General Grant's front. I was in Holly Springs when General Sherman began to move toward Memphis. Thinking there would be active work at Vicksburg, I prepared to go to Columbus by rail, and take a steamboat thence to Memphis. By this route it was nearly four hundred miles; but it was safer and more expeditious to travel in that way than to attempt the "overland" journey of fifty miles in a direct line. There were rumors that the Rebels contemplated a raid upon Holly Springs, for the purpose of cutting General Grant's communications and destroying the supplies known to be accumulated there. From the most vague and obscurely-worded hints, given by a Secessionist, I inferred that such a movement was expected. The Rebels were arranging a cavalry force to strike a blow somewhere upon our line of railway, and there was no point more attractive than Holly Springs. I attached no importance to the story, as I had invariably known the friends of the Rebels to predict wonderful movements that never occurred. Meeting the post-commandant shortly afterward, I told him what I had heard. He assured me there was nothing to fear, and that every thing was arranged to insure a successful defense. On this point I did not agree with him. I knew very well that the garrison was not properly distributed to oppose a dash of the enemy. There were but few men on picket, and no precautions had been taken against surprise. Our accumulation of stores was sufficiently large to be worth a strong effort to destroy them. As I was about ready to leave, I concluded to take the first train to Columbus. Less than forty-eight hours after my departure, General Van Dorn, at the head of five thousand men, entered Holly Springs with very slight opposition. He found every thing nearly as he could have arranged it had he planned the defense himself. The commandant, Colonel Murphy, was afterward dismissed the service for his negligence in preparing to defend the place after being notified by General Grant that the enemy was moving to attack him. The accumulation of supplies at the railway depot, and all the railway buildings, with their surroundings, were burned. Two trains of cars were standing ready to move, and these shared a similar fate. In the center of the town, a building we were using as a magazine was blown up. The most of the business portion of Holly Springs was destroyed by fire, communicated from this magazine. During the first year of the war, Holly Springs was selected as the site of a "Confederate States Arsenal," and a series of extensive buildings erected at great expense. We had converted these buildings into hospitals, and were fitting them up with suitable accommodations for a large number of sick and wounded. After ordering our surgeons to remove their patients, the Rebels set fire to the hospitals while the yellow flag was floating over them. General Grant subsequently denounced this act as contrary to the usages of war. The Rebels remained in Holly Springs until five o'clock in the afternoon of the day of their arrival. At their departure they moved in a northerly direction, evidently designing to visit Grand Junction. At Davis's Mill, about half-way between Holly Springs and Grand Junction, they found a small stockade, garrisoned by two companies of infantry, protecting the railway bridge. They sent forward a flag-of-truce, and demanded the instant surrender of the stockade. Their demand was not complied with. That garrison, of less than two hundred men, fought Van Dorn's entire command four hours, repulsed three successive charges, and finally compelled the Rebels to retreat. Van Dorn's northward movement was checked, and our stores at Grand Junction and Lagrange were saved, by the gallantry of this little force. General Grant subsequently gave special compliment to the bravery of these soldiers and their officers, in an order which was read to every regiment in the Army of the Tennessee. Our plans were completely deranged by this movement of the enemy. The supplies and ammunition we had relied upon were destroyed, and our communications severed. It was impossible to push further into Mississippi, and preparations were made for immediate retreat. The railway was repaired and the heavy baggage sent to the rear as speedily as possible. When this was accomplished the army began to fall back. Oxford, Abbeville, and Holly Springs were abandoned, and returned to the protection of the Rebel flag. Northern Mississippi again became the field for guerrilla warfare, and a source of supply to the Rebels in the field. The campaign for the capture of Vicksburg took a new shape from the day our lines were severed. A few days before the surrender of Vicksburg, General Grant, in conversation with some friends, referred to his position in Mississippi, six months before. Had he pressed forward beyond Grenada, he would have been caught in midwinter in a sea of mud, where the safety of his army might have been endangered. Van Dorn's raid compelled him to retreat, saved him from a possible heavier reverse, and prepared the way for the campaign in which Vicksburg finally capitulated. A present disaster, it proved the beginning of ultimate success. CHAPTER XXIV. THE BATTLE OF CHICKASAW BAYOU. Leaving Memphis.--Down the Great River.--Landing in the Yazoo.-- Description of the Ground..--A Night in Bivouac.--Plan of Attack.-- Moving toward the Hills.--Assaulting the Bluff.--Our Repulse.--New Plans.--Withdrawal from the Yazoo. On arriving at Memphis, I found General Sherman's expedition was ready to move toward Vicksburg. A few of the soldiers who escaped from the raid on Holly Springs had reached Memphis with intelligence of that disaster. The news caused much excitement, as the strength of the Rebels was greatly exaggerated. A few of these soldiers thought Van Dorn's entire division of fifteen or twenty thousand men had been mounted and was present at the raid. There were rumors of a contemplated attack upon Memphis, after General Sherman's departure. Unmilitary men thought the event might delay the movement upon Vicksburg, but it did not have that effect. General Sherman said he had no official knowledge that Holly Springs had been captured, and could do no less than carry out his orders. The expedition sailed, its various divisions making a rendezvous at Friar's Point, twelve miles below Helena, on the night of the 22d of December. From this place to the mouth of the Yazoo, we moved leisurely down the Mississippi, halting a day near Milliken's Bend, almost in sight of Vicksburg. We passed a portion of Christmas-Day near the mouth of the Yazoo. On the morning of the 26th of December, the fleet of sixty transports, convoyed by several gun-boats, commenced the ascent of the Yazoo. This stream debouches into the Mississippi, fifteen miles above Vicksburg, by the course of the current, though the distance in an airline is not more than six miles. Ten or twelve miles above its mouth, the Yazoo sweeps the base of the range of hills on which Vicksburg stands, at a point nearly behind the city. It was therefore considered a feasible route to the rear of Vicksburg. In a letter which I wrote on that occasion, I gave the following description of the country adjoining the river, and the incidents of a night bivouac before the battle:--"The bottom-land of the Yazoo is covered with a heavy growth of tall cypress-trees, whose limbs are everywhere interlaced. In many places the forest has a dense undergrowth, and in others it is quite clear, and affords easy passage to mounted men. These huge trees are heavily draped in the 'hanging moss,' so common in the Southern States, which gives them a most gloomy appearance. The moss, everywhere pendent from the limbs of the trees, covers them like a shroud, and in some localities shuts out the sunlight. In these forests there are numerous bayous that form a net-work converting the land into a series of islands. When separated from your companions, you can easily imagine yourself in a wilderness. In the wild woods of the Oregon there is no greater solitude." * * * * * "On the afternoon of the 27th, I started from the transports, and accompanied our left wing, which was advancing on the east side of Chickasaw Bayou. The road lay along the crest of the levee which had been thrown up on the bank of the bayou, to protect the fields on that side against inundation. This road was only wide enough for the passage of a single wagon. Our progress was very slow, on account of the necessity for removing heavy logs across the levee. When night overtook us, we made our bivouac in the forest, about three miles from the river. "I had taken with me but a single blanket, and a haversack containing my note-book and a few crackers. That night in bivouac acquainted me with some of the discomforts of war-making on the Yazoo. The ground was moist from recent rains, so that dry places were difficult to find. A fellow-journalist proposed that we unite our blankets, and form a double bed for mutual advantage. To this I assented. When my friend came forward, to rest in our combined couch, I found his 'blanket' was purely imaginary, having been left on the steamer at his departure. For a while we 'doubled,' but I was soon deserted, on account of the barrenness of my accommodations. "No fires were allowed, as they might reveal our position to the watchful enemy. The night was cold. Ice formed at the edge of the bayou, and there was a thick frost on the little patches of open ground. A negro who had lived in that region said the swamp usually abounded in moccasins, copperheads, and cane-snakes, in large numbers. An occasional rustling of the leaves at my side led me to imagine these snakes were endeavoring to make my acquaintance. "Laying aside my snake fancies, it was too cold to sleep. As fast as I would fall into a doze, the chill of the atmosphere would steal through my blanket, and remind me of my location. Half-sleeping and half-waking, I dreamed of every thing disagreeable. I had visions of Greenland's icy mountains, of rambles in Siberia, of my long-past midwinter nights in the snow-drifted gorges of Colorado, of shipwreck, and of burning dwellings, and of all moving accidents by flood and field! These dreams followed each other with a rapidity that far outstripped the workings of the electric telegraph. "Cold and dampness and snakes and fitful dreams were not the only bodily discomforts. A dozen horses were loose in camp, and trotting gayly about. Several times they passed at a careless pace within a yard of my head. Once the foremost of the _caballada_ jumped directly over me, and was followed by the rest. My comments on these eccentricities of that noble animal, the horse, provoked the derision rather than the sympathy of those who heard them. "A teamster, who mistook me for a log, led his mules over me. A negro, under the same delusion, attempted to convert me into a chair, and another wanted to break me up for fuel, to be used in making a fire after daylight. Each of these little blunders evoked a gentle remonstrance, that effectually prevented a repetition by the same individual. "A little past daylight a shell from the Rebel batteries exploded within twenty yards of my position, and warned me that it was time to rise. To make my toilet, I pulled the sticks and leaves from my hair and beard, and brushed my overcoat with a handful of moss. I breakfasted on a cracker and a spoonful of whisky. I gave my horse a handful of corn and a large quantity of leaves. The former he ate, but the latter he refused to touch. The column began to move, and I was ready to attend upon its fortunes." General Sherman's plan was to effect a landing on the Yazoo, and, by taking possession of the bluffs, sever the communication between Vicksburg and the interior. It was thought the garrison of Vicksburg had been greatly weakened to re-enforce the army in General Grant's front, so that our success would be certain when we once gained the bluffs. A portion of our forces effected a landing on the 26th, but the whole command was not on shore till the 27th. Fighting commenced on the 27th, and became more earnest on the 28th, as we crowded toward the bluffs. In moving from the steamboat landing to the base of the bluffs on the 28th, our army encountered the enemy at several points, but forced him back without serious loss on either side. It appeared to be the Rebel design not to make any resistance of magnitude until we had crossed the lower ground and were near the base of the line of hills protecting Vicksburg. Not far from the foot of the bluffs there was a bayou, which formed an excellent front for the first line of the Rebel defenses. On our right we attempted to cross this bayou with a portion of Morgan L. Smith's Division, but the Rebel fire was so severe that we were repulsed. On our extreme right a similar attempt obtained the same result. On our left the bayou was crossed by General Morgan's and General Steele's Divisions at two or three points, and our forces gained a position close up to the edge of the bluff. At eleven A. M. on the 29th, an assault was made by three brigades of infantry upon the works of the enemy on this portion of the line. General Blair and General Thayer from Steele's Division, pushed forward through an abatis which skirted the edge of the bayou, and captured the first line of Rebel rifle-pits. From this line the brigades pressed two hundred yards farther up the hillside, and temporarily occupied a portion of the second line. Fifty yards beyond was a small clump of trees, which was gained by one regiment, the Thirteenth Illinois, of General Blair's Brigade. [Illustration: GENERAL BLAIR'S BRIGADE ASSAULTING THE HILL AT CHICKASAW, BAYOU.] The Rebels massed heavily against these two brigades. Our assaulting force had not been followed by a supporting column, and was unable to hold the works it captured. It fell back to the bayou and re-formed its line. One of General Morgan's brigades occupied a portion of the rifle-pits at the time the hill was assaulted by the brigades from General Steele's Division. During the afternoon of the 29th, preparations were made for another assault, but the plan was not carried out. It was found the Rebels had been re-enforced at that point, so that we had great odds against us. The two contending armies rested within view of each other, throwing a few shells each hour, to give notice of their presence. After the assault, the ground between the contending lines was covered with dead and wounded men of our army. A flag-of-truce was sent out on the afternoon of the 29th, to arrange for burying the dead and bringing away the wounded, but the Rebels would not receive it. Sunrise on the 30th, noon, sunset, and sunrise again, and they lay there still. On the 31st, a truce of five hours was arranged, and the work of humanity accomplished. A heavy rain had fallen, rendering the ground unfit for the rapid moving of infantry and artillery, in front of the Rebel position. On the evening of the 31st, orders were issued for a new plan of attack at another part of the enemy's lines. A division was to be embarked on the transports, and landed as near as possible to the Rebel fortifications on Haines's Bluff, several miles up the Yazoo. The gun-boats were to take the advance, engage the attention of the forts, and cover the landing. Admiral Porter ordered Colonel Ellet to go in advance, with a boat of his ram fleet, to remove the obstructions the Rebels had placed in the river, under the guns of the fort. A raft was attached to the bow of the ram, and on the end of the raft was a torpedo containing a half ton of powder. Admiral Porter contended that the explosion of the torpedo would remove the obstructions, so that the fleet could proceed. Colonel Ellet expressed his readiness to obey orders, but gave his opinion that the explosion, while effecting its object, would destroy his boat and all on board. Some officers and civilians, who knew the admiral's antipathy to Colonel Ellet, suggested that the former was of the same opinion, and therefore desirous that the experiment should be made. Every thing was in readiness on the morning of the 1st of January, but a dense fog prevented the execution of our new plan. On the following day we withdrew from the Yazoo, and ended the second attack upon Vicksburg. Our loss was not far from two thousand men, in all casualties. General Sherman claimed to have carried out with exactness, the instructions from his superior officers respecting the time and manner of the attack. Van Dorn's raid upon General Grant's lines, previous to Sherman's departure from Memphis, had radically changed the military situation. Grant's advance being stopped, his co-operation by way of Yazoo City could not be given. At the same time, the Rebels were enabled to strengthen their forces at Vicksburg. The assault was a part of the great plan for the conquest of the Mississippi, and was made in obedience to positive orders. Before the orders were carried out, a single circumstance had deranged the whole plan. After the fighting was ended and the army had re-embarked, preparatory to leaving the Yazoo, General Sherman was relieved from command by General McClernand. The latter officer carried out the order for withdrawal. The fleet steamed up the Mississippi to Milliken's Bend, where it remained for a day or two. General McClernand directed that an expedition be made against Arkansas Post, a Rebel fortification on the Arkansas River, fifty miles above its mouth. After the first attack upon Vicksburg, in June, 1862, the Rebels strengthened the approaches in the rear of the city. They threw up defensive works on the line of bluffs facing the Yazoo, and erected a strong fortification to prevent our boats ascending that stream. Just before General Sherman commenced his assault, the gun-boat _Benton_, aided by another iron-clad, attempted to silence the batteries at Haines's Bluff, but was unsuccessful. Her sides were perforated by the Rebel projectiles, and she withdrew from the attack in a disabled condition. Captain Gwin, her commander, was mortally wounded early in the fight. Captain Gwin was married but a few weeks before this occurrence. His young wife was on her way from the East to visit him, and was met at Cairo with the news of his death. About two months before the time of our attack, an expedition descended the Mississippi from Helena, and suddenly appeared near the mouth of the Yazoo. It reached Milliken's Bend at night, surprising and capturing the steamer _Fairplay_, which was loaded with arms and ammunition for the Rebels in Arkansas. So quietly was the capture made, that the officers of the _Fairplay_ were not aware of the change in their situation until awakened by their captors. CHAPTER XXV. BEFORE VICKSBURG. Capture of Arkansas Post.--The Army returns to Milliken's Bend.--General Sherman and the Journalists.--Arrest of the Author.--His Trial before a Military Court.--Letter from President Lincoln.--Capture of Three Journalists. The army moved against Arkansas Post, which was captured, with its entire garrison of five thousand men. The fort was dismantled and the earth-works leveled to the ground. After this was accomplished, the army returned to Milliken's Bend. General Grant arrived a few days later, and commenced the operations which culminated in the fall of Vicksburg. Before leaving Memphis on the Yazoo expedition, General Sherman issued an order excluding all civilians, except such as were connected with the transports, and threatening to treat as a spy any person who should write accounts for publication which might give information to the enemy. No journalists were to be allowed to take part in the affair. One who applied for permission to go in his professional capacity received a very positive refusal. General Sherman had a strong antipathy to journalists, amounting almost to a mania, and he was determined to discourage their presence in his movements against Vicksburg. Five or six correspondents accompanied the expedition, some of them on passes from General Grant, which were believed superior to General Sherman's order, and others with passes or invitations from officers in the expedition. I carried a pass from General Grant, and had a personal invitation from an officer who held a prominent command in the Army of Arkansas. I had passed Memphis, almost without stopping, and was not aware of the existence of the prohibitory order until I reached the Yazoo. I wrote for _The Herald_ an account of the battle, which I directed to a friend at Cairo, and placed in the mail on board the head-quarters' boat. The day after mailing my letter, I learned it was being read at General Sherman's head-quarters. The General afterward told me that his mail-agent, Colonel Markland, took my letter, among others, from the mail, with his full assent, though without his order. I proceeded to rewrite my account, determined not to trust again to the head-quarters' mail. When I was about ready to depart, I received the letter which had been stolen, bearing evident marks of repeated perusal. Two maps which it originally contained were not returned. I proceeded to Cairo as the bearer of my own dispatches. On my return to Milliken's Bend, two weeks later, I experienced a new sensation. After two interviews with the indignant general, I received a tender of hospitalities from the provost-marshal of the Army of the Tennessee. The tender was made in such form as left no opportunity for declining it. A few days after my arrest, I was honored by a trial before a military court, consisting of a brigadier-general, four colonels, and two majors. General Sherman had made the following charges against me:-- First.--"_Giving information to the enemy._" Second.--"_Being a spy._" Third.--"_Disobedience of orders._" The first and second charges were based on my published letter. The third declared that I accompanied the expedition without proper authority, and published a letter without official sanction. These were my alleged offenses. My court had a protracted session. It decided there was nothing in my letter which violated the provisions of the order regulating war correspondence for the Press. It declared me innocent of the first and second charges. It could see nothing criminal in the manner of my accompanying the expedition. But I was guilty of something. There was a "General Order, Number 67," issued in 1861, of whose existence neither myself nor, as far as I could ascertain, any other journalist, was aware. It provided that no person should write, print, or cause to be printed "any information respecting military movements, without the authority and sanction of the general in command." Here was the rock on which I split. I had written a letter respecting military movements, and caused it to be printed, "without the sanction of the general in command." Correspondents everywhere had done the same thing, and continued to do it till the end of the war. "Order Number 67" was as obsolete as the laws of the Medes and Persians, save on that single occasion. Dispatches by telegraph passed under the eye of a Government censor, but I never heard of an instance wherein a letter transmitted by mail received any official sanction. My court was composed of officers from General Sherman's command, and was carefully watched by that distinguished military chieftain, throughout its whole sitting. It wavered in deciding upon the proper "punishment" for my offense. Should it banish me from that spot, or should I receive an official censure? It concluded to send me outside the limits of the Army of the Tennessee. During the days I passed in the care of the provost-marshal, I perused all the novels that the region afforded. When these were ended, I studied a copy of a well-known work on theology, and turned, for light reading, to the "Pirate's Own Book." A sympathizing friend sent me a bundle of tracts and a copy of the "Adventures of John A. Murrell." A volume of lectures upon temperance and a dozen bottles of Allsop's pale ale, were among the most welcome contributions that I received. The ale disappeared before the lectures had been thoroughly digested. The chambermaid of the steamboat displayed the greatest sympathy in my behalf. She declined to receive payment of a washing-bill, and burst into tears when I assured her the money was of no use to me. Her fears for my welfare were caused by a frightful story that had been told her by a cabin-boy. He maliciously represented that I was to be executed for attempting to purchase cotton from a Rebel quartermaster. The verdant woman believed the story for several days. It may interest some readers to know that the proceedings of a court-martial are made in writing. The judge-advocate (who holds the same position as the prosecuting attorney in a civil case) writes his questions, and then reads them aloud. The answers, as they are given, are reduced to writing. The questions or objections of the prisoner's counsel must be made in writing and given to the judge-advocate, to be read to the court. In trials where a large number of witnesses must be examined, it is now the custom to make use of "short-hand" writers. In this way the length of a trial is greatly reduced. The members of a court-martial sit in full uniform, including sash and sword, and preserve a most severe and becoming dignity. Whenever the court wishes to deliberate upon any point of law or evidence, the room is cleared, neither the prisoner nor his counsel being allowed to remain. It frequently occurs that the court is thus closed during the greater part of its sessions. With the necessity for recording all its proceedings, and frequent stoppages for deliberation, a trial by a military court is ordinarily very slow. In obedience to the order of the court, I left the vicinity of the Army of the Tennessee, and proceeded North. In departing from Young's Point, I could not obey a certain Scriptural injunction, as the mud of Louisiana adheres like glue, and defies all efforts to shake it off. Mr. Albert D. Richardson, of The Tribune, on behalf of many of my professional friends, called the attention of President Lincoln to the little affair between General Sherman and myself. In his recently published book of experiences during the war, Mr. Richardson has given a full and graphic account of his interview with the President. Mr. Lincoln unbent himself from his official cares, told two of his best stories, conversed for an hour or more upon the military situation, gave his reasons for the removal of General McClellan, and expressed his hope in our ultimate success. Declaring it his inflexible determination not to interfere with the conduct of any military department, he wrote the following document:-- EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, _March_ 20, 1863. WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: Whereas it appears to my satisfaction that Thomas W. Knox, a correspondent of _The New York Herald_, has been, by the sentence of a court-martial, excluded from the Military Department under command of Major-General Grant, and also that General Thayer, president of the court-martial, which rendered the sentence, and Major-General McClernand, in command of a corps of that department, and many other respectable persons, are of opinion that Mr. Knox's offense was technical, rather than willfully wrong, and that the sentence should be revoked: Now, therefore, said sentence is hereby so far revoked as to allow Mr. Knox to return to General Grant's head-quarters, to remain if General Grant shall give his express assent; and to again leave the department, if General Grant shall refuse such assent. A. LINCOLN With this letter I returned to the army. General Grant referred the question to General Sherman. In consideration of our quarrel, and knowing the unamiable character of the latter officer, I should have been greatly surprised had he given any thing else than a refusal. I had fully expected to return immediately when I left St. Louis, but, like most persons in a controversy, wished to carry my point. General Sherman long since retrieved his failure at Chickasaw Bayou. Throughout the war he was honored with the confidence and friendship of General Grant. The career of these officers was not marked by the jealousies that are too frequent in military life. The hero of the campaign from Chattanooga to Raleigh is destined to be known in history. In those successful marches, and in the victories won by his tireless and never vanquished army, he has gained a reputation that may well be enduring. Soon after my return from Young's Point, General Grant crossed the Mississippi at Grand Gulf, and made his daring and successful movement to attain the rear of Vicksburg. Starting with a force less than the one his opponent could bring against him, he cut loose from his communications and succeeded in severing the enemy's line of supplies. From Grand Gulf to Jackson, and from Jackson to the rear of Vicksburg, was a series of brilliant marches and brilliant victories. Once seated where he had his antagonist's army inclosed, General Grant opened his lines to the Yazoo, supplied himself with every thing desired, and pressed the siege at his leisure. With the fall of Vicksburg, and the fall, a few days later, of Port Hudson, "the Father of Waters went unvexed to the Sea." While the army was crossing the Mississippi at Grand Gulf, three well-known journalists, Albert D. Richardson and Junius H. Browne, of _The Tribune_, and Richard T. Colburn, of _The World_, attempted to run past the Rebel batteries at Vicksburg, on board a tug at midnight. The tug was blown up and destroyed; the journalists were captured and taken to the Rebel prison at Vicksburg. Thence they were removed to Richmond, occupying, while _en route_, the prisons of a half-dozen Rebel cities. Mr. Colburn was soon released, but the companions of his adventure were destined to pass nearly two years in the prisons of the Confederacy. By a fortunate escape and a midwinter march of nearly four hundred miles, they reached our lines in safety. In books and in lecture-rooms, they have since told the story of their captivity and flight. I have sometimes thought my little quarrel with General Sherman proved "a blessing in disguise," in saving me from a similar experience of twenty months in Rebel prisons. CHAPTER XXVI. KANSAS IN WAR-TIME. A Visit to Kansas.--Recollections of Border Feuds.--Peculiarities of Kansas Soldiers.--Foraging as a Fine Art.--Kansas and Missouri.--Settling Old Scores.--Depopulating the Border Counties.--Two Examples of Grand Strategy.--Capture of the "Little-More-Grape" Battery.--A Woman in Sorrow.--Frontier Justice.--Trial before a "Lynch" Court.--General Blunt's Order.--Execution of Horse-Thieves.--Auction Sale of Confiscated Property.--Banished to Dixie. In May, 1863, I made a hasty visit to Western Missouri and Kansas, to observe the effect of the war in that quarter. Seven years earlier the border warfare attracted much attention. The great Rebellion caused Kansas and its troubles to sink into insignificance. Since the first election of Mr. Lincoln to the Presidency, Kansas has been rarely mentioned. I passed through this young State in the summer of 1860. I was repeatedly told: "We have old grudges that we wish to settle; if the troubles ever break out again in any part of the United States, we hope to cross out our account." When the war opened, the people of Kansas saw their opportunity for "making square work," as they expressed it, with Missouri and the other slave States. They placed two regiments of volunteers in the field with as much celerity as was displayed in many of the older and more populous States. These regiments were followed by others until fully half the able-bodied population of Kansas was in the service. In some localities the proportion was even greater than this. The dash and daring of these Kansas soldiers became proverbial. At Wilson Creek, two regiments from Kansas had their first experience of battle, and bore themselves most nobly. The conduct of other Kansas soldiers, on other battle-fields, was equally commendable. Their bravery and endurance was only equaled by their ability in foraging. Horses, mules, cattle, and provisions have, in all times, been considered the legitimate spoils of war. The Kansas soldiers did not confine themselves to the above, but appropriated every thing portable and valuable, whether useful or useless. Their example was contagious, and the entire army soon learned to follow it. During General Grant's campaign in Mississippi in '62, the Seventh Kansas Cavalry obtained a reputation for ubiquity and lawlessness. Every man who engaged in plundering on his own account, no matter to what regiment he belonged, invariably announced himself a member of the Seventh Kansas. Every countryman who was robbed declared the robbery was committed by the Seventh Kansas "Jayhawkers." Uniting all the stories of robbery, one would conclude that the Seventh Kansas was about twenty thousand strong, and constantly in motion by fifty different roads, leading to all points of the compass. One day a soldier of the Second Illinois Cavalry gave me an account of his experience in horse-stealing. "Jim and I went to an old farmer's house, and told him we wanted his horses. He said he wanted to use them himself, and couldn't spare them. "'That don't make no sort of difference,' said I; 'we want your horses more than you do.' "'What regiment do you belong to?' "'Seventh Kansas Jayhawkers. The whole regiment talks of coming round here. I reckon I'll bring them.' "When I told him that," said the soldier, "he said I might take the horses, if I would only go away. He offered me a pint of whisky if I would promise not to bring the regiment there. Jim and me drank the whisky, and told him we would use our influence for him." Before the war was ended, the entire armies of the Southwest were able to equal the "Jayhawkers" in foraging. The march of Sherman's column through Mississippi, and afterward through Georgia and South Carolina, fully proved this. Particularly in the latter State, which originated the Rebellion, were the accomplishments of the foragers most conspicuously displayed. Our army left very little for another army to use. The desolation which was spread through the Southern States was among the most effective blows at the Rebellion. The Rebels were taught in the most practical manner, that insurrection was not to be indulged in with impunity. Those who suffered most were generally among the earliest to sue for peace. Sherman's terse answer to the mayor of Atlanta, when the latter protested against the banishment of the inhabitants, was appreciated by the Rebels after our final campaigns. "War is cruelty--you cannot refine it," speaks a volume in a few words. When hostilities commenced, the Kansas regiments were clamorous to be led into Missouri. During the border war of '55 and '56, Missourians invaded Kansas to control the elections by force of arms, and killed, often in cold blood, many of the quiet citizens of the Territory. The tier of counties in Missouri adjoining Kansas were most anxious to make the latter a slave State, and used every possible means to accomplish their object. The Kansas soldiers had their wish. They marched through Missouri. Those who had taken part in the outrages upon Kansas, five years earlier, were made to feel the hand of retribution. If they had burned the buildings of free-State settlers in '56, they found their own houses destroyed in '62. In the old troubles they contended for their right to make whatever warfare they chose, but were astounded and horrified in the latter days, when the tables were turned against them by those they had wronged. Along the frontier of Missouri the old system of warfare was revived. Guerrilla bands were formed, of which Quantrel and similar men were the leaders. Various incursions were made into Kansas by these marauders, and the depredations were worse than ever. They culminated in the burning of Lawrence and the massacre of its inhabitants. To break up these guerrilla bands, it became necessary to depopulate the western tier of counties in Missouri, from the Missouri River down to the thirty-eighth parallel of latitude. The most wealthy of these was Jackson County. Before the war it had a slave population of not far from four thousand, and its fields were highly productive. Two years after the war broke out it contained less than three hundred slaves, and its wealth had diminished in almost as great proportion. This was before any freedom had been officially declared to the slaves in the Border States. The order of depopulation had the desired effect. It brought peace to the border, though at a terrible cost. Missouri suffered greatly, and so did Kansas. The most prominent officer that Kansas furnished during the Rebellion, was Brigadier-General Blunt. At the beginning of the war he enlisted as a private soldier, but did not remain long in the ranks. His reputation in the field was that of a brave and reckless officer, who had little regard to military forms. His successes were due to audacity and daring, rather than to skill in handling troops, or a knowledge of scientific warfare. The battle of Cane Hill is said to have commenced by General Blunt and his orderlies attacking a Rebel picket. The general was surveying the country with his orderlies and a company of cavalry, not suspecting the enemy was as near as he proved to be. At the moment Blunt came upon the picket, the cavalry was looking in another direction. Firing began, and the picket was driven in and fell back to a piece of artillery, which had an infantry support. Blunt was joined by his cavalry, and the gun was taken by a vigorous charge and turned upon the Rebels. The latter were kept at bay until the main force was brought up and joined in the conflict. The Rebels believed we had a much larger number than we really possessed, else our first assault might have proved a sudden repulse. The same daring was kept up throughout the battle, and gave us the victory. At this battle we captured four guns, two of which bore a history of more than ordinary interest. They were of the old "Bragg's Battery" that turned the scale at Buena Vista, in obedience to General Taylor's mandate, "Give them a little more grape, captain." After the Mexican war they were sent to the United States Arsenal at Baton Rouge, whence they were stolen when the insurrection commenced. They were used against us at Wilson Creek and Pea Ridge. At another battle, whose name I have forgotten, our entire force of about two thousand men was deployed into a skirmish line that extended far beyond the enemy's flanks. The Rebels were nearly six thousand strong, and at first manifested a disposition to stand their ground. By the audacity of our stratagem they were completely deceived. So large a skirmish line was an indication of a proportionately strong force to support it. When they found us closing in upon their flanks, they concluded we were far superior in numbers, and certain to overwhelm them. With but slight resistance they fled the field, leaving much of their transportation and equipments to fall into our hands. We called in our skirmishers and pressed them in vigorous pursuit, capturing wagons and stragglers as we moved. A year after this occurrence the Rebels played the same trick upon our own forces near Fort Smith, Arkansas, and were successful in driving us before them. With about five hundred cavalry they formed a skirmish line that outflanked our force of two thousand. We fell back several miles to the protection of the fort, where we awaited attack. It is needless to say that no assault was made. Van Buren, Arkansas, was captured by eighteen men ten miles in advance of any support. This little force moved upon the town in a deployed line and entered at one side, while a Rebel regiment moved out at the other. Our men thought it judicious not to pursue, but established head-quarters, and sent a messenger to hurry up the column before the Rebels should discover the true state of affairs. The head of the column was five hours in making its appearance. When the circumstance became known the next day, one of our officers found a lady crying very bitterly, and asked what calamity had befallen her. As soon as she could speak she said, through her sobs: "I am not crying because you have captured the place. We expected that." Then came a fresh outburst of grief. "What _are_ you crying for, then?" asked the officer. "I am crying because you took it with only eighteen men, when we had a thousand that ran away from you!" The officer thought the reason for her sorrow was amply sufficient, and allowed her to proceed with her weeping. On the day of my arrival at Atchison there was more than ordinary excitement. For several months there had been much disregard of law outside of the most densely populated portions of the State. Robberies, and murders for the sake of robbery, were of frequent occurrence. In one week a dozen persons met violent deaths. A citizen remarked to me that he did not consider the times a great improvement over '55 and '56. Ten days before my arrival, a party of ruffians visited the house of a citizen about twelve miles from Atchison, for the purpose of robbery. The man was supposed to have several hundred dollars in his possession--the proceeds of a sale of stock. He had placed his funds in a bank at Leavenworth; but his visitors refused to believe his statement to that effect. They maltreated the farmer and his wife, and ended by hanging the farmer's son to a rafter and leaving him for dead. In departing, they took away all the horses and mules they could find. Five of these men were arrested on the following day, and taken to Atchison. The judge before whom they were brought ordered them committed for trial. On the way from the court-house to the jail the men were taken from the sheriff by a crowd of citizens. Instead of going to jail, they were carried to a grove near the town and placed on trial before a "Lynch" court. The trial was conducted with all solemnity, and with every display of impartiality to the accused. The jury decided that two of the prisoners, who had been most prominent in the outrage, should be hanged on that day, while the others were remanded to jail for a regular trial. One of the condemned was executed. The other, after having a rope around his neck, was respited and taken to jail. On the same day two additional arrests were made, of parties concerned in the outrage. These men were tried by a "Lynch" court, as their companions had been tried on the previous day. One of them was hanged, and the other sent to jail. For some time the civil power had been inadequate to the punishment of crime. The laws of the State were so loosely framed that offenders had excellent opportunities to escape their deserts by taking advantage of technicalities. The people determined to take the law into their own hands, and give it a thorough execution. For the good of society, it was necessary to put a stop to the outrages that had been so frequently committed. Their only course in such cases was to administer justice without regard to the ordinary forms. A delegation of the citizens of Atchison visited Leavenworth after the arrests had been made, to confer with General Blunt, the commander of the District, on the best means of securing order. They made a full representation of the state of affairs, and requested that two of the prisoners, then in jail, should be delivered to the citizens for trial. They obtained an order to that effect, addressed to the sheriff, who was holding the prisoners in charge. On the morning of the day following the reception of the order, people began to assemble in Atchison from all parts of the county to witness the trial. As nearly all the outrages had been committed upon the farmers who lived at distances from each other, the trial was conducted by the men from the rural districts. The residents of the city took little part in the affair. About ten o'clock in the forenoon a meeting was called to order in front of the court-house, where the following document was read:-- HEAD-QUARTERS DISTRICT OF KANSAS, FORT LEAVENWORTH, _May_ 22, 1863. TO THE SHERIFF OF ATCHISON COUNTY: SIR:--In view of the alarming increase of crime, the insecurity of life and property within this military district, the inefficiency of the civil law to punish offenders, and the small number of troops under my command making it impossible to give such protection to loyal and law-abiding citizens as I would otherwise desire; you will therefore deliver the prisoners, Daniel Mooney and Alexander Brewer, now in your possession, to the citizens of Atchison County, for trial and punishment by a citizens' court. This course, which in ordinary times and under different circumstances could not be tolerated, is rendered necessary for the protection of the property and lives of honest citizens against the lawless acts of thieves and assassins, who, of late, have been perpetrating their crimes with fearful impunity, and to prevent which nothing but the most severe and summary punishment will suffice. In conducting these irregular proceedings, it is to be hoped they will be controlled by men of respectability, and that cool judgment and discretion will characterize their actions, to the end that the innocent may be protected and the guilty punished. Respectfully, your obedient servant, JAMES G. BLUNT, _Major-General._ After the reading of the above order, resolutions indorsing and sustaining the action of General Blunt were passed unanimously. The following resolutions were passed separately, their reading being greeted with loud cheers. They are examples of strength rather than of elegance. "_Resolved_, That we pledge ourselves not to stop hanging until the thieves stop thieving. "_Resolved_, That as this is a citizens' court, we have no use for lawyers, either for the accused or for the people." A judge and jury were selected from the assemblage, and embraced some of the best known and most respected citizens of the county. Their selection was voted upon, just as if they had been the officers of a political gathering. As soon as elected, they proceeded to the trial of the prisoners. The evidence was direct and conclusive, and the prisoners were sentenced to death by hanging. The verdict was read to the multitude, and a vote taken upon its acceptance or rejection. Nineteen-twentieths of those present voted that the sentence should be carried into execution. The prisoners were taken from the court-house to the grove where the preceding executions had taken place. They were made to stand upon a high wagon while ropes were placed about their necks and attached to the limb of a large, spreading elm. When all was ready, the wagon was suddenly drawn from beneath the prisoners, and their earthly career was ended. A half-hour later the crowd had dispersed. The following morning showed few traces of the excitement of the previous day. The executions were effectual in restoring quiet to the region which had been so much disturbed. The Rebel sympathizers in St. Louis took many occasions to complain of the tyranny of the National Government. At the outset there was a delusion that the Government had no rights that should be respected, while every possible right belonged to the Rebels. General Lyon removed the arms from the St. Louis arsenal to a place of safety at Springfield, Illinois. "He had no constitutional right to do that," was the outcry of the Secessionists. He commenced the organization of Union volunteers for the defense of the city. The Constitution made no provision for this. He captured Camp Jackson, and took his prisoners to the arsenal. This, they declared, was a most flagrant violation of constitutional privileges. He moved upon the Rebels in the interior, and the same defiance of law was alleged. He suppressed the secession organ in St. Louis, thus trampling upon the liberties of the Rebel Press. General Fremont declared the slaves of Rebels were free, and thus infringed upon the rights of property. Numbers of active, persistent traitors were arrested and sent to military prisons: a manifest tyranny on the part of the Government. In one way and another the unfortunate and long-suffering Rebels were most sadly abused, if their own stories are to be regarded. It was forbidden to display Rebel emblems in public: a cruel restriction of personal right. The wealthy Secessionists of St. Louis were assessed the sum of ten thousand dollars, for the benefit of the Union refugees from Arkansas and other points in the Southwest. This was another outrage. These persons could not understand why they should be called upon to contribute to the support of Union people who had been rendered houseless and penniless by Rebels elsewhere. They made a most earnest protest, but their remonstrances were of no avail. In default of payment of the sums assessed, their superfluous furniture was seized and sold at auction. This was a violation of the laws that exempt household property from seizure. The auction sale of these goods was largely attended. The bidding was very spirited. Pianos, ottomans, mirrors, sofas, chairs, and all the adornments of the homes of affluence, were sold for "cash in United States Treasury notes." Some of the parties assessed declared they would pay nothing on the assessment, but they reconsidered their decisions, and bought their own property at the auction-rooms, without regard to the prices they paid. In subsequent assessments they found it better to pay without hesitation whatever sums were demanded of them. They spoke and labored against the Union until they found such efforts were of no use. They could never understand why they should not enjoy the protection of the flag without being called upon to give it material aid. In May, 1863, another grievance was added to the list. It became necessary, for the good of the city, to banish some of the more prominent Rebel sympathizers. It was a measure which the Rebels and their friends opposed in the strongest terms. These persons were anxious to see the Confederacy established, but could not consent to live in its limits. They resorted to every device to evade the order, but were not allowed to remain. Representations of personal and financial inconvenience were of no avail; go they must. The first exodus took place on the 13th of May. An immense crowd thronged the levee as the boat which was to remove the exiles took its departure. In all there were about thirty persons, half of them ladies. The men were escorted to the boat on foot, but the ladies were brought to the landing in carriages, and treated with every possible courtesy. A strong guard was posted at the landing to preserve order and allow no insult of any kind to the prisoners. One of the young women ascended to the hurricane roof of the steamer and cheered for the "Confederacy." As the boat swung into the stream, this lady was joined by two others, and the trio united their sweet voices in singing "Dixie" and the "Bonnie Blue Flag." There was no cheering or other noisy demonstration at their departure, though there was a little waving of handkerchiefs, and a few tokens of farewell were given. This departure was soon followed by others, until St. Louis was cleared of its most turbulent spirits. CHAPTER XXVII. GETTYSBURG. A Hasty Departure.--At Harrisburg.--_En route_ for the Army of the Potomac.--The Battle-Field at Gettysburg.--Appearance of the Cemetery.--Importance of the Position.--The Configuration of Ground.--Traces of Battle.--Round Hill.--General Meade's Head-Quarters.--Appearance of the Dead.--Through the Forests along the Line.--Retreat and Pursuit of Lee. While in St. Louis, late in June, 1863, I received the following telegram:-- "HERALD OFFICE, "NEW YORK, _June_ 28. "Report at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, at the earliest possible moment." Two hours later, I was traveling eastward as fast as an express train could carry me. The Rebel army, under General Lee, had crossed the Potomac, and was moving toward Harrisburg. The Army of the Potomac was in rapid pursuit. A battle was imminent between Harrisburg and Baltimore. Waiting a day at Harrisburg, I found the capital of the Keystone State greatly excited. The people were slow to move in their own behalf. Earth-works were being thrown up on the south bank of the Susquehanna, principally by the soldiers from other parts of Pennsylvania and from New York. When it was first announced that the enemy was approaching, only seventeen men volunteered to form a local defense. I saw no such enthusiasm on the part of the inhabitants as I had witnessed at Cincinnati during the previous autumn. Pennsylvania sent many regiments to the field during the war, and her soldiers gained a fine reputation; but the best friends of the State will doubtless acknowledge that Harrisburg was slow to act when the Rebels made their last great invasion. I was ordered to join the Army of the Potomac wherever I could find it. As I left Harrisburg, I learned that a battle was in progress. Before I could reach the field the great combat had taken place. The two contending armies had made Gettysburg historic. I joined our army on the day after the battle. I could find no person of my acquaintance, amid the confusion that followed the termination of three days' fighting. The army moved in pursuit of Lee, whose retreat was just commencing. As our long lines stretched away toward the Potomac, I walked over the ground where the battle had raged, and studied the picture that was presented. I reproduce, in part, my letter of that occasion:-- "Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, _July_ 6,1863. "To-day I have passed along the whole ground where the lines of battle were drawn. The place bears evidence of a fierce struggle. The shocks of those two great armies surging and resurging, the one against the other, could hardly pass without leaving their traces in fearful characters. At Waterloo, at Wagram, and at Jena the wheat grows more luxuriantly, and the corn shoots its stalks further toward the sky than before the great conflicts that rendered those fields famous. The broad acres of Gettysburg and Antietam will in future years yield the farmer a richer return than he has hithto received. "Passing out of Gettysburg by the Baltimore turnpike, we come in a few steps to the entrance of the cemetery. Little of the inclosure remains, save the gateway, from which the gates have been torn. The neat wooden fence, first thrown down to facilitate the movement of our artillery, was used for fuel, as the soldiers made their camp on the spot. A few scattered palings are all that remain. The cemetery was such as we usually find near thrifty towns like Gettysburg. None of the monuments and adornings were highly expensive, though all were neat, and a few were elaborate. There was considerable taste displayed in the care of the grounds, as we can see from the few traces that remain. The eye is arrested by a notice, prominently posted, forbidding the destruction or mutilation of any shrub, tree, or stone about the place, under severe penalties. The defiance that war gives to the civil law is forcibly apparent as one peruses those warning lines. "Monuments and head-stones lie everywhere overturned. Graves, which loving hands once carefully adorned, have been trampled by horses' feet until the vestiges of verdure have disappeared. The neat and well-trained shrubbery has vanished, or is but a broken and withered mass of tangled brushwood. On one grave lies the body of a horse, fast decomposing under the July sun. On another lie the torn garments of some wounded soldier, stained and saturated with blood. Across a small head-stone, bearing the words, 'To the memory of our beloved child, Mary,' lie the fragments of a musket shattered by a cannon-shot. "In the center of a space inclosed by an iron fence, and containing a half-dozen graves, a few rails are standing where they were erected by our soldiers to form their shelter in bivouac. A family shaft has been broken in fragments by a shell. Stone after stone felt the effects of the _feu d'enfer_ that was poured upon the crest of the hill. Cannon thundered, and foot and horse soldiers tramped over the resting-place of the dead. Other dead were added to those who are resting here. Many a wounded soldier lives to remember the contest above those silent graves. "The hill on which this cemetery is located was the center of our line of battle and the key to our position. Had the Rebels been able to carry this point, they would have forced us into retreat, and the battle would have been lost. To pierce our line in this locality was Lee's great endeavor, and he threw his best brigades against it. Wave after wave of living valor rolled up that slope, only to roll back again under the deadly fire of our artillery and infantry. It was on this hill, a little to the right of the cemetery, where the 'Louisiana Tigers' made their famous charge. It was their boast that they were never yet foiled in an attempt to take a battery; but on this occasion they suffered a defeat, and were nearly annihilated. Sad and dispirited, they mourn their repulse and their terrible losses in the assault. "From the summit of this hill a large portion of the battle-ground is spread out before the spectator. In front and at his feet lies the town of Gettysburg, containing, in quiet times, a population of four or five thousand souls. It is not more than a hundred yards to the houses in the edge of the village, where the contest with the Rebel sharp-shooters took place. To the left of the town stretches a long valley, bounded on each side by a gently-sloping ridge. The crest of each ridge is distant nearly a mile from the other. It was on these ridges that the lines of battle on the second and third days were formed, the Rebel line being on the ridge to the westward. The one stretching directly from our left hand, and occupied by our own men, has but little timber upon it, while that held by the rebels can boast of several groves of greater or less extent. In one of these the Pennsylvania College is embowered, while in another is seen the Theological Seminary. Half-way between the ridges are the ruins of a large brick building burned during the engagement. Dotted about, here and there, are various brick and frame structures. Two miles at our left rises a sharp-pointed elevation, known to the inhabitants of the region as Round Hill. Its sides are wooded, and the forest stretches from its base across the valley to the crest of the western ridge. "It must not be supposed that the space between the ridges is an even plain, shaven with, the scythe and leveled with the roller. It rises and falls gently, and with little regularity, but in no place is it steep of ascent. Were it not for its ununiformity and for the occasional sprinkling of trees over its surface, it could be compared to a patch of rolling prairie in miniature. To the southwest of the further ridge is seen the mountain region of Western Maryland, behind which the Rebels had their line of retreat. It is not a wild, rough mass of mountains, but a region of hills of the larger and more inaccessible sort. They are traversed by roads only in a few localities, and their passage, except through, the gaps, is difficult for a single team, and impossible for an army. "The Theological Seminary was the scene of a fierce struggle. It was beyond it where the First and Eleventh Corps contended with Ewell and Longstreet on the first day of the engagement. Afterward, finding the Rebels were too strong for them, they fell back to a new position, this building being included in the line. The walls of the Seminary were perforated by shot and shell, and the bricks are indented with numerous bullet-marks. Its windows show the effects of the musketry, and but little glass remains to shut out the cold and rain. The building is now occupied as a hospital by the Rebels. The Pennsylvania College is similarly occupied, and the instruction of its students is neglected for the present. "In passing from the cemetery along the crest of the ridge where our line of battle stood, I first came upon the position occupied by some of our batteries. This is shown by the many dead horses lying unburied, and by the mounds which mark where others have been slightly covered up. There are additional traces of an artillery fight. Here is a broken wheel of a gun-carriage, an exploded caisson, a handspike, and some of the accoutrements of the men. In the fork of a tree I found a Testament, with the words, 'Charles Durrale, Corporal of Company G,' written on the fly-leaf. The guns and the gunners, have disappeared. Some of the latter are now with the column moving in pursuit of the enemy, others are suffering in the hospitals, and still others are resting where the bugle's reveille shall never wake them. "Between the cemetery and the town and at the foot of the ridge where I stand, runs the road leading to Emmetsburg. It is not a turnpike, but a common dirt-road, and, as it leaves the main street leading into town, it makes a diagonal ascent of the hill. On the eastern side, this road is bordered by a stone wall for a short distance. Elsewhere on both sides there is only a rail fence. A portion of our sharp-shooters took position behind this wall, and erected traverses to protect them from a flanking fire, should the enemy attempt to move up the road from Gettysburg. These traverses are constructed at right angles to the wall, by making a 'crib' of fence-rails, two feet high and the same distance apart, and then filling the crib with dirt. Further along I find the rails from the western side of the road, piled against the fence on the east, so as to form a breast-work two or three feet in height--a few spadesful of dirt serve to fill the interstices. This defense was thrown up by the Rebels at the time they were holding the line of the roads. "Moving to the left, I find still more severe traces of artillery fighting. Twenty-seven dead horses on a space of little more than one acre is evidence of heavy work. Here are a few scattered trees, which were evidently used as a screen for our batteries. These trees did not escape the storm of shot and shell that was rained in that direction. Some of them were perforated by cannon-shot, or have been completely cut off in that peculiar splintering that marks the course of a projectile through green wood. Near the scene of this fighting is a large pile of muskets and cartridge-boxes collected from the field. Considerable work has been done in thus gathering the débris of the battle, but it is by no means complete. Muskets, bayonets, and sabers are scattered everywhere. "My next advance to the left carries me where the ground is thickly studded with graves. In one group I count a dozen graves of soldiers belonging to the Twentieth Massachusetts; near them are buried the dead of the One Hundred and Thirty-seventh New York, and close at hand an equal number from the Twelfth New Jersey. Care has been taken to place a head-board at each grave, with a legible inscription thereon, showing whose remains are resting beneath. On one board the comrades of the dead soldier had nailed the back of his knapsack, which bore his name. On another was a brass plate, bearing the soldier's name in heavily stamped letters. "Moving still to the left, I found an orchard in which the fighting appears to have been desperate in the extreme. Artillery shot had plowed the ground in every direction, and the trees did not escape the fury of the storm. The long bolts of iron, said by our officers to be a modification of the Whitworth projectile, were quite numerous. The Rebels must have been well supplied with this species of ammunition, and they evidently used it with no sparing hand. At one time I counted twelve of these bolts lying on a space not fifty feet square. I am told that many shot and shell passed over the heads of our soldiers during the action. "A mile from our central position at the cemetery, was a field of wheat, and near it a large tract, on which corn had been growing. The wheat was trampled by the hurrying feet of the dense masses of infantry, as they changed their positions during the battle. In the cornfield artillery had been stationed, and moved about as often as the enemy obtained its range. Hardly a hill of corn is left in its pristine luxuriance. The little that escaped the hoof or the wheel, as the guns moved from place to place, was nibbled by hungry horses during the bivouac subsequent to the battle. Not a stalk of wheat is upright; not a blade of corn remains uninjured; all has fallen long before the time of harvest. Another harvest, in which Death was the reaper, has been gathered above it. "On our extreme left the pointed summit of a hill, a thousand feet in elevation, rises toward the sky. Beyond it, the country falls off into the mountain region that extends to the Potomac and across it into Virginia. This hill is quite difficult of ascent, and formed a strong position, on which the left of our line rested. The enemy assaulted this point with great fury, throwing his divisions, one after the other, against it. Their efforts were of no avail. Our men defended their ground against every attack. It was like the dash of the French at Waterloo against the immovable columns of the English. Stubborn resistance overcame the valor of the assailants. Again and again they came to the assault, only to fall back as they had advanced. Our left held its ground, though it lost heavily. "On this portion of the line, about midway between the crests of the ridges, is a neat farm-house. Around this dwelling the battle raged, as around Hougoumont at Waterloo. At one time it was in the possession of the Rebels, and was fiercely attacked by our men. The walls were pierced by shot and shell, many of the latter exploding within, and making a scene of devastation. The glass was shattered by rifle bullets on every side, and the wood-work bears testimony to the struggle. The sharp-shooters were in every room, and added to the disorder caused by the explosion of shells. The soldiers destroyed what the missiles spared. The Rebels were driven from the house, and the position was taken by our own men. They, in turn, were dislodged, but finally secured a permanent footing in the place. "Retracing my steps from the extreme left, I return to the center of our position on Cemetery Hill. I do not follow the path by which I came, but take a route along the hollow, between the two ridges. It was across this hollow that the Rebels made their assaults upon our position. Much blood was poured out between these two swells of land. Most of the dead were buried where they fell, or gathered in little clusters beneath some spreading tree or beside clumps of bushes. Some of the Rebel dead are still unburied. I find one of these as I descend a low bank to the side of a small spring. The body is lying near the spring, as if the man had crawled there to obtain a draught of water. Its hands are outspread upon the earth, and clutching at the little tufts of grass beneath them. The soldier's haversack and canteen are still remaining, and his hat is lying not far away. "A few paces distant is another corpse, with its hands thrown upward in the position the soldier occupied when he received his fatal wound. The clothing is not torn, no blood appears upon the garments, and the face, though swollen, bears no expression of anguish. Twenty yards away are the remains of a body cut in two by a shell. The grass is drenched in blood, that the rain of yesterday has not washed away. As I move forward I find the body of a Rebel soldier, evidently slain while taking aim over a musket. The hands are raised, the left extended beyond the right, and the fingers of the former partly bent, as if they had just been grasping the stock of a gun. One foot is advanced, and the body is lying on its right side. To appearances it did not move a muscle after receiving its death-wound. Another body attracts my attention by its delicate white hands, and its face black as that of a negro. "The farm-house on the Emmetsburg road, where General Meade held his head-quarters during the cannonade, is most fearfully cut up. General Lee masked his artillery, and opened with one hundred and thirty pieces at the same moment. Two shells in every second of time fell around those head-quarters. They tore through the little white building, exploding and scattering their fragments in every direction. Not a spot in its vicinity was safe. One shell through the door-step, another in the chimney, a third shattering a rafter, a fourth carrying away the legs of a chair in which an officer was seated; others severing and splintering the posts in front of the house, howling through the trees by which the dwelling was surrounded, and raising deep furrows in the soft earth. One officer, and another, and another were wounded. Strange to say, amid all this iron hail, no one of the staff was killed. "Once more at the cemetery, I crossed the Baltimore turnpike to the hill that forms the extremity of the ridge, on which the main portion of our line of battle was located. I followed this ridge to the point held by our extreme right. About midway along the ridge was the scene of the fiercest attack upon that portion of the field. Tree after tree was scarred from base to limbs so thickly that it would have been impossible to place one's hand upon the trunk without covering the marks of a bullet. One tree was stripped of more than half its leaves; many of its twigs were partially severed, and hanging wilted and nearly ready to drop to the ground. The trunk of the tree, about ten inches in diameter, was cut and scarred in every part. The fire which struck these trees was that from our muskets upon the advancing Rebels. Every tree and bush for the distance of half a mile along these works was nearly as badly marked. The rocks, wherever they faced our breast-works, were thickly stippled with dots like snow-flakes. The missiles, flattened by contact with the rock, were lying among the leaves, giving little indication of their former character. "Our sharp-shooters occupied novel positions. One of them found half a hollow log, standing upright, with a hole left by the removal of a knot, which gave him an excellent embrasure. Some were in tree-tops, others in nooks among the rocks, and others behind temporary barricades of their own construction. Owing to the excellence of our defenses, the Rebels lost heavily." A few days after visiting this field, I joined the army in Western Maryland. The Rebels were between us and the Potomac. We were steadily pressing them, rather with a design of driving them across the Potomac without further fighting, than of bringing on an engagement. Lee effected his crossing in safety, only a few hundred men of his rear-guard being captured on the left bank of the Potomac. The Maryland campaign was ended when Lee was driven out. Our army crossed the Potomac further down that stream, but made no vigorous pursuit. I returned to New York, and once more proceeded to the West. Our victory in Pennsylvania was accompanied by the fall of Vicksburg and the surrender of Pemberton's army. A few days later, the capture of Port Hudson was announced. The struggle for the possession of the Mississippi was substantially ended when the Rebel fortifications along its banks fell into our hands. CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE NORTHWEST. From Chicago to Minnesota.--Curiosities of Low-Water Navigation.--St. Paul and its Sufferings in Earlier Days.--The Indian War.--A Brief History of our Troubles in that Region.--General Pope's Expeditions to Chastise the Red Man.--Honesty in the Indian Department.--The End of the Warfare.--The Pacific Railway.--A Bold Undertaking.--Penetrating British Territory.--The Hudson Bay Company.--Peculiarities of a Trapper's Life. Early in September, 1863, I found myself in Chicago, breathing the cool, fresh air from Lake Michigan. From Chicago to Milwaukee I skirted the shores of the lake, and from the latter city pushed across Wisconsin to the Mississippi River. Here it was really the blue Mississippi: its appearance was a pleasing contrast to the general features of the river a thousand miles below. The banks, rough and picturesque, rose abruptly from the water's edge, forming cliffs that overtopped the table-land beyond. These cliffs appeared in endless succession, as the boat on which I traveled steamed up the river toward St. Paul. Where the stream widened into Lake Pepin, they seemed more prominent and more precipitous than elsewhere, as the larger expanse of water was spread at their base. The promontory known as "Maiden's Rock" is the most conspicuous of all. The Indians relate that some daughter of the forest, disappointed in love, once leaped from its summit to the rough rocks, two hundred feet below. Her lover, learning her fate, visited the spot, gazed from the fearful height, and, after a prayer to the Great Spirit who watches over the Red Man--returned to his friends and broke the heart of another Indian maid. Passing Lake Pepin and approaching St. Paul, the river became very shallow. There had been little rain during the summer, and the previous spring witnessed no freshet in that region. The effect was apparent in the condition of the Mississippi. In the upper waters boats moved with difficulty. The class that is said to steam wherever there is a heavy dew, was brought into active use. From St. Paul to a point forty miles below, only the lightest of the "stern-wheel" boats could make any headway. The inhabitants declared they had never before known such a low stage of water, and earnestly hoped it would not occur again. It was paralyzing much of the business of the State. Many flouring and lumber mills were lying idle. Transportation was difficult, and the rates very high. A railway was being constructed to connect with the roads from Chicago, but it was not sufficiently advanced to be of any service. Various stories were in circulation concerning the difficulties of navigation on the Upper Mississippi in a low stage of water. One pilot declared the wheels of his boat actually raised a cloud of dust in many places. Another said his boat could run easily in the moisture on the outside of a pitcher of ice-water, but could not move to advantage in the river between Lake Pepin and St. Paul. A person interested in the railway proposed to secure a charter for laying the track in the bed of the Mississippi, but feared the company would be unable to supply the locomotives with water on many portions of the route. Many other jests were indulged in, all of which were heartily appreciated by the people of St. Paul. The day after my arrival at St. Paul, I visited the famous Falls of the Minnehaha. I am unable to give them a minute description, my visit being very brief. Its brevity arose from the entire absence of water in the stream which supplies the fall. That fluid is everywhere admitted to be useful for purposes of navigation, and I think it equally desirable in the formation of a cascade. The inhabitants of St. Paul have reason to bless the founders of their city for the excellent site of the future metropolis of the Northwest. Overlooking and almost overhanging the river in one part, in another it slopes gently down to the water's edge, to the levee where the steamers congregate. Back from the river the limits of the city extend for several miles, and admit of great expansion. With a hundred years of prosperity there would still be ample room for growth. Before the financial crash in '57, this levee was crowded with merchandise from St. Louis and Chicago. Storage was not always to be had, though the construction of buildings was rapidly pushed. Business was active, speculation was carried to the furthest limit, everybody had money in abundance, and scattered it with no niggard hand. In many of the brokers' windows, placards were posted offering alluring inducements to capitalists. "Fifty per cent. guaranteed on investments," was set forth on these placards, the offers coming from parties considered perfectly sound. Fabulous sums were paid for wild land and for lots in apocryphal towns. All was prosperity and activity. By-and-by came the crash, and this well-founded town passed through a period of mourning and fasting. St. Paul saw many of its best and heaviest houses vanish into thin air; merchants, bankers, land-speculators, lumbermen, all suffered alike. Some disappeared forever; others survived the shock, but never recovered their former footing. Large amounts of property went under the auctioneer's hammer, "to be sold without limit." Lots of land which cost two or three hundred dollars in '56, were sold at auction in '58 for five or six dollars each. Thousands of people lost their all in these unfortunate land-speculations. Others who survived the crash have clung to their acres, hoping that prosperity may return to the Northwest. At present their wealth consists mainly of Great Expectations. Though suffering greatly, the capital and business center of Minnesota was by no means ruined. The speculators departed, but the farmers and other working classes remained. Business "touched bottom" and then slowly revived. St. Paul existed through all the calamity, and its people soon learned the actual necessities of Minnesota. While they mourn the departure of the "good times," many of them express a belief that those happy days were injurious to the permanent prosperity of the State. St. Paul is one of the few cities of the world whose foundation furnishes the material for their construction. The limestone rock on which it is built is in layers of about a foot in thickness, and very easy to quarry. The blocks require little dressing to fit them for use. Though very soft at first, the stone soon hardens by exposure to the air, and forms a neat and durable wall. In digging a cellar one will obtain more than sufficient stone for the walls of his house. At the time of my visit the Indian expedition of 1863 had just returned, and was camped near Fort Snelling. This expedition was sent out by General Pope, for the purpose of chastising the Sioux Indians. It was under command of General Sibley, and accomplished a march of nearly six hundred miles. As it lay in camp at Fort Snelling, the men and animals presented the finest appearance I had ever observed in an army just returned from a long campaign. The Sioux massacres of 1862, and the campaign of General Pope in the autumn of that year, attracted much attention. Nearly all the settlers in the valley of the Minnesota above Fort Snelling were killed or driven off. Other localities suffered to a considerable extent. The murders--like nearly all murders of whites by the Indians--were of the most atrocious character. The history of those massacres is a chronicle of horrors rarely equaled during the present century. Whole counties were made desolate, and the young State, just recovering from its financial misfortunes, received a severe blow to its prosperity. Various causes were assigned for the outbreak of hostilities on the part of the Sioux Indians. Very few residents of Minnesota, in view of the atrocities committed by the Indians, could speak calmly of the troubles. All were agreed that there could be no peace and security until the white men were the undisputed possessors of the land. Before the difficulties began, there was for some time a growing discontent on the part of the Indians, on account of repeated grievances. Just previous to the outbreak, these Indians were summoned to one of the Government Agencies to receive their annuities. These annuities had been promised them at a certain time, but were not forthcoming. The agents, as I was informed, had the money (in coin) as it was sent from Washington, but were arranging to pay the Indians in Treasury notes and pocket the premium on the gold. The Indians were kept waiting while the gold was being exchanged for greenbacks. There was a delay in making this exchange, and the Indians were put off from day to day with promises instead of money. An Indian knows nothing about days of grace, protests, insolvency, expansions, and the other technical terms with which Wall Street is familiar. He can take no explanation of broken promises, especially when those promises are made by individuals who claim to represent the Great Father at Washington. In this case the Sioux lost all confidence in the agents, who had broken their word from day to day. Added to the mental annoyance, there was great physical suffering. The traders at the post would sell nothing without cash payment, and, without money, the Indians were unable to procure what the stores contained in abundance. The annuities were not paid, and the traders refused to sell on credit. Some of the Indians were actually starving, and one day they forced their way into a store to obtain food. Taking possession, they supplied themselves with what they desired. Among other things, they found whisky, of the worst and most fiery quality. Once intoxicated, all the bad passions of the savages were let loose. In their drunken frenzy, the Indians killed one of the traders. The sight of blood made them furious. Other white men at the Agency were killed, and thus the contagion spread. From the Agency the murderers spread through the valley of the St. Peter's, proclaiming war against the whites. They made no distinction of age or sex. The atrocities they committed are among the most fiendish ever recorded. The outbreak of these troubles was due to the conduct of the agents who were dealing with the Indians. Knowing, as they should have known, the character of the red man everywhere, and aware that the Sioux were at that time discontented, it was the duty of those agents to treat them with the utmost kindness and generosity. I do not believe the Indians, when they plundered the store at the Agency, had any design beyond satisfying their hunger. But with one murder committed, there was no restraint upon their passions. Many of our transactions with the Indians, in the past twenty years, have not been characterized by the most scrupulous honesty. The Department of the Interior has an interior history that would not bear investigation. It is well known that the furnishing of supplies to the Indians often enriches the agents and their political friends. There is hardly a tribe along our whole frontier that has not been defrauded. Dishonesty in our Indian Department was notorious during Buchanan's Administration. The retirement of Buchanan and his cabinet did not entirely bring this dishonesty to an end. An officer of the Hudson Bay Company told me, in St. Paul, that it was the strict order of the British Government, enforced in letter and spirit by the Company, to keep full faith with the Indians. Every stipulation is most scrupulously carried out. The slightest infringement by a white man upon the rights of the Indians is punished with great severity. They are furnished with the best qualities of goods, and the quantity never falls below the stipulations. Consequently the Indian has no cause of complaint, and is kept on the most friendly terms. This officer said, "A white man can travel from one end to the other of our territory, with no fear of molestation. It is forty years since any trouble occurred between us and the Indians, while on your side of the line you have frequent difficulties." The autumn of '62 witnessed the campaign for the chastisement of these Indians. Twenty-five thousand men were sent to Minnesota, under General Pope, and employed against the Sioux. In a wild country, like the interior of Minnesota, infantry cannot be used to advantage. On this account, the punishment of the Indians was not as complete as our authorities desired. Some of the Indians were captured, some killed, and others surrendered. Thirty-nine of the captives were hanged. A hundred others were sent to prison at Davenport, Iowa, for confinement during life. The coming of Winter caused a suspension of hostilities. The spring of 1863 opened with the outfitting of two expeditions--one to proceed through Minnesota, under General Sibley, and the other up the Missouri River, under General Sully. These expeditions were designed to unite somewhere on the Missouri River, and, by inclosing the Indians between them, to bring them to battle. If the plan was successful, the Indians would be severely chastised. General Sibley moved across Minnesota, according to agreement, and General Sully advanced up the Missouri. The march of the latter was delayed on account of the unprecedented low water in the Missouri, which retarded the boats laden with supplies. Although the two columns failed to unite, they were partially successful in their primary object. Each column engaged the Indians and routed them with considerable loss. After the return of General Sibley's expedition, a portion of the troops composing it were sent to the Southwest, and attached to the armies operating in Louisiana. The Indian war in Minnesota dwindled to a fight on the part of politicians respecting its merits in the past, and the best mode of conducting it in the future. General Pope, General Sibley, and General Sully were praised and abused to the satisfaction of every resident of the State. Laudation and denunciation were poured out with equal liberality. The contest was nearly as fierce as the struggle between the whites and Indians. If epithets had been as fatal as bullets, the loss of life would have been terrible. Happily, the wordy battle was devoid of danger, and the State of Minnesota, her politicians, her generals, and her men emerged from it without harm. Various schemes have been devised for placing the Sioux Indians where they will not be in our way. No spot of land can be found between the Mississippi and the Pacific where their presence would not be an annoyance to somebody. General Pope proposed to disarm these Indians, allot no more reservations to them, and allow no traders among them. He recommended that they be placed on Isle Royale, in Lake Superior, and there furnished with barracks, rations, and clothing, just as the same number of soldiers would be furnished. They should have no arms, and no means of escaping to the main-land. They would thus be secluded from all evil influence, and comfortably housed and cared for at Government expense. If this plan should be adopted, it would be a great relief to the people of our Northwestern frontier. Minnesota has fixed its desires upon a railway to the Pacific. The "St. Paul and Pacific Railway" is already in operation about forty miles west of St. Paul, and its projectors hope, in time, to extend it to the shores of the "peaceful sea." It has called British capital to its aid, and is slowly but steadily progressing. In the latter part of 1858 several enterprising citizens of St. Paul took a small steamer in midwinter from the upper waters of the Mississippi to the head of navigation, on the Red River of the North. The distance was two hundred and fifty miles, and the route lay through a wilderness. Forty yoke of oxen were required for moving the boat. When navigation was open in the spring of 1859, the boat (the _Anson Northrup_) steamed down to Fort Garry, the principal post of the Hudson Bay Company, taking all the inhabitants by surprise. None of them had any intimation of its coming, and were, consequently, as much astonished as if the steamer had dropped from the clouds. The agents of the Hudson Bay Company purchased the steamer, a few hours after its arrival, for about four times its value. They hoped to continue their seclusion by so doing; but were doomed to disappointment. Another and larger boat was built in the following year at Georgetown, Minnesota, the spot where the _Northrup_ was launched. The isolation of the fur-traders was ended. The owners of the second steamer (the _International_) were the proprietors of a stage and express line to all parts of Minnesota. They extended their line to Fort Garry, and soon established a profitable business. From its organization in 1670, down to 1860, the Hudson Bay Company sent its supplies, and received its furs in return, by way of the Arctic Ocean and Hudson's Bay. There are only two months in the year in which a ship can enter or leave Hudson's Bay. A ship sailing from London in January, enters the Bay in August. When the cargo is delivered at York Factory, at the mouth of Nelson's River, it is too late in the season to send the goods to the great lakes of Northwestern America, where the trading posts are located. In the following May the goods are forwarded. They go by canoes where the river is navigable, and are carried on the backs of men around the frequent and sometimes long rapids. The journey requires three months. The furs purchased with these goods cannot be sent to York Factory until a year later, and another year passes away before they leave Hudson's Bay. Thus, returns for a cargo were not received in London until four years after its shipment from that port. Since American enterprise took control of the carrying trade, goods are sent from London to Fort Garry by way of New York and St. Paul, and are only four months in transit. Four or five months will be required to return a cargo of furs to London, making a saving of three years over the old route. Stupid as our English cousin sometimes shows himself, he cannot fail to perceive the advantages of the new route, and has promptly embraced them. The people of Minnesota are becoming well acquainted with the residents of the country on their northern boundary. Many of the Northwestern politicians are studying the policy of "annexation." The settlement at Pembina, near Pembina Mountain, lies in Minnesota, a few miles only from the international line. The settlers supposed they were on British soil until the establishment of the boundary showed them their mistake. Every year the settlement sends a train to St. Paul, nearly seven hundred miles distant, to exchange its buffalo-robes, furs, etc., for various articles of necessity that the Pembina region does not produce. This annual train is made up of "Red River carts"--vehicles that would be regarded with curiosity in New York or Washington. A Red River cart is about the size of a two-wheeled dray, and is built entirely of wood--not a particle of iron entering into its composition. It is propelled by a single ox or horse, generally the former, driven by a half-breed native. Sometimes, though not usually, the wheels are furnished with tires of rawhide, placed upon them when green and shrunk closely in drying. Each cart carries about a thousand pounds of freight, and the train will ordinarily make from fifteen to twenty miles a day. It was estimated that five hundred of these carts would visit St. Paul and St. Cloud in the autumn of 1863. The settlements of which Fort Garry is the center are scattered for several miles along the Red River of the North. They have schools, churches, flouring and saw mills, and their houses are comfortably and often luxuriously furnished. They have pianos imported from St. Paul, and their principal church, has an organ. At St. Cloud I saw evidences of extreme civilization on their way to Fort Garry. These were a whisky-still, two sewing-machines, and a grain-reaper. No people can remain in darkness after adopting these modern inventions. The monopoly which the Hudson Bay Company formerly held, has ceased to exist. Under its charter, granted by Charles II. in 1670, it had exclusive control of all the country drained by Hudson's Bay. In addition to its privilege of trade, it possessed the "right of eminent domain" and the full political management of the country. Crime in this territory was not punished by the officers of the British Government, but by the courts and officers of the Company. All settlements of farmers and artisans were discouraged, as it was the desire of the Company to maintain the territory solely as a fur preserve, from the Arctic Ocean to the United States boundary. The profits of this fur-trade were enormous, as the Company had it under full control. The furs were purchased of the Indians and trappers at very low rates, and paid for in goods at enormous prices. An industrious trapper could earn a comfortable support, and nothing more. Having full control of the fur market in Europe, the directors could regulate the selling prices as they chose. Frequently they issued orders forbidding the killing of a certain class of animals for several years. The fur from these animals would become scarce and very high, and at the same time the animals would increase in numbers. Suddenly, when the market was at its uppermost point, the order would be countermanded and a large supply brought forward for sale. This course was followed with all classes of fur in succession. The Company's dividends in the prosperous days would shame the best oil wells or Nevada silver mines of our time. Though its charter was perpetual, the Hudson Bay Company was obliged to obtain once in twenty-one years a renewal of its license for exclusive trade. From 1670 to 1838 it had no difficulty in obtaining the desired renewal. The last license expired in 1859. Though a renewal was earnestly sought, it was not attained. The territory is now open to all traders, and the power of the old Company is practically extinguished. The first explorations in Minnesota were made shortly after the discovery of the Mississippi River by Marquette and Hennepin. St. Paul was originally a French trading post, and the resort of the Indians throughout the Northwest. Fort Snelling was established by the United Suites Government in 1819, but no settlements were made until 1844. After the current of emigration began, the territory was rapidly filled. While Minnesota was a wilderness, the American Fur Company established posts on the upper waters of the Mississippi. The old trading-house below the Falls of St. Anthony, the first frame building erected in the territory, is yet standing, though it exhibits many symptoms of decay. At one time the emigration to Minnesota was very great, but it has considerably fallen off during the last eight years. The State is too far north to hold out great inducements to settlers. The winters are long and severe, and the productions of the soil are limited in character and quantity. In summer the climate is excellent, attracting large numbers of pleasure-seekers. The Falls of St. Anthony and the Minnehaha have a world-wide reputation. CHAPTER XXIX. INAUGURATION OF A GREAT ENTERPRISE. Plans for Arming the Negroes along the Mississippi.--Opposition to the Movement.--Plantations Deserted by their Owners.--Gathering Abandoned Cotton.--Rules and Regulations.--Speculation.--Widows and Orphans in Demand.--Arrival of Adjutant-General Thomas.--Designs of the Government. I have elsewhere alluded to the orders of General Grant at Lagrange, Tennessee, in the autumn of 1862, relative to the care of the negroes where his army was then operating. The plan was successful in providing for the negroes in Tennessee and Northern Mississippi, where the number, though large, was not excessive. At that time, the policy of arming the blacks was being discussed in various quarters. It found much opposition. Many persons thought it would be an infringement upon the "rights" of the South, both unconstitutional and unjust. Others cared nothing for the South, or its likes and dislikes, but opposed the measure on the ground of policy. They feared its adoption would breed discontent among the white soldiers of the army, and cause so many desertions and so much uneasiness that the importance of the new element would be more than neutralized. Others, again, doubted the courage of the negroes, and thought their first use under fire would result in disgrace and disaster to our arms. They opposed the experiment on account of this fear. In South Carolina and in Kansas the negroes had been put under arms and mustered into service as Union soldiers. In engagements of a minor character they had shown coolness and courage worthy of veterans. There was no valid reason why the negroes along the Mississippi would not be just as valuable in the army, as the men of the same race in other parts of the country. Our Government determined to try the experiment, and make the _Corps d'Afrique_ a recognized and important adjunct of our forces in the field. When General Grant encamped his army at Milliken's Bend and Young's Point, preparatory to commencing the siege of Vicksburg, many of the cotton plantations were abandoned by their owners. Before our advent nearly all the white males able to bear arms had, willingly or unwillingly, gone to aid in filling the ranks of the insurgents. On nearly every plantation there was a white man not liable to military service, who remained to look after the interests of the property. When our army appeared, the majority of these white men fled to the interior of Louisiana, leaving the plantations and the negroes to the tender mercy of the invaders. In some cases the fugitives took the negroes with them, thus leaving the plantations entirely deserted. When the negroes remained, and the plantations were not supplied with provisions, it became necessary for the Commissary Department to issue rations for the subsistence of the blacks. As nearly all the planters cared nothing for the negroes they had abandoned, there was a very large number that required the attention of the Government. On many plantations the cotton crop of 1862 was still in the field, somewhat damaged by the winter rains; but well worth gathering at the prices which then ruled the market. General Grant gave authority for the gathering of this cotton by any parties who were willing to take the contract. The contractors were required to feed the negroes and pay them for their labor. One-half the cotton went to the Government, the balance to the contractor. There was no lack of men to undertake the collection of abandoned cotton on these terms, as the enterprise could not fail to be exceedingly remunerative. This cotton, gathered by Government authority, was, with a few exceptions, the only cotton which could be shipped to market. There were large quantities of "old" cotton--gathered and baled in previous years--which the owners were anxious to sell, and speculators ready to buy. Numerous applications were made for shipping-permits, but nearly all were rejected. A few cases were pressed upon General Grant's attention, as deserving exception from the ordinary rule. There was one case of two young girls, whose parents had recently died, and who were destitute of all comforts on the plantation where they lived. They had a quantity of cotton which they wished to take to Memphis, for sale in that market. Thus provided with money, they would proceed North, and remain there till the end of the war. A speculator became interested in these girls, and plead with all his eloquence for official favor in their behalf. General Grant softened his heart and gave this man a written permit to ship whatever cotton belonged to the orphans. It was understood, and so stated in the application, that the amount was between two hundred and three hundred bales. The exact number not being known, there was no quantity specified in the permit. The speculator soon discovered that the penniless orphans could claim two thousand instead of two hundred bales, and thought it possible they would find three thousand bales and upward. On the strength of his permit without special limit, he had purchased, or otherwise procured, all the cotton he could find in the immediate vicinity. He was allowed to make shipment of a few hundred bales; the balance was detained. Immediately, as this transaction became known, every speculator was on the _qui vive_ to discover a widow or an orphan. Each plantation was visited, and the status of the owners, if any remained, became speedily known. Orphans and widows, the former in particular, were at a high premium. Never in the history of Louisiana did the children of tender years, bereft of parents, receive such attention from strangers. A spectator might have imagined the Millennium close at hand, and the dealers in cotton about to be humbled at the feet of babes and sucklings. Widows, neither young nor comely, received the warmest attention from men of Northern birth. The family of John Rodgers, had it then lived at Milliken's Bend, would have been hailed as a "big thing." Everywhere in that region there were men seeking "healthy orphans for adoption." The majority of the speculators found the widows and orphans of whom they were in search. Some were able to obtain permits, while others were not. Several officers of the army became interested in these speculations, and gave their aid to obtain shipping privileges. Some who were innocent were accused of dealing in the forbidden fiber, while others, guilty of the transaction, escaped without suspicion. The temptation was great. Many refused to be concerned in the traffic; but there were some who yielded. The contractors who gathered the abandoned cotton were enabled to accumulate small fortunes. Some of them acted honestly, but others made use of their contracts to cover large shipments of purchased or stolen cotton, baled two or three years before. The ordinary yield of an acre of ground is from a bale to a bale and a half. The contractors were sometimes able to show a yield of ten or twenty bales to the acre. About the first of April, Adjutant-General Thomas arrived at Milliken's Bend, bringing, as he declared, authority to regulate every thing as he saw fit. Under his auspices, arrangements were made for putting the able-bodied male negroes into the army. In a speech delivered at a review of the troops at Lake Providence, he announced the determination of the Government to use every just measure to suppress the Rebellion. The Rebels indirectly made use of the negroes against the Government, by employing them in the production of supplies for their armies in the field. "In this way," he said, "they can bring to bear against us all the power of their so-called Confederacy. At the same time we are compelled to retain at home a portion of our fighting force to furnish supplies for the men at the front. The Administration has determined to take the negroes belonging to disloyal men, and make them a part of the army. This is the policy that has been fixed and will be fully carried out." General Thomas announced that he brought authority to raise as many regiments as possible, and to give commissions to all proper persons who desired them. The speech was listened to with attention, and loudly cheered at its close. The general officers declared themselves favorable to the new movement, and gave it their co-operation. In a few days a half-dozen regiments were in process of organization. This was the beginning of the scheme for raising a large force of colored soldiers along the Mississippi. The disposition to be made of the negro women and children in our lines, was a subject of great importance. Their numbers were very large, and constantly increasing. Not a tenth of these persons could find employment in gathering abandoned cotton. Those that found such employment were only temporarily provided for. It would be a heavy burden upon the Government to support them in idleness during the entire summer. It would be manifestly wrong to send them to the already overcrowded camps at Memphis and Helena. They were upon our hands by the fortune of war, and must be cared for in some way. The plantations which their owners had abandoned were supposed to afford the means of providing homes for the negroes, where they could be sheltered, fed, and clothed without expense to the Government. It was proposed to lease these plantations for the term of one year, to persons who would undertake the production of a crop of cotton. Those negroes who were unfit for military service were to be distributed on these plantations, where the lessees would furnish them all needed supplies, and pay them for their labor at certain stipulated rates. The farming tools and other necessary property on the plantations were to be appraised at a fair valuation, and turned over to the lessees. Where the plantations were destitute of the requisite number of mules for working them, condemned horses and mules were loaned to the lessees, who should return them whenever called for. There were promises of protection against Rebel raids, and of all assistance that the Government could consistently give. General Thomas announced that the measure was fully decided upon at Washington, and should receive every support. The plantations were readily taken, the prospects being excellent for enormous profits if the scheme proved successful. The cost of producing cotton varies from three to eight cents a pound. The staple would find ready sale at fifty cents, and might possibly command a higher figure. The prospects of a large percentage on the investment were alluring in the extreme. The plantations, the negroes, the farming utensils, and the working stock were to require no outlay. All that was demanded before returns would be received, were the necessary expenditures for feeding and clothing the negroes until the crop was made and gathered. From five to thirty thousand dollars was the estimated yearly expense of a plantation of a thousand acres. If successful, the products for a year might be set down at two hundred thousand dollars; and should cotton appreciate, the return would be still greater. CHAPTER XXX. COTTON-PLANTING IN 1863. Leasing the Plantations.--Interference of the Rebels.--Raids.--Treatment of Prisoners.--The Attack upon Milliken's Bend.--A Novel Breast-Work.--Murder o four Officers.--Profits of Cotton-Planting.--Dishonesty of Lessees.--Negroes Planting on their own Account. It was late in the season before the plantations were leased and the work of planting commenced. The ground was hastily plowed and the seed as hastily sown. The work was prosecuted with the design of obtaining as much as possible in a single season. In their eagerness to accumulate fortunes, the lessees frequently planted more ground than they could care for, and allowed much of it to run to waste. Of course, it could not be expected the Rebels would favor the enterprise. They had prophesied the negro would not work when free, and were determined to break up any effort to induce him to labor. They were not even willing to give him a fair trial. Late in June they visited the plantations at Milliken's Bend and vicinity. They stripped many of the plantations of all the mules and horses that could be found, frightened some of the negroes into seeking safety at the nearest military posts, and carried away others. Some of the lessees were captured; others, having timely warning, made good their escape. Of those captured, some were released on a regular parole not to take up arms against the "Confederacy." Others were liberated on a promise to go North and remain there, after being allowed a reasonable time for settling their business. Others were carried into captivity and retained as prisoners of war until late in the summer. A Mr. Walker was taken to Brownsville, Texas, and there released, with the privilege of crossing to Matamoras, and sailing thence to New Orleans. It was six months from the time of his capture before he reached New Orleans on his return home. The Rebels made a fierce attack upon the garrison at Milliken's Bend. For a few moments during the fight the prospects of their success were very good. The negroes composing the garrison had not been long under arms, and their discipline was far from perfect. The Rebels obtained possession of a part of our works, but were held at bay by the garrison, until the arrival of a gun-boat turned the scale in our favor. The odds were against us at the outset, but we succeeded in putting the enemy to flight. In this attack the Rebels made use of a movable breast-work, consisting of a large drove of mules, which they kept in their front as they advanced upon the fort. This breast-work served very well at first, but grew unmanageable as our fire became severe. It finally broke and fled to the rear, throwing the Rebel lines into confusion. I believe it was the first instance on record where the defenses ran away, leaving the defenders uncovered. It marked a new, but unsuccessful, phase of war. An officer who was present at the defense of Milliken's Bend vouches for the truth of the story. The Rebels captured a portion of the garrison, including some of the white officers holding commissions in negro regiments. The negro prisoners were variously disposed of. Some were butchered on the spot while pleading for quarter; others were taken a few miles on the retreat, and then shot by the wayside. A few were driven away by their masters, who formed a part of the raiding force, but they soon escaped and returned to our lines. Of the officers who surrendered as prisoners of war, some were shot or hanged within a short distance of their place of capture. Two were taken to Shreveport and lodged in jail with one of the captured lessees. One night these officers were taken from the jail by order of General Kirby Smith, and delivered into the hands of the provost-marshal, to be shot for the crime of accepting commissions in negro regiments. Before morning they were dead. Similar raids were made at other points along the river, where plantations were being cultivated under the new system. At all these places the mules were stolen and the negroes either frightened or driven away. Work was suspended until the plantations could be newly stocked and equipped. This suspension occurred at the busiest time in the season. The production of the cotton was, consequently, greatly retarded. On some plantations the weeds grew faster than the cotton, and refused to be put down. On others, the excellent progress the weeds had made, during the period of idleness, rendered the yield of the cotton-plant very small. Some of the plantations were not restocked after the raid, and speedily ran to waste. In 1863, no lessee made more than half an ordinary crop of _cotton_, and very few secured even this return. Some obtained a quarter or an eighth of a bale to the acre, and some gathered only one bale where they should have gathered twelve or twenty. A few lost money in the speculation. Some made a fair profit on their investment, and others realized their expectations of an enormous reward. Several parties united their interest on three or four plantations in different localities, so that a failure in one quarter was offset by success in another. The majority of the lessees were unprincipled men, who undertook the enterprise solely as a speculation. They had as little regard for the rights of the negro as the most brutal slaveholder had ever shown. Very few of them paid the negroes for their labor, except in furnishing them small quantities of goods, for which they charged five times the value. One man, who realized a profit of eighty thousand dollars, never paid his negroes a penny. Some of the lessees made open boast of having swindled their negroes out of their summer's wages, by taking advantage of their ignorance. The experiment did not materially improve the condition of the negro, save in the matter of physical treatment. As a slave the black man received no compensation for his labor. As a free man, he received none. He was well fed, and, generally, well clothed. He received no severe punishment for non-performance of duty, as had been the case before the war. The difference between working for nothing as a slave, and working for the same wages under the Yankees, was not always perceptible to the unsophisticated negro. Several persons leased plantations that they might use them as points for shipping purchased or stolen cotton. Some were quite successful in this, while others were unable to find any cotton to bring out. Various parties united with the plantation-owners, and agreed to obtain all facilities from the Government officials, if their associates would secure protection against Rebel raids. In some cases this experiment was successful, and the plantations prospered, while those around them were repeatedly plundered. In others, the Rebels were enraged at the plantation-owners for making any arrangements with "the Yankees," and treated them with merciless severity. There was no course that promised absolute safety, and there was no man who could devise a plan of operations that would cover all contingencies. Every thing considered, the result of the free-labor enterprise was favorable to the pockets of the avaricious lessees, though it was not encouraging to the negro and to the friends of justice and humanity. All who had been successful desired to renew their leases for another season. Some who were losers were willing to try again and hope for better fortune. All the available plantations in the vicinity of Vicksburg, Milliken's Bend, and other points along that portion of the Mississippi were applied for before the beginning of the New Year. Application for these places were generally made by the former lessees or their friends. The prospects were good for a vigorous prosecution of the free-labor enterprise during 1864. In the latter part of 1863, I passed down the Mississippi, _en route_ to New Orleans. At Vicksburg I met a gentleman who had been investigating the treatment of the negroes under the new system, and was about making a report to the proper authorities. He claimed to have proof that the agents appointed by General Thomas had not been honest in their administration of affairs. One of these agents had taken five plantations under his control, and was proposing to retain them for another year. It was charged that he had not paid his negroes for their labor, except in scanty supplies of clothing, for which exorbitant prices were charged. He had been successful with his plantations, but delivered very little cotton to the Government agents. The investigations into the conduct of agents and lessees were expected to make a change in the situation. Up to that time the War Department had controlled the whole system of plantation management. The Treasury Department was seeking the control, on the ground that the plantations were a source of revenue to the Government, and should be under its financial and commercial policy. If it could be proved that the system pursued was an unfair and dishonest one, there was probability of a change. I pressed forward on my visit to New Orleans. On my return, two weeks later, the agents of General Thomas were pushing their plans for the coming year. There was no indication of an immediate change in the management. The duties of these agents had been enlarged, and the region which they controlled extended from Lake Providence, sixty miles above Vicksburg, to the mouth of Red River, nearly two hundred miles below. One of the agents had his office at Lake Providence, a second was located at Vicksburg, while the third was at Natchez. Nearly all the plantations near Lake Providence had been leased or applied for. The same was the case with most of those near Vicksburg. In some instances, there were several applicants for the same plantation. The agents announced their determination to sell the choice of plantations to the highest bidder. The competition for the best places was expected to be very active. There was one pleasing feature. Some of the applicants for plantations were not like the sharp-eyed speculators who had hitherto controlled the business. They seemed to be men of character, desirous of experimenting with free labor for the sake of demonstrating its feasibility when skillfully and honestly managed. They hoped and believed it would be profitable, but they were not undertaking the enterprise solely with a view to money-making. The number of these men was not large, but their presence, although in small force, was exceedingly encouraging. I regret to say that these men were outstripped in the struggle for good locations by their more unscrupulous competitors. Before the season was ended, the majority of the honest men abandoned the field. During 1863, many negroes cultivated small lots of ground on their own account. Sometimes a whole family engaged in the enterprise, a single individual having control of the matter. In other cases, two, three, or a half-dozen negroes would unite their labor, and divide the returns. One family of four persons sold twelve bales of cotton, at two hundred dollars per bale, as the result of eight months' labor. Six negroes who united their labor were able to sell twenty bales. The average was about one and a half or two bales to each of those persons who attempted the planting enterprise on their own account. A few made as high as four bales each, while others did not make more than a single bale. One negro, who was quite successful in planting on his own account, proposed to take a small plantation in 1864, and employ twenty or more colored laborers. How he succeeded I was not able to ascertain. The commissioners in charge of the freedmen gave the negroes every encouragement to plant on their own account. In 1864 there were thirty colored lessees near Milliken's Bend, and about the same number at Helena. Ten of these persons at Helena realized $31,000 for their year's labor. Two of them planted forty acres in cotton; their expenses were about $1,200; they sold their crop for $8,000. Another leased twenty-four acres. His expenses were less than $2,000, and he sold his crop for $6,000. Another leased seventeen acres. He earned by the season's work enough to purchase a good house, and leave him a cash balance of $300. Another leased thirteen and a half acres, expended about $600 in its cultivation, and sold his crop for $4,000. At Milliken's Bend the negroes were not as successful as at Helena--much of the cotton crop being destroyed by the "army worm." It is possible that the return of peace may cause a discontinuance of the policy of leasing land to negroes. The planters are bitterly opposed to the policy of dividing plantations into small parcels, and allowing them to be cultivated by freedmen. They believe in extensive tracts of land under a single management, and endeavor to make the production of cotton a business for the few rather than the many. It has always been the rule to discourage small planters. No aristocratic proprietor, if he could avoid it, would sell any portion of his estate to a man of limited means. In the hilly portions of the South, the rich men were unable to carry out their policy. Consequently, there were many who cultivated cotton on a small scale. On the lower Mississippi this was not the case. When the Southern States are fairly "reconstructed," and the political control is placed in the hands of the ruling race, every effort will be made to maintain the old policy. Plantations of a thousand or of three thousand acres will be kept intact, unless the hardest necessity compels their division. If possible, the negroes will not be permitted to possess or cultivate land on their own account. To allow them to hold real estate will be partially admitting their claim to humanity. No true scion of chivalry can permit such an innovation, so long as he is able to make successful opposition. I have heard Southern men declare that a statute law should, and would, be made to prevent the negroes holding real estate. I have no doubt of the disposition of the late Rebels in favor of such enactment, and believe they would display the greatest energy in its enforcement. It would be a labor of love on their part, as well as of duty. Its success would be an obstacle in the way of the much-dreaded "negro equality." CHAPTER XXXI. AMONG THE OFFICIALS. Reasons for Trying an Experiment.--Activity among Lessees.--Opinions of the Residents.--Rebel Hopes in 1863.--Removal of Negroes to West Louisiana.--Visiting Natchez.--The City and its Business.--"The Rejected Addresses." In my visit to Vicksburg I was accompanied by my fellow-journalist, Mr. Colburn, of _The World_. Mr. Colburn and myself had taken more than an ordinary interest in the free-labor enterprise. We had watched its inception eight months before, with many hopes for its success, and with as many fears for the result. The experiment of 1863, under all its disadvantages, gave us convincing proof that the production of cotton and sugar by free labor was both possible and profitable. The negro had proved the incorrectness of the slaveholders' assertion that no black man would labor on a plantation except as a slave. So much we had seen accomplished. It was the result of a single year's trial. We desired to see a further and more extensive test. While studying the new system in the hands of others, we were urged to bring it under our personal observation. Various inducements were held out. We were convinced of the general feasibility of the enterprise, wherever it received proper attention. As a philanthropic undertaking, it was commendable. As a financial experiment, it promised success. We looked at the matter in all its aspects, and finally decided to gain an intimate knowledge of plantation life in war-time. Whether we succeeded or failed, we would learn more about the freedmen than we had hitherto known, and would assist, in some degree, to solve the great problem before the country. Success would be personally profitable, while failure could not be disastrous. We determined to lease a plantation, but had selected none. In her directions for cooking a hare, Mrs. Glass says: "First, catch your hare." Our animal was to be caught, and the labor of securing it proved greater than we anticipated. All the eligible locations around Vicksburg had been taken by the lessees of the previous season, or by newly-arrived persons who preceded us. There were several residents of the neighboring region who desired persons from the North to join them in tilling their plantations. They were confident of obtaining Rebel protection, though by no means certain of securing perfect immunity. In each case they demanded a cash advance of a few thousands, for the purpose of hiring the guerrillas to keep the peace. As it was evident that the purchase of one marauding band would require the purchase of others, until the entire "Confederacy" had been bought up, we declined all these proposals. Some of these residents, who wished Northern men to join them, claimed to have excellent plantations along the Yazoo, or near some of its tributary bayous. These men were confident a fine cotton crop could be made, "if there were some Northern man to manage the niggers." It was the general complaint with the people who lived in that region that, with few exceptions, no Southern man could induce the negroes to continue at work. One of these plantation proprietors said his location was such that no guerrilla could get near it without endangering his life. An investigation showed that no other person could reach the plantation without incurring a risk nearly as great. Very few of these owners of remote plantations were able to induce strangers to join them. We procured a map of the Mississippi and the country bordering its banks. Whenever we found a good location and made inquiry about it at the office of the leasing agents, we were sure to ascertain that some one had already filed an application. It was plain that Vicksburg was not the proper field for our researches. We shook its dust from our feet and went to Natchez, a hundred and twenty-five miles below, where a better prospect was afforded. In the spring of 1863, the Rebels felt confident of retaining permanent possession of Vicksburg and Port Hudson, two hundred and fifty miles apart. Whatever might be the result elsewhere, this portion of the Mississippi should not be abandoned. In the belief that the progress of the Yankees had been permanently stopped, the planters in the locality mentioned endeavored to make as full crops as possible of the great staple of the South. Accordingly, they plowed and planted, and tended the growing cotton until midsummer came. On the fourth of July, Vicksburg surrendered, and opened the river to Port Hudson. General Herron's Division was sent to re-enforce General Banks, who was besieging the latter place. In a few days, General Gardner hauled down his flag and gave Port Hudson to the nation. "The Father of Waters went unvexed to the Sea." The rich region that the Rebels had thought to hold was, by the fortune of war, in the possession of the National army. The planters suspended their operations, through fear that the Yankees would possess the land. Some of them sent their negroes to the interior of Louisiana for safety. Others removed to Texas, carrying all their human property with them. On some plantations the cotton had been so well cared for that it came to maturity in fine condition. On others it had been very slightly cultivated, and was almost choked out of existence by weeds and grass. Nearly every plantation could boast of more or less cotton in the field--the quantity varying from twenty bales to five hundred. On some plantations cotton had been neglected, and a large crop of corn grown in its place. Everywhere the Rebel law had been obeyed by the production of more corn than usual. There was enough for the sustenance of our armies for many months. Natchez was the center of this newly-opened region. Before the war it was the home of wealthy slave-owners, who believed the formation of a Southern Confederacy would be the formation of a terrestrial paradise. On both banks of the Mississippi, above and below Natchez, were the finest cotton plantations of the great valley. One family owned nine plantations, from which eight thousand bales of cotton were annually sent to market. Another family owned seven plantations, and others were the owners of from three to six, respectively. The plantations were in the care of overseers and agents, and rarely visited by their owners. The profits were large, and money was poured out in profusion. The books of one of the Natchez banks showed a daily business, in the picking season, of two or three million dollars, generally on the accounts of planters and their factors. Prior to the Rebellion, cotton was usually shipped to New Orleans, and sold in that market. There were some of the planters who sent their cotton to Liverpool or Havre, without passing it through the hands of New Orleans factors. A large balance of the proceeds of such shipments remained to the credit of the shippers when the war broke out, and saved them from financial ruin. The business of Natchez amounted, according to the season, from a hundred thousand to three hundred thousand bales. This included a great quantity that was sent to New Orleans from plantations above and below the city, without touching at all upon the levee at Natchez. Natchez consists of Natchez-on-the-Hill and Natchez-under-the-Hill. A bluff, nearly two hundred feet high, faces the Mississippi, where there is an eastward bend of the stream. Toward the river this bluff is almost perpendicular, and is climbed by three roads cut into its face like inclined shelves. The French established a settlement at this point a hundred and fifty years ago, and erected a fortification for its defense. This work, known as Fort Rosalie, can still be traced with distinctness, though it has fallen into extreme decay. It was evidently a rectangular, bastioned work, and the location of the bastions and magazine can be readily made out. Natchez-under-the-Hill is a small, straggling village, having a few commission houses and stores, and dwellings of a suspicious character. It was once a resort of gamblers and other _chevaliers d'industrie_, whose livelihood was derived from the travelers along the Mississippi. At present it is somewhat shorn of its glory. Natchez-on-the-Hill is a pleasant and well-built city, of about ten thousand inhabitants. The buildings display wealth and good taste, the streets are wide and finely shaded, and the abundance of churches speaks in praise of the religious sentiment of the people. Near the edge of the bluff there was formerly a fine park, commanding a view of the river for several miles in either direction, and overlooking the plantations and cypress forests on the opposite shore. This pleasure-ground was reserved for the white people alone, no negro being allowed to enter the inclosure under severe penalties. A regiment of our soldiers encamped near this park, and used its fence for fuel. The park is now free to persons of whatever color. Natchez suffered less from the war than most other places of its size along the Mississippi. The Rebels never erected fortifications in or around Natchez, having relied upon Vicksburg and Port Hudson for their protection. When Admiral Farragut ascended the river, in 1862, after the fall of New Orleans, he promised that Natchez should not be disturbed, so long as the people offered no molestation to our gun-boats or army transports. This neutrality was carefully observed, except on one occasion. A party which landed from the gun-boat _Essex_ was fired upon by a militia company that desired to distinguish itself. Natchez was shelled for two hours, in retaliation for this outrage. From that time until our troops occupied the city there was no disturbance. When we arrived at Natchez, we found several Northern men already there, whose business was similar to our own. Some had secured plantations, and were preparing to take possession. Others were watching the situation and surveying the ground before making their selections. We found that the best plantations in the vicinity had been taken by the friends of Adjutant-General Thomas, and were gone past our securing. At Vidalia, Louisiana, directly opposite Natchez, were two fine plantations, "Arnuldia" and "Whitehall," which had been thus appropriated. Others in their vicinity had been taken in one way or another, and were out of our reach. Some of the lessees declared they had been forced to promise a division with certain parties in authority before obtaining possession, while others maintained a discreet silence on the subject. Many plantations owned by widows and semi-loyal persons, would not be placed in the market as "abandoned property." There were many whose status had not been decided, so that they were practically out of the market. In consequence of these various drawbacks, the number of desirable locations that were open for selection was not large. One of the leasing agents gave us a letter to a young widow who resided in the city, and owned a large plantation in Louisiana, fifteen miles from Natchez. We lost no time in calling upon the lady. Other parties had already seen her with a view to leasing her plantation. Though she had promised the lease to one of these visitors, she had no objections to treating with ourselves, provided she could make a more advantageous contract. In a few days we repeated our visit. Our rival had urged his reasons for consideration, and was evidently in favor. He had claimed to be a Secessionist, and assured her he could obtain a safeguard from the Rebel authorities. The lady finally consented to close a contract with him, and placed us in the position of discarded suitors. We thought of issuing a new edition of "The Rejected Addresses." CHAPTER XXXII. A JOURNEY OUTSIDE THE LINES. Passing the Pickets.--Cold Weather in the South.--Effect of Climate upon the Constitution.--Surrounded and Captured.--Prevarication and Explanation.--Among the Natives.--The Game for the Confederacy.--Courtesy of the Planters.--Condition of the Plantations.--The Return. Mr. Colburn went to St. Louis, on business in which both were interested, and left me to look out a plantation. I determined to make a tour of exploration in Louisiana, in the region above Vidalia. With two or three gentlemen, who were bound on similar business, I passed our pickets one morning, and struck out into the region which was dominated by neither army. The weather was intensely cold, the ground frozen solid, and a light snow falling. Cold weather in the South has one peculiarity: it can seem more intense than the same temperature at the North. It is the effect of the Southern climate to unfit the system for any thing but a warm atmosphere. The chill penetrates the whole body with a severity I have never known north of the Ohio River. In a cold day, the "Sunny South" possesses very few attractions in the eyes of a stranger. In that day's ride, and in the night which followed, I suffered more than ever before from cold. I once passed a night in the open air in the Rocky Mountains, with the thermometer ten degrees below zero. I think it was more endurable than Louisiana, with the mercury ten degrees above zero. On my plantation hunt I was thickly clad, but the cold _would_ penetrate, in spite of every thing. An hour by a fire might bring some warmth, but the first step into the open air would drive it away. Fluid extract of corn failed to have its ordinary effect. The people of the vicinity said the weather was unusually severe on that occasion. For the sake of those who reside there hereafter, I hope their statement was true. Our party stopped for the night at a plantation near Waterproof, a small village on the bank of the river, twenty-two miles from Natchez. Just as we were comfortably seated by the fire in the overseer's house, one of the negroes announced that a person at the door wished to see us. I stepped to the door, and found a half-dozen mounted men in blue uniforms. Each man had a carbine or revolver drawn on me. One of my companions followed me outside, and found that the strange party had weapons enough to cover both of us. It had been rumored that several guerrillas, wearing United States uniforms, were lurking in the vicinity. Our conclusions concerning the character of our captors were speedily made. Resistance was useless, but there were considerations that led us to parley as long as possible. Three officers, and as many soldiers, from Natchez, had overtaken us in the afternoon, and borne us company during the latter part of our ride. When we stopped for the night, they concluded to go forward two or three miles, and return in the morning. Supposing ourselves fairly taken, we wished to give our friends opportunity to escape. With this object in view, we endeavored, by much talking, to consume time. I believe it does not make a man eloquent to compel him to peer into the muzzles of a half-dozen cocked revolvers, that may be discharged at any instant on the will of the holders. Prevarication is a difficult task, when time, place, and circumstances are favorable. It is no easy matter to convince your hearers of the truth of a story you know to be false, even when those hearers are inclined to be credulous. Surrounded by strangers, and with your life in peril, the difficulties are greatly increased. I am satisfied that I made a sad failure on that particular occasion. My friend and myself answered, indiscriminately, the questions that were propounded. Our responses did not always agree. Possibly we might have done better if only one of us had spoken. "Come out of that house," was the first request that was made. We came out. "Tell those soldiers to come out." "There are no soldiers here," I responded. "That's a d--d lie." "There are none here." "Yes, there are," said the spokesman of the party. "Some Yankee soldiers came here a little while ago." "We have been here only a few minutes." "Where did you come from?" This was what the lawyers call a leading question. We did not desire to acknowledge we were from Natchez, as that would reveal us at once. We did not wish to say we were from Shreveport, as it would soon be proved we were not telling the truth. I replied that we had come from a plantation a few miles below. Simultaneously my companion said we had just crossed the river. Here was a lack of corroborative testimony which our captors commented upon, somewhat to our discredit. So the conversation went on, our answers becoming more confused each time we spoke. At last the leader of the group dismounted, and prepared to search the house. He turned us over to the care of his companions, saying, as he did so: "If I find any soldiers here, you may shoot these d--d fellows for lying." During all the colloquy we had been carefully covered by the weapons of the group. We knew no soldiers could be found about the premises, and felt no fear concerning the result of the search. Just as the leader finished his search, a lieutenant and twenty men rode up. "Well," said our captor, "you are saved from shooting. I will turn you over to the lieutenant." I recognized in that individual an officer to whom I had received introduction a day or two before. The recognition was mutual. We had fallen into the hands of a scouting party of our own forces. Each mistook the other for Rebels. The contemplated shooting was indefinitely postponed. The lieutenant in command concluded to encamp near us, and we passed the evening in becoming acquainted with each other. On the following day the scouting party returned to Natchez. With my two companions I proceeded ten miles further up the river-bank, calling, on the way, at several plantations. All the inhabitants supposed we were Rebel officers, going to or from Kirby Smith's department. At one house we found two old gentlemen indulging in a game of chess. In response to a comment upon their mode of amusement, one of them said: "We play a very slow and cautious game, sir. Such a game as the Confederacy ought to play at this time." To this I assented. "How did you cross the river, gentlemen?" was the first interrogatory. "We crossed it at Natchez." "At Natchez! We do not often see Confederates from Natchez. You must have been very fortunate to get through." Then we explained who and what we were. The explanation was followed by a little period of silence on the part of our new acquaintances. Very soon, however, the ice was broken, and our conversation became free. We were assured that we might travel anywhere in that region as officers of the Rebel army, without the slightest suspicion of our real character. They treated us courteously, and prevailed upon us to join them at dinner. Many apologies were given for the scantiness of the repast. Corn-bread, bacon, and potatoes were the only articles set before us. Our host said he was utterly unable to procure flour, sugar, coffee, or any thing else not produced upon his plantation. He thought the good times would return when the war ended, and was particularly anxious for that moment to arrive. He pressed us to pass the night at his house, but we were unable to do so. On the following day we returned to Natchez. Everywhere on the road from Vidalia to the farthest point of our journey, we found the plantations running to waste. The negroes had been sent to Texas or West Louisiana for safety, or were remaining quietly in their quarters. Some had left their masters, and were gone to the camps of the National army at Vicksburg and Natchez. The planters had suspended work, partly because they deemed it useless to do any thing in the prevailing uncertainty, and partly because the negroes were unwilling to perform any labor. Squads of Rebel cavalry had visited some of the plantations, and threatened punishment to the negroes if they did any thing whatever toward the production of cotton. Of course, the negroes would heed such advice if they heeded no other. On all the plantations we found cotton and corn, principally the latter, standing in the field. Sometimes there were single inclosures of several hundred acres. The owners were desirous of making any arrangement that would secure the tilling of their soil, while it did not involve them in any trouble with their neighbors or the Rebel authorities. They deplored the reverses which the Rebel cause had suffered, and confessed that the times were out of joint. One of the men we visited was a judge in the courts of Louisiana, and looked at the question in a legal light. After lamenting the severity of the storm which was passing over the South, and expressing his fear that the Rebellion would be a failure, he referred to his own situation. "I own a plantation," said he, "and have combined my planting interest with the practice of law. The fortune of war has materially changed my circumstances. My niggers used to do as I told them, but that time is passed. Your Northern people have made soldiers of our servants, and will, I presume, make voters of them. In five years, if I continue the practice of law, I suppose I shall be addressing a dozen negroes as gentlemen of the jury." "If you had a negro on trial," said one of our party, "that would be correct enough. Is it not acknowledged everywhere that a man shall be tried by his peers?" The lawyer admitted that he never thought of that point before. He said he would insist upon having negroes admitted into court as counsel for negroes that were to be tried by a jury of their race. He did not believe they would ever be available as laborers in the field if they were set free, and thought so many of them would engage in theft that negro courts would be constantly busy. Generally speaking, the planters that I saw were not violent Secessionists, though none of them were unconditional Union men. All said they had favored secession at the beginning of the movement, because they thought it would strengthen and perpetuate slavery. Most of them had lost faith in its ultimate success, but clung to it as their only hope. The few Union men among them, or those who claimed to be loyal, were friends of the nation with many conditions. They desired slavery to be restored to its former status, the rights of the States left intact, and a full pardon extended to all who had taken part in the Rebellion. Under these conditions they would be willing to see the Union restored. Otherwise, the war must go on. We visited several plantations on our tour of observation, and compared their respective merits. One plantation contained three thousand acres of land, but was said to be very old and worn out. Near it was one of twelve hundred acres, three-fourths covered with corn, but with no standing cotton. One had six hundred acres of cotton in the field. This place belonged to a Spaniard, who would not be disturbed by Government, and who refused to allow any work done until after the end of the war. Another had four hundred acres of standing cotton, but the plantation had been secured by a lessee, who was about commencing work. All had merits, and all had demerits. On some there was a sufficient force for the season's work, while on others there was scarcely an able field-hand. On some the gin-houses had been burned, and on others they were standing, but disabled. A few plantations were in good order, but there was always some drawback against our securing them. Some were liable to overflow during the expected flood of the Mississippi; others were in the hands of their owners, and would not be leased by the Government. Some that had been abandoned were so thoroughly abandoned that we would hesitate to attempt their cultivation. There were several plantations more desirable than others, and I busied myself to ascertain the status of their owners, and the probabilities concerning their disposal. Some of the semi-loyal owners of plantations were able to make very good speculations in leasing their property. There was an earnest competition among the lessees to secure promising plantations. One owner made a contract, by which he received five thousand dollars in cash and half the product of the year's labor. A week after the lessee took possession, he was frightened by the near approach of a company of Rebel cavalry. He broke his contract and departed for the North, forfeiting the five thousand dollars he had advanced. Another lessee was ready to make a new contract with the owner, paying five thousand dollars as his predecessor had done. Four weeks later, this lessee abandoned the field, and the owner was at liberty to begin anew. To widows and orphans the agents of the Government displayed a commendable liberality. Nearly all of these persons were allowed to retain control of their plantations, leasing them as they saw fit, and enjoying the income. Some were required to subscribe to the oath of allegiance, and promise to show no more sympathy for the crumbling Confederacy. In many cases no pledge of any kind was exacted. I knew one widow whose disloyalty was of the most violent character. On a visit to New Orleans she was required to take the oath of allegiance before she could leave the steamboat at the levee. She signed the printed oath under protest. A month later, she brought this document forward to prove her loyalty and secure the control of her plantation. CHAPTER XXXIII. OH THE PLANTATION. Military Protection.--Promises.--Another Widow.--Securing a Plantation.--Its Locality and Appearance.--Gardening in Louisiana.--How Cotton is Picked.--"The Tell-Tale."--A Southerner's Opinion of the Negro Character.--Causes and Consequences. Parties who proposed to lease and cultivate abandoned plantations were anxious to know what protection would be afforded them. General Thomas and his agents assured them that proper military posts would soon be established at points within easy distance of each other along the river, so that all plantations in certain limits would be amply protected. This would be done, not as a courtesy to the lessees, but as a part of the policy of providing for the care of the negroes. If the lessees would undertake to feed and clothe several thousand negroes, besides paying them for their labor, they would relieve the Government authorities of a great responsibility. They would demonstrate the feasibility of employing the negroes as free laborers. The cotton which they would throw into market would serve to reduce the prices of that staple, and be a partial supply to the Northern factories. All these things considered, the Government was anxious to foster the enterprise, and would give it every proper assistance. The agents were profuse in their promises of protection, and assured us it would be speedily forthcoming. There was a military post at Vidalia, opposite Natchez, which afforded protection to the plantations in which General Thomas's family and friends were interested. Another was promised at Waterproof, twenty miles above, with a stockade midway between the two places. There was to be a force of cavalry to make a daily journey over the road between Vidalia and Waterproof. I selected two plantations about two miles below Waterproof, and on the bank of the Mississippi. They were separated by a strip of wood-land half a mile in width, and by a small bayou reaching from the river to the head of Lake St. John. Both plantations belonged to the same person, a widow, living near Natchez. The authorities had not decided what they would do with these plantations--whether they would hold them as Government property, or allow the owner to control them. In consideration of her being a widow of fifteen years' standing, they at length determined upon the latter course. It would be necessary to take out a lease from the authorities after obtaining one from the owner. I proceeded at once to make the proper negotiations. Another widow! My first experience in seeking to obtain a widow's plantation was not encouraging. The first widow was young, the second was old. Both were anxious to make a good bargain. In the first instance I had a rival, who proved victorious. In the second affair I had no rival at the outset, but was confronted with one when my suit was fairly under way. Before he came I obtained a promise of the widow's plantations. My rival made her a better offer than I had done. At this she proposed to desert me. I caused the elder Weller's advice to be whispered to him, hoping it might induce his withdrawal. He did not retire, and we, therefore, continued our struggle. _He_ was making proposals on his own behalf; I was proposing for myself and for Mr. Colburn, who was then a thousand miles away. My widow (I call her mine, for I won at last) desired us to give her all the corn and cotton then on the plantations, and half of what should be produced under our management. I offered her half the former and one-fourth the latter. These were the terms on which nearly all private plantations were being leased. She agreed to the offer respecting the corn and cotton then standing in the field, and demanded a third of the coming year's products. After some hesitation, we decided upon "splitting the difference." Upon many minor points, such as the sale of wood, stock, wool, etc., she had her own way. A contract was drawn up, which gave Colburn and myself the lease of the two plantations, "Aquasco" and "Monono," for the period of one year. We were to gather the crops then standing in the field, both cotton and corn, selling all the former and such portion of the latter as was not needed for the use of the plantations. We were to cultivate the plantations to the best of our abilities, subject to the fortunes of flood, fire, and pestilence, and the operations of military and marauding forces. We agreed to give up the plantations at the end of the year in as good condition as we found them in respect to stock, tools, etc., unless prevented by circumstances beyond our control. We were to have full supervision of the plantations, and manage them as we saw fit. We were to furnish such stock and tools as might be needed, with the privilege of removing the same at the time of our departure. Our widow (whom I shall call Mrs. B.) was to have one-half the proceeds of the corn and cotton then on the plantations, and seven twenty-fourths of such as might be produced during the year. She was to have the privilege of obtaining, once a week, the supplies of butter, chickens, meal, vegetables, and similar articles she might need for her family use. There were other provisions in the contract, but the essential points were those I have mentioned. The two plantations were to be under a single management. I shall have occasion to speak of them jointly, as "the plantation." With this contract duly signed, sealed, and stamped, I went to the "Agent for Abandoned Plantations." After some delay, and a payment of liberal fees, I obtained the Government lease. These preliminaries concluded, I proceeded to the locality of our temporary home. Colburn had not returned from the North, but was expected daily. The bayou which I have mentioned, running through the strip of woods which separated the plantations, formed the dividing line between the parishes "Concordia" and "Tensas," in the State of Louisiana. Lake St. John lay directly in rear of "Monono," our lower plantation. This lake was five or six miles long by one in width, and was, doubtless, the bed of the Mississippi many years ago. On each plantation there were ten dwelling-houses for the negroes. On one they were arranged in a double row, and on the other in a single row. There was a larger house for the overseer, and there were blacksmith shops, carpenter shops, stables, corn-cribs, meat-houses, cattle-yards, and gin-houses. On Aquasco there was a dwelling-house containing five large rooms, and having a wide veranda along its entire front. This dwelling-house was in a spacious inclosure, by the side of a fine garden. Inside this inclosure, and not far from the dwelling, were the quarters for the house-servants, the carriage-house and private stable, the smoke-house and the kitchen, which lay detached from the main building, according to the custom prevailing in the South. Our garden could boast of fig and orange trees, and other tropical productions. Pinks and roses we possessed in abundance. Of the latter we had enough in their season to furnish all the flower-girls on Broadway with a stock in trade. Our gardener "made his garden" in February. By the middle of March, his potatoes, cabbages, beets, and other vegetables under his care were making fine progress. Before the jingle of sleigh-bells had ceased in the Eastern States, we were feasting upon delicious strawberries from our own garden, ripened in the open air. The region where plowing begins in January, and corn is planted in February or early March, impresses a New Englander with its contrast to his boyhood home. When I took possession of our new property, the state of affairs was not the most pleasing. Mrs. B. had sent the best of her negroes to Texas shortly after the fall of Vicksburg. Those remaining on the plantations were not sufficient for our work. There were four mules where we needed fifty, and there was not a sufficient supply of oxen and wagons. Farming tools, plows, etc., were abundant, but many repairs must be made. There was enough of nearly every thing for a commencement. The rest would be secured in due season. Cotton and corn were in the field. The former was to receive immediate attention. On the day after my arrival I mustered thirty-four laborers of all ages and both sexes, and placed them at work, under the superintendence of a foreman. During the afternoon I visited them in the field, to observe the progress they were making. It was the first time I had ever witnessed the operation, but I am confident I did not betray my inexperience in the presence of my colored laborers. The foreman asked my opinion upon various points of plantation management, but I deferred making answer until a subsequent occasion. In every case I told him to do for the present as they had been accustomed, and I would make such changes as I saw fit from time to time. Cotton-picking requires skill rather than strength. The young women are usually the best pickers, on account of their superior dexterity. The cotton-stalk, or bush, is from two to five or six feet high. It is unlike any plant with which we are familiar in the North. It resembles a large currant-bush more nearly than any thing else I can think of. Where the branches are widest the plant is three or four feet from side to side. The lowest branches are the longest, and the plant, standing by itself, has a shape similar to that of the Northern spruce. The stalk is sometimes an inch and a half in diameter where it leaves the ground. Before the leaves have fallen, the rows in a cotton-field bear a strong resemblance to a series of untrimmed hedges. When fully opened, the cotton-bolls almost envelop the plant in their snow-white fiber. At a distance a cotton-field ready for the pickers forcibly reminds a Northerner of an expanse covered with snow. Our Northern expression, "white as snow," is not in use in the Gulf States. "White as cotton" is the form of comparison which takes its place. The pickers walk between the rows, and gather the cotton from the stalks on either side. Each one gathers half the cotton from the row on his right, and half of that on his left. Sometimes, when the stalks are low, one person takes an entire row to himself, and gathers from both sides of it. A bag is suspended by a strap over the shoulder, the end of the bag reaching the ground, so that its weight may not be an inconvenience. The open boll is somewhat like a fully bloomed water-lily. The skill in picking lies in thrusting the fingers into the boll so as to remove all the cotton with a single motion. Ordinary-pickers grasp the boll with one hand and pluck out the cotton with the other. Skillful pickers work with both hands, never touching the bolls, but removing the cotton by a single dextrous twist of the fingers. They can thus operate with great rapidity. As fast as the bags are filled, they are emptied into large baskets, which are placed at a corner of the field or at the ends of the rows. When the day's work is ended the cotton is weighed. The amount brought forward by each person is noted on a slate, from which it is subsequently recorded on the account-book of the plantation. From one to four hundred pounds, according to the state of the plants, is the proper allowance for each hand per day. In the days of slavery the "stint" was fixed by the overseer, and was required to be picked under severe penalties. It is needless to say that this stint was sufficiently large to allow of no loitering during the entire day. If the slave exceeded the quantity required of him, the excess was sometimes placed to his credit and deducted from a subsequent day. This was by no means the universal custom. Sometimes he received a small present or was granted some especial favor. By some masters the stint was increased by the addition of the excess. The task was always regulated by the condition of the cotton in the field. Where it would sometimes be three hundred pounds, at others it would not exceed one hundred. At the time I commenced my cotton-picking, the circumstances were not favorable to a large return. The picking season begins in August or September, and is supposed to end before Christmas. In my case it was late in January, and the winter rain had washed much of the cotton from the stalks. Under the circumstances I could not expect more than fifty or seventy-five pounds per day for each person engaged. During the first few days I did not weigh the cotton. I knew the average was not more than fifty pounds to each person, but the estimates which the negroes made fixed it at two hundred pounds. One night I astonished them by taking the weighing apparatus to the field and carefully weighing each basket. There was much disappointment among all parties at the result. The next day's picking showed a surprising improvement. After that time, each day's work was tested and the result announced. The "tell-tale," as the scales were sometimes called, was an overseer from whom there was no escape. I think the negroes worked faithfully as soon as they found there was no opportunity for deception. I was visited by Mrs. B.'s agent a few days after I became a cotton-planter. We took an inventory of the portable property that belonged to the establishment, and arranged some plans for our mutual advantage. This agent was a resident of Natchez. He was born in the North, but had lived so long in the slave States that his sympathies were wholly Southern. He assured me the negroes were the greatest liars in the world, and required continual watching. They would take every opportunity to neglect their work, and were always planning new modes of deception. They would steal every thing of which they could make any use, and many articles that they could not possibly dispose of. Pretending illness was among the most frequent devices for avoiding labor, and the overseer was constantly obliged to contend against such deception. In short, as far as I could ascertain from this gentleman, the negro was the embodiment of all earthly wickedness. Theft, falsehood, idleness, deceit, and many other sins which afflict mortals, were the especial heritance of the negro. In looking about me, I found that many of these charges against the negro were true. The black man was deceptive, and he was often dishonest. There can be no effect without a cause, and the reasons for this deception and dishonesty were apparent, without difficult research. The system of slavery necessitated a constant struggle between the slave and his overseer. It was the duty of the latter to obtain the greatest amount of labor from the sinews of the slave. It was the business of the slave to perform as little labor as possible. It made no difference to him whether the plantation produced a hundred or a thousand bales. He received nothing beyond his subsistence and clothing. His labor had no compensation, and his balance-sheet at the end of the month or year was the same, whether he had been idle or industrious. It was plainly to his personal interest to do nothing he could in any way avoid. The negro displayed his sagacity by deceiving the overseer whenever he could do so. The best white man in the world would have shunned all labor under such circumstances. The negro evinced a pardonable weakness in pretending to be ill whenever he could hope to make the pretense successful. Receiving no compensation for his services, beyond his necessary support, the negro occasionally sought to compensate himself. He was fond of roasted pork, but that article did not appear on the list of plantation rations. Consequently some of the negroes would make clandestine seizure of the fattest pigs when the chance of detection was not too great. It was hard to convince them that the use of one piece of property for the benefit of another piece, belonging to the same person, was a serious offense. "You see, Mr. K----," said a negro to me, admitting that he had sometimes stolen his master's hogs, "you see, master owns his saddle-horse, and he owns lots of corn. Master would be very mad if I didn't give the horse all the corn he wanted. Now, he owns me, and he owns a great many hogs. I like hog, just as much as the horse likes corn, but when master catches me killing the hogs he is very mad, and he makes the overseer whip me." Corn, chickens, flour, meal, in fact, every thing edible, became legitimate plunder for the negroes when the rations furnished them were scanty. I believe that in nine cases out of ten the petty thefts which the negroes committed were designed to supply personal wants, rather than for any other purpose. What the negro stole was usually an article of food, and it was nearly always stolen from the plantation where he belonged. Sometimes there was a specially bad negro--one who had been caught in some extraordinary dishonesty. One in my employ was reported to have been shot at while stealing from a dwelling-house several years before. Among two hundred negroes, he was the only noted rascal. I did not attribute his dishonesty to his complexion alone. I have known worse men than he, in whose veins there was not a drop of African blood. The police records everywhere show that wickedness of heart "dwells in white and black the same." With his disadvantages of position, the absence of all moral training, and the dishonesty which was the natural result of the old system of labor, the negro could not be expected to observe all the rules prescribed for his guidance, but which were never explained. Like ignorant and degraded people everywhere, many of the negroes believed that guilt lay mainly in detection. There was little wickedness in stealing a pig or a chicken, if the theft were never discovered, and there was no occasion for allowing twinges of conscience to disturb the digestion. I do not intend to intimate, by the above, that all were dishonest, even in these small peculations. There were many whose sense of right and wrong was very clear, and whose knowledge of their duties had been derived from the instructions of the white preachers. These negroes "obeyed their masters" in every thing, and considered it a religious obligation to be always faithful. They never avoided their tasks, in the field or elsewhere, and were never discovered doing any wrong. Under the new system of labor at the South, this portion of the negro population will prove of great advantage in teaching their kindred the duties they owe to each other. When all are trained to think and act for themselves, the negroes will, doubtless, prove as correct in morals as the white people around them. Early in the present year, the authorities at Davies' Bend, below Vicksburg, established a negro court, in which all petty cases were tried. The judge, jury, counsel, and officers were negroes, and no white man was allowed to interfere during the progress of a trial. After the decisions were made, the statement of the case and the action thereon were referred to the superintendent of the Government plantations at that point. It was a noticeable feature that the punishments which the negroes decreed for each other were of a severe character. Very frequently it was necessary for the authorities to modify the sentences after the colored judge had rendered them. The cases tried by the court related to offenses of a minor character, such as theft, fraud, and various delinquencies of the freed negroes. The experiment of a negro court is said to have been very successful, though it required careful watching. It was made in consequence of a desire of the authorities to teach the freedmen how to govern themselves. The planters in the vicinity were as bitterly opposed to the movement as to any other effort that lifts the negro above his old position. At the present time, several parties in Vicksburg have leased three plantations, in as many localities, and are managing them on different plans. On the first they furnish the negroes with food and clothing, and divide the year's income with them. On the second they pay wages at the rate of ten dollars per month, furnishing rations free, and retaining half the money until the end of the year. On the third they pay daily wages of one dollar, having the money ready at nightfall, the negro buying his own rations at a neighboring store. On the first plantation, the negroes are wasteful of their supplies, as they are not liable for any part of their cost. They are inclined to be idle, as their share in the division will not be materially affected by the loss of a few days' labor. On the second they are less wasteful and more industrious, but the distance of the day of payment is not calculated to develop notions of strict economy. On the third they generally display great frugality, and are far more inclined to labor than on the other plantations. The reason is apparent. On the first plantation their condition is not greatly changed from that of slavery, except in the promise of compensation and the absence of compulsory control. In the last case they are made responsible both for their labor and expenses, and are learning how to care for themselves as freemen. CHAPTER XXXIV. RULES AND REGULATIONS UNDER THE OLD AND NEW SYSTEMS. The Plantation Record.--Its Uses.--Interesting Memoranda.--Dogs, Jail, and Stocks.--Instructions to the Overseer.--His Duties and Responsibilities.--The Order of General Banks.--Management of Plantations in the Department of the Gulf.--The two Documents Contrasted.--One of the Effects of "an Abolition War." Nearly every planter in the South required the manager of his plantation to keep a record of all events of importance. Books were prepared by a publishing house in New Orleans, with special reference to their use by overseers. These books had a blank for every day in the year, in which the amount and kind of work performed were to be recorded by the overseer. There were blanks for noting the progress during the picking season, and the amount picked by each person daily. There were blanks for monthly and yearly inventories of stock, tools, etc., statements of supplies received and distributed, lists of births and deaths (there were no blanks for marriages), time and amount of shipments of cotton, and for all the ordinary business of a plantation. In the directions for the use of this book, I found the following:-- "On the pages marked I, the planter himself will make a careful record of all the negroes upon the plantation, stating their ages as nearly as possible, and their cash value, at the commencement of the year. At the close, he will again enter their individual value at that time, adding the year's increase, and omitting those that may have died. The difference can then be transferred to the balance-sheet. The year's crop is chargeable with any depreciation in the value of the negroes, occasioned by overwork and improper management, in the effort, perhaps, to make an extra crop independent of every other consideration. On the other hand, should the number of children have greatly increased during the year; the strength and usefulness of the old been sustained by kind treatment and care; the youngsters taught to be useful, and, perhaps, some of the men instructed in trades and the women in home manufactures, the increased value of the entire force will form a handsome addition to the side of _profits_." On the pages where the daily incidents of the plantation were recorded, I frequently discovered entries that illustrated the "peculiar institution." Some of them read thus:-- _June 5th_. Whipped Harry and Sarah to-day, because they didn't keep up their rows. _July 7th_. Aleck ran away to the woods, because I threatened to whip him. _July 9th_. Got Mr. Hall's dogs and hunted Aleck. Didn't find him. Think he is in the swamp back of Brandon's. _July 12th_. Took Aleck out of Vidalia jail. Paid $4.50 for jail fees. Put him in the stocks when we got home. _July 30th_. Moses died this morning. Charles and Henry buried him. His wife was allowed to keep out of the field until noon. _August 10th_. Sent six mules and four negroes down to the lower plantation. They will come back to-morrow. _September 9th_. John said he was sick this morning, but I made him go to the field. They brought him in before noon. He has a bad fever. Am afraid he won't be able to go out again soon. _September 20th_. Whipped Susan, because she didn't pick as much cotton as she did yesterday. _September 29th_. Put William in the stocks and kept him till sunset, for telling Charles he wanted to run away. _October 8th_. William and Susan want to be married. Told them I should not allow it, but they might live together if they wanted to. (The above memorandum was explained to me by one of the negroes. The owner of the plantation did not approve of marriages, because they were inconvenient in case it was desired to sell a portion of the working force.) _October 1st_. Took an inventory of the negroes and stock. Their value is about the same as when the last inventory was taken. _December 3d_. Finished picking. Gave the negroes half a holiday. Nearly every day's entry shows the character and amount of work performed. Thus we have:-- _February 10th_. Fifteen plows running, five hands piling logs, four hands ditching, six hands in trash-gang. In the planting, hoeing, and picking seasons, the result of the labor was recorded in the same manner. Whippings were more or less frequent, according to the character of the overseer. Under one overseer I found that whippings were rare. Under other overseers they were of common occurrence. The individual who prepared the "_Plantation Record_" for the publishers, gave, in addition to directions for its use, instructions for the overseer's general conduct. I copy them below, preserving the author's language throughout. THE DUTIES OF AN OVERSEER. It is here supposed that the overseer is not immediately under his employer's eye, but is left for days or weeks, perhaps months, to the exercise of his own judgment in the management of the plantation. To him we would say-- Bear in mind, that you have engaged for a stated sum of money, to devote your time and energies, for an entire year, _to one object_--to carry out the orders of your employer, strictly, cheerfully, and to the best of your ability; and, in all things, to study his interests--requiring something more than your mere presence on the plantation, and that at such times as suits your own pleasure and convenience. On entering upon your duties, inform yourself thoroughly of the condition of the plantation, negroes, stock, implements, etc. Learn the views of your employer as to the general course of management he wishes pursued, and make up your mind to carry out these views fully, as far as in your power. If any objections occur to you, state them distinctly, that they may either be yielded to or overcome. Where full and particular directions are not given to you, but you are left, in a great measure, to the exercise of your own judgment, you will find the following hints of service. They are compiled from excellent sources--from able articles in the agricultural journals of the day, from Washington's Directions to his Overseers, and from personal experience. "I do, in explicit terms, enjoin it upon you to remain constantly at home (unless called off by unavoidable business, or to attend Divine worship), and to be constantly with your people when there. There is no other sure way of getting work well done, and quietly, by negroes; for when an overlooker's back is turned the most of them will slight their work, or be idle altogether. In which case correction cannot retrieve either, but often produces evils which are worse than the disease. Nor is there any other mode than this to prevent thieving and other disorders, the consequences of opportunities. You will recollect that your time is paid for by me, and if I am deprived of it, it is worse even than robbing my purse, because it is also a breach of trust, which every honest man ought to hold most sacred. You have found me, and you will continue to find me, faithful to my part of the agreement which was made with you, whilst you are attentive to your part; but it is to be remembered that a breach on one side releases the obligation on the other." Neither is it right that you should entertain a constant run of company at your house, incurring unnecessary expense, taking up your own time and that of the servants beyond what is needful for your own comfort--a woman to cook and wash for you, milk, make butter, and so on. More than this you have no claim to. Endeavor to take the same interest in every thing upon the place, as if it were your own; indeed, the responsibility in this case is greater than if it were all your own--having been intrusted to you by another. Unless you feel thus, it is impossible that you can do your employer justice. The health of the negroes under your charge is an important matter. Much of the usual sickness among them is the result of carelessness and mismanagement. Overwork or unnecessary exposure to rain, insufficient clothing, improper or badly-cooked food, and night rambles, are all fruitful causes of disease. A great majority of the cases you should be yourself competent to manage, or you are unfit for the place you hold; but whenever you find that the case is one you do not understand, send for a physician, if such is the general order of the owner. By exerting yourself to have their clothing ready in good season; to arrange profitable in-door employment in wet weather; to see that an abundant supply of wholesome, _well-cooked food_, including plenty of vegetables, be supplied to them _at regular hours_; that the sick be cheered and encouraged, and some extra comforts allowed them, and the convalescent not exposed to the chances of a relapse; that women, whilst nursing, be kept as near to the nursery as possible, but at no time allowed to suckle their children when overheated; that the infant be nursed three times during the day, in addition to the morning and evening; that no whisky be allowed upon the place at any time or under any circumstances; but that they have, whilst heated and at work, plenty of pure, _cool_ water; that care be taken to prevent the hands from carrying their baskets full of cotton on their head--a most injurious practice; and, in short, that such means be used for their comfort as every judicious, humane man will readily think of, you will find the amount of sickness gradually lessened. Next to the negroes, the stock on the place will require your constant attention. You can, however, spare yourself much trouble by your choice of a stock-minder, and by adopting and enforcing a strict system in the care of the stock. It is a part of their duty in which overseers are generally most careless. The horse and mule stock are first in importance. Unless these are kept in good condition, it is impossible that the work can go on smoothly, or your crop be properly tended. Put your stable in good order; and, if possible, inclose it so that it can be kept under lock. Place a steady, careful old man there as hostler, making him responsible for every thing, and that directly to yourself. The foreman of the plow-gang, and the hands under his care, should be made answerable to the hostler--whose business it is to have the feed cut up, ground, and ready; the stalls well littered and cleaned out at proper intervals; to attend to sick or maimed animals; to see that the gears are always hung in their proper place, kept in good order, and so on. It is an easy matter to keep horses or mules fat, with a full and open corn-crib and abundance of fodder. But that overseer shows his good management who can keep his teams fat at the least expense of corn and fodder. The waste of those articles in the South, through shameful carelessness and neglect, is immense; as food for stock, they are most expensive articles. Oats, millet, peas (vine and all), broadcast corn, Bermuda and crab-grass hay, are all much cheaper and equally good. Any one of these crops, fed whilst green--the oats and millet as they begin to shoot, the peas to blossom, and the corn when tasseling--with a feed of dry oats, corn, or corn-chop at noon, will keep a plow-team in fine order all the season. In England, where they have the finest teams in the world, this course _is invariably pursued_, for its economy. From eight to nine hours per day is as long as the team should be at actual work. They will perform more upon less feed, and keep in better order for a _push_ when needful, worked briskly in that way, than when kept dragging a plow all day long at a slow pace. And the hands have leisure to rest, to cut up feed, clean and repair gears, and so on. Oxen. No more work oxen should be retained than can be kept at all times in good order. An abundant supply of green feed during spring and summer, cut and fed as recommended above, and in winter well-boiled cotton-seed, with a couple of quarts of meal in it per head; turnips, raw or cooked; corn-cobs soaked twenty-four hours in salt and water; shucks, pea-vines, etc., passed through a cutting-box--any thing of the kind, in short, is cheaper food for them in winter, and will keep them in better order than dry corn and shucks or fodder. Indeed, the fewer cattle are kept on any place the better, unless the range is remarkably good. When young stock of any kind are stinted of their proper food, and their growth receives a check, they never can wholly recover it. Let the calves have a fair share of milk, and also as much of the cooked food prepared for the cows and oxen as they will eat; with at times a little dry meal to lick. When cows or oxen show symptoms of failing, from age or otherwise, fatten them off at once; and if killed for the use of the place, _save the hide carefully_--rubbing at least two quarts of salt upon it; then roll up for a day or two, when it may be stretched and dried. Hogs are generally sadly mismanaged. Too many are kept, and kept badly. One good brood sow for every five hands on a place, is amply sufficient--indeed, more pork will be cured from these than from a greater number. Provide at least two good grazing lots for them, with Bermuda, crab-grass, or clover, which does as well at Washington, Miss., as anywhere in the world, with two bushels of ground plaster to the acre, sowed over it. Give a steady, trusty hand no other work to do but to feed and care for them. With a large set kettle or two, an old mule and cart to haul his wood for fuel, cotton-seed, turnips, etc., for feed, and leaves for bedding, he can do full justice to one hundred head, old and young. They will increase and thrive finely, with good grazing, and a full mess, twice a day, of swill prepared as follows: Sound cotton-seed, with a gallon of corn-meal to the bushel, a quart of oak or hickory ashes, a handful of salt, and a good proportion of turnips or green food of any kind, even clover or peas; the whole thoroughly--mind you, _thoroughly_ cooked--then thrown into a large trough, and there allowed _to become sour before being fed_. Sheep may be under the charge of the stock-minder; from ten to twenty to the hand may be generally kept with advantage. Sick animals require close and judicious attention. Too frequently they are either left to get well or to die of themselves, or are bled and dosed with nauseous mixtures indiscriminately. Study the subject of the diseases of animals during your leisure evenings, which you can do from some of the many excellent works on the subject. _Think_ before you _act_. When your animal has fever, nature would dictate that all stimulating articles of diet or medicine should be avoided. Bleeding may be necessary to reduce the force of the circulation; purging, to remove irritating substances from the bowels; moist, light, and easily-digested food, that his weakened digestion may not be oppressed; cool drinks, to allay his thirst, and, to some extent, compensate for diminished secretions; rest and quiet, to prevent undue excitement in his system, and so on through the whole catalogue of diseases--but do nothing without a reason. Carry out this principle, and you will probably do much good--hardly great harm; go upon any other, and your measures are more likely to be productive of injury than benefit. The implements and tools require a good deal of looking after. By keeping a memorandum of the distribution of any set of tools, they will be much more likely to be forthcoming at the end of the month. Axes, hoes, and other small tools, of which every hand has his own, should have his number marked upon it with a steel punch. The strict enforcement of one single rule will keep every thing straight: "Have a place for every thing, and see that every thing is in its place." Few instances of good management will better please an employer than that of having all of the winter clothing spun and woven on the place. By having a room devoted to that purpose, under charge of some one of the old women, where those who may be complaining a little, or convalescent after sickness, may be employed in some light work, and where all of the women may be sent in wet weather, more than enough of both cotton and woolen yarn can be spun for the supply of the place. Of the principal staple crop of the plantation, whether cotton, sugar, or rice, we shall not here speak. Of the others--the provision crops--there is most commonly enough made upon most plantations for their own supply. Rarely, however, is it saved without great and inexcusable waste, and fed out without still greater. And this, to their lasting shame be it said, is too often the case to a disgraceful extent, when an overseer feels satisfied that he will not remain another year upon the place. His conduct should be the very opposite of this--an honorable, right-thinking man will feel a particular degree of pride in leaving every thing in thorough order, and especially an abundant supply of all kinds of feed. He thus establishes a character for himself which _must_ have its effect. Few plantations are so rich in soil as not to be improved by manure. Inform yourself of the best means, suited to the location and soil of the place under, your charge, of improving it in this and in every other way. When an opportunity offers, carry out these improvements. Rely upon it there are few employers who will not see and reward such efforts. Draining, ditching, circling, hedging, road-making, building, etc., may all be effected to a greater or less extent every season. During the long evenings of winter improve your own mind and the knowledge of your profession by reading and study. The many excellent agricultural periodicals and books now published afford good and cheap opportunities for this. It is indispensable that you exercise judgment and consideration in the management of the negroes under your charge. Be _firm_, and, at the same time, _gentle_ in your control. Never display yourself before them in a passion; and even if inflicting the severest punishment, do so in a mild, cool manner, and it will produce a tenfold effect. When you find it necessary to use the whip--and desirable as it would be to dispense with it entirely, it _is_ necessary at times--apply it slowly and deliberately, and to the extent you had determined, in your own mind, to be needful before you began. The indiscriminate, constant, and excessive use of the whip is altogether unnecessary and inexcusable. When it can be done without a too great loss of time, the stocks offer a means of punishment greatly to be preferred. So secured, in a lonely, quiet place, where no communication can be held with any one, nothing but bread and water allowed, and the confinement extending from Saturday, when they drop work, until Sabbath evening, will prove much more effectual in preventing a repetition of the offense, than any amount of whipping. Never threaten a negro, but if you have occasion to punish, do it at once, or say nothing until ready to do so. A violent and passionate threat will often scare the best-disposed negro to the woods. Always keep your word with them, in punishments as well as in rewards. If you have named the penalty for any certain offense, inflict it without listening to a word of excuse. Never forgive that in one that you would punish in another, but treat all alike, showing no favoritism. By pursuing such a course, you convince them that you act from principle and not from impulse, and will certainly enforce your rules. Whenever an opportunity is afforded you for rewarding continued good behavior, do not let it pass--occasional rewards have a much better effect than frequent punishments. Never be induced by a course of good behavior on the part of the negroes to relax the strictness of your discipline; but, when you have by judicious management brought them to that state, keep them so by the same means. By taking frequent strolls about the premises, including of course the quarter and stock yards, during the evening, and at least twice a week during the night, you will put a more effectual stop to any irregularities than by the most severe punishments. The only way to keep a negro honest, is not to trust him. This seems a harsh assertion; but it is, unfortunately, too true. You will find that an hour devoted, every Sabbath morning, to their moral and religious instruction, would prove a great aid to you in bringing about a better state of things among the negroes. It has been thoroughly tried, and with the most satisfactory results, in many parts of the South. As a mere matter of interest it has proved to be advisable--to say nothing of it as a point of duty. The effect upon their general good behavior, their cleanliness, and good conduct on the Sabbath, is such as alone to recommend it to both planter and overseer. In conclusion:--Bear in mind that _a fine crop_ consists, first, in an increase in the number, and a marked improvement in the condition and value, of the negroes; second, an abundance of provision of all sorts for man and beast, carefully saved and properly housed; third, both summer and winter clothing made at home; also leather tanned, and shoes and harness made, when practicable; fourth, an improvement in the productive qualities of the land, and in the general condition of the plantation; fifth, the team and stock generally, with the farming implements and the buildings, in fine order at the close of the year; and young hogs more than enough for next year's killing; _then_, as heavy a crop of cotton, sugar, or rice as could possibly be made under these circumstances, sent to market in good season, and of prime quality. The time has passed when the overseer is valued solely upon the number of bales of cotton, hogsheads of sugar, or tierces of rice he has made, without reference to other qualifications. In contrast with the instructions to overseers under the old management, I present the proclamation of General Banks, regulating the system of free labor in the Department of the Gulf. These regulations were in force, in 1864, along the Mississippi, from Helena to New Orleans. They were found admirably adapted to the necessities of the case. With a few changes, they have been continued in operation during the present year:-- HEAD-QUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF THE GULF, NEW ORLEANS, _February_ 3, 1864. GENERAL ORDERS, NO. 23. The following general regulations are published for the information and government of all interested in the subject of compensated plantation labor, public or private, during the present year, and in continuation of the system established January 30, 1863:-- I. The enlistment of soldiers from plantations under cultivation in this department having been suspended by order of the Government, will not be resumed except upon direction of the same high authority. II. The Provost-Marshal-General is instructed to provide for the division of parishes into police and school districts, and to organize from invalid soldiers a competent police for the preservation of order. III. Provision will be made for the establishment of a sufficient number of schools, one at least for each of the police and school districts, for the instruction of colored children under twelve years of age, which, when established, will be placed under the direction of the Superintendent of Public Education. IV. Soldiers will not be allowed to visit plantations without the written consent of the commanding officer of the regiment or post to which they are attached, and never with arms, except when on duty, accompanied by an officer. V. Plantation hands will not be allowed to pass from one place to another, except under such regulations as may be established by the provost-marshal of the parish. VI. Flogging and other cruel or unusual punishments are interdicted. VII. Planters will be required, as early as practicable after the publication of these regulations, to make a roll of persons employed upon their estates, and to transmit the same to the provost marshal of the parish. In the employment of hands, the unity of families will be secured as far as possible. VIII. All questions between the employer and the employed, until other tribunals are established, will be decided by the provost-marshal of the parish. IX. Sick and disabled persons will be provided for upon the plantations to which they belong, except such as may be received in establishments provided for them by the Government, of which one will be established at Algiers and one at Baton Rouge. X. The unauthorized purchase of clothing, or other property, from laborers, will be punished by fine and imprisonment. The sale of whisky or other intoxicating drinks to them, or to other persons, except under regulations established by the Provost-Marshal-General, will be followed by the severest punishment. XL The possession of arms, or concealed or dangerous weapons, without authority, will be punished by fine and imprisonment. XII. Laborers shall render to their employer, between daylight and dark, _ten_ hours in summer, and _nine_ hours in winter, of respectful, honest, faithful labor, and receive therefor, in addition to just treatment, healthy rations, comfortable clothing, quarters, fuel, medical attendance, and instruction for children, wages per month as follows, payment of one-half of which, at least, shall be reserved until the end of the year:-- For first-class hands..... $8.00 per month. For second-class hands.... 6.00 " " For third-class hands..... 5.00 " " For fourth-class hands.... 3.00 " " Engineers and foremen, when faithful in the discharge of their duties, will be paid $2 per month extra. This schedule of wages may be commuted, by consent of both parties, at the rate of one-fourteenth part of the net proceeds of the crop, to be determined and paid at the end of the year. Wages will be deducted in case of sickness, and rations, also, when sickness is feigned. Indolence, insolence, disobedience of orders, and crime will be suppressed by forfeiture of pay, and such punishments as are provided for similar offenses by Army Regulations. Sunday work will be avoided when practicable, but when necessary will be considered as extra labor, and paid at the rates specified herein. XIII. Laborers will be permitted to choose their employers, but when the agreement is made they will be held to their engagement for one year, under the protection of the Government. In cases of attempted imposition, by feigning sickness, or stubborn refusal of duty, they will be turned over to the provost-marshal of the parish, for labor upon the public works, without pay. XIV. Laborers will be permitted to cultivate land on private account, as herein specified, as follows: First and second class hands, with families..... 1 acre each. First and second class hands, without families.. 1/2 " " Second and third class hands, with families..... 1/2 " " Second and third class hands, without families.. 1/4 " " To be increased for good conduct at the discretion of the employer. The encouragement of independent industry will strengthen all the advantages which capital derives from labor, and enable the laborer to take care of himself and prepare for the time when he can render so much labor for so much money, which is the great end to be attained. No exemption will be made in this apportionment, except upon imperative reasons; and it is desirable that for good conduct the quantity be increased until faithful hands can be allowed to cultivate extensive tracts, returning to the owner an equivalent of product for rent of soil. XV. To protect the laborer from possible imposition, no commutation of his supplies will be allowed, except in clothing, which may be commuted at the rate of $3 per month for first-class hands, and in similar proportion for other classes. The crops will stand pledged, wherever found, for the wages of labor. XVI. It is advised, as far as practicable, that employers provide for the current wants of their hands, by perquisites for extra labor, or by appropriation of land for share cultivation; to discourage monthly-payments so far as it can be done without discontent, and to reserve till the full harvest the yearly wages. XVII. A FREE-LABOR BANK will be established for the safe deposit of all accumulations of wages and other savings; and in order to avoid a possible wrong to depositors, by official defalcation, authority will be asked to connect the bank with the Treasury of the United States in this department. XVIII. The transportation of negro families to other countries will not be approved. All propositions for this privilege have been declined, and application has been made to other departments for surplus negro families for service in this department. XIX. The last year's experience shows that the planter and the negro comprehend the revolution. The overseer, having little interest in capital, and less sympathy with labor, dislikes the trouble of thinking, and discredits the notion that any thing new has occurred. He is a relic of the past, and adheres to its customs. His stubborn refusal to comprehend the condition of things, occasioned most of the embarrassments of the past year. Where such incomprehension is chronic, reduced wages, diminished rations, and the mild punishments imposed by the army and navy, will do good. XX. These regulations are based upon the assumption that labor is a public duty, and idleness and vagrancy a crime. No civil or military officer of the Government is exempt from the operation of this universal rule. Every enlightened community has enforced it upon all classes of people by the severest penalties. It is especially necessary in agricultural pursuits. That portion of the people identified with the cultivation of the soil, however changed in condition by the revolution through which we are passing, is not relieved from the necessity of toil, which is the condition of existence with all the children of God. The revolution has altered its tenure, but not its law. This universal law of labor will be enforced, upon just terms, by the Government under whose protection the laborer rests secure in his rights. Indolence, disorder, and crime will be suppressed. Having exercised the highest right in the choice and place of employment, he must be held to the fulfillment of his engagements, until released therefrom by the Government. The several provost-marshals are hereby invested with plenary powers upon all matters connected with labor, subject to the approval of the Provost-Marshal-General and the commanding officer of the department. The most faithful and discreet officers will be selected for this duty, and the largest force consistent with the public service detailed for their assistance. XXI. Employers, and especially overseers, are notified, that undue influence used to move the marshal from his just balance between the parties representing labor and capital, will result in immediate change of officers, and thus defeat that regular and stable system upon which the interests of all parties depend. XXII. Successful industry is especially necessary at the present time, when large public debts and onerous taxes are imposed to maintain and protect the liberties of the people and the integrity of the Union. All officers, civil or military, and all classes of citizens who assist in extending the profits of labor, and increasing the product of the soil upon which, in the end, all national prosperity and power depends, will render to the Government a service as great as that derived from the terrible sacrifices of battle. It is upon such consideration only that the planter is entitled to favor. The Government has accorded to him, in a period of anarchy, a release from the disorders resulting mainly from insensate and mad resistance to sensible reforms, which can never be rejected without revolution, and the criminal surrender of his interests and power to crazy politicians, who thought by metaphysical abstractions to circumvent the laws of God. It has restored to him in improved, rather than impaired condition, his due privileges, at a moment when, by his own acts, the very soil was washed from beneath his feet. XXIII. A more majestic and wise clemency human history does not exhibit. The liberal and just conditions that attend it cannot be disregarded. It protects labor by enforcing the performance of its duty, and it will assist capital by compelling just contributions to the demands of the Government. Those who profess allegiance to other Governments will be required, as the condition of residence in this State, to acquiesce, without reservation, in the demands presented by Government as a basis of permanent peace. The non-cultivation of the soil, without just reason, will be followed by temporary forfeiture to those who will secure its improvement. Those who have exercised or are entitled to the rights of citizens of the United States, will be required to participate in the measures necessary for the re-establishment of civil government. War can never cease except as civil governments crush out contest, and secure the supremacy of moral over physical power. The yellow harvest must wave over the crimson field of blood, and the representatives of the people displace the agents of purely military power. XXIV. The amnesty offered for the past is conditioned upon an unreserved loyalty for the future, and this condition will be enforced with an iron hand. Whoever is indifferent or hostile, must choose between the liberty which foreign lands afford, the poverty of the Rebel States, and the innumerable and inappreciable blessings which our Government confers upon its people. May God preserve the Union of the States! By order of Major-General Banks. Official: GEORGE B. DRAKE, _Assistant Adjutant-General_. The two documents have little similarity. Both are appropriate to the systems they are intended to regulate. It is interesting to compare their merits at the present time. It will be doubly interesting to make a similar comparison twenty years hence. While I was in Natchez, a resident of that city called my attention to one of the "sad results of this horrid, Yankee war." "Do you see that young man crossing the street toward ----'s store?" I looked in the direction indicated, and observed a person whom I supposed to be twenty-five years of age, and whose face bore the marks of dissipation. I signified, by a single word, that I saw the individual in question. "His is a sad case," my Southern friend remarked. "Whisky, isn't it?" "Oh, no, I don't mean that. He does drink some, I know, but what I mean is this: His father died about five years ago. He left his son nothing but fourteen or fifteen niggers. They were all smart, young hands, and he has been able to hire them out, so as to bring a yearly income of two thousand dollars. This has supported him very comfortably. This income stopped a year ago. The niggers have all run away, and that young man is now penniless, and without any means of support. It is one of the results of your infernal Abolition war." I assented that it was a very hard case, and ought to be brought before Congress at the earliest moment. That a promising young man should be deprived of the means of support in consequence of this Abolition war, is unfortunate--for the man. CHAPTER XXXV. OUR FREE-LABOR ENTERPRISE IN PROGRESS. The Negroes at Work.--Difficulties in the Way.--A Public Meeting.--A Speech.--A Negro's Idea of Freedom.--A Difficult Question to Determine.--Influence of Northern and Southern Men Contrasted.--An Increase of Numbers.--"Ginning" Cotton.--In the Lint-Room.--Mills and Machinery of a Plantation.--A Profitable Enterprise. On each of the plantations the negroes were at work in the cotton-field. I rode from one to the other, as circumstances made it necessary, and observed the progress that was made. I could easily perceive they had been accustomed to performing their labor under fear of the lash. Some of them took advantage of the opportunity for carelessness and loitering under the new arrangement. I could not be in the field at all times, to give them my personal supervision. Even if I were constantly present, there was now no lash to be feared. I saw that an explanation of the new state of affairs would be an advantage to all concerned. On the first Sunday of my stay on the plantation, I called all the negroes together, in order to give them an understanding of their position. I made a speech that I adapted as nearly as possible to the comprehension of my hearers. My audience was attentive throughout. I made no allusions to Homer, Dante, or Milton; I did not quote from Gibbon or Macaulay, and I neglected to call their attention to the spectacle they were presenting to the crowned heads of Europe. I explained to them the change the war had made in their condition, and the way in which it had been effected. I told them that all cruel modes of punishment had been abolished. The negroes were free, but they must understand that freedom did not imply idleness. I read to them the regulations established by the commissioners, and explained each point as clearly as I was able. After I had concluded, I offered to answer any questions they might ask. There were many who could not understand why, if they were free, they should be restricted from going where they pleased at all times. I explained that it was necessary, for the successful management of the plantation, that I should always be able to rely upon them. I asked them to imagine my predicament if they should lose half their time, or go away altogether, in the busiest part of the season. They "saw the point" at once, and readily acknowledged the necessity of subordination. I found no one who imagined that his freedom conferred the right of idleness and vagrancy. All expected to labor in their new condition, but they expected compensation for their labor, and did not look for punishment. They expected, further, that their families would not be separated, and that they could be allowed to acquire property for themselves. I know there were many negroes in the South who expected they would neither toil nor spin after being set free, but the belief was by no means universal. The story of the negro at Vicksburg, who expected his race to assemble in New York after the war, "and have white men for niggers," is doubtless true, but it would find little credence with the great majority of the freedmen of the South. The schedule of wages, as established by the commissioners, was read and explained. The negroes were to be furnished with house-rent, rations, fuel, and medical attendance, free of charge. Able-bodied males were to receive eight dollars a month. Other classes of laborers would be paid according to the proportionate value of their services. We were required to keep on hand a supply of clothing, shoes, and other needed articles, which would be issued as required and charged on account. All balances would be paid as soon as the first installment of the cotton crop was sent to market. This was generally satisfactory, though some of the negroes desired weekly or monthly payments. One of them thought it would be better if they could be paid at the end of each day, and suggested that silver would be preferable to greenbacks or Confederate money. Most of them thought the wages good enough, but this belief was not universal. One man, seventy years old, who acted as assistant to the "hog-minder," thought he deserved twenty-five dollars per month, in addition to his clothing and rations. Another, of the same age, who carried the breakfast and dinner to the field, was of similar opinion. These were almost the only exceptions. Those whose services were really valuable acquiesced in the arrangement. On our plantation there was an old negress named "Rose," who attended the women during confinement. She was somewhat celebrated in her profession, and received occasional calls to visit white ladies in the neighborhood. After I had dismissed the negroes and sent them to their quarters, I was called upon by Rose, to ascertain the rate at which she would be paid. As she was regularly employed as one of the house-servants, I allowed her the same wages that the other women received. This was satisfactory, so far, but it was not entirely so. She wished to understand the matter of perquisites. "When I used to go out to 'tend upon white ladies," said Rose, "they gave me ten dollars. Mistress always took half and let me keep the other half." "Well, hereafter, you may keep the ten dollars yourself." "Thank you." After a pause, she spoke again: "Didn't you say the black people are free?" "Yes." "White people are free, too, ain't they?" "Yes." "Then why shouldn't you pay me ten dollars every time I 'tend upon the black folks on the plantation?" The question was evidently designed as a "corner." I evaded it by assuring Rose that though free, the negroes had not attained all the privileges that pertained to the whites, and I should insist on her professional services being free to all on the plantation. The negroes were frequently desirous of imitating the customs of white people in a manner that should evince their freedom. Especially did they desire to have no distinction in the payment of money, on account of the color of the recipient. After this Sunday talk with the negroes, I found a material improvement. Occasionally I overheard some of them explaining to others their views upon various points. There were several who manifested a natural indolence, and found it difficult to get over their old habits. These received admonitions from their comrades, but could not wholly forget the laziness which was their inheritance. With these exceptions, there was no immediate cause for complaint. During the earlier part of my stay in that region, I was surprised at the readiness with which the negroes obeyed men from the North, and believed they would fulfill their promises, while they looked with distrust on all Southern white men. Many owners endeavored in vain to induce their negroes to perform certain labor. The first request made by a Northern man to the same effect would be instantly complied with. The negroes explained that their masters had been in the habit of making promises which they never kept, and cited numerous instances to prove the truth of their assertion. It seemed to have been a custom in that region to deceive the negroes in any practicable manner. To make a promise to a negro, and fail to keep it, was no worse than to lure a horse into a stable-yard, by offering him a choice feed of corn, which would prove but a single mouthful. That the negroes had any human rights was apparently rarely suspected by their owners and overseers. The distrust which many of the negroes entertained for their former masters enabled the lessees to gain, at once, the confidence of their laborers. I regret to say that this confidence was abused in a majority of cases. I gave the negroes a larger ration of meat, meal, and potatoes than had been previously issued. As soon as possible, I procured a quantity of molasses, coffee, and tobacco. These articles had not been seen on the plantation for many months, and were most gladly received. As there was no market in that vicinity where surplus provisions could be sold, I had no fear that the negroes would resort to stealing, especially as their daily supply was amply sufficient for their support. It was the complaint of many overseers and owners that the negroes would steal provisions on frequent occasions. If they committed any thefts during my time of management, they were made so carefully that I never detected them. It is proper to say that I followed the old custom of locking the store-houses at all times. Very soon after commencing labor I found that our working force must be increased. Accordingly, I employed some of the negroes who were escaping from the interior of the State and making their way to Natchez. As there were but few mules on the plantation, I was particularly careful to employ those negroes who were riding, rather than walking, from slavery. If I could not induce these mounted travelers to stop with us, I generally persuaded them to sell their saddle animals. Thus, hiring negroes and buying mules, I gradually put the plantation in a presentable condition. While the cotton was being picked the blacksmith was repairing the plows, the harness-maker was fitting up the harnesses for the mules, and every thing was progressing satisfactorily. The gin-house was cleaned and made ready for the last work of preparing cotton for the market. Mr. Colburn arrived from the North after I had been a planter of only ten days' standing. He was enthusiastic at the prospect, and manifested an energy that was the envy of his neighbors. It required about three weeks to pick our cotton. Before it was all gathered we commenced "ginning" the quantity on hand, in order to make as little delay as possible in shipping our "crop" to market. The process of ginning cotton is pretty to look upon, though not agreeable to engage in. The seed-cotton (as the article is called when it comes from the field) is fed in a sort of hopper, where it is brought in contact with a series of small and very sharp saws. From sixty to a hundred of these saws are set on a shaft, about half an inch apart. The teeth of these saws tear the fiber from the seed, but do not catch the seed itself. A brush which revolves against the saws removes the fiber from them at every revolution. The position of the gin is generally at the end of a large room, and into this room the detached fiber is thrown from the revolving brush. This apartment is technically known as the "lint-room," and presents an interesting scene while the process of ginning is going on. The air is full of the flying lint, and forcibly reminds a Northerner of a New England snow-storm. The lint falls, like the snow-flakes, with most wonderful lightness, but, unlike the snow-flakes, it does not melt. When the cotton is picked late in the season, there is usually a dense cloud of dust in the lint-room, which settles in and among the fiber. The person who watches the lint-room has a position far from enviable. His lungs become filled with dust, and, very often, the fine, floating fiber is drawn into his nostrils. Two persons are generally permitted to divide this labor. There were none of the men on our plantation who craved it. Some of the mischievous boys would watch their opportunity to steal into the lint-room, where they greatly enjoyed rolling upon the soft cotton. Their amusement was only stopped by the use of a small whip. The machinery of a cotton-gin is driven by steam or horse power; generally the former. There is no water-power in the State of Louisiana, but I believe some of the lakes and bayous might be turned to advantage in the same way that the tide is used on the sea-coast. All the larger plantations are provided with steam-engines, the chimneys of which are usually carried to a height sufficient to remove all danger from sparks. There is always a corn-mill, and frequently a saw-mill attached to the gin, and driven by the same power. On every plantation, one day in the week is set apart for grinding a seven-days' supply of corn. This regulation is never varied, except under the most extraordinary circumstances. There is a universal rule in Louisiana, forbidding any person, white or black, smoking in the inclosure where the gin-house stands. I was told there was a legal enactment to this effect, that affixed heavy penalties to its infringement. For the truth of this latter statement I cannot vouch. With its own corn-mill, saw-mill, and smithery, each plantation is almost independent of the neighborhood around it. The chief dependence upon the outside world is for farming tools and the necessary paraphernalia for the various branches of field-work. I knew one plantation, a short distance from ours, whose owner had striven hard to make it self-sustaining. He raised all the corn and all the vegetables needed. He kept an immense drove of hogs, and cured his own pork. Of cattle he had a goodly quantity, and his sheep numbered nearly three hundred. Wool and cotton supplied the raw material for clothing. Spinning-wheels and looms produced cloth in excess of what was needed. Even the thread for making the clothing for the negroes was spun on the plantation. Hats were made of the palmetto, which grew there in abundance. Shoes were the only articles of personal wear not of home production. Plows, hoes, and similar implements were purchased in the market, but the plantation was provided with a very complete repair-shop, and the workmen were famous for their skill. The plantation, thus managed, yielded a handsome profit to its owner. The value of each year's cotton crop, when delivered on the bank of the river, was not less than forty thousand dollars. Including wages of the overseer, and all outlays for repairs and purchase of such articles as were not produced at home, the expenses would not exceed five or six thousand dollars. Cotton-planting was very profitable under almost any management, and especially so under a prudent and economical owner. Being thus profitable with slave labor, it was natural for the planters to think it could prosper under no other system. "You can't raise cotton without niggers, and you must own the niggers to raise it," was the declaration in all parts of the South. CHAPTER XXXVI. WAR AND AGRICULTURE. Official Favors.--Division of Labor.--Moral Suasion.--Corn-gathering in the South.--An Alarm.--A Frightened Irishman.--The Rebels Approaching.--An Attack on Waterproof.--Falstaff Redivivus.--His Feats of Arms.--Departure for New Orleans. Our cotton having been ginned and baled, we made preparations for shipping it to market. These preparations included the procurement of a permit from the Treasury agent at Natchez, a task of no small magnitude. An application for the permit required, in addition to my own signature, the names of two property-owning citizens, as security for payment of the duties on the cotton. This application being placed in the hands of the Treasury agent, I was requested to call in two hours. I did so, and was then put off two hours longer. Thus I spent two whole days in frequent visits to that official. His memory was most defective, as I was obliged to introduce myself on each occasion, and tell him the object of my call. A gentleman who had free access to the agent at all times hinted that he could secure early attention to my business on payment for his trouble. Many persons asserted that they were obliged to pay handsomely for official favors. I do not _know_ this to be true. I never paid any thing to the Treasury agent at Natchez or elsewhere, beyond the legitimate fees, and I never found any man who would give me a written statement that he had done so. Nevertheless, I had much circumstantial evidence to convince me that the Treasury officials were guilty of dishonorable actions. The temptation was great, and, with proper care, the chances of detection were small. Armed with my permit, I returned to the plantation. Mr. Colburn, in my absence, had organized our force, lately engaged in cotton-picking, into suitable parties for gathering corn, of which we had some three hundred acres standing in the field. In New England I fear that corn which had remained ungathered until the middle of February, would be of comparatively little value. In our case it was apparently as sound as when first ripened. Corn-gathering in the South differs materially from corn-gathering in the North. The negroes go through the field breaking the ears from the stalks without removing the husk. The ears are thrown into heaps at convenient distances from each other, and in regular rows. A wagon is driven between these rows, and the corn gathered for the crib. Still unhusked, it is placed in the crib, to be removed when needed. It is claimed that the husk thus remaining on the corn, protects it from various insects, and from the effect of the weather. Every body of laborers on a plantation is called a "gang." Thus we had "the picking-gang," "the corn-gang," "the trash-gang," "the hoe-gang," "the planting-gang," "the plow-gang," and so on through the list. Each gang goes to the field in charge of a head negro, known as the driver. This driver is responsible for the work of his gang, and, under the old _régime_, was empowered to enforce his orders with the whip, if necessary. Under our new dispensation the whip was laid aside, and a milder policy took its place. It was satisfactory with the adults; but there were occasions when the smaller boys were materially benefited by applications of hickory shrubs. Solomon's words about sparing the rod are applicable to children of one race as well as to those of another. We did not allow our drivers to make any bodily punishment in the field, and I am happy to say they showed no desire to do so. As I have before stated, our first organization was the picking-gang. Then followed the gin-gang and the press-gang. Our gin-gang was organized on principles of total abstinence, and, therefore, differed materially from the gin-gangs of Northern cities. Our press-gang, unlike the press-gangs of New York or Chicago, had nothing to do with morning publications, and would have failed to comprehend us had we ordered the preparation of a sensation leader, or a report of the last great meeting at Union Square. Our press-gang devoted its time and energies to putting our cotton into bales of the proper size and neatness. The corn-gang, the trash-gang, and the plow-gang were successively organized by Mr. Colburn. Of the first I have spoken. The duties of the second were to gather the corn-stalks or cotton-stalks, as the case might be, into proper heaps for burning. As all this débris came under the generic name of "trash," the appellation of the gang is readily understood. Our trash-gang did very well, except in a certain instance, when it allowed the fire from the trash to run across a field of dead grass, and destroy several hundred feet of fence. In justice to the negroes, I should admit that the firing of the grass was in obedience to our orders, and the destruction of the fence partly due to a strong wind which suddenly sprang up. The trash-gang is usually composed of the younger children and the older women. The former gather and pile the stalks which the latter cut up. They particularly enjoy firing the heaps of dry trash. It was on Saturday, the 13th of February, that our press-gang completed its labors. On the afternoon of that day, as we were hauling our cotton to the landing, the garrison at Waterproof, two miles distant, suddenly opened with its artillery upon a real or supposed enemy. A gun-boat joined in the affair, and for half an hour the cannonade was vigorous. We could see the flashes of the guns and the dense smoke rising through the trees, but could discover nothing more. When the firing ceased we were somewhat anxious to know the result. Very soon a white man, an Irishman, who had been a short time in the vicinity to purchase cotton, reached our place in a state of exhaustion. He told a frightful story of the surprise and massacre of the whole garrison, and was very certain no one but himself had escaped. He had fortunately concealed himself under a very small bridge while the fight was going on. He called attention to his clothes, which were covered with mud, to prove the truth of his statement. For a short time the situation had an unpleasant appearance. While we were deliberating upon the proper measures for safety, one of our negroes, who was in Waterproof during the firing, came to us with _his_ story. The fight had been on our side, some guerrillas having chased one of our scouting parties to a point within range of our guns. Our men shelled them with artillery, and this was the extent of the battle. The story of the Irishman, in connection with the true account of the affair, forcibly reminded me of the famous battle of Piketon, Kentucky, in the first year of the war. On the next day (Sunday) I rode to Waterproof, leaving Colburn on the plantation. Just as I arrived within the lines, I ascertained that an attack was expected. The most stringent orders had been issued against allowing any person to pass out. Ten minutes later a scout arrived, saying that a force of Rebels was advancing to attack the post. The gun-boat commenced shelling the woods in the rear of Waterproof, and the artillery on land joined in the work. The Rebels did not get near enough to make any serious demonstration upon the town. The day passed with a steady firing from the gun-boat, relieved by an occasional interval of silence. Toward night the small garrison was re-enforced by the arrival of a regiment from Natchez. On the following day a portion of General Ellet's Marine Brigade reached Waterproof, and removed all possibility of further attack. In the garrison of Waterproof, at the commencement of this fight, there was a certain officer who could have sat for the portrait of Falstaff with very little stuffing, and without great change of character. Early in the war he belonged to an Eastern regiment, but on that occasion he had no commission, though this fact was not generally known. Nearly as large as Hackett's Falstaff, he was as much a gascon as the hero of the Merry Wives of Windsor. He differed from Falstaff in possessing a goodly amount of bravery, but this bravery was accompanied with an entire absence of judgment. In the early part of the fight, and until he was too drunk to move, this _preux chevalier_ dashed about Waterproof, mounted on a small horse, which he urged to the top of his speed. In one hand he flourished a cane, and in the other a revolver. He usually allowed the reins to lie on his horse's neck, except when he wished to change his direction. With his abdomen protruding over the pommel of the saddle, his stirrups several inches too short, one boot-leg outside his pantaloons and the other inside, a very large hat pressed nearly to his eyes, and a face flushed with excitement and whisky, he was a study John Leech would have prized. Frequent and copious draughts of the cup which cheers and inebriates placed him _hors de combat_ before the close of the day. From the crest of the levee, he could at any time discover several lines of battle approaching the town. Frequently he informed the commandant that the Rebels were about to open upon us with a dozen heavy batteries, which they were planting in position for a long siege. If the enemy had been in the force that this man claimed, they could not have numbered less than fifty thousand. When unhorsed for the last time during the day, he insisted that I should listen to the story of his exploits. "I went," said he, "to the colonel, this morning, and told him, sir, to give me ten men, and I would go out and feel the enemy's position. He gave me the men, and I went. We found the enemy not less than a thousand strong, sir, behind Mrs. Miller's gin-house. They were the advance of the whole Rebel army, sir, and I saw they must be driven back. We charged, and, after a desperate fight, drove them. They opposed us, sir, every inch of the way for two miles; but we routed them. We must have killed at least a hundred of them, sir, and wounded as many more. They didn't hurt a man of us; but the bullets flew very thick, sir--very. I myself killed twelve of them with my own hand, sir. This is the way it was, sir. This revolver, you see, sir, has six barrels. I emptied it once, sir; I reloaded; I emptied it again, sir. Two times six are twelve, sir. I killed twelve of them with my own hand. Let it be recorded. "On my way back, sir, I set fire to the gin-house, so that it should no more be a shelter for those infernal Rebels. You yourself, sir, saw that building in flames, and can testify to the truth of my story." In this strain the warrior gave the history of his moments of glory. The portion I have written was true in some points. He found three men (instead of a thousand), and pursued them a few hundred yards. He discharged his revolver at very long range, but I could not learn that his shots were returned. He fired the gin-house "to cover his retreat," and gained the fortifications without loss. I do not know his locality at the present time, but presume he remained, up to the close of the war, where storms of shot and shell continually darkened the air, and where lines of battle were seen on every side. The siege being raised, I returned to the plantation. From Waterproof, during the fight, I could see our buildings with perfect distinctness. I had much fear that some Rebel scouting party might pay the plantation a visit while the attack was going on. I found, on my return, that Colburn had taken the matter very coolly, and prevented the negroes becoming alarmed. He declared that he considered the plantation as safe as Waterproof, and would not have exchanged places with me during the fight. The negroes were perfectly quiet, and making preparations for plowing. While the fight was in progress, my associate was consulting with the drivers about the details of work for the ensuing week, and giving his orders with the utmost _sang froid_. In consideration of the uncertainty of battles in general, and the possibility of a visit at any moment from a party of Rebel scouts, my partner's conduct was worthy of the highest commendation. Before leaving Waterproof I had arranged for a steamer to call for our cotton, which was lying on the river bank. Waterproof lay at one side of the neck of a peninsula, and our plantation was at the other side. It was two miles across this peninsula, and sixteen miles around it, so that I could start on horseback, and, by riding very leisurely, reach the other side, long in advance of a steamboat. The steamer came in due time. After putting our cotton on board, I bade Mr. Colburn farewell, and left him to the cares and perplexities of a planter's life. I was destined for New Orleans, to sell our cotton, and to purchase many things needed for the prosecution of our enterprise. On my way down the river, I found that steamboat traveling was not an entirely safe amusement. The boat that preceded me was fired upon near Morganzia, and narrowly escaped destruction. A shell indented her steam-pipe, and passed among the machinery, without doing any damage. Had the pipe been cut, the steam would have filled every part of the boat. I was not disturbed by artillery on the occasion of my journey, but received a compliment from small-arms. On the morning after leaving Natchez, I was awakened by a volley of musketry from the river-bank. One of the bullets penetrated the thin walls of the cabin and entered my state-room, within two inches of my head. I preserved the missile as a souvenir of travel. On the next day the Rebels brought a battery of artillery to the spot. A steamer received its greeting, but escaped with a single passenger wounded. A gentleman who was on this boat had a very narrow escape. He told me that he was awakened by the first shot, which passed through the upper works of the steamer. He was occupying the upper berth in a state-room on the side next the locality of the Rebels. His first impulse was to spring from his resting-place, and throw himself at full length upon the floor. He had hardly done so, when a shell entered the state-room, and traversed the berth in the exact position where my friend had been lying. Having narrowly escaped death, he concluded not to run a second risk. He returned to St. Louis by way of New York. Wishing to visit New Orleans some time later, he sailed from New York on the _Electric Spark_, and enjoyed the luxury of a capture by the pirates of the "Confederate" steamer _Florida_. After that occurrence, he concluded there was little choice between the ocean and river routes. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN THE COTTON MARKET. New Orleans and its Peculiarities.--Its Loss by the Rebellion.--Cotton Factors in New Orleans.--Old Things passed away.--The Northern Barbarians a Race of Shopkeepers.--Pulsations of the Cotton Market.--A Quarrel with a Lady.--Contending for a Principle.--Inharmony of the "Regulations."--An Account of Sales. The first impression that New Orleans gives a stranger is its unlikeness to Northern cities. It is built on ground that slopes downward from the Mississippi. As one leaves the river and walks toward the center of the city, he finds himself descending. New Orleans is a hundred miles from the mouth of the Mississippi and only six miles from Lake Pontchartrain, which is an arm of the sea. The river at the city is ten feet above Lake Pontchartrain, so that New Orleans is washed by water from the Mississippi and drained into the lake. The water in the gutters always runs from the river, no matter what may be its height. The steamers at the foot of Canal Street appear above the spectator, when he stands a mile or two from the landing. There is no earthy elevation of any kind, except of artificial construction, in the vicinity of New Orleans. The level surface of the streets renders the transportation of heavy bodies a work of the utmost ease. The greatest amount of merchandise that can be loaded upon four wheels rarely requires the efforts of more than two animals. The street-cars, unlike those of Northern cities, are drawn by a single mule to each car, and have no conductors. The cemeteries are above ground, and resemble the pigeon-holes of a post-office, magnified to a sufficient size for the reception of coffins. There is not a cellar in the entire city of New Orleans. Musquitos flourish during the entire winter. In the summer there are two varieties of these insects. The night-musquito is similar to the insect which disturbs our slumbers in Northern latitudes. The day-musquito relieves his comrade at sunrise and remains on duty till sunset. He has no song, but his bite is none the less severe. He disappears at the approach of winter, but his tuneful brother remains. Musquito nettings are a necessity all the year round. The public walks of New Orleans are justly the pride of the inhabitants. Canal Street is probably the prettiest street in America. Along its center is a double row of shade-trees, a promenade, and the tracks of the street railway. These shade-trees are inclosed so as to form a series of small parks for the entire length of the street. On each side of these parks is a carriage-way, as wide as the great thoroughfare of New York. Canal Street is the fashionable promenade of New Orleans. In the days of glory, before the Rebellion, it presented a magnificent appearance. Among the prettiest of the parks of New Orleans is Jackson Square, containing a fine equestrian statue of General Jackson. The pedestal of the statue is emblazoned with the words: "THE UNION--IT MUST AND SHALL BE PRESERVED." The French element in New Orleans is apparent on every side. The auctioneers cry their wares in mingled French and English, and the negroes and white laborers on the levee converse in a hybrid language. In the French quarter, every thing is French. The signs on the shops and the street corners, the conversation of the inhabitants and the shouts of the boys who play on the sidewalks, are in the vernacular of _La Belle France_. In Jackson Square, notices to warn visitors not to disturb the shrubbery, are posted in two languages, the French being first. On one poster I saw the sentence: "_Ne touche pas à les fleurs_," followed by the literal translation into English: "Don't touch to the flowers." I was happy to observe that the caution was very generally heeded. Before the war, New Orleans was a city of wonderful wealth. Situated at the outlet of the great valley, its trade in cotton, sugar, and other products of the West and South, was immense. Boats, which had descended from all points along the navigable portion of the Mississippi, discharged their cargoes upon its levee. Ships of all nations were at the wharves, receiving the rich freight that the steamers had brought down. The piles of merchandise that lay along the levee were unequaled in any other city of the globe. Money was abundant, and was lavishly scattered in all directions. With the secession of the Gulf States, the opening of hostilities, and the blockade of the Mississippi at its mouth and at Cairo, the prosperity of New Orleans disappeared. The steamers ceased to bring cotton and sugar to its wharves, and its levee presented a picture of inactivity. Many of the wealthy found themselves in straitened circumstances, and many of the poor suffered and died for want of food. For a whole year, while the Rebel flag floated over the city, the business of New Orleans was utterly suspended. With the passage of the forts and the capture of New Orleans by Admiral Farragut, the Rebel rule was ended. Very slowly the business of the city revived, but in its revival it fell into the hands of Northern men, who had accompanied our armies in their advance. The old merchants found themselves crowded aside by the ubiquitous Yankees. With the end of the war, the glory of the city will soon return, but it will not return to its old channels. More than any other city of the South, New Orleans will be controlled by men of Northern birth and sentiments. The day of slave-auctions in the rotunda of the St. Charles has passed away forever. New Orleans has a class of men peculiar to the South, whose business it is to sell cotton for the planters. These gentlemen are known as "factors," and, in former times, were numerous and successful. Whatever a planter needed, from a quire of paper to a steam-engine, he ordered his factor to purchase and forward. The factor obeyed the order and charged the amount to the planter, adding two and a half per cent, for commission. If the planter wanted money, he drew upon the factor, and that individual honored the draft. At the end of the season, it often occurred that the planter was largely in debt to the factor. But the cotton crop, when gathered, being consigned to the factor, canceled this indebtedness, and generally left a balance in the planter's favor. The factor charged a good commission for selling the cotton, and sometimes required interest upon the money he advanced. In the happy days before the war, the factor's business was highly lucrative. The advances to the planters, before the maturity of the cotton crop, often required a heavy capital, but the risk was not great. Nearly every planter was considerably indebted to his factor before his cotton went forward. In many cases the proceeds of the entire crop would but little more than cover the advances which had been made. In New Orleans nearly all cotton is sold "by sample." Certain men are licensed to "sample" cotton, for which they charge a specified sum per bale. A hole is cut in the covering of each bale, and from this hole a handful of cotton is pulled. Every bale is thus "sampled," without regard to the size of the lot. The samples are taken to the sales-room of the commission house, where they are open to the inspection of buyers. The quality of the cotton is carefully noted, the length of the fiber or staple, the whiteness of the sample, and its freedom from dust or fragments of cotton-stalks. Not one bale in twenty is ever seen by the buyers until after its purchase. Frequently the buyers transfer their cotton to other parties without once looking upon it Sometimes cotton is sold at auction instead of being offered at private sale, but the process of "sampling" is carried out in either case. In '63 and '64, New Orleans could boast of more cotton factors than cotton. The principal business was in the hands of merchants from the North, who had established themselves in the city soon after its occupation by the National forces. Nearly all cotton sent to market was from plantations leased by Northern men, or from purchases made of planters by Northern speculators. The patronage naturally fell into the hands of the new possessors of the soil, and left the old merchants to pine in solitude. The old cotton factors, most of them Southern men, who could boast of ten or twenty years' experience, saw their business pass into the hands of men whose arrival in New Orleans was subsequent to that of General Butler. Nearly all the old factors were Secessionists, who religiously believed no government could exist unless founded on raw cotton and slavery. They continually asserted that none but themselves could sell cotton to advantage, and wondered why those who had that article to dispose of should employ men unaccustomed to its sale. They were doomed to find themselves false prophets. The new and enterprising merchants monopolized the cotton traffic, and left the slavery-worshiping factors of the olden time to mourn the loss of their occupation. At the time I visited New Orleans, cotton was falling. It had been ninety cents per pound. I could only obtain a small fraction above seventy cents, and within a week the same quality sold for sixty. Three months afterward, it readily brought a dollar and a quarter per pound. The advices from New York were the springs by which the market in New Orleans was controlled. A good demand in New York made a good demand in New Orleans, and _vice versâ_. The New York market was governed by the Liverpool market, and that in turn by the demand at Manchester. Thus the Old World and the New had a common interest in the production of cotton. While one watched the demand, the other closely observed the supply. Some of the factors in New Orleans were fearful lest the attention paid to cotton-culture in other parts of the world would prove injurious to the South after the war should be ended. They had abandoned their early belief that their cotton was king, and dreaded the crash that was to announce the overthrow of all their hopes. In their theory that cotton-culture was unprofitable, unless prosecuted by slave labor, these men could only see a gloomy picture for years to come. Not so the new occupants of the land. Believing that slavery was not necessary to the production of sugar and cotton; believing that the country could show far more prosperity under the new system of labor than was ever seen under the old; and believing that commerce would find new and enlarged channels with the return of peace, they combated the secession heresies of the old residents, and displayed their faith by their works. New Orleans was throwing off its old habits and adopting the ideas and manners of Northern civilization. Mrs. B., the owner of our plantation, was in New Orleans at the time of my arrival. As she was to receive half the proceeds of the cotton we had gathered, I waited upon her to tell the result of our labors. The sale being made, I exhibited the account of sales to her agent, and paid him the stipulated amount. So far all was well; but we were destined to have a difference of opinion upon a subject touching the rights of the negro. Early in 1863 the Rebel authorities ordered the destruction of all cotton liable to fall into the hands of the National forces. The order was very generally carried out. In its execution, some four hundred bales belonging to Mrs. B. were burned. The officer who superintended the destruction, permitted the negroes on the plantation to fill their beds with cotton, but not to save any in bales. When we were making our shipment, Mr. Colburn proposed that those negroes who wished to do so, could sell us their cotton, and fill their beds with moss or husks. As we paid them a liberal price, they accepted our offer, and we made up three bales from our purchase. We never imagined that Mrs. B. would lay any claim to this lot, and did not include it in the quantity for which we paid her half the proceeds. After I had made the payment to her factor, I received a note from the lady in reference to the three bales above mentioned. She said the cotton in question was entirely her property; but, in consideration of our careful attention to the matter, she would consent to our retaining half its value. She admitted that she would have never thought to bring it to market; but since we had collected and baled it, she demanded it as her own. I "respectfully declined" to comply with her request. I believed the negroes had a claim to what was saved from the burning, and given to them by the Rebel authorities. Mrs. B. was of the opinion that a slave could own nothing, and therefore insisted that the cotton belonged to herself. Very soon after sending my reply, I was visited by the lady's factor. A warm, though courteous, discussion transpired. The factor was a Secessionist, and a firm believer in the human and divine right of slavery. He was a man of polished exterior, and was, doubtless, considered a specimen of the true Southern gentleman. In our talk on the subject in dispute, I told him the Rebels had allowed the negroes to fill their beds with cotton, and it was this cotton we had purchased. "The negroes had no right to sell it to you," said the factor; "neither had you any right to purchase it." "If it was given to them," I asked, "was it not theirs to sell?" "Certainly not. The negroes own nothing, and can own nothing. Every thing they have, the clothes they wear and the dishes they use, belongs to their owners. When we 'give' any thing to a negro, we merely allow it to remain in his custody, nothing more." "But in this case," said I, "the gift was not made by the owner. The cotton was to be destroyed by order of your Confederate Government. That order took it from Mrs. B.'s possession. When the officer came to burn the cotton, and gave a portion to the negroes to fill their beds, he made no gift to Mrs. B." "Certainly he did. The cotton became hers, when it was given to her negroes. If you give any thing to one of my negroes, that article becomes my property as much as if given to me." "But how is it when a negro, by working nights or Saturdays, manages to make something for himself?" "That is just the same. Whatever he makes in that way belongs to his master. Out of policy we allow him to keep it, but we manage to have him expend it for his own good. The negro is the property of his master, and can own nothing for himself." "But in this case," I replied, "I have promised to pay the negroes for the cotton. It would be unjust to them to fail to do so." "You must not pay them any thing for it. Whatever you have promised makes no difference. It is Mrs. B.'s property, not theirs. If you pay them, you will violate all our customs, and establish a precedent very bad for us and for yourself." I assured the gentleman I should feel under obligation to deal justly with the negroes, even at the expense of violating Southern precedent. "You may not be aware," I remarked, "of the magnitude of the change in the condition of the Southern negro during the two years just closed. The difference of opinion between your people and ourselves is, no doubt, an honest one. We shall be quite as persistent in pushing our views at the present time as you have been in enforcing yours in the past. We must try our theory, and wait for the result." We separated most amiably, each hoping the other would eventually see things in their true light. From present indications, the weight of public opinion is on my side, and constantly growing stronger. My sales having been made, and a quantity of plantation supplies purchased, I was ready to return. It was with much difficulty that I was able to procure permits from the Treasury agent at New Orleans to enable me to ship my purchases. Before leaving Natchez, I procured all the documents required by law. Natchez and New Orleans were not in the same "district," and consequently there was much discord. For example, the agent at Natchez gave me a certain document that I should exhibit at New Orleans, and take with me on my return to Natchez. The agent at New Orleans took possession of this document, and, on my expostulating, said the agent at Natchez "had no right" to give me instructions to retain it. He kept the paper, and I was left without any defense against seizure of the goods I had in transit. They were seized by a Government officer, but subsequently released. On my arrival at Natchez, I narrated the occurrence to the Treasury agent at that point. I was informed that the agent at New Orleans "could not" take my papers from me, and I should not have allowed him to do so. I was forcibly reminded of the case of the individual who was once placed in the public stocks. On learning his offense, a lawyer told him, "Why, Sir, they can't put you in the stocks for _that_." "But they have." "I tell you they can't do it." "But, don't you see, they have." "I tell you again they can't do any such thing." In my own case, each Treasury agent declared the other "could not" do the things which had been done. In consequence of the inharmony of the "regulations," the most careful shipper would frequently find his goods under seizure, from which they could generally be released on payment of liberal fees and fines. I do not know there was any collusion between the officials, but I could not rid myself of the impression there was something rotten in Denmark. The invariable result of these little quarrels was the plundering of the shippers. The officials never suffered. Like the opposite sides of a pair of shears, though cutting against each other, they only injured whatever was between them. Not a hundredth part of the official dishonesty at New Orleans and other points along the Mississippi will ever be known. Enough has been made public to condemn the whole system of permits and Treasury restrictions. The Government took a wise course when it abolished, soon after the suppression of the Rebellion, a large number of the Treasury Agencies in the South. As they were managed during the last two years of the war, these agencies proved little else than schools of dishonesty. There may have been some honest men in those offices, but they contrived to conceal their honesty. To show the variety of charges which attach to a shipment of cotton, I append the sellers' account for the three bales about which Mrs. B. and myself had our little dispute. These bales were not sold with the balance of our shipment. The cotton of which they were composed was of very inferior quality. _Account Sales of Three Bales of Cotton for Knox & Colburn._ By PARSLEY & WILLIAMS. ______________________________________________________________________ Mark, | 3 bales. || | || | "K. C."| Weight, } 1,349 @..............|| $0 | 60 || $809 | 40 | 533--406--410 } || | || | | Auctioneers' commission, 1 pr. ct.....|| 8 | 09 || | | Sampling .............................|| | 30 || | | Weighing .............................|| | 50 || | | Watching..............................|| | 50 || | | Tarpaulins ...........................|| | 50 || | | Freight, $10 pr. bale ................|| 30 | 00 || | | Insurance, $2.50 pr. bale ............|| 7 | 50 || | | 4 c. pr. lb. (tax) on 1,349 lb .......|| 53 | 96 || | | 1/2 c. " " " " ..........|| 6 | 74 || | | Permit and stamps ....................|| | 65 || | | Hospital fees, $5 pr. bale............|| 15 | 00 || | | Factors' commission, 1 pr. ct.........|| 8 | 09 || | | || -- | -- || 131 | 83 | || | || ---- | -- E.O.E. | Net proceeds......................|| | || $677 | 57 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- NEW ORLEANS, La., _February 22_, 1864. It will be seen by the above that the charges form an important portion of the proceeds of a sale. The heaviest items are for Government and hospital taxes. The latter was levied before the war, but the former is one of the fruits of the Rebellion. It is likely to endure for a considerable time. I knew several cases in which the sales of cotton did not cover the charges, but left a small bill to be paid by the owner. Frequently, cotton that had been innocently purchased and sent to market was seized by Government officials, on account of some alleged informality, and placed in the public warehouses. The owner could get no hearing until he made liberal presents of a pecuniary character to the proper authorities. After much delay and many bribes, the cotton would be released. New charges would appear, and before a sale could be effected the whole value of the cotton would be gone. A person of my acquaintance was unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the Philistines in the manner I have described above. At the end of the transaction he found himself a loser to the extent of three hundred dollars. He has since been endeavoring to ascertain the amount of traffic on a similar scale that would be needed to make him a millionaire. At last accounts he had not succeeded in solving the problem. CHAPTER XXXVIII. SOME FEATURES OF PLANTATION LIFE. Mysteries of Mule-trading.--"What's in a Name?"--Process of Stocking a Plantation.--An Enterprising White Man.--Stratagem of a Yankee.--Distributing Goods to the Negroes.--The Tastes of the African.--Ethiopian Eloquence.--A Colored Overseer.--Guerrillas Approaching.--Whisky _vs_. Guerrillas.--A Hint to Military Men. On my return from New Orleans to the plantation, I found that Colburn had been pushing our business with a rapidity and skill that secured the admiration of everyone around us. He had increased our working force, and purchased a goodly number of mules. We had seventeen plows in operation, and two teams engaged in gathering corn, on the day before my arrival. The "trash-gang" was busy, and other working parties were occupied with their various duties. We were looking to a brilliant future, and echoed the wish of Jefferson Davis, to be "let alone." The enterprise of a lessee at that time, and in that locality, was illustrated by his ability to supply his plantation with mules. There were many who failed in the effort, but my associate was not of the number. There were but few mules in the Natchez market--not enough to meet a tenth of the demand. Nearly every plantation had been stripped of working animals by one army or the other. Before our arrival the Rebels plundered all men suspected of lukewarmness in the cause. When the National army obtained possession, it took nearly every thing the Rebels had left. All property believed to belong to the Rebel Government was passed into the hands of our quartermaster. A planter, named Caleb Shields, had a large plantation near Natchez, which had not been disturbed by the Rebels. His mules were branded with the letters "C.S.," the initials of their owner. As these letters happened to be the same that were used by the Confederate Government, Mr. Shields found his mules promptly seized and "confiscated." Before he could explain the matter and obtain an order for their return, his animals were sent to Vicksburg and placed in the Government corral. If the gentleman had possessed other initials, it is possible (though not certain) he might have saved his stock. Mules being very scarce, the lessees exercised their skill in supplying themselves with those animals. On my first arrival at the plantation, I took care to hire those negroes who were riding from the interior, or, at all events, to purchase their animals. In one day I obtained two horses and four mules. An order had been issued for the confiscation of beasts of burden (or draught) brought inside the lines by negroes. We obtained permission to purchase of these runaway negroes whatever mules they would sell, provided we could make our negotiations before they reached the military lines. Immediately after my departure, Mr. Colburn stationed one of our men on the road near our house, with orders to effect a trade with every mounted negro on his way to Natchez. The plan was successful. From two to a half-dozen mules were obtained daily. During the two weeks of my absence nearly fifty mules were purchased, placing the plantation in good order for active prosecution of our planting enterprise. At the same time many lessees in our vicinity were unable to commence operations, owing to their inability to obtain working stock. The negroes discovered that the mule market was not well supplied, and some of the more enterprising and dishonest sons of Ham endeavored to profit by the situation. Frequently mules would be offered at a suspiciously low price, with the explanation that the owner was anxious to dispose of his property and return home. Some undertook nocturnal expeditions, ten or twenty miles into the interior, where they stole whatever mules they could find. A few of the lessees suffered by the loss of stock, which was sold an hour after it was stolen, and sometimes to the very party from whom it had been taken. We took every care to avoid buying stolen property, but were sometimes deceived. On one occasion I purchased a mule of a negro who lived at Waterproof. The purchase was made an hour before sunset, and the animal was stolen during the night. On the following morning, Colburn bought it again of the same party with whom I had effected my trade. After this occurrence, we adopted the plan of branding each mule as soon as it came into our hands. All the lessees did the same thing, and partially protected each other against fraud. White men were the worst mule-thieves, and generally instructed the negroes in their villainy. There were several men in Natchez who reduced mule-stealing to a science, and were as thoroughly skilled in it as Charley Bates or the Artful Dodger in the science of picking pockets. One of them had four or five white men and a dozen negroes employed in bringing stock to market. I think he retired to St. Louis, before the end of May, with ten or twelve thousand dollars as the result of three months' industry. Some of the lessees resorted to questionable methods for supplying their plantations with the means for plowing and planting. One of them occupied a plantation owned by a man who refused to allow his own stock to be used. He wished to be neutral until the war was ended. This owner had more than sixty fine mules, that were running loose in the field. One day the lessee told the owner that he had purchased a lot of mules at Natchez, and would bring them out soon. On the following night, while the owner slept, the lessee called some trusty negroes to his aid, caught seventeen mules from the field, sheared and branded them, and placed them in a yard by themselves. In the morning he called the owner to look at the "purchase." "You have bought an excellent lot," said the latter individual. "Where were they from?" "All from St. Louis." was the response. "They were brought down two days ago. I don't know what to do about turning them out. Do you think, if I put them with yours, there is any danger of their straying, on account of being on a strange place?" "None at all. I think there is no risk." The lessee took the risk, and expressed much delight to find that the new mules showed themselves at home on the plantation. Several days later the owner of the plantation discovered the loss of his mules, but never suspected what had become of them. Two weeks afterward, the Rebels came and asked him to designate the property of the lessee, that they might remove it. He complied by pointing out the seventeen mules, which the Rebels drove away, leaving the balance unharmed. I landed at the plantation one Sunday evening, with the goods I had purchased in New Orleans. I was met with the unwelcome information that the small force at Waterproof, after committing many depredations on the surrounding country, had been withdrawn, leaving us exposed to the tender mercies of the indignant chivalry. We were liable to be visited at any moment. We knew the Rebels would not handle us very tenderly, in view of what they had suffered from our own men. A party of guerrillas was reported seven miles distant on the day previous, and there was nothing to hinder their coming as near as they chose. Accordingly, we determined to distribute the goods among the negroes as early as possible. On Monday morning we commenced. There was some delay, but we succeeded in starting a very lively trade before seven o'clock. Shoes were in great demand, as the negroes had not been supplied with these articles for nearly three years. A hundred pairs were speedily issued, when the balance was laid aside for future consideration. There were some of the negroes whose feet were too large for any shoes we had purchased. It was a curious fact that these large-footed negroes were not above the ordinary stature. I remember one in particular who demanded "thirteens," but who did not stand more than five feet and five inches in his invisible stockings. After the shoes, came the material for clothing. For the men we had purchased "gray denims" and "Kentucky jeans;" for the women, "blue denims" and common calico. These articles were rapidly taken, and with them the necessary quantity of thread, buttons, etc. A supply of huge bandana kerchiefs for the head was eagerly called for. I had procured as many of these articles as I thought necessary for the entire number of negroes on the plantation; but found I had sadly miscalculated. The kerchiefs were large and very gaudy, and the African taste was at once captivated by them. Instead of being satisfied with one or two, every negro desired from six to a dozen, and was much disappointed at the refusal. The gaudy colors of most of the calicoes created a great demand, while a few pieces of more subdued appearance were wholly discarded. White cotton cloth, palm-leaf hats, knives and forks, tin plates, pans and dishes, and other articles for use or wear, were among the distributions of the day. Under the slave-owner's rule, the negro was entitled to nothing beyond his subsistence and coarse clothing. Out of a large-hearted generosity the master gave him various articles, amounting, in the course of a year, to a few dollars in value. These articles took the name of "presents," and their reception was designed to inspire feelings of gratitude in the breast of the slave. Most of the negroes understood that the new arrangements made an end of present-giving. They were to be paid for all their labor, and were to pay for whatever they received. When the plan was first announced, all were pleased with it; but when we came to the distribution of the goods, many of the negroes changed their views. They urged that the clothing, and every thing else we had purchased, should be issued as "presents," and that they should be paid for their labor in addition. Whatever little advantages the old system might have, they wished to retain and ingraft upon their new life. To be compensated for labor was a condition of freedom which they joyfully accepted. To receive "presents" was an apparent advantage of slavery which they did not wish to set aside. The matter was fully explained, and I am confident all our auditors understood it. Those that remained obstinate had an eye to their personal interests. Those who had been sick, idle, absent, or disabled, were desirous of liberal gifts, while the industrious were generally in favor of the new system, or made no special opposition to it. One negro, who had been in our employ two weeks, and whose whole labor in that time was less than four days, thought he deserved a hundred dollars' worth of presents, and compensation in money for a fortnight's toil. All were inclined to value their services very highly; but there were some whose moderation knew no bounds. A difficulty arose on account of certain promises that had been made to the negroes by the owner of the plantation, long before our arrival. Mrs. B. had told them (according to their version) that the proceeds of the cotton on the plantation should be distributed in the form of presents, whenever a sale was effected. She did not inform us of any such promise when we secured the lease of the plantation. If she made any agreement to that effect, it was probably forgotten. Those who claimed that this arrangement had been made desired liberal presents in addition to payment for their labor. Our non-compliance with this demand was acknowledged to be just, but it created considerable disappointment. One who had been her mistress's favorite argued the question with an earnestness that attracted my attention. Though past sixty years of age, she was straight as an arrow, and her walk resembled that of a tragedy queen. In her whole features she was unlike those around her, except in her complexion, which was black as ink. There was a clear, silvery tone to her voice, such as I have rarely observed in persons of her race. In pressing her claim, she grew wonderfully eloquent, and would have elicited the admiration of an educated audience. Had there been a school in that vicinity for the development of histrionic talent in the negro race, I would have given that woman a recommendation to its halls. During my absence, Mr. Colburn employed an overseer on our smaller plantation, and placed him in full charge of the work. This overseer was a mulatto, who had been fifteen years the manager of a large plantation about seven miles distant from ours. In voice and manner he was a white man, but his complexion and hair were those of the subject race. There was nothing about the plantation which he could not master in every point. Without being severe, he was able to accomplish all that had been done under the old system. He imitated the customs of the white man as much as possible, and it was his particular ambition to rank above those of his own color. As an overseer he was fully competent to take charge of any plantation in that locality. During all my stay in the South, I did not meet a white overseer whom I considered the professional equal of this negro. "Richmond" was the name to which our new assistant answered. His master had prevented his learning to read, but allowed him to acquire sufficient knowledge of figures to record the weight of cotton in the field. Richmond could mark upon the slate all round numbers between one hundred and four hundred; beyond this he was never able to go. He could neither add nor subtract, nor could he write a single letter of the alphabet. He was able, however, to write his own name very badly, having copied it from a pass written by his master. He had possessed himself of a book, and, with the help of one of our negroes who knew the alphabet, he was learning to read. His house was a model of neatness. I regret to say that he was somewhat tyrannical when superintending the affairs of his domicile. As the day of our distribution of goods was a stormy one, Richmond was called from the plantation to assist us. Under his assistance we were progressing fairly, interrupted occasionally by various causes of delay. Less than half the valuable articles were distributed, when our watches told us it was noon. Just as we were discussing the propriety of an adjournment for dinner, an announcement was made that banished all thoughts of the mid-day meal. One of our boys had been permitted to visit Waterproof during the forenoon. He returned, somewhat breathless, and his first words dropped like a shell among the assembled negroes: "_The Rebels are in Waterproof_." "How do you know?" "I saw them there, and asked a lady what they were. She said they were Harrison's Rebels." We told the negroes to go to their quarters. Richmond mounted his horse and rode off toward the plantation of which he had charge. In two minutes, there was not a negro in the yard, with the exception of the house-servants. Our goods were lying exposed. We threw some of the most valuable articles into an obscure closet. At the first alarm we ordered our horses brought out. When the animals appeared we desisted from our work. "The Rebels are coming down the road," was the next bulletin from the front. We sprang upon our horses and rode a hundred yards along the front of our "quarter-lot," to a point where we could look up the road toward Waterproof. There they were, sure enough, thirty or more mounted men, advancing at a slow trot. They were about half a mile distant, and, had we been well mounted, there was no doubt of our easy escape. "Now comes the race," said Colburn. "Twenty miles to Natchez. A single heat, with animals to go at will." We turned our horses in the direction of Natchez. "Stop," said I, as we reached the house again. "They did not see us, and have not quickened their pace. Strategy, my boy, may assist us a little." Throwing my bridle into Colburn's hand, I slid from my saddle and bounded into the dwelling. It was the work of a moment to bring out a jug and a glass tumbler, but I was delayed longer than I wished in finding the key of our closet. The jug contained five gallons of excellent whisky (so pronounced by my friends), and would have been a valuable prize in any portion of the Confederacy. Placing the jug and tumbler side by side on the veranda, in full view from the road, I remounted, just as the Rebels reached the corner of our quarter-lot. "We have pressing engagements in Natchez," said Colburn. "So we have," I replied; "I had nearly forgotten them. Let us lose no time in meeting them." As we rode off, some of the foremost Rebels espied us and quickened their pace. When they reached the house they naturally looked toward it to ascertain if any person was there. They saw the jug, and were at once attracted. One man rode past the house, but the balance stopped. The minority of one was prudent, and returned after pursuing us less than fifty yards. The whisky which the jug contained was quickly absorbed. With only one tumbler it required some minutes to drain the jug. These minutes were valuable. Whisky may have ruined many a man, but it saved us. Around that seductive jug those thirty guerrillas became oblivious to our escape. We have reason to be thankful that we disobeyed the rules of strict teetotalers by "keeping liquor in the house." I was well mounted, and could have easily kept out of the way of any ordinary chase. Colburn was only fairly mounted, and must have been run down had there been a vigorous and determined pursuit. As each was resolved to stand by the other, the capture of one would have doubtless been the capture of both. [Illustration: "STRATEGY, MY BOY!"] CHAPTER XXXIX. VISITED BY GUERRILLAS. News of the Raid.--Returning to the Plantation.--Examples of Negro Cunning.--A Sudden Departure and a Fortunate Escape.--A Second Visit.--"Going Through," in Guerrilla Parlance.--How it is Accomplished.--Courtesy to Guests.--A Holiday Costume.--Lessees Abandoning their Plantations.--Official Promises. As soon as satisfied we were not followed we took a leisurely pace, and in due time reached Natchez. Four hours later we received the first bulletin from the plantation. About thirty guerrillas had been there, mainly for the purpose of despoiling the plantation next above ours. This they had accomplished by driving off all the mules. They had not stolen _our_ mules, simply because they found as much cloth and other desirable property as they wished to take on that occasion. Besides, our neighbor's mules made as large a drove as they could manage. They promised to come again, and we believed they would keep their word. We ascertained that my strategy with the whisky saved us from pursuit. On the next day a messenger arrived, saying all was quiet at the plantation. On the second day, as every thing continued undisturbed, I concluded to return. Colburn had gone to Vicksburg, and left me to look after our affairs as I thought best. We had discussed the propriety of hiring a white overseer to stay on the plantation during our absence. The prospect of visits from guerrillas convinced us that _we_ should not spend much of our time within their reach. We preferred paying some one to risk his life rather than to risk our own lives. The prospect of getting through the season without serious interruption had become very poor, but we desired to cling to the experiment a little longer. Once having undertaken it, we were determined not to give it up hastily. I engaged a white man as overseer, and took him with me to the plantation. The negroes had been temporarily alarmed at the visit of the guerrillas, but, as they were not personally disturbed, their excitement was soon allayed. I found them anxiously waiting my return, and ready to recommence labor on the following day. The ravages of the guerrillas on that occasion were not extensive. They carried off a few bolts of cloth and some smaller articles, after drinking the whisky I had set out for their entertainment. The negroes had carefully concealed the balance of the goods in places where a white man would have much trouble in finding them. In the garden there was a row of bee-hives, whose occupants manifested much dislike for all white men, irrespective of their political sentiments. Two unused hives were filled with the most valuable articles on our invoice, and placed at the ends of this row. In a clump of weeds under the bench on which the hives stood, the negroes secreted several rolls of cloth and a quantity of shoes. More shoes and more cloth were concealed in a hen-house, under a series of nests where several innocent hens were "sitting." Crockery was placed among the rose-bushes and tomato-vines in the garden; barrels of sugar were piled with empty barrels of great age; and two barrels of molasses had been neatly buried in a freshly-ploughed potato-field. Obscure corners in stables and sheds were turned into hiding-places, and the cunning of the negro was well evinced by the successful concealment of many bulky articles. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon when I arrived at the plantation. I immediately recommenced the issue of goods, which was suspended so hastily three days before. From two o'clock until dark the overseer and myself were busily engaged, and distributed about two-thirds of our remaining stock. Night came. We suspended the distribution and indulged in supper. After giving the overseer directions for the morrow, I recollected an invitation to spend the night at the house of a friend, three miles away, on the road to Natchez. I ordered my horse, and in a few moments the animal was ready, at the door. I told the overseer where I was going, and bade him good-night. "Where are you going, Mr. K----?" said the negro who had brought out the horse, as he delivered the bridle into my hands. "If any one calls to see me," said I, "you can say I have gone to Natchez." With that I touched a spur to my horse and darted off rapidly toward my friend's house. A half-dozen negroes had gathered to assist in saddling and holding the horse. As I sprang into the saddle I heard one of them say: "I don't see why Mr. K---- starts off to Natchez at this time of night." Another negro explained the matter, but I did not hear the explanation. If he gave a satisfactory reason, I think he did better than I could have done. Immediately after my departure the overseer went to bed. He had been in bed about fifteen minutes when he heard a trampling of horses' feet around the house. A moment later there was a loud call for the door to be opened. Before the overseer could comply with the request, the door was broken in. A dozen men crowded into the house, demanding that a light be struck instantly. As the match gave its first flash of light, one of the visitors said: "Well, K----, we've got you this time." "That," said another, "is no K----; that is Walter Owen, who used to be overseer on Stewart's plantation." "What are you doing here?" demanded another. Mr. Owen, trembling in his night-clothes, replied that he had been engaged to stay there as overseer. "Where is K----, and where is Colburn?" "Mr. Colburn hasn't been here since last Monday. Mr. K---- has gone to Natchez." "That's a ---- lie," said one of the guerrillas. "We know he came here at two o'clock this afternoon, and was here at dark. He is somewhere around this house." In vain did Owen protest I was not there. Every room and every closet in the house was searched. A pile of bagging in a garret was overhauled, in the expectation that I was concealed within it. Even the chimneys were not neglected, though I doubt if the smallest of professional sweeps could pass through them. One of the guerrillas opened a piano, to see if I had not taken refuge under its cover. They looked into all possible and impossible nooks and corners, in the hope of finding me somewhere. At last they gave up the search, and contented themselves with promising to catch both Colburn and myself before long. "We want to go through those d--d Abolitionists, and we will do it, too. They may dodge us for a while, but we will have them by-and-by." Not being privileged to "go through" me as they had anticipated, the gentlemanly guerrillas went through the overseer. They took his money, his hat, his pantaloons, and his saddle. His horse was standing in the stable, and they took that also. They found four of our mules, and appropriated them to their own use. They frightened one of the negroes into telling where certain articles were concealed, and were thus enabled to carry off a goodly amount of plunder. They threatened Mr. Owen with the severest punishment, if he remained any longer on the plantation. They possessed themselves of a "protection" paper which Mrs. B. had received from the commander at Natchez several months before, and were half inclined to burn her buildings as a punishment for having sought the favor of the Yankees. Their stay was of only an hour's duration. From our plantation the robbers went to the one next above, where they were more fortunate in finding the lessees at home. They surrounded the house in the same manner they had surrounded ours, and then burst open the doors. The lessees were plundered of every thing in the shape of money, watches, and knives, and were forced to exchange hats and coats with their captors. One of the guerrillas observed an ivory-headed pencil, which he appropriated to his own use, with the remark: "They don't make these things back here in the woods. When they do, I will send this one back." These lessees were entertaining some friends on that evening, and begged the guerrillas to show them some distinction. "D--n your friends," said the guerrilla leader; "I suppose they are Yankees?" "Yes, they are; we should claim friendship with nobody else." "Then we want to see what they have, and go through them if it is worth the while." The strangers were unceremoniously searched. Their united contributions to the guerrilla treasury were two watches, two revolvers, three hundred dollars in money, and their hats and overcoats. Their horses and saddles were also taken. In consideration of their being guests of the house, these gentlemen were allowed to retain their coats. They were presented with five dollars each, to pay their expenses to Natchez. No such courtesy was shown to the lessees of the plantation. On the following morning, I was awakened at an early hour by the arrival of a negro from our plantation, with news of the raid. A little later, Mr. Owen made his appearance, wearing pantaloons and hat that belonged to one of the negroes. The pantaloons were too small and the hat too large; both had long before seen their best days. He was riding a mule, on which was tied an old saddle, whose cohesive powers were very doubtful. I listened to the story of the raid, and was convinced another visit would be made very soon. I gave directions for the overseer to gather all the remaining mules and take them to Natchez for safety. I stopped with my friend until nearly noon, and then accompanied him to Natchez. On the next morning, I learned that the guerrillas returned to our plantation while I was at my friend's house. They carried away what they were unable to take on the previous night They needed a wagon for purposes of transportation, and took one of ours, and with it all the mules they could find. Our house was stripped of every thing of any value, and I hoped the guerrillas would have no occasion to make subsequent visits. Several of our mules were saved by running them into the woods adjoining the plantation. These were taken to Natchez, and, for a time, all work on the prospective cotton crop came to an end. For nearly three weeks, the guerrillas had full and free range in the vicinity of the leased plantations. One after another of the lessees were driven to seek refuge at Natchez, and their work was entirely suspended. The only plantations undisturbed were those within a mile or two of Vidalia. As the son of Adjutant-General Thomas was interested in one of these plantations, and intimate friends of that official were concerned in others, it was proper that they should be well protected. The troops at Vidalia were kept constantly on the look-out to prevent raids on these favored localities. Nearly every day I heard of a fresh raid in our neighborhood, though, after the first half-dozen visits, I could not learn that the guerrillas carried away any thing, for the simple reason there was nothing left to steal. Some of the negroes remained at home, while others fled to the military posts for protection. The robbers showed no disposition to maltreat the negroes, and repeatedly assured them they should not be disturbed as long as they remained on the plantations and planted nothing but corn. It was declared that cotton should not be cultivated under any circumstances, and the negroes were threatened with the severest punishment if they assisted in planting that article. CHAPTER XL. PECULIARITIES OF PLANTATION LABOR. Resuming Operation.--Difficulties in the Way.--A New Method of Healing the Sick.--A Thief Discovered by his Ignorance of Arithmetic.--How Cotton is Planted.--The Uses of Cotton-Seed.--A Novel Sleeping-Room.--Constructing a Tunnel.--Vigilance of a Negro Sentinel. On the 24th of March a small post was established at Waterproof, and on the following day we recommenced our enterprise at the plantation. We were much crippled, as nearly all our mules were gone, and the work of replacing them could not be done in a day. The market at Natchez was not supplied with mules, and we were forced to depend upon the region around us. Three days after the establishment of the post we were able to start a half-dozen plows, and within two weeks we had our original force in the field. The negroes that had left during the raid, returned to us. Under the superintendence of our overseer the work was rapidly pushed. Richmond was back again on our smaller plantation, whence he had fled during the disturbances, and was displaying an energy worthy of the highest admiration. Our gangs were out in full force. There was the trash-gang clearing the ground for the plows, and the plow-gang busy at its appropriate work. The corn-gang, with two ox-teams, was gathering corn at the rate of a hundred bushels daily, and the fence-gang was patting the fences in order. The shelling-gang (composed of the oldest men and women) was husking and shelling corn, and putting it in sacks for market. The gardener, the stock-tenders, the dairy-maids, nurserymaids, hog-minders, and stable-keepers were all in their places, and we began to forget our recent troubles in the apparent prospect of success. One difficulty of the new system presented itself. Several of the negroes began to feign sickness, and cheat the overseer whenever it could be done with impunity. It is a part of the overseer's duty to go through the quarters every morning, examine such as claim to be sick, determine whether their sickness be real or pretended, and make the appropriate prescriptions. Under the old system the pretenders were treated to a liberal application of the lash, which generally drove away all fancied ills. Sometimes, one who was really unwell, was most unmercifully flogged by the overseer, and death not unfrequently ensued from this cause. As there was now no fear of the lash, some of the lazily-inclined negroes would feign sickness, and thus be excused from the field. The trouble was not general, but sufficiently prevalent to be annoying. We saw that some course must be devised to overcome this evil, and keep in the field all who were really able to be there. We procured some printed tickets, which the overseer was to issue at the close of each day. There were three colors--red, yellow, and white. The first were for a full day's work, the second for a half day, and the last for a quarter day. On the face of each was the following:-- AQUASCO & MONONO PLANTATIONS. 1864. These tickets were given each day to such as deserved them. They were collected every Saturday, and proper credit given for the amount of labor performed during the week. The effect was magical. The day after the adoption of our ticket system our number of sick was reduced one-half, and we had no further trouble with pretended patients. Colburn and myself, in our new character of "doctors," found our practice greatly diminished in consequence of our innovations. Occasionally it would happen that one who was not really able to work, would go to the field through a fear of diminished wages. One Saturday night, a negro whom we had suspected of thievish propensities, presented eight full-day tickets as the representative of his week's work. "Did you earn all these this week?" I asked. "Yes, sir," was the reply; "Mr. Owen gave them to me. I worked every day, straight along." "Can you tell me on which days he gave you each ticket?" "Oh, yes. I knows every one of them," said the negro, his countenance expressing full belief in his ability to locate each ticket. As I held the tickets in my hand, the negro picked them out. "Mr. Owen gave me this one Monday, this one Tuesday," and so on, toward the end of the week. As he reached Friday, and saw three tickets remaining, when there was only another day to be accounted for, his face suddenly fell. I pretended not to notice his embarrassment. "Which one did he give you to-day?" There was a stammer, a hesitation, a slight attempt to explain, and then the truth came out. He had stolen the extra tickets from two fellow-laborers only a few minutes before, and had not reflected upon the difficulties of the situation. I gave him some good advice, required him to restore the stolen tickets, and promise he would not steal any more. I think he kept the promise during the remainder of his stay on the plantation, but am by no means certain. Every day, when the weather was favorable, our work was pushed. Every mule that could be found was put at once into service, and by the 15th of April we had upward of five hundred acres plowed and ready for planting. We had planted about eighty acres of corn during the first week of April, and arranged to commence planting cotton on Monday, the 18th of the month. On the Saturday previous, the overseer on each plantation organized his planting-gangs, and placed every thing in readiness for active work. The ground, when plowed for cotton, is thrown into a series of ridges by a process technically known as "four-furrowing." Two furrows are turned in one direction and two in another, thus making a ridge four or five feet wide. Along the top of this ridge a "planter," or "bull-tongue," is drawn by a single mule, making a channel two or three inches in depth. A person carrying a bag of cotton seed follows the planter and scatters the seed into the channel. A small harrow follows, covering the seed, and the work of planting is complete. A planting-gang consists of drivers for the planters, drivers for the harrows, persons who scatter the seed, and attendants to supply them with seed. The seed is drawn from the gin-house to the field in ox-wagons, and distributed in convenient piles of ten or twenty bushels each. Cotton-seed has never been considered of any appreciable value, and consequently the negroes are very wasteful in using it. In sowing it in the field, they scatter at least twenty times as much as necessary, and all advice to use less is unheeded. It is estimated that there are forty bushels of seed to every bale of cotton produced. A plantation that sends a thousand bales of cotton to market will thus have forty thousand bushels of seed, for which there was formerly no sale. With the most lavish use of the article, there was generally a surplus at the end of the year. Cattle and sheep will eat cotton-seed, though not in large quantities. Boiled cotton-seed is fed to hogs on all plantations, but it is far behind corn in nutritious and fattening qualities. Cotton-seed is packed around the roots of small trees, where it is necessary to give them warmth or furnish a rich soil for their growth. To some extent it is used as fuel for steam-engines, on places where the machinery is run by steam. When the war deprived the Southern cities of a supply of coal for their gasworks, many of them found cotton seed a very good substitute. Oil can be extracted from it in large quantities. For several years, the Cotton-Seed Oil Works of Memphis carried on an extensive business. Notwithstanding the many uses to which cotton-seed can be applied, its great abundance makes it of little value. The planting-gang which we started on that Monday morning, consisted of five planters and an equal number of harrows, sowers, etc. Each planter passed over about six acres daily, so that every day gave us thirty acres of our prospective cotton crop. At the end of the week we estimated we had about a hundred and seventy acres planted. On the following week we increased the number of planters, but soon reduced them, as we found we should overtake the plows earlier than we desired. By the evening of Monday, May 2d, we had planted upward of four hundred acres. A portion of it was pushing out of the ground, and giving promise of rapid growth. During this period the business was under the direct superintendence of our overseers, Mr. Owen being responsible for the larger plantation, and Richmond for the smaller. Every day they were visited by Colburn or myself--sometimes by both of us--and received directions for the general management, which they carried out in detail. Knowing the habits of the guerrillas, we did not think it prudent to sleep in our house at the plantation. Those individuals were liable to announce their presence at any hour of the night, by quietly surrounding the house and requesting its inmates to make their appearance. When I spent the night at the plantation, I generally slept on a pile of cotton-seed, in an out-building to which I had secretly conveyed a pair of blankets and a flour-bag. This bag, filled with seed, served as my pillow, and though my bed lacked the elasticity of a spring mattress, it was really quite comfortable. My sleeping-place was at the foot of a huge pile of seed, containing many hundred bushels. One night I amused myself by making a tunnel into this pile in much the same way as a squirrel digs into a hillside. With a minute's warning I could have "hunted my hole," taking my blankets with me. By filling the entrance with seed, I could have escaped any ordinary search of the building. I never had occasion to use my tunnel. Generally, however, we staid in Waterproof, leaving there early in the morning, taking breakfast at the upper plantation, inspecting the work on both plantations, and, after dinner, returning to Waterproof. We could obtain a better dinner at the plantation than Waterproof was able to furnish us. Strawberries held out until late in the season, and we had, at all times, chickens, eggs, and milk in abundance. Whenever we desired roast lamb, our purveyor caused a good selection to be made from our flock. Fresh pork was much too abundant for our tastes, and we astonished the negroes and all other natives of that region, by our seemingly Jewish propensities. Pork and corn-bread are the great staples of life in that hot climate, where one would naturally look for lighter articles of food. Once I was detained on the plantation till after dark. As I rode toward Waterproof, expecting the negro sentinel to challenge and halt me, I was suddenly brought to a stand by the whistling of a bullet close to my ear, followed by several others at wider range. "Who comes there?" "A friend, with the countersign." "If that's so, come in. We thought you was the Rebels." As I reached the picket, the corporal of the guard explained that they were on duty for the first time, and did not well understand their business. I agreed with him fully on the latter point. To fire upon a solitary horseman, advancing at a walk, and challenge him afterward, was something that will appear ridiculous in the eyes of all soldiers. The corporal and all his men promised to do better next time, and begged me not to report them at head-quarters. When I reached the center of the town, I found the garrison had been alarmed at the picket firing, and was turning out to repel the enemy. On my assurance that I was the "enemy," the order to fall into line of battle was countermanded. CHAPTER XLI. THE NEGROES AT A MILITARY POST. The Soldiers at Waterproof.--The Black Man in Blue.--Mutiny and Desertion.--Their Cause and Cure.--Tendering a Resignation.--No Desire for a Barber.--Seeking Protection.--Falsehood and Truth.--Proneness to Exaggeration.--Amusing Estimates. The soldiers forming the garrison at Waterproof, at that time, were from a regiment raised by Colonel Eaton, superintendent of contrabands at Vicksburg. They were recruited in the vicinity of Vicksburg and Milliken's Bend, especially for local defense. They made, as the negro everywhere has made, excellent material for the army. Easily subordinate, prompt, reliable, and keenly alert when on duty (as their shooting at me will evince), they completely gave the lie to the Rebel assertion that the negro would prove worthless under arms. On one point only were they inclined to be mutinous. Their home ties were very strong, and their affection for their wives and children could not be overcome at once. It appeared that when this regiment was organized it was expected to remain at Milliken's Bend, where the families of nearly all the men were gathered. The order transferring them to Waterproof was unlooked for, and the men made some complaint. This was soon silenced, but after the regiment had been there three or four weeks, a half-dozen of the men went out of the lines one night, and started to walk to Milliken's Bend. They were brought back, and, after several days in the guardhouse, returned to duty. Others followed their example in attempting to go home, and for a while the camp was in a disturbed condition. Desertions were of daily occurrence. It was difficult to make them understand they were doing wrong. The army regulations and the intricacies of military law were unknown to them. They had never studied any of General Halleck's translations from the French, and, had they done so, I doubt if they would have been much enlightened. None of them knew what "desertion" meant, nor the duties of a soldier to adhere to his flag at all times. All intended to return to the post after making a brief visit to their families. Most of them would request their comrades to notify their captains that they would only be absent a short time. Two, who succeeded in eluding pursuit, made their appearance one morning as if nothing had happened, and assured their officers that others would shortly be back again. Gradually they came to understand the wickedness of desertion, or absence without leave, but this comprehension of their obligations was not easily acquired. A captain, commanding a company at Waterproof, told me an amusing story of a soldier "handing in his resignation." As the captain was sitting in front of his quarters, one of his men approached him, carrying his musket and all his accoutrements. Without a word the man laid his entire outfit upon the ground, in front of the captain, and then turned to walk away. "Come back here," said the officer; "what do you mean by this?" "I'se tired of staying here, and I'se going home," was the negro's answer, and he again attempted to move off. "Come back here and pick these things up," and the captain spoke in a tone that convinced the negro he would do well to obey. The negro told his story. He was weary of the war; he had been four weeks a soldier; he wanted to see his family, and had concluded to go home. If the captain desired it, he, would come back in a little while, but he was going home then, "_any how_." The officer possessed an amiable disposition, and explained to the soldier the nature of military discipline. The latter was soon convinced he had done wrong, and returned without a murmur to his duty. Does any soldier, who reads this, imagine himself tendering his resignation in the above manner with any prospect of its acceptance? When the first regiment of colored volunteers was organized in Kansas, it was mainly composed of negroes who had escaped from slavery in Missouri. They were easily disciplined save upon a single point, and on this they were very obstinate. Many of the negroes in Missouri, as in other parts of the South, wear their hair, or wool, in little knots or braids. They refused to submit to a close shearing, and threatened to return to their masters rather than comply with the regulation. Some actually left the camp and went home. The officers finally carried their point by inducing some free negroes in Leavenworth, whose heads were adorned with the "fighting cut," to visit the camp and tell the obstinate ones that long locks were a badge of servitude. The negroes on our plantation, as well as elsewhere, had a strong desire to go to Waterproof to see the soldiers. Every Sunday they were permitted to go there to attend church, the service being conducted by one of their own color. They greatly regretted that the soldiers did not parade on that day, as they missed their opportunities for witnessing military drills. To the negroes from plantations in the hands of disloyal owners, the military posts were a great attraction, and they would suffer all privations rather than return home. Some of them declared they would not go outside the lines under any consideration. We needed more assistance on our plantation, but it was next to impossible to induce negroes to go there after they found shelter at the military posts. Dread of danger and fondness for their new life were their reasons for remaining inside the lines. A portion were entirely idle, but there were many who adopted various modes of earning their subsistence. At Natchez, Vicksburg, and other points, dealers in fruit, coffee, lemonade, and similar articles, could be found in abundance. There were dozens of places where washing was taken in, though it was not always well done. Wood-sawing, house-cleaning, or any other kind of work requiring strength, always found some one ready to perform it. Many of those who found employment supported themselves, while those who could not or would not find it, lived at the expense of Government. The latter class was greatly in the majority. I have elsewhere inserted the instructions which are printed in every "Plantation Record," for the guidance of overseers in the olden time. "Never trust a negro," is the maxim given by the writer of those instructions. I was frequently cautioned not to believe any statements made by negroes. They were charged with being habitual liars, and entitled to no credence whatever. Mrs. B. constantly assured me the negroes were great liars, and I must not believe them. This assurance would be generally given when I cited them in support of any thing she did not desire to approve. _Per contrâ_, she had no hesitation in referring to the negroes to support any of her statements which their testimony would strengthen. This was not altogether feminine weakness, as I knew several instances in which white persons of the sterner sex made reference to the testimony of slaves. The majority of Southern men refuse to believe them on all occasions; but there are many who refer to them if their statements are advantageous, yet declare them utterly unworthy of credence when the case is reversed. I have met many negroes who could tell falsehoods much easier than they could tell the truth. I have met others who saw no material difference between truth and its opposite; and I have met many whose statements could be fully relied upon. During his whole life, from the very nature of the circumstances which, surround him, the slave is trained in deception. If he did not learn to lie it would be exceedingly strange. It is my belief that the negroes are as truthful as could be expected from their education. White persons, under similar experience and training, would not be good examples for the young to imitate. The negroes tell many lies, but all negroes are not liars. Many white persons tell the truth, but I have met, in the course of my life, several men, of the Caucasian race, who never told the truth unless by accident. I found in the plantation negroes a proneness to exaggeration, in cases where their fears or desires were concerned. One day, a negro from the back country came riding rapidly to our plantation, declaring that the woods, a mile distant, were "full of Rebels," and asking where the Yankee soldiers were. I questioned him for some time. When his fears were quieted, I ascertained that he had seen three mounted men, an hour before, but did not know what they were, or whether armed or not. When I took the plantations, Mrs. B. told me there were twenty bales of cotton already picked; the negroes had told her so. When I surveyed the place on the first day of my occupation, the negroes called my attention to the picked cotton, of which they thought there were twenty or twenty-five bales. With my little experience in cotton, I felt certain there would be not more than seven bales of that lot. When it was passed through the gin and pressed, there were but five bales. We wished to plant about fifty acres of corn on the larger plantation. There was a triangular patch in one corner that we estimated to contain thirty acres. The foreman of the plow-gang, who had lived twenty years on the place, thought there were about sixty acres. He was surprised when we found, by actual measurement, that the patch contained twenty-eight acres. Another spot, which he thought contained twenty acres, measured less than ten. Doubtless the man's judgment had been rarely called for, and its exercise, to any extent, was decidedly a new sensation. Any thing to which the negroes were unaccustomed became the subject of amusing calculations. The "hog-minder" could estimate with considerable accuracy the weight of a hog, either live or dressed. When I asked him how much he supposed his own weight to be, he was entirely lost. On my demanding an answer, he thought it might be three hundred pounds. A hundred and sixty would not have been far from the real figure. Incorrect judgment is just as prevalent among ignorant whites as among negroes, though with the latter there is generally a tendency to overestimate. Where negroes make wrong estimates, in three cases out of four they will be found excessive. With whites the variation will be diminutive as often as excessive. In judging of numbers of men, a column of troops, for example, both races are liable to exaggerate, the negro generally going beyond the pale-face. Fifty mounted men may ride past a plantation. The white inhabitants will tell you a hundred soldiers have gone by, while the negroes will think there were two or three hundred. I was often surprised at the ability of the negroes to tell the names of the steamboats plying on the river. None of the negroes could read, but many of them would designate the different boats with great accuracy. They recognized the steamers as they would recognize the various trees of the forest. When a new boat made its appearance they inquired its name, and forgot it very rarely. On one occasion a steamer came in sight, on her way up the river. Before she was near enough for me to make out the name on her side, one of the negroes declared it was the _Laurel Hill_. His statement proved correct. It was worthy of note that the boat had not passed that point for nearly a year previous to that day. CHAPTER XLII. THE END OF THE EXPERIMENT. The Nature of our "Protection."--Trade Following the Flag.--A Fortunate Journey.--Our Last Visit.--Inhumanity of the Guerrillas.--Driving Negroes into Captivity.--Killing an Overseer.--Our Final Departure.--Plantations Elsewhere. We did not look upon the post at Waterproof as a sure protection. There was no cavalry to make the promised patrol between Waterproof and the post next below it, or to hunt down any guerrillas that might come near. A few of the soldiers were mounted on mules and horses taken from the vicinity, but they were not effective for rapid movements. It was understood, and semi-officially announced, that the post was established for the protection of Government plantations. The commandant assured me he had no orders to that effect. He was placed there to defend the post, and nothing else. We were welcome to any protection his presence afforded, but he could not go outside the limits of the town to make any effort in our behalf. There was a store at Waterproof which was doing a business of two thousand dollars daily. Every day the wives, brothers, or sisters of men known to belong to the marauding bands in the vicinity, would come to the town and make any purchases they pleased, frequently paying for them in money which the guerrillas had stolen. A gentleman, who was an intimate friend of General Thomas, was one of the proprietors of this store, and a son of that officer was currently reported to hold an interest in it. After a time the ownership was transferred to a single cotton speculator, but the trading went on without hinderance. This speculator told me the guerrilla leader had sent him a verbal promise that the post should not be disturbed or menaced so long as the store remained there. Similar scenes were enacted at nearly all the posts established for the "protection" of leased plantations. Trading stores were in full operation, and the amount of goods that reached the Rebels and their friends was enormous. I have little doubt that this course served to prolong the resistance to our arms along the Mississippi River. If we had stopped all commercial intercourse with the inhabitants, we should have removed the inducement for Rebel troops to remain in our vicinity. As matters were managed, they kept close to our lines at all the military posts between Cairo and Baton Rouge, sometimes remaining respectfully quiet, and at others making occasional raids within a thousand yards of our pickets. The absence of cavalry, and there being no prospect that any would arrive, led us to believe that we could not long remain unmolested. We were "in for it," however, and continued to plow and plant, trusting to good fortune in getting safely through. Our misfortune came at last, and brought our free-labor enterprise to an untimely end. As I stated in the previous chapter, Colburn and myself made daily visits to the plantation, remaining there for dinner, and returning to Waterproof in the afternoon. On Monday, May 2d, we made our usual visit, and returned to the post. A steamer touched there, on its way to Natchez, just after our return, and we accepted the invitation of her captain to go to that place. Our journey to Natchez was purely from impulse, and without any real or ostensible business to call us away. It proved, personally, a very fortunate journey. On Tuesday evening, a neighbor of ours reached Natchez, bringing news that the guerrillas had visited our plantation on that day. I hastened to Waterproof by the first boat, and found our worst fears were realized. Thirty guerrillas had surrounded our house at the hour we were ordinarily at dinner. They called our names, and commanded us to come out and be shot. The house was empty, and as there was no compliance with the request, a half-dozen of the party, pistols in hand, searched the building, swearing they would kill us on the spot. Had we been there, I have no doubt the threat would have been carried out. Failing to find us, they turned their attention to other matters. They caught our overseer as he was attempting to escape toward Waterproof. He was tied upon his horse, and guarded until the party was ready to move. The teams were plowing in the field at the time the robbers made their appearance. Some of the negroes unloosed the mules from the plows, mounted them, and fled to Waterproof. Others, who were slow in their movements, were captured with the animals. Such of the negroes as were not captured at once, fled to the woods or concealed themselves about the buildings. Many of the negroes on the plantation were personally known to some of the guerrillas. In most cases these negroes were not disturbed. Others were gathered in front of the house, where they were drawn up in line and securely tied. Some of them were compelled to mount the captured mules and ride between their captors. Several children were thrown upon the mules, or taken by the guerrillas on their own horses, where they were firmly held. No attention was paid to the cries of the children or the pleadings of their mothers. Some of the latter followed their children, as the guerrillas had, doubtless, expected. In others, the maternal instinct was less than the dread of captivity. Among those taken was an infant, little more than eight months old. Delaying but a few moments, the captors and the captives moved away. Nineteen of our negroes were carried off, of whom ten were children under eleven years of age. Of the nineteen, five managed to make their escape within a few miles, and returned home during the night. One woman, sixty-five years old, who had not for a long time been able to do any work, was among those driven off. She fell exhausted before walking three miles, and was beaten by the guerrillas until she lay senseless by the roadside. It was not for several hours that she recovered sufficiently to return to the plantation and tell the story of barbarity. From a plantation adjoining ours, thirty negroes were carried away at the same time. Of these, a half-dozen escaped and returned. The balance, joined to the party from our own plantation, formed a mournful procession. I heard of them at many points, from residents of the vicinity. These persons would not admit that the guerrillas were treating the negroes cruelly. Those who escaped had a frightful story to tell. They had been beaten most barbarously with whips, sticks, and frequently with the butts of pistols; two or three were left senseless by the roadside, and one old man had been shot, because he was too much exhausted to go further. I learned, a few days later, that the captured negroes were taken to Winnsboro; a small town in the interior, and there sold to a party of Texas traders. From our plantation the guerrillas stole twenty-four mules at the time of their visit, and an equal number from our neighbors. These were sold to the same party of traders that purchased the negroes, and there was evidently as little compunction at speculating in the one "property" as in the other. Our overseer, Mr. Owen, had been bound upon his horse and taken away. This I learned from the negroes remaining on the plantation. I made diligent inquiries of parties who arrived from the direction taken by the guerrillas, to ascertain, if possible, where he had been carried. One person assured me, positively, that he saw Mr. Owen, a prisoner, twenty miles away. Mrs. Owen and five children were living at Waterproof, and, of course, were much alarmed on hearing of his capture. It was on Thursday, two days after the raid, that I visited the plantation. Our lower plantation had not been disturbed, but many of the negroes were gone, and all work was suspended. It was of no use to attempt to prosecute the planting enterprise, and we immediately prepared to abandon the locality. The remaining negroes were set at work to shell the corn already gathered. As fast as shelled, it was taken to Waterproof for shipment to market. The plows were left rusting in the furrows, where they were standing at the moment the guerrillas appeared. The heaps of cotton-seed and the implements used by the planting-gang remained in _statu quo_. The cotton we planted was growing finely. To leave four hundred acres thus growing, and giving promise of a fine harvest, was to throw away much labor, but there was no alternative. On Saturday, four days after the raid, the corporal of a scouting party came to our plantation and said the body of a white man had been found in the woods a short distance away. I rode with him to the spot he designated. The mystery concerning the fate of our overseer was cleared up. The man was murdered within a thousand yards of the house. From the main road leading past our plantation, a path diverged into the forest. This path was taken by some of the guerrillas in their retreat. Following it two hundred yards, and then turning a short distance to the left, I found a small cypress-tree, not more than thirty feet high. One limb of this tree drooped as it left the trunk, and then turned upward. The lowest part of the bend of this limb was not much higher than a tall man's head. It was just such a tree, and just such a limb, as a party bent on murder would select for hanging their victim. I thought, and still think, that the guerrillas turned aside with the design of using the rope as the instrument of death. Under this tree lay the remains of our overseer. The body was fast decomposing. A flock of buzzards was gathered around, and was driven away with difficulty. They had already begun their work, so that recognition under different circumstances would not have been easy. The skull was detached from the body, and lay with the face uppermost. A portion of the scalp adhered to it, on which a gray lock was visible. A bit of gray beard was clinging to the chin. In the centre of the forehead there was a perforation, evidently made by a pistol-bullet. Death must have been instantaneous, the pistol doing the work which the murderers doubtless intended to accomplish by other means. The body had been stripped of all clothing, save a single under-garment. Within a dozen yards lay a pair of old shoes, and close by their side a tattered and misshapen hat. The shoes and hat were not those which our overseer had worn, but were evidently discarded by the guerrillas when they appropriated the apparel of their victim. I caused a grave to be dug, and the remains placed in a rude coffin and buried. If a head-stone had been obtainable, I would have given the locality a permanent designation. The particulars of the murder we were never able to ascertain. Three days later we abandoned the plantation. We paid the negroes for the work they had done, and discharged them from further service. Those that lived on the plantation previous to our going there, generally remained, as the guerrillas had assured them they would be unmolested if they cultivated no cotton. A few of them went to Natchez, to live near their "missus." Those whom we had hired from other localities scattered in various directions. Some went to the Contraband Home at Davis's Bend, others to the negro quarters at Natchez, others to plantations near Vidalia, and a few returned to their former homes. Our "family" of a hundred and sixty persons was thus broken up. We removed the widow and children of our overseer to Natchez, and purchased for them the stock and goodwill of a boarding-house keeper. We sent a note to the leader of the guerrilla band that manifested such a desire to "go through" us, and informed him that we could be found in St. Louis or New York. Before the end of May we passed Vicksburg on our Journey Due North. Most of the plantations in the vicinity of Natchez, Vicksburg, and Milliken's Bend were given up. Probably a dozen lessees were killed, and the same number carried to Texas. Near Vicksburg, the chivalric guerrillas captured two lessees, and tortured them most barbarously before putting them to death. They cut off the ears of one man, and broke his nose by a blow from a club. Thus mutilated, he was compelled to walk three or four miles. When he fell, fainting from loss of blood, he was tied to a tree, and the privilege of shooting him was sold at auction. They required his companion to witness these brutalities. Whenever he turned away his eyes, his captors pressed the point of a saber into his cheek. Finally, they compelled him to take a spade and dig his own grave. When it was finished, they stripped him of his clothing, and shot him as he stood by the brink of the newly-opened trench. Blanchard and Robinson, two lessees near Natchez, both of them residents of Boston, were murdered with nearly the same fiendishness as exhibited in the preceding case. Their fate was for some time unknown. It was at length ascertained from a negro who was captured at the same time, but managed to escape. That "slavery makes barbarians" would seem to be well established by the conduct of these residents of Louisiana. In the vicinity of Baton Rouge and New Orleans there were but few guerrillas, and the plantations generally escaped undisturbed. In all localities the "army-worm" made its appearance in July and August, and swept away almost the entire crop. Many plantations that were expected to yield a thousand bales did not yield a hundred, and some of them made less than ten. The appearance of this destructive worm was very sudden. On some plantations, where the cotton was growing finely and without a trace of blight, the fields, three days later, appeared as if swept by fire. There was consequently but little cotton made during the season. The possibility of producing the great staples of the South by free labor was fully established. Beyond this there was little accomplished. My four months of cotton-planting was an experience I shall never regret, though I have no desire to renew it under similar circumstances. Agriculture is generally considered a peaceful pursuit. To the best of my recollection I found it quite the reverse. For the benefit of those who desire to know the process of cotton culture, from the planting season to the picking season, I give the following extract from an article written by Colonel T. B. Thorpe, of Louisiana, several years ago. After describing the process of preparing the ground and planting the seed, Colonel Thorpe says:-- If the weather be favorable, the young plant is discovered making its way through in six or ten days, and "the scraping" of the crop, as it is termed, now begins. A light plow is again called into requisition, which is run along the drill, throwing the _earth away from the plant;_ then come the laborers with their hoes, who dexterously cut away the superabundant shoots and the intruding weeds, and leave a single cotton-plant in little hills, generally two feet apart. Of all the labors of the field, the dexterity displayed by the negroes in "scraping cotton" is most calculated to call forth the admiration of the novice spectator. The hoe is a rude instrument, however well made and handled; the young cotton-plant is as delicate as vegetation can be, and springs up in lines of solid masses, composed of hundreds of plants. The field-hand, however, will single one delicate shoot from the surrounding multitude, and with his rude hoe he will trim away the remainder with all the boldness of touch of a master, leaving the incipient stalk unharmed and alone in its glory; and at nightfall you can look along the extending rows, and find the plants correct in line, and of the required distance of separation from each other. The planter, who can look over his field in early spring, and find his cotton "cleanly scraped" and his "stand" good, is fortunate; still, the vicissitudes attending the cultivation of the crop have only commenced. Many rows, from the operations of the "cut-worm," and from multitudinous causes unknown, have to be replanted, and an unusually late frost may destroy all his labors, and compel him to commence again. But, if no untoward accident occurs, in two weeks after the "scraping," another hoeing takes place, at which time the plow throws the furrow _on to the roots_ of the now strengthening plant, and the increasing heat of the sun also justifying the sinking of the roots deeper in the earth. The pleasant month of May is now drawing to a close, and vegetation of all kinds is struggling for precedence in the fields. Grasses and weeds of every variety, with vines and wild flowers, luxuriate in the newly-turned sod, and seem to be determined to choke out of existence the useful and still delicately-grown cotton. It is a season of unusual industry on the cotton plantations, and woe to the planter who is outstripped in his labors, and finds himself "overtaken by the grass." The plow tears up the surplus vegetation, and the hoe tops it off in its luxuriance. The race is a hard one, but industry conquers; and when the third working-over of the crop takes place, the cotton-plant, so much cherished and favored, begins to overtop its rivals in the fields--begins to cast _a chilling shade of superiority_ over its now intimidated groundlings, and commences to reign supreme. Through the month of July, the crop is wrought over for the last time; the plant, heretofore of slow growth, now makes rapid advances toward perfection. The plow and hoe are still in requisition. The "water furrows" between the cotton-rows are deepened, leaving the cotton growing as it were upon à slight ridge; this accomplished, the crop is prepared for the "rainy season," should it ensue, and so far advanced that it is, under any circumstances, beyond the control of art. Nature must now have its sway. The "cotton bloom," under the matured sun of July, begins to make its appearance. The announcement of the "first blossom" of the neighborhood is a matter of general interest; it is the unfailing sign of the approach of the busy season of fall; it is the evidence that soon the labor of man will, under a kind Providence, receive its reward. It should perhaps here be remarked, that the color of cotton in its perfection is precisely that of the blossom--a beautiful light, but warm cream-color. In buying cotton cloth, the "bleached" and "unbleached" are perceptibly different qualities to the most casual observer; but the dark hues and harsh look of the "unbleached domestic" comes from the handling of the artisan and the soot of machinery. If cotton, pure as it looks in the field, could be wrought into fabrics, they would have a brilliancy and beauty never yet accorded to any other material in its natural or artificial state. There cannot be a doubt but that, in the robes of the ancient royal Mexicans and Peruvians, this brilliant and natural gloss of cotton was preserved, and hence the surpassing value it possessed in the eyes of cavaliers accustomed to the fabrics of the splendid court of Ferdinand and Isabella. The cotton-blossom is exceedingly delicate in its organization. It is, if in perfection, as we have stated, of a beautiful cream-color. It unfolds in the night, remains in its glory through the morn--at meridian it has begun to decay. The day following its birth it has changed to a deep red, and ere the sun goes down, its petals have fallen to the earth, leaving inclosed in the capacious calyx a scarcely perceptible germ. This germ, in its incipient and early stages, is called "a form;" in its more perfected state, "a boll." The cotton-plant, like the orange, has often on one stalk every possible growth; and often, on the same limb, may sometimes be seen the first-opened blossom, and the bolls, from their first development as "forms," through every size, until they have burst open and scattered their rich contents to the ripening winds. The appearance of a well-cultivated cotton-field, if it has escaped the ravages of insects and the destruction of the elements, is of singular beauty. Although it may be a mile in extent, still it is as carefully wrought as is the mold of the limited garden of the coldest climate. The cotton-leaf is of a delicate green, large and luxuriant; the stalk indicates rapid growth, yet it has a healthy and firm look. Viewed from a distance, the perfecting plant has a warm and glowing expression. The size of the cotton-plant depends upon the accident of climate and soil. The cotton of Tennessee bears very little resemblance to the luxuriant growth of Alabama and Georgia; but even in those favored States the cotton-plant is not everywhere the same, for in the rich bottom-lands it grows to a commanding size, while in the more barren regions it is an humble shrub. In the rich alluvium of the Mississippi the cotton will tower beyond the reach of the tallest "picker," and a single plant will contain hundreds of perfect "bolls;" in the neighboring "piney-woods" it lifts its humble head scarcely above the knee, and is proportionably meager in its produce of fruit. The growing cotton is particularly liable to accidents, and suffers immensely in "wet seasons" from the "rust" and "rot." The first named affects the leaves, giving them a brown and deadened tinge, and frequently causes them to crumble away. The "rot" attacks the "boll." It commences by a black spot on the rind, which, increasing, seems to produce fermentation and decay. Worms find their way to the roots; the caterpillar eats into the "boll" and destroys the staple. It would be almost impossible to enumerate all the evils the cotton-plant is heir to, all of which, however, sink into nothingness compared with the scourge of the "army-worm." The moth that indicates the advent of the army-worm has a Quaker-like simplicity in its light, chocolate-colored body and wings, and, from its harmless appearance, would never be taken for the destroyer of vast fields of luxuriant and useful vegetation. The little, and, at first, scarcely to be perceived caterpillars that follow the appearance of these moths, can absolutely be seen to grow and swell beneath your eyes as they crawl from leaf to leaf. Day by day you can see the vegetation of vast fields becoming thinner and thinner, while the worm, constantly increasing in size, assumes at last an unctuous appearance most disgusting to behold. Arrived at maturity, a few hours only are necessary for these modern locusts to eat up all living vegetation that comes in their way. Leaving the localities of their birth, they will move from place to place, spreading a desolation as consuming as fire in their path. All efforts to arrest their progress or annihilate them prove unavailing. They seem to spring out of the ground, and fall from the clouds; and the more they are tormented and destroyed, the more perceptible, seemingly, is their power. We once witnessed the invasion of the army-worm, as it attempted to pass from a desolated cotton-field to one untouched. Between these fields was a wide ditch, which had been deepened, to prove a barrier to the onward march of the worm. Down the perpendicular sides of the trench the caterpillars rolled in untold millions, until its bottom, for nearly a mile in extent, was a foot or two deep in a living mass of animal life. To an immense piece of unhewn timber was attached a yoke of oxen, and, as this heavy log was drawn through the ditch, it seemed absolutely to float on a crushed mass of vegetable corruption. The following day, under the heat of a tropical sun, the stench arising from this decaying mass was perceptible the country round, giving a strange and incomprehensible notion of the power and abundance of this destroyer of the cotton crop. The change that has been effected by the result of the Rebellion, will not be confined to the social system alone. With the end of slavery there will be a destruction of many former applications of labor. Innovations have already been made, and their number will increase under the management of enterprising men. In Louisiana several planters were using a "drill" for depositing the cotton-seed in the ground. The labor of planting is reduced more than one-half, and that of "scraping" is much diminished. The saving of seed is very great--the drill using about a tenth of the amount required under the old system. One man is endeavoring to construct a machine that will pick cotton from the stalks, and is confident he will succeed. Should he do so, his patent will be of the greatest value. Owners of plantations have recently offered a present of ten thousand dollars to the first patentee of a successful machine of this character. CHAPTER XLIII. THE MISSISSIPPI AND ITS PECULIARITIES. Length of the Great River, and the Area it Drains.--How Itasca Lake obtained its Name.--The Bends of the Mississippi.--Curious Effect upon Titles to Real Estate.--A Story of Napoleon.--A Steamboat Thirty-five Years under Water.--The Current and its Variations.--Navigating Cotton and Corn Fields.--Reminiscences of the Islands. As railways are to the East, so are the rivers to the West. The Mississippi, with its tributaries, drains an immense region, traversed in all directions by steamboats. From the Gulf of Mexico one can travel, by water to the Rocky Mountains, or to the Alleghanies, at pleasure. It is estimated there are twenty thousand miles of navigable streams which find an outlet past the city of New Orleans. The Mississippi Valley contains nearly a million and a quarter square miles, and is one of the most fertile regions on the globe. To a person born and reared in the East, the Mississippi presents many striking features. Above its junction with the Missouri, its water is clear and its banks are broken and picturesque. After it joins the Missouri the scene changes. The latter stream is of a chocolate hue, and its current is very rapid. All its characteristics are imparted to the combined stream. The Mississippi becomes a rapid, tortuous, seething torrent. It loses its blue, transparent water, and takes the complexion of the Missouri. Thus "it goes unvexed to the sea." There is a story concerning the origin of the name given to the source of the Mississippi, which I do not remember to have seen in print. A certain lake, which had long been considered the head of the Great River, was ascertained by an exploring party to have no claim to that honor. A new and smaller lake was discovered, in which the Mississippi took its rise. The explorers wished to give it an appropriate name. An old _voyageur_ suggested that they make a name, by coining a word. "Will some of you learned ones tell me," said he, "what is the Latin word for _true_?" "_Veritas_," was the response. "Well, now, what is the Latin for _head_" "_Caput_, of course." "Now," suggested the _voyageur_, "write the two words together, by syllables." A strip of birch bark was the tablet on which "_ver-i-tas-ca-put_" was traced. "Read it out," was his next request. The five syllables were read. "Now, drop the first and last syllables, and you have a name for this lake." In the Indian vernacular, "Mississippi" is said to signify "Great Water." "Missouri," according to some authorities, is the Indian for "Mud River," a most felicitous appellation. It should properly belong to the entire river from St. Louis to the Gulf, as that stream carries down many thousand tons of mud every year. During the many centuries that the Mississippi has been sweeping on its course, it has formed that long point of land known as the Delta, and shallowed the water in the Gulf of Mexico for more than two hundred miles. Flowing from north to south, the river passes through all the varieties of climate. The furs from the Rocky Mountains and the cereals of Wisconsin and Minnesota are carried on its bosom to the great city which stands in the midst of orange groves and inhales the fragrance of the magnolia. From January to June the floods of its tributaries follow in regular succession, as the opening spring loosens the snows that line their banks. The events of the war have made the Mississippi historic, and familiarized the public with some of its peculiarities. Its tortuosity is well known. The great bend opposite Vicksburg will be long remembered by thousands who have never seen it. This bend is eclipsed by many others. At "Terrapin Neck" the river flows twenty-one miles, and gains only three hundred yards. At "Raccourci Bend" was a peninsula twenty-eight miles around and only half a mile across. Several years ago a "cut-off" was made across this peninsula, for the purpose of shortening the course of the river. A small ditch was cut, and opened when the flood was highest. An old steamboat-man once told me that he passed the upper end of this ditch just as the water was let in. Four hours later, as he passed the lower end, an immense torrent was rushing through the channel, and the tall trees were falling like stalks of grain before a sickle. Within a week the new channel became the regular route for steamboats. Similar "cut-offs" have been made at various points along the river, some of them by artificial aid, and others entirely by the action of the water. The channel of the Mississippi is the dividing line of the States between which it flows, and the action of the river often changes the location of real estate. There is sometimes a material difference in the laws of States that lie opposite each other. The transfer of property on account of a change in the channel occasionally makes serious work with titles. I once heard of a case where the heirs to an estate lost their title, in consequence of the property being transferred from Mississippi to Louisiana, by reason of the course of the river being changed. In the former State they were heirs beyond dispute. In the latter their claim vanished into thin air. Once, while passing up the Mississippi, above Cairo, a fellow-passenger called my attention to a fine plantation, situated on a peninsula in Missouri. The river, in its last flood, had broken across the neck of the peninsula. It was certain the next freshet would establish the channel in that locality, thus throwing the plantation into Illinois. Unless the negroes should be removed before this event they would become free. "You see, sir," said my informant, "that this great river is an Abolitionist." The alluvial soil through which the Mississippi runs easily yields to the action of the fierce current. The land worn away at one point is often deposited, in the form of a bar or tongue of land, in the concave of the next bend. The area thus added becomes the property of whoever owns the river front. Many a man has seen his plantation steadily falling into the Mississippi, year by year, while a plantation, a dozen miles below, would annually find its area increased. Real estate on the banks of the Mississippi, unless upon the bluffs, has no absolute certainty of permanence. In several places, the river now flows where there were fine plantations ten or twenty years ago. Some of the towns along the Lower Mississippi are now, or soon will be, towns no more. At Waterproof, Louisiana, nearly the entire town-site, as originally laid out, has been washed away. In the four months I was in its vicinity, more than forty feet of its front disappeared. Eighteen hundred and seventy will probably find Waterproof at the bottom of the Mississippi. Napoleon, Arkansas, is following in the wake of Waterproof. If the distance between them were not so great, their sands might mingle. In view of the character Napoleon has long enjoyed, the friends of morality will hardly regret its loss. The steamboat captains have a story that a quiet clergyman from New England landed at Napoleon, one morning, and made his way to the hotel. He found the proprietor superintending the efforts of a negro, who was sweeping the bar-room floor. Noticing several objects of a spherical form among the _débris_ of the bar-room, the stranger asked their character. "Them round things? them's _eyes_. The boys amused themselves a little last night. Reckon there's 'bout a pint-cup full of eyes this mornin'. Sometimes we gets a quart or so, when business is good." Curious people were those natives of Arkansas, ten or twenty years ago. Schools were rare, and children grew up with little or no education. If there was a "barbarous civilization" anywhere in the United States, it was in Arkansas. In 1860, a man was hung at Napoleon for reading _The Tribune_. It is an open question whether the character of the paper or the man's ability to read was the reason for inflicting the death penalty. The current of the Mississippi causes islands to be destroyed in some localities and formed in others. A large object settling at the bottom of the stream creates an eddy, in which the floating sand is deposited. Under favorable circumstances an island will form in such an eddy, sometimes of considerable extent. About the year 1820, a steamboat, laden with lead, was sunk in mid-channel several miles below St. Louis. An island formed over this steamer, and a growth of cotton-wood trees soon covered it. These trees grew to a goodly size, and were cut for fuel. The island was cleared, and for several successive years produced fine crops of corn. About 1855, there was a change in the channel of the river, and the island disappeared. After much search the location of the sunken steamer was ascertained. By means of a diving-bell, its cargo of lead, which had been lying thirty-five years under earth and under water, was brought to light. The entire cargo was raised, together with a portion of the engines. The lead was uninjured, but the engines were utterly worthless after their long burial. The numerous bends of the Mississippi are of service in rendering the river navigable. If the channel were a straight line from Cairo to New Orleans, the current would be so strong that no boat could stem it. In several instances, where "cut-offs" have been made, the current at their outlets is so greatly increased that the opposite banks are washed away. New bends are thus formed that may, in time, be as large as those overcome. Distances have been shortened by "cut-offs," but the Mississippi displays a decided unwillingness to have its length curtailed. From St. Louis to the Red River the current of the Mississippi is about three miles an hour. It does not flow in a steady, unbroken volume. The surface is constantly ruffled by eddies and little whirlpools, caused by the inequalities of the bottom of the river, and the reflection of the current from the opposite banks. As one gazes upon the stream, it half appears as if heated by concealed fires, and ready to break into violent ebullition. The less the depth, the greater the disturbance of the current. So general is this rule, that the pilots judge of the amount of water by the appearance of the surface. Exceptions occur where the bottom, below the deep water, is particularly uneven. From its source to the mouth of Red River, the Mississippi is fed by tributaries. Below that point, it throws off several streams that discharge no small portion of its waters into the Gulf of Mexico. These streams, or "bayous," are narrow and tortuous, but generally deep, and navigable for ordinary steamboats. The "Atchafalaya" is the first, and enters the Gulf of Mexico at the bay of the same name. At one time it was feared the Mississippi might leave its present bed, and follow the course of this bayou. Steps were taken to prevent such an occurrence. Bayou Plaquemine, Bayou Sara, Bayou La Fourche, Bayou Goula, and Bayou Teche, are among the streams that drain the great river. These bayous form a wonderful net-work of navigable waters, throughout Western Louisiana. If we have reason to be thankful that "great rivers run near large cities in all parts of the world," the people of Louisiana should be especially grateful for the numerous natural canals in that State. These streams are as frequent and run in nearly as many directions as railways in Massachusetts. During its lowest stages, the Mississippi is often forty feet "within its banks;" in other words, the surface is forty feet below the level of the land which borders the river. It rises with the freshets, and, when "bank full," is level with the surrounding lowland. It does not always stop at this point; sometimes it rises two, four, six, or even ten feet above its banks. The levees, erected at immense cost, are designed to prevent the overflowing of the country on such occasions. When the levees become broken from any cause, immense areas of country are covered with water. Plantations, swamps, forests, all are submerged. During the present year (1865) thousands of square miles have been flooded, hundreds of houses swept away, and large amounts of property destroyed. During the freshet of '63, General Grant opened the levee at Providence, Louisiana, in the hope of reaching Bayou Mason, and thence taking his boats to Red River. After the levee was cut an immense volume of water rushed through the break. Anywhere else it would have been a goodly-sized river, but it was of little moment by the side of the Mississippi. A steamboat was sent to explore the flooded region. I saw its captain soon after his return. "I took my boat through the cut," said he, "without any trouble. We drew nearly three feet, but there was plenty of water. We ran two miles over a cotton-field, and could see the stalks as our wheels tore them up. Then I struck the plank road, and found a good stage of water for four miles, which took me to the bayou. I followed this several miles, until I was stopped by fallen trees, when I turned about and came back. Coming back, I tried a cornfield, but found it wasn't as good to steam in as the cotton-field." A farmer in the Eastern or Middle States would, doubtless, be much astonished at seeing a steamboat paddling at will in his fields and along his roads. A similar occurrence in Louisiana does not astonish the natives. Steamers have repeatedly passed over regions where corn or cotton had been growing six months before. At St. Louis, in 1844, small boats found no difficulty in running from East St. Louis to Caseyville, nine miles distant. In making these excursions they passed over many excellent farms, and stopped at houses whose owners had been driven to the upper rooms by the water. Above Cairo, the islands in the Mississippi are designated by names generally received from the early settlers. From Cairo to New Orleans the islands are numbered, the one nearest the former point being "One," and that nearest New Orleans "One Hundred and Thirty-one." Island Number Ten is historic, being the first and the last island in the great river that the Rebels attempted to fortify. Island Number Twenty-eight was the scene of several attacks by guerrillas upon unarmed transports. Other islands have an equally dishonorable reputation. Fifty years ago several islands were noted as the resorts of robbers, who conducted an extensive and systematic business. Island Number Sixty-five (if I remember correctly) was the rendezvous of the notorious John A. Murrell and his gang of desperadoes. CHAPTER XLIV. STEAMBOATING ON THE MISSISSIPPI IN PEACE AND WAR. Attempts to Obstruct the Great River.--Chains, Booms, and Batteries.--A Novelty in Piloting.--Travel in the Days Before the Rebellion.--Trials of Speed.--The Great Race.--Travel During the War.--Running a Rebel Battery on the Lower Mississippi.--Incidents of the Occasion.--Comments on the Situation. No engineer has been able to dam the Mississippi, except by the easy process which John Phenix adopted on the Yuma River. General Pillow stretched a chain from Columbus, Kentucky, to the opposite shore, in order to prevent the passage of our gun-boats. The chain broke soon after being placed in position. Near Forts Jackson and Philip, below New Orleans, the Rebels constructed a boom to oppose the progress of Farragut's fleet. A large number of heavy anchors, with the strongest cables, were fixed in the river. For a time the boom answered the desired purpose. But the river rose, drift-wood accumulated, and the boom at length went the way of all things Confederate. Farragut passed the forts, and appeared before New Orleans; "Picayune Butler came to town," and the great city of the South fell into the hands of the all-conquering Yankees. Before steam power was applied to the propulsion of boats, the ascent of the Mississippi was very difficult. From New Orleans to St. Louis, a boat consumed from two to four months' time. Sails, oars, poles, and ropes attached to trees, were the various means of stemming the powerful current. Long after steamboats were introduced, many flat-boats, loaded with products of the Northern States, floated down the river to a market. At New Orleans, boats and cargoes were sold, and the boatmen made their way home on foot. Until twenty years ago, the boatmen of the Mississippi were almost a distinct race. At present they are nearly extinct. In the navigation of the Mississippi and its tributaries, the pilot is the man of greatest importance. He is supposed to be thoroughly familiar with the channel of the river in all its windings, and to know the exact location of every snag or other obstruction. He can generally judge of the depth of water by the appearance of the surface, and he is acquainted with every headland, forest, house, or tree-top, that marks the horizon and tells him how to keep his course at night. Professional skill is only acquired by a long and careful training. Shortly after the occupation of Little Rock by General Steele, a dozen soldiers passed the lines, without authority, and captured a steamboat eighteen miles below the city. Steam was raised, when the men discovered they had no pilot. One of their number hit upon a plan as novel as it was successful. The Arkansas was very low, having only three feet of water in the channel. Twenty-five able-bodied negroes were taken from a neighboring plantation, stretched in a line across the river, and ordered to wade against the current. By keeping their steamer, which drew only twenty inches, directly behind the negro who sank the deepest, the soldiers took their prize to Little Rock without difficulty. For ten years previous to the outbreak of the Rebellion, steamboating on the Mississippi was in the height of its glory. Where expense of construction and management were of secondary consideration, the steamboats on the great river could offer challenge to the world. It was the boast of their officers that the tables of the great passenger-boats were better supplied than those of the best hotels in the South. On many steamers, claret, at dinner, was free to all. Fruit and ices were distributed in the evening, as well as choice cups of coffee and tea. On one line of boats, the cold meats on the supper-table were from carefully selected pieces, cooked and cooled expressly for the cenatory meal. Bands of music enlivened the hours of day, and afforded opportunity for dancing in the evening. Spacious cabins, unbroken by machinery; guards of great width, where cigars and small-talk were enjoyed; well-furnished and well-lighted state-rooms, and tables loaded with all luxuries of the place and season, rendered these steamers attractive to the traveler. Passengers were social, and partook of the gayety around them. Men talked, drank, smoked, and sometimes gambled, according to their desires. The ladies practiced no frigid reserve toward each other, but established cordial relations in the first few hours of each journey. Among the many fine and fast steamers on the Western waters, there was necessarily much competition in speed. Every new boat of the first class was obliged to give an example of her abilities soon after her appearance. Every owner of a steamboat contends that _his_ boat is the best afloat. I have rarely been on board a Mississippi steamer of any pretensions whose captain has not assured me, "She is the fastest thing afloat, sir. Nothing can pass her. We have beaten the--, and the--, and the--, in a fair race, sir." To a stranger, seeking correct information, the multiplicity of these statements is perplexing. In 1853 there was a race from New Orleans to Louisville, between the steamers _Eclipse_ and _A.L. Shotwell_, on which seventy thousand dollars were staked by the owners of the boats. An equal amount was invested in "private bets" among outside parties. The two boats were literally "stripped for the race." They were loaded to the depth that would give them the greatest speed, and their arrangements for taking fuel were as complete as possible. Barges were filled with wood at stated points along the river, and dropped out to midstream as the steamers approached. They were taken alongside, and their loads of wood transferred without any stoppage of the engines of the boats. At the end of the first twenty-four hours the _Eclipse_ and _Shotwell_ were side by side, three hundred and sixty miles from New Orleans. The race was understood to be won by the _Eclipse_, but was so close that the stakes were never paid. In the palmy days of steamboating, the charges for way-travel were varied according to the locality. Below Memphis it was the rule to take no single fare less than five dollars, even if the passenger were going but a half-dozen miles. Along Red River the steamboat clerks graduated the fare according to the parish where the passenger came on board. The more fertile and wealthy the region, the higher was the price of passage. Travelers from the cotton country paid more than those from the tobacco country. Those from the sugar country paid more than any other class. With few exceptions, there was no "ticket" system. Passengers paid their fare at any hour of their journey that best suited them. Every man was considered honest until he gave proof to the contrary. There was an occasional Jeremy Diddler, but his operations were very limited. When the Rebellion began, the old customs on the Mississippi were swept away. The most rigid "pay-on-entering" system was adopted, and the man who could evade it must be very shrewd. The wealth along the Great River melted into thin air. The _bonhommie_ of travel disappeared, and was succeeded by the most thorough selfishness in collective and individual bodies. Scrambles for the first choice of state-rooms, the first seat at table, and the first drink at the bar, became a part of the new _régime_. The ladies were little regarded in the hurly-burly of steamboat life. Men would take possession of ladies' chairs at table, and pay no heed to remonstrances. I have seen an officer in blue uniform place his muddy boots on the center-table in a cabin full of ladies, and proceed to light a cigar. The captain of the boat suggested that the officer's conduct was in violation of the rules of propriety, and received the answer: "I have fought to help open the Mississippi, and, by ----, I am going to enjoy it." The careless display of the butt of a revolver, while he gave this answer, left the pleasure-seeker master of the situation. I am sorry to say that occurrences of a similar character were very frequent in the past three years. With the end of the war it is to be hoped that the character of Mississippi travel will be improved. In May, 1861, the Rebels blockaded the Mississippi at Memphis. In the same month the National forces established a blockade at Cairo. In July, '63, the capture of Vicksburg and Port Hudson removed the last Rebel obstruction. The _Imperial_ was the first passenger boat to descend the river, after the reopening of navigation. Up to within a few months of the close of the Rebellion, steamers plying on the river were in constant, danger of destruction by Rebel batteries. The Rebel Secretary of War ordered these batteries placed along the Mississippi, in the hope of stopping all travel by that route. His plan was unsuccessful. Equally so was the barbarous practice of burning passenger steamboats while in motion between landing-places. On transports fired upon by guerrillas (or Rebels), about a hundred persons were killed and as many wounded. A due proportion of these were women and children. On steamboats burned by Rebel incendiaries, probably a hundred and fifty lives were lost. This does not include the dead by the terrible disaster to the _Sultana_. It is supposed that this boat was blown up by a Rebel torpedo in her coal. It was my fortune to be a passenger on the steamer _Von Phul_, which left New Orleans for St. Louis on the evening of December 7th, 1863. I had been for some time traveling up and down the Mississippi, and running the gauntlet between Rebel batteries on either shore. There was some risk attending my travels, but up to that time I escaped unharmed. On the afternoon of the 8th, when the boat was about eight miles above Bayou Sara, I experienced a new sensation. Seated at a table in the cabin, and busily engaged in writing, I heard a heavy crash over my head, almost instantly followed by another. My first thought was that the chimneys or some part of the pilot-house had fallen, and I half looked to see the roof of the cabin tumbling in. I saw the passengers running from the cabin, and heard some one shout: "The guerrillas are firing on us." I collected my writing materials and sought my state-room, where I had left Mr. Colburn, my traveling companion, soundly asleep a few minutes before. He was sitting on the edge of his berth, and wondering what all the row was about. The crash that startled me had awakened him. He thought the occurrence was of little moment, and assented to my suggestion, that we were just as safe there as anywhere else on the boat. Gallantry prevented our remaining quiet. There were several ladies on board, and it behooved us to extend them what protection we could. We sought them, and "protected" them to the best of our united ability. Their place of refuge was between the cabin and the wheel-house, opposite the battery's position. A sheet of wet paper would afford as much resistance to a paving-stone as the walls of a steamboat cabin to a six-pound shot. As we stood among the ladies, two shells passed through the side of the cabin, within a few inches of our heads. The shots grew fewer in number, and some of them dropped in the river behind us. Just as we thought all alarm was over, we saw smoke issuing from the cabin gangway. Then, some one shouted, "_The boat is on fire_!" Dropping a lady who evinced a disposition to faint, I entered the cabin. A half-dozen men were there before me, and seeking the locality of the fire. I was first to discover it. A shell, in passing through a state-room, entered a pillow, and scattered the feathers through the cabin. A considerable quantity of these feathers fell upon a hot stove, and the smoke and odor of their burning caused the alarm. The ladies concluded not to faint. Three minutes after the affair was over, they were as calm as ever. The Rebels opened fire when we were abreast of their position, and did not cease until we were out of range. We were fifteen minutes within reach of their guns. [Illustration: RUNNING BATTERIES ON THE VON PHUL.] Our wheels seemed to turn very slowly. No one can express in words the anxiety with which we listened, after each shot, for the puffing of the engines. So long as the machinery was uninjured, there was no danger of our falling into Rebel hands. But with our engines disabled, our chances for capture would be very good. As the last shot fell astern of the boat and sent up a column of spray, we looked about the cabin and saw that no one had been injured. A moment later came the announcement from the pilot-house: "Captain Gorman is killed!" I ascended to the hurricane deck, and thence to the pilot-house. The pilot, with his hat thrown aside and his hair streaming in the wind, stood at his post, carefully guiding the boat on her course. The body of the captain was lying at his feet. Another man lay dying, close by the opening in which the wheel revolved. The floor was covered with blood, splinters, glass, and the fragments of a shattered stove. One side of the little room was broken in, and the other side was perforated where the projectiles made their exit. The first gun from the Rebels threw a shell which entered the side of the pilot-house, and struck the captain, who was sitting just behind the pilot. Death must have been instantaneous. A moment later, a "spherical-case shot" followed the shell. It exploded as it struck the wood-work, and a portion of the contents entered the side of the bar-keeper of the boat. In falling to the floor he fell against the wheel. The pilot, steering the boat with one hand, pulled the dying man from the wheel with the other, and placed him by the side of the dead captain. Though, apparently, the pilot was as cool and undisturbed as ever, his face was whiter than usual. He said the most trying moment of all was soon after the first shots were fired. Wishing to "round the bend" as speedily as possible, he rang the bell as a signal to the engineer to check the speed of one of the wheels. The signal was not obeyed, the engineers having fled to places of safety. He rang the bell once more. He shouted down the speaking-tube, to enforce compliance with his order. There was no answer. The engines were caring for themselves. The boat must be controlled by the rudder alone. With a dead man and a dying man at his feet, with the Rebel shot and shell every moment perforating the boat or falling near it, and with no help from those who should control the machinery, he felt that his position was a painful one. We were out of danger. An hour later we found the gun-boat _Neosho_, at anchor, eight miles further up the stream. Thinking we might again be attacked, the commander of the _Neosho_ offered to convoy us to Red River. We accepted his offer. As soon as the _Neosho_ raised sufficient steam to enable her to move, we proceeded on our course. Order was restored on the _Von Phul_. Most of the passengers gathered in little groups, and talked about the recent occurrence. I returned to my writing, and Colburn gave his attention to a book. With the gun-boat at our side, no one supposed there was danger of another attack. A half-hour after starting under convoy of the gun-boat, the Rebels once more opened fire. They paid no attention to the _Neosho_, but threw all their projectiles at the _Von Phul_. The first shell passed through the cabin, wounding a person near me, and grazing a post against which Colburn and myself were resting our chairs. This shell was followed by others in quick succession, most of them passing through the cabin. One exploded under the portion of the cabin directly beneath my position. The explosion uplifted the boards with such force as to overturn my table and disturb the steadiness of my chair. I dreaded splinters far more than I feared the pitiless iron. I left the cabin, through which the shells were pouring, and descended to the lower deck. It was no better there than above. We were increasing the distance between ourselves and the Rebels, and the shot began to strike lower down. Nearly every shot raked the lower deck. A loose plank on which I stood was split for more than half its length, by a shot which struck my foot when its force was nearly spent. Though the skin was not abraded, and no bones were broken, I felt the effect of the blow for several weeks. I lay down upon the deck. A moment after I had taken my horizontal position, two men who lay against me were mortally wounded by a shell. The right leg of one was completely severed below the knee. This shell was the last projectile that struck the forward portion of the boat. With a handkerchief loosely tied and twisted with a stick, I endeavored to stop the flow of blood from the leg of the wounded man. I was partially successful, but the stoppage of blood could not save the man's life. He died within the hour. Forty-two shot and shell struck the boat. The escape-pipe was severed where it passed between two state-rooms, and filled the cabin with steam. The safe in the captain's office was perforated as if it had been made of wood. A trunk was broken by a shell, and its contents were scattered upon the floor. Splinters had fallen in the cabin, and were spread thickly upon the carpet. Every person who escaped uninjured had his own list of incidents to narrate. Out of about fifty persons on board the _Von Phul_ at the time of this occurrence, twelve were killed or wounded. One of the last projectiles that struck the boat, injured a boiler sufficiently to allow the escape of steam. In ten minutes our engines moved very feebly. We were forced to "tie up" to the eastern bank of the river. We were by this time out of range of the Rebel battery. The _Neosho_ had opened fire, and by the time we made fast to the bank, the Rebels were in retreat. The _Neosho_ ceased firing and moved to our relief. Before she reached us, the steamer _Atlantic_ came in sight, descending the river. We hailed her, and she came alongside. Immediately on learning our condition, her captain offered to tow the _Von Phul_ to Red River, twenty miles distant. There we could lie, under protection of the gun-boats, and repair the damages to our machinery. We accepted his offer at once. I can hardly imagine a situation of greater helplessness, than a place on board a Western passenger-steamer under the guns of a hostile battery. A battle-field is no comparison. On solid earth the principal danger is from projectiles. You can fight, or, under some circumstances, can run away. On a Mississippi transport, you are equally in danger of being shot. Added to this, you may be struck by splinters, scalded by steam, burned by fire, or drowned in the water. You cannot fight, you cannot run away, and you cannot find shelter. With no power for resistance or escape, the sense of danger and helplessness cannot be set aside. A few weeks after the occurrence just narrated, the steamer _Brazil_, on her way from Vicksburg to Natchez, was fired upon by a Rebel battery near Rodney, Mississippi. The boat was struck a half-dozen times by shot and shell. More than a hundred rifle-bullets were thrown on board. Three persons were killed and as many wounded. Among those killed on the _Brazil_, was a young woman who had engaged to take charge of a school for negro children at Natchez. The Rebel sympathizers at Natchez displayed much gratification at her death. On several occasions I heard some of the more pious among them declare that the hand of God directed the fatal missile. They prophesied violent or sudden deaths to all who came to the South on a similar mission. The steamer _Black Hawk_ was fired upon by a Rebel battery at the mouth of Red River. The boat ran aground in range of the enemy's guns. A shell set her pilot-house on fire, and several persons were killed in the cabin. Strange to say, though aground and on fire under a Rebel battery, the _Black Hawk_ was saved. By great exertions on the part of officers and crew, the fire was extinguished after the pilot-house was burned away. A temporary steering apparatus was rigged, and the boat moved from the shoal where she had grounded. She was a full half hour within range of the Rebel guns. CHAPTER XLV. THE ARMY CORRESPONDENT. The Beginning and the End.--The Lake Erie Piracy.--A Rochester Story.--The First War Correspondent,--Napoleon's Policy.--Waterloo and the Rothschilds.--Journalistic Enterprise in the Mexican War.--The Crimea and the East Indian Rebellion.--Experiences at the Beginning of Hostilities.--The Tender Mercies of the Insurgents.--In the Field.--Adventures in Missouri and Kentucky.--Correspondents in Captivity.--How Battle-Accounts were Written.--Professional Complaints. Having lain aside my pen while engaged in planting cotton and entertaining guerrillas, I resumed it on coming North, after that experiment was finished. Setting aside my capture in New Hampshire, narrated in the first chapter, my adventures in the field commenced in Missouri in the earliest campaign. Singularly enough, they terminated on our Northern border. In the earlier days of the Rebellion, it was the jest of the correspondents, that they would, some time, find occasion to write war-letters from the Northern cities. The jest became a reality in the siege of Cincinnati. During that siege we wondered whether it would be possible to extend our labors to Detroit or Mackinaw. In September, 1864, the famous "Lake Erie Piracy" occurred. I was in Cleveland when the news of the seizure of the _Philo Parsons_ was announced by telegraph, and at once proceeded to Detroit. The capture of the _Parsons_ was a very absurd movement on the part of the Rebels, who had taken refuge in Canada. The original design was, doubtless, the capture of the gun-boat _Michigan_, and the release of the prisoners on Johnson's Island. The captors of the _Parsons_ had confederates in Sandusky, who endeavored to have the _Michigan_ in a half-disabled condition when the _Parsons_ arrived. This was not accomplished, and the scheme fell completely through. The two small steamers, the _Parsons_ and _Island Queen_, were abandoned after being in Rebel hands only a few hours. The officers of the _Parsons_ told an interesting story of their seizure. Mr. Ashley, the clerk, said the boat left Detroit for Sandusky at her usual hour. She had a few passengers from Detroit, and received others at various landings. The last party that came on board brought an old trunk bound with ropes. The different parties did not recognize each other, not even when drinking at the bar. When near Kelly's Island in Lake Erie, the various officers of the steamer were suddenly seized. The ropes on the trunk were cut, the lid flew open, and a quantity of revolvers and hatchets was brought to light. The pirates declared they were acting in the interest of the "Confederacy." They relieved Mr. Ashley of his pocket-book and contents, and appropriated the money they found in the safe. Those of the passengers who were not "in the ring," were compelled to contribute to the representatives of the Rebel Government. This little affair was claimed to be "belligerent" throughout. At Kelly's Island the passengers and crew were liberated on parole not to take up arms against the Confederacy until properly exchanged. After cruising in front of Sandusky, and failing to receive signals which they expected, the pirates returned to Canada with their prize. One of their "belligerent" acts was to throw overboard the cargo of the _Parsons_, together with most of her furniture. At Sandwich, near Detroit, they left the boat, after taking ashore a piano and other articles. Her Majesty's officer of customs took possession of this stolen property, on the ground that it was brought into Canada without the proper permits from the custom-house. It was subsequently recovered by its owners. The St. Albans raid, which occurred a few months later, was a similar act of belligerency. It created more excitement than the Lake Erie piracy, but the questions involved were practically the same. That the Rebels had a right of asylum in Canada no one could deny, but there was a difference of opinion respecting the proper limits to those rights. The Rebels hoped to involve us in a controversy with England, that should result in the recognition of the Confederacy. This was frequently avowed by some of the indiscreet refugees. After the capture of the _Parsons_ and the raid upon St. Albans, the Canadian authorities sent a strong force of militia to watch the frontier. A battalion of British regulars was stationed at Windsor, opposite Detroit, early in 1864, but was removed to the interior before the raids occurred. The authorities assigned as a reason for this removal, the desire to concentrate their forces at some central point. The real reason was the rapid desertion of their men, allured by the high pay and opportunity of active service in our army. In two months the battalion at Windsor was reduced fifteen per cent, by desertions alone. Shortly after the St. Albans raid, a paper in Rochester announced a visit to that city by a cricket-club from Toronto. The paragraph was written somewhat obscurely, and jestingly spoke of the Toronto men as "raiders." The paper reached New York, and so alarmed the authorities that troops were at once ordered to Rochester and other points on the frontier. The misapprehension was discovered in season to prevent the actual moving of the troops. * * * * * With the suppression of the Rebellion the mission of the war correspondent was ended. Let us all hope that his services will not again be required, in this country, at least, during the present century. The publication of the reports of battles, written on the field, and frequently during the heat of an engagement, was a marked feature of the late war. "Our Special Correspondent" is not, however, an invention belonging to this important era of our history. His existence dates from the days of the Greeks and Romans. If Homer had witnessed the battles which he described, he would, doubtless, be recognized as the earliest war correspondent. Xenophon was the first regular correspondent of which we have any record. He achieved an enduring fame, which is a just tribute to the man and his profession. During the Middle Ages, the Crusades afforded fine opportunities for the war correspondents to display their abilities. The prevailing ignorance of those times is shown in the absence of any reliable accounts of the Holy Wars, written by journalists on the field. There was no daily press, and the mail communications were very unreliable. Down to the nineteenth century, Xenophon had no formidable competitors for the honors which attached to his name. The elder Napoleon always acted as his own "Special." His bulletins, by rapid post to Paris, were generally the first tidings of his brilliant marches and victories. His example was thought worthy of imitation by several military officials during the late Rebellion. Rear-Admiral Porter essayed to excel Napoleon in sending early reports of battles for public perusal. "I have the honor to inform the Department," is a formula with which most editors and printers became intimately acquainted. The admiral's veracity was not as conspicuous as his eagerness to push his reports in print. At Waterloo there was no regular correspondent of the London press. Several volunteer writers furnished accounts of the battle for publication, whose accuracy has been called in question. Wellington's official dispatches were outstripped by the enterprise of a London banking-house. The Rothschilds knew the result of the battle eight hours before Wellington's courier arrived. Carrier pigeons were used to convey the intelligence. During the Rebellion, Wall Street speculators endeavored to imitate the policy of the Rothschilds, but were only partially successful. In the war between Mexico and the United States, "Our Special" was actively, though not extensively, employed. On one occasion, _The Herald_ obtained its news in advance of the official dispatches to the Government. The magnetic telegraph was then unknown. Horse-flesh and steam were the only means of transmitting intelligence. If we except the New Orleans _Picayune, The Herald_ was the only paper represented in Mexico during the campaigns of Scott and Taylor. During the conflict between France and England on the one hand, and Russia on the other, the journals of London and Paris sent their representatives to the Crimea. The London _Times,_ the foremost paper of Europe, gave Russell a reputation he will long retain. The "Thunderer's" letters from the camp before Sebastopol became known throughout the civilized world. A few years later, the East Indian rebellion once more called the London specials to the field. In giving the history of the campaigns in India, _The Times_ and its representative overshadowed all the rest. Just before the commencement of hostilities in the late Rebellion, the leading journals of New York were well represented in the South. Each day these papers gave their readers full details of all important events that transpired in the South. The correspondents that witnessed the firing of the Southern heart had many adventures. Some of them narrowly escaped with their lives. At Richmond, a crowd visited the Spottswood House, with the avowed intention of hanging a _Herald_ correspondent, who managed to escape through a back door of the building. A representative of _The Tribune_ was summoned before the authorities at Charleston, on the charge of being a Federal spy. He was cleared of the charge, but advised to proceed North as early as possible. When he departed, Governor Pickens requested him, as a particular favor, to ascertain the name of _The Tribune_ correspondent, on arrival in New York, and inform him by letter. He promised to do so. On reaching the North, he kindly told Governor Pickens who _The Tribune_ correspondent was. A _Times_ correspondent, passing through Harper's Ferry, found himself in the hands of "the Chivalry," who proposed to hang him on the general charge of being an Abolitionist. He was finally released without injury, but at one time the chances of his escape were small. The New Orleans correspondent of _The Tribune_ came North on the last passenger-train from Richmond to Aquia Creek. One of _The Herald's_ representatives was thrown into prison by Jeff. Davis, but released through the influence of Pope Walker, the Rebel Secretary of War. Another remained in the South until all regular communication was cut off. He reached the North in safety by the line of the "underground railway." When the Rebellion was fairly inaugurated, the various points of interest were at once visited by the correspondents of the press. Wherever our armies operated, the principal dailies of New York and other cities were represented. Washington was the center of gravity around which the Eastern correspondents revolved. As the army advanced into Virginia, every movement was carefully chronicled. The competition between the different journals was very great. In the West the field was broader, and the competition, though active, was less bitter than along the Potomac. In the early days, St. Louis, Cairo, and Louisville were the principal Western points where correspondents were stationed. As our armies extended their operations, the journalists found their field of labor enlarged. St. Louis lost its importance when the Rebels were driven from Missouri. For a long time Cairo was the principal rendezvous of the journalists, but it became less noted as our armies pressed forward along the Mississippi. Every war-correspondent has his story of experiences in the field. Gathering the details of a battle in the midst of its dangers; sharing the privations of the camp and the fatigues of the march; riding with scouts, and visiting the skirmishers on the extreme front; journeying to the rear through regions infested by the enemy's cavalry, or running the gauntlet of Rebel batteries, his life was far from monotonous. Frequently the correspondents acted as volunteer aids to generals during engagements, and rendered important service. They often took the muskets of fallen soldiers and used them to advantage. On the water, as on land, they sustained their reputation, and proved that the hand which wielded the pen was able to wield the sword. They contributed their proportion of killed, wounded, and captured to the casualties of the war. Some of them accepted commissions in the army and navy. During the campaign of General Lyon in Missouri, the journalists who accompanied that army were in the habit of riding outside the lines to find comfortable quarters for the night. Frequently they went two or three miles ahead of the entire column, in order to make sure of a good dinner before the soldiers could overtake them. One night two of them slept at a house three miles from the road which the army was following. The inmates of the mansion were unaware of the vicinity of armed "Yankees," and entertained the strangers without question. Though a dozen Rebel scouts called at the house before daylight, the correspondents were undisturbed. After that occasion they were more cautious in their movements. In Kentucky, during the advance of Kirby Smith upon Cincinnati, the correspondents of _The Gazette_ and _The Commercial_ were captured by the advance-guard of Rebel cavalry. Their baggage, money, and watches became the property of their captors. The correspondents were released, and obliged to walk about eighty miles in an August sun. A short time later, Mr. Shanks and Mr. Westfall, correspondents of _The Herald,_ were made acquainted with John Morgan, in one of the raids of that famous guerrilla. The acquaintance resulted in a thorough depletion of the wardrobes of the captured gentlemen. In Virginia, Mr. Cadwallader and Mr. Fitzpatrick, of _The Herald_, and Mr. Crounse, of _The Times_, were captured by Mosby, and liberated after a brief detention and a complete relief of every thing portable and valuable, down to their vests and pantaloons. Even their dispatches were taken from them and forwarded to Richmond. A portion of these reports found their way into the Richmond papers. Stonewall Jackson and Stuart were also fortunate enough to capture some of the representatives of the Press. At one time there were five correspondents of _The Herald_ in the hands of the Rebels. One of them, Mr. Anderson, was held more than a year. He was kept for ten days in an iron dungeon, where no ray of light could penetrate. I have elsewhere alluded to the capture of Messrs. Richardson and Browne, of _The Tribune_, and Mr. Colburn, of _The World_, in front of Vicksburg. The story of the captivity and perilous escape of these representatives of _The Tribune_ reveals a patience, a fortitude, a daring, and a fertility of resource not often excelled. Some of the most graphic battle-accounts of the war were written very hastily. During the three days' battle at Gettysburg, _The Herald_ published each morning the details of the fighting of the previous day, down to the setting of the sun. This was accomplished by having a correspondent with each corps, and one at head-quarters to forward the accounts to the nearest telegraph office. At Antietam, _The Tribune_ correspondent viewed the battle by day, and then hurried from the field, writing the most of his account on a railway train. From Fort Donelson the correspondents of _The World_ and _The Tribune_ went to Cairo, on a hospital boat crowded with wounded. Their accounts were written amid dead and suffering men, but when published they bore little evidence of their hasty preparation. I once wrote a portion of a letter at the end of a medium-sized table. At the other end of the table a party of gamblers, with twenty or thirty spectators, were indulging in "Chuck-a-Luck." I have known dispatches to be written on horseback, but they were very brief, and utterly illegible to any except the writer. Much of the press correspondence during the war was written in railway cars and on steamboats, and much on camp-chests, stumps, or other substitutes for tables. I have seen a half-dozen correspondents busily engaged with their letters at the same moment, each of them resting his port-folio on his knee, or standing upright, with no support whatever. On one occasion a fellow-journalist assured me that the broad chest of a slumbering _confrere_ made an excellent table, the undulations caused by the sleeper's breathing being the only objectionable feature. Sometimes a correspondent reached the end of a long ride so exhausted as to be unable to hold a pen for ten consecutive minutes. In such case a short-hand writer was employed, when accessible, to take down from rapid dictation the story of our victory or defeat. Under all the disadvantages of time, place, and circumstances, of physical exhaustion and mental anxiety, it is greatly to the correspondents' credit that they wrote so well. Battle-accounts were frequently published that would be no mean comparison to the studied pen-pictures of the famous writers of this or any other age. They were extensively copied by the press of England and the Continent, and received high praise for their vivid portrayal of the battle-field and its scenes. Apart from the graphic accounts of great battles, they furnished materials from which the historians will write the enduring records of the war. With files of the New York dailies at his side, an industrious writer could compile a history of the Rebellion, complete in all its details. It was a general complaint of the correspondents that their profession was never officially recognized so as to give them an established position in the army. They received passes from head-quarters, and could generally go where they willed, but there were many officers who chose to throw petty but annoying restrictions around them. As they were generally situated throughout the army, they were, to some extent, dependent upon official courtesies. Of course, this dependence was injurious to free narration or criticism when any officer had conducted improperly. If there is ever another occasion for the services of the war correspondent on our soil, it is to be hoped Congress will pass a law establishing a position for the journalists, fixing their status in the field, surrounding them with all necessary restrictions, and authorizing them to purchase supplies and forage from the proper departments. During the Crimean war, the correspondents of the French and English papers had a recognized position, where they were subject to the same rules, and entitled to the same privileges, as the officers they accompanied. When Sir George Brown, at Eupatoria, forbade any officer appearing in public with unshaven chin, he made no distinction in favor of the members of the Press. Notwithstanding their fierce competition in serving the journals they represented, the correspondents with our army were generally on the most friendly terms with each other. Perhaps this was less the case in the East than in the West, where the rivalry was not so intense and continuous. In the armies in the Mississippi Valley, the representatives of competing journals frequently slept, ate, traveled, and smoked together, and not unfrequently drank from the same flask with equal relish. In the early days, "Room 45," in the St. Charles Hotel at Cairo, was the resort of all the correspondents at that point. There they laid aside their professional jealousies, and passed their idle hours in efforts for mutual amusement. On some occasions the floor of the room would be covered, in the morning, with a confused mass of boots, hats, coats, and other articles of masculine wear, out of which the earliest riser would array himself in whatever suited his fancy, without the slightest regard to the owner. "Forty-five" was the neutral ground where the correspondents planned campaigns for all the armies of the Union, arranged the downfall of the Rebellion, expressed their views of military measures and military men, exulted over successes, mourned over defeats, and toasted in full glasses the flag that our soldiers upheld. Since the close of the war, many of the correspondents have taken positions in the offices of the journals they represented in the field. Some have established papers of their own in the South, and a few have retired to other civil pursuits. Some are making professional tours of the Southern States and recording the status of the people lately in rebellion. _The Herald_ has sent several of its _attachés_ to the European capitals, and promises to chronicle in detail the next great war in the Old World. CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THE SOUTH. Scarcity of the Population,--Fertility of the Country.--Northern Men already in the South.--Kansas Emigrants Crossing Missouri.--Change of the Situation.--Present Disadvantages of Emigration.--Feeling of the People.--Property-Holders in Richmond.--The Sentiment in North Carolina.--South Carolina Chivalry.--The Effect of War.--Prospect of the Success of Free Labor.--Trade in the South. The suppression of the Rebellion, and the restoration of peace throughout the entire South, have opened a large field for emigration. The white population of the Southern States, never as dense as that of the North, has been greatly diminished in consequence of the war. In many localities more than half the able-bodied male inhabitants have been swept away, and everywhere the loss of men is severely felt. The breaking up of the former system of labor in the cotton and sugar States will hinder the progress of agriculture for a considerable time, but there can be little doubt of its beneficial effect in the end. The desolation that was spread in the track of our armies will be apparent for many years. The South will ultimately recover from all her calamities, but she will need the energy and capital of the Northern States to assist her. During the progress of the war, as our armies penetrated the fertile portions of the "Confederacy," many of our soldiers cast longing eyes at the prospective wealth around them. "When the war is over we will come here to live, and show these people something they never dreamed of," was a frequent remark. Men born and reared in the extreme North, were amazed at the luxuriance of Southern verdure, and wondered that the richness of the soil had not been turned to greater advantage. It is often said in New England that no man who has once visited the fertile West ever returns to make his residence in the Eastern States. Many who have explored the South, and obtained a knowledge of its resources, will be equally reluctant to dwell in the regions where their boyhood days were passed. While the war was in progress many Northern men purchased plantations on the islands along the Southern coast, and announced their determination to remain there permanently. After the capture of New Orleans, business in that city passed into the hands of Northerners, much to the chagrin of the older inhabitants. When the disposition of our army and the topography of the country made the lower portion of Louisiana secure against Rebel raids, many plantations in that locality were purchased outright by Northern speculators. I have elsewhere shown how the cotton culture was extensively carried on by "Yankees," and that failure was not due to their inability to conduct the details of the enterprise. Ten years ago, emigration to Kansas was highly popular. Aid Societies were organized in various localities, and the Territory was rapidly filled. Political influences had much to do with this emigration from both North and South, and many implements carried by the emigrants were not altogether agricultural in their character. The soil of Kansas was known to be fertile, and its climate excellent. The Territory presented attractions to settlers, apart from political considerations. But in going thither the emigrants crossed a region equally fertile, and possessing superior advantages in its proximity to a market. No State in the Union could boast of greater possibilities than Missouri, yet few travelers in search of a home ventured to settle within her limits. The reason was apparent. Missouri was a slave State, though bounded on three sides by free soil. Few Northern emigrants desired to settle in the midst of slavery. The distinction between the ruling and laboring classes was not as great as in the cotton States, but there was a distinction beyond dispute. Whatever his blood or complexion, the man who labored with his hands was on a level, or nearly so, with the slave. Thousands passed up the Missouri River, or crossed the northern portion of the State, to settle in the new Territory of Kansas. When political influences ceased, the result was still the same. The Hannibal and St. Joseph Railway threw its valuable lands into the market, but with little success. With the suppression of the late Rebellion, and the abolition of slavery in Missouri, the situation is materially changed. From Illinois, Ohio, and Indiana, there is a large emigration to Missouri. I was recently informed that forty families from a single county in Ohio had sent a delegation to Missouri to look out suitable locations, either of wild land or of farms under cultivation. There is every prospect that the State will be rapidly filled with a population that believes in freedom and in the dignity of labor. She has an advantage over the other ex-slave States, in lying west of the populous regions of the North. Hitherto, emigration has generally followed the great isothermal lines, as can be readily seen when we study the population of the Western States. Northern Ohio is more New Englandish than Southern Ohio, and the parallel holds good in Northern and Southern Illinois. There will undoubtedly be a large emigration to Missouri in preference to the other Southern States, but our whole migratory element will not find accommodation in her limits. The entire South will be overrun by settlers from the North. Long ago, _Punch_ gave advice to persons about to marry. It was all comprised in the single word, "DON'T." Whoever is in haste to emigrate to the South, would do well to consider, for a time, this brief, but emphatic counsel. No one should think of leaving the Northern States, until he has fairly considered the advantages and disadvantages of the movement. If he departs with the expectation of finding every thing to his liking, he will be greatly disappointed at the result. There will be many difficulties to overcome. The people now residing in the late rebellious States are generally impoverished. They have little money, and, in many cases, their stock and valuables of all kinds have been swept away. Their farms are often without fences, and their farming-tools worn out, disabled, or destroyed. Their system of labor is broken up. The negro is a slave no longer, and the transition from bondage to freedom will affect, for a time, the producing interests of the South. Though the Rebellion is suppressed, the spirit of discontent still remains in many localities, and will retard the process of reconstruction. The teachings of slavery have made the men of the South bitterly hostile to those of the North. This hostility was carefully nurtured by the insurgent leaders during the Rebellion, and much of it still exists. In many sections of the South, efforts will be made to prevent immigration from the North, through a fear that the old inhabitants will lose their political rights. At the time I am writing, the owners of property in Richmond are holding it at such high rates as to repel Northern purchasers. Letters from that city say, the residents have determined to sell no property to Northern men, when they can possibly avoid it. No encouragement is likely to be given to Northern farmers and artisans to migrate thither. A scheme for taking a large number of European emigrants directly from foreign ports to Richmond, and thence to scatter them throughout Virginia, is being considered by the Virginia politicians. The wealthy men in the Old Dominion, who were Secessionists for the sake of secession, and who gave every assistance to the Rebel cause, are opposed to the admission of Northern settlers. They may be unable to prevent it, but they will be none the less earnest in their efforts. This feeling extends throughout a large portion of Virginia, and exists in the other States of the South. Its intensity varies in different localities, according to the extent of the slave population in the days before the war, and the influence that the Radical men of the South have exercised. While Virginia is unwilling to receive strangers, North Carolina is manifesting a desire to fill her territory with Northern capital and men. She is already endeavoring to encourage emigration, and has offered large quantities of land on liberal terms. In Newbern, Wilmington, and Raleigh, the Northern element is large. Newbern is "Yankeeized" as much as New Orleans. Wilmington bids fair to have intimate relations with New York and Boston. An agency has been established at Raleigh, under the sanction of the Governor of the State, to secure the immediate occupation of farming and mining lands, mills, manufactories, and all other kinds of real estate. Northern capital and sinew is already on its way to that region. The great majority of the North Carolinians approve the movement, but there are many persons in the State who equal the Virginians in their hostility to innovations. In South Carolina, few beside the negroes will welcome the Northerner with open arms. The State that hatched the secession egg, and proclaimed herself at all times first and foremost for the perpetuation of slavery, will not exult at the change which circumstances have wrought. Her Barnwells, her McGraths, her Rhetts, and her Hamptons declared they would perish in the last ditch, rather than submit. Some of them have perished, but many still remain. Having been life-long opponents of Northern policy, Northern industry, and Northern enterprise, they will hardly change their opinions until taught by the logic of events. Means of transportation are limited. On the railways the tracks are nearly worn out, and must be newly laid before they can be used with their old facility. Rolling stock is disabled or destroyed. Much of it must be wholly replaced, and that which now remains must undergo extensive repairs. Depots and machine-shops have been burned, and many bridges are bridges no longer. On the smaller rivers but few steamboats are running, and these are generally of a poor class. Wagons are far from abundant, and mules and horses are very scarce. The wants of the armies have been supplied with little regard to the inconvenience of the people. Corn-mills, saw-mills, gins, and factories have fed the flames. Wherever our armies penetrated they spread devastation in their track. Many portions of the South were not visited by a hostile force, but they did not escape the effects of war. Southern Georgia and Florida suffered little from the presence of the Northern armies, but the scarcity of provisions and the destitution of the people are nearly as great in that region as elsewhere. Until the present indignation at their defeat is passed away, many of the Southern people will not be inclined to give any countenance to the employment of freed negroes. They believe slavery is the proper condition for the negro, and declare that any system based on free labor will prove a failure. This feeling will not be general among the Southern people, and will doubtless be removed in time. The transition from slavery to freedom will cause some irregularities on the part of the colored race. I do not apprehend serious trouble in controlling the negro, and believe his work will be fully available throughout the South. It is natural that he should desire a little holiday with his release from bondage. For a time many negroes will be idle, and so will many white men who have returned from the Rebel armies. According to present indications, the African race displays far more industry than the Caucasian throughout the Southern States. Letters from the South say the negroes are at work in some localities, but the whites are everywhere idle. Those who go to the South for purposes of traffic may or may not be favored with large profits. All the products of the mechanic arts are very scarce in the interior, while in the larger towns trade is generally overdone. Large stocks of goods were taken to all places accessible by water as soon as the ports were opened. The supply exceeded the demand, and many dealers suffered heavy loss. From Richmond and other points considerable quantities of goods have been reshipped to New York, or sold for less than cost. Doubtless the trade with the South will ultimately be very large, but it cannot spring up in a day. Money is needed before speculation can be active. A year or two, at the least, will be needed to fill the Southern pocket. So much for the dark side of the picture. Emigrants are apt to listen to favorable accounts of the region whither they are bound, while they close their ears to all stories of an unfavorable character. To insure a hearing of both sides of the question under discussion, I have given the discouraging arguments in advance of all others. Already those who desire to stimulate travel to the South, are relating wonderful stories of its fertility and its great advantages to settlers. No doubt they are telling much that is true, but they do not tell all the truth. Every one has heard the statement, circulated in Ireland many years since, that America abounded in roasted pigs that ran about the streets, carrying knives and forks in their mouths, and making vocal requests to be devoured. Notwithstanding the absurdity of the story, it is reported to have received credit. The history of every emigration scheme abounds in narratives of a brilliant, though piscatorial, character. The interior portions of all the Western States are of wonderful fertility, and no inhabitant of that region has any hesitation in announcing the above fact. But not one in a hundred will state frankly his distance from market, and the value of wheat and corn at the points of their production. In too many cases the bright side of the story is sufficient for the listener. I once traveled in a railway car where there were a dozen emigrants from the New England States, seeking a home in the West. An agent of a county in Iowa was endeavoring to call their attention to the great advantages which his region afforded. He told them of the fertility of the soil, the amount of corn and wheat that could be produced to the acre, the extent of labor needed for the production of a specified quantity of cereals, the abundance of timber, and the propinquity of fine streams, with many other brilliant and seductive stories. The emigrants listened in admiration of the Promised Land, and were on the point of consenting to follow the orator. I ventured to ask the distance from those lands to a market where the products could be sold, and the probable cost of transportation. The answer was an evasive one, but was sufficient to awaken the suspicions of the emigrants. My question destroyed the beautiful picture which the voluble agent had drawn. Those who desire to seek their homes in the South will do well to remember that baked pigs are not likely to exist in abundance in the regions traversed by the National armies. CHAPTER XLVII. HOW DISADVANTAGES MAY BE OVERCOME. Conciliating the People of the South.--Railway Travel and its Improvement.--Rebuilding Steamboats.--Replacing Working Stock.--The Condition of the Plantations.--Suggestions about Hasty Departures.--Obtaining Information.--The Attractions of Missouri. The hinderances I have mentioned in the way of Southern emigration are of a temporary character. The opposition of the hostile portion of the Southern people can be overcome in time. When they see there is no possible hope for them to control the National policy, when they fully realize that slavery is ended, and ended forever, when they discover that the negro will work as a free man with advantage to his employer, they will become more amiable in disposition. Much of their present feeling arises from a hope of compelling a return to the old relation of master and slave. When this hope is completely destroyed, we shall have accomplished a great step toward reconstruction. A practical knowledge of Northern industry and enterprise will convince the people of the South, unless their hearts are thoroughly hardened, that some good can come out of Nazareth. They may never establish relations of great intimacy with their new neighbors, but their hostility will be diminished to insignificance. Some of the advocates of the "last ditch" theory, who have sworn never to live in the United States, will, doubtless, depart to foreign lands, or follow the example of the Virginia gentleman who committed suicide on ascertaining the hopelessness of the Rebellion. Failing to do either of these things, they must finally acquiesce in the supremacy of National authority. The Southern railways will be repaired, their rolling stock replaced, and the routes of travel restored to the old status. All cannot be done at once, as the destruction and damage have been very extensive, and many of the companies are utterly impoverished. From two to five years will elapse before passengers and freight can be transported with the same facility, in all directions, as before the war. Under a more liberal policy new lines will be opened, and the various portions of the Southern States become accessible. During the war two railways were constructed under the auspices of the Rebel Government, that will prove of great advantage in coming years. These are the lines from Meridian, Mississippi, to Selma, Alabama, and from Danville, Virginia, to Greensborough, North Carolina. A glance at a railway map of the Southern States will show their importance. On many of the smaller rivers boats are being improvised by adding wheels and motive power to ordinary scows. In a half-dozen years, at the furthest, we will, doubtless, see the rivers of the Southern States traversed by as many steamers as before the war. On the Mississippi and its tributaries the destruction of steamboat property was very great, but the loss is rapidly being made good. Since 1862 many fine boats have been constructed, some of them larger and more costly than any that existed during the most prosperous days before the Rebellion. On the Alabama and other rivers, efforts are being made to restore the steamboat fleets to their former magnitude. Horses, mules, machinery, and farming implements must and will be supplied out of the abundance in the North. The want of mules will be severely felt for some years. No Yankee has yet been able to invent a machine that will create serviceable mules to order. We must wait for their production by the ordinary means, and it will be a considerable time before the supply is equal to the demand. Those who turn their attention to stock-raising, during the next ten or twenty years, can always be certain of finding a ready and remunerative market. The Southern soil is as fertile as ever. Cotton, rice, corn, sugar, wheat, and tobacco can be produced in their former abundance. Along the Mississippi the levees must be restored, to protect the plantations from floods. This will be a work of considerable magnitude, and, without extraordinary effort, cannot be accomplished for several years. Everywhere fences must be rebuilt, and many buildings necessary in preparing products for market must be restored. Time, capital, energy, and patience will be needed to develop anew the resources of the South. Properly applied, they will be richly rewarded. No person should be hasty in his departure, nor rush blindly to the promised land. Thousands went to California, in '49 and '50, with the impression that the gold mines lay within an hour's walk of San Francisco. In '59, many persons landed at Leavenworth, on their way to Pike's Peak, under the belief that the auriferous mountain was only a day's journey from their landing-place. Thousands have gone "West" from New York and New England, believing that Chicago was very near the frontier. Those who start with no well-defined ideas of their destination are generally disappointed. The war has given the public a pretty accurate knowledge of the geography of the South, so that the old mistakes of emigrants to California and Colorado are in slight danger of repetition, but there is a possibility of too little deliberation in setting out. Before starting, the emigrant should obtain all accessible information about the region he intends to visit. Geographies, gazetteers, census returns, and works of a similar character will be of great advantage. Much can be obtained from persons who traveled in the rebellious States during the progress of the war. The leading papers throughout the country are now publishing letters from their special correspondents, relative to the state of affairs in the South. These letters are of great value, and deserve a careful study. Information from interested parties should be received with caution. Those who have traveled in the far West know how difficult it is to obtain correct statements relative to the prosperity or advantages of any specified locality. Every man assures you that the town or the county where he resides, or where he is interested, is the best and the richest within a hundred miles. To an impartial observer, lying appears to be the only personal accomplishment in a new country. I presume those who wish to encourage Southern migration will be ready to set forth all the advantages (but none of the disadvantages) of their own localities. Having fully determined where to go and what to do, having selected his route of travel, and ascertained, as near as possible, what will be needed on the journey, the emigrant will next consider his financial policy. No general rule can be given. In most cases it is better not to take a large amount of money at starting. To many this advice will be superfluous. Bills of exchange are much safer to carry than ready cash, and nearly as convenient for commercial transactions. Beyond an amount double the estimated expenses of his journey, the traveler will usually carry very little cash. For the present, few persons should take their wives and children to the interior South, and none should do so on their first visit. Many houses have been burned or stripped of their furniture, provisions are scarce and costly, and the general facilities for domestic happiness are far from abundant. The conveniences for locomotion in that region are very poor, and will continue so for a considerable time. A man can "rough it" anywhere, but he can hardly expect his family to travel on flat cars, or on steamboats that have neither cabins nor decks, and subsist on the scanty and badly-cooked provisions that the Sunny South affords. By all means, I would counsel any young man on his way to the South not to elope with his neighbor's wife. In view of the condition of the country beyond Mason and Dixon's line, an elopement would prove his mistake of a lifetime. I have already referred to the resources of Missouri. The State possesses greater mineral wealth than any other State of the Union, east of the Rocky Mountains. Her lead mines are extensive, easily worked, very productive, and practically inexhaustible. The same may be said of her iron mines. Pilot Knob and Iron Mountain are nearly solid masses of ore, the latter being a thousand feet in height. Copper mines have been opened and worked, and tin has been found in several localities. The soil of the Northern portion of Missouri can boast of a fertility equal to that of Kansas or Illinois. In the Southern portion the country is more broken, but it contains large areas of rich lands. The productions of Missouri are similar to those of the Northern States in the same latitude. More hemp is raised in Missouri than in any other State except Kentucky. Much of this article was used during the Rebellion, in efforts to break up the numerous guerrilla bands that infested the State. Tobacco is an important product, and its culture is highly remunerative. At Hermann, Booneville, and other points, the manufacture of wine from the Catawba grape is extensively carried on. In location and resources, Missouri is without a rival among the States that formerly maintained the system of slave labor. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE RESOURCES OF THE SOUTHERN STATES. How the People have Lived.--An Agricultural Community.--Mineral and other Wealth of Virginia.--Slave-Breeding in Former Times.--The Auriferous Region of North Carolina.--Agricultural Advantages.--Varieties of Soil in South Carolina.--Sea-Island Cotton.--Georgia and her Railways.--Probable Decline of the Rice Culture.--The Everglade State.--The Lower Mississippi Valley.--The Red River.--Arkansas and its Advantages.--A Hint for Tragedians.--Mining in Tennessee.--The Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky.--Texas and its Attractions.--Difference between Southern and Western Emigration.--The End. Compared with the North, the Southern States have been strictly an agricultural region. Their few manufactures were conducted on a small scale, and could not compete with those of the colder latitudes. They gave some attention to stock-raising in a few localities, but did not attach to it any great importance. Cotton was the product which fed, clothed, sheltered, and regaled the people. Even with the immense profits they received from its culture, they did not appear to understand the art of enjoyment. They generally lived on large and comfortless tracts of land, and had very few cities away from the sea-coast. They thought less of personal comfort than of the acquisition of more land, mules, and negroes. In the greatest portion of the South, the people lived poorer than many Northern mechanics have lived in the past twenty years. The property in slaves, to the extent of four hundred millions of dollars, was their heaviest item of wealth, but they seemed unable to turn this wealth to the greatest advantage. With the climate and soil in their favor, they paid little attention to the cheaper luxuries of rational living, but surrounded themselves with much that was expensive, though utterly useless. On plantations where the owners resided, a visiter would find the women adorned with diamonds and laces that cost many thousand dollars, and feast his eyes upon parlor furniture and ornaments of the most elaborate character. But the dinner-table would present a repast far below that of a New England farmer or mechanic in ordinary circumstances, and the sleeping-rooms would give evidence that genuine comfort was a secondary consideration. Outside of New Orleans and Charleston, where they are conducted by foreigners, the South has no such market gardens, or such abundance and variety of wholesome fruits and vegetables, as the more sterile North can boast of everywhere. So of a thousand other marks of advancing civilization. Virginia, "the mother of Presidents," is rich in minerals of the more useful sort, and some of the precious metals. Her list of mineral treasures includes gold, copper, iron, lead, plumbago, coal, and salt. The gold mines are not available except to capitalists, and it is not yet fully settled whether the yield is sufficient to warrant large investments. The gold is extracted from an auriferous region, extending from the Rappahannock to the Coosa River, in Alabama. The coal-beds in the State are easy of access, and said to be inexhaustible. The Kanawha salt-works are well known, and the petroleum regions of West Virginia are attracting much attention. Virginia presents many varieties of soil, and, with a better system of cultivation, her productions can be greatly increased. (The same may be said of all the Southern States, from the Atlantic to the Rio Grande.) Her soil is favorable to all the products of the Northern States. The wheat and corn of Virginia have a high reputation. In the culture of tobacco she has always surpassed every other State of the Union, and was also the first State in which it was practiced by civilized man to any extent. Washington pronounced the central counties of Virginia the finest agricultural district in the United States, as he knew them. Daniel Webster declared, in a public speech in the Shenandoah Valley, that he had seen no finer farming land in his European travel than in that valley. Until 1860, the people of Virginia paid considerable attention to the raising of negroes for the Southern market. For some reason this trade has greatly declined within the past five years, the stock becoming unsalable, and its production being interrupted. I would advise no person to contemplate moving to Virginia with a view to raising negroes for sale. The business was formerly conducted by the "First Families," and if it should be revived, they will doubtless claim an exclusive privilege. North Carolina abounds in minerals, especially in gold, copper, iron, and coal. The fields of the latter are very extensive. The gold mines of North Carolina have been profitably worked for many years. A correspondent of _The World_, in a recent letter from Charlotte, North Carolina, says: In these times of mining excitement it should he more widely known that North Carolina is a competitor with California, Idaho, and Nebraska. Gold is found in paying quantities in the State, and in the northern parts of South Carolina and Georgia. For a hundred miles west and southwest of Charlotte, all the streams contain more or less gold-dust. Nuggets of a few ounces have been frequently found, and there is one well-authenticated case of a solid nugget weighing twenty-eight pounds, which was purchased from its ignorant owner for three dollars, and afterward sold at the Mint. Report says a still larger lump was found and cut up by the guard at one of the mines. Both at Greensboro, Salisbury, and here, the most reliable residents concur in pointing to certain farms where the owners procure large sums of gold. One German is said to have taken more than a million of dollars from his farm, and refuses to sell his land for any price. Negroes are and have been accustomed to go out to the creeks and wash on Saturdays, frequently bringing in two or three dollars' worth, and not unfrequently negroes come to town with little nuggets of the pure ore to trade. The iron and copper mines were developed only to a limited extent before the war. The necessities of the case led the Southern authorities, however, after the outbreak, to turn their attention to them, and considerable quantities of the ore were secured. This was more especially true of iron. North Carolina is adapted to all the agricultural products of both North and South, with the exception of cane sugar. The marshes on the coast make excellent rice plantations, and, when drained, are very fertile in cotton. Much of the low, sandy section, extending sixty miles from the coast, is covered with extensive forests of pitch-pine, that furnish large quantities of lumber, tar, turpentine, and resin, for export to Northern cities. When cleared and cultivated, this region proves quite fertile, but Southern energy has thus far been content to give it very little improvement. Much of the land in the interior is very rich and productive. With the exception of Missouri, North Carolina is foremost, since the close of the war, in encouraging immigration. As soon as the first steps were taken toward reconstruction, the "North Carolina Land Agency" was opened at Raleigh, under the recommendation of the Governor of the State. This agency is under the management of Messrs. Heck, Battle & Co., citizens of Raleigh, and is now (August, 1865) establishing offices in the Northern cities for the purpose of representing the advantages that North Carolina possesses. The auriferous region of North Carolina extends into South Carolina and Georgia. In South Carolina the agricultural facilities are extensive. According to Ruffin and Tuomey (the agricultural surveyors of the State), there are six varieties of soil: 1. Tide swamp, devoted to the culture of rice. 2. Inland swamp, devoted to rice, cotton, corn, wheat, etc. 3. Salt marsh, devoted to long cotton. 4. Oak and pine regions, devoted to long cotton, corn, and wheat. 5. Oak and hickory regions, where cotton and corn flourish. 6. Pine barrens, adapted to fruit and vegetables. The famous "sea-island cotton" comes from the islands along the coast, where large numbers of the freed negroes of South Carolina have been recently located. South Carolina can produce, side by side, the corn, wheat, and tobacco of the North, and the cotton, rice, and sugar-cane of the South, though the latter article is not profitably cultivated. Notwithstanding the prophecies of the South Carolinians to the contrary, the free-labor scheme along the Atlantic coast has proved successful. The following paragraph is from a letter written by a prominent journalist at Savannah:-- The condition of the islands along this coast is now of the greatest interest to the world at large, and to the people of the South in particular. Upon careful inquiry, I find that there are over two hundred thousand acres of land under cultivation by free labor. The enterprises are mostly by Northern men, although there are natives working their negroes under the new system, and negroes who are working land on their own account. This is the third year of the trial, and every year has been a success more and more complete. The profits of some of the laborers amount to five hundred, and in some cases five thousand dollars a year. The amount of money deposited in bank by the negroes of these islands is a hundred and forty thousand dollars. One joint, subscription to the seven-thirty loan amounted to eighty thousand dollars. Notwithstanding the fact that the troops which landed on the islands robbed, indiscriminately, the negroes of their money, mules, and supplies, the negroes went back to work again. General Saxton, who has chief charge of this enterprise, has his head-quarters at Beaufort. If these facts, and the actual prosperity of these islands could be generally known throughout the South, it would do more to induce the whites to take hold of the freed-labor system than all the general orders and arbitrary commands that General Hatch has issued. The resources of Georgia are similar to those of South Carolina, and the climate differs but little from that of the latter State. The rice-swamps are unhealthy, and the malaria which arises from them is said to be fatal to whites. Many of the planters express a fear that the abolition of slavery has ended the culture of rice. They argue that the labor is so difficult and exhaustive, that the negroes will never perform it excepting under the lash. Cruel modes of punishment being forbidden, the planters look upon the rice-lands as valueless. Time will show whether these fears are to be realized or not. If it should really happen that the negroes refuse to labor where their lives are of comparatively short duration, the country must consent to restore slavery to its former status, or purchase its rice in foreign countries. As rice is produced in India without slave labor, it is possible that some plan may be invented for its cultivation here. Georgia has a better system of railways than any other Southern State, and she is fortunate in possessing several navigable rivers. The people are not as hostile to Northerners as the inhabitants of South Carolina, but they do not display the desire to encourage immigration that is manifested in North Carolina. In the interior of Georgia, at the time I am writing, there is much suffering on account of a scarcity of food. Many cases of actual starvation are reported. Florida has few attractions to settlers. It is said there is no spot of land in the State three hundred feet above the sea-level. Men born with fins and webbed feet might enjoy themselves in the lakes and swamps, which form a considerable portion of Florida. Those whose tastes are favorable to timber-cutting, can find a profitable employment in preparing live-oak and other timbers for market. The climate is very healthy, and has been found highly beneficial to invalids. The vegetable productions of the State are of similar character to those of Georgia, but their amount is not large. In the Indian tongue, Alabama signifies "Here we rest." The traveler who rests in the State of that name, finds an excellent agricultural region. He finds that cotton is king with the Alabamians, and that the State has fifteen hundred miles of navigable rivers and a good railway system. He finds that Alabama suffered less by the visits of our armies than either Georgia or South Carolina. The people extend him the same welcome that he received in Georgia. They were too deeply interested in the perpetuation of slavery to do otherwise than mourn the failure to establish the Confederacy. Elsewhere I have spoken of the region bordering the lower portion of the Great River of the West, which includes Louisiana and Mississippi. In the former State, sugar and cotton are the great products. In the latter, cotton is the chief object of attention. It is quite probable that the change from slavery to freedom may necessitate the division of the large plantations into farms of suitable size for cultivation by persons of moderate capital. If this should be done, there will be a great demand for Northern immigrants, and the commerce of these States will be largely increased. Early in July, of the present year, after the dispersal of the Rebel armies, a meeting was held at Shreveport, Louisiana, at which resolutions were passed favoring the encouragement of Northern migration to the Red River valley. The resolutions set forth, that the pineries of that region would amply repay development, in view of the large market for lumber along Red River and the Mississippi. They further declared, that the cotton and sugar plantations of West Louisiana offered great attractions, and were worthy the attention of Northern men. The passage of these resolutions indicates a better spirit than has been manifested by the inhabitants of other portions of the Pelican State. Many of the people in the Red River region profess to have been loyal to the United States throughout the days of the Rebellion. The Red River is most appropriately named. It flows through a region where the soil has a reddish tinge, that is imparted to the water of the river. The sugar produced there has the same peculiarity, and can be readily distinguished from the sugar of other localities. Arkansas is quite rich in minerals, though far less so than Missouri. Gold abounds in some localities, and lead, iron, and zinc exist in large quantities. The saltpeter caves along the White River can furnish sufficient saltpeter for the entire Southwest. Along the rivers the soil is fertile, but there are many sterile regions in the interior. The agricultural products are similar to those of Missouri, with the addition of cotton. With the exception of the wealthier inhabitants, the people of Arkansas are desirous of stimulating emigration. They suffered so greatly from the tyranny of the Rebel leaders that they cheerfully accept the overthrow of slavery. Arkansas possesses less advantages than most other Southern States, being far behind her sisters in matters of education and internal improvement. It is to be hoped that her people have discovered their mistake, and will make earnest efforts to correct it at an early day. A story is told of a party of strolling players that landed at a town in Arkansas, and advertised a performance of "Hamlet." A delegation waited upon the manager, and ordered him to "move on." The spokesman of the delegation is reported to have said: "That thar Shakspeare's play of yourn, stranger, may do for New York or New Orleans, but we want you to understand that Shakspeare in Arkansas is pretty ---- well played out." Persons who wish to give attention to mining matters, will find attractions in Tennessee, in the deposits of iron, copper, and other ores. Coal is found in immense quantities among the Cumberland Mountains, and lead exists in certain localities. Though Tennessee can boast of considerable mineral wealth, her advantages are not equal to those of Missouri or North Carolina. In agriculture she stands well, though she has no soil of unusual fertility, except in the western portion of the State. Cotton, corn, and tobacco are the great staples, and considerable quantities of wheat are produced. Stock-raising has received considerable attention. More mules were formerly raised in Tennessee than in any other State of the Union. A large portion of the State is admirably adapted to grazing. Military operations in Tennessee, during the Rebellion, were very extensive, and there was great destruction of property in consequence. Large numbers of houses and other buildings were burned, and many farms laid waste. It will require much time, capital, and energy to obliterate the traces of war. The inhabitants of Kentucky believe that their State cannot be surpassed in fertility. They make the famous "Blue Grass Region," around Lexington, the subject of especial boast. The soil of this section is very rich, and the grass has a peculiar bluish tinge, from which its name is derived. One writer says the following of the Blue Grass Region:-- View the country round from the heads of the Licking, the Ohio, the Kentucky, Dick's, and down the Green River, and you have a hundred miles square of the most extraordinary country on which the sun has ever shone. Farms in this region command the highest prices, and there are very few owners who have any desire to sell their property. Nearly all the soil of the State is adapted to cultivation. Its staple products are the same as those of Missouri. It produces more flax and hemp than any other State, and is second only to Virginia in the quality and quantity of its tobacco. Its yield of corn is next to that of Ohio. Like Tennessee, it has a large stock-raising interest, principally in mules and hogs, for which there is always a ready market. Kentucky suffered severely during the campaigns of the Rebel army in that State, and from the various raids of John Morgan. A parody on "My Maryland" was published in Louisville soon after one of Morgan's visits, of which the first stanza was as follows:-- John Morgan's foot is on thy shore, Kentucky! O Kentucky! His hand is on thy stable door, Kentucky! O Kentucky! He'll take thy horse he spared before, And ride him till his back is sore, And leave him at some stranger's door, Kentucky! O Kentucky! Last, and greatest, of the lately rebellious States, is Texas. Every variety of soil can be found there, from the richest alluvial deposits along the river bottoms, down to the deserts in the northwestern part of the State, where a wolf could not make an honest living. All the grains of the Northern States can be produced. Cotton, tobacco, and sugar-cane are raised in large quantities, and the agricultural capabilities of Texas are very great. Being a new State, its system of internal communications is not good. Texas has the reputation of being the finest grazing region in the Southwest. Immense droves of horses, cattle, and sheep cover its prairies, and form the wealth of many of the inhabitants. Owing to the distance from market, these animals are generally held at very low prices. Shortly after its annexation to the United States, Texas became a resort for outcasts from civilized society. In some parts of the Union, the story goes that sheriffs, and their deputies dropped the phrase "_non est inventus_" for one more expressive. Whenever they discovered that parties for whom they held writs had decamped, they returned the documents with the indorsement "G.T.T." (gone to Texas). Some writer records that the State derived its name from the last words of a couplet which runaway individuals were supposed to repeat on their arrival:-- When every other land rejects us, This is the land that freely takes us. Since 1850, the character of the population of Texas has greatly improved, though it does not yet bear favorable comparison to that of Quaker villages, or of rural districts of Massachusetts or Connecticut. There is a large German element in Texas, which displayed devoted loyalty to the Union during the days of the Rebellion. An unknown philosopher says the world is peopled by two great classes, those who have money, and those who haven't--the latter being most numerous. Migratory Americans are subject to the same distinction. Of those who have emigrated to points further West during the last thirty years, a very large majority were in a condition of impecuniosity. Many persons emigrate on account of financial embarrassments, leaving behind them debts of varied magnitude. In some cases, Territories and States that desired to induce settlers to come within their limits, have passed laws providing that no debt contracted elsewhere, previous to emigration, could be collected by any legal process. To a man laboring under difficulties of a pecuniary character, the new Territories and States offer as safe a retreat as the Cities of Refuge afforded to criminals in the days of the ancients. Formerly, the West was the only field to which emigrants could direct their steps. There was an abundance of land, and a great need of human sinew to make it lucrative. When land could be occupied by a settler and held under his pre-emption title, giving him opportunity to pay for his possession from the products of his own industry and the fertility of the soil, there was comparatively little need of capital. The operations of speculators frequently tended to retard settlement rather than to stimulate it, as they shut out large areas from cultivation or occupation, in order to hold them for an advance. In many of the Territories a dozen able-bodied men, accustomed to farm labor and willing to toil, were considered a greater acquisition than a speculator with twenty thousand dollars of hard cash. Labor was of more importance than capital. To a certain extent this is still the case. Laboring men are greatly needed on the broad acres of the far-Western States. No one who has not traveled in that region can appreciate the sacrifice made by Minnesota, Iowa, and Kansas, when they sent their regiments of stalwart men to the war. Every arm that carried a musket from those States, was a certain integral portion of their wealth and prosperity. The great cities of the seaboard could spare a thousand men with far less loss than would accrue to any of the States I have mentioned, by the subtraction of a hundred. There is now a great demand for men to fill the vacancy caused by deaths in the field, and to occupy the extensive areas that are still uncultivated. Emigrants without capital will seek the West, where their stout arms will make them welcome and secure them comfortable homes. In the South the situation is different. For the present there is a sufficiency of labor. Doubtless there will be a scarcity several years hence, but there is no reason to fear it immediately. Capital and direction are needed. The South is impoverished. Its money is expended, and it has no present source of revenue. There is nothing wherewith to purchase the necessary stock, supplies, and implements for prosecuting agricultural enterprise. The planters are generally helpless. Capital to supply the want must come from the rich North. Direction is no less needed than capital. A majority of Southern men declare the negroes will be worthless to them, now that slavery is abolished. "We have," say they, "lived among these negroes all our days. We know them in no other light than as slaves. We command them to do what we wish, and we punish them as we see fit for disobedience. We cannot manage them in any other way." No doubt this is the declaration of their honest belief. A Northern man can give them an answer appealing to their reason, if not to their conviction. He can say, "You are accustomed to dealing with slaves, and you doubtless tell the truth when declaring you cannot manage the negroes under the new system. We are accustomed to dealing with freemen, and do not know how to control slaves. The negroes being free, our knowledge of freemen will enable us to manage them without difficulty." Every thing is favorable to the man of small or large capital, who desires to emigrate to the South. In consideration of the impoverishment of the people and their distrust of the freed negroes as laborers, lands in the best districts can be purchased very cheaply. Plantations can be bought, many of them with all the buildings and fences still remaining, though somewhat out of repair, at prices ranging from three to ten dollars an acre. A few hundred dollars will do far more toward securing a home for the settler in the South than in the West. Labor is abundant, and the laborers can be easily controlled by Northern brains. The land is already broken, and its capabilities are fully known. Capital, if judiciously invested and under proper direction, whether in large or moderate amounts, will be reasonably certain of an ample return. FINIS. 
40698	----	ADDRESS TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES, TOGETHER WITH THE PROCEEDINGS AND RESOLUTIONS OF THE PRO-SLAVERY CONVENTION OF MISSOURI, HELD AT LEXINGTON, JULY, 1855. ST. LOUIS, MO. PRINTED AT THE REPUBLICAN OFFICE. 1855. ADDRESS. TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES. We have been appointed by a Convention of citizens of Missouri, mainly representing that portion of the State lying contiguous to the Territory of Kansas, to lay before you some suggestions, upon a topic which vitally concerns our State, and which, it is believed, may to a serious extent affect the general welfare of our country. We propose to discharge this duty by a concise and candid exposition of facts, touching our condition, and its bearing upon Kansas, accompanied with such reflections as the facts naturally suggest. That portion of Missouri which borders on Kansas contains, as nearly as can now be ascertained, a population of fifty thousand slaves, and their estimated value, at the prices prevailing here, is about twenty-five millions of dollars. As the whole State contains but about one hundred thousand slaves, it will be seen that one-half of the entire slave population of Missouri is located in the eighteen counties bordering on Kansas, the greater portion of which is separated from that Territory by no natural boundary, and is within a day's ride of the line. This part of our State is distinguished by an uniform fertility of soil, a temperate and healthful climate, and a population progressing rapidly in all the elements that constitute a prosperous community. Agriculture is in a most flourishing condition, and the towns and villages which have sprung up, indicate a steady progress towards wealth, refinement and commercial importance. Nor have the higher interests of education, religion and science, been neglected; but common schools, and respectable institutions of a higher grade, and churches of every Christian denomination, are found in every county. The great staple of this district is hemp, although tobacco, and corn, and wheat are also largely produced. The culture of hemp has been found profitable,--more so than cotton in the South; and this fact, with the additional ones, that almost every foot of land within the counties alluded to, is wonderfully adapted by nature to its production, in greater quantities, and finer qualities, and at smaller cost, than in any other State in the Union, and that the climate is such as to permit the growers of this article to reside on their estates, will readily explain and account for the unexampled growth of the country. Already it constitutes the most densely populated portion of our State, and its remarkable fertility of soil, and general salubrity of climate, with the facilities for outlet furnished by a noble river, running through its midst, and two great railroads, destined soon to traverse its upper and lower border, will render it at no distant period, if left undisturbed, as desirable and flourishing a district as can be found in the Mississippi Valley. An idea has to some extent prevailed abroad, that Missouri contained but a very small slave population, and that the permanence of this institution here was threatened by the existence of at least a respectable minority of her citizens, ready and anxious to abolish it, and that only a slight external pressure was necessary to accomplish this purpose. We regret that this opinion has to some extent received countenance from the publication and patronage of journals in our commercial metropolis, evidently aiming at such a result. Without, however, going into any explanation of political parties here, which would be entirely foreign to our purpose, we think it proper to state, that the idea above alluded to is unfounded; and that no respectable party can be found in this State, outside of St. Louis, prepared to embark in any such schemes. In that city, constituting the great outlet of our commerce, as well as that of several other States and Territories, it will not seem surprising that its heterogeneous population should furnish a foothold for the wildest and most visionary projects. St. Louis was, however, represented in our Convention, and it is not thought unwarrantable to assume that the resolutions adopted by this body have received the cordial approbation of a large and influential portion of her citizens. Other counties, besides St. Louis, outside of the district to which our observations have been principally directed, were also represented by delegates; and had not the season of the year, the short notice of its intended session, and the locality where the Convention was held--remote from the centre of the State--prevented, we doubt not that delegates from every county in the State would have been in attendance. Indeed, a portion of the upper Mississippi and lower Mississippi counties are as deeply, though less directly interested in this question, as any part of this State; and their citizens are known to accord most heartily in the sentiments and actions of Western Missouri. Even in the south-west part of our State, from the Osage to the borders of Arkansas, where there are but few slaves, the proceedings of public meetings indicate the entire and active sympathy of their people. From the general tone of the public press throughout the State, a similar inference is deducible, and, we feel warranted in asserting, a very general, if not unanimous concurrence in the principles adopted by the Lexington Convention. Those principles are embodied in a series of resolutions appended to this address, and which, we are happy to say, were adopted with entire unanimity, by a body representing every shade of political opinion to be found in the interior of our State. These facts are conclusive of the condition of public sentiment in Missouri. The probabilities of changes here in reference to the question of slavery, are not essentially different from what they are in Tennessee, or Virginia, or Kentucky. In relation to numbers, a reference to the census shows that Missouri contains double the number of Arkansas, nearly double the number of Texas, and about an equal number with Maryland. These facts are stated with a view to a proper understanding of our position in reference to the settlement of Kansas, and the legitimate and necessary interest felt in the progress and character of that settlement. Previous to the repeal of the Congressional restriction of 1820, by which Missouri was thrown into an isolated position in reference to the question of slavery, and made a solitary exception to a general rule, her condition in regard to the territory west of her border, and yet north of the geographical line which Congress had fixed as the terminus of Southern institutions, was truly unenviable. With two States on her northern and eastern border, in many portions of which the Constitution of the United States, and the Fugitive Slave Law, passed in pursuance thereof, were known to be as inefficacious for the protection of our rights as they would have been in London or Canada, it was left to the will of Congress, by enforcing the restriction of 1820, to cut Missouri off almost entirely from all territorial connexion with States having institutions congenial to her own, and with populations ready and willing to protect and defend them. No alternative was left to that body but to repeal the restriction, and thus leave to the Constitution and the laws of nature, the settlement of our territories, or, by retaining the restriction, indirectly to abolish slavery in Missouri. If the latter alternative had to be selected, it would have been an act of charity and mercy to the slaveholders of Missouri, to warn them in time of the necessity of abandoning their homes, or manumitting or selling their slaves--to give them ample time to determine between the sacrifice of fifty millions of slave property, or seventy millions of landed estate. Direct legislation would have been preferable to indirect legislation, leading to the same result, and the enforcement of the restriction in the settlement of Kansas was virtually the abolition of slavery in Missouri. But Congress acted more wisely, as we think, and with greater fidelity to the Constitution and the Union. The history of the Kansas-Nebraska bill is known to the country. It abolished the geographical line of 36 deg. 30 min., by which the limits of slavery were restricted, and substituted a constitutional and just principle, which left to the settlers of the territories to adopt such domestic institutions as suited themselves. If ever there was a principle calculated to commend itself to all reasonable men, and reconcile all conflicting interests, this would seem to have been the one. It was the principle of popular sovereignty--the basis upon which our independence had been achieved--and it was therefore supposed to be justly dear to all Americans, of every latitude and every creed. But fanaticism was not satisfied. The abolitionists and their allies moved heaven and earth to accomplish its defeat, and although unsuccessful, they did not therefore despair. Out-voted in Congress, receiving no countenance from the Executive, they retired to another theatre of action, and, strange to say, they prostituted an ancient and respectable Commonwealth--one of the Old Thirteen--to commence, in her sovereign capacity as a State, with the means and imposing attitude incident to such a position, a crusade against slavery, novel in its character, more alarming in its features, and likely to be more fatal in its consequences, than all the fanatical movements hitherto attempted, since the appearance of abolitionism as a political party in 1835. They originated and matured a scheme, never before heard of or thought of in this country, the object and effect of which was to evade the principle of the Kansas-Nebraska bill, and in lieu of _non-intervention by Congress_, to substitute _active intervention by the States_. An act of incorporation was passed; a company with a capital of five millions was chartered; and this company was authorized to enlist an army of mercenary fanatics, and transport them to Kansas. Recruiting officers were stationed in places most likely to furnish the proper material; premiums were offered for recruits; the public mind was stimulated by glowing and false descriptions of the country proposed to be occupied, and a _Hessian_ band of mercenaries was thus prepared and forwarded, to commence and carry on a war of extermination against slavery. To call these people _emigrants_, is a sheer perversion of language. They are not sent to cultivate the soil, to better their social condition, to add to their individual comforts, or the aggregate wealth of the nation. They do not move from choice or taste, or from any motive affecting, or supposed to affect, themselves or their families. They have none of the marks of the old pioneers, who cut down the forests of Kentucky, Ohio and Indiana, or levelled the cane brakes of Tennessee and Mississippi, or broke up the plains of Illinois and Missouri. They are mostly ignorant of agriculture; picked up in cities or villages, they of course have no experience as farmers, and if left to their unaided resources--if not clothed and fed by the same power which has effected their transportation--they would starve or freeze. They are _hirelings_--an army of hirelings--recruited and shipped indirectly by a sovereign state of this Union, to make war upon an institution _now_ existing in the Territory to which they are transplanted, and thence to inflict a fatal blow upon the resources, the prosperity and the peace of a neighboring State. They are _military_ colonies, planted by a State government, to subdue a territory opened to settlement by Congress, and take exclusive possession thereof. In addition to that _esprit du corps_, which of necessity pervades such an organization, they have in common a reckless and desperate fanaticism, which teaches them that slavery is a sin, and that they are doing God's service in hastening its destruction. They have been picked and culled from the ignorant masses, which Old England and New England negro philanthropy has stirred up and aroused to madness on this topic, and have been selected with reference to their views on this topic alone. They are men with a single idea; and to carry out this, they have been instructed and taught to disregard the laws of God and man; to consider bloodshed and arson, insurrection, destruction of property, or servile war, as the merest trifles, compared with the glory and honor of seducing a single slave from his master, or harboring and protecting the thief who has carried him off! That such a population would be fatal to the peace and security of the neighboring State of Missouri, and immediate destruction of such owners of slaves as had already moved to the Territory of Kansas, is too clear to admit of argument. A horde of our western savages, with avowed purposes of destruction to the white race, would be less formidable neighbors. The colonization of Kansas with a population of this character was a circumstance which aroused attention, and excited alarm among our citizens here, and those who had already emigrated to Kansas. Could any other result have been expected? Did sensible men at the North--did the abolitionists themselves, expect any other? Missouri contained, as we have seen, one hundred thousand slaves, and their value amounted to fifty millions of dollars. Had these fanatics who pronounced slavery an individual sin, and a national curse, ever yet pointed out any decently plausible scheme by which it could be removed? The entire revenue of our State, for ordinary fiscal purposes, scarcely reaches five hundred thousand dollars, and the abolition of slavery here would involve the destruction of productive capital estimated at fifty millions of dollars, or a taxation upon the people of five millions of dollars annually, which is the legalized interest upon this amount of capital, besides the additional tax which would be necessary to raise a sinking fund to pay off the debt created. The Constitution of Missouri prohibits the Legislature from passing laws emancipating slaves, without a full compensation to their owners; and it is therefore apparent, that ten-fold the entire revenue of the State would be barely sufficient to pay the interest upon a sum equivalent to the actual moneyed value of the slaves, without providing any means to extinguish the principal which such a debt would create. We omit altogether, in this calculation, the impracticability and impolicy and cruelty to both races, of liberating the slaves here, with no provision for their removal, and the additional debt which such removal would create, equal, in all probability, to that occasioned by their mere emancipation. It would seem then, that the merest glance at the statistical tables of our State, showing its population and revenue, must have satisfied the most sanguine abolitionist of the futility of his schemes. If the investigation was pursued further, and our estimate was made to embrace the three millions and a half of slaves now in the southern and south-western States, and the billions to which our computation must ascend in order to ascertain their value in money, this anti-slavery crusade, which presents itself in a form of open aggression against the white race, without the semblance or pretext of good to that race for which the abolitionist professes so much regard, and which stands so much higher in his affections than his own, is seen to be one of mere folly and wickedness, or, what is perhaps worse, a selfish and sectional struggle for political power. It is a singular fact, and one worthy of notice in this connexion, that in the history of African slavery up to this time, no government has ever yet been known to abolish it, which fairly represented the interests and opinions of the governed. Great Britain, it is true, abolished slavery in Jamaica, but the planters of Jamaica had no potential voice in the British Parliament. The abolition of slavery in New England, and in the middle States, can hardly be cited as an exception, since that abrogation was not so much the result of positive legislation, as it was of natural causes--the unfitness of climate and productions to slave labor. It is well known to those familiar with the jurisprudence of this country, and of England, that slavery has been in no instance created by positive statutory enactment, nor has it been thus abolished in any country, when the popular will was paramount in legislative action. Its existence and non-existence appears to depend entirely upon causes beyond the reach of governmental action, and this fact should teach some dependence upon the will of an overruling Providence, which works out its ends in a mode, and at a time, not always apparent to finite mortals. The history of some of our slaveholding States, in relation to efforts of this character, it would seem, ought to be conclusive, at least, against those who have no actual interests involved, and whom a proper sense of self-respect, if not of constitutional obligation, should restrain from impertinent interference. Virginia in 1831, and Kentucky more recently, were agitated from centre to circumference by a bold and unrestricted discussion of the subject of emancipation. Upon the hustings and in legislative assemblies, the subject was thoroughly examined, and every project which genius or philanthropy could suggest, was investigated. Brought forward in the Old Dominion, under the sanction of names venerated and respected throughout the limits of the commonwealth--well known to have been a cherished project of her most distinguished statesmen--favored by the happening of a then recent servile disturbance, and patronized by some of the most patriotic and enlightened citizens, the scheme nevertheless failed, without a show of strength or a step in advance towards the object contemplated. The magnitude of the difficulties to be overcome was so great, and so obvious, as to strike alike the emancipationists and their adversaries. The result has been, both in Virginia and Kentucky, that slavery, to use the language of one of Kentucky's eloquent and distinguished sons, and one, too, of the foremost in the work of emancipation, "has been accepted as a permanent part of their social system." Can it be that there is a destitution of honesty--of intelligence--of patriotism and piety in slaveholding States, and that these qualities are alone to be found in Great Britain and the northern free States? If not, the conclusion must be, that the difficulties in the way of such an enterprise exceed all the calculations of statesmanship and philosophy; and their removal must await the will of that Being, whose prerogative it is to make crooked paths straight, and justify the ways of God to man. We have no thought of discussing the subject of slavery. Viewed in its social, moral or economical aspects, it is regarded, as the resolutions of the Convention declare, as solely and exclusively a matter of State jurisdiction, and therefore, one which does not concern the Federal Government, or the States where it does not exist. We have merely adverted to the fact, in connexion with the recent abolition movements upon Kansas, that amidst all their fierce denunciations of slavery for twenty years past, these fanatics have never yet been able to suggest a plan for its removal, consistent with the safety of the white race--saying nothing of constitutional guarantees, Federal and State. The colonization scheme of Massachusetts, as we have said, excited alarm in Missouri. Its obvious design was to operate further than the mere prevention of the natural expansion of slavery. It was intended to narrow its existing limits,--to destroy all equilibrium of power between the North and the South, and leave the slaveholder at the will of a majority, ready to disregard constitutional obligations, and carry out to their bitter end the mandates of ignorance, prejudice and bigotry. Its success manifestly involved a radical change in our Federal Government, or its total overthrow. If Kansas could be thus abolitionized, every additional part of the present public domain hereafter opened to settlement, and every future accession of territory, would be the subject of similar experiments, and an exploded Wilmot Proviso thus virtually enforced throughout an extended domain still claimed as _national_, and still bearing on its military ensigns the stars and stripes of the Union. If the plan was constitutional and legal, it must be conceded that it was skillfully contrived, and admirably adapted to its ends. It was also eminently practicable, if no resistance was encountered, since the States adopting it contained a surplus population which could be bought up and shipped, whilst the South, which had an interest in resisting, had no such people among her white population. The Kansas-Nebraska law, too, which was so extremely hateful to the fanatics, and has constituted the principal theme of their recent denunciations, would be a dead letter, both as it regarded the two Territories for which it was particularly framed, and as a precedent to Congress for the opening of other districts to settlement. The old Missouri restriction could have done no more, and the whole purpose of the anti-slavery agitators, both in and out of Congress, was quietly accomplished. But the scheme failed--as it deserved to fail; and as the peace, prosperity, and union of our country required it should fail. It was a scheme totally at variance with the genius of our government, both State and Federal, and with the social institutions which these governments were designed to protect, and its success would have been as fatal to those who contrived it, as it could have been to those intended to be its victims. The circumstance of novelty is entitled to its weight in politics as well as law. The abolition irruption upon Kansas is without precedent in our history. Seventy-nine years of our national life have rolled by; Territory after Territory has been annexed, or settled, and added to the galaxy of States, until from thirteen we have increased to thirty-two; yet it never before entered into the head of any statesman, North or South, to devise a plan of acquiring exclusive occupation of a Territory by State colonization. To Massachusetts belongs the honor of its invention, and we trust she will survive its defeat. But, she is not the Massachusetts, we must do justice to her past history to say, that she was in the times of her Adams', her Hancocks, and her Warrens; nor yet is she where she stood in more recent times, when her Websters, and Choates, and Winthrops, led the van of her statesmen. Her legislative halls are filled with ruthless fanatics, dead to the past and reckless to the future; her statute books are polluted with enactments purporting to annul the laws of Congress, passed in pursuance, and by reason of the special requirements of the Constitution; and her senatorial chairs at Washington are filled by a rhetorician and a bigot, one of whom studies to disguise in the drapery of a classic elocution, the most hideous and treasonable forms of fanaticism; whilst his colleague is pleased to harangue a city rabble with open and unadulterated disunionism, associated with the oracles of abolitionism and infidelity--a melancholy spectacle to the descendants of the compatriots of Benjamin Franklin! No southern or slaveholding State has ever attempted to colonize a Territory. Our public lands have been left to the occupancy of such settlers as soil and climate invited. The South has sent no armies to force slave labor upon those who preferred free labor. Kentucky sprung from Virginia, as did Tennessee from North Carolina, and Kansas will from Missouri--from contiguity of territory, and similarity of climate. Emigration has followed the parallels of latitude and will continue to do so, unless diverted by such organizations as Emigrant Aid Societies and Kansas Leagues. It has been said that the citizens of Massachusetts have an undoubted right to emigrate to Kansas; that this right may be exercised individually, or in families, or in larger private associations; and that associated enterprise, under the sanction of legislative enactments, is but another and equally justifiable form of emigration. Political actions, like those of individuals, must be judged by their motives and effects. Unquestionably, emigration, both individual and collective, from the free States to the South, and, _vice versa_, from the slave States to the North, has been progressing from the foundation of our government to the present day, without comment and without objection. It is not pretended that such emigration, even if fostered by State patronage, would be illegal, or in any respect objectionable. The wide expanse of the fertile West, and the deserted wastes of the sunny South, invite occupation; and no man, from the southern extremity of Florida to the northern boundary of Missouri, has ever objected to an emigrant simply because he was from the North, and preferred free labor to that of slaves. Upon this subject he is allowed to consult his own taste, convenience, and conscience; and it is expected that he will permit his neighbors to exercise the same privilege. But, no one can fail to distinguish between an honest, _bona fide_ emigration, prompted by choice or necessity, and an organized colonization with offensive purposes upon the institutions of the country proposed to be settled. Nor can there be any doubt in which class to place the movements of Massachusetts Emigrant Aid Societies and Kansas Leagues. Their motives have been candidly avowed, and their objects boldly proclaimed throughout the length and breadth of the land. Were this not the case, it would still be impossible to mistake them. Why, we might well enquire, if simple emigration was in view, are these extraordinary efforts confined to the Territory of Kansas? Is Nebraska, which was opened to settlement by the same law, less desirable, less inviting to northern adventurers, than Kansas? Are Iowa, and Washington, and Oregon, and Minnesota, and Illinois and Michigan, filled up with population--their lands all occupied, and furnishing no room for Massachusetts emigrants? Is Massachusetts herself overrun with population--obliged to rid herself of paupers whom she cannot feed at home? Or, is Kansas, as eastern orators have insinuated, a newly discovered paradise--a modern El Dorado, where gold and precious stones can be gathered at pleasure; or an Arcadia, where nature is so bountiful as not to need the aid of man, and fruits and vegetables of every desirable description spontaneously spring up? There can be but one answer to these questions, and that answer shows conclusively the spirit and intent of this miscalled and pretended emigration. _It is an anti-slavery movement._ As such it was organized and put in motion by an anti-slavery legislature; as such, the organized army was equipped in Massachusetts, and transported to Kansas; and, as such, it was met there and defeated. If further illustration was needed of the illegality of these movements upon Kansas, we might extend our observations to the probable reception of similar movements upon a State. If the Massachusetts legislature, or that of any other State, have the right to send an army of abolitionists into Kansas, they have the same right to transport them to Missouri. We are not apprised of any provisions in the constitutions or laws of the States, which in this respect distinguishes their condition from that of a territory. We have no laws, and we presume no slaveholding State has, which forbids the emigration of non-slaveholders. Such laws, if passed, would clearly conflict with the Federal Constitution. The southern and south-western slaveholding States are as open to emigration from non-slaveholding States as Kansas. They differ only in the price of land and the density of population. Let us suppose, then, that Massachusetts should turn her attention to Texas, and should ascertain that the population of that State was nearly divided between those who favored and those who opposed slavery, and that one thousand votes would turn the scale in favor of emancipation, and, acting in accordance with her world-wide philanthropy, she should resolve to transport the thousand voters necessary to abolish slavery in Texas, how would such a movement be received there? Or, to reverse the proposition, let it be supposed that South Carolina, with her large slaveholding population, should undertake to transport a thousand slaveholders to Delaware, with a view to turn the scale in that State, now understood to be rapidly passing over to the list of free States, would the gallant sons of that ancient State, small as she is territorially, submit to such interference? Now, the institutions of Kansas are as much fixed and as solemnly guaranteed by statute, as those of Delaware or Texas. The laws of Kansas Territory may be abrogated by succeeding legislatures; but, so also may the laws, and even the constitutions, of Texas and Delaware. Kansas only differs from their condition in her limited resources, her small population, and her large amount of marketable lands. There is no difference in principle between the cases supposed; if justifiable and legal in the one, it is equally so in the other. They differ only in point of practicability and expediency; the one would be an outrage, easily perceived, promptly met, and speedily repelled; the other is disguised under the forms of emigration, and meets with no populous and organized community to resent it. We are apprised that it is said, that the Kansas legislature was elected by fraud, and constitute no fair representation of the opinions of the people of the Territory. This is evidently the excuse of the losing party, to stimulate renewed efforts among their friends at home; but even this is refuted by the record. The Territorial Governor of Kansas, a gentleman not suspected of, or charged with partiality to slavery or to its advocates, has solemnly certified under his official seal, that the statement is false; that a large majority of the legislature were duly and legally elected. Even in the districts where Governor Reeder set aside the elections for illegality, the subsequent returns of the special elections ordered by him, produced the same result, except in a single district. There is, then, no pretext left, and it is apparent, that to send an army of abolitionists to Kansas to destroy slavery existing there, and recognized by her laws, is no more to be justified on the part of the Massachusetts legislature, than it would be to send a like force to Missouri, with the like purposes. The object might be more easily and safely accomplished in the one case than in the other, but in both cases it is equally repugnant to every principle of international comity, and likely to prove equally fatal to the harmony and peace of the Union. We conclude, then, that this irruption upon Kansas by Emigrant Aid Societies and Kansas Leagues, under the patronage of the Massachusetts legislature, is to be regarded in no other light than a new phase of abolitionism, more practical in its aims, and therefore more dangerous than any form it has yet assumed. We have shown it to be at variance with the true intent of the act of Congress, by which the Territory was opened to settlement; at variance with the spirit of the Constitution of the United States, and with the institutions of the Territory, already recognized by law; totally destructive of that fellowship and good feeling which should exist among citizens of confederated States; ruinous to the security, peace and prosperity of a neighboring State; unprecedented in our political annals up to this date, and pregnant with the most disastrous consequences to the harmony and stability of the Union. Thus far its purposes have been defeated; but renewed efforts are threatened. Political conventions at the north and north-west have declared for the repeal of the Kansas-Nebraska law, and, anticipating a failure in this direction, are stimulating the anti-slavery sentiment to fresh exertions, for abolitionizing Kansas after the Massachusetts fashion. We have discharged our duty in declaring the light in which such demonstrations are viewed here, and our firm belief of the spirit by which they will be met. If civil war and ultimate disunion are desired, a renewal of these efforts will be admirably adapted to such purposes. Missouri has taken her position in the resolutions adopted by the Lexington Convention, and from that position she will not be likely to recede. It is based upon the Constitution--upon justice, and equality of rights among the States. What she has done, and what she is still prepared to do, is in self-defence and for self-preservation; and from these duties she will hardly be expected to shrink. With her, everything is at stake; the security of a large slave property, the prosperity of her citizens, and their exemption from perpetual agitation and border feuds; whilst the emissaries of abolition are pursuing a phantom--an abstraction, which, if realized, could add nothing to their possessions or happiness, and would be productive of decided injury to the race for whose benefit they profess to labor. If slavery is an evil, and it is conceded that Congress cannot interfere with it in the States, it is most manifest that its diffusion through a new territory, where land is valueless and labor productive, tends greatly to ameliorate the condition of the slaves. Opposition to the extension of slavery is not, then, founded upon any philanthropic views, or upon any love for the slave. It is a mere grasp for political power, beyond what the Constitution of the United States concedes; and it is so understood by the leaders of the movement. And this additional power is not desired for constitutional purposes--for the advancement of the general welfare, or the national reputation. For such purposes the majority in the North is already sufficient, and no future events are likely to diminish it. The slaveholding States are in a minority, but so far, a minority which has commanded respect in the national councils. It has answered, and we hope will continue to subserve the purposes of self-protection. Conservative men from other quarters have come up to the rescue, when the rights of the South have been seriously threatened. But it is essential to the purposes of self-preservation, that this minority should not be materially weakened; it is essential to the preservation of our present form of government, that the slave States should retain sufficient power to make effectual resistance against outward aggression upon an institution peculiar to them alone. Parchment guarantees, as all history shows, avail nothing against an overwhelming public clamor. The fate of the Fugitive Slave Law affords an instructive warning on the subject, and shows that the most solemn constitutional obligations will be evaded or scorned, where popular prejudice resists their execution. The South must rely on herself for protection, and to this end her strength in the Federal Government cannot be safely diminished. If indeed it be true, as public men at the North have declared, and political assemblages have endorsed, that a determination has been reached in that quarter to refuse admission to any more slave States, there is an end to all argument on the subject. To reject Kansas, or any other Territory from the Union, simply and solely because slavery is recognized within her limits, would be regarded here, and, we presume, throughout the South and South-west, as an open repudiation of the Constitution--a distinct and unequivocal step towards a dissolution of the Union. We presume it would be so regarded everywhere, North and South. Taken in connexion with the abrogation of that provision of the Constitution which enforces the rights of the owners of slaves in all the States of the Union, into which they might escape, which has been effected _practically_ throughout nearly all the free States, and more formally by solemn legislative enactments in a portion of them, the rejection of Kansas on account of slavery would be disunion in a form of grossest insult to the sixteen slave States now comprehended in the nation. It would be a declaration that slavery was incompatible with republican government, in the face of at least _two formal recognitions_ of its legality, _in terms_, by the Federal Constitution. We trust that such counsels have not the remotest prospect of prevailing in our National Legislature, and will not dwell upon the consequence of their adoption. We prefer to anticipate a returning fidelity to national obligations--a faithful adherance to the Constitutional guarantees, and the consequent prospect--cheering to the patriot of this and other lands--of a continued and _perpetual_ UNION. WM. B. NAPTON, _Chairman_. STERLING PRICE, M. OLIVER, S. H. WOODSON. PROCEEDINGS OF THE PRO-SLAVERY CONVENTION, HELD AT LEXINGTON, MO. The Convention was called to order by Judge Thompson, of Clay county, and on his motion Samuel H. Woodson, Esq., of Jackson county, was called to the chair; and on motion of E. C. McCarty, Esq., Col. Sam. A. Lowe, of Pettis county, was appointed Secretary. On motion of Col. Young, of Boone county, Resolved, That a committee of one delegate from each county represented in the Convention be raised, to select and report permanent officers for the Convention, and to select a committee who shall prepare resolutions and other business for the action of the Convention. In accordance with the above resolution, the following gentlemen were appointed said committee: J. W. Torbert, of Cooper county, Major Morin, of Platte " W. M. Jackson, of Howard " S. Barker, of Carroll " A. G. Davis, of Caldwell " J. S. Williams, of Linn " E. C. McCarty, of Jackson " Austin A. King, of Ray " Edwin Toole, of Andrew " D. H. Chism, of Morgan " A. M. Forbes, of Pettis " A. G. Blakey, of Benton " Thomas E. Birch, of Clinton " G. H. C. Melody, of Boone " Sam. L. Sawyer, of Lafayette " C. F. Jackson, of Saline " Wm. Hudgins, of Livingston " C. F. Chamblin, of Johnson " W. H. Russell, of Cass " John Dougherty, of Clay " Joseph Davis, of Henry " Capt. Head, of Randolph " John A. Leppard, of Daviess " Wm. H. Buffington, of Cole " On motion of Mr. Russell, of Cass county, Resolved, That the delegations from the different counties furnish the Secretary of this Convention with a list of delegates from their counties. On further motion of Mr. Russell, of Cass county, permission was given to the committee on resolutions, &c., to retire and draft resolutions, to report as soon as practicable. On motion of Mr. Field, of Lafayette, a committee, consisting of Messrs. Field, of Lafayette, Bayless, of Platte, and Boyce, of Ray, was appointed to wait upon Messrs. D. R. Atchison and A. W. Doniphan, and invite them to address the Convention. Mr. Moss, of Clay, offered the following resolution: Resolved, That all persons who are present from the different counties, although not appointed as delegates by their several counties, be considered as delegates to this Convention. Mr. Peabody, of Boone county, moved to amend so as to read, That all persons from the different counties of the State, friendly to the object of this Convention, be considered as delegates. Pending which question, on leave granted, Mr. Field, of Lafayette county, from the committee appointed to wait on Messrs. D. R. Atchison and A. W. Doniphan, made their report, stating that those gentlemen declined addressing the Convention at the present time. On motion of Mr. Bryant, of Saline, the Convention adjourned. to meet at 2 o'clock, P. M. EVENING SESSION. The Convention was called to order by the President, when, on motion of Mr. Slack, of Livingston, the resolution offered by Mr. Moss, of Clay, together with the amendment offered by Mr. Peabody, which was pending when the Convention adjourned, was laid on the table. On motion of Mr. Field, of Lafayette, Major M. Oliver was requested to address the Convention, and to give his views on the different subjects now agitating this country, and which would be brought before this Convention; which he was proceeding to do, when the committee on resolutions, &c., asked leave to make their report, which was granted. The committee then, through their Chairman, Hon. A. A. King, submitted the following report: The Committee to whom was assigned the duty of designating permanent officers for this Convention, beg leave to report the following: For President, Hon. W. G. Wood, of Lafayette county. For Vice Presidents, Hon. J. T. V. Thompson, of Clay Co. Hon. John J. Lowry, of Howard " Secretaries, Hon. Samuel A. Lowe, of Pettis county, L. A. Wisely, of Platte " For Committee on Resolutions, Major Bradley, of Cooper county, Dr. Bayless, of Platte " B. F. Willis, of Clinton " S. A. Young, of Boone " Wade M. Jackson, of Howard " Martin Slaughter, of Lafayette " Stephen Stafford, of Carroll " W. B. Napton, of Saline " W. S. Pollard, of Caldwell " W. Y. Slack, of Livingston " J. S. Williams, of Linn " G. D. Hansbrough, of Cass " Sam. H. Woodson, of Jackson " James H. Moss, of Clay " M. Oliver, of Ray " D. C. Stone, of Henry " Robert Wilson, of Andrew " B. W. Grover, of Johnson " John S. Jones, of Pettis " John A. Leppard, of Daviess " A. G. Blakey, of Benton " John Head, of Randolph " W. H. Buffington, of Cole " The committee also offered the following resolution, which was adopted by the Convention: Resolved, That to ascertain the sense of this Convention on all propositions submitted for its action, each county represented shall be permitted to cast the same number of votes that it is entitled to cast in the Lower House of the General Assembly of this State. On motion of Col. Young, of Boone, a committee, consisting of Messrs. Young, of Boone, Napton, of Saline, and Russell, of Cass, was appointed to wait on the President, Hon. W. T. Wood, and escort him to the chair. On motion of Dr. McCabe, of Cooper, the Convention took a recess for one hour. The Convention was again called to order by the President, Hon. W. T. Wood, when the following gentlemen appeared as delegates, and took their seats: _Andrew Co._--Robert Wilson and Edwin Toole. _Benton Co._--A. G. Blakey. _Boone Co._--Saml. A. Young, Dr. Peabody, Dr. Thomas, Col. G. H. C. Melody, Sterling Price, Jr., and James Shannon. _Caldwell Co._--W. S. Pollard, David Thomson, Wm. Griffey, Albert G. Davis. _Carroll Co._--S. Barker, S. Stafford, W. J. Poindexter, R. H. Courts, C. Haskins, H. Wilcoxen, Judge Thomas, Hyram Willson. _Cass Co._--Wm. Palmer, J. F. Callaway, F. R. Martin, J. G. Martin, T. Railey, J. T. Thornton, C. T. Worley, W. H. Russell, S. R. Crockett, T. F. Freeman, C. Vanhoy, G. D. Hansbrough, S. G. Allen, H. D. Russell, J. T. Martin. _Clay Co._--J. T. V. Thompson, John Dougherty, A. W. Doniphan, J. G. Price, D. J. Adkins, W. E. Price, W. McNealy, J. H. Moss, J. H. Adams, G. W. Withers, T. McCarty, E. P. Moore, J. M. Jones, L. A. Talbott, R. J. Lamb, J. Lincoln, W. D. Hubble, T. M. Dawson, H. L. Rout, R. H. Miller, J. A. Poague, L. W. Burris, S. R. Shrader, G. Elgin, H. Corwine. _Cooper Co._--J. W. Torbert, J. K. Ragland, Wm. Bradly, H. E. Moore, Geo. S. Cockrell, Thomas S. Cockrell, Horace W. Ferguson, R. Ellis, J. K. McCabe, Jacob Alstadt, H. Tracy. _Clinton Co._--John Reed, B. F. Williss, C. C. Birch, M. Summers, T. E. Birch, J. T. Hughes. _Cole Co._--W. H. Buffington, R. R. Jefferson, J. C. Rogers, C. Eckler. _Chariton Co._--W. S. Hyde, S. J. Cortes, L. Salisbury. _Daviess Co._--B. Weldon, J. A. Leppard. _Howard Co._--J. J. Lowry, S. Graves, W. Payne, R. Basket, M. Taylor, B. W. Lewis, H. Cooper, J. B. Clark, R. Patterson. _Henry Co._--D. A. Gillespie, Jo. Davis, D. C. Stone, R. T. Lindsay, H. Lewis. _Jackson Co._--S. H. Woodson, W. M. F. Magraw, W. F. Robinson, W. Easley, E. C. McCarty, N. R. McMurry, J. A. Winn, T. M. Adams, N. M. Miller, W. Ellis, E. McClanahan, John McCarty, J. M. Ridge, J. R. Henry, Col. J. M. Cogswell, Jno. Hambright. _Johnson Co._--Hy. Ousley, S. Craig, N. W. Perry, W. Marr, W. L. Wood, W. L. Barksdale, C. F. Chamblin, J. M. Fulkerson, Reuben Fulkerson, W. P. Tucker, P. Manion, W. Kirkpatrick, B. W. Grover. _Lafayette Co._--F. C. Sharp, W. K. Trigg, O. Anderson, S. L. Sawyer, A. Jones, R. N. Smith, W. T. Field, W. M. Smallwood, Dr. G. A. Rucker, (a Committee to cast the vote.) _Livingston Co._--A. T. Kirtly, A. Craig, W. Hudgins, W. Y. Slack, W. F. Miller, W. O. Jennings, J. D. Hoy. _Linn Co._--J. S. Williams. _Morgan Co._--D. H. Chism. _Pettis Co._--J. S. Jones, Saml. A. Lowe, A. M. Forbes, G. W. Rothwell, Geo. Anderson, T. E. Staples. _Platte Co._--D. R. Atchison, Jo. Walker, G. W. Bayless, T. Beaumont, D. P. Wallingford, Hy. Coleman, E. P. Duncan, Jesse Morin, P. Ellington, Sr., Jesse Summers, A. B. Stoddard, Thomas H. Starnes, J. C. Hughes, Jno. H. Dorriss, F. P. Davidson, L. A. Wisely, H. B. Ladd. _Randolph Co._--Judge Head. _Ray Co._----A. A. King, B. J. Brown, Col. Bohannan, M. Oliver, Major Boyce, Judge Branstetter, Dr. Chew, W. Warriner, D. P. Whitmer, Dr. Woodward, S. A. Richardson, Major Shaw, Dr. Garner, A. Oliphant, T. A. H. Smith, G. J. Wasson, Judge Carter, J. E. Couch, G. L. Benton, J. P. Quisenberry, S. J. Brown, J. S. Shoop, J. S. Hughes, D. D. Bullock, Dr. Stone, Judge Price, W. Hughes, C. T. Brown, O. Taylor, M. C. Nuckolls, J. H. Taylor, R. Winsett, J. P. Taylor, D. Harbison, Dr. Buchanan, W. M. Jacobs, Wm. Murry, Col. Smith. _Saline Co._--W. B. Sappington, C. F. Jackson, O. B. Pearson, T. R. E. Harvey, J. H. Irvine, L. B. Harwood, V. Marmaduke, M. Marmaduke, J. H. Grove, Robert Grove, A. M. Davison, W. B. Napton, J. W. Bryant, T. W. B. Crews, F. A. Combs, M. W. O'Banon, Jas. Coombs, H. C. Simmons. Mr. Withers, of Clay, offered a series of resolutions, which he asked might be read and acted on by the Convention. Mr. Jackson, of Saline, objected to the reading and moved their reference to the Committee on Resolutions. Previous to the vote on said motion, Mr. Withers withdrew the resolutions, and then, by leave of the Convention, the resolutions were handed over to the Committee. The President being notified of the presence of Gov. Sterling Price, in the house, on motion of Dr. Lowry, of Howard, appointed Messrs. Lowry, of Howard, and Shewalter, of Lafayette, a committee to wait upon him and invite him to a seat within the bar. Mr. C. T. Worley offered the following resolutions: Resolved, That it is the sense of this Convention, that no valuable purpose whatever will be subserved by debate, but on the other hand, will most certainly lead to heated and unprofitable excitement; therefore, Resolved, That from henceforward, we will proceed on all propositions submitted to a direct vote. Mr. Jackson, of Saline, moved to lay the resolutions on the table, which motion was carried. On motion of Mr. King, of Ray, the Convention adjourned till to-morrow morning at eight o'clock. SECOND DAY. FRIDAY MORNING, 8 o'clock. The Convention met, and was called to order by the President. Owing to the absence of Mr. Lowe, one of the Secretaries, on motion of Col. S. A. Young, of Boone, L. J. Sharp, of Lafayette, was appointed to act in his place. On motion of J. W. Bryant, of Saline, the proceedings of yesterday were ordered to be read. It being announced that other delegates had arrived from different counties, the following named gentlemen appeared and took their seats in Convention: F. Walker, of Howard, Dr. E. C. Moss, of Pettis, P. T. Able, Esq. of Platte, and George T. Wood, of Henry. Messrs. J. Loughborough and George F. Hill also appeared and took their seats as delegates from St. Louis county. Dr. Lowry, of Howard, moved that the President appoint a committee to wait on President Shannon, of Boone, and invite him to address the Convention on the subject of slavery. A motion was then made to lay Dr. Lowry's motion on the table, which, being voted upon by counties, resulted as follows: Yeas--Cass, Daviess, Henry, Johnson, Ray, Cole, Clay. Noes--Andrew, Boone, Caldwell, Carroll, Cooper, Jackson, Lafayette, Livingston, Linn, Morgan, Pettis, Platte, Randolph, Chariton, St. Louis, Saline. Dr. Lowry's motion was then put to the Convention, and on motion of C. F. Jackson, of Saline, the rule to vote by counties was suspended. Dr. Lowry's motion was then adopted by the Convention: whereupon the President appointed Dr. Lowry, of Howard, and Major Morin, of Platte, said committee. S. L. Sawyer, of Lafayette, announced that the Committee on Resolutions was ready to report. The report being called for, the Committee proceeded to report, through their Chairman, Judge Napton, of Saline, the following preamble and resolutions: Whereas, This Convention have observed a deliberate and apparently systematic effort, on the part of several States of this Union, to wage a war of extermination upon the institution of slavery as it exists under the Constitution of the United States, and of the several States, by legislative enactments annulling acts of Congress passed in pursuance of the Constitution, and incorporating large moneyed associations to abolitionize Kansas, and through Kansas to operate upon the contiguous States of Missouri, Arkansas and Texas; this Convention, representing that portion of Missouri more immediately affected by these movements, deem it proper to make known their opinions and purposes, and what they believe to be the opinions and purposes of the whole State, and to this end have agreed to the following resolutions: 1. That we regard the institution of African slavery, whether relating to its social, moral, political or economical aspect, solely and exclusively a question of State jurisdiction, and any agitation of this question in the Congress of the United States, or in States where it has no existence, with a view to affect its condition, or bring about its destruction, is a direct and dangerous attack upon the reserved rights of the several slaveholding states, and is an impertinent interference in matters nowise concerning the agitators, and, if persisted in, must sooner or later destroy all harmony and good feeling between the States and the citizens thereof, and will finally result in a dissolution of the Union. 2. That the resolution on the part of several of the northern and western non-slaveholding States, never to admit another slaveholding State into this Union, is substantially a declaration of hostility to our Federal Constitution, and avows a purpose to disregard its compromises; and implies a threat of continued aggression upon, and ultimate destruction of slavery, under whatever sanctions it may exist. 3. That the diffusion of slavery over a wider surface tends greatly to ameliorate the condition of the slave, whilst it advances the prosperity of his owner; and the admission of new slaveholding States into the Union, by maintaining to some extent an equilibrium between the conflicting influences which now control the Federal Government, is the only reliable guarantee which the slaveholding minority have for the protection of their property against unconstitutional and oppressive legislation by the non-slaveholding majority, now and hereafter destined to be in the ascendancy. 4. That we cordially approve the recent act of Congress, for the settlement of Kansas and Nebraska, and the act of 1850, popularly known as the Fugitive Slave Law. 5. That the incorporation of moneyed associations, under the patronage of sovereign States of this Union, for the avowed purpose of recruiting and colonizing large armies of abolitionists upon the territory of Kansas, and for the avowed purpose of destroying the value and existence of slave property now in that Territory, in despite of the wishes of the bona fide independent settlers thereof, and for the purpose, equally plain and obvious whether avowed or not, of ultimately abolishing slavery in Missouri, is a species of legislation and a mode of emigration unprecedented in our history, and is an attempt, by State legislation, indirectly to thwart the purposes of a constitutional and equitable enactment of Congress, by which the domestic institutions of the territories were designed to be left to the exclusive management and control of the bona fide settlers thereof. 6. That these organized bands of colonists, shipped from Massachusetts and other quarters under State patronage, and resembling in their essential features the military colonies planted by the Roman Emperors upon their conquered provinces, rather than the pioneers who have hitherto levelled the forests and broke up the plains of the West, authorize apprehension of an intent of _exclusive_ occupancy, and will necessarily lead to organized resistance on the part of those who, under the Constitution and laws of the United States, have equal rights to possession; and whilst we earnestly deprecate such results, we are justified in advance in placing their entire responsibility upon those who have commenced the system, and are the aggressors. 7. That we disclaim all right and any intent to interfere with the bona fide independent settlers in the Territory of Kansas, from whatever quarter they may come, or whatever opinions they may entertain; but we maintain the right to protect ourselves and our property against all unjust and unconstitutional aggression, present or prospective, immediate or threatened; and we do not hold it necessary or expedient to wait until the torch is applied to our dwellings, or the knife to our throats, before we take measures for our security and the security of our firesides. 8. That the eighteen counties of Missouri, lying on or near the border of Kansas, with only an imaginary boundary intervening, contain a population of about fifty thousand slaves, worth, at present prices, twenty-five millions of dollars; and this large amount of property, one half of the entire slave property of the State, is not merely unsafe, but valueless, if Kansas is made the abode of an army of hired fanatics, recruited, transported, armed and paid for the special and sole purpose of abolitionizing Kansas and Missouri. 9. That this convention and the people they represent, and the State government of Missouri, and the entire people thereof, should take such measures as to them appear suitable and just and constitutional, to prevent such disastrous consequences to their security and prosperity and peace; and confidently relying upon the sympathy and support of the entire South and South-west, whose ultimate fate must inevitably be the same with theirs, and confidently relying also upon the conservative portion of the North, they respectfully appeal to the good sense and patriotism of the entire North, to put down such fanatical aggressions as have hitherto characterized the movements of Emigrant Aid Societies, and leave the settlement of Kansas and the regulation of its domestic institutions to be controlled as the settlement and institutions of our other territories have been, by those impulses of self-interest and congeniality of feeling on the part of settlers, which, by the natural laws of climate and soil, will, if undisturbed, invariably determine the ultimate condition of the Territory. 10. That a committee of five be appointed to draw up and publish an address to the people of the United States, setting forth the history of this Kansas excitement, with the views and action of our people thereon, in conformity with the principles and positions of the foregoing resolutions; and that printed copies of the same, with a copy of these resolutions appended, be forwarded by the Secretary of this Convention to the Executive of each State in the Union. After the reading of which, Judge Napton proceeded to address the Convention in support of the resolutions. Judge Napton then read the following resolution, as recommended by the Committee, to the Convention: Resolved, That in view of the acts of the legislature of the State of Massachusetts, and other Northern and Western States, practically nullifying the Constitution of the United States, and the laws of Congress relating to the rendition of fugitive slaves, and in vindication of the Constitution, and for the purpose of preserving the integrity of the American Union, we recommend to the General Assembly of Missouri to pass such retaliatory measures, discriminating against the sale of the productions or manufactures, or material of commerce, whether of importation by them or of the production of said States, within this State, as they may deem proper for that purpose, and that such measures shall be made operative as long as the offensive legislation above referred to continues on the statute books of those States. Mr. Withers, of Clay, moved the adoption of the resolutions as reported by the Committee, and the vote being taken by counties, resulted in their unanimous adoption. On motion of C. F. Jackson, of Saline, the vote upon said resolutions was then taken by the house, standing, which resulted in their unanimous adoption. A motion was then made to adopt the resolution recommended by the Committee to the Convention. Mr. Torbert, of Cooper, offered the following amendment: "Insert after the word 'manufactures,' the words, or materials of commerce, whether of importation by them or of their production;" pending which the Convention adjourned till 2 o'clock, P. M. EVENING SESSION. The Convention met and was called to order by the President. Major Morin, of Platte, from the committee appointed to wait on President Shannon, reported that President Shannon would address the Convention at any time, at the pleasure of the Convention. Mr. Torbert, of Cooper, withdrew the amendment offered by him this morning to the resolution recommended by the Committee, and offered the following substitute: Resolved, That in view of the acts of the State of Massachusetts, and other northern and north-western States, practically nullifying the Constitution of the United States, and the laws of Congress relating to the rendition of fugitive slaves, and in vindication of the Constitution, and for the purpose of preserving the integrity of the American Union, we recommend to the General Assembly of the State of Missouri to pass such retaliatory measures as may not be inconsistent with the Constitution of the United States, or the State of Missouri, discriminating against the sale of the productions, manufactures, or goods and merchandise of any description whatever, of said States, within this State, as may be deemed proper for that purpose, and that such retaliatory measures shall be made operative as long as the offensive legislation above referred to continues on the statute books of those States. Col. J. B. Brown, of Ray, moved to recommit the original resolution, together with the substitute, to the Committee on Resolutions. The previous question was called for and sustained by the Convention. On this, the President decided, the effect was to require a direct vote on the adoption of the substitute as offered by Mr. Torbert. From this decision an appeal was taken by Gov. King, of Ray, and the decision of the Chair was sustained by the vote of the Convention. The vote then being taken on the substitute, it was adopted. Mr. Withers, of Clay, offered a set of resolutions to the Convention for adoption; whereupon a discussion arose, pending which Mr. Withers withdrew his resolutions. Col. T. M. Ewing, of Lafayette, presented to the Convention a letter from Gov. Metcalf, of Kentucky, which being read, on motion of J. B. Clark, of Howard, was entered upon the record, and made a part of the proceedings of this Convention. FOREST RETREAT, KY., July, 1855. _Gentlemen of the Committee_: Allow me to acknowledge the receipt of your kind favor of the 21st ult., inviting me to meet in Convention at Lexington, Mo., on the 12th inst. Your letter having been addressed to me at Carlisle, instead of Forest Retreat, Kentucky, delayed its reception a few days, in consequence of which this reply may not reach you in due time for your meeting. It would indeed afford me great pleasure to meet you on that patriotic occasion. But, the delicacy of my health at present, although it has not cut off all hope of ultimate recovery, is such as to forbid me from attempting the journey to Lexington. If I am not ungraciously and unfairly treated by my friends of the Louisville Journal, a _second_ letter of mine must by this time be published in that paper, intended as a reply to their editorial commentary upon the _first_--the one referred to in your postscript. My first letter that appeared in the Journal, had been elicited by one previously received from a friend in that place, whose pleasure it was to hand it over for publication, to the editor of that paper; and it was published accordingly, with a long editorial commentary, in which, although kind and even generous enough in a _personal_ point of view, they did not fail, _politically_, to give _Old Stonehammer_ a right severe pelting with their ingenious and hard-twisted sophisms, intended to cast _great blame and all sorts of dishonor_ upon the southern section, for having supported the Nebraska bill, &c. Believing myself, that the North had redeemed itself from the disgrace--the dishonor of having disregarded its constitutional obligations in refusing to admit Missouri as a State, except upon the condition of _restriction_, _north of_ 36° 30', and not then, except by a few votes from that section--the most of whom were condemned and prostrated by their constituents respectively, who at that time denied that the few truant votes of the North constituted a bargain on their part, or placed that section under any legal or moral obligation to abide by it, I was induced in my feeble way to vindicate the voters, North and South, who supported the Nebraska bill. It is true, that in 1820 the southern section yielded to the glaring imposition of restriction, rather than keep Missouri any longer out of her constitutional right of admission, that being the only alternative presented by the North for the time being. But, did not all the parties know full well that no power was lodged in that Congress to repeal, alter or modify any one of the constitutional rights of succeeding generations? Was it not well understood by all, that the Federal Convention alone had the right to fix upon the line of 36° 30', or upon any other line? and just as well known that the Union would never have been formed if such an alternative had been presented to our illustrious forefathers of that Convention? If in 1820 Congress had the power to legislate upon the subject at all, by what means has the same body been deprived of the right of legislation upon the same subject in 1855? To put any other construction than this upon the intention or designs of the Congress of 1820, would, to my mind, amount to an imputation of great arrogance on the part of that body, in the assumption of power not conferred upon it. Admit the right of a subsequent Congress to alter or obliterate the line of 36° 30', and let this latter _compromise_ be sustained, together with the Fugitive Slave Law, and all will be well for the future. Repeal these acts, and we shall soon hear of retaliation in other forms than described by Mr. Calhoun, which God forbid. But, pardon my brevity, and allow me to refer you to my forthcoming letter, expected in the Louisville Journal, for my further views touching this question. With many sincere thanks for your kind invitation, allow me respectfully to subscribe myself your honored and ob't servant, THOS. METCALF. Messrs. T. M. EWING, WM. SHIELDS, WM. T. WOOD, F. A. KOWNSLAR. P. S.--It is my intention to visit Missouri, if I can once more recover my health so as to justify the undertaking; and in that event will certainly call on my Lexington friends of the Committee. T. M. Mr. F. A. Kownslar, of Lafayette, offered the following resolution, which was adopted: Resolved, That the peace, quiet, and welfare of this and every other slaveholding State, as also a regard for the integrity of the Union, require the passage, by the respective State legislatures, of effective laws, suppressing within said States the circulation of abolition or freesoil publications, and the promulgation of freesoil or abolition opinions. Mr. Graves, of Howard, moved that the Convention take a recess of fifteen minutes, and then re-assemble to hear the address of President Shannon. Motion sustained, and Convention took a recess. The Convention re-assembled. President Shannon came forward and delivered his address, after which Col. Anderson, of Lafayette, moved that the President appoint a committee to wait on President Shannon, and request a copy of his address for publication. Col. S. A. Young moved to amend said motion by the following: That a committee be appointed to wait on President Shannon, and request a copy of his address for publication, and that the speech be published in connexion with, and as a part of the proceedings of this Convention. Pending which motion, the Convention adjourned till 8 o'clock, to-night. NIGHT SESSION. The Convention met, and was called to order by the President. Col. Anderson explained his motion made previous to adjournment, and Col. Young withdrew his amendment; whereupon a discussion followed, when F. C. Sharp, Esq., of Lafayette, offered the following resolutions: 1st. Resolved, That the thanks of this Convention are hereby tendered to President Shannon, for his able and patriotic address delivered before us. 2d. That President Shannon is hereby requested to furnish a copy of his address to this Convention for publication; and the Convention hereby expresses the desire that he will deliver his address in as many counties in this State, as his duties will allow. Pending the discussion of these resolutions, Mr. Sharp withdrew his resolutions and offered the following: Resolved, That the thanks of this Convention are hereby tendered to President Shannon, for his address delivered before us, and he is hereby requested to furnish a copy of the same for publication. And the vote being taken by counties, the resolution was adopted by the following vote: Yeas--Boone, Carroll, Cooper, Howard, Jackson, Johnson, Lafayette, Livingston, Pettis, Platte, St. Louis, Ray. Noes--Cass, Clay, Clinton, Daviess, Saline. Two other counties voting in the negative. (The minutes of the clerk upon taking this vote being imperfect, the vote by counties cannot be given with certainty.) Mr. Cook appeared as a delegate from St. Louis, and took his seat in the Convention. On motion, the Convention adjourned till 8 o'clock, to-morrow morning. THIRD DAY. SATURDAY MORNING, 8 o'clock. The Convention met, and was called to order by the President. The President announced the following named gentlemen, to compose the committee to draw up and publish an address, as required by the tenth resolution: Hon. W. B. Napton, of Saline county, (Chairman;) Hon. M. Oliver, of Ray county; Gov. Sterling Price, Col. Sam. H. Woodson, of Jackson county, and Hon. A. A. King, of Ray county. The President also announced the following committee, to procure and superintend the printing, under the action of this Convention, as required by the resolution of Mr. Peabody: Wm. Shields, Edward Winsor, and Charles Patterson. It is also made the duty of said last mentioned committee, to call on President Shannon, and obtain a copy of his speech for publication. Col. S. A. Young rose and informed the Convention, that he had information that a letter had been received by a member of this Convention, Mr. Field, from a distinguished politician, advising and urging him, that unless certain resolutions were adopted by this Convention, to secede from the Convention and break it up in a row; and he wished this matter investigated, and the facts properly brought out. Mr. Field required of Col. Young to give the name of the distinguished politician who had written the letter, and whether he referred to him. Objection was made to the Convention hearing anything further of the matter complained of by Col. Young. The President decided that Col. Young was out of order, there being no proposition before the Convention. Mr. Moss, of Clay, moved that the Convention proceed to inquire into, and investigate the matters charged by Col. Young. Gen. Clark moved to lay the motion of Mr. Moss on the table. Mr. Field desired to make an explanation. He had called for the name of the author of the letter; did not get it; could not get him to say he was the member of the Convention alluded to, as having received the letter, but, from rumor, supposed he was the Field alluded to, and Maj. J. S. Rollins the alleged author of the supposed letter. He had a private letter from Maj. Rollins, which, amongst other things, spoke of this Convention and its objects, but in terms of approval--giving his opinions and views in strict accordance with the platform of, and principles adopted by, this Convention, and denied that there was one word of truth in the charge that Maj. Rollins advised a secession from the Convention, or to break it up in a row in any contingency. He said the letter of Maj. Rollins was at his office, and, although a private letter, any gentleman who desired could see it; that he had intended, if the investigation proceeded, to show it in Convention, and appealed to a number of members of the Convention who had seen the letter, to say whether he had not given a true statement as to its contents. Col. Doniphan, Mr. Sawyer, Mr. Grover, and Mr. Moss, who had seen the letter, confirmed the statement of Mr. Field, as to the contents of the letter. Col. Young acknowledged himself satisfied, and expressed his gratification that the rumors on the street to Maj. Rollins' prejudice were so fully proven to be false and groundless, and said his object in bringing this matter up was to do but an act of justice to his friend and neighbor, Maj. Rollins. The motions to lay on the table and for investigation were withdrawn. On motion, the thanks of the Convention were tendered to the President and other officers of the Convention, for the faithful manner in which they had discharged their duties. On motion of Maj. Morin, of Platte, a vote of thanks was tendered to the citizens of Lafayette, for their kind hospitality. On motion, it was Resolved, That the proceedings of this Convention, together with the address to be prepared by the committee appointed for that purpose, be published in pamphlet form; that a committee of three be appointed by the Chair, to superintend their publication, and that a contribution be made by the delegates to this Convention and others present, to defray the expenses of said publication. Resolved, That ten thousand copies of said proceedings and address be published, and that they be distributed to every part of the State, by the publishing committee, in such manner as may be practicable and advisable. On motion of Mr. Staples, of Pettis, the Convention adjourned _sine die_. WM. T. WOOD, _President_. L. A. WISELY, } _Secretaries_. L. J. SHARP, } Transcriber Notes: Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS. On page 5, "manumiting" was replaced with "manumitting". On page 9, "statesmanshp" was replaced with "statesmanship". On page 9, "he ways" was replaced with "the ways". On page 16, "Resolved, that" was replaced with "Resolved, That". On page 17, "Johnson county" was replaced with two quotation marks. On page 17, "Davis" was replaced with "Daviess". On page 17, "Cass County" was replaced with "Cass county". On page 18, "W Y. Slack" was replaced with "W. Y. Slack". On page 19, "H. D. Russell" was replaced with "H. D. Russell". On page 19, "Clinton Co" was replaced with "Clinton Co.". On page 19, "Jackson, Co." was replaced with "Jackson Co.". On page 19, "J. M," was replaced with "J. M.". On page 19, "Manion." was replaced with "Manion,". On page 20, "Ray Co" was replaced with "Ray Co.". On page 20, the comma was removed after "Mr. C. T. Worley". On page 27, "upon t" was replaced with "upon it". 
31770	----	THE STRUGGLE FOR MISSOURI BY JOHN McELROY States are not great except as men may make them, Men are not great, except they do and dare. --Eugene F. Ware. WASHINGTON, D. C: THE NATIONAL TRIBUNE CO. 1909 DEDICATED TO THE UNION MEN OF MISSOURI THE STRUGGLE FOR MISSOURI. [Illustration: 003-The Struggle for Missouri.] 3 CHAPTER I. A SALIENT BASTION FOR THE SLAVERY EMPIRE. WHATEVER else may be said of Southern statesmen, of the elder school, they certainly had an imperial breadth of view. They took in the whole continent in a way that their Northern colleagues were slow in doing. It cannot be said just when they began to plan for a separate Government which would have Slavery as its cornerstone, would dominate the Continent and ultimately absorb Cuba, Mexico and Central America as far as the Isthmus of Panama. Undoubtedly it was in the minds of a large number of them from the organization of the Government, which they regarded as merely a temporary expedient--an alliance with the Northern States until the South was strong enough to "assume among the Powers of the Earth the separate and equal station to which the laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them." 4 They achieved a great strategic victory when in 1818 they drew the boundaries of the State of Missouri. The Ordinance of 1787 dedicated to Freedom all of the immense territory which became the States of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan and Wisconsin. The wonderful growth of these in population, wealth and political influence alarmed the Slave Power--keenly sensitive, as bad causes always are, to anything which may possibly threaten,--and it proceeded to erect in the State of Missouri a strong barrier to the forward march of the Free Soil idea. When the time for the separation came, the Northern fragment of the Republic would find itself almost cut in two by the northward projection of Virginia to within 100 miles of Lake Erie. It would be again nearly cut in two by the projection of the northeast corner of Missouri to within 200 miles of Lake Michigan. In those days substantially all travel and commerce was along the lines of the rivers. For the country between the Alleghany Mountains and the Mississippi the Ohio River was the great artery. Into it empty the Alleghany, Monongahela, Muskingum, the Kanawhas, Big Sandy, Scioto, the Miamis, Licking, Kentucky, Green, Wabash, Cumberland and Tennessee Rivers, each draining great valleys, and bringing with its volume of waters a proportionate quota of travel and commerce. The Illinois River also entered the Mississippi from the east with the commerce of a great and fruitful region. 5 West of the Mississippi the mighty Missouri was the almost sole highway for thousands of miles. The State was made unusually large--68,735 square miles, where the previous rule for States had been about 40,000 square miles--stretching it so as to cover the mouths of the Ohio and the Illinois, and to lie on both sides of the great Missouri for 200 miles. A glance at the map will show how complete this maneuver seemed to be. Iowa and Minnesota were then unbroken and unvisited stretches of prairie and forest, railroads were only dreamed of by mechanical visionaries, and no man in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky or Tennessee could send a load of produce to market without Missouri's permission; he could make no considerable journey without traversing her highways, while all of the imperial area west of the Mississippi was made, it seemed, forever distinctly tributary to her. New Orleans was then the sole mart of the West, for the Erie Canal had not been dug to convert the Great, Lakes into a colossal commercial highway. Out of a country possessing the unusual combination of surpassing agricultural fertility with the most extraordinary mineral wealth they carved a State larger in area than England and Wales and more than one-fourth the size of France or Germany. All ordinary calculations as to the development of such a favored region would make of it a barrier which would effectively stay the propulsive waves of Free Soilism. 6 So far as man's schemes could go there would never be an acre of free soil west of Illinois. The Anti-Slavery men were keenly alive to this strategic advantage of their opponents. Though the opposition to Slavery might be said to be yet in the gristle, the men hostile to the institution were found in all parties, and were beginning to divide from its more ardent supporters. Under the ban of public opinion Slavery was either dead or legally dying in all the older States north of Mason and Dixon's line. In the kingly stretch of territory lying north of the Ohio and between the Alleghanies and the Mississippi there was no taint of the foot of a slave, and the settlers there wanted to "set the bounds of Freedom wider yet." The Anti-Slavery men everywhere, and at that time there were very many in the Southern States, protested vigorously against the admission of Missouri into the Union as a Slave State, and the controversy soon became so violent as to convulse the Nation. In 1818, when the bill for the admission of Missouri was being considered by the House of Representatives, Gen. James Tallmadge, of New York, introduced the following amendment: And provided, That the introduction of slavery, or involuntary servitude, be prohibited, except for the punishment of crimes, whereof the party has been duly convicted; and that all children born within the said State, after the admission thereof into the Union, shall be declared free at the age of 25 years. 7 This was adopted by practically all the votes from the Free States, with a few from the Border States, which constituted a majority in the House. But the Senate, in which the Slave States had a majority, rejected the amendment, and the struggle began which was only ended two years later by the adoption of the famous Missouri Compromise of 1820, which admitted Missouri as a Slave State, but prohibited for the future any "Slavery or involuntary servitude" outside the limits of that State north of 36 degrees 30 minutes. As in all compromises, this was unsatisfactory to the earnest men on both sides of the dispute. The Anti-Slavery men, who claimed that Freedom was National and Slavery local, were incensed that such an enormous area as that south of 36 degrees 30 minutes had been taken from Freedom by the implication that it was reserved for Slavery. The Pro-Slavery men, on the other hand, who had shrewdly made Slavery extension appear one of the fundamental and cherished rights of the South, set up the clamorous protest, which never ceased till Appomattox, that the denial of the privilege of taking property in Slaves to any part of the National domain won by the arms or purchased by the money of the whole country, was a violation of the compact entered into at the formation of the Government, guaranteeing to the citizens of all the States the same rights and privileges. They also complained that under this arrangement the Free-Soilers gained control of 1,238,025 square miles of the Nation's territory, while Slavery only had 609,023 square miles, or less than half so much. This complaint, which seemed so forceful to the Pro-Slaveryites, appeared as rank impudence to their opponents, since it placed Slavery on the same plane with Freedom. 8 The great State, however, did not flourish in accordance with the expectations based upon its climate, natural resources and central position. The tide of immigration paused before her borders, or swept around under colder skies to Iowa and Minnesota, or to the remote prairies of Kansas and Nebraska. Careless as the average home-seeker might seem as to moral and social questions so long as he found fertile land at cheap prices, yet he appeared reluctant to raise his humble cabin on soil that had the least taint of Slavery. In spite of her long frontage on the two greatest rivers of the continent, and which were its main highways; in spite of skies and soils and rippling streams unsurpassed on earth; in spite of having within her borders the great and growing city of St. Louis, the Metropolis of the Mississippi Valley, Missouri in 1860, after 40 years of Statehood, had only 1,182,012 people, against 1,711,951 in Illinois, 1,350,428 in Indiana, 674,913 in Iowa, 172,023 in Minnesota, 2,329,511 in Ohio, 749,113 in Michigan, 775,881 in Wisconsin, with nearly 150,000 in Kansas and Nebraska. More than a million settlers who had crossed the Mississippi within a few years had shunned her contaminated borders for the free air of otherwise less attractive localities. Nor had the Slaveholders gone into the country in the numbers that were expected. Less than 20,000 had settled there, which was a small showing against nearly 40,000 in Kentucky and 55,000 in Virginia. All these had conspicuously small holdings. Nearly one-third of them owned but one slave, and considerably more than one-half had less than five. Only one man had taken as many as 200 slaves into the State. 9 The Census of 1860 showed Missouri to rank eleventh among the Slave States, according to the following table of the number of slaves in each: 1. Virginia.........490,865 10. Texas..........182,566 2. Georgia.........462,198 11. Missouri.......114,931 3. Mississippi.....436,631 12. Arkansas.......111,114 4. Alabama.........435,080 13. Maryland....... 87,189 5. South Carolina..402,406 14. Florida.........61,745 6. Louisiana.......331,726 15. Delaware....... 1,798 7. North Carolina...331,059 16. New Jersey...... 18 8. Tennessee.......275,719 17. Nebraska....... 15 9. Kentucky........225,483 18. Kansas......... 2 There were 3,185 slaves in the District of Columbia and 29 in the Territory of Utah, with all the rest of the country absolutely free. The immigrant Slaveowners promptly planted themselves where they could command the great highway of the Missouri River, taking up broad tracts of the fertile lands on both sides of the stream. The Census of 1860 showed that of the 114,965 slaves held in the State, 50,280 were in the 12 Counties along the Missouri: Boone........... ....5,034 Jackson..............3,944 Calloway.............4,257 Lafayette............6,357 Chariton.............2,837 Pike.................4,056 Clay.................3,456 Platte...............3,313 Cooper...............3,800 St. Charles..........2,181 Howard...............5,889 Saline...............4,876 Two-thirds of all the slaves in the State were held within 20 miles of the Missouri River. As everywhere, the Slaveowners exerted an influence immeasurably disproportionate to their numbers, intelligence and wealth. 10 A very large proportion of the immigration had not been of a character to give much promise as to the future. The new State had been the Adullam's Cave for the South, where "every one that was in distress, and every one that was in debt and every one that was discontented gathered themselves." Next to Slavery, the South had been cursed by the importation of paupers and criminals who had been transported from England for England's good, in the early history of the Colonies, to work the new lands. The negro proving the better worker in servitude than this class, they had been driven off the plantations to squat on unoccupied lands, where they bred like the beasts of the field, getting a precarious living from hunting the forest, and the bolder eking out this by depredations upon their thriftier neighbors. Their forebears had been paupers and criminals when sent from England, and the descendants continued to be paupers and criminals in the new country, forming a clearly marked social class, so distinct as to warrant the surmise that they belonged to a different race. As the eastern part of the South and the administration of the laws improved, this element was to some extent forced out, and spread in a noisome trail over Mississippi, Arkansas and Missouri. While other immigrants went into the unbroken forest with a few rude tools and in the course of several years built up comfortable homes, their's never rose above abject squalor. The crudest of cabins sufficed them for shelter, beds of beech leaves were all the couches they required; they had more guns in their huts than agricultural or mechanical implements; they scarcely pretended to raise anything more than a scanty patch of corn; and when they could not put on their tables the flesh of the almost wild razor-back hog which roamed the woods, they made meat of woodchucks, raccoons, opossums or any other "varmint" their guns could bring down. They did not scorn hawks or owls if hunger demanded and no better meat could be found. 11 It was this "White Trash" which added so much to the horrors of the war, especially in Missouri, and so little to its real prosecution. Wolf-like in ferocity, when the advantages were on their side, they were wolf-like in cowardice when the terms were at all equal. They were the Croats, Cossacks, Tolpatches, Pandours of the Confederacy--of little value in battle, but terrible as guerrillas and bushwhackers. From this "White Trash" came the gangs of murderers and robbers, like those led by the Youngers, Jameses, Quantrils and scores of other names of criminal memory. As has been the case in all times and countries, these dregs of society became the willing tools of the Slaveholding aristocrats. With dog-like fidelity they followed and served the class which despised and overrode them. Somehow, by inherited habits likely, they seemed to avoid the more fertile parts of the State. They thus became "Bald Knobbers" and "Ozarkers" in Missouri, as they had been "Clay Eaters" in South Carolina, or "Sang Diggers" in Virginia. With these immigrants from the South came also large numbers of a far better element even than the arrogant Slaveowners or the abject "White Trash." 12 The Middle Class in the South was made up of much the same stock as the bulk of the Northerners--that is of Scotch, Scotch-Irish and North English--Congregationalists, Presbyterians, Baptists and Dissenters generally--who had been forced out of Great Britain by the intolerant Episcopalians when the latter gained complete power after the suppression of the Rebellion of 1745. With these were also the descendants of the sturdy German Protestants who had been driven from Europe during the religious wars when the Catholics gained the ascendency in their particular country. These were the backbone of the South, and had largely settled along the foothills of the Alleghanies and in the fruitful valleys between the mountains, while the "White Trash" lived either on the barren parts of the lowlands or the bare and untillable highlands. 13 It is a grave mistake to confound these two classes of Non-Slaveholding whites in the South. They were as absolutely unlike as two distinct races, and an illustration of the habits of the two in migrating will suffice to show this. It was the custom in the Middle Classes when a boy attained majority that he chose for his wife a girl of the same class who was just ripening into vigorous womanhood. Both boy and girl had been brought up to labor with their own hands and to work constantly toward a definite purpose. They had been given a little rudimentary education, could read their Bibles and almanacs, "cipher" a little, write their names and a letter which could be read. When quite a lad the boy's father had given him a colt, which he took care of until it became a horse. To this, his first property, was added a suit of stout homespun cloth, which, with a rifle, an ax and some few other necessary tools, constituted his sole equipment for married life. The girl had been given a calf, which she had raised to a heifer; she had also a feather bed and some blankets of her own making and a little stock of the most obvious housekeeping utensils. With this simple outfit the young couple were married, and either went in debt for a little spot of land near home or pushed out into the new country. There they built a rude log cabin to shelter them from the storm, and by the time their children had reached the age they were when they married they had built up an unpretentious but very comfortable home, with their land well cleared and fenced, and stocked with cattle, pigs, sheep and poultry sufficient to maintain them in comfort. From this class came always the best and strongest men in the South. Comparatively few of them became Slaveowners, and then but rarely owned more than one or two negroes. A very large proportion found homes in the great free States north of the Ohio River. 14 On the other hand, none of this accession to comparative wealth seemed possible to the "White Trash." The boys and girls mated, squatted on any ground they could find unoccupied, raised there the merest shelter, which never by any chance improved, no matter how long they lived there, and proceeded to breed with amazing prolificacy others like themselves, destined for the same lives of ignorance and squalor. The hut of the "Clay Eater" in South Carolina, the "Sand Hiller" in Georgia, the "Sang Digger" in Virginia was the same as that his grandfather had lived in. It was the same that his sons and grandsons to the third and fourth generations built on the bleak knobs of the Ozarks or the malarious banks of the Mississippi. The Census of 1850 showed that about 70,000 of the population of Missouri had come from Kentucky, 45,000 from Tennessee, 41,000 from Virginia, 17,000 from North Carolina and 15,000 from the other Southern States. Nearly 40,000 had gone from Ohio, Indiana and Illinois, but a very large proportion of this number was the same element which had streamed across the southern parts of those States on its way to Missouri. Only 13,000 had entered from the great States of New York and Pennsylvania, and but 1,100 from New England. Nearly 15,000 Irishmen, mostly employed along the rivers, had settled in the State. While the Slaveowners and their "White Trash" myrmidons were Pro-Slavery Democrats, the Middle Class were inclined to be Whigs, or if Democrats, belonging to that wing of the party less subservient to Slavery which in later years was led by Stephen A. Douglas. 15 Upon these three distinct strata in society, which little mingled but were all native Americans, was projected an element of startling differences in birth, thought, speech and manners. The so-called Revolution of 1848 in Germany was a movement by the educated, enthusiastic, idealistic youth of the Fatherland to sweep away the horde of petty despots, and unite their pigmy Principalities and Duchies into a glorious and wide-ruling Germany. They were a generation too soon, however, and when the movement was crushed under the heavy hand of military power, hundreds of thousands of these energetic young men thought it safest and best to make new homes in the young Republic beyond the seas. The United States therefore received a migration of the highest character and of inestimable benefit to the country. Somewhere near 150,000 of these went to Missouri. They had none of the antipathy of Northern Americans to a Slave State. They were like their Gothic forebears, to whom it was sufficient to know that the land was good. Other matters could be settled by their strong right arms. The climate and fertility of Missouri pleased them; they saw the State's possibilities and flocked thither. Possibly one-half settled in the pleasant valleys and on the sunny prairies, following the trail of good land in the Southwest clear down to the Arkansas line. The other half settled mostly in St. Louis, and through them the city experienced another of its wonderful transformations. Beginning as a trading post of the French with the Indians, it had only as residents merchant adventurers from sunny France, officers and soldiers of the royal army and the half-breed voyageurs and trappers who served the fur companies. Next the Americans had swarmed in, and made the trading post a great market for the exchange of the grain and meat of the North, for the cotton and sugar of the South. Its merchants and people took their tone and complexion from the plantations of the Mississippi Valley. 16 Now came these Germans, intent upon reproducing there the characteristics of the old world cities beyond the Rhine. They brought with them lager beer, to which the Americans took very readily, and a decided taste for music, painting and literature, to which the Americans were not so much inclined. German signs, with their quaint Gothic lettering and grotesque names, blossomed out on the buildings, military bands in German uniforms paraded the streets, especially on Sundays. German theaters also open on Sunday represented by astonishingly good companies the popular plays of the Fatherland, and newsboys cried the German newspapers on the streets. Those who went into the country were excellent farmers, shrewd in buying and selling, and industrious workers. They dreamed of covering the low hills of the western part of the State with the vineyards that were so profitable on the Rhine and of rivaling the products of Johannesburg and the Moselle on the banks of the Gasconade and the Maramec. 17 The newcomers were skilled men in their departments of civilized activities--far above the average of the Americans. They were good physicians, fine musicians, finished painters, excellent actors and skillful mechanics, and each began the intelligent exercise of his vocation, to the great advantage of the community, which was, however, shocked at many of the ways of the newcomers, particularly their devoting Sunday to all manner of merrymaking. Still more shocking was their attitude toward the Slavery question. Even those Americans who were opposed to Slavery had a respect approaching awe of the "Sacred Institution." It had always been in the country; it was protected by a network of laws, and so feared that it could only be discussed with the greatest formality and circumspection. The radical Germans had absolutely none of this feeling. In their scheme of humanity all Slavery was so horrible that there could be no reason for its longer continuance, and it ought to be put to an end in the most summary manner. The epithet "Abolitionists," from which most Americans shrank as from an insult, had no terrors for them. It frankly described their mental attitude, and they gloried in it as they did in being Free Thinkers. They had not rebelled against timeworn traditions and superstitions in Germany to become slaves to something worse in this. Vigorous growths as they were, they readily took root in the new soil, became naturalized as fast as they could, and entered into the life of the country which they had elected for their homes. They joined the Republican Party from admiration of its Free Soil principles, and in the election of 1860 cast 17,028 votes for Abraham Lincoln. 18 Such were the strangely differing elements which were fermenting together in the formation of the great Commonwealth during those turbulent days from 1850 to 1860, and which were to be fused into unexpected combinations in the fierce heat of civil war. The same fermentation--minus the modifying influences of the radical Germans--was going on in all the States of the South except South Carolina, where the Middle Class hardly existed. Everywhere the Middle Class was strongly attached to the Union, and averse to Secession. Everywhere the Slaveowners, a small minority, but of extraordinary ability and influence, were actively preaching dissatisfaction with the Union, bitterly complaining of wrongs suffered at the hands of the North, and untiring in their machinations to win over or crush the leaders of those favorable to the Union. Everywhere they had the "White Trash" solidly behind them to vote as they wished, and to harry and persecute the Union men. As machinery for malevolence the "White Trash" myrmidons could not be surpassed. Criminal instincts inherited from their villain forefathers made them ready and capable of anything from maiming a Union man's stock and burning his stacks to shooting him down from ambush. They had personal feeling to animate them in this, for their depredations upon the hogs and crops of their thriftier neighbors had brought them into lifelong collisions with the Middle Class, while they had but little opportunity for resentment against the owners of the large plantations. In every State in the South the story was the same, of the Middle Class Union men being harassed at the command of the Slaveowners by the "White Trash" hounds. They had been sent into Kansas to drive out the Free State immigrants there and secure the territory for Slavery, but though backed up by the power of the Administration, they had been signally defeated by the numerically inferior but bolder and hardier immigrants from the North. 19 Force rules this world; it always has; it always will. Not merely physical force, but that incomparably higher type--intellectual force--Power of Will. It seemed that in nearly all the States of the South the Slaveowners by sheer audacity and force of will succeeded in dominating the great majority which favored the Union, and by one device or another committing them hopelessly to the rebellion. This was notably the case in Tennessee, Virginia, North Carolina and Georgia, where the majority repeatedly expressed itself in favor of the Union, but was dragooned into Secession. In Missouri, however, the Secessionists encountered leaders with will and courage superior to their own. Many of these were Slaveowners themselves, and nearly all of them were of Southern birth. Head and shoulders above these, standing up among them like Saul among the Sons of Israel, was Frank P. Blair, then in the full powers of perfect manhood. He was 42 years old, tall and sinewy in body, blue-eyed and sandy-haired. He came of the best Virginia and Kentucky stock, and had long been a resident and slaveowner in Missouri. As a boy he had served in the ranks in the Mexican War, had an adventurous career on the Pacific Coast, had gone back to Missouri to achieve prominence at the bar, and as early as 1848 had come to the front as the unflinching advocate of Emancipation and the conversion of Missouri into a Free State. Against his perfect panoply of courage and resource all the lances of the Slaveowners were hurled in vain. Their violence recoiled before him, their orators were no match for him upon the stump, and their leaders not his equal in party management. In 1852 he was elected to the Missouri Legislature as a Free Soiler, was re-elected in 1854, and in 1856 to Congress. His value to the Union was immeasurable, for he was a leader around whom the Union men could rally with the utmost confidence that he would never weaken, never resort to devious ways, and never blunder. As a Southerner of the best ancestry, he was not open to the charge of being a "Yankee Abolitionist," which had so much effect upon the Southern people of his State. [Illustration: 056-General Francis P Blair] 20 A very dangerous element was composed of a number of leaders who belonged to the Pro-Slavery wing, but desiring to be elected to offices, masked their designs under the cover of the Douglas Democracy. The most important of these was Claiborne F. Jackson, a politician of moderate abilities and only tolerable courage, but of great partisan activity. He professed to be a Douglas Democrat, and as such was elected Governor at the State election. Born in Kentucky 54 years before, he had resided in Missouri since 1822. A Captain in the Black Hawk War, his service had been as uneventful and brief as that of Abraham Lincoln, who was two years his junior, and he was one of the Pro-Slavery clique who had hounded the great Thomas H. Benton out of politics on account of his mild Free Soilism. In person he was tall, erect, with something of dignity in his bearing. He essayed to be an orator, had much reputation as such, but his speeches developed little depth of thought or anything beyond the customary phrases which were the stock in trade of all the orators of his class south of Mason and Dixon's line. 21 The fermentation period culminated in the Presidential campaign of 1860, the hottest political battle this country had ever known. The intensity of the interest felt in Missouri was shown by the bigness of the vote, which aggregated 165,618. As the population was but 1,182,012, of which 114,965 were slaves, it will be seen that substantially every white man went to the polls. The newly-formed Republican Party, mostly confined to the radical Germans of St. Louis, cast 17,028 votes for Abraham Lincoln. The Slaveowners and their henchmen--"Southern Rights Democrats"--cast 31,317 votes for John C. Breckinridge. The "Regular Democrats" polled 58,801 votes for Stephen A. Douglas and "Squatter Sovereignty." The remains of the "Old Line Whigs," and a host of other men who did not want to be Democrats and would not be Republicans, cast 58,372 votes for John Bell, the "Constitutional Union" candidate. Thus it will be seen that out of every 165 men who went to the polls 17 were quite positive that the extension of Slavery must cease; 31 were equally positive that Slavery should be extended or the Union dissolved; 59 favored "Squatter Sovereignty," or local option in the Territories in regard to Slavery; 58 thought that "all this fuss about the nigger was absurd, criminal, and dangerous. It ought to be stopped at once by suppressing, if necessary, by hanging, the extremists on both sides, and letting things go on just as they have been." 22 Thus so great a proportion as 117 out of the total of 165--nearly five-sevenths of the whole--professed strong hostility to the views of the "extremists, both North and South." The time was at hand, however, when they must make their election as to which of these opposite poles of thought and action they would drift. They could no longer hold aloof, suggesting mild political placeboes, lamenting alike the wickedness of the Northern Abolitionists and the madness of the Southern Nullifiers, and expressing a patriotic desire to hang selected crowds of each on the same trees. South Carolina had promptly responded to the election of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States by passing an Ordinance of Secession, and seizing all the United States forts, arsenals and other places, except Fort Sumter, within her limits. The rest of the Cotton States were hastening to follow her example. To the 117 "Middle-of-the-Road" voters out of every total of 165 it was therefore necessary to choose whether they would approve of the withdrawal of States and seizures of forts, and become Secessionists, or whether they would disapprove of this and ally themselves with the much-contemned Black Republicans. It was the old, old vital question, asked so many times of neutrals with the sword at their throats: "Under which King, Bezonian? Speak, or die." 23 [Illustration: 023-The War Clouds Gather] CHAPTER II. THE WAR CLOUDS GATHER The storm-clouds gathered with cyclonic swiftness. South Carolina seceded Dec. 20, 1860, and sent a Commission to Washington to negotiate for the delivery of all the forts, arsenals, magazines, lighthouses, and other National property within her boundaries, organizing in the meanwhile to seize them. Her Senators and Representatives formally withdrew from Congress; the Judges and other Federal officials solemnly resigned their places; and Maj. Robert Anderson, recognizing the impossibility of defending the decrepit Fort Moultrie against assault, transferred his garrison to Fort Sumter. President Buchanan announced the fatal doctrine that while no State had the right to secede, the Constitution gave no power to coerce a State which had withdrawn, or was attempting to withdraw from the Union. Mississippi seceded Jan. 9, 1861; Florida, Jan. 10; Alabama, Jan. 11; Georgia, Jan. 19; Louisiana, Jan. 26; and Texas, Feb. 1;--all the Cotton States precipitately following South Carolina's example. 24 Each made haste--before or after Secession--to seize all the United States forts and property within her borders. In the midst of this political cataclysm the Legislature of Missouri met on the last day of 1860. The Senate consisted of 25 Democrats, seven Unionists, and one Republican; the House of 85 Democrats, 35 Unionists, and 12 Republicans. The retiring Governor--Robert M. Stewart--sent in his final message Jan. 3, and the same day his successor--Claiborne F. Jackson--was inaugurated, and delivered his address. Gov. Stewart was a typical Northern Democrat, born in New York, but long a resident of Missouri. He was a strong Douglas man, and believed that the Southern people had the Constitutional right to take their slaves into the Territories and hold them there, and that this right ought to be assured them. He had never pretended to be in love with Slavery, but he believed that the Constitution and laws granted full protection to the Institution. He denied the right of Secession, particularly as to Missouri, which had been bought with the money of the whole country. In his final message he did not hesitate to clearly set this forth, and to denounce South Carolina as having acted with consummate folly. He recognized the Union as the source of innumerable blessings, and would preserve it to the last. He said: As matters are at present Missouri will stand by her lot, and hold to the Union as long as it is worth an effort to preserve it. So long as there is hope of success she will seek for justice within the Union. She cannot be frightened from her propriety by the past unfriendly legislation of the North, nor be dragooned into secession by the extreme South. If those who should be our friends and allies undertake to render our property worthless by a system of prohibitory laws, or by reopening the slave trade in opposition to the moral sense of the civilized world, and at the same time reduce us to the position of an humble sentinel to watch over and protect their interests, receiving all the blows and none of the benefits, Missouri will hesitate long before sanctioning such an arrangement She will rather take the high position of armed neutrality. She is able to take care of herself, and will be neither forced nor flattered, driven nor coaxed, into a course of action that must end in her own destruction. 25 The inaugural address of the new Governor was, under a thin vail of professed love for the Union, a bitter Secession appeal. He said that the destiny of the Slaveholding States was one and the same; that what injured one necessarily hurt all; that separate action meant certain defeat by the insolent North, which was alone and wholly responsible for the present deplorable conditions. He applauded the "gallantry" of South Carolina, urged that she be not condemned for "precipitancy," and said significantly: "If South Carolina has acted hastily, let not her error lead to the more fatal one--an attempt at coercion." With reference to the Republican Party and the future policy of Missouri, he said: The prominent characteristic of this party * * * is that it is purely sectional in its locality and its principles. The only principle inscribed upon its banner is Hostility to Slavery;--its object not merely to confine Slavery within its present limits; not merely to exclude it from the Territories, and prevent the formation and admission of any Slaveholding States; not merely to abolish it in the District of Columbia, and interdict its passage from one State to another; but to strike down its existence everywhere; to sap its foundation in public sentiment; to annoy and harass, and gradually destroy its vitality, by every means, direct or indirect, physical and moral, which human ingenuity can devise. The triumph of such an organization is not the victory of a political party, but the domination of a Section. It proclaims in significant tones the destruction of that equality among the States which is the vital cement for our Federal Union. It places 15 of the 33 States in the position of humble recipients of the bounty, or sullen submissionists to the power of a Government which they had no voice in creating, and in whose councils they do not participate. 26 It cannot, then, be a matter of surprise to any--victors or vanquished--that these 16 States, with a pecuniary interest at stake reaching the enormous sum of $3,600,000,000 should be aroused and excited at the advent of such a party to power. Would it not rather be an instance of unprecedented blindness and fatuity, if the people and Governments of these 16 Slaveholding States were, under such circumstances, to manifest quiet indifference, and to make no effort to avoid the destruction which awaited them? The meeting of the Legislature naturally brought to the State Capital at Jefferson City all of the powerful coterie which was self-charged with the work of taking Missouri into the road whither South Carolina was leading the Cotton States. This coterie included the Judges of the Supreme Court and all the State officials, and the United States Senators and Representatives. Ever since the Anti-Benton faction had accomplished the great Senator's defeat, the shibboleth for admission into the higher circles of Missouri Democracy had been "Southern Rights." As the mass of the Middle Class Democrats favored Senator Douglas's plan of letting the settlers in each Territory decide for themselves whether they would have Slavery, it was highly politic for every candidate to claim that he was a Douglas Democrat. It must be known to the inner ring, however, that he was at heart fully in accord with the views of the extreme Pro-Slavery men, and ready at the word to join the Secessionists. So thorough was this preliminary organization, that while in Missouri tens of thousands of professed Union men went over to Secession when the stress came, there was no instance of an avowed Pro-Slavery man cleaving to the side of the Union. 27 Next to Gov. Jackson,--surpassing him in intellectual acuteness and fertile energy,--was Lieut.-Gov. Thos. C. Reynolds, then in his 40th year, a short, full-bodied man, with jet-black hair and eyes shaded by gold-rimmed glasses. He boasted of being born of Virginia parents in South Carolina, but some of the Germans claimed to know that his right name was Reinhold, and that he was a Jew born in Prague, the Capital of Bohemia, and brought to this country when a child. He was a man of more than ordinary ability, and had accomplishments quite unusual in that day. He spoke French, German and Spanish fluently, wrote profusely and with considerable force, and prided himself on being a diplomat. He had seen some service as Secretary of Legation and Charge d' Affaires at Madrid. He had been elected as a Douglas Democrat, but was an outspoken Secessionist, and as he was ex-officio President of the Senate, he had much power in forming committees and shaping legislation. He clung to the wrecked rebel ship of state to the last, went with Gov. Jackson and the rest when they were driven out of the State, assumed the Governorship when Jackson--worn out by the terrible strains and vicissitudes--died at Little Rock, Ark., in December, 1862--and was last heard from near the end of the war, with the shattered and melancholy remnants of the Missouri State Government and troops, on the banks of the Rio Grande, writing furious diatribes against Gen. Sterling Price, the admired leader of the Missouri Confederates. 28 Another man of great influence in the State was United States Senator James S. Green, a Virginian by birth, but who had been a resident of Missouri for about a quarter of a century. He was a lawyer of fine talents, and in the Senate ranked as a debater with Douglas, Seward, Chase, Toombs, Wigfall, Fessenden, Wade, and others of that class. In Missouri he was one of the leaders of the Ultra-Slavery "Softs" against Thos. H. Benton; had been Minister to New Granada, and Representative in Congress, and in the Senate belonged to the Jefferson Davis-Toombs-Wigfall cabal, which was planning the disruption of the Union. His term expiring March 3, 1861, he was now in Jefferson City for the rather irreconcilable purposes of securing his re-election to the United States Senate and of fulfilling his pledge to his Secessionist colleagues to carry Missouri out of the Union. His colleague--Senator Trusten Polk--a strong, kindly, graceful man--was there to assist him in both purposes. Born in Delaware, he had been a resident of Missouri since 1835, elected Governor of the State in 1856, resigned to accept Benton's seat in the Senate, from which he was to be expelled in 1862 for disloyalty, and to follow the failing fortunes of the Missouri Confederates to the banks of the Rio Grande. The problem of absorbing intensity for the Secession leaders--Messrs. Jackson, Reynolds, Green, Polk and others--was to win over, entrap or constrain a sufficient number of the 117 "Doubtful" voters out of every 165, to give them a working majority in the State. There was fiery zeal enough and to spare on the Secession side; what was needed was skillful management to convince the Union-loving peace-loving majority that the Northern "Abolitionists," flushed with victory, meant unheard-of wrongs and insults to the South; that Missouri must put herself in shape to protect her borders, call a halt on the insolent North, and in connection with the other Border States be the arbiter between the contending sections, and in the last resort ally herself with the other Slave States for mutual protection. 29 A man to be reckoned with in those days was the Commander of the Department of the West, which included all that immense territory stretching from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains, except Texas, New Mexico, and Utah. This man was the embodiment of the Regular Army as it was developed after the War of 1812. At this time that Army was a very small one--two regiments of dragoons, two of cavalry, one of mounted riflemen, four of artillery, and 10 of infantry, making, with engineers, ordnance and staff, a total of only 12,698 officers and men--but its personnel and discipline were unsurpassed in the world. Among its 1,040 commissioned officers there was no finer soldier than William Selby Harney. A better Colonel no army ever had. A Colonel, mind you--not a General; there is a wide difference between the two, as we found out during the war. There are very many Americans--every little community has at least one--who, given a regiment, where every man is within reach of his eye and voice, will discipline it, provide for it, rule it, and fight it in the very best fashion. Give him some piece of work to do, of which he can see the beginning and the end, and he will make the regiment do every pound of which it is capable. But put in command of a brigade, anything beyond voice and eye, set to a task outreaching his visual horizon, he becomes obviously unequal to the higher range of duty. [Illustration: 029-The Harney Mansion] 30 A form of commanding hight (sp.), physique equal to any test of activity or endurance, a natural leader of men through superiority of courage and ability, William Selby Harney had for 43 years made an unsurpassed record as a commander of soldiers. He had served in the everglades of Florida, on the boundless plains west of the Mississippi, and in Mexico, during the brilliantly spectacular war which ended with our "reveling in the Halls of the Montezumas." He it was, who, eager for his country's honor and advancement, had, while the diplomats were disputing with Great Britain, pounced down upon and seized the debatable island of San Juan in Vancouver waters. For this he was recalled, but the island remained American territory. He was soon assigned to the Department of the West, with headquarters at St. Louis. 31 He had been for 12 years the Colonel of the crack 2d U. S. Dragoons, and for three years one of the three Brigadier-Generals in the Regular Army, his only seniors being Maj.-Gen. and Brevet Lieut.-Gen. Winfield Scott, the General-in-Chief; Brig.-Gen. John E. Wool, commanding the Department of the East; and Brig.-Gen. David E. Twiggs, commanding the Department of Texas. Gen. Harney's assignment, while a recognition of his eminent fitness for ruling the territory over which he had campaigned for more than a quarter of a century, was highly gratifying to him inasmuch as he was married to a wealthy St. Louis woman, and in that city he had an abundance of the luxurious social enjoyment so dear to the heart of the old warrior. A Southerner by birth and education, a large Slave-owner, with all his interests in the South, and at all times seemingly in full sympathy with the Southern spirit that dominated the Army, the Secessionists sanguinely expected that he would prove as pliant to their proposals as had Gen. Twiggs, the Commander of the Department of Texas. We shall see how soldierly instincts and training measurably disappointed them. 32 To return to the Missouri Legislature: Lieut.-Gov. Reynolds could, as a lieutenant always can, be more outspoken and radical than his chief, who labored under responsibility. On the day the Legislature met he published an important letter which thoroughly indicates the feeling of the Secessionists at that period. He urged the General Assembly to promptly express the determination of Missouri to resist every attempt by the Federal Government to coerce any State to remain in the Union, or to use force in any way to collect revenues or execute the laws in any seceding State. He denounced President Buchanan's distinction between "coercing a State" and "compelling the citizens of the State to obey the laws of the United States" as a "transparent sophistry." "To levy tribute, molest commerce, or hold fortresses, are as much acts of war as to bombard a city." He also urged immediate and thorough organization of the militia and other preparations for "putting the State in complete condition for defense." If the present controversy could not be adjusted before March 4, the State of Missouri "should not permit Mr. Lincoln to exercise any act of Government" within her borders. This was certainly distinctly defiant, and shrewdly calculated to gather about the new administration all the wavering men who could be attracted by inflammatory appeals to their prejudices against the North, to their State pride, and to their hopes of making Missouri the arbiter in the dispute. Lieut.--Gov. Reynolds followed up his pronunciamento by carefully organizing the Senate committees with radical Secessionists at the head, and the immediate introduction of bills ably contrived to put the control of the State in the hands of those who favored Secession. These committees promptly reported several bills. 33 One provided for calling a State Convention, an effective device by which the other Southern States had been dragged into Secession. Another provided for the organization of the Militia of the State, which would be done by officers reliable for Secession, and the third was intended to extinguish resistance by taking away much of the police power of the Republican Mayor of St. Louis, who had at his back the radical Germans, organized into semi-military Wide-Awake Clubs. All these bills seemed to be heartily approved all over the State, and the Southern Rights leaders were exultant at their success. Apparently the 117 "Doubtfuls" were flocking over to them. It seemed for a few momentous days in the opening of 1861 that Missouri would be inevitably swept into the tide of Secession, and even in St. Louis, the stronghold of Republicanism, a monster mass meeting, called and controlled by such afterwards--strong loyalists as Hamilton R. Gamble, later the Union Governor of the State, Nathaniel Paschall, James E. Yeatman, and Robert Campbell, unanimously passed resolutions declaring slave property to be held as a Constitutional right which the Government should secure, and if it did not, Missouri "would join with her sister States and share their duties and dangers," and that the Government should not attempt to coerce the seceding States. This word "coerce" had an extraordinarily ugly sound to all ears, and was a potent enchantment in taking many of the professedly Union men into the ranks of the rebellion. Even Horace Greeley recoiled from "a Union held together by bayonets." 34 The bill "to call a Convention to consider the relations of the State of Missouri to the United States, and to adopt measures for vindicating the sovereignty of the State, and the protection of her institutions," was promptly reported back to both Houses on the 9th of January, and as promptly passed by them, with only two adverse votes in the Senate and 18 in the House. Of the latter 11 were from St. Louis. The Secessionists proceeded to a joyful celebration of this new triumph. They hastened at once to another step to ally Missouri with the South. A Commissioner arrived from the State of Mississippi to ask the co-operation of Missouri in measures of common defense and safety. The Governor received him with the distinction accredited an Embassador from a foreign power, and recommended the Legislature to do likewise. The serviceable Lieut.-Gov. Reynolds carried out this idea by putting through a joint resolution to receive the Commissioner in the House Chamber, with both bodies, the Governor and other chief officers of the State, and the Judges of the Supreme Court in attendance, and with every other honor. He dictated that upon the announcement of the entrance of the Commissioner, the whole body should respectfully rise. The radical Union men from St. Louis resisted this vehemently, and did not hesitate to apply the ugly word "traitor" to the Commissioner, and those who were aiding and abetting him. 35 The Commissioner made a long address, in which he said that the Union had been dissolved, could never be reconstructed; that war was inevitable, and the people of Mississippi earnestly invited those of Missouri to unite with their kindred for common defense and safety. A few days later the Legislature adopted a resolution against coercion, and another introduced by George Graham Vest, of the Committee on Federal Relations, afterwards Senator in the Confederate House from Missouri, and for 24 years representing Missouri in the Senate of the United States. This resolution declared that so "abhorrent was the doctrine of coercion, that any attempt at such would result in the people of Missouri rallying on the side of their Southern brethren to resist to the last extremity." There was only one vote against this in the Senate, and but 14 in the House. The eager young Secessionists were impatient to emulate their brethren farther south, and strike a definite blow--seize something that would wreck the sovereignty of the United States. Forts there were none. In the historic old Jefferson Barracks, below St. Louis, there were only a small squad of raw recruits, and a few officers, mostly of Southern proclivities, whom it would be cruel to turn out of house and home while they were waiting "for their States to go out." 36 There were but two Arsenals in the State; a small affair at Liberty, in the northwest, near the Missouri River, which contained several hundred muskets, a dozen cannon, and a considerable quantity of powder. The other was the great Arsenal at St. Louis, one of the most important in the country. It covered 56 acres of ground, fronting on the Mississippi River, was inclosed by a high stone wall on all sides but that of the river, and had within it four massive stone buildings standing in a rectangle. In these were stored 60,000 stands of arms, mostly Enfield and Springfield rifles, 1,500,000 cartridges, 90,000 pounds of powder, a number of field pieces and siege guns, and a great quantity of munitions of various kinds. There were also machinery and appliances of great value. The Arsenal was situated on rather low ground, and was commanded from hills near by. At the beginning of 1861 the only persons in it were some staff officers, with their servants and orderlies, and the unarmed workmen. The officer in command was Maj. Wm. Haywood Bell, a North Carolinian, graduate of West Point, and Ordnance Officer, but who had spent nearly the whole of his 40 years' service in Bureau work, attending meanwhile so providently to his own affairs that he was quite a wealthy man, with most of his investments in St. Louis. Gov. Claiborne F. Jackson had as his military adviser and executant Maj.-Gen. Daniel M. Frost, a New Yorker by birth and a graduate of West Point. He had served awhile in the Mexican War, where he received a brevet as First Lieutenant for gallantry at Cerro Gordo, and then became Quartermaster of his regiment. He had been sent to Europe as a student of the military art there, but resigned in 1853, to take charge of a planing mill and carpentry work in St. Louis. He subsequently became a farmer, was elected to the Missouri Senate, entered the Missouri Militia, rose to be Brigadier-General, and was sanguinely expected to become for Missouri what Lee and Jos. E. Johnston were for Virginia, Beauregard for South Carolina, and Braxton Bragg for Louisiana. He was really a good deal of a soldier, with foresight and initiative force, and had the Governor had the courage to follow his bold counsels, the course of events might have been different. [Illustration: General Claiborne Jackson] 37 As early as Jan. 8 he visited the Arsenal, and had an interview with its commandant, which he reported to the Governor as entirely satisfactory. Maj. Bell was wholly in sympathy with the South, and regarded the Arsenal as being virtually Missouri's property when she should choose to demand it. His honor as a soldier would compel him to resist any attack from an irresponsible mob, but a summons from the sovereign State of Missouri would meet with the respectful obedience to which it was entitled. It was therefore decided that this was the best shape in which to leave matters. Maj. Bell would hold the Arsenal in trust against both the radical St. Louis Germans and over-zealous Secessionists, who wanted to seize it and arm their particular followers. When Gen. Frost had organized the Missouri Militia to his satisfaction, he would march into the Arsenal, and under the plea of protecting it from mobs, use its contents to thoroughly arm and equip his Militia, which would thus be put in very much better shape than the troops of any other State. Meanwhile, Gen. Frost recommended that as little as possible be said about the Arsenal, in order to avoid attracting attention to it. All the same, the Arsenal was intently watched by both sides, and for the next four months it was the great stake for which they played, since its possession would go far toward giving possession of the State. There were but 150,000 stands of arms in the rest of the South, while here were 60,000. 38 Even before South Carolina seceded the ardent young Secessionists of St. Louis had begun the organization of "Minute Men" to "protect the State." Naturally, their first step in protecting the State would be to seize the Arsenal, to prevent its arms being used to "coerce the people." Their headquarters were in the Berthold House, a fine residence at the corner of Fifth and Pine streets, over which floated the Secession flag. Into these companies went numbers of young men from the best families of the South, who had come to St. Louis to take advantage of business opportunities, and young Irishmen, of whom there were many thousands in the city, and who; having in their blood an antipathy to "the Dutch" dating from William of Orange's days, were skillfully wrought upon by the assertion that the "infidel, Sabbath-breaking, beer-drinking Dutch who had invaded St. Louis" were of the same breed as those who harried Ireland and inflicted innumerable persecutions in 1689. Very effective in this was one Brock Champion, a big-hearted, big-bodied young Irishman, of much influence among his countrymen, who played little part, however, in the war which ensued. More conspicuous later was Basil Wilson Duke, a bright Kentucky lawyer, 25 years old, who was Captain of one of the companies, and afterwards became the second in command and an inspiration to John H. Morgan, the great raider. The Captain of another company was Colton Greene, a South Carolinian, a year or two younger than Duke, a merchant, a man of delicate physique and cultivated mind, but of great courage and constancy of purpose. 39 Everywhere in the State began a systematic persecution of the Unconditional Union men and the bullying of the Conditional Union men. Secession flags in numbers floated from buildings in St. Louis, Rolla, Lexington, Jefferson City, Kansas City, and elsewhere. Union meetings were disturbed and broken up in all the larger towns, the Star Spangled Banner torn down and trampled upon, and the borders of Kansas and Iowa were thronged with Union refugees telling how they had been robbed, maltreated, and threatened with death, their stock killed, their houses and crops burned by the "White Trash" which the Slave Power had turned loose upon them. When Maj. Bell had talked of "irresponsible mobs," he may have thought of premature young fire-eaters like Duke, Greene, and Champion, eager for the distinction of capturing the Arsenal, covetous of distributing its arms to their followers. Most likely, however, he had in mind forays from Illinois, or by the radical Germans of St. Louis, who were ill disposed toward seeing their enemies equipped from its stores. Gen. Frost had the Germans in mind as early as Jan. 8, probably immediately following his interview with Maj. Bell, for he sent out a secret circular to his trusted subordinates instructing them that "upon the bells of the churches sounding a continuous peal, interrupted by a pause of five minutes, they should assemble with their men in their armories, and there await further orders." One of these circulars fell into the hands of a good Union man, who immediately took it to Frank P. Blair. It was found that it was the Catholic church bells that were relied upon to do the ringing, implying that the enthusiastic, reckless Irishmen were to take the initiative. 40 The Archbishop of St. Louis was immediately seen, to prohibit the bells of the churches being used as a tocsin to light the flames of civil war. Mr. Blair sent the circular with other information to Gen. Scott, with an urgent request that an officer of sounder loyalty supersede Maj. Bell, and that some troops be sent to Jefferson Barracks against an emergency. Mr. Montgomery Blair, brother of F. P. Blair, Jr., and soon to be Postmaster-General, Gov. Yates, of Illinois, and President-elect Lincoln supported this request. A fortnight later Maj. Bell was relieved, and assigned to duty in the East. A gallant one-armed Irish First Lieutenant of the 2d U. S., one Thomas W. Sweeny, of whom we shall hear more later, was ordered to Jefferson Barracks, where it was supposed his influence with his countrymen might offset that of Mr. Champion. A small squad of Regulars was sent him from Newport Barracks. Maj. Bell foreseeing that the Army was to be no longer a place for a quiet gentleman with business tastes, resigned his commission, to remain with his well-placed investments in St. Louis. 41 All this disturbed the Secessionists. They saw that the Government had an eye on the important Arsenal, and did not intend to give it up as tamely as it had other places in the South. The arrival of the Regulars was made the basis of inflammatory appeals that the Government was trying to "overawe and coerce the people." Two days later this "intimidation" became flagrant. Isaac H. Sturgeon, Assistant United States Treasurer at St. Louis, a Kentuckian and Secessionist, had for reasons of his own reported to President Buchanan that he was concerned about the safety of $400,000 in gold in his vaults. The President handed the letter to Gen. Scott, who sent an order to Jefferson Barracks which resulted in a Lieutenant with 40 men being sent to the Post Office Building to protect the removal of the gold. The city was thrown into the greatest excitement as the troops marched through the streets, the papers issued extras, and it required all the efforts of the officials and the leaders on both sides to preserve the peace. Gov. Claiborne Jackson took advantage of the occasion to send a message to the Legislature, in which he said that this was an "act insulting to the dignity and patriotism of the people." The gold having been removed, Gen. Harney ordered the troops back to the Arsenal, and quiet was restored. Maj. Peter B. Hagner, of the District of Columbia, who graduated from West Point in 1832, and had distinguished himself in the Mexican War, succeeded Maj. Bell in the command of the Arsenal. His sympathies were strongly with the South, but not so strongly as to overmaster his desire to retain his commission and its emoluments. He was willing to go any length in serving the Secessionists that did not involve his dismissal from the Army. He had two brothers in the service, and all three held on to their commissions until forced from their hands by the grim grasp of death. 42 Meanwhile, Lieut.-Gov. Reynolds was pushing the Legislative work to carry Missouri out of the Union. The acts which proved so successful in the other Southern States in binding the people hand and foot and dragging them over to the rebellion were closely imitated. One of these was the celebrated "Military Bill" introduced in the Senate, Jan. 5, 1861. This put every man of military age in the State into the Militia, and at the disposal of the Governor, who was given $150,000 outright to enable him to carry out his plans. It made everybody owe paramount allegiance to the State, and prescribed severe penalties, including even death, to be inflicted by drum-head court martial for "treason" to the State--for even the utterance of disrespectful words against the Governor or Legislature. This went a little too far for many of the members, and by obstinate fighting the passage of the bill was postponed from time to time and at last defeated. Another bill was generally understood as one to stamp out Republicanism in St. Louis, but officially designated as "An Act to amend an act for the suppression of riot in St. Louis City and County." This took out of the hands of the Republican Sheriff and Mayor most of their peace-preserving powers, which were given to a Board to be appointed by the Governor, thereby to tie their hands when the time came for taking the Arsenal. One of the Governor's Police Commissioners was Basil Duke, the leader of the "Minute-Men." 43 Though they had none of the noisy aggressiveness of the Secessionists, the leaders of the Unionists, during those bitterly intense Winter days, were no less able, courageous, and earnest. Blair had a masterful courage and determination not equalled by any man opposed to him. He was one of those men of mighty purpose who set their faces toward an object with the calm resolution to die rather than fail. Against the hardened steel of his relentless will the softer iron of such thrasonic Secessionists as Gov. Jackson, Lieut.-Gov. Reynolds, United States Senators James S. Green and Trusten Polk, Gen. Frost and lesser leaders, clashed without producing a dent. Blair had skill and tact equal to his courage. He foresaw every movement of his antagonists and met it with a prompt countermove. To their inflammatory rhetoric he opposed clear common sense, loyalty and wise judgment as to the future. When occasion demanded, he did not hesitate to publicly express the hope "that every traitor among them would be made to test the strength of Missouri hemp." He was swift to subordinate himself and "the Cause," when anything could be gained. There were many prominent men who wanted to save the Union, but would deny to Frank Blair the credit of it. He unhesitatingly gave them the highest places, and took the subordinate one for himself. There were tens of thousands of Whigs and Democrats who loved the Union, but shuddered at the thought of becoming Black Republicans. He abolished the Republican Party, that they might form a Union Party, the sole principle of which should be support of the Government. 44 Next to Blair was the famous "Committee of Safety," which did such high work for the Union during those fermenting days. These and their birthplaces were: O. D. Filley, New England. John How, Pennsylvania. Samuel T. Glover, Kentucky. James O. Broadhead, Virginia. J. J. Witzig, Germany. These self-denying, self-sacrificing patriots worked together with Blair in perfect harmony and with the utmost skill. They were more than a match for their Secession opponents in organization and management, and lost very few points in the great game that was played throughout the Winter, with the possession of the City, the State, and the Arsenal for the main prizes. The Committee of Safety had its Home Guards to offset the Minute Men. Where there were hundreds of these latter drilling more or less openly, with much fifing and drumming and flaunting of Secession flags, there were thousands of Home Guards meeting and training with greatest secresy in old foundries, breweries, and halls, with pickets out to prevent surprise, sawdust on the floors to drown the sound of their feet, and blankets at the windows to arrest the light and the words of command. The drill hall was only approached at night, and singly or by twos or threes, to avoid attracting attention. Most of these Home Guards were Germans, and a large proportion had had military training in Europe. The great problem with them, as with the Minute Men, was to get arms, and both sides watched the Arsenal with its 60,000 rifles and 1,500,000 cartridges with sharp covetousness. 45 The Governor of Illinois loaned the Home Guards a few arms, but it was expected that these would be repaid with interest from the stores of the Arsenal. The appointment of Maj. Hagner to the command of the Arsenal was satisfactory to the Secessionists, but there was naturally a good deal of interest as to the bias of Capt. Thomas W. Sweeny. One day a man presented himself at the west gate of the Arsenal and asked to see Capt. Sweeny. Sweeny went to the gate and recognized an old acquaintance, St. George Croghan, the son of that Lieut. Croghan who had so brilliantly defended Fort Stephenson, at Lower Sandusky, in the War of 1812, and who afterwards was for many years Inspector-General of the United States Army. Croghan's grandfather had been a gallant officer in the Revolution. It was a cold day, and Croghan wore a citizen's overcoat. On their way to the quarters, the guards properly saluted Sweeny as they passed. Said Croghan, "Sweeny, don't you think those sentinels ought to salute me--my rank is higher than yours?" at the same time throwing open his overcoat and revealing the uniform of a rebel field officer. "Not to such as that, by heavens!" responded Sweeny; and added: "If that is your business, you can have nothing to do with me. You had better not let my men see you with that thing on." Croghan assured him his business in calling was one of sincere friendship; but he would remark while on the subject, that Sweeny had better find it convenient to get out of there, and very soon, too. "Why?" asked Sweeny. Replied Croghan: "Because we intend to take it." 46 Sweeny in great excitement exclaimed: "Never! As sure as my name is Sweeny, the property in this place shall never fall into your hands. I'll blow it to hell first, and you know I am the man to do it." Nine months later this Croghan was to fall mortally wounded at the head of a cavalry regiment while attacking the Union troops near Fayetteville, W. Va., while Sweeny was to do gallant service in the Union army, rising to the rank of Brigadier-General of Volunteers, and command of a Division, and being retired in 1870 with the rank of Brigadier-General. CHAPTER III. NATHANIEL LYON'S ENTRANCE ON THE SCENE The Secessionists were in the meanwhile hardly making the headway in the Legislature that they had anticipated, in spite of the stimulating events in the extreme Southern States. A curious situation developed in the Legislature leading to the arrest for a while of Lieut.-Gov. Reynolds's plans for organizing the State for rebellion. The term of Senator James S. Green expired on the 3d of March, and he was desirous of being his own successor. The first consideration was whether Missouri was likely to stay in the Union and have a Senator. At the moment this seemed probable enough to warrant going on and electing a Senator, and the Pro-Slavery men made strenuous efforts to re-elect Mr. Green, but it was significant that he was deemed too ultra a Secessionist, and Waldo P. Johnson was elected in his stead. Among the many things in the war which turned out surprisingly different from what men had confidently expected was that Mr. Green took the selfish politician's view of the "ingratitude" of those who refused to re-elect him, sullenly retired to private life, and did not raise his hand nor his voice for the South during the war, while Mr. Johnson, who was elected because he was a better Union man, soon resigned his seat in the United States Senate, entered the Confederate army, became Lieutenant-Colonel of the 4th Mo. (Confederate), and fought till the close of the war. 48 Jan. 18, after a prolonged debate, both Houses passed a bill to call a Convention "to consider the relations of Missouri to the United States." This was the successful device which had been used in carrying other States out of the Union, and despite the conservatism of the language of the act it was hoped that it would be successful in this instance. In the Senate there were only 26 votes against it, and in the House but 18, of whom 11 were from St. Louis. The Southern Rights men regarded this as a great triumph, however, and made much jubilation throughout the State. The election for members to the Convention was fixed for Feb. 18, and the Convention was to meet on the last day of the month. This act was followed by the adoption of a joint resolution which expressed profound regret that the States of New York and Ohio had tendered men and money to the President for "the avowed purpose of coercing certain sovereign States of the South into obedience to the Federal Government," and declaring that the people of Missouri would rally to the side of their Southern brethren to "resist the invaders and to the last extremity." Only 14 votes were cast against this resolution. The main interest now centered upon the election of delegates to the Convention. New political lines ran among the people, dividing them into Secessionists, "Conditional Union" men and "Unconditional Union" men. 49 Blair's leadership was able to efface the Republican Party for the time being, and carry all of the members over to the Unconditional Unionists. The result of the election was a blow to the Secessionists, not one of whose candidates was elected. In St. Louis the Unconditional Union candidates were elected by over 5,000 majority. The bitterly-disappointed Secessionists denounced the majority as "Submissionists," and threatened all manner of things. The election occurred on the same day that Jefferson Davis was inaugurated President of the Southern Confederacy. When the State Convention met at Jefferson City, it was found that of its 99 members 53 were natives of either Virginia of Kentucky, and all but 17 had been born in Slave States. Only 13 were natives of the North, three were Germans, and one an Irishman. A struggle at once ensued for the organization of the Convention, which resulted in a victory for the Union men, ex-Gov. Sterling Price being elected President by 75 votes, to 15 cast for Nathaniel W. Watkins, a half-brother of Henry Clay, and a strenuous advocate of Southern Rights. As soon as the Convention completed its organization it adjourned to St. Louis, to avoid the badgering of the pronounced Secessionists, who constituted the State Government, and the clamorous bullying of the crowd assembled in the State Capital to influence its action. 50 On assembling at St. Louis the Convention immediately addressed itself to the duty for which it had assembled. Judge Hamilton R. Gamble, a Virginian, leader of the Unconditional Union men, and afterwards Governor of the State, as Chairman of the Committee on Federal Relations, made a long report, in which it was denied that the grievances complained of were sufficient to involve Missouri in rebellion; that in a military sense Missouri's union with the Southern Confederacy meant annihilation; that the true position of the State was to try to bring back her seceding sisters, and to this effect a Convention of all the States was recommended, to adopt the Crittenden Proposition. An attempt to amend this report by the declaration that if the Northern States refused to assent to the Crittenden Compromise Missouri would then side with her sister States of the South received only 23 votes, but among them was that of Sterling Price, who had begun to drift southward. The Convention adopted Gamble's report, and a few days afterward adjourned subject to call of the committee. The Secessionists were greatly discouraged by the result, and the Legislature also adjourned. Then came another fluctuation in public opinion. The great majority wanted peace. The attitude of the Governor and his faction, who seemed to look toward peace by putting Missouri in a state of defense to prevent the new Republican President from making war, appealed to many, and in the Spring elections the Unconditional Union men were defeated by a small majority, and St. Louis passed from their official control to that of the Conditional Union Men. 51 While these events were occupying public attention there occurred another, little noted at the time, but which was soon to be of controlling importance. Feb. 6 there marched up from the steamboat landing to the Arsenal a company of 80 Regular soldiers of the 2d U. S., from Fort Riley, Kan., at the head of which was a Captain, under the average hight, and a well knit but rather slender frame. He had a long, narrow face, with full, high forehead, keen, deep-set blue eyes, and hair and whiskers almost red. His face was thoughtful but determined, his manner quick and nervous. He bore himself towards his men as an exact and rigid disciplinarian, mingled with thoughtful kindness for all who did their duty and tried their best This was Capt. Nathaniel Lyon, born in Connecticut, descended from old Puritan stock, with the blood of Cromwell's Ironsides flowing in his veins. He was then 42 years old, and before another birthday was to fill the country with his fame, and fall in battle-face to the front. He had graduated from West Point in 1841, the 11th in his class. That his intellectual abilities were of high order is shown by his standing in that class, of which Zealous B. Tower, an eminent engineer, and brevet Major-General, U. S. A., was the head, and Horatio G. Wright, who commanded the Sixth Corps during the last and greatest year of its history, was the second. [Illustration: 010-General Lyon] Gen. John F. Reynolds, the superb commander of the First Corps and of the Right Wing of the Army of the Potomac, with which he brought on the battle of Gettysburg, where he was killed, graduated 26th in the class, and Gen. Don Carlos Buell, who organized and commanded the Army of the Ohio, graduated 32d. Gen. Robert Garnett, the first Confederate General officer to fall in the struggle,--killed July 13, 1861, at Carrick's Ford,--was the 27th in the class. Julius P. Garesche, who graduated 16th in the class, became Chief of Staff to Gen. Rosecrans, and was killed at Stone River. 52 Besides being thoroughly versed in all that related to his profession of arms, Capt. Lyon was well informed in history and general literature; was a devoted student of the Bible and Shakspere, and wrote well and forcibly. What was very rare among the officers of the old Army, he was a radical Abolitionist, and believer in the National Sovereignty. He was so outspoken in these views as to render his position quite unpleasant, where nearly every one was so antagonistic. A weaker-willed man would have been forced either out of the Army or into tacit acquiescence with the prevailing sentiment. Upon graduation he had been assigned to the 2d U. S., and sent to get his first lessons in actual war fighting the Florida Indians. There his superiors found occasion to remark that his zeal sometimes outran his discretion--not an infrequent fault of earnest young men. He had distinguished himself and received a brevet in the Mexican War for gallantry at Contreras and Churubusco, and had then been sent to California. With a slender force he was charged with the duty of keeping a long frontier in order against turbulent Indians. He accomplished this by making the Indians more afraid of him than the whites could possibly be of them. No quick retreat, no impregnable fastness, could shelter them from his inexorable pursuit. On one occasion he carried boats on wagons over a mountain range to cross a river and strike an Indian lair where the marauders were resting in the fullest sense of security. His company had next been transferred to Kansas in the midst of the political troubles there, where, while doing his official duty with strict impartiality, his sympathies were actively with the Free State settlers. 53 For 42 years he had been growing and fitting himself for a great Opportunity. For once Opportunity and the Man equal to it met. Immediately after settling his company in the Arsenal, Capt. Lyon went to the city to meet Frank P. Blair. The two strong men recognized each the other's strength, and at once came into harmonious cooperation. The fate of the Arsenal, of the City of St. Louis, and of the State of Missouri, was settled. Before Capt. Lyon arrived, the Committee of Safety had had an alarm about the Arsenal, and rallied a strong force of their Home Guards in waiting to go to the assistance of Capt. Sweeny and his 40 men, should the Minute Men attack him. But the Secessionist leaders had such confidence in Maj. Hagner that they dissuaded the impatient Basil Duke, Colton Greene, Brock Champion and other eager young Captains from making the attack. Capt. Lyon was soon reinforced. Lieut. Warren L. Lothrop, of the 4th U. S. Art., a Maine man, who had risen from the ranks, came in with 40 men. He was afterwards to succeed Frank P. Blair, jr., as Colonel of the 1st Mo. Light Art. Next came Capt. Rufus Saxton, also of the 4th Art., a Massachusetts man, later to rise to brevet Major-General of Volunteers, and to play an important part in caring for the freedmen of the South Carolina coast. 54 Still later came Capt. James Totten, of the 2d U. S. Art., with his company. He had been born in Pennsylvania, but was appointed to West Point from Virginia, and was in command of the Arsenal at Little Rock until he evacuated his post, Feb. 8, before a large force of rebels, and retired with his command to the Indian Territory, by virtue of the agreement with the Governor of the State. While Lothrop and Saxton appear to have been taken at once into the councils of Capt. Lyon, Capt. Totten does not, probably because the uncompromising Lyon did not like his methods in Arkansas. He was, however, true to his loyalty, and rose eventually to the rank of Brigadier-General. There were now in the Arsenal nine officers and 484 men. Hagner and Lyon at once came into collision. Though Hagner belonged to the Ordnance, and not therefore regarded as eligible to command troops, he secured an order assigning himself to command according to his brevet rank of Major, which made him superior to Lyon. Hagner had been five years longer in the service than Lyon, but his commission as Captain was 20 days junior to Lyon's. Lyon energetically protested against Hagner's assignment in a letter to Blair, who was then in Washington, D. C, looking out for matters at that end of the line, in which he said: 55 It is obvious that the fine stone wall inclosing our grounds affords us an excellent defense against attack, if we will take advantage of it; and for this purpose platforms should be erected for our men to stand on and fire over; and that artillery should be ready at the gates, to be run out and sweep down a hostile force; and sand-bags should be prepared and at hand to throw up a parapet to protect the parties at these pieces of artillery; inside pieces should be placed to rake the whole length, and sweep down each side a party that should get over the walls, traverses being erected to protect parties at these pieces. A pretty strong field work, with three heavy pieces, should be erected on the side toward the river, to oppose either a floating battery or one that might be established on the island; and, finally, besides our houses, every building should be mined, with a train arranged so as to blow them up successively, as occupied by the enemy. Maj. Hagner refuses, as I mentioned to you, to do any of these things, and has given his orders not to fly to the walls to repel an approach, but to let the enemy have all the advantages of the wall to lodge himself behind it, and get possession of all outside buildings overlooking us, and to get inside and under shelter of our outbuildings, which we are not to occupy before we make resistance. This is either imbecility or d----d villainy, and in contemplating the risks we run and the sacrifices we must make in case of an attack in contrast to the vigorous and effective defense we are capable of, and which, in view of the cause of our country and humanity, the disgrace and degradation to which the Government has been subject by pusillanimity and treachery, we are now called upon to make, I get myself into a most unhappy state of solicitude and irritability. With even less force and proper disposition, I am confident we can resist any force which can be brought against us; by which I mean such force as would not be overcome by our sympathizing friends outside. These needful dispositions, with proper industry, can be made in 24 hours. There cannot be, as you know, a more important occasion nor a better opportunity to strike an effective blow at this arrogant and domineering infatuation of Secessionism than here; and must this all be lost, by either false notions of duty or covert disloyalty? As I have said, Maj. Hagner has no right to the command, and, under the 62d Article of War, can only have it by a special assignment of the President, which I do not believe has been made; but that the announcement of Gen. Scott that the command belongs to Maj. Hagner is his own decision, and done in his usual sordid spirit of partisanship and favoritism to pets, and personal associates, and toadies; nor can he, even in the present straits of the country, rise above this, in earnest devotion to justice and the wants of his country. Lyon went to Gen. Harney to urge his right to command, from seniority of commission; but Harney sustained Hagner, who was in some things much more Harney's style than Lyon. Lyon thereupon appealed to President Buchanan, which meant to Gen. Scott, who, of course, sustained Hagner. Lyon was, therefore, forced to submit until Lincoln was inaugurated. 56 There was no vanity or self-seeking in this urgency of Lyon's. In the Army he was distinguished for his readiness to subordinate himself to carry out any plans which commended themselves to him. He had repeatedly offered to subordinate himself to Hagner if the latter would take what Lyon thought only the most necessary steps at that crisis for the defense of the position and stores of priceless importance. What Lyon dreaded above all things was something akin to that which had freshly occurred at Little Rock, where Capt. Totten had withdrawn from the Little Rock Arsenal with his company in the face of a large mob of Secessionists, upon a receipt by the Governor for the arms and stores, and the promise that he would account for them to the United States Government. Lyon was determined to bury himself and his men in the ruins of the Arsenal before it should pass into the hands of the Secessionists. Basil Duke, Colton Greene, and the other chafing young Captains had matured a plot with the connivance of Gen. Frost, of the Militia, probably somewhat at his instigation, which would brush aside the network of intrigue which Claiborne Jackson and others were spinning, bring matters to a focus, and in one blow crush Union sentiment, overawe the timid, fasten the wavering, seize the Arsenal and launch Missouri upon the tide of Secession with the Cotton States. 67 The police powers of the city of St. Louis had been taken away from the Mayor, Frost had his Militia in readiness, the Irish were properly worked up to a state of exasperation against the "infidel, Sabbath-breaking Dutch," and hosts of Americans were in the same net when on the day of Lincoln's inauguration the Secession flag was boldly hoisted from the roof of the Berthold Mansion, in the most prominent part of the city. At once excitement burned to fever heat. Incensed by the wanton insult, the Germans and other Unconditional Union men raged that the flag should be torn down, and crowds gathered around the Berthold Mansion for that purpose. The house had, however, been converted into an arsenal, with all the arms and ammunition that could at that time be gathered, and filled with determined men under the leadership of Duke, Greene and others, eager to precipitate a riot, under the cover of which the Irish and Americans could be hurled against the Germans, and the Arsenal seized. Blair and the Committee of Safety saw the danger of this. Their followers were not so ready for battle as the enemy was, and in conjunction with the more conservative leaders of the other side they succeeded in restraining their indignant friends from opening up a day of blood which would have been forever memorable in the history of St. Louis. Blair at once hastened back to Washington, and a few days after the Inauguration secured from the new Secretary of War an order assigning Capt. Lyon to the command of the Arsenal. This had to come through Gen. Harney's hands, and in transmitting it he informed Capt. Lyon: You shall not exercise any control over the operations of the Ordnance Department. The arrangements heretofore made for the accommodation of the troops at the Arsenal and for the defense of the place will not be disturbed without the sanction of the Commanding General. 58 This was to save Hagner's pride, as well as propitiate Gen. Harney's Secession friends in St. Louis, who were becoming very uneasy at the way the "Yankee Abolitionist" was taking hold. The dilemma into which Gen. Harney was becoming daily more involved was far more perplexing than any he had encountered in his fighting days. A question that could be settled sword in hand never had troubled him much. Alas! this could not be--not then. On the one side were the lifelong associations and habits of thought of the plain old soldier. All of his friends were Southerners and Slaveholders, as he himself was. Nearly all of the public men he knew, the officials of the State of Louisiana, which he called his home; of Missouri, which was almost equally his home, had either gone over irrevocably to Secession, or were preparing to do so. In his real home, the Army, it was almost as bad. The next Brigadier-General above him, Daniel E. Twiggs, had just surrendered all the men and property under his command to the State of Texas. The men who controlled the War Department,--Secretary Floyd, Adjutant-General Samuel Cooper, Quartermaster-General Joe E. Johnston, Assistant Adjutants-General John Withers and George Deas, had gone into the Confederate army. Robert E. Lee, Gen. Scott's prime favorite, was preparing to do so. On the other hand were the deep, ineradicable instincts of soldierly loyalty to the Flag under which he had fought for 40 years. The man who had hanged 60 men at one time in Mexico for deserting the Flag was likely to have a severe struggle before he could bring himself to do the same. He was deeply incensed at the "Black Republicans" for irritating the Southerners so that they felt compelled to secede, but did not believe that the latter should have seceded. At least, until Missouri seceded he was going to maintain, as best he could, the National authority in his Department. 59 A flashlight is thrown on his mental attitude by his reply to Lieut, (afterwards General) Schofield, when informed by him of the above-mentioned preparations for seizing the Arsenal under the cover of a riot. "A -------- outrage," he exclaimed in his usual explosive way. "Why, the State has not yet passed the Ordinance of Secession. Missouri has not gone out of the United States." The limitations placed by Gen. Harney upon Lyon's assignment to command were aggravating. Hagner commanded the buildings, the arms, ammunition, and other stores, and the strong walls surrounding the grounds. Lyon commanded merely the men. He could not draw a musket, a cannon, or a cartridge for either, not even a hammer, a spade nor an ax, without a requisition duly approved by Harney. Nor could he change a single arrangement of the grounds without Harney's approval. Lyon was almost nightly meeting with the Committee of Safety, and visiting the drill-rooms of the Home Guards, where he advised, encouraged and drilled the men. The Secessionists were extremely fearful that in some way he would manage to get the arms and ammunition, and besought Harney and Hagner to omit no precaution to prevent this. When away from his Secessionist environment, Harney's soldierly instincts asserted themselves. Lyon's vigorous, uncompromising course was far more to his mind than the dull, shifty Hagner's. 60 One was zealous in the performance of his duty, and the other a red-tape bureaucrat, whose first thought always seemed to be to clog and hamper the men in the field. Harney had suffered too much from these "office fellows" to be especially enamored of them. Therefore he had moods, when he gave Lyon a free hand, which the latter made the most of until the General's mood changed. During one of these Lyon had undermined the walls of the buildings, placed batteries, built banquettes for the men to fire over the walls, cut portholes, reinforced the weaker places with sandbags, and established a vigilant sentry system to prevent surprise. The Secessionists were equally full of plans, though not of performances. Minute Men were organizing throughout the State to rush in at the given day by every train and overwhelm St. Louis, taking the Arsenal by sheer force of numbers. Many of the Captains of the large steamboats which carried on the trade between St. Louis and New Orleans were zealous Secessionists, and mooted plans for assailing the Arsenal on the river side with cannon mounted on boats, backed up by large crowds of men. But Gov. Jackson and his coterie still relied mainly upon inciting some form of riot in the city, which would allow Gen. Frost to get possession of the Arsenal with his Militia and "protect it from violence." Once in Gen. Frost's hands--then! The Secessionists scored a point and carried dismay to the Unionists by securing an order from Gen. Scott for Capt. Lyon to attend a Court of Inquiry at Fort Leavenworth. While he was gone they might carry out their plans with comparative ease and safety. Blair, however, succeeded in getting Gen. Scott to revoke the order. 61 To find out precisely what the position of affairs inside the Arsenal was, and to spy out its defenses, a number of prominent citizens, among whom was James S. Rains, afterwards Brigadier-General in the Confederate army, calling themselves Grand Jurors for the United States District Court, presented themselves at the Arsenal and attempted an entrance. The Sergeant of the Guard held them awhile till he could communicate with Capt. Lyon, and they went away in anger. There were other officers in the Arsenal whom Lyon could trust as little as he could Maj. Hagner, but Capts. Saxton and Sweeny and Lieut. Lothrop stood firmly by him in every movement, going so far as to mutually agree that they would shoot Maj. Hagner before he should be allowed to turn over the arms to the Secessionists. The bombardment and surrender of Fort Sumter and the President's call for troops threw the country into a tumult of excitement, and changed the political relations everywhere. All over the South the Secessionists were jubilant, and those in Missouri particularly exultant. Very many of the waverers at once flocked over to the Secessionists, while others sided with the Union. To what extent this change took place was as yet unknown, nor which side had a majority. Public sympathy as voiced by the leading papers seemed to be that the Union had "been riven asunder by the mad policy of Mr. Lincoln, and that it was necessary for Missouri to take a stand with the other Border States to prevent his attempting to subjugate them." 62 Gen. Frost submitted a memorial to Governor Jackson, in which were the following recommendations: 1. Convene the General Assembly at once. 2. Send an agent to the South to procure mortars and siege guns. 3. Prevent the garrisoning of the United States Arsenal at Liberty. 4. Warn the people of Missouri "that the President has acted illegally in calling out troops, thus arrogating to himself the war-making power, and that they are therefore by no means, bound to give him aid or comfort in his attempt to subjugate by force of arms a people who are still free; but, on the contrary, should prepare themselves to maintain all their rights as citizens of Misouri." 5. Order me (Frost) to form a military camp of instruction at or near the city of St. Louis; to muster military companies into the service of the State; and to erect batteries and do all things necessary and proper to be done in order to maintain the peace, dignity, and sovereignty of the State. 6. Order Gen. Bowen to report with his command to me (Frost) for duty. He proposed to form a camp of instruction for the Militia on the river bluffs near the Arsenal, from which it could be commanded by guns and mortars to be obtained from the South when Frost with his brigade and that of Gen. John S. Bowen, who was afterwards to be a Major-General in the Confederate army and command a division at Vicksburg, with what volunteers they could obtain, would force Lyon to surrender the Arsenal and its stores. While considering these recommendations the Governor received a request from the Secretary of War for four regiments of infantry, Missouri's quota of the 75,000 men the President had called for. To this Governor Jackson replied the next day: 63 Your dispatch of the 13th instant, making a call upon Missouri for four regiments of men for immediate service, has been received. There can be, I apprehend, no doubt but these men are intended to form a part of the President's army to make war upon the people of the seceded States. Your requisition, in my judgment, is illegal, unconstitutional, and revolutionary in his objects, inhuman and diabolical, and cannot be complied with. Not one man will the State of Missouri furnish to carry on such an unholy crusade. The same day he sent Capts. Greene and Duke to Montgomery with a letter to the President of the Confederacy, requesting him to furnish the siege guns and mortars which Gen. Frost wanted, and another messenger to Virginia with a similar request. He also called the Legislature to meet at Jefferson City May 2, to take "measures to perfect the organization and equipment of the Militia and raise the money to place the State in a proper attitude for defense." He did not dare order Gen. Frost to establish his military camp of instruction in St. Louis, but he took the more prudent and strictly legal course of ordering the commanding officers of the several Militia Districts of the State to assemble their respective commands at some convenient place, and go into encampment for six days for drilling and discipline. This order authorized Gen. Frost to establish his camp wherever he pleased within the City or County of St. Louis. Gen. Bowen, who was in command of a force in the southwest to guard the State against the marauders from Kansas, was ordered to report with certain of his troops to Gen. Frost. The Arsenal at Liberty was at once seized by the Secessionists in that neighborhood, who secured several hundred muskets, four brass guns, and a large amount of powder. These proceedings of the Governor disturbed Gen. Harney greatly, and he wrote at once to Gen. Scott asking him for instructions. 64 Capt. Lyon did not ask or wait for instructions. He wrote at once to Gov. Dick Yates, of Illinois, to obtain authority to hold in readiness for service in St. Louis the six regiments which Illinois was called upon to furnish. Gov. Yates acted promptly, and received authority to send two or three regiments "to support the garrison of the St. Louis Arsenal." Lyon received orders to equip these troops, and to issue 10,000 additional stands of arms to the agent of the Governor of Illinois. Mr. Blair reached St. Louis from Washington, April 17, and at once began acting with the boldness and foresight that the situation demanded. By his advice Col. Pritchard and other Union officers of the Militia resigned. He procured from the War Department an order placing 5,000 stands of arms at the disposal of Lyon for arming "the loyal citizens"--the Home Guards--and requested orders by telegraph for Capt. Lyon to muster men into the service to fill Missouri's requisition, and to have Hagner removed. Lyon, determined not to be taken by surprise, had the streets leading to the Arsenal nightly patrolled and pickets stationed outside the walls. Gov. Jackson's Police Board complained that this was a violation of the City ordinances and in direct interference with their duties. They demanded that he should obey the law, but he refused. When they appealed to Harney, he at once ordered Lyon to quarter his men in the Arsenal and forbade him to issue arms to anyone without Harney's sanction. This brought Blair and Lyon to a parting of the ways with Harney. They demanded his removal, and April 21 Harney was removed from the command, and ordered to repair to Washington and report to the General-in-Chief. 65 On the same day Capt. Lyon was instructed to immediately execute the order previously given to "arm loyal citizens." He was also ordered to muster into the service four regiments, which the Governor had refused to furnish. As the men had long been in waiting, Lyon quickly organized the four regiments, which elected him their Brigadier-General. Some of the field officers of these regiments were notable men, and were to have brilliant careers during the war. The Colonel of the 1st Regiment was F. P. Blair, afterwards to become Major-General commanding a corps; the Lieutenant-Colonel was George L. Andrews, afterwards to be a Colonel in the Regular Army; the Major was John M. Schofield, later to be Major-General commanding the Twenty-third Corps, and still later Lieutenant-General commanding the Army of the United States. The Colonel of the 3d Regiment was Franz Sigel, afterwards Major-General commanding the Eleventh Corps and the Army of the Shenandoah. The four regiments having been filled to the maximum, there were large numbers yet demanding muster. From these a fifth regiment of Missouri Volunteers and five regiments of "United States Reserves" were formed. The most notable among the field officers of these were John McNeil, Colonel of the 3d Regiment, who afterwards became a Brigadier-General, and B. Gratz Brown, Colonel of the 4th U. S. Reserves, afterwards Vice Presidential nominee on the Greeley ticket. These additional regiments formed another brigade, and elected Capt. Sweeny their Brigadier-General. After arming these 10,000 men Lyon secured the balance of the stores from all danger of treachery or capture by transferring them to Alton, Ill.., where they would be under the guardianship of loyal men. 66 Thus, in a few, swift weeks after the inauguration of President Lincoln, Blair and Lyon, bold even to temerity, and even more sagacious than bold, had snatched away from the sanguine Secessionists the great Arsenal, with its momentous contents, which were placed at the service of the Union. More than 10,000 loyal men of Missouri were standing, arms in hand, on her soil to confront their enemies. Above all, the Government showed that it would no longer tamely submit to being throttled and stabbed, but would fight, then, there, and everywhere, for its life. 67 CHAPTER IV. THE CAPTURE OF CAMP JACKSON Up to the time that Gen. Harney was relieved and ordered to Washington, and Capt. Lyon was given a free hand, Gen. D. M. Frost's course and advice were worthy of his reputation as a resolute, far-seeing commander. With the organized military companies of his district and the Minute Men he had a good nucleus for action, and had he made a rush on the Arsenal at any of the several times that he seems to have contemplated, it would have been backed up by several thousand young Irishmen and Americans in St. Louis, as well as by tens of thousands from the country swarming in as fast as they could have gotten railroads and steamboats to carry them. Then the capture of the Arsenal would have opened the war instead of the firing on Fort Sumter. He was then, however, restrained by Gov. Jackson and his coterie, who expected to gain their ends by intrigues and manipulations which had proved so successful in the other States. After, however, Capt. Lyon had equipped some 10,000 Missourians from the Arsenal and sent most of the rest of the arms across the river into Illinois, Frost seems to have suddenly become doddering. The Rev. Henry W. Beecher used to tell a very effective story about an old house dog named Noble. Some time in the dim past Noble had found a rabbit in a hole under an apple tree. Every day ever after, for the rest of his life, Noble would go to the hole and bark industriously at it for an hour or so, with as much zeal as if he had found another rabbit there, which he never did. 68 There seemed to be something of this in Gen. Frost's carrying out his idea of establishing a camp ostensibly for the instruction of his Militia, on the hills near the Arsenal, which he did May 3. It is hard to reconcile this with any clear purpose. If he intended to assault and capture the Arsenal, the force that he gathered was absurdly inadequate, in view of what he must have known Lyon had to oppose him. Accounts differ as to the highest number he ever had assembled, but it must have been less than 2,000. His camp, which was in a beautiful grove, then in the first flush of the charms of early Springtime, was quite an attractive place for the "knightly" young Southerners who, filled with the chivalrous ideas of Sir Walter Scott's novels, then the prevalent romantic literature of the South, had made much ado before their "ladye loves" of "going off to the warres," and the aforesaid "ladye loves," decorated with Secession rosettes and the red-white-and-red colors then emblematic of Secession, followed their "true-loves" to the camp, and made Lindell Grove bright with the gaily-contrasting hues in bonnets and gowns. There were music and parades, presentations, flags and banners, dancing and feasting, and all the charming accessories of a military picnic. But some how the material for common soldiers did not flock to the Camp as the Secessionists had hoped. Possibly the stern uprising of the loyal people of the North in response to the firing upon Fort Sumter, and the mustering of solid battalions in Illinois, Iowa, and Kansas, immediately around the Missouri borders, had a repressing effect upon those who had at first thought of going with a light heart into Secession. It began to look as if there were going to be something more serious than a Fourth of July barbecue about this work of breaking up the Union. 69 Certainly, recruits had not come to Camp Jackson, which Frost had so named in honor of the Governor of the State, as they had flocked into similar camps farther South. Nor had they come in the numbers which were assembled around Lyon and Blair, appealing for arms. Still, the men in Camp Jackson had a resolute purpose, under all the frivolity and merry-making of the gay camp, and presently Capts. Colton Greene and Basil Duke returned with the cheering news that their mission to Jefferson Davis had been entirely successful. Heavy artillery would be furnished with which to batter down the walls of the Arsenal, and force the Home Guards to fight or surrender. They brought with them the following encouraging letter from the President of the Southern Confederacy: Montgomery, Ala., April 23, 1861. His Excellency C. F. Jackson, Governor of Missouri. Sir: I have the honor to acknowledge yours of the 17th Instant, borne by Capts. Greene and Duke, and have most cordially welcomed the fraternal assurances it brings. A misplaced but generous confidence has, for years past, prevented the Southern States from making the preparation required by the present emergency, and our power to supply you with ordnance is far short of the will to serve you. After learning as well as I could from the gentlemen accredited to me what was most needful for the attack on the Arsenal, I have directed that Capts. Greene and Duke should be furnished with two 12-pounder howitzers and two 32- pounder guns, with the proper ammunition for each. These, from the commanding hills, will be effective, both against the garrison and to breach the inclosing walls of the place. I concur with you as to the great importance of capturing the Arsenal and securing its supplies, rendered doubly important by the means taken to obstruct your commerce and render you unarmed victims of a hostile invasion. 70 We look anxiously and hopefully for the day when the star of Missouri shall be added to the constellation of the Confederate States of America. With best wishes, I am, very respectfully, yours, JEFFERSON DAVIS. This promise was at once made good by a letter to the Governor of Louisiana to deliver the required war material from the stores in the lately-captured arsenal at Baton Rouge. These, carefully disguised as marble, ale, and other innocent stores, were shipped upon the steamboat J. C. Swan, and consigned to a well-known Union firm in St. Louis, with private marks to identify them to the Secessionists, who, on the watch for them, had them at once loaded on drays and taken to Camp Jackson. Their movements, however, were made known to Blair and the Committee of Safety by their spies, and Capt. Lyon was urged to seize the stores upon their arrival at the wharf, but he preferred to allow them to reach their destination, where they would serve to fix the purpose of the camp upon those commanding the garrison. Lyon, who as a soldier had naturally chafed under the insulting presence on the hills of a force hardly concealing its hostility under a thin vail of professed loyalty, at once resolved upon the capture of the camp. The more cautious of the Union men tried to restrain him. They argued that the camp would expire by legal limitation within a few days. To this Lyon opposed the probability that the Legislature would pass the military bill in some form and make the camp a permanent one. 71 Then, those timorous ones insisted that the forms of the law should be employed, and that the United States Marshal, armed with a writ of replevin to recover United States property, should precede the attack upon the camp. Lyon fretted under this; The writ of replevin was a tiresome formality to men who talked of fighting and were ready to fight; furthermore, if served and recognized, Frost might put off the Marshal with some trumpery stuff of no value. Still further came the news that Harney, with Gen. Scott's assistance, had reinstated himself in favor at Washington, and would return the following Sunday. It was now Wednesday, the 8th of May. Above all, Lyon saw with a clearer insight than the strict law-abiders the immense moral effect of his contemplated action. Heretofore all the initiativeness, all the aggressiveness, all the audacity, had been on the side of the Secessionists. They were everywhere taking daring steps to the confusion and overthrow of the conservative Unionists, and so dragging with them hosts of the wavering. He longed to strike a quick, sharp blow to teach the enemies of the Government that they could no longer proceed with impunity, but must expect a return blow for every one they gave, and probably more. 72 On Wednesday evening, May 8, Capt. Lyon requested Mr. J. J. Witzig, one of the Committee of Safety, to meet him at 2 o'clock the next day with a horse and buggy. At the appointed hour Witzig went to Lyon's quarters and inquired for the "General," by which title Lyon was known after his election as Brigadier-General of the Missouri Militia. As he entered Lyon's room, Witzig saw a lady seated near the door, vailed and evidently waiting for some one. He inquired if she was waiting for the General to come in, and seating himself near the window awaited the coming of Lyon. A few minutes later the lady arose, lifted her vail, and astonished Mr. Witzig with the very unfeminine features of Lyon himself. Mrs. Alexander had loaned him the clothes, and succeeded in attiring him so that the deception was complete. Taking a couple of heavy revolvers, Gen. Lyon entered a barouche belonging to the loyal Franklin Dick, and was driven by Mr. Dick's servant leisurely out to Camp Jackson, followed by Mr. Witzig in a buggy. Lyon saw everything in the camp that he wished to see; noticed that the streets were named Davis Avenue, Beauregard Avenue, and the like; took in the lay of the ground, and returning toward the Arsenal, stopped and directed Witzig to summon the other members of the Committee of Safety to immediately meet him at the Arsenal. He stated to them, when they gathered, the necessity of at once capturing the camp, and his determination to do so and hold all in it as prisoners of war. Blair and Witzig warmly approved this; Filley and Broadhead finally acquiesced, while How and Glover were opposed to both the manner and time and wanted a writ of replevin served by the United States Marshal. If Gen. Frost refused to respect this, Lyon could then go to his assistance. 73 Lyon yielded so far as to allow Glover to get out the writ of replevin, but he was not disposed to dally long with that subterfuge, and his line of battle would not be far behind the Marshal. Even before he went out to the camp he had sent an Aid to procure 36 horses for his batteries from the leading livery stables in the city, because he feared that Maj. McKinstry, the Chief Quartermaster of the Department, could not be trusted; a doubt which seems to have been well founded, for Maj. McKinstry afterwards refused to pay for the horses until he was compelled to do so by a peremptory order from Lyon. The Secessionist spies were as vigilant and successful as those of the Unionists, and Gen. Frost was promptly informed of the designs upon him, whereupon on the morning of the fateful May 10 he dispatched Col. Bowen, his Chief of Staff, with the following letter to Gen. Lyon: Headquarters, Camp Jackson, Missouri Militia, May 10, 1861. Capt. N. Lyon, Commanding United States troops in and about St. Louis Arsenal. Sir: I am constantly in receipt of information that you contemplate an attack upon my camp. Whilst I understand you are impressed with the idea that an attack upon the Arsenal and the United States troops is intended on the part of the Militia of Missouri, I am greatly at a loss to know what could justify you in attacking: citizens of the United States, who are in the lawful performance of duties devolving upon them, under the Constitution, in organizing and instructing the Militia of the State in obedience to her laws, and therefore have been disposed to doubt the correctness of the information I have received. I would be glad to know from you personally whether there is any truth in the statements that are constantly poured into my ears. So far as regards any hostility being intended toward the United States or its property or representatives, by any portion of my command, or as far as I can learn (and I think I am fully informed) of any other part of the State forces, I can say positively that the idea has never been entertained. On the contrary, prior to your taking command of the Arsenal, I proffered to Maj. Bell, then in command of the very few troops constituting its guard, the services of myself and all my command, and, if necessary, the whole power of the State to protect the United States in the full possession of all her property. Upon Gen. Harney's taking command of this Department I made the same proffer of services to him and authorized his Adjutant-General, Capt. Williams, to communicate the fact that such had been done to the War 74 Department. I have had no occasion to change any of the views I entertained at that time, neither of my own volition nor through orders of my constitutional commander. I trust that after this explicit statement we may be able, by fully understanding each other, to keep far from our borders the misfortunes which so unhappily afflict our common country. This communication will be handed you by Col. Bowen, my Chief of Staff, who may be able to explain anything not fully set forth in the foregoing. I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, D. M. FROST, Brigadier-General, Commanding Camp Jackson, M. V. M. It is an almost impossible task for the historian to reconcile this extraordinary letter with Gen. Frost's standing as an officer and a gentleman. It certainly passes the limits of deception allowable in war, and has no place in the ethics of civil life. The camp was located where it was for the generally understood purpose of attacking the Arsenal, and this purpose had been recommended to the Governor of the State by Gen. Frost himself. Every Secessionist, North and South, understood and boasted of it. Jefferson Davis approved of this, and he sent artillery with which to attack the Arsenal, which was then in Frost's camp. Gen. Lyon refused to receive the letter. He was busily engaged in preparations to carry its answer himself. He had under arms almost his entire force. Two regiments of Home Guards were left on duty protecting the Arsenal, and to be ready for any outbreak in the city, and a majority of the Regulars were also so employed. 75 Gen. Lyon was a thorough organizer, and had his work well in hand with every one of his subordinates fully instructed as to his part. The previous military training of the Germans here came into good play, and regiments formed quickly and moved promptly. Col. Blair, with his regiment and a battalion of Regulars, marched to a position on the west of the camp. Col. Schuttner with his regiment went up Market street; Col. Sigel led his column up Olive street; Col. Brown went up Morgan street; and Col. McNeil up Clark avenue. A battery of six pieces went with a Regular battalion, at the head of which rode Gen. Lyon. The news of the movement rapidly diffused through the city; everybody was excited and eagerly expectant; and the roofs of the houses were black with people watching events. Not the least important, factor were the Secessionist belles of the city, whose lovers and brothers were in Camp Jackson, and who, with that inconsequence which is so charming in the young feminine mind, were breathlessly expectant of their young heroes each surrounding himself with a group of "Dutch myrmidons," slain by his red right hand. So admirably had Lyon planned that the heads of all his columns appeared at their designated places almost simultaneously, and Gen. Frost found his camp entirely surrounded in the most soldierly way. The six light pieces galloped into position to entirely command the camp. With a glance of satisfaction at the success of his arrangements, Gen. Lyon rode up to Sweeny, his second in command, and said: "Sweeny, if their batteries open on you, deploy your leading company as skirmishers, charge on the nearest battery, and take it." Sweeny turned to the next two companies to him, and ordered them to move their cartridge-boxes to the front, to prepare for action. Lyon then sent Maj. B. G. Farrar with the following letter to Gen. Frost: 76 Headquarters United States Troops, St. Louis, Mo., May 10, 1861. Gen. D. M. Frost, Commanding Camp Jackson. Sir: Your command is regarded as evidently hostile to the Government of the United States. It is for the most part made up of those Secessionists who have openly avowed their hostility to the General Government, and have been plotting at the seizure of its property and the overthrow of its authority. You are openly in communication with the so-called Southern Confederacy, which is now at war with the United States; and you are receiving at your camp, from said Confederacy and under its flag, large supplies of the material of war, most of which is known to be the property of the United States. These extraordinary preparations plainly indicate none other than the well-known purpose of the Governor of this State, under whose orders you are acting, and whose purpose, recently communicated to the Legislature, has just been responded to in the most unparalleled legislation, having in direct view hostilities to the General Government and cooperation with its enemies. In view of these considerations, and of your failure to disperse in obedience to the proclamation of the President, and of the eminent necessities of State policy and welfare, and the obligations imposed upon me by Instructions from Washington, it is my duty to demand, and I do hereby demand of you, an immediate surrender of your command, with no other conditions than that all persons surrendering under this demand shall be humanely and kindly treated. Believing myself prepared to enforce this demand, one-half hour's time before doing so will be allowed for your compliance therewith. Very respectfully, your obedient servant, N. LYON, Captain, 2d United States Infantry, Commanding Troops. There were a few anxious minutes following this, but it must be said to Frost's credit as a soldier that he promptly recognized the situation and acted upon it. Soon a horseman rode out from the camp, and approaching Lyon handed him the following note: 77 Camp Jackson, Mo., May 10, 1861. Capt. N. Lyon, Commanding U. S. Troops. Sir: I, never for a moment having conceived the Idea that so illegal and unconstitutional a demand as I have just received from you would be made by an officer of the United States Army, am wholly unprepared to defend my command from this unwarranted attack, and shall therefore be forced to comply with your demand. I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, D. M. FROST, Brigadier-General, Commanding Camp Jackson, Missouri Volunteer Militia. Lyon read it, turned to his second in command and remarked: "Sweeny, they surrender." Sweeny turned to his men with the order to replace their cartridge-boxes, which they did with an air of disappointment. There had been so much talk during the weeks and months of preparation about fighting and such irritating threatenings, that the Union troops were anxious to "take a fall" out of their opponents, and see what would be the result. Lyon dismounted, and unfortunately the fractious horse of one of his Aids at that instant kicked him in the stomach, knocking him senseless. While in this condition, Wm. D. Wood, Frost's Adjutant-General, rode up and inquired for Gen. Lyon. Gen. Sweeny, desiring to conceal Lyon's condition from the enemy, replied that he would receive any message intended for the General. Col. Wood then said: "Gen. Frost sends his compliments to Gen. Lyon, and wishes to know if the officers will be allowed to retain their side-arms, what disposition shall be made of Government property, and if a guard will be sent to relieve his men now on post, and take possession of everything when the camp shall be evacuated?" 78 Sweeny replied affirmatively, when Wood rode off and Sweeney returned to Lyon, to find him slowly recovering. Lyon approved of Sweeny's answer, and directed Sweeny to take possession of the camp with two companies of Regulars. Frost's men stacked arms and marched off through a lane formed by the 1st Mo., which faced inward. Up to this time everything had gone on peacefully. The surrendered Militia, without any special protest or demonstration, took their places quietly under guard. Not so with the immense mob which had gathered, expecting to see the Militia make sanguinary havoc of their assailants. These were deeply chagrined at the tame issue of the affair, and after exhausting all the vile epithets at their command, began throwing stones, brickbats, and other missiles, which the soldiers received as patiently as they did the contumely, when the bolder of the mob began firing with revolvers. Presently one of Co. F, 3d Mo., commanded by Capt. C. Blandowski, was shot dead, several severely wounded, and the Captain himself fell with a bullet through his leg. As he fell he ordered his men to fire, which resulted in about 20 of the rioters dropping under a volley from the soldiers' muskets. The mob fled in dismay, and Gen. Lyon ordered his troops to cease firing. One of the leaders of the mob had deliberately fired three times at Capt. Saxton, of the Regulars, and had laid his revolver across his arm for a fourth more deliberate shot, when one of Capt. Saxton's men bayoneted while another shot him. When the smoke cleared away, it was found that 15 had been killed. Three of these were prisoners from Camp Jackson, and two were women whose morbid curiosity, or worse, had led them to mingle with the mob, One was a child. Capt. Blandowski died of his wounds the next day. 79 At 6 o'clock the troops and prisoners marched back to the Arsenal, leaving Gen. Sweeny with his Regulars in charge of Camp Jackson. On the way rioters thronged the line of march and vilely abused the soldiers, but Lyon was vigilant in restraining his men, and prevented their making any return by firing upon their assailants. During the night and the next day the prisoners were all released, the privates taking an oath not to serve in any capacity against the Government during the war, and the officers giving a parole not to serve in any military capacity against the United States. It was provided that the parole should be returned upon anyone surrendering himself as a prisoner of war, and was accompanied with a protest against the justice of executing it. One exception, Capt. Emmett MacDonald, who had been efficient in bringing the Irishmen into opposition to the "Dutch," refused to accept the parole on the ground taken by all the others that they had done nothing wrong, and finally secured his release through a writ of habeas corpus. The excitement that night in St. Louis was fearful, with the Secessionists raging. It is to the credit, however, of James McDonough, whom Governor Jackson's Secessionist Police Commissioners had appointed Chief of Police, that, whatever his sympathies, he did not allow them to interfere with his official duties, and exerted himself to the utmost to preserve the municipal peace. The violent Secessionists started to mob the offices of the Republican papers, and to attack the residences of Union leaders, but were everywhere met by squads of police backed up by an armed force of Home Guards, which, with the appeals of the conservative men of influence on both sides, managed to stay the storm. 80 McDonough could not, however, prevent a number of outrages, and several of the Home Guards caught alone were killed by the rowdies that night and the next day--Saturday. This incensed the Germans terribly, and stories reached the Secession parts of the city that they contemplated fearful revenge, which they could wreak, having arms in their own hands, while the "natural protectors" of the people--Frost's military companies--were prisoners of war and disarmed. The Mayor issued a proclamation to quiet the people, and requested all keepers of drinking places to at once close and remain closed during the excitement. All minors were ordered to remain in doors for three days, and all good citizens were requested to remain in doors after nightfall and to avoid gatherings and meetings. As was usual, a good many people who meant no evil obeyed this proclamation, while the mobites, who meant a great deal of harm, paid no attention to it. Saturday afternoon, the 5th Regiment of United States Reserves, under the command of Lieut-Col. Robert White, attempted to go to their barracks, when they were assailed by a mob with stones, brickbats and pistol shots. The patience of the soldiers finally gave way, and they fired into the crowd, killing several persons--and wounding many others. 81 [Illustration: General John C. Fremont] Sunday the Secessionists were in a panic, and began a wild flight from the city. Every vehicle that could be obtained was employed at exorbitant prices to carry men, women and children, baggage and personal effects, to the depots and wharves, where the railroads and steamboats were ready to receive them. The Mayor attempted to stay the stampede by a speech at the Planters' House, in which he assured the people that the Home Guards were entirely under the control of their officers, and would only be used to preserve the peace and protect property. What was more effective was the news that Gen. Harney, hurrying back from Washington, had arrived the preceding evening and resumed command. Harney had reached the city on Saturday evening, May 11, and Sunday morning called at the Arsenal on Col. Blair, not Gen. Lyon, whom he informed of his intentions to remove the Home Guards from the Arsenal and disband them. Blair succeeded in convincing him that this was beyond his authority, and did not hesitate to say that his attempt to do so would be resisted. Being convinced, Harney sent a messenger to the Board of Police Commissioners, who were anxiously awaiting the result of his visit, to the effect that he had "no control over the Home Guards," which was intended to mean that he could not remove or disband them, but which the Commissioners and the people understood to mean that he had lost control over them. 82 The panic at once resumed its former proportions, and Gen. Harney found it necessary to issue a proclamation, in which he said that the public peace must and would be preserved, and the lives and property of the people protected, but he trusted that he would not be compelled to resort to martial law. He would avoid all cause of irritation and excitement whenever called upon to aid the local authorities by using in preference the Regular troops. Therefore he began by restricting the Home Guards to the German parts of the city, while he moved about 250 Regulars, under the command of Capts. Totten and Sweeny and Lieuts. Saxton and Lothrop, with four pieces of artillery, into a central position, where they went into quarters, to the great relief of everybody. It will be perceived that a remarkable change had come over the people since a few weeks before, when the arrival of a little squad of Regulars at the Sub-Treasury to protect its gold had thrown the city in the wildest excitement over "the attempt to overawe and cow the people of Missouri." Confidence was restored, and quiet ensued. Gen. Frost lodged a protest with Gen. Harney, in which he recited the circumstances of Lyon's attack upon him, claimed that every officer and soldier in his command had taken, with uplifted hand, the following oath: You, each and every one of you, do solemnly swear that you will honestly and faithfully serve the State of Missouri against her enemies, and that you will do your utmost to sustain the Constitution and laws of the United States and of this State against all violence, of whatsoever kind or description, and you do further swear that you will well and truly execute and obey the legal orders of all officers properly placed over you whilst on duty; so help you God. A casual inspection shows how cunningly this was framed. It will be perceived that every one solemnly swore to "serve the State of Missouri against all her enemies," and to "obey the orders of the officers" placed over him, while he was merely enjoined to do his utmost to sustain the Constitution and laws of the United States and this State against all violence. 83 It is easy to see how such an obligation would be construed. Gen. Frost recited again that he had offered to help Gen. Lyon protect the United States property with his whole force, and if necessary with that of Missouri, and appealed to Gen. Harney not to require the indignity of a parole, but to order the restoration of all the officers and men to liberty, and of all the property of the State and of private individuals. The language of this protest did as little to enhance the reputation of Gen. Frost as his letter to Gen. Lyon. It was an intense disappointment to the Secessionists everywhere that he made no show of a fight before surrendering. It would have been the greatest satisfaction to all of them had he chosen to make Camp Jackson a Thermopylae or an Alamo. Such a sacrifice would have been of priceless worth in firing the Southern heart, and placing him high among the world's heroes. Somehow the idea of martyrdom did not appeal to him, as it has not to millions of other men placed in critical positions. The wonder to the calm student of history is that, having made such a bold bluff at Lyon, he did not "fill his hand" better, to use a sporting phrase, and prevent Lyon from "calling" him so effectually. The frost which was in his name settled on this "young Napoleon" thereafter--the country was filled with young Napoleons at that time--and though he commanded a brigade in the Confederate army for some two years or more, his name is only "mentioned" afterward in the Rebellion Records. 84 Lyon's decisive act did not meet with the unanimous approval of the Union men of the State. There began then that unhappy division between the "Conservative Union men" and the "Radicals" which led to so many collisions, and sorely distracted President Lincoln. The "Radicals" who fell under the lead of F. P. Blair, and had their representative in the Cabinet at Washington in the shape of Montgomery Blair, the Postmaster-General, dubbed their opponents "Claybanks," while the latter, whose representative in the Cabinet was Edward Bates, the Attorney-General, tainted with the name of "Charcoals" their opponents. The "Conservatives," who represented a very large portion of the wealth and education of the State, had for leaders such men as Hamilton R. Gamble, Robert Campbell, James E. Yeatman, H. S. Turner, Washington King, N. J. Eaton, and James H. Lucas. They at once sent a delegation to Washington to represent to Mr. Lincoln that Lyon, while undoubtedly "a loyal and brave soldier," was "rash," "imprudent," and "indiscreet." This representation carried great weight, for they were all men of the highest character and standing, and at their instance Gen. Harney was pushed further to the front again. The "Old Dragoon" now asserted itself in Harney, as it was likely to when there was the smell of gunpowder in the air. Lyon's course was, in spite of the intense influence of Harney's Secession convives, very much to the taste of the old fighter. He wrote to Gen. Scott that he approved Lyon's action, and replied to the Judge in the habeas corpus writ of Capt. McDonald, that the man had been properly arrested. May 14 he issued a proclamation in which he said: 85 It is with regret that I feel it my duty to call your attention to the recent act of the General Assembly of Missouri, known as the "Military Bill," which is the result, no doubt, of the temporary excitement that now pervades the public mind. This bill cannot be regarded in any other light than an indirect Secession ordinance, Ignoring even the form resorted to by other States. Manifestly, its most material provisions are in conflict with the Constitution and laws of the United States. To this extent it is a nullity, and cannot and ought not to be upheld or regarded by the good citizens of Missouri. There are obligations and duties resting upon the people of Missouri under the Constitution and laws of the United States which are paramount, and which I trust you will carefully consider and weigh well before you will allow yourselves to be carried out of the Union under the form of yielding obedience to this military bill, which is clearly in violation of your duties as citizens of the United States. It must be apparent to every one who has taken a proper and unbiased view of the subject that, whatever may be the termination of the unfortunate condition of things in respect to the so-called Cotton States, Missouri must share the destiny of the Union. Her geographical position, her soil, productions, and, in short, all her material interests, point to this result. We cannot shut our eyes against this controlling fact. It is seen and its force is felt throughout the Nation. So important is this regarded to the great interests of the country, that I venture to express the opinion that the whole power of the Government of the United States, if necessary, will be exerted to maintain Missouri in her present position in the Union. I express to you, in all frankness and sincerity, my own deliberate convictions, without assuming to speak for the Government of the United States, whose authority here and elsewhere I shall at all times and under all circumstances endeavor faithfully to uphold. I desire above all things most earnestly to invite my fellow-citizens dispassionately to consider their true interests as well as their true relations to the Government under which we live and to which we owe so much. In this connection I desire to direct attention to one subject which, no doubt, will be made the pretext for more or less popular excitement. I allude to the recent transactions at Camp Jackson, near St. Louis. It is not proper for me to comment upon the official conduct of my predecessor in command of this Department, but it is right and proper for the people of Missouri to know that the main avenue of Camp Jackson, recently under the command of Gen. Frost, had the name of Davis; and a principal street of the same camp that of Beauregard, and that a body of men had been received into that camp by its commander which had been notoriously organized in the interests of the Secessionists, the men openly wearing the dress and badge distinguishing the Army of the so-called Southern Confederacy. It is also a notorious fact that a quantity of arms had been received into the camp which were unlawfully taken from the United States Arsenal at Baton Rouge, and surreptitiously passed up the river in boxes marked "Marble." 86 Upon facts like these, and having in view what occurred at Liberty, the people can draw their own inferences, and it cannot be difficult for any one to arrive at a correct conclusion as to the character and ultimate purpose of that encampment. No Government in the world would be entitled to respect that would tolerate for a moment such openly treasonable preparations. It is but simple justice, however, that I should state the fact that there were many good and loyal men in the camp who were in no manner responsible for its treasonable character. Disclaiming as I do all desire or intention to interfere in any way with the prerogatives of the State of Missouri or with the functions of its executive or other authorities, yet I regard it as my plain path of duty to express to the people, In respectful but at the same time decided language, that within the field and scope of my command and authority the "supreme law" of the land must and shall be maintained, and no subterfuges, whether in the forms of legislative acts or otherwise, can be permitted to harass or oppress the good and law-abiding people of Missouri. I shall exert my authority to protect their persons and property from violations of every kind, and shall deem it my duty to suppress all unlawful combinations of men, whether formed under pretext of military organizations or otherwise. WM. S. HARNEY. Brigadier-General, United States Army, Commanding. These were certainly "brave words, my masters," and had great influence upon the people of Missouri. Unhappily there was reason to think afterwards that Gen. Harney was not quite living up to them. When the account of stock of the capture of Camp Jackson came to be taken, the invoice was as follows: Three 32-pounders. Three mortar-beds. A large quantity of balls and bombs in ale barrels. Artillery pieces, in boxes of heavy plank, the boxes marked "Marble," "Tamaroa, care of Greeley & Gale, St Louis--Iron Mountain Railroad." Twelve hundred rifles, of late model, United States manufacture. Tents and camp equipage. Six brass field pieces. Twenty-five kegs of powder. Ninety-six 10-Inch bombshells. Three hundred six-inch bombshells. .. 87 Six brass mortars, six inches diameter. One iron mortar, 10 inches. Three iron cannon, six inches. Five boxes of canister shot. Fifty artillery swords. Two hundred and twenty-seven spades. Thirty-eight hatchets. Eleven mallets. One hundred and ninety-one axes. Forty horses. Several boxes of new muskets. A very large number of musket stocks and musket barrels; together with lots of bayonets, bayonet scabbards, etc. One thousand one hundred and ten enlisted men were taken prisoners, besides from 50 to 75 officers. Nothing legislates so firmly and finally as a successful sword-blow for the right. Gen. Lyon's capture of Camp Jackson was an epoch-making incident. In spite of the protests of the wealthy and respectable Messrs. Gamble, Yeatman, and others, it was the right thing, done at the right time, to stay the surging sweep of the waves of Secession. It destroyed the captivating aggressiveness of the "Disunionists," and threw their leaders upon the defensive. Other people than they had wants and desires which must be listened to, or the Loyalists would find a way to compel attention. The Secessionists must now plead at their bar; not they in the court of those who would destroy the Government. 88 [Illustration: 088-The Scott-Harney Agreement] CHAPTER V. THE SCOTT-HARNEY AGREEMENT The General Assembly of Missouri met at Jefferson City, in obedience to the Governor's call, on the 2d of May, and the Governor, after calling attention of the body to the state of the country, made an out-and-out appeal for Secession, saying that the interests and sympathies of Missouri were identical with those of other Slaveholding States, and she must unquestionably unite her destiny with theirs. She had no desire for war, but she would be faithless as to her honor and recreant as to her duty if she hesitated a moment to make complete preparations for the protection of her people, and that therefore the Legislature should "place the State at the earliest practicable moment in a complete state of defense." As this is what the Legislature had expected, and what it had met for, no time was lost in going into secret session to carry out the program. 89 The first of these was the odious Military Bill, the passage of which was stubbornly resisted, step by step, by the small band of Union men. This, it will be recollected, put every able-bodied man into the Militia of Missouri, under the orders of officers to be appointed by the Governor; compelled him to obey implicitly the orders received from those above him, and prescribed the heinous crime of "treason to the State," which extended even to words spoken in derogation of the Governor or Legislature. Offenses of this kind were to be punished by summary court-martial, which had even the power to inflict death. Other bills perverted the funds for the State charitable institutions into the State military chest, seized the school fund for the same purpose, and authorized a loan from the banks of $1,000,000 and another of $1,000,000 of State bonds, to provide funds by which to carry out the program. On the evening of Friday, May 10, while these measures were being fought over, the Governor entered the House with a dispatch which he handed to Representative Vest, afterwards United States Senator from Missouri, who sprang upon a chair and thrilled all his hearers by reading that "Frank Blair, Capt. Lyon and the Dutch" had captured Camp Jackson, seized all the property there, and marched the State troops prisoners to the Arsenal. The wild scene that followed is simply indescribable. For many months there had been much talk about "firing the Southern heart," and here was something of immediate and furnace heat. As soon as the members recovered from the stun of the blow, they went into paroxysms of passion. In a few minutes the Military Bill was rushed through, followed by the others, and a new one to appropriate $10,000 for the purpose of securing an alliance with the Indians on the borders of the State. This done, the members bolted out in search of weapons with which to arm themselves, as there was a rumor that the awful Blair and Lyon with their "mercenaries" were on the march to subject the Legislature to the same treatment that they had Frost's Militia. 90 Muskets, shotguns, rifles, pistols and pikes were brought out, cleaned up, bullets molded and cartridges made, and the Governor ordered the members of his staff to seize a locomotive and press on as fast as possible towards St. Louis to reconnoiter the advance of the enemy; if necessary, to destroy the bridges over the Gasconade and Osage Rivers to obstruct the march. No enemy was found, but the zealous Basil Duke, in order not to be guilty of any sin of omission, burnt a part of the Osage bridge. The meeting of the Legislature in the evening was grotesque, as every member came with a more or less liberal supply of arms, usually including a couple of revolvers and a bowie-knife in belt. During the exciting session which followed, rifles stood by the desks or were laid across them, with other arms, and it was good luck more than anything else that no casualty resulted from accidental discharge of fire-arms. The excitement grew over the stirring events in St. Louis of Saturday and Sunday, and the Governor immediately proceeded to the exercise of the extraordinary powers conferred upon him by the Military Bill. 91 As the star of Gen. D. M. Frost sank ingloriously below the horizon of Camp Jackson, that of Sterling Price rose above it to remain for four years the principal luminary in the Confederate firmament west of the Mississippi. [Illustration: 038-General Sterling Price] That does not seem to depend upon intellectual superiority, upon greater courage or devotion, or even upon clearer insight. A man leads his fellows--many of whom are his superiors in most namable qualities--simply because of something unnamable in him that makes him assume the leadership, and they accept it. There was hardly a prominent man in Missouri who was not Price's superior in some quality usually regarded as essential. For example, he was a pleasing and popular speaker, but Missouri abounded in men much more attractive to public assemblages. He was a fair politician, but rarely got more than the second prize. He had distinguished himself in the Mexican War, but Claiborne Jackson made more capital out of his few weeks of inconsequential service in the Black Hawk War than Price did out of the conquest of New Mexico and the capture of Chihuahua. He served one term in Congress, but had failed to secure a renomination. He had been elected Governor of Missouri while his Mexican laurels were yet green, but when he tried to enter the Senate, he was easily defeated by that able politician and orator, James S. Green. Though he belonged to the dominant Anti-Benton faction of the Missouri Democracy and the Stephen A. Douglas wing, he never was admitted to the select inner council, nor secured any of its higher rewards, except one term as Governor. At the outbreak of the war he was holding the comparatively unimportant place of Bank Commissioner. For all that, he was to become and remain throughout the struggle the central figure of Secession in the trans-Mississippi country. 92 Officers of high rank and brilliant reputation like Ben McCulloch, Earl Van Dorn, Richard Taylor and E. Kirby Smith were to be put over him, yet his fame and influence outshone them all. Unquestionably able soldiers such as Marmaduke, Shelby, Bowen, Jeff Thompson, Parsons, M. L. Clark and Little, were to serve him with unfaltering loyalty as subordinates. The Secessionist leaders of Missouri, headed by Gov. Reynolds, were to denounce him for drunkenness, crass incapacity, gross blundering, and a most shocking lack of discipline and organization. Very few commanding officers ever had so many defeats or so few successes. He was continually embarking upon enterprises of the greatest promise and almost as continually having them come to naught; generally through defeats inflicted by Union commanders of no special reputation. Yet from first to last his was a name to conjure with. No other than his in the South had the spell in it for Missourians and the people west of the Mississippi. They flocked to his standard wherever it was raised, and after three years of failures they followed him with as much eager hope in his last disastrous campaign as in the first, and when he died in St. Louis, two years after the war, his death was regretted as a calamity to the State, and he had the largest funeral of any man in the history of Missouri. 93 Sterling Price was born in 1809 in Prince Edward County, Va., of a family of no special prominence, and in 1831 settled upon a farm in Chariton County, Mo. He went into politics, was elected to the Legislature, and then to Congress for one term, after which he commanded a Missouri regiment in Doniphan's famous march to the Southwest, where he showed great vigor and ability. He was a man of the finest physique and presence, six feet two inches high, with small hands and feet and unusually large body and limbs; a superb horseman; with a broad, bland, kindly face framed in snow-white hair and beard. His name would indicate Welsh origin, but his face, figure, and mental habits seemed rather Teutonic. He had a voice of much sweetness and strength, and a paternal way of addressing his men, who speedily gave him the sobriquet of "Pap Price." He appeared on the field in a straw hat and linen duster in the Summer, and with a blanket thrown over his shoulders and a tall hat in Winter. These became standards which the Missourians followed into the thick of the fight, as the French did the white plume of Henry of Navarre. He had been elected as a Union man to the Convention, which at once chose him for President, but his Unionism seemed to be a mere varnish easily scratched off by any act in favor of the Union. Thus, immediately after the occurrences in St. Louis, he went to the Governor with the remark that "the slaughter of the people of Missouri" in St. Louis had proved too much for him, and his sword was at the service of the State. 94 It is significant of the way men were swayed in those days, that the murder of the German volunteers patriotically rallying to the defense of the Arsenal, and the murder and outrages upon the Union people throughout the State, did not affect Gen. Price at all, but he was moved to wrath by the shooting down of a few rioters. His going over was welcomed as a great victory by the Secessionists, offsetting the capture of Camp Jackson. Gov. Jackson promptly availed himself of the offer, and at once appointed Gen. Price Major-General in command of the forces of Missouri to be organized under the Military Bill. Though even to Gen. Harney's eyes the Military Bill was repugnant and he denounced it as direct Secession, the Governor proceeded with all speed to execute it. Each Congressional District in the State was made a Military Division. A Brigadier-General was appointed to the command of each, and ordered to immediately proceed to the enrollment of the men in it who were fit for military duty, and to prepare them for active service. The able and witty Alexander W. Doniphan--"Xenophon" Doniphan of Mexican fame--who had made the astonishing march upon New Mexico and Chihuahua, was appointed to command one of the Divisions, but he was too much of a Union man, and declined. It was significant from the first that all the officers commissioned were more or less open Secessionists, and commissions were refused to some who sought them because they would not swear to make allegiance to Missouri paramount to that of the United States. 95 As finally arranged the Divisions were commanded as follows: First Division, M. Jeff Thompson. Second Division, Thos. A. Harris. Third Division, M. L. Clark. Fourth Division, Wm. Y. Slack. Fifth Division, A. E. Steen. Sixth Division, M. M. Parsons. Seventh Division, J. H. McBride. Eighth Division, Jas L. Rains. All of these were men of decided ability and standing, and Parsons, M. L. Clark and Slack had served with credit in the Mexican War. Parsons became a Major-General in the Confederate army, and Clark, Slack, Steen and Rains Brigadier-Generals. A striking figure among them was M. Jeff Thompson, called the "Missouri Swamp Fox" by his admirers, and who aspired to become the Francis Marion of the Southern Confederacy. He was a tall, lank, wiry man, at least six feet high, about 35 years old, with a thin, long, hatchet face, and high, sharp nose, blue eyes, and thick, yellow hair combed behind his ears. He wore a slouch white hat with feather and a bob-tailed coat, short pantaloons, and high rough boots. A white-handled bowie-knife, stuck perpendicularly in his belt in the middle of his back, completed his armament, and he was never seen without it. His weakness was for writing poetry, and he "threw" a poem on the slightest provocation. Fortunately none of these has been preserved. 96 Each Brigadier-General soon raised in his Division several regiments and battalions of infantry, troops of cavalry, and batteries of artillery, composed of very excellent material, for the young men of the Middle Class were persuaded that it was their duty to respond to the State's call to defend her. The strongest political, social and local influences were brought to bear to bring them into the ranks, and the Missouri State Guard was formed, which was to fight valorously against the Government on many bitterly contested fields. The White Trash, always impatient of the restrains of law and organization, did not enter so largely into these forces, but remained outside, to form bands of bushwhackers and guerrillas, to harry Union men and curse the State with their depredations, in which the Secessionists were scarcely more favored than the Union men. The influence of Gen. Scott and Attorney-General Bates, added to the passionate representations of the Gamble-Yeatman delegation, and the frantic telegrams from Missouri, had restored Harney to full power, with Lyon, who had been commissioned a Brigadier-General of Volunteers, as his subordinate. Harney was exerting himself to the utmost to restore peace and confidence in Missouri, and when free from the social influence of the Secessionists who surrounded him his soldierly instincts made him perceive that the emergency was greater than he had calculated upon. In one of these better moods he telegraphed to the Adjutant-General, May 17, that he ought to have 10,000 stand of arms placed at his disposal to arm the Union men of Missouri; that Iowa be called upon to send him 6,000, and Minnesota 3,000 men. Then the Secessionists would get hold of him again, and induce another mood, such as brought about a conference between him and Gov. Jackson and Gen. Price, leading to an agreement which Gen. Harney published in a proclamation. The agreement was as follows: [Illustration: 090-General Franz Sigel] 97 Saint Louis, May 21, 1861. The undersigned, officers of the United States Government and of the Government of the State of Missouri, for the purpose of removing misapprehensions and allaying public excitement, deem it proper to declare publicly that they have this day had a personal interview in this city, in which it has been mutually understood, without the semblance of dissent on either part, that each of them has no other than a common object equally interesting and important to every citizen of Missouri--that of restoring peace and good order to the people of the State in subordination to the laws of the General and State Governments. It being thus understood, there seems no reason why every citizen should not confide in the proper officers of the General and State Governments to restore quiet, and, as among the best means of offering no counter-influences, we mutually recommend to all persons to respect each other's rights throughout the State, making no attempt to exercise unauthorized powers, as it is the determination of the proper authorities to suppress all unlawful proceedings, which can only disturb the public peace. Gen. Price, having by commission full authority over the Militia of the State of Missouri, undertakes, with the sanction of the Governor of the State, already declared, to direct the whole power of the State officers to maintain order within the State among the people thereof, and Gen. Harney publicly declares that, this object being thus assured, he can have no other occasion, as he has no wish, to make military movements, which might otherwise create excitements and jealousies which he most earnestly desires to avoid. We, the undersigned, do mutually enjoin upon the people of the State to attend to their civil business of whatever sort it may be, and it is to be hoped that the unquiet elements which have threatened so seriously to disturb the public peace may soon subside and be remembered only to be deplored. STERLING PRICE, Major-General Missouri State Guard. WILLIAM S. HARNEY, Brigadier-General Commanding. Harney was convinced of the sincerity of Jackson and Price in carrying out this agreement, which he submitted for approval to the War Department. 98 F. P. Blair wrote to the Secretary of War urging that the four regiments assigned to Missouri for three years' service, which Lyon was to command, should not be officered by the Governor of Missouri, but that it would be better that they be nominated by Gen. Lyon, subject to the approval of the President, and he said: "The agreement between Harney and Gen. Price gives me great disgust and dissatisfaction to the Union men; but I am in hopes we can get along with it, and think that Harney will insist on its execution to the fullest extent, in which case it will be satisfactory." In spite of Gen. Harney's faith, he was inundated with complaints from all parts of the State as to loyal citizens in great numbers being outraged, persecuted, and driven from their homes. These complaints also reached the President, and Adjutant-General Thomas called Gen. Harney's attention to them in a strong letter May 27, in which he said: "The professions of loyalty to the Union by the State authorities of Missouri are not to be relied upon. They have already falsified their professions too often, and are too far committed to Secession to be entitled to your confidence, and you can only be sure of desisting from their wicked purposes when it is out of their power to prosecute them." 99 Two days later Gen. Harney replied that the State was rapidly becoming tranquilized; that he was convinced that his policy would soon restore peace and confidence in the ability of the Government to maintain its authority. He asserted that the agreement between himself and Price was being carried out in good faith. At the same time he called the attention of Gen. Price to the reports that the Secessionists had seized 15,000 pounds of lead at Lebanon, a lot of powder elsewhere, had torn down the American Flag from several post offices, and hoisted Secessionist flags in their places, and that troops and arms were coming into Missouri from Arkansas and elsewhere, etc., etc. Price replied that he was satisfied that the information was incorrect; that neither he nor the Governor knew of any arms or troops coming into the State from any quarter; that he was dismissing his troops, and that Gen. Harney had better not send out any force, as it would exasperate the people. Again Gen. Harney wrote Gen. Price reciting fresh acts of disloyalty and outrage, and saying that unless these ceased, he would feel justified in authorizing the organization of Home Guards among the Union men to protect themselves. Price replied at length opposing the organization of Home Guards as having a tendency to "excite those who now hold conservative peace positions into exactly the contrary attitude, an example of which we have in St. Louis. It would undoubtedly, in my opinion, lead to neighborhood collision, the forerunner of civil war." Price finished by calling attention to his orders to all citizens to scrupulously protect property and rights, irrespective of political opinion, denying the reports which had reached Gen. Harney, and reiterating that he was carrying out the agreement in good faith. 100 Lyon, Blair and the other Unconditional Union leaders had become convinced of what they feared; to wit, that the agreement simply tied Harney's hands, and prevented any assertion of the Government's power to protect its citizens, while leaving the Secessionists free to do as they pleased and mature their organization until they were ready to attack the Union men and sweep the State into Secession. In spite of Gen. Scott and Attorney-General Bates, the Administration at Washington was rapidly coming to this conclusion, and sent a special messenger to St. Louis from Washington with dispatches to Col. Blair. In an envelope was found a notice from the War Department to Capt. Lyon that he had been appointed a Brigadier-General to rank from the 18th of May, and there was also an order relieving Gen. Harney from the command of the Department of the West, and granting him leave of absence until further orders. There was a private letter to Col. Blair in the handwriting of President Lincoln, in which he expressed his anxiety in regard to St. Louis and Gen. Harney's course. He was, however, a little in doubt as to the propriety of relieving him, but asked Col. Blair to hold the order until such time as in his judgment the necessity for such action became urgent. This for several reasons: We had better have him for a friend than an enemy. It will dissatisfy a good many who would otherwise remain quiet. More than all, we first relieved him, then restored him; now If we relieve him again the public will ask: "Why all this vacillation?" Col. Blair fully understood and sympathized with the President. He put the letter and order in his pocket and talked confidentially to Lyon in regard to it. They decided not to publish the order until it would be wicked to delay it. They both liked and admired Harney, and if he could be decisively separated from his Secession environment, he could be of the greatest possible value. They would give him the opportunity of thoroughly testing his policy. 101 Blair tried his best to arouse Gen. Harney to a sense of what was going on, and particularly to demand suspension of the execution of the Military Bill, but without effect. He sent to Gen. Harney telegrams and correspondence, showing that the Brigadier-Generals were rapidly organizing their forces, that emissaries were stirring up the Indians, and that Chief Ross, of the Cherokee Nation, had promised 15,000 well-armed men to help the Secessionists. When Harney called Price's attention to this, Price calmly pooh-poohed it all as of no consequence. Therefore, on May 30, Blair decided that the emergency for the delivery of the order had come, and sent it to Gen. Harney, and at the same time wrote to the President in explanation of what he had done. Gen. Harney wrote the Adjutant-General of the Army a pathetic letter, in which he said: My confidence in the honor and integrity of Gen. Price, in the purity of his motives, and in his loyalty to the Government, remains unimpaired. His course as President of the State Convention that voted by a large majority against submitting an Ordinance of Secession, and his efforts since that time to calm the elements of discord, have served to confirm the high opinion of him I have for many years entertained. My whole course as Commander of the Department of the West has been dictated by a desire to carry out in good faith the instructions of my Government, regardless of the clamor of the conflicting elements surrounding me, and whose advice and dictation could not be followed without involving the State in blood and the Government in the unnecessary expenditure of millions. Under the course I pursued Missouri was secured to the Union, and the triumph of the Government was only the more glorious, being almost a bloodless victory; but those who clamored for blood have not ceased to impugn my motives. Twice within a brief space of time have I been relieved from the command here; the second time in a manner that has inflicted unmerited disgrace upon a true and loyal soldier. During a long life, dedicated to my country, I have seen some service, and more than once I have held her honor in my hands; and during that time my loyalty, 102 I believe, was never questioned; and now, when in the natural course of things I shall, before the lapse of many years, lay aside the sword which has so long served my country, my countrymen will be slow to believe that I have chosen this portion of my career to damn with treason my life, which is so soon to become a record of the past, and which I shall most willingly leave to the unbiased judgment of posterity. I trust that I may yet be spared to do my country some further service that will testify to the love I bear her, and that the vigor of my arm may never relax while there is a blow to be struck in her defense. I respectfully ask to be assigned to the command of the Department of California, and I doubt not the present commander of the Division is even now anxious to serve on the Atlantic frontier. I am, sir, very respectfully, your obedient servant, WM. S. HARNEY, Brigadier-General, U. S. Army. He started for Washington, but the train on which he was going was captured at Harper's Ferry by a Secession force, and he was taken a prisoner to Richmond, where the authorities immediately ordered his release. The Government made no further use of him; he was retired in 1863 as a Brigadier-General. At the conclusion of the struggle, in which he took no further part, he was brevetted a Major-General, and died in the fullness of years May 9,1889, at his home at Pass Christian, Miss. Once more Gen. Lyon was in the saddle, this time for good, with Frank Blair and the Radicals massed behind him. 103 CHAPTER VI. THE LAST WORD BEFORE THE BLOW Brig.-Gen. Nathaniel Lyon was now in full command, not only of the City of St. Louis and the State of Missouri, but of all the vast territory lying between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains, except Texas, New Mexico, and Utah. His sudden elevation from a simple Captain heading a company to wide command did not for an instant dizzy him as it seemed to McClellan and Fremont, who had made similar leaps in rank. Where McClellan surrounded himself with all the pomp and circumstance of glorious war as he had seen it exemplified by officers of his rank in Europe, where he was followed at all times by a numerous and glittering staff, resplendent with military millinery; and where Fremont set up a vice-regal court, in which were heard nearly all the tongues of the Continent, spoken by pretentious adventurers who claimed service in substantially every war since those of Napoleon, and under every possible flag raised in those wars, Lyon did not change a particle from the plain, straightforward, earnest soldier he had always been. His common dress was the private soldier's blouse with the single star of his rank, and a slouch hat. He was accoutered for the real work of war, not its spectacular effects. Grant was not simpler than he. Dominated by a great purpose, he made himself and every one and every thing about him tend directly towards that focus. He had only enough of a staff to do the necessary work, and they must be plain, matter-of-fact soldiers like himself, devoting their energies through all their waking hours to the cause he had at heart. 104 His first Chief of Staff was Chester Harding, a Massachusetts man, a thoroughgoing, practical, businesslike Yankee, animated by intense love of the Union. He preferred, however, service in the field, and became Colonel of the 10th Mo., then of the 25th, and later of the 43d Mo., doing good service wherever placed, and receiving at the last a well-earned brevet as Brigadier-General of Volunteers. While Gen. Lyon was organizing the Home Guards into volunteer regiments at the Arsenal, there came to his assistance a rather stockily-built First Lieutenant of the Regular Army, who was in the prime of manhood, with broad, full face and well-developed and increasing baldness, a graduate of West Point, and of some eight years' experience in the military establishment. John McAllister Schofield was born in Illinois, the son of an itinerant Baptist preacher, who mainly devoted himself to the cause of church extension. Schofield's name would indicate Germanic extraction. His face and figure supports the same theory, as do most of his mental habits. The McAllister in his name hints at an infusion of Celtic blood, of which we find few if any intellectual traces. Without any special enthusiasm or public demonstration of his attachment to principle, with a great deal of the courtier in his ways, he was yet firm, courageous and persistent in the policy he had marked out for himself. He was true to the Union cause, in his own way, from the time he offered his services to Gen. Lyon, was obedient and helpful to his superiors, always did more than respectably well what was committed to his charge, and no failure of any kind lowers the high average of his performance. 105 When after four years of the most careful scrutiny and tutelage the Military Academy at West Point graduates a young man, it assumes that it has absolutely determined his X--that is, has sounded and measured his moral and intellectual depth, and settled his place in any human equation. It will, therefore, be quite interesting in making our estimate of Gen. Schofield, to examine the label attached to him upon his graduation from West Point in the class of 1853. At the head of that class was the brilliant James B. McPherson, who was to rise to the command of a corps and then to the Army of the Tennessee, and fall before Atlanta, to the intense sorrow of every man in the army who had come in contact with him. The second in the class was William P. Craighill, a fine engineer officer, who, however, rose no higher during the war than a brevet Colonel. The third in the class was Joshua W. Sill, a splendid soldier, who died at the head of his brigade on the banks of Stone River. The fourth in the class was William R. Boggs, a Georgian, who became a Brigadier-General in the Confederate army and achieved no special distinction. 106 The fifth in the class was Francis J. Shunk, of Pennsylvania, who went into the ordnance and became a brevet Major. The sixth in the class was William Sooy Smith, an Ohio man, who attained the rank of Brigadier-General, and who achieved prominence in civil life as an engineer. The seventh in the class was John M. Schofield, who was commissioned in the artillery, and who had had some years of army experience in the forts along the South Atlantic coast. In the 45 who graduated below Schofield were many names afterwards to become very prominent in history. John S. Bowen, of Georgia, who commanded a regiment of the Home Guards, and who did his utmost to drag his State into Secession, afterward be-. coming a Major-General in the Confederate army, graduated 13th in the class. William R. Terrill, of Virginia, killed at Perryville while in command of a Union brigade, was the 16th. John R. Chambliss, of Virginia, who was killed while commanding a Confederate brigade at Deep Bottom, Va., was the 31st, and William McE. Dye, who commanded a brigade with success in the Trans-Mississippi, afterwards helped to organize the Khedive's army, and who died while in command of the Korean army, was the 32d. Philip H. Sheridan, one of the most brilliant commanders the world ever saw, stood 34th in the class, and Elmer Otis, of Philippine fame, was the 37th. 107 John B. Hood, who rose to the rank of a full General in the Confederate army, and commanded the forces arrayed against Sherman and Thomas at Atlanta and Nashville, was the 44th. It is very interesting to study this list and compare it with the confident markings made by the West Point Faculty when the young men were dismissed to the active life for which the Academy had prepared them. It at least shows that, judged by West Point standards, Schofield's intellectual equipment was of the very best. He had married the daughter of his Professor of Physics, and children had come to them; promotion was very slow; he had wearied of the dull routine of the artillery officer in seacoast forts, and had seriously thought of resigning and entering the profession of law. Friends had dissuaded him from this, secured him a position as Professor of Physics in the Washington University at St. Louis, and Gen. Scott, who liked him, induced him to remain in the service and obtained for him a year's leave of absence to enable him to accept the professorship. He was engaged in his duty of teaching at the University and of writing a work on physics, of which he was very proud, when the firing on Fort Sumter took place. His political views were those of the Douglas wing of the Democracy, and he remained a Democrat ever after. He made no public profession of his views on the Slavery question or Secession, but immediately wrote to Washington offering to cancel his leave of absence, and was directed to report to Gen. Lyon for the duty of mustering in the volunteers. 108 Inasmuch as the Governor, with much contumely, had refused to supply the four regiments from Missouri which the President had called for, Schofield, with his unfailing respect for the law, saw no way to fulfill his duty, until Gen. Scott, who was dimly perceiving the gigantic nature of the emergency, reluctantly gave authority to muster in and arm the Home Guards, adding the indorsement, pathetically eloquent as to his aged slowness of recognition that old things were passing away and new being born in volcanic travail--"This is irregular, but, being times of revolution, is approved." Schofield showed his heart in the matter by becoming a Major of the first regiment organized. The whole atmosphere at once changed with Lyon's permanent assignment to command. The Union people of Missouri, those who really believed that the Government was worth fighting for, no longer had to retire, as they had from Harney's presence, with cold comfort, and advice to stop thinking about fighting and attend to their regular business, but were welcomed by Lyon, had their earnestness stimulated by his own, and were given direct advice as to how they could be of the most service. They were encouraged to put themselves in readiness, strike blow for blow, and if possible to give two blows for one. The work of preparation was systematized, and everything made to move toward the one great event--the Government's overwhelming assertion of its power. Home Guards were organized in every County where Union men wanted to do so, and began presenting a stubborn front to their opponents, who were being brought together under the Military Bill. 109 Gov. Jackson and Gen. Price did not lose all heart at the change in commanders. They seemed to have hopes that they might in some way mold Lyon to their wishes as they had Harney, and sought an interview with him. Gen. Lyon was not averse to an interview, and sent to Jackson and Price the following passport: Headquarters, Department of the West, St. Louis, June 8, 1861. It having been suggested that Gov. Claiborne F. Jackson and ex-Gov. Sterling Price are desirous of an interview with Gen. Lyon, commanding this Department, for the purpose of effecting, if possible, a pacific solution of the domestic troubles of Missouri, it is hereby stipulated on the part of Brig.-Gen. N. Lyon, U. S. A., commanding this Military Department, that, should Gov. Jackson or ez-Gov. Price, or either of them, at any time prior to or on the 12th day of June, 1861, visit St. Louis for the purpose of such interview, they and each of them shall be free from molestation or arrest on account of any charges pending against them, or either of them, on the part of the United States, during their journey to St. Louis and their return from St Louis to Jefferson City. Given under the hand of the General commanding, the day and year above written. N. LYON, Brigadier-General, Commanding. Accordingly on June 12, 1861, Price and Jackson arrived at St. Louis by special train from Jefferson City, put up at the Planters' House, and informed Gen. Lyon of their arrival. The old State pride cropped out in a little dispute as to which should call upon the other. Jackson as Governor of the "sovereign and independent" State of Missouri and Price as Major-General commanding the forces, felt that it was due them that Lyon, a Brigadier-General in the United States service, should visit them rather than they him at the Arsenal. Lyon's soul going direct to the heart of the matter, was above these technicalities, waved them aside impatiently, and said that he would go to the Planters' House and call on them. 110 Accompanied by Col. Frank P. Blair and Maj. Conant, of his Staff, he went at once to the Planters' House, and there ensued a four hours' interview of mightiest consequences to the State and the Nation. Jackson and Price were accompanied by Col. Thomas L. Snead, then an Aid of the Governor, afterwards Acting Adjutant-General of the Missouri State Guards, Chief of Staff of the Army of the West, and a member of the Confederate Congress. He makes this statement as to the opening of the conference: "Lyon opened it by saying that the discussion on the part of his Government 'would be conducted by Col. Blair, who enjoyed its confidence in the very highest degree, and was authorized to speak for it.' Blair was, in fact, better fitted than any man in the Union to discuss with Jackson and Price the grave questions then at issue between the United States and the State of Missouri, and in all her borders there were no men better fitted than they to speak for Missouri on that momentous occasion. "But despite the modesty of his opening, Lyon was too much in earnest, too zealous, too well informed on the subject, too aggressive, and too fond of disputation to let Blair conduct the discussion on the part of his Government. In half an hour it was he who was conducting it, holding his own at every point against Jackson and Price, masters though they were of Missouri politics, whose course they had been directing and controlling for years, while he was only the Captain of an infantry regiment on the Plains. He had not, however, been a mere soldier in those days, but had been an earnest student of the very questions that he was now discussing, and he comprehended the matter as well as any man, and handled it in the soldierly way to which he had been bred, using the sword to cut knots that he could not untie." 111 Really the interview soon became a parley between the two strong men who were quickly to draw their swords upon one another. The talking men, the men of discussion and appeal passed out, and the issue was in the hands of the men who were soon to hurl the mighty weapons of war. Jackson, who was a light, facile politician, used to moving public assemblies which were already of his mind, had but little to say in the hours of intense parley, but interjected from time to time with parrot-like reiteration, that the United States troops must leave the State and not enter it. "I will then disband my own troops and we shall certainly have peace." Blair, an incomparably stronger man, but still a politician and rather accustomed to accomplishing results by speeches and arguments, soon felt himself obscured by the mightier grasp and earnestness of Lyon, and took little further part. There remained, then, the stern, portentous parley between Lyon and Price, who weighed their words, intending to make every one of them good by deadly blows. They looked into one another's eyes with set wills, between which were the awful consequences of unsheathed swords. Gen. Price stated at some length his proposals, and claimed that he had carried out his understanding with Gen. Harney in good faith, not violating it one iota. 112 Gen. Lyon asked him sharply how that could be, according to Gen. Harney's second proclamation in which he denounced the Military Bill as unconstitutional and treasonable? Gen. Price replied that he had made no agreement whatever with Gen. Harney about the enforcement or carrying out of the Military Bill. Gen. Lyon answered this by presenting a copy of the following memorandum which had been sent by Gen. Harney as the only basis on which he would treat with Jackson and Price: Memorandum for Gen. Price.--May 21, 1861. Gen. Harney is here as a citizen of Missouri, with all his interests at stake in the preservation of the peace of the State. He earnestly wishes to do nothing to complicate matters, and will do everything in his power, consistently with his Instructions, to preserve peace and order. He is, however, compelled to recognize the existence of a rebellion in a portion of the United States, and in view of it he stands upon the proclamation of the President itself, based upon the laws and Constitution of the United States. The proclamation demands the dispersion of all armed bodies hostile to the supreme law of the land. Gen. Harney sees in the Missouri Military Bill features which compel him to look upon such armed bodies as may be organized under its provisions as antagonistic to the United States, within the meaning of the proclamation, and calculated to precipitate a conflict between the State and the United States. He laments the tendency of things, and most cordially and earnestly invites the co-operation of Gen. Price to avert it. For this purpose Gen. Harney respectfully asks Gen. Price to review the features of the bill, in the spirit of law, warmed and elevated by that of humanity, and seek to discover some means by which its action may be suspended until some competent tribunal shall decide upon its character. The most material features of the bill calculated to bring about a conflict are, first, the oath required to be taken by the Militia and State Guards (an oath of allegiance to the State of Missouri without recognizing the existence of the Government of the United States); and, secondly, the express requirements by which troops within the State not organized under the provisions of the Military Bill are to be disarmed by the State Guards. Gen. Harney cannot be expected to await a summons to surrender his arms by the State troops. From this statement of the case the true question becomes immediately visible and cannot be shut out of view. Gen. Price Is earnestly requested to consider this, and Gen. Harney will be happy to confer with him on the subject whenever It may suit his convenience. N. B.--Read to Gen. Price, In the presence of Maj. H. B. Turner, on the evening of the 21st of May. [Illustration: 100-General David Hunter] 113 Naturally this threw Gen. Price into much confusion, and his face reddened with mortification, but after a few minutes he said that he did not remember hearing the paper read; that it was true that Hitchcock and Turner had come from Gen. Harney to see him, but he could recall nothing of any such paper being presented. The discussion grew warmer as Gen. Lyon felt more strongly the force of his position. Gen. Price insisted that no armed bodies of Union troops should pass through or be stationed in Missouri, as such would occasion civil war. He asserted that Missouri must be neutral, and neither side should arm. Gov. Jackson would protect the Union men and would disband his State troops. Gen. Lyon opposed this by saying, in effect, "that, if the Government withdrew its forces entirely, secret and subtle measures would be resorted to to provide arms and perfect organizations which, upon any pretext, could put forth a formidable opposition to the General Government; and even without arming, combinations would doubtless form in certain localities, to oppress and drive out loyal citizens, to whom the Government was bound to give protection, but which it would be helpless to do, as also to repress such combinations, if its forces could not be sent into the State. A large aggressive force might be formed and advanced from the exterior into the State, to assist it in carrying out the Secession program; and the Government could not, under the limitation proposed, take posts on these borders to meet and repel such force. 114 The Government could not shrink from its duties nor abdicate its corresponding right; and, in addition to the above, it was the duty of its civil officers to execute civil process, and in case of resistance to receive the support of military force. The proposition of the Governor would at once overturn the Government privileges and prerogatives, which he (Gen. Lyon) had neither the wish nor the authority to do. In his opinion, if the Governor and the State authorities would earnestly set about to maintain the peace of the State, and declare their purposes to resist outrages upon loyal citizens of the Government, and repress insurrections against it, and in case of violent combinations, needing co-operation of the United States troops, they should call upon or accept such assistance, and in case of threatened invasion the Government troops took suitable posts to meet it, the purposes of the Government would be subserved, and no infringement of the State rights or dignity committed. He would take good care, in such faithful co-operation of the State authorities to this end, that no individual should be injured in person or property, and that the utmost delicacy should be observed toward all peaceable persons concerned in these relations." Gen. Lyon based himself unalterably upon this proposition, and could not be moved from it by anything Price or Jackson could say. Gov. Jackson entered into the discussion again to suggest that they separate and continue the conference further by correspondence; but Lyon, who felt vividly that the main object of the Secessionists was to gain time to perfect their plans, rejected this proposition, but said that he was quite willing that all those present should reduce their views to writing and publish them; which, however, did not strike Jackson and Price favorably. As to the close of the interview, Maj. Conant says: 115 "As Gen. Lyon was about to take his leave, he said: 'Gov. Jackson, no man in the State of Missouri has been more ardently desirous of preserving peace than myself. Heretofore Missouri has only felt the fostering care of the Federal Government, which has raised her from the condition of a feeble French colony to that of an empire State. Now, however, from the failure on the part of the Chief Executive to comply with constitutional requirements, I fear she will be made to feel its power. Better, sir, far better, that the blood of every man, woman and child of the State should flow than that she should successfully defy the Federal Government.'" Col. Snead has published this account of the close of the conference: "Finally, when the conference had lasted four or five hours, Lyon closed it, as he had opened it. 'Rather,' said he (he was still seated, and spoke deliberately, slowly, and with a peculiar emphasis), 'rather than concede to the State of Missouri the right to demand that my Government shall not enlist troops within her limits, or bring troops into the State whenever it pleases, or move its troops at its own will into, out of, or through the State; rather than concede to the State of Missouri for one single instant the right to dictate to my Government in any matter however unimportant, I would (rising as he said this, and pointing in turn to every one in the room) see you, and you, and you, and you, and every man, woman, and child in the State, dead and buried.' 116 "Then turning to the Governor, he said: 'This means war. In an hour one of my officers will call for you and conduct you out of my lines.' "And then, without another word, without an inclination of the head, without even a look, he turned upon his heel and strode out of the room, rattling his spurs and clanking his saber, while we, whom he left, and who had known each other for years, bade farewell to each other courteously and kindly, and separated--Blair and Conant to fight for the Union, we for the land of our birth." When the great American painter shall arise, one of the grandest themes for his pencil will be that destiny-shaping conference on that afternoon in June, 1861. He will show the face of Gov. Jackson as typical of that class of Southern politicians who raised the storm from the unexpected violence of which they retreated in dismay. There will be more than a suggestion of this in Jackson's expression and attitude. He entered the conference full of his official importance as the head of the great Sovereign State, braving the whole United States, and quite complacent as to his own powers of diction and argument. He quickly subsided, however, from the leading character occupying the center of the stage to that of chorus in the wings, in the deadly grapple of men of mightier purpose--Lyon and Price, who were to ride the whirlwind he had been contriving, and rule the storm he had been instrumental in raising. 117 Even Blair, immeasurably stronger mentally and morally than Jackson--Blair, tall, sinewy, alert, with face and pose revealing the ideal leader that he was--even he felt the presence of stronger geniuses, and lapsed into silence. The time for talking men was past Captains of hosts were now uttering the last stern words, which meant the crash of battle and the death and misery of myriads. Hereafter voices would be in swords, and arguments flame from the brazen mouths of cannon hot with slaughter. Sterling Price, white-haired, large of frame, imposing, benignant, paternal, inflexible as to what he considered principle, was to point the way which 100,000 young Missourians were to follow through a thousand red battlefields. Nathaniel Lyon, short of stature, red-haired, in the prime of manhood and perfected soldiership, fiery, jealous for his country's rights and dignity, was to set another 100,000 young Missourians in battle array against their opponents, to fight them to complete overthrow. After they withdrew from the conference, Gov. Jackson, as Price's trumpeter, sounded the call "to arms" in a proclamation to the people of Missouri. 118 [Illustration: 118-The St Louis Levee] CHAPTER VII. GEN. LYON BEGINS AN EFFECTIVE CAMPAIGN Gen. Sterling Price was soldier enough to recognize that Gen. Lyon was a different character from the talking men who had been holding the center of the stage for so long. When his trumpet sounded his sword was sure to leap from its scabbard. Blows were to follow so quickly upon words as to tread upon their heels. At the close of the interview of June 11, Gen. Lyon, with Col. Blair and Maj. Conant, returned to the Arsenal, while Gov. Jackson and Gen. Price hurried to the depot of the Pacific Railroad, where they impressed a locomotive, tender and cars, and urged the railroad men to get up steam in the shortest possible time. Imperative orders cleared the track ahead of them, and they rushed away for the Capital of the State with all speed. At the crossing of the Gasconade River they stopped long enough to thoroughly burn the bridge to check Lyon's certain advance, and while doing this Sterling Price cut the telegraph wires with his own hands. The train then ran on to the Osage River, where, to give greater assurance against rapid pursuit, they burnt that bridge also. Arriving at Jefferson City about 2 o'clock in the morning, the rest of the night was spent in anxious preparation of a proclamation by the Governor to the people of Missouri, which was intended to be a trumpet call to bring every man capable of bearing arms at once to the support of the Governor and the furtherance of his plans. 119 According to the Census of 1860 there were 236,402 men in Missouri capable of bearing arms, and if the matter could be put in such a way that a half or even one-third of these would respond to the Governor's mandate, a host would be mustered which would quickly sweep Lyon and his small band out of the State. The proclamation to effect this which was elaborated by the joint efforts of Gov. Jackson and Col. Snead, the editor of the St. Louis Bulletin, a Secessionist organ, and the Governor's Secretary and Adjutant-General, together with Gen. Price. Considered as a trumpet call it was entirely too verbose. Col. Snead could not break himself of writing long, ponderous editorials. The more pertinent paragraphs were: To the People of Missouri: A series of unprovoked and unparalleled outrages have been inflicted upon the peace and dignity of this Commonwealth and upon the rights and liberties of its people, by wicked and unprincipled men, professing to act under the authority of the United States Government. The solemn enactments of your Legislature have been nullified; your volunteer soldiers have been taken prisoners; your commerce with your sister States has been suspended; your trade with your fellow-citizens has been, and is, subjected to the harassing control of an armed soldiery; peaceful citizens have been imprisoned without warrant of law; unoffending and defenseless men, women, and children have been ruthlessly shot down and murdered; and other unbearable indignities have been heaped upon your State and yourselves.... They (Blair and Lyon) demanded not only the disorganization and disarming of the State Militia, and the nullification of the Military Bill, but they refused to disarm their own Home Guards, and insisted that the Federal Government should enjoy an unrestricted right to move and station its troops throughout the State, whenever and wherever that might, in the opinion of its officers, be necessary, either for the protection of the "loyal subjects" of the Federal Government or for the repelling of invasion; and they plainly announced that it was the intention of the Administration to take military occupation, under these pretexts, of the whole State, and to reduce it, as avowed by Gen. Lyon himself, to the "exact condition of Maryland." 120 The acceptance by me of these degrading terms would not only have sullied the honor of Missouri, but would have aroused the Indignation of every brave citizen, and precipitated the very conflict which it has been my aim to prevent. We refused to accede to them, and the conference was broken up.... Now, therefore, I, C. F. Jackson, Governor of the State of Missouri, do, in view of the foregoing facts, and by virtue of the power invested in me by the Constitution and laws of this Commonwealth, issue this, my proclamation, calling the Militia of the State, to the number of 60,000, into the active service of the State, for the purpose of repelling said invasion, and for the protection of the lives, liberty, and property of the citizens of this State. And I earnestly exhort all good citizens of Missouri to rally under the flag of their State, for the protection of their endangered homes and firesides, and for the defense of their most sacred rights and dearest liberties. This proclamation was given out to the press, but even before it appeared the Governor had telegraphed throughout the State to leading Secessionists to arm and rush to his assistance. This did not catch Gen. Lyon at all unawares. He had long ago determined upon a movement to Springfield, which, being in the midst of the farming region, was the center of the Union element of southwest Missouri. Immediately, upon reading the Governor's proclamation, he saw the necessity of forestalling the projected concentration by reaching Jefferson City with the least possible delay. Before he retired that night he had given orders for the formation of a marching column, and had placed the affairs of his great Department outside of this column, of which he proposed to take personal command, in the hands of Col. Chester Harding, to whom he gave full powers to sign his name and issue orders. 121 Having thought out his plans well beforehand, Gen. Lyon began his campaign with well-ordered celerity. Part of the troops he had at command were sent down the southwestern branch of the Pacific Railroad to secure it. Others were sent to points at which the militia were known to be gathering to disperse them. Gen. Lyon himself, with his staff, the Regulars, infantry and artillery, and a force of volunteers, embarked on two steamboats to move directly upon Jefferson City by the way of the Missouri River. They arrived at the Capital of Missouri about 2 o'clock in the afternoon of June 15, and were met with an enthusiastic reception from the loyal citizens, of whom a large proportion were Germans. Gov. Jackson had only been able to assemble about 120 men, with whom he made a hasty retreat to Boonville, about 50 miles further up the river, which had been selected by Gen. Price as one of his principal strategic points. Boonville is situated on the highlands at a natural crossing of the Missouri, and by holding it communication could be maintained between the parts of the State lying north and south of the river, and thus allow the concentration of the Militia, which Gov. Jackson had called out. The hights on the river bank would enable the river to be blockaded against expeditions ascending it, and the entire length of the stream to Kansas City, about 100 miles in a direct line, could be thus controlled. The Missouri River divides the State unequally, leaving about one-third on the north and two-thirds on the south. Of the 99 Counties in the State, 44 are north of the Missouri River, but these are smaller than those south. 122 Gov. Jackson had telegraphed orders for the Brigade-Generals commanding the districts into which the State had been divided to concentrate their men with all haste at Boonville and at Lexington, still further up the river, nearly midway between Boonville and Kansas City. The beginnings of an arsenal were made at Boonville, to furnish arms and ammunition. Gen. Lyon saw the strategic importance of the place, and did not propose to allow any concentration to be made there. He did not, as most Regular officers were prone, wait deliberately for wagons and rations and other supplies, but with a truer instinct of soldiership comprehended that his men could live wherever an enemy could, and leaving a small squad at Jefferson City, immediately started his column for Boonville, sending orders to other columns in Iowa and Kansas to converge toward that place. Progress up the Missouri River was tedious, as the water was low, and the troops had to frequently disembark in order to allow the boats to go over the shoals. It was reported to Gen. Lyon that about 4,000 Confederates had already concentrated at Boonville. While Gen. Price was the Commander-in-Chief, several prominent Secessionists were commanders upon the field of the whole or parts of the force. The man, however, who was the most in evidence in the fighting was John Sappington Marmaduke, a native Missourian, born in Saline County in 1833, and therefore 28 years old. He was the son of a farmer, had been at Yale and Harvard, and then graduated from West Point in 1857, standing 30 in a class of 38. He had been on frontier duty with the 7th U. S. until after the firing on Fort Sumter, when he resigned to return to Missouri and raise a regiment for the Southern Confederacy. He was to rise to the rank of Major-General in the Confederate army, achieve much fame for military ability, and be elected, in 1884, Governor of the State. 123 The column immediately under the command of Gen. Lyon consisted of Totten's Light Battery (F, 2d U. S. Art.); Co. B, 2d U. S.; two companies of Regular recruits; Col. Blair's Missouri regiment and nine companies of Boernstein's Missouri regiment; aggregating somewhere between 1,700 and 2,000 men. On the evening of Sunday, June 16, the boats carrying the command arrived within 15 miles of Boonville, and lay there during the night. The next morning they proceeded up to within about eight miles of the town, when all but one company of Blair's regiment and an artillery detachment disembarked and began a land march upon the enemy's position. The remaining company and the howitzer were sent on with the boats to give the impression that an attack was to be made from the river side. The people in the country reported to Gen. Lyon that the enemy was fully 4,000 strong, and intended an obstinate defense. He therefore moved forward cautiously, arriving at last at the foot of a gently undulating slope to a crest one mile distant, on which the enemy was stationed, with the ground quite favorable for them. Gen. Lyon formed a line of battle about 300 yards from the crest, with Totten's battery in the rear and nine companies of Boernstein's regiment on the right, under the command of Lieut.-Col. Schaeffer, and the Regulars and Col. Blair's regiment on the left. It was a momentous period, big with Missouri's future. 124 The engagement opened with Capt. Totten shelling the enemy's position and the well-drilled German infantry advancing with the Regulars, firing as they went. The question was now to be tried as to the value of the much-vaunted Missouri riflemen in conflict with the disciplined Germans. The former had been led to believe that they would repeat the achievements of their forefathers at New Orleans. Under the lead of Col. Marmaduke, the Confederates stood their ground pluckily for a few minutes, but the steady advance of the Union troops, with the demoralizing effect of the shells, were too much for them. Col. Marmaduke attempted to make an orderly retreat, and at first seemed to succeed, but finally the movement degenerated into a rout, and the Confederates scattered in wild flight, led by their Governor, who, like James II. at the battle of the Boyne, had witnessed the skirmish from a neighboring eminence. The losses on each side were equal--two killed and some eight or nine wounded. Lyon pushed on at once to the camp of the enemy, and there captured some 1,200 pairs of shoes, 20 to 30 tents, and a considerable quantity of ammunition, with quite a supply of arms, blankets and personal effects. 125 The detachment which had gone by the river on the boats aided in securing the victory by a noisy bombardment with their howitzer, and landing at the town, captured two six-pounders, with a number of prisoners. The Mayor of Boonville came out and formally surrendered the town to Gen. Lyon and Col. Blair. Parties were sent out the various roads to continue the pursuit, and Gen. Lyon issued the following proclamation, admirable in tone and wording, to counteract that of the Governor and quiet the people, especially as to interference with slave property: To the People of Missouri: Upon leaving the city of St. Louis, In consequence of the declaration of war made by the Governor of this State against the Government of the United States, because I would not assume in its behalf to relinquish its duties and abdicate its rights of protecting loyal citizens from the oppression and cruelties of Secessionists in this State, I published an address to the people, in which I declared my intention to use the force under my command for no other purpose than the maintenance of the authority of the General Government and the protection of the rights and property of all law-abiding citizens. The State authorities, in violation of an agreement with Gen. Harney, on the 21st of May last, had drawn together and organized upon a large scale the means of warfare, and having made declaration of war, they abandoned the Capital, issued orders for the destruction of the railroad and telegraph lines, and proceeded to this point to put in execution their purposes toward the General Government. This devolved upon me the necessity of meeting this issue to the best of my ability, and accordingly I moved to this point with a portion of the force under my command, attacked and dispersed hostile forces gathered here by the Governor, and took possession of the camp equipage left and a considerable number of prisoners, most of them young and of immature age, who represent that they have been misled by frauds ingeniously devised and industriously circulated by designing leaders, who seek to devolve upon unreflecting and deluded followers the task of securing the object of their own false ambition. Out of compassion for these misguided youths, and to correct impressions created by unscrupulous calumniators, I have liberated them, upon condition that they will not serve in the impending hostilities against the United States Government. I have done this in spite of the known facts that the leaders in the present rebellion, having long experienced the mildness of the General Government, still feel confident that this mildness cannot be overtaxed even by factious hostilities having In view its overthrow; but if, as in the case of the late Camp Jackson affair, this clemency than still be misconstrued, it is proper to give warning that the Government cannot be always expected to indulge it to the compromise of its evident welfare. 126 Having learned that those plotting against the Government have falsely represented that the Government troops intended a forcible and violent invasion of Missouri for the purposes of military despotism and tyranny, I hereby give notice to the people of this State that I shall scrupulously avoid all interferences with the business, rights, and property of every description recognized by the laws of this State, and belonging to law-abiding citizens; but that it is equally my duty to maintain the paramount authority of the United Sates with such force as I have at my command, which will be retained only so long as opposition shall make it necessary; and that it is my wish, and shall be my purpose, to devolve any unavoidable rigor arising in this issue upon those only who provoke it. All persons who, under the misapprehensions above mentioned, have taken up arms, or who are now preparing to do so, are invited to return to their homes, and relinquish their hostile attitude to the General Government, and are assured that they may do so without being molested for past occurrences. N. LYON, Brigadier-General, U. S. Vols., Commanding. Several thousand of Jackson's Militia had already assembled at Lexington, nearly midway between Boonville and Kansas City. When they heard of the affair at Boonville they realized that they were in danger of being caught between the column advancing from that direction and the one under Maj. Sturgis, which Gen. Lyon had ordered forward from Leavenworth through Kansas City, while a third, under Col. Curtis, was approaching from the Iowa line. They dispersed at once, to fall back behind the Osage River, at Gen. Price's direction. Thus Lyon gained complete control of the Missouri River in its course through the State, enabling him to cut off the Confederates in the northern from those in the southern part of the State. 127 Another success which came to him was the seizure of the office of the St. Louis Bulletin, and the discovery there of a letter from Gov, Jackson to the publisher, which completely proved all the allegations that had been made as to the Governor's action, decisively contradicted the material assertions in his proclamations and vindicated Gen. Lyon from the charges against him of undue precipitancy. The letter was long, personal and confidential. In it he said: I do not think Missouri should secede today or tomorrow, but I do not think it good policy that I should so disclose. I want a little time to arm the State, and I am assuming every responsibility to do it with all possible dispatch. Missouri should act in concert with Tennessee and Kentucky. They are all bound to go out, and should go together, if possible. My judgment is that North Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas will all be out in a few days, and when they go Missouri should follow. Let us, then, prepare to make our exit. We should keep our own counsels. Every man in the State is in favor of arming the State. Then let it be done. All are opposed to furnishing Mr. Lincoln with soldiers. Time will settle the balance. Nothing should be said about the time or the manner in which Missouri should go out. That she ought to go, and will go at the proper time, I have no doubt. She ought to have gone out last Winter, when she could have seized the public arms and public property, and defended herself. That she has failed to do, and must wait a little while. Paschall is a base submissionist, and desires to remain with the North, if every Slave State should go out. Call on every country paper to defend me, and assure them I am fighting under the true flag. Who does not know that every sympathy of my heart is with the South? The Legislature, in my view, should sit in secret session, and touch nothing but the measures of defense. Though in point of fighting and losses this initial campaign ending with the skirmish at Boonville had been insignificant, its results far surpassed those of many of the bloodiest battles of the rebellion. The Governor of the State was in flight from his Capital; his troops had been scattered in the first collision; control had been gained of the Missouri River, cutting the enemy's line in two; and above all, there was the immense moral effect of the defeat in action of the boastful Secessionists by the much denounced "St. Louis Dutch." This alone accounted for the acquisition of many thousand wavering men to the side of the Union. Missourians were not different from the rest of mankind, and every community had its large proportion of those who, when the Secessionists seemed to have everything their own way, inclined to that side, but came back to their true allegiance at the first sign of the Government being able to assert its supremacy. The Government was now aroused and striking--and striking successfully. Its enemies were immensely depressed, and its friends correspondingly elated. 129 Gen. Lyon's next thought was to drive Gov. Jackson and his Secession clique out of Missouri into Arkansas, free the people from their pernicious influence, protect the Union people, especially in the southwestern part of the State, and keep tens of thousands of young men from being persuaded or dragged into the rebel army. He would demonstrate the Government's position so convincingly that there would be no longer any doubt of Missouri's remaining in the Union. 129 [Illustration: 129-The Storm Gathers] CHAPTER VIII. STORM GATHERS IN SOUTHWESTERN MISSOURI The Osage River enters Missouri from Kansas about 60 miles south of the Missouri River, and flowing a little south of east empties into that river a few miles below Jefferson City. It thus forms a natural line of defense across the State, which Gen. Price's soldierly eye had noted, and he advised the Governor to order his troops to take up their position behind it, gain time for organization, and prepare for battle for possession of the State. Gen. Lyon had also noticed the strategic advantages of the Osage River, and did not propose to allow his enemies to have the benefit of them. He did not intend to permit them to concentrate there, and be joined in time by heavy forces already coming up from Arkansas, Indian Territory, and Texas. While he was collecting farm wagons around Boonville to move his own columns forward, laboring to gather a sufficient stock of ammunition and supplies, and planning to make secure his holding of the important points already gained, he began moving other columns under Gen. Sweeny and Maj. Sturgis directly upon Springfield, the central point of the southwestern part of the State, which would take the Osage line in the rear, and compel Jackson and Price to retreat with their forces across the Missouri line into Arkansas. 130 This would clear the State of the whole congerie of Secession leaders, remove the young men from their influence, stop the persecutions of the Union men in that section, and cement Missouri solidly in the Union line. He also wrote Gen. B. M. Prentiss, in command of the troops at Cairo, asking co-operation by clearing out the rebels from the southeastern portion of the State. Lyon's far-reaching plans did not stop with Missouri. He also contemplated pushing his advance directly upon Little Rock, through the Union-loving region in northwestern Arkansas, and clinching that State as firmly as Missouri. The next day after the decisive little victory at Boonville occurred an event which greatly raised the drooping spirits of the Secessionists, and was much exaggerated by them in order to offset their defeat at Boonville by Lyon. Benton is one of the interior Counties of the State, lying on both sides of the Osage River. In 1860 its people had cast 74 votes for Lincoln, 306 for Bell and Everett, 100 for Breckinridge, and 574 for Stephen A. Douglas. All the County officials and leading men were Secessionists, and doing their utmost to aid the rebellion; still, the Union people, under the leadership of A. H. W. Cook and Alex. Mackey, were undaunted and earnestly desirous of doing effective service for the United States. Cook and Mackey had been warned to leave the State, and Cook had done so, but returned to take part in the capture of Camp Jackson, and afterward went back to his home to organize the Germans and Americans there for their own defense. 131 A meeting was held at which the Stars and Stripes were raised, and nine companies of Home Guards organized, sworn into service, and given arms. These companies went into camp in a couple of barns some three miles south of Cole Camp, where their presence and support to the Union sentiment was the source of the greatest irritation to the Secessionists, who attempted to disperse them by legal processes, and failing in this, determined to attack them. In the meanwhile all but about 400 of the men were allowed to return to their homes to put their affairs in order for a prolonged absence. About 1,000 Secessionists, under the command of Walter S. O'Kane, marched on June 19 to attack them. Col. Cook was informed of the intended attack and prepared for it by throwing out pickets and summoning his absentees. At 3 o'clock in the morning of June 20 the Secessionists reached the pickets, whom they bayonetted to prevent their giving the alarm, and rushed in upon the sleeping Unionists, pouring volley after volley into the barns. The men in one of the barns had been warned, but were prevented from firing by the Union Flag which the Secessionists carried. Many of them who managed to get out of the barns were rallied behind the corn cribs, and began an obstinate fight which lasted till daylight. The absentees, whom Col. Cook had summoned, came up during the engagement, but not being able to comprehend the situation, rendered no assistance. Finally all the Union men got together and retreated in good order, repulsing their pursuers. 132 The reports as to this affair are so conflicting that it is difficult to determine the truth. It seems pretty certain that Col. Cook had only about 400 men. He reports that he was attacked by 1,200, but the Secessionists say that O'Kane's force was only 350. Cook reports his loss as 23 killed, 20 wounded, and 30 taken prisoners, while Pollard, the Secessionist historian, insists that we lost 206 killed, a large number wounded, and over 100 taken prisoners, with the Secession loss of 14 killed and 15 or 20 wounded. Probably the truth lies between these two extremes, the only definite thing being that the Secessionists captured 362 muskets. There were five or six prominent Secessionists among the killed, one of them being Mr. Leach, the editor of the Southwestern Democrat. Col. Cook gathered up his men, received some additional recruits, some arms and ammunition, and pushed on to Warsaw, on the Osage, one of the points of concentration indicated by Gen. Price, capturing 1,500 pound cans and 1,500 kegs of fine rifle powder, many tons of pig-lead, 70 stand of small-arms, a steamboat-load of tent cloth, a lot of State Guard uniforms, four Confederate flags, and 1,200 false-faces which had been used by the "border ruffians" in their political operations in Kansas. A little further on they surrounded and captured 1,000 Secessionists, and paroled them on the spot. The Secessionists, on the other hand, took much comfort out of the surprise and defeat and the acquisition of 362 new muskets and 150 more which they had beguiled from a German company in a neighboring County. 133 In the meanwhile the Conservatives, aided by Lieut-Gen. Scott, whose distrust of "Capt." Lyon never abated, secured the addition of Missouri to the Department commanded by McClellan, whom it was thought would hold the "audacious" officer in check. Lyon, though he felt that McClellan, then far distant in West Virginia, could not give matters in the State the attention they needed, yet loyally accepted the assignment, wrote at once to McClellan cordially welcoming him as his commander, and giving full information as to the conditions, with suggestions as to what should be done. Col. Blair and the Radicals were much displeased at this move, and began efforts to have Missouri erected into a separate Department and placed under the command of John C. Fremont, lately appointed a Major-General, and from whose military talents there were the greatest expectations. As the first Presidential candidate of the Republican Party Fremont had a strong hold upon the hearts of the Northern people. During the campaign of 1856 there had been the customary partisan eulogies of the candidates, which placed "the Great Pathfinder" and all he had done in the most favorable light before the American people. Above all he was thought to be thoroughly in sympathy with the policy which Blair and his following desired to pursue. In reality Fremont was a man of somewhat more than moderate ability, but boundless aspirations. He was the son-in-law of Senator Benton, and his wife, the queenly, ambitious, handsome Jessie Benton Fremont, was naturally eager for her husband to be as prominent in the National councils as had been her father. What Fremont was equal to is one of the many unsolved problems of the war, but certainly he was not to the command of the great Western Department, including the State of Illinois and all the States and Territories west of the Mississippi River and east of the Rocky Mountains, to which he was assigned by General Orders, No. 40, issued July 3,1861. 134 Fremont's father was a Frenchman, who had married a Virginia woman, and followed the occupation of a teacher of French at Norfolk, Va., but died at an early age, leaving the members of his family to struggle for themselves. Fremont became a teacher of mathematics on a sloop of war, then Professor of Mathematics for the Navy, and later a surveyor and engineer for railroad lines, and was commissioned by President Van Buren a Second Lieutenant in the Corps of Engineers. Owing to the opposition of Senator Benton, his daughter had to be secretly married to Lieut. Fremont in 1841, but soon after the Senator gave his son-in-law the benefit of his great influence. Fremont was designated to conduct surveys across the continent into the unknown region lying between the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific, and made several very important explorations. He was in California prior to the outbreak of the Mexican War, and became involved in hostilities with the Mexicans. When the war did break out he assumed command of the country around under authority from Commodore Stockton, and proceeded to declare the independence of California. A quarrel between him and Stockton followed, and later another quarrel ensued with Gen. Kearny, who had been sent into this country in command of an expedition. 135 He was court-martialed by Gen. Kearny's orders and found guilty of mutiny, disobedience, and conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline. He was sentenced to be dismissed, but the majority of the court recommended him to the clemency of President Polk, who refused to approve the verdict of mutiny, but did approve the rest, though he remitted the penalty. Fremont, refusing to accept the President's pardon, then resigned from the Army, settled in California, and bought the famous Mariposa estate, containing rich gold mines. He became a leader of the Free-Soil Party in California, and was elected to the Senate for a brief term of three weeks. He was nominated by the first Republican Convention in Philadelphia, June 17, 1856, and in his letter of acceptance expressed himself strongly against the extension of Slavery, and in favor of free labor. The hot campaign of 1856 resulted in a surprising showing of strength by the new party. Fremont received 114 electoral votes from 11 States to 174 from 19 States for Buchanan and eight votes from Maryland for Fillmore. The popular vote was 874,000 for Fillmore, 1,341,000 for Fremont, and 1,838,000 for Buchanan. Lyon welcomed the appointment of Fremont to command, because he felt the need of having a superior officer at hand who would appreciate the urgency of the situation, and stand between him and the authorities at Washington, who apparently did not understand the emergency, were not honoring his requisitions for money, arms, and supplies, and who were drawing to the eastward the troops that Lyon felt ought to be sent to him. It was also satisfactory to him that the State of Illinois was in the Department, since the important point of Cairo should be administered with reference to controlling the situation in southeastern Missouri. 136 The first distrust of Fremont came from his deliberation in repairing to his command. The people of Missouri felt very keenly that no time should be lost in the General arriving on the spot and getting the situation in hand, but in spite of all importunities, Fremont lingered for weeks in New York, and it required a rather sharp admonition from the War Department to start him for St. Louis, where he arrived as late as July 25. Lyon's prompt advance upon Jefferson City now bore fruit in another direction. The Union people of Missouri decided that as Gov. Jackson, Lieut-Gov. Reynolds and other State officials had abandoned the State Capital to engage in active rebellion against the United States, the State Convention, which had been called to carry the State out of the Union, but which had so signally disappointed the expectations of its originators, should reconvene, declare the State offices vacant, and instate a loyal Government A strong party desired that a Military Governor should be appointed, and urged Col. Frank P. Blair for that place, but he refused to countenance the project. The Convention, by a vote of 56 to 25, declared the offices of Governor, Lieutenant-Governor and Secretary of State vacant, and elected Hamilton R. Gamble Governor, Willard P. Hall Lieutenants Governor, Mordecai Oliver Secretary of State, and George A. Bingham Treasurer. An oath of loyalty was adopted to be required of all citizens before being allowed to vote, and to be taken by all incumbents of office and all who should be qualified for office thereafter. 137 Gov. Jackson established his Capital at Lamar, in Barton County, about 30 miles south of the Osage, and the men who had been appointed to command the Militia Districts began to come in with their contingents. None seemed to know about the flanking columns which had been sent out toward Springfield, to take the line of the Osage in the rear, and they were astounded when forces under Sweeny and Sigel, which had dispersed the gathering Militia before them at Holla, Lebanon, and other intervening points, reached Springfield, and began sending out from there expeditions to Neosho, Ozark, Sarcoxie and other towns in the southwestern corner. Col. Franz Sigel, who had shown much activity and enterprise, learned at Sarcoxie that several divisions of State Guards under Gens. Rains, Parsons, Slack and Clark were to the north of him, and the Governor and Gen. Price were endeavoring to bring them together in order to turn upon and crush Gen. Lyon in his advance from Boonville. Sigel's men, who were anxious to accomplish something decisive before the expiration of their three months' term, brought about a decision in their commander's mind to march upon the force encamped upon Pool's Prairie, whip and scatter it, and then attack the other forces in turn. 138 After making the necessary detachments to guard his flanks and rear, Col. Sigel had under his command nine companies of the 8d Mo., 550 men under Lieut.-Col. Hassendeubel; seven companies of the 5th Mo., under Col. Charles E. Salomon, 400 men, and two batteries of light artillery, four guns each, under Maj. Backof. After a hard day's march of 22 miles in very hot weather, Col. Sigel came, on the evening of July 4, about one mile southeast of Carthage, on the south side of Spring River. He made preparations to attack the enemy, reported to be from 10 to 15 miles in his front. That night Gov. Jackson received news of Sigel's advance, and gathered his forces to resist him. He had already concentrated many more men than Sigel had expected, and had with him seven pieces of artillery. Most of his men carried the arms which they had brought from home, and were arranged, according to the provisions in the Military Bill, into divisions, of which there were no less than four present. The Second Division, commanded by Brig.-Gen. James S. Rains, who afterward attained much reputation in the Confederate army, had present 1,208 infantry and artillery and 608 cavalry. The Third Division, commanded by Gen. John B. Clark, also to attain eminence in the Confederate army, had 365 present. The Fourth Division, commanded by Gen. Wm. Y. Slack, later a Brigadier-General in the Confederate army, had 500 cavalry and 700 infantry. The Sixth Division, commanded by Gen. Monroe M. Parsons, who served with distinction throughout the war, had altogether about 1,000 men and four pieces of artillery. The official returns show that Gov. Jackson had thus 4,375 men with seven guns to oppose something over 1,000 men with eight guns under Col. Sigel. The Union force was strong in artillery, while the Confederates were powerful in cavalry, of which the Unionists had none. Both sides were poorly supplied with ammunition, especially for the cannon, and loaded these with railroad spikes, bits of trace chains, etc. 139 Early on the morning of July 5 Sigel marched out of camp, crossing the Spring River about one mile north of Carthage, and soon came upon an open prairie. He advanced slowly and cautiously along the Lamar Road, with his wagons under a small escort following a mile or so in the rear. Nine miles north of Carthage and three miles north of Coon Creek he came in sight of the Governor's troops drawn up in line of battle on a slight rise of the prairie, and about one mile and a half away. The enemy's skirmish line, which was under the command of Capt. J. O. Shelby, of whom we shall hear much more later, opened fire on Sigel's advance, but was soon driven across the creek and through the narrow strip of timber less than one-half mile wide, followed by Sigel's men in line of battle. They came out on the smooth prairie, covered with a fine growth of grass, and offering unequalled facilities for manuvering, except that from the ridge Sigel's line could be accurately observed and its numbers known. Sigel formed his line of battle within a half mile of the enemy's position, distributed his artillery along it, then ordered an advance, and opened the battle with a fire from his guns, which was promptly responded to by the enemy's pieces. The distance was so close that the Union guns could fire canister and shell very effectively; but the enemy, perceiving that Sigel had no cavalry, sent out their numerous mounted force on a flank movement, which soon compelled the retirement of the line across the creek, where the battle was renewed and maintained for two hours, during which time the enemy suffered some loss from the artillery fire. 140 Again the enemy made a flank movement with their cavalry, reaching this time back toward the baggage-train, to which Sigel retreated. The Union men broke up the cavalry formation, and Sigel followed this with a charge which scattered his enemies and enabled him to continue his retreat unmolested across the prairie in full sight of his foes. Sigel could also see the rallied cavalry making a wide circuit over the prairie to gain the hights of Spring River and cut off his retreat Gen. Rains, who led this movement, succeeded in reaching the road at Spring River, but in coming up Sigel at once attacked with his artillery, and after a brisk little engagement of half an hour drove the enemy out of the woods, and marched on to Carthage, which he reached about 5 o'clock, and there prepared to give a short rest to his men, who were worn out by 18 miles of marching under a hot sun and almost continual fighting and manuvering. The Secessionists renewed their attack, but were again driven off by the infantry and artillery, and the march was resumed. Again Gens. Slack, Parsons, and Clark pushed their men forward on the Union flank, while Rains renewed his attack, and again they were all repulsed, largely by the skillful handling of the artillery. As darkness came on the Secessionists disappeared, but Sigel moved on to Sarcoxie, 12 miles distant, and went into camp. 141 Gov. Jackson's forces camped in and around Carthage, and the next day marched to Neosho, where they met Gen. Ben McCulloch coming up from Arkansas with a force of Arkansans and Texans and also 1,700 of the State Guards, which Gen. Price had brought forward. In the fighting the Union side had lost 13 killed and 21 wounded. The Confederates report 74 killed and wounded in the four divisions under the command of Gov. Jackson. [Illustration: 141-Sigel Crossing the Osage] The battle of Carthage produced a great sensation over the country, the Confederates rejoicing that they had cut through the Union line and forced it to retreat, while Sigel received unstinted praise for his skillful retreat and the masterly handling of his artillery. While one battery would hold the enemy in check, another would be placed at the most advantageous position in the rear, where it would withdraw behind it to repeat the manuver. Several times during the day the batteries were cunningly masked, and the enemy rushed up to the muzzle, to receive the death-dealing discharge full in the faces of the compact mass. 142 This brings Gen. Sigel prominently before us. Of the many highly-educated Germans who had migrated to this country in consequence of their connection with the Revolution of 1848, Franz Sigel had, far and away, the most brilliant reputation as a soldier. A slight, dark, nervous man, with a rather saturnine countenance, he was born at Zinsheim, Baden, Nov. 18, 1824, and was therefore in his 37th year. He graduated from the Military School at Carlsruhe with high promise, which he filled by becoming one of the Chief Adjutants in the Grand Duke's army. He ardently shared the aspirations of the young Germans for German Unity, and resigned his commission in 1847 to become one of the leaders in the revolutionary forces. He was appointed to chief command of the army sent from the Grand-Duchy to the assistance of the revolutionists in Hesse-Darmstadt, but a disagreement arose, another was appointed to the command, and Sigel assumed the position of Minister of War. Upon the defeat of the expedition by the Prussian forces, he resumed the chief command of the demoralized men, and conducted a brilliantly successful retreat to a place of safety in the fortress of Rastadt. This achievement at the age of 24 seemed to stamp the character of his military career. 143 At the collapse of the revolution he escaped to Switzerland, which expelled him, and he then came to New York, where he supported himself as a teacher of mathematics, later engaging in the same occupation in St. Louis, where he was living when the war broke out, and rendered invaluable service in organizing and leading the Germans in support of Blair and Lyon. Unfortunately for his reputation, the war upon which he had now entered was to be carried on by stern aggressiveness, to which he seemed unsuited. He had a strong hold on the affections of the Germans, whose support of the Union was exceedingly valuable, and in spite of repeated failures to satisfy the expectations of his superior officers, he was promoted and given high commands, in all of which his misfortune was the same. After Rastadt he seemed bent only upon conducting brilliant retreats, and that from Carthage greatly helped to confirm this tendency. He was finally relegated to the shelf, which contained so many men who had started out with brilliant promise, and died in New York in 1902, supported during his later years by a pension of $100 a month granted him by Congress. After resting his men a few hours at Sarcoxie, Sigel marched on to Springfield, where Gen. Sweeny was, and to which point Gen. Lyon hurried with all the force he could gather, to forestall the junction of Gen. Ben McCulloch's Arkansas column with the force that Price and Jackson would bring to him. 144 There was strong need of his presence there and of his utmost efforts. He had rolled back the Secession tide only to have it gather volume enough to completely submerge him. Not only had Gov. Jackson and Sterling Price concentrated many more men than he had, but a still stronger column composed of Arkansans and Texans under the noted Gen. Ben. McCulloch was near at hand and pushing forward with all speed. Benjamin McCulloch, a tall, bony, sinewy man of iron will and dauntless courage, was easily a leader and master of the bold, aggressive spirits who had wrested Texas away from Mexico and erected her into a great State. He had achieved much reputation in the command of the Texan Rangers during the Mexican War and in the Indian fights which succeeded that struggle. As a soldier and a fighter he had the highest fame of any living Texan, except Sam Houston, and when he espoused the cause of Secession he drew after him many thousands of the adventurous, daring young men of the State. The Confederate army had immediately commissioned him a Brigadier-General, and he had set about organizing, with his accustomed energy and enterprise, a strong column for aggressive service west of the Mississippi. Warlike young leaders, ambitious for distinction, hastened to join him with whatever men they could raise, for such was their confidence that they felt his banner would point to the most direct road to fame and glory. Many of these, then Captains and Colonels, afterward rose to be Generals in the Confederate army. He had proposed to the Confederate Government to aid the situation in Virginia by active operations in Missouri, and to this plan the Governors of Louisiana, Texas, and Arkansas gave their hearty consent and co-operation. McCulloch had another motive for aggressive action, as it would determine the position of the Indians. [Illustration: 145-Genereal Henry W. Halleck] 145 The wisest among the Chiefs of the Cherokees, Chickasaws, Creeks and Seminoles desired to remain neutral in the struggle, since they did not wish to bring down upon them the wrath of the Kansas people, who were within easy striking distance. By prompt action these wavering aborigines could be brought into the Confederate ranks and be made to render important assistance. He had already crossed the Missouri line with 3,000 mounted men, and on the night of the 4th of July came to Buffalo Creek, 12 miles southwest of Neosho, where he was joined by Gen. Price with 1,700 mounted men, and he sent urgent messages back to the rest of his men to hurry forward to him. These were so well obeyed that he shortly had, independent of Price's men, fully 5,000 men from Arkansas, Texas, and Louisiana, who were better equipt and organized than the Missourians. Gov. Jackson and Gen. Price also sent urgent messages for concentration, which were as promptly responded to. The result was that there were shortly assembled Confederates under Gen. McCulloch and "State Guards" under Gov. Jackson and Gen. Price, a total estimated by Maj. Sturgis and others at 23,-000 men. For lack of proper arms and organization, many of these were not very effective. McCulloch says that the great horde of mounted men "were much in the way," and hindered rather than helped But they were certainly very effective in harrying the Union people; in impressing recruits; in embarrassing Lyon's gathering of supplies; in driving in the small parties he sent out, and confining his operations to the neighborhood of Springfield. 146 In the meanwhile the great disaster of Bull Run had occurred to depress the Union people and fill the Secessionists with unbounded enthusiasm and confidence. The thoughts of the Government and of the loyal people of the country became concentrated upon securing the safety of Washington. Troops were being rushed from every part of the country to the National Capital. Lyon's forces were constantly dwindling, from the expiration of the three months for which the regiments had been enlisted. The men felt the need of their presence at home, to attend to their hastily-left affairs, and could see no prospect of a decisive battle as a reason for remaining. Gen. Lyon importuned Gen. Fremont and the War Department for some regiments, for adequate supplies for those he had, and money with which to pay them. The War Department, however, could apparently think of nothing else than making Washington safe, while Gen. Fremont, deeming St. Louis and Cairo all-important, gathered in what troops he could save from the eastward rush, for holding those places. Gen. Scott even proposed to deprive Gen. Lyon of his little squad of Regulars, and sent orders for seven companies to be forwarded East. Laboring with all these embarrassments, Gen. Lyon confronted the storm rising before him with a firm countenance. 147 CHAPTER IX. EVE OF THE BATTLE OF WILSON'S CREEK Mountainous perplexities and burdens weighed upon Gen. Lyon during the last days of July. The country was hysterical over the safety of the National Capital, and it seemed that the Administration was equally emotional. Every regiment and gun was being rushed to the heights in front of Washington, and all eyes were fixed on the line of the Potomac. The perennial adventurer in Gen. Fremont did not fail to suggest to him that the greatest of opportunities might develop in Washington, and he lingered in New York until peremptorily ordered by Gen. Scott to his command. He did not arrive in St. Louis until July 25. Like Seward, Chase, McClellan, and many other aspiring men, Fremont had little confidence that the untrained Illinois Rail Splitter in the Presidential chair would be able to keep his head above the waves in the sea of troubles the country had entered. The disaster at Bull Run was but the beginning of a series of catastrophes which would soon call for a stronger brain and a more experienced hand at the helm. Then? 148 Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont was not the only one to suggest that the man for the hour would be found to be the first Republican candidate for President--the Great Pathfinder of the Rocky Mountains! Upon his arrival at St Louis Gen. Fremont was immediately waited upon by the faithful Chester Harding and others who had been awaiting his coming with painful anxiety. They represented most energetically Gen. Lyon's predicament, without money, clothing or rations, and with a force even more rapidly diminishing than that of the enemy was augmenting. They revealed Gen. Lyon's far-reaching plans of making Springfield a base from which to carry the war into Arkansas, and begged for men, money, arms, food; shoes and clothing for him. Fremont was too much engrossed in forming in the Brant Mansion that vice-regal court of his--the main requirement for which seemed to be inability to speak English--to feel the urgency of these importunities. The country was swarming with military adventurers from Europe, men with more or less shadow on their connection with the foreign armies, and eager to sell their swords to the highest advantage. They swarmed around Fremont like bees around a sugar barrel, much to the detriment of the honest and earnest men of foreign birth who were rallying to the support of the Union. Next to his satrapal court of exotic manners and speech, Fremont was most concerned about the safety of Cairo, Ill., a most important point, then noisily threatened by Maj.-Gen. Leonidas Polk, the militant Protestant Episcopal Bishop of Louisiana, and his subordinate, the blatant Gen. Gideon J. Pillow, of Mexican War notoriety. 149 Gen. Fremont made quite a show of reinforcing Cairo, sending a most imposing fleet of steamboats to carry the 4,000 troops sent thither. Pretense still counted for much in the war. Later it burnt up like dry straw in the fierce blaze of actualities. Not being Fremont's own, nor contributing particularly to his aggrandizement, Gen. Lyon's plans and aims had little importance to his Commanding General. Gen. Lyon saw clearly that the place to fight for St. Louis and Missouri was in the neighborhood of Springfield, and by messenger and letter he importuned that St. Louis be left to the care of the loyal Germans of the Home Guards, who had shown their ability to handle the city, and that all the other troops there and elsewhere in the State be rushed forward to him, with shoes and clothing for his unshod, ragged soldiers, and sufficient rations for the army, which had well-nigh exhausted the country upon which it had been living for so long. But Fremont frittered away his strength in sending regiments to chase guerrilla bands which dissolved as soon as the trail became too hot. Two regiments were ordered to Lyon from points so distant that they could not make the march in less than 10 days or a fortnight, and some scanty supplies sent to Rolla remained there because of lack of wagons to carry them forward to Springfield, 120 miles away. 150 Later Gen. Fremont testified before the Committee on the Conduct of the War that he had ordered Gen. Lyon, if he could not maintain himself at Springfield, to fall back to Rolla, but singularly he did not produce this order. Though Gen. Lyon had marched his men 50 miles in one day to prevent the junction of Gen. Ben Mc-Culloch's Arkansas column with the hosts Gen. Sterling Price was gathering from Missouri, he was not able to interpose between them. On Saturday, Aug. 3, the Confederates had all gotten together on the banks of Crane Creek, 55 miles southwest of Springfield, with general headquarters in and around the village of Cassville. How many were concentrated is subject to the same obscurity which usually envelops Confederate numbers. Lyon estimated there were 30,000. Later estimates by competent men put the number at 23,000. Gen. Snead, Price's Adjutant-General, put the number at 11,000, which would be a severe reflection on the loyalty of the Missouri Secessionists to their Governor, since Gen. McCulloch certainly brought up about 5,000 from Arkansas, which would leave only 6,000 to respond to Gov. Jackson's proclamation, and gather under the standards set up by his seven Brigadier-Generals--Parsons, Rains, Slack, J. B. Clark, M. L. Clark, Watkins and Randolph. While Lyon had incomparable troubles, there was far from concord in the camp of his opponents. Like thousands of other men, McCulloch's ambition far transcended his abilities. He at once assumed the attitude that as a Brigadier-General in the Confederate army he out-ranked Sterling Price, who was a Major-General of state troops. This, at that early period of the war, was a humorous reversal of the State Sovereignty idea, so flagrant in the minds of those precipitating Secession. 151 Jefferson Davis and his school of thought had been fierce in their contention that the part was greater than the whole, and that the States were greater than the General Government. Yet Gen. McCulloch was unflinching in his insistence that a Confederate Brigadier-General outranked a State Major-General. The dispute became quite acrimonious, but was at last settled by Price's yielding to McCulloch, so anxious was he that something decisive should be done toward driving back Lyon and "redeeming the State of Missouri." According to Gen. Thomas L. Snead, his Chief of Staff, he went to Gen. McCulloch's quarters on Sunday morning, Aug. 4, and after vainly trying to persuade McCulloch to attack Lyon, he said: "I am an older man than you, Gen. McCulloch, and I am not only your senior in rank now, but I was a Brigadier-General in the Mexican War, with an independent command, when you were only a Captain; I have fought and won more battles than you have ever witnessed; my force is twice as great as yours; and some of my officers rank, and have seen more service than you, and we are also upon the soil of our own State; but, Gen. McCulloch, if you will consent to help us to whip Lyon and to repossess Missouri, I will put myself and all my forces under your command, and we will obey you as faithfully as the humblest of your own men. We can whip Lyon, and we will whip him and drive the enemy out of Missouri, and all the honor and all the glory shall be yours, All that we want is to regain our homes and to establish the independence of Missouri and the South. If you refuse to accept this offer, I will move with the Missourians alone against Lyon; for it is better that they and I should all perish than Missouri be abandoned without a struggle. You must either fight beside us or look on at a safe distance and see us fight all alone the army which you dare not attack even with our aid. I must have your answer before dark, for I intend to attack Lyon tomorrow." 152 Gen. McCulloch replied that he was expecting dispatches from the East, but would make known his determination before sundown. At that time, accompanied by Gen. Mcintosh, in whose abilities Gen. McCulloch had the highest confidence, and was largely influenced by him, he went to Price's headquarters and informed him that he had just received dispatches that Gen. Pillow was advancing into the southeastern part of the State from New Madrid with 12,000 men, and that he would accept the command of the united forces and attack Lyon. Price at once published an order that he had turned over the command of the Missouri troops to Gen. McCulloch, but reserved the right to resume command at any time he might see fit. Their friends in Springfield kept Price and McCulloch well-informed as to Lyon's diminishing force and perplexities. Brilliant as McCulloch may have been in command of 100 or so men, he was clearly unequal to the leadership of such a host. He was as much feebler in temper to Lyon as he was inferior in force and grasp to Sterling Price. 153 An audacious stroke by Lyon on Friday, Aug. 2, quite unsettled his nerves. Getting information that his enemies were moving on him by three different roads, Lyon formed the soldierly determination to move out swiftly and attack one of the columns and crush it before the other could come to its assistance. Putting Capt. D. S. Stanley--of whom we shall hear much hereafter--at the head with his troop of Regular cavalry, and following him with a battalion of Regulars under Capt. Frederick Steele--of whom we shall also hear a great deal hereafter--and a section of Totten's Regular Battery, he marched out the Cassville Road with his whole force and at Dug Springs, 20 miles away, came up with McCulloch's advance, commanded by Brig.-Gen. J. S. Rains, of the Missouri State Guards, of whom, too, we shall hear much. Col. Mcintosh, McCulloch's adviser, was also on the ground with 150 men. Rains attempted to put into operation the tactics employed against Sigel at Carthage, but Steele and Stanley were men of different temper, and attacked him so savagely as to scatter his force in wild confusion. Lyon marched forward to within six miles of the main Confederate position, and lay there 24 hours, when, not deeming it wise to attack so far from his base, retired unmolested to Springfield. This startling aggressiveness quite overcame Gen. McCulloch, and the conduct of the Missourians disgusted him. He was strong in his denunciation of them and quite frank in his reluctance to attack Gen. Lyon without further information as to "his position and fortifications," and complained bitterly that he could get no information as to the "barricades" in Springfield and other positions he might encounter. He said that "he would not make a blind attack on Springfield," and "would order the whole army back to Cassville rather than bring on an engagement with an unknown enemy." 154 Gen. Price was strenuous in his insistence upon attack, and finally McCulloch consented to meet all the general officers at his headquarters. In the council McCulloch was plain in his unwillingness to engage Lyon or to enter on any aggressive campaign, but Price, seconded by Gens. Parsons, Bains, Slack and McBride, were most determined that Lyon should be attacked at once, and declared that if McCulloch would not do it he would resume command and fight the battle himself. McCulloch finally yielded, and ordered a forward movement, and on the morning of Aug. 6 the entire force was in camp along the bank of Wilson's Creek, about six miles south of Springfield. This position was taken largely because of its proximity to immense cornfields, which would supply the troops and animals with food. Wilson's Creek, rising in the neighborhood of Springfield, flows west some five miles, and then runs south nine or 10 miles in order to empty into the James River, a tributary of White River. Tyrel's Creek and Skegg's Branch, which have considerable valleys, are tributaries of Wilson's Creek. Above Skegg's Branch rises a hill, since known as Bloody Hill, nearly 100 feet high. Its sides are scored with ravines, the rock comes to the surface in many places, and the hight was thickly covered with an overgrowth of scrub-oak. There are other eminences and ravines, generally covered with scrub-oak and undergrowth, and the Confederates were camped in an irregular line along these for a distance of about three miles up and down Wilson's Creek, from the extreme right to the extreme left. Here they remained three days, with the much-disturbed McCulloch riding out every day with his Maynard rifle slung over his shoulder for a personal reconnoissance, which, as far as could be judged from his conversation on his return, was quite unsatisfactory. 155 He had little stomach for the attack, and naturally found reasons against it. Price and his Generals, on the other hand, were fretting over the delay. Price's accurate information of Lyon's condition made him sure that Lyon would do the obvious thing--retreat. It was the warlike thing to do to attack at once, which had every chance of success. Success meant as telling a stroke for Secession in the West as Bull Run had been in the East It would be quite as sensational, for there was no refuge or rallying point for the beaten Union army short of Rolla, 120 miles away, and the rough country, cut by innumerable valleys, gorges and streams, would enable the swarming mounted force to get in its wild work, and not permit the escape of a man, a gun or a wagon. McCulloch, yielding to Price's importunities, ordered the army forward, and at dawn of Aug. 19 he and Mcintosh were sitting down to breakfast with Price and Snead, preparatory to leading their forces forward, when they were startled by their pickets being driven in. McCulloch, who had hated Rains from Old Army days, and despised him and his Missourians since the Dug Springs affair, remarked contemptuously, "O, it's only one of Rains's scares," and turned to his meal. 156 But the matter instantly became more pressing than breakfast. Gen. Lyon had returned to Springfield Monday, Aug. 5, to meet an intense disappointment. Not a thing had been sent to meet his desperate needs. Fremont had ordered one regiment from Kansas and from the Missouri River to go forward to him, but they could hardly reach him in less than a fortnight. There were at that time some 44 regiments in Missouri--regiments commanded by men whose names afterward shine in history--U. S. Grant, John Pope, S. A. Hurlbut, John M. Palmer, John B. Turchin, S. B. Curtis, Morgan L. Smith, O. E. Salomon, John McNeil, etc.,--but they were kept garrisoning posts, chasing guerrillas, and at almost everything else than hurrying forward toward him, as they should have been. Two of his regiments--the 3d and 4th Mo.--took their discharge and started for St. Louis. The 1st Iowa's time was out, but Lyon asked the men to stay with him a few days longer, and they did to a man. Aside from the military reasons for holding Springfield there were others which appealed to Lyon's mind with equal power. His heart had bled over the outrages committed by the Secessionists upon the Union people in that section of the State. The presence of his army was the only security that the loyal people had that their farms would not be robbed and themselves murdered. Hundreds of them had gone into Springfield to be under his protection. How they could be ever gotten back to a place of safety in retreat was the gravest of problems. Gen. Schofield, at that time his Adjutant-General, and who disapproved of fighting the battle of Wilson's Creek, thinks that this consideration had more weight with him than the military reasons, and induced him to fight where the judgment of the soldier was against it. 157 Four anxious days longer Lyon remained at Springfield. He called a council of his principal officers, and the unanimous decision was that the army should retreat. On Aug. 9 he sent the following letter to Gen. Fremont, the last he ever wrote: General: I retired to this place, as I before informed you, reaching here on the 5th. The enemy followed to within 10 miles of here. He has taken a strong position, and is recruiting his supply of horses, mules, and provisions by forages Into the surrounding country, his large force of mounted men enabling him to do this without much annoyance from me. I find my position extremely embarrassing, and am at present unable to determine whether I shall be able to maintain my ground or be forced to retire. I can resist any attack from the front, but if the enemy move to surround me I must retire. I shall hold my ground as long as possible, though I may, without knowing how far, endanger the safety of my entire force, with its valuable material, being induced by the valuable considerations involved to take the step. The enemy showed himself in considerable force yesterday five miles from here, and has doubtless a full purpose of attacking me. N. LYON, Commanding. 168 The simple, soldierly dignity of this is pathetic. There is no murmur of complaint, such as a man treated as he had been was eminently justified in making. After sending this note, Gen. Lyon received intelligence that one of his cavalry parties had been attacked by rebel cavalry, but after a brief fight had beaten them off. He thereupon sent out a reconnoitering party to learn if the Secessionists had moved forward, and the party presently returned with two Texan and two Tennesseean prisoners, from whom Lyon learned for the first time of the junction of McCulloch's forces and Price's. He at once decided upon a bold stroke. Everything was prepared as if in readiness for retreat, with the tents struck and the Quartermaster's and Commissary's stores in the wagons. Quartermaster Alexis Mudd went to headquarters and asked Gen. Lyon: "When do we start back?" The General fixed his keen blue eyes upon the Quartermaster and said, clearly and firmly: "When we are whipped back, and not until then." An order was at once issued for every man to be prepared to march at 6 o'clock that evening, without any luggage, and with all the ammunition he could carry. Calling a council of officers, Gen. Lyon announced his intention to move out and attack the enemy in his chosen position. Gen. Sigel proposed that he be allowed to take his regiment and Col. Salomon's to move independently and take the enemy in flank and rear. The other officers strongly opposed this, while Gen. Lyon withheld his consent, but finally yielded to Sigel's entreaties and authorized the movement, giving Sigel 1,400 infantry, two companies of cavalry and six pieces of artillery, to move along the Fayetteville Road until he should reach the right flank and rear of the enemy, and at daybreak attack them vigorously. Lyon was to retain 3,700 men and 10 pieces of artillery and move down the Mount Vernon Road and attack in the morning on the left front and flank simultaneously with Sigel's attack on the right. 159 A force of 250 Home Guards with two pieces of artillery was left at Springfield to guard the trains and public property. Col. Sigel's column moved out at 6:30 o'clock in the evening by the left and arrived at daybreak of the 10th within two miles of the extreme right and rear of the enemy's camp, where they proceeded to cut off and bring into camp some 40 stragglers who were out foraging. This was done to prevent their carrying intelligence into camp. Gen. Lyon with the First, Second and Third Brigades, set out about the same hour, and by 1 o'clock in the morning came within sight of the enemy's camp-fires, where they halted until morning. Capt. Plummer was ordered to deploy his battalion to act as skirmishers on the left, while Maj. Osterhaus did the same on the right with his battalion of the 2d Mo. 160 CHAPTER X. BATTLE OF WILSON'S CREEK If the idea of an attack by Gen. Lyon was remote from Gen. McCulloch's thoughts, it was entirely absent from those of Gen. Sterling Price. Gen. Price's mind was concentrated upon the plan to which he had wrung McCulloch's reluctant consent of advancing that morning upon Lyon in four columns, and thereby crushing him, probably capturing his army entire or driving him into a ruinous retreat The first messengers bringing the news of Lyon's close proximity were received with contemptuous disbelief by McCulloch, but on their heels came an Aid from Gen. Rains with the announcement that the fields in front of Rains were "covered with Yankees, infantry and artillery." This roused all to soldierly activity. Neither Price nor McCulloch lacked anything of the full measure of martial courage, and both at once sped to their respective commands to lead them into action. After breaking up the council of war, the previous afternoon, Gen. Lyon said very little beyond giving from time to time, as circumstances called, sharp, precise, practical orders. Naturally talkative and disputatious, he was, when action was demanded, brief, sententious, and sparing of any words but what the occasion demanded. He had carefully thought out his plan of march and battle to the last detail--determined exactly what he and every subordinate, every regiment and battery should do, and his directions to them were clear, concise, prompt and unmistakable. [Illustration: 165-Battlefield of Wilson's Creek] 161 He rode with Maj. Schofield, his Chief of Staff, to the place where they halted about midnight in sight of the rebel campfires and slept with him in the brief bivouac under the same blanket. To Schofield he seemed unusually depressed. The only words he said, beyond necessary orders, were almost as if talking to himself: "I would give my life for a victory." Again, in response to Schofield's discreet criticism of the wisdom of dividing his forces and giving Sigel an independent command, he said briefly: "It is Sigel's plan." Sige's theoretical knowledge of war and his experience were then felt to be so overshadowing to everybody else's as to estop criticism. The men of Lyon's little army lay down on their grassy bivouac with feelings of tensest expectation. With the exception of the few of the Regulars who had been in the Mexican and Indian wars, not one of them had ever heard a gun fired in anger. They had been talking battle for three months. Now it was upon them, but none of them could realize how sharp would be the combat, nor how exceedingly well they were going to acquit themselves. At the first streak of dawn Lyon was up--all activity and anticipation--to open the battle. He had wisely selected the two men who were to strike the first blows. 162 Capt. Jos. B. Plummer, who commanded the Regulars deployed as skirmishers on the left, and who sun should set, was a man after Lyon's own heart He was strongly in favor of the battle, and afterward defended it as the wisest thing to do under the circumstances. He was born in Massachusetts, and had graduated in 1841 in the same class with Lyon and Totten, whose battery was to do magnificent service, and avenge the insults and humiliations of Little Rock. Rummer's standing in his class was 22, where Lyon's was 11 and Totten's 25. He had been in garrison in Vera Cruz during the Mexican War, and so had escaped getting the brevets "for gallant and meritorious conduct" which had been so freely bestowed on all who had been "present" at any engagement, but had reached the rank of Captain in 1862, a year later than Capt Lyon. He was to rise to Colonel of the 11th Mo. and Brigadier-General of Volunteers, and everywhere display vigor and capacity in important commands, but to have his career cut short by his untimely death near Corinth, Miss., Aug. 9,1862, at the age of 43 years. Maj. Peter Joseph Osterhaus, who commanded the two companies of his regiment--the 2d Mo.--deployed on the right, was the best soldier in that wonderful immigration of bright, educated, enthusiastic young Germans who took refuge in this country after the failure of the Revolution of 1848. At least, he was tried longer in large commands, and rose to a higher rank than any of them. Sigel and Carl Schurz became, like him, Major-Generals of Volunteers, but his service was regarded as much higher than theirs, and he was esteemed as one of the best division and corps commanders in the Army of the Tennessee. After long service as a division commander he commanded the Fifteenth Corps on the March to the Sea. He was born in Prussia, educated as a soldier, took part in the Revolution, migrated to this country, and was invaluable to Lyon in organizing the Home Guards among the Germans to save the Arsenal He still lives, a specially honored veteran, at Mannheim, in Prussia. 163 Capt. Jas. Totten, whose battery was placed in the center, was to win a Lieutenant-Colonel's brevet for his splendid service during the day, but got few honors during the rest of the war. He became a Brigadier-General of Missouri Militia, and received the complimentary brevets of Colonel and Brigadier-General when they were generally handed round on March 13, 1865, but his unfortunate habits caused his dismissal from the Army in 1870. He was then Lieutenant-Colonel and Assistant Inspector-General. There were many men among Lyon's subordinates whose conduct during the day brought them prominence and started them on the way to distinction. Maj. Samuel D. Sturgis, of the 4th U. S. Cav., a Pennsylvanian, who was that day to win the star of a Brigadier-General of Volunteers, and who commanded the First Brigade, afterward rose to the command of a division, fought with credit at Second Manassas, South Mountain and Fredericksburg, for which he received brevets, and was overwhelmingly defeated, while in command of an independent expedition, by Forrest, at Guntown, Miss., June 10, 1864, and passed into retirement. He became Colonel of the 7th U. S. Cav. after the war. He was a graduate of West Point in 1882. 164 Lieut-Col. I. F. Shepard, who was Lyon's Aid, became a Brigadier-General of Volunteers. Maj. John M. Schofield, Lyon's Adjutant-General, has been spoken of elsewhere. Capt Gordon Granger, 3d U. S. Cav., a New Yorker and a graduate of the class of 1841, was Lyon's Assistant Adjutant-General, and won a brevet for his conduct that day. He was a man of far more than ordinary abilities--many pronounced him a great soldier, and said that only his unbridled tongue prevented him rising higher than he did. He became a Major-General and a Corps Commander, led the troops to Thomas's assistance at the critical moment at Chickamauga, but fell under the displeasure of Sherman, who relieved him. He afterward commanded the army which captured Forts Gaines and Morgan, and received the surrender of Mobile. Capt Frederick Steele, 2d U. S., Gen. Grant's classmate and lifelong friend, who had won brevets in Mexico, commanded a battalion of two companies. He was to become Colonel of the 8th Iowa, Brigadier and Major-General, and render brilliant service at Vicksburg and in Arkansas. Maj. John A. Halderman, 1st Kan., who succeeded to the command of the regiment when Col. Deitzler was wounded, was commended by all his superior officers, for his handsome conduct. He had been appointed by Gen. Lyon Provost Marshal-General of the Western Army, and was afterwards commissioned a Major-General. He entered the diplomatic service under President Grant; became Minister to Siam, and was praised all over the world for his success in bringing that country into touch with civilization. 165 Lieut.-Col. G. L. Andrews, who in the absence of Col. F. P. Blair, commanded the 1st Mo., was a Rhode Island man, who afterward entered the Regular Army, fought creditably through the war, and in 1892 was retired as a Colonel. In the 1st Mo. was Capt. Nelson Cole, who was severely wounded. He served through the war, rose to be a Colonel, became Senior Vice Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, and was a Brigadier-General of Volunteers in the war with Spain. In the 1st Kan. were Col. Geo. W. Detzler, who later became a Brigadier-General; Capt. Powell Clayton, who was to become a Colonel, Brigadier-General, Governor of Arkansas, Senator, and Embassador to Mexico, and Capt. Daniel McCook, who was to become Brigadier-General, and fall at Kene-saw. In the 2d Kan. were Col. Robert B. Mitchell, of Ohio, who rose to be Brigadier-General and did gallant service in the Army of the Cumberland; Maj. Charles W. Blair, who became a Brigadier-General, and Capt. Samuel J. Crawford, who became a Colonel, a brevet Brigadier-General, and Governor of Kansas. In the 1st Iowa were Lieut.-Col. W. H. Merritt, a New Yorker, who commanded the regiment and afterwards became a Colonel on the staff, and Capt. Francis J. Herron, who became a Major-General of Volunteers and commanded a division at Prairie Grove, Vicksburg, and in Texas. 166 There were very many in these regiments serving as privates and non-commissioned officers who afterwards made fine records as commanders of companies and regiments and became distinguished in civil life. Taken altogether, Lyon's army was an unusually fine body of fighting men. The Iowa and Kansas men were ardent, enthusiastic youths, accustomed to the use of the gun, and who hunted their enemies as they did the wild beasts they had to encounter. They were free from the superstition inculcated in the Eastern armies that the soldier's duty was to stand up in the open and be shot at. When it was necessary to stand up they stood up gallantly, but at other times they took advantage of every protection and lay behind any rock or trunk of tree in wait for the enemy to come within easy range, and then fired with fatal effect. The older Regulars trained to Indian fighting were equally effective, and speedily brought the mass of recruits associated with them into similar efficiency. Nowhere else at that early period of the war was the fire of the Union soldiers so deliberate and deadly as at Wilson's Creek. The Confederates had no pickets out--not even camp-guards. They had been marched and countermarched severely for days, and were resting preparatory to advancing that morning on Springfield. Many were at breakfast, many others starting out to get material for breakfast in the neighboring fields. Rains's Division was the most advanced, and Rains reports that he discovered the enemy when about three miles from camp, and that he put his Second Brigade--mounted men commanded by Col. Caw-thorn, of the 4th Mo.--into line to resist the advance. He says that the brigade maintained its position all day, which does not agree with the other accounts of the battle. 167 Before Gen. Lyon--a mile and a half away--rose the eminence, afterward known as "Bloody Hill," which overlooked the encampment of the Confederates along Wilson's Creek, and on which substantially all the fighting was to take place. From it the Confederate trains were in short reach, and the rout of the enemy could be secured. Its central position, however, made it easy to concentrate troops for its defense and bring up reinforcements. Capt. Plummer sent forward Capt. C. C. Gilbert, 1st U. S., with his company to guard the left of the advance, cross Wilson's Creek, and engage the right of the enemy. Capt. Gilbert was a soldier of fine reputation, who was to win much credit on subsequent fields; to rise to the rank of Brigadier-General and the brief command of a corps, and then to fall under the displeasure of his commanding officers. Capt. Gilbert moved forward rapidly until he came to Wilson's Creek, where his skirmishers were stopped by swamps and jungles of brushwood, when Capt. Plummer caught up with him, and the whole battalion finally crossed the creek and advanced into a cornfield, easily driving away the first slight force that attempted to arrest them. In the meanwhile quite a number of the enemy was discovered assembling on the crest of the ridge, and Gen. Lyon forming the 1st Mo. into line sent them forward on the right to engage these, while the 1st Kan. came up on the left and opened a brisk fire, with Totten's battery in the center, which also opened fire. 168 This was about 10 minutes past 5, when the battle may be said to have fairly opened. The 1st Iowa and the 2d Kan., with Capt. Steele's battalion of Regulars, were held in reserve. Rains's Missourians responded pluckily to the fire, and Gen. Price began rushing up assistance to them until he says that he had over 2,000 men on the ridge. The 1st Kan. and the 1st Mo. pressed resolutely forward, delivering their fire at short range, and after a sharp contest of 20 minutes the Missourians gave way and fled down the hill. There was a brief lull, in which the Union men were encouraged by hearing Sigel's artillery open two miles away, on the other flank of the enemy, and Lyon found his line preparatory to pushing forward and striking the trains. Already there were symptoms of panic there, and some of the wagons were actually in flames. Gen. Rains soon succeeded in rallying his men. Gens. Slack, McBride, Parsons and Clark rushed to his assistance with what men they could hastily assemble, and Gen. Price led them forward in a line covering Gen. Lyon's entire front. Both sides showed an earnest disposition to come to close quarters, and a fierce fight lasting for perhaps half an hour followed. Sometimes portions of the Union troops were thrown into temporary disorder, but they only fell back a few yards, when they would rally and return to the field. The enemy strove to reach the crest of the ridge and drive the Union troops back, but were repulsed, while the Union troops, following them to the foot of the ridge, were driven back to the crest. 169 The Confederates brought up a battery, which, however, was soon silenced by the fire concentrated upon it from Totten's battery and that of Lieut. Du Bois. In the meanwhile Capt. Plummer had been pushing his Regulars thru the corn and oat fields toward the battery which he wanted to take, and was within 200 yards of it when Capt. Mcintosh, an officer of the Old Army, and now Adjutant-General for McCulloch, saw the danger and rushed up the 3d La. and the 2d Ark. against Plummer's left The Regulars made a stubborn resistance for a few minutes, but their line was enveloped by the long line of the two regiments, and they fell back with considerable haste across the creek toward Totten's battery. Mcintosh saw his advantage and pursued it to the utmost, sending his Louisianians and Arkansans forward on the double-quick to prevent Plummer from rallying. The watchful DuBois saw the trouble the Regulars were in, and turning his guns upon his pursuers enfiladed them with canister and shell with such effect that they in turn ran, and were rallied by Mcintosh behind a little log house, into which DuBois put a couple of shells and sent them further back. By this time the battle was two hours old and the roar of the conflict died down, except on the extreme right, where the 1st Mo. was still having a bitter struggle with a superior force of fresh troops with which Price was endeavoring to turn the Union right flank. 170 Gen. Lyon, who had watched every phase of the battle closely, ordered Capt. Totten to move part of his battery to the support of the 1st Mo., but as the Captain was about to open he was restrained by seeing a regiment advancing to within a distance of about 200 yards, carrying both a Federal and a Confederate flag. It was the direction from which Sigel had been anxiously expected, and as the uniform of the advancing regiment was similar to that of Sigel's men, both the infantry and the artillery withheld their fire until the enemy revealed his character by a volley, when Capt Totten opened all his guns upon them with canister and inflicted great slaughter. Capt Cary Gratz, of the 1st Mo., was so indignant at this treachery that he dashed out and shot down the man who was carrying the Union flag, only to be shot down himself almost immediately afterwards by several bullets from the Confederates. The 2d Kan. was also hurried forward to support the 1st Mo. Capt Steele's battalion was brought up and the 1st Iowa was sent in to relieve the 1st Kan., which had suffered quite severely and was nearly out of ammunition. The battle was renewed with much greater fierceness than ever, the Confederates advancing in three or four ranks, lying down, kneeling, standing, sometimes getting within 30 or 40 yards of the Union line before they were forced back. Gen. Lyon was everywhere where his presence was needed to encourage the troops, rally them, and bring them back into line. His horse was shot, and he received a wound in the head and one on the ankle. He continued to walk along the line, but he was evidently much depressed by the way in which Price and McCulloch succeeded in bringing forward fresh troops to replace those which had been driven from the field. He said to Maj. Schofield sadly, "I fear the day is lost." Schofield replied encouragingly, dismounted one of his orderlies and gave the horse to Lyon, when they separated, each to lead a regiment It was now 9 o'clock, or little after, and there was a lull in the fight, during which time the enemy seemed to be reorganizing his force, and Lyon began concentrating his into a more compact form on the crest of the ridge. 171 Capt. Sweeny called Lyon's attention to his wounds, but Lyon answered briefly, "It is nothing." Schofield moved off to rally a portion of the 1st Iowa, which showed a disposition to break under the terrific fire, and lead it back into action. Gen. Lyon rode for a moment or two with the file closers on the right of the 1st Iowa, and then turned toward the 2d Kan., which was moved forward under the lead of Col. Mitchell. In a few moments the Colonel fell, wounded, and Gen. Lyon shouted to the regiment to come on, that he would lead them. The next instant, almost, a bullet pierced his breast and he fell dead. Lehman, his faithful orderly, was near him when he fell, and rushed to his assistance, raising a terrible outcry, which some of the officers near promptly quieted lest it discourage the troops. After a bitter struggle of fully half an hour the Confederates were driven back all along the line, and the battle ceased for a little while. The Confederates retired so completely that it looked as if the battle was won, and Maj. Schofield, finding Maj. Sturgis, informed him that he was in command, and the principal officers were hastily gathered together for a consultation. The first and most anxious inquiry of all was as to what had become of Sigel. It was all-important to know that. If a junction could be formed with him the army could advance and drive the enemy completely from the field. 172 Sigel had crossed Wilson's Creek and come into line within easy range of McCulloch's headquarters, where Capt Shaeffer opened with his battery upon a large force of Arkansan, Texan and Missourian troops who were engaged in getting breakfast. They were so demoralized by the awful storm of shells that at least one regiment--Col. Greer's of Texas--did not recover its composure during the day, and took little if any part in the rest of the engagement. Col. Churchill succeeded in rallying his Arkansas regiment, but before he could return and engage Sigel he received urgent orders to hurry over to the right and help drive back Lyon. Sigel's men moved forward into the deserted camp, but unfortunately broke ranks and began plundering it. McCulloch had rushed over to his headquarters in time to meet the fugitives, and by great exertions succeeded in rallying about 2,000 men, with whom he attacked Sigel's disorganized men in the camps, and drove them out. Sigel succeeded in rallying a portion of his men, when McCulloch advanced upon them with a regiment the uniforms of which were so like that of the volunteers under Lyon that his men could not be persuaded that it was not a portion of Lyon's troops advancing to their assistance, and they withheld their fire until the Confederates were within 10 paces, when the latter poured in such a destructive volley that men and horses went down before it, and Sigel's Brigade was utterly routed, with a loss of some 250 prisoners and a regimental flag, which was afterwards used to deceive the Union troops. 173 With the exception of the two troops of Regular cavalry under Capt. E. A. Carr, which seem to have done nothing during this time, Sigel's Brigade disappeared completely from the action, and Sigel and Salomon, with a few men, rode back to Springfield, where it is said that they went to bed. This inexplicable action by Sigel bitterly prejudiced the other officers against him, and was continually coming up in judgment against him. There is no doubt of Sigel's personal courage, but why, with the sound of Lyon's cannon in his ears, and knowing full well the desperate struggle his superior officer was engaged in, he made no effort to rally his troops or to take any further part in the battle, is beyond comprehension. Col. Salomon, who accompanied him in his flight to Springfield, afterward became Colonel of a Wisconsin regiment, and made a brilliant record. It was yet but little after 9 o'clock, and despite the stubbornness of the fighting no decisive advantage had been gained on either side. The Union troops were masters of the savagely contested hill, but all their previous efforts to advance beyond, pierce the main Confederate line, and reach the trains below had been repulsed. Had they better make another attempt? The hasty council of war decided that it would be unsafe to do so until Col. Sigel was heard from. The army was already badly crippled, for the 1st Kan. and the 1st Mo. had lost one-third of their men and half their officers, the others had suffered nearly as severely, and everybody was running short of ammunition. They had marched all night, and gone into battle without breakfast, had been fighting five hours, and were suffering terribly from heat, thirst and exhaustion. 174 The council was suddenly brought to an end by seeing a large force which Price and McCulloch had rallied come over the hill directly in the Union front A battery which Gen. Price had established on the crest of the hill somewhat to the left opened a fire of canister and shrapnel, but the Union troops showed the firmest front of any time during the day, and Totten's and DuBois's batteries hurled a storm of canister into the advancing infantry. Gen. Price had brought up fresh regiments to replace those which had been fought out, and it seemed as if the Union line would be overwhelmed. But the officers brought up every man they could reach. Capt Gordon Granger threw three companies of the 1st Mo., three companies of the 1st Kan., and two companies of the 1st Iowa, which had been supporting DuBois's battery, against the right flank of the enemy and by their terrible enfilade fire sent it back in great disorder. On the right Lieut.-Col. Blair, with the 2d Kan., was having an obstinate fight, but with the assistance of a section of Totten's battery under Lieut. Sokalski the enemy was at last driven back clear out of sight. The battle had now raged bitterly for six hours, with every attempt of the enemy to drive foe stubborn defenders from the crest of the hill repulsed. The slope on the eminence was thickly strewn with the dead and wounded. The Confederates had suffered fearfully. Cols. Weightman and Brown, who commanded brigades, had been killed, and Gens. Price, Slack and Clark wounded. The loss of subordinate officers had been very heavy. They had been clearly fought to a finish, and an attempt of their cavalry to turn the Union right flank had been repulsed with great loss by Totten's battery and several companies of the 1st Mo. and the 1st Kan. The shells produced the greatest consternation among the horses and men, as they were delivered at short range with unerring aim. The entire Confederate line left the field, disappearing thru the thick woods in the valley to their camp on Wilson's Creek, somewhat to the right of the Union center. 175 Another brief council of war resulted in an order from Maj. Sturgis to fall back. Nothing could be heard from Sigel, the men were exhausted, the ammunition nearly gone, and it seemed best to retire while there was an opportunity left. As subsequently learned this was a great mistake, because the Confederate army was in full retreat, and an advance from the Union army would have sent them off the field for good. The Union officers did the best they could according to their light, and their retirement was in the best order and absolutely unmolested. The retreat began about 11:30 and continued two miles to a prairie northeast of the battleground, where a halt was made to enable the Surgeons to collect the wounded in ambulances. Gen. Lyon's body had been placed in an ambulance, but by someone's order was taken out again and left on the prairie with the rest of the dead. About 5 o'clock in the afternoon the army reached Springfield, and there found Sigel and Salomon and most of their brigade, with the others coming in from all directions. 176 In spite of his conduct on the battlefield, Sigel's great theoretical knowledge and experience in European wars decided that the command should be turned over to him, and he was formally placed at the head. According to official reports the casualties in the Union army were as follows: [Illustration: 176-Table of Union Casualties] The official reports give the casualties in the Confederate army as follows: [Illustration: 177-Table of Confederate Casualties] 177 CHAPTER XI. THE AFTERMATH OF WILSON'S CREEK An analytical study of the losses in the preceding chapter will aid in a more thoro appreciation of the most bitter battle fought on the American Continent up to that time, and by far the severest which had ever been waged west of the Allegheny Mountains. It will be perceived that the loss in the Union army was almost wholly in Gen. Lyon's column of 4,000 men, or less, which suffered to the extent of almost one-third of its number. In the 1,300 men in Gen. Sigel's command the loss was insignificant, except in prisoners. Both sides fought with a stubbornness absolutely unknown in European wars, but the regiments of the Union army seemed to be inspired with that higher invincibility of purpose which characterized their great leader. Judged by the simple equation of losses, the Union regiments displayed a far greater tenacity of purpose than the Confederates. We have no exact figures as to the number in each Union regiment, as there were constant changes taking place; a great many men had served their time out and more were claiming and receiving their discharges. Aug. 4, 1861, six days before the battle, Gen. Lyon gave from "recollection" the following estimate of the strength of his command, which must have been considerably reduced in the seven days between that and the battle, and from which must be deducted some 250 men left to guard the trains and property in Springfield: 178 [Illustration: 179-Table] 179 It is altogether unlikely that the 1st Mo., for example, took into battle within 100 or more of the 900 men assigned to it, and the same thing is true of the 900 men given for the 1st Iowa, and the 700 each for the two Kansas regiments. If we assume that the 1st Mo. and the 1st Iowa had 800 men each and the Kansas regiments 600 each, we find that the loss of 295 for the 1st Mo., 284 for the 1st Kan., and 154 for the 1st Iowa to be appalling. The Regulars suffered severely, but not so badly as the volunteers. Among those who were noted for gallant conduct in the battle of Wilson's Creek was Eugene F. Ware, then a private in the 1st Iowa, and who afterward became a Captain in the 7th Iowa Cav. In civil life he attained a leading place at the Kansas bar, and was appointed Commissioner of Pensions by President Roosevelt. 180 None of the Confederate regiments engaged suffered to anything like the same extent, and as they were driven from the field, while the Union regiments maintained their position and were even ready for further aggression, the palm of higher purposes and more desperate fighting must be unhesitatingly conceded to the Union volunteers. Few of the Confederate commanders give reports of the number they carried into action, but many of their regiments must have been approximately as strong as those of the Union, and they had many more of them. The moral effect of the battle was prodigious on both sides. The Union troops were conscious of having met overwhelming forces and fought them to a stand-still, if not actual defeat. Every man felt himself a victor as he left the field, and only retreated because the exigencies of the situation rendered that the most politic move. It was consequently a great encouragement to the Union sentiment everywhere, and did much to retrieve the humiliation of Bull Run. The Confederates naturally made the very most of the fact that they had been left masters of the field, and they dilated extensively upon the killing of Gen. Lyon and the crushing defeat they had administered upon Sigel, with capture of prisoners, guns and flags. They used this to so good purpose as to greatly stimulate the Secession spirit thruout the State. 181 Gen. McCulloch's dispatches to the Confederate War Department are, to say the least, disingenuous. His first dispatch that evening stated that the enemy was 12,000 strong, but had "fled" after eight hours' hard fighting. His second official report, dated two days after the battle, gave his "effective" forces at 5,300 infantry, 15 pieces of artillery and 6,000 horsemen, armed with flintlock muskets, rifles and shotguns. He says: "There were, other horsemen with the army, but they were entirely unarmed, and instead of being a help they were continually in the way." He repeatedly pronounces the collisions at the different periods of the battle as "terrific," and says: "The incessant roar of musketry was deafening, and the balls fell as thick as hailstones." His next sentences are at surprising variance with the concurrent testimony on the Union side; for he says: "Nothing could withstand the impetuosity of our final charge. The enemy fell back and could not again be rallied, and they were seen at 12 m. fast retreating among the hills in the distance. This ended the battle. It lasted six hours and a half." By this time Gen. McCulloch had reduced the Union force to between 9,000 and 10,000, and he claims the Union loss to have been 800 killed, 1,000 wounded and 300 prisoners. He gave his own loss at 265 killed, 800 wounded and 30 missing. His colleague, Gen. Price, he curtly dismisses with this brief laudation: "To Gen. Price I am under many obligations for assistance on the battlefield. He was at the head of his force, leading them on and sustaining them by his gallant bearing." 182 Gen. Price's report is more accurate and soldierlike, but he says that after several "severe and bloody conflicts" had ensued, and the battle had been conducted with the "greatest gallantry and vigor on both sides for more than five hours, the enemy retreated in great confusion, leaving their Commander-in-Chief, Gen. Lyon, dead upon the battlefield, over 500 killed and a great number wounded." He claims that his forces numbered 5,221 officers and men, of whom 156 were killed and 517 wounded. This would make the loss of his whole division of 5,000 men 673, or about the same lost by the 1st Mo. and the 1st Kan., with these two regiments still maintaining their position, while the enemy retired. It seems difficult to understand why, if the enemy "retreated in great confusion," as reported by Mc-Culloch and Price, the several thousand horsemen who did little or nothing during the battle were not let loose to complete the ruin of the Union forces. No matter how poorly armed or disciplined these might have been, their appearance on the flank of the retiring column would have been fatal to any orderly retreat such as was conducted. The universal testimony of the Union officers and soldiers is that there was no enemy in sight when they started to leave the field, and that they suffered no molestation whatever, though they halted two miles from the field and in plain sight for some time. It also passes comprehension that this horde of irregular horsemen were not employed during the long hours of the battle in making some diversion in the rear of the Union army. Both Price and McCulloch seem to have had their attention so fully engrossed in bringing up new regiments to keep Lyon from breaking thru their lines and reaching their trains that they had no opportunity to give orders or organize manuvers by the horsemen, and nobody seems to have suggested to the mounted men that they could employ their time better than by standing back and watching the progress of the terrible conflict between the two opposing lines of infantry. 183 It appears that the Union officers in the council called by Gen. Sturgis were not at all unanimous for retreat. Capt. Sweeny, altho severely wounded, vehemently insisted upon pursuing the enemy, and Capt. Gordon Granger, also severely wounded, rode up to Sturgis, pointed out that there was not a man in sight and that the fire could be seen from where the retreating foe was burning his wagons, and he urged the pursuit so vigorously that Sturgis had to repeat his order for him to leave the field. Col. Sigel, in his report made at Rolla eight days after the battle, made a long and labored explanation of his operations during the day. He thus explained his failure to do more: In order to understand clearly our actions and our fate, you will allow me to state the following facts: 1st. According to orders, it was the duty of this brigade to attack the enemy in the rear and to cut off his retreat, which order I tried to execute, whatever the consequences might be. 2d. The time of service of the 6th Regiment Mo. Volunteers had expired before the battle. I had induced them, company by company, not to leave us in the most critical and dangerous moment, and had engaged them for the time of eight days, this term ending on Friday, the 9th, the day before the battle. 3d. The 3d Regiment, of which 400 three-months men had been dismissed, was composed for the greatest part of recruits, who had not seen the enemy before and were only insufficiently drilled. 4th. The men serving the pieces and the drivers consisted of infantry taken from the 3d Regiment and were mostly recruits, who had had only a few days' instruction. 5th. About two-thirds of our officers had left us. Some companies had no officers at all; a great pity, but a consequence of the system of the three months' service. Later, when Gen. Sigel was seeking promotion, Maj. Schofield, then a Brigadier-General, sent the following communication to Gen. Halleck: 184 St Louis, Mo.. Feb. 18, 1862. Maj.-Gen. Halleck, Commanding Department of the Missouri. General: The question of the merits of Brig.-Gen. Franz Slgel as a commander having assumed such shape as to deeply involve the interests of the service, I deem it my duty to make a statement of facts which came to my knowledge during the campaign of last Summer in the Southwest, ending in the death of Gen. Lyon and the retreat of his army from Springfield. Soon after the capture of Camp Jackson, in May, Gen. Lyon sent Col. Slgel, with his two regiments of infantry and two batteries of artillery, to the southwestern part of the State, by way of Rolla, to cut off the retreat of Price's force which he (Lyon) was about to drive from Boonville. Col. Sigel passed beyond Springfield, reaching a point not far from the Kansas line, and on the main road used by Price's men in their movement south to join him. Here he left a single company of infantry in a small town, with no apparent object, unless that It might fall in the hands of the enemy, which it did the next day (6th of July). Sigel met Price the next day, and fought the celebrated "battle of Carthage." Sigel had about two regiments of infantry, well armed and equipped, most of the men old German soldiers, and two good batteries of artillery. Price had about twice Sigel's number of men, but most of them mounted, armed with shotguns and common rifles, and entirely without organization and discipline, and a few pieces of almost worthless artillery. Sigel retreated all day before this miserable rabble, contenting himself with repelling their irregular attacks, which he did with perfect ease whenever they ventured to make them. The loss on either side was quite insignificant. Price and McCulloch were thus permitted to join each other absolutely without opposition; Sigel, who had been sent there to prevent their Junction, making a "masterly retreat." Several days before the battle of Wilson's Creek it was ascertained beyond a doubt that the enemy's strength was about 22,000 men, with at least 20 pieces of artillery, while our force was only about 5,000. About the 7th of August the main body of the enemy reached Wilson's Creek, and Gen. Lyon decided to attack him. The plan of attack was freely discussed between Gen. Lyon, the members of his staff, CoL Sigel, and several officers of the Regular Army. Col. Sigel, apparently anxious for a separate command, advocated the plan of a divided attack. All others, I believe, opposed it. On the 8th of August the plan of a single attack was adopted, to be carried out on the 9th. This had to be postponed on account of the exhaustion of part of our troops. During the morning of the 9th Col. Sigel had a long interview with Gen. Lyon, and prevailed upon him to adopt his plan, which led to the mixture of glory, disgrace and disaster of the ever-memorable 10th of August Slgel, in attempting to perform the part assigned to himself, lost his artillery, lost his infantry, and fled alone, or nearly so, to Springfield, arriving there long before the battle was ended. Yet he had almost nobody killed or wounded. One piece of his artillery and 500 or 600 infantry were picked up and brought in by a company of Regular cavalry. No effort was made by Sigel or any of his officers to rally their men and join Lyon's Division, altho the battle raged furiously for hours after Sigel's rout; and most of his men in their retreat passed in rear of Lyon's line of battle. 185 On our return to Springfield, at about 5 o'clock p. m., Maj. Sturgis yielded the command to Col. Sigel, and the latter, after consultation with many of the officers of the army, decided to retreat toward Rolla; starting at 2 o'clock a. m. in order that the column might be in favorable position for defense before daylight. At the hour appointed for the troops to move I found Col. Sigel asleep in bed, and his own brigade, which was to be the advance guard, making preparations to cook their breakfast It was 4 o'clock before I could get them started. Sigel remained in command three days, kept his two regiments in front all the time, made little more than ordinary day's marches, but yet did not get in camp until 10, and on one occasion 12 o'clock at night. On the second day he kept the main column waiting, exposed to the sun on a dry prairie, while his own men killed beef and cooked their breakfast. They finished their breakfast at about noon, and then began their day's march. The fatigue and annoyance to the troops soon became so intolerable that discipline was impossible. The officers, therefore, almost unanimously demanded a change. Maj. Sturgis, in compliance with the demand, assumed the command. My position as Gen. Lyon's principal staff officer gave mo very favorable opportunities for judging of Gen. Sigel's merits as an officer, and hence I appreciate his good as well as his bad qualities more accurately than most of those who presume to judge him. Gen. Sigel, in point of theoretical education, is far above the average of commanders in this country. He has studied with great care the science of strategy, and seems thoroly conversant with the campaigns of all the great captains, so far as covers their main strategic features, and also seems familiar with the duties of the staff; but in tactics, great and small logistics, and discipline he is greatly deficient. These defects are so apparent as to make it absolutely impossible for him to gain the confidence of American officers and men, and entirely unfit him for a high command in our army. While I do not condemn Gen. Sigel in the unmeasured terms so common among many, but on the contrary see in him many fine qualities, I would do less than my duty did I not enter my protest against the appointment to a high command in the army of a man who, whatever may be his merits, I know cannot have the confidence of the troops he is to command. I am, General, very respectfully, your obedient servant, J. M. SCHOFIELD, Brigadier-General. U. S. Volunteers. This was accompanied by a statement embodying the same facts and signed by substantially all the higher officers who had been with Lyon. 186 At the first halt of the army, about two miles from the battlefield, while the dead and wounded were being gathered up, it was discovered that Gen. Lyon's body had been left behind. The Surgeon and another officer volunteered to take an ambulance and return to the battlefield for it They were received graciously by Gen. McCulloch; the body was delivered to them and they reached Springfield with it shortly after dark. The Surgeon made an attempt to embalm it by injecting arsenic into the veins, but decomposition, owing to exposure to the hot sun, had progressed too far to render it practicable, and they were compelled to leave it when the army moved off. Mrs. Phelps, wife of the member of Congress from that District, and a true Union woman, obtained it and had it placed in a wooden coffin, which was hermetically sealed in another one of zinc. Fearing that it might be molested by the Confederate troops when they entered the city, Mrs. Phelps had the coffin placed in an out-door cellar and covered with straw. Later she took an opportunity of having it secretly buried at night. Thinking that the remains had been brought on, Mr. Danford Knowlton, of New York, a cousin, and Mr. John B. Hasler, of Webster, Mass., a brother-in-law of Gen. Lyon, came on at the instance of the Connecticut relatives to obtain the remains. Not finding them at St. Louis, they went forward to Rolla, where Col. Wyman furnished them with an ambulance, with which they proceeded to Springfield under a flag of truce. They were kindly received by Gen. Price, and also by Gen. Parsons, whose brigade was encamped on the ground where the body was buried, and exhuming it, brought it to St. Louis. The city went into mourning, and the remains were conducted by a military and civic procession to the depot, where they were delivered to the Adams Express Company to be conveyed East under an escort of officers and enlisted men. 187 At every station on the road crowds gathered to pay their tribute of respect to the deceased hero and distinguished honors were paid at Cincinnati, Pittsburg, New York, and Hartford. The body was taken to Eastford, Conn., where the General was born, and in the presence of a large assemblage was interred in a grave beside his parents, in accordance with the desire the General expressed while in life. Upon opening Lyons' will it was found that he had bequeathed all his savings, prudent investments and property, amounting to about $50,000, to the Government to aid it in the prosecution of the war for its existence. Aug. 25, Gen. Fremont issued congratulatory orders, in which he said: The General Commanding laments, in sympathy with the country, the loss of the indomitable Gen. Nathaniel Lyon. His fame cannot be better eulogized than in these words in the official report of his gallant successor, Maj. Sturgis, U. S. Cavalry: "Thus gallantly fell as true a soldier as ever drew a sword; a man whose honesty of purpose was proverbial; a noble patriot, and one who held his life as nothing where his country demanded it of him. Let us emulate his prowess and undying devotion to his duty!" The order also permitted the regiments and other organizations engaged to put "Springfield" on their colors, and directed that the order should be read at the head of every company in the Department of Missouri. 188 Dec. 30, 1861, Congress passed a joint resolution, in which it said: That Congress deems it just and proper to enter upon its records a recognition of the eminent and patriotic services of the late Brig-Gen. Nathaniel Lyon. The country to whose service he devoted his life will guard and preserve his fame as a part of its own glory. 2. That the thanks of Congress are hereby given to the brave officers and soldiers who, under the command of the late Gen. Lyon, sustained the honor of the flag, and achieved victory against overwhelming numbers at the battle of Springfield, in Missouri, and that, in order to commemorate an event so honorable to the country and to themselves, it is ordered that each regiment engaged shall be authorized to bear upon its colors the word "Springfield," embroidered in letters of gold. And the President of the United States is hereby requested to cause these resolutions to be read at the head of every regiment in the Army of the United States. 189 CHAPTER XII. A GALAXY OF NOTABLE MEN The Union commanders were naturally very apprehensive that as soon as Price and Mc-Culloch realized that the field had been abandoned they would precipitate upon them their immense horde of vengeful horsemen. Such was not the case. Nothing tells so eloquently of the severity of the blow which Lyon had dealt his enemies than that it was two whole days before Price and McCulloch were in a frame of mind to move forward 10 miles and occupy Springfield, the goal of their campaign. This delay was golden to the Union commanders, hampered as they were by hosts of Union refugees fleeing from the rebel wrath, and incumbering the column with all manner of vehicles and great droves of stock. Considering the activity of the Missourians in guerrilla warfare, and the vicious way they usually harried the Union forces, it is incomprehensible, except on the theory that the Confederate forces had been stunned into torpor by the blow. The Union column was able to make its long retreat of 125 miles from Springfield to Rolla and traverse an exceedingly rough country cut up every few miles by ravines, gorges and creeks, without the slightest molestation from the six or eight thousand horsemen whom McCulloch had complained were so much in the way during the battle on the banks of Wilson's Creek. 190 Gen. McCulloch made a number of lengthy and labored explanations to the Confederate War Department of his failure to make any pursuit, but in the light of facts that then should have been attainable none of these was at all satisfactory. He admits that he did not enter Springfield until after his scouts had brought him satisfactory assurances that the Union army had abandoned the town. Aug. 12 he advanced to Springfield, and issued proclamations to the people announcing himself as their deliverer, and that his army "by great gallantry and determined courage" had entirely "routed the enemy with great slaughter." If he expected to be received and feted as a liberator he was sorely disappointed, and in one of his letters he says in connection with his customary uncomplimentary allusions to Gen. Price's army, "and from all I can see we had as well be in Boston as far as the friendly feelings of the inhabitants are concerned." The truth was that the advance of the Confederates had had a blighting effect upon that large portion of the people which had hoped to remain neutral in the struggle. Gen. Lyon, with all his intensity of purpose, had kept uppermost in mind that he was an agent of the law, and his mission was to enforce the law. He had kept his troops under excellent discipline, had permitted no outrages upon citizens, and had either paid for or given vouchers for anything his men needed, and had generally conducted himself in strict obedience of the law. His course was a crushing refutal of the inflammatory proclamations of Gov. Jackson and others about the Union soldiers being robbers, thieves, ravishers and outragers. 191 Quite different was the course of the twenty or more thousand men whom Price and McCulloch led into Springfield. They were under very little discipline of any kind, and were burning with a desire to punish and drive out of the country not merely those who were outspoken Unionists, but all who were not radical Secessionists. They knew that the sentiment in Springfield and the country of which it was the center was in favor of the Union, and they wanted to stamp this out by terror. While this brought to their ranks a great many of the more pliant neutrals, it drove away from them a great number, and put into the ranks of the Union many who had been more or less inclined to the pro-slavery element. The soreness between Price and McCulloch which had been filmed over before the battle by Price subordinating himself and his troops to McCulloch, became more inflamed during the stay at Springfield. In spite of the fact that the Missouri troops had done much better fighting, and suffered severer losses in the battle than McCulloch, he persisted in denouncing them as cowards, stragglers and mobites, without soldierly qualities. The following extracts from a report to J. P. Benjamin, Confederate Secretary of War, will show the temper which pervaded all his correspondence, and was probably still more manifest in his personal relations with the Missourians: It was at this point that I first saw the total inefficiency of the Missouri mounted men under Brig.-Gen. Rains. A thousand, more or less, of them composed the advance guard, and whilst reconnoiterlng the enemy's position, some eight miles distant from our camp, were put to flight by a single cannon-shot, running in the greatest confusion, without the loss of a single man except one who died of overheat or sunstroke, and bringing no reliable information as to the position or fore of the enemy; nor were they of the slightest service as scouts or spies afterwards. 192 As evidence of this I will mention here the fact of the enemy being allowed to leave his position, six miles distant from us, 20 hours before we knew it; thus causing us to make a night march to surprise the enemy, who was at that time entirely out of our reach. A day or two previous to this march the Generals of the Missouri forces, by common consent on their part and unasked on mine, tendered me the command of their troops, which I at first declined, saying to them it was done to throw the responsibility of ordering a retreat upon me if one had to be ordered for the want of supplies, their breadstuffs giving out about this time; and, in truth, we would have been in a starving condition had it not been for the young corn, which was just in condition to be used. * * * The battle over, it was ascertained that the camp followers, whose presence I had so strongly objected to, had robbed our dead and wounded on the battlefield of their arms, and at the same time had taken those left by the enemy. I tried to recover the arms thus lost by my men, and also a portion of those taken from the enemy, but in vain. Gen. Pearce made an effort to get back those muskets loaned to Gen. Price before we entered Missouri the first time. I was informed he recovered only 10 out of 615. I then asked that the battery be given me, which was one taken by the Louisiana regiment at the point of the bayonet. The guns were turned over by the order of Gen. Price, minus the horses and most of the harness. I would not have demanded these guns had Gen. Price done the Louisiana regiment justice in his official report The language used by him was calculated to make the impression that the battery was captured by his men Instead of that regiment * * * McCulloch was a voluminous writer, both to the Confederate War Department and to personal and official friends, and few of these communications are without some complaint about the Missouri troops. Everything that he had failed to do was due to their inefficiency, their lack of soldierly perceptions, and conduct. They would give him no information, would not scout nor reconnoiter, and he was continually left in the dark as to the movements of the enemy. When they were attacked he claimed that they would run away in a shameful manner. His dislike of Gen. Rains seemed to grow more bitter continually. [Illustration: 195-General Samuel R. J. Curtis] 193 Gen. Price saw a great opportunity and was anxious to improve it. The retreat of the Union forces from Springfield opened up the whole western part of the State, and a prompt movement would carry the army forward to the Missouri River again, where it could control the navigation of that great stream, receive thousands of recruits now being assembled at places north of the river, separate the Unionists of Missouri from the loyal people in Kansas and Nebraska, and hearten up the Secessionists everywhere as much as it disheartened the Union people, and possibly recover St. Louis. He pressed this with all earnestness upon Gen. McCulloch, only to have it received with cold indifference or strong objections. He proposed that if McCulloch would undertake the movement, that he, Price, would continue in subordination to him and give him all the assistance that his troops could give. There is no doubt that Price was entirely right in his views, and that a prompt forward movement with such forces as he and McCulloch commanded would have been a very serious matter for the Union cause and carry discouragement everywhere to add to that which had been caused by the disaster of Bull Run. The relations between the two Generals constantly became more strained, and for the latter part of the two weeks which McCulloch remained at Springfield there was little communication between them. Gen. Price made good use of the time to bring in recruits from every part of the State which was accessible and to organize and discipline them for further service. At the end of a fortnight Gen. McCulloch suffered Gen. Pearce to return to Arkansas with his Arkansas Division, while Gen. McCulloch retired with his brigade of Louisianians and Texans, and Price was left free to do as he pleased. 194 The death of Gen. Lyon at last aroused Gen. Fremont to a fever of energy to do the things that he should have done weeks before. He began a bombardment of Washington with telegrams asking for men, money and supplies, and sent dispatches of the most urgent nature to everybody from whom he could expect the least help. He called on the Governors of the loyal Western States to hurry to him all the troops that they could raise, and asked from Washington Regular troops, artillery, $3,000,000 for the Quartermaster's Department, and other requirements in proportion. He made a requisition on the St. Louis banks for money, and showed a great deal of fertility of resource. Aug. 15, five days after the battle, President Lincoln, stirred up by his fusillade of telegrams, dispatched him the following: Washington, Aug. 15, 1861. To Gen. Fremont: Been answering your messages ever since day before yesterday. Do you receive the answers? The War Department has notified all the Governors you designate to forward all available force. So telegraphed you. Have you received these messages? Answer immediately. A. LINCOLN. With relation to his conduct toward Gen. Lyon, Gen. Fremont afterward testified to this effect before the Committee on the Conduct of the War: A glance at the map will make it apparent that Cairo was the point which first demanded immediate attention. The force under Gen. Lyon could retreat, but the position at Cairo could not be abandoned; the question of holding Cairo was one which involved the safety of the whole Northwest. Had the taking of St. Louis followed the defeat of Manassas, the disaster might have been irretrievable; while the loss of Springfield, should our army be compelled to fall back upon Rolla, would only carry with it the loss of a part of Missouri--a loss greatly to be regretted, but not irretrievable. Having reinforced Cape Girardeau and Ironton, by the ut-most exertions, I succeeded in getting together and embarking with a force of 3,800 men, five days after my arrival in St Louis. 195 From St. Louis to Cairo was an easy day's Journey by water, and transportation abundant To Springfield was a week's march; and before I could have reached it Cairo would have been taken and with it, I believe, St Louis. On my arrival at Cairo I found the force under Gen. Prentiss reduced to 1,200 men, consisting mainly of a regiment which had agreed to await my arrival. A few miles below, at New Madrid, Gen. Pillow had landed a force estimated at 20,000, which subsequent events showed was not exaggerated. Our force, greatly increased to the enemy by rumor, drove him to a hasty retreat and permanently secured the position. I returned to St. Louis on the 4th, having in the meantime ordered Col. Stephenson's regiment from Boonville, and Col. Montgomery's from Kansas, to march to the relief of Gen. Lyon. Immediately upon my arrival from Cairo, I set myself at work, amid incessant demands upon my time from every quarter, principally to provide reinforcements for Gen. Lyon. I do not accept Springfield as a disaster belonging to my administration. Causes wholly out of my jurisdiction had already prepared the defeat of Gen. Lyon before my arrival at St Louis. The ebullition of the Secession sentiment in Missouri following the news of the battle of Wilson's Creek made Gen. Fremont feel that the most extraordinary measures were necessary in order to hold the State. He had reasons for this alarm, for the greatest activity was manifested in every County in enrolling young men in Secession companies and regiments. Heavy columns were threatening invasion from various points. One of these was led by Gen. Hardee, a Regular officer of much ability, who had acquired considerable fame by his translation of the tactics in use in the Army. He had been appointed to the command of North Arkansas, and had collected considerable force at Pocahontas, at the head of navigation on the White River, where he was within easy striking distance of the State and Lyon's line of retreat, and was threatening numberless direful things. 196 McCulloch and Price had sent special messengers to him to urge him to join his force with theirs to crush Lyon, or at least to move forward and cut off Lyon's communications with Rolla. They found Hardee within 400 yards of the Missouri State line. He had every disposition to do as desired, but had too much of the Regular officer in him to be willing to move until his forces were thoroly organized and equipped. There was little in him of the spirit of Lyon or Price, who improvised means for doing what they wanted to do, no matter whether regulations permitted it or not. Hardee complained that though he had then 2,300 men and expected to shortly raise this force to 5,000, one of his batteries had no horses and no harness, and none of his regiments had transportation enough for field service, and that all regiments were badly equipped and needed discipline and instruction. Later, Hardee repaired many of these deficiencies, and was in shape to do a great deal of damage to the Union cause, and of this Fremont and his subordinates were well aware. Gens. Polk and Pillow, with quite strong forces at Columbus, were threatening Cairo and southeast Missouri, and an advance was made into the State by their picturesque subordinate, Gen. M. Jeff Thompson, the poet laureate of the New Madrid marshes and the "Swamp Fox" who was to emulate the exploits of Francis Marion. Thompson moved forward with a considerable force of irregular mounted men, the number of which was greatly exaggerated, and it was reported that behind him was a column commanded by Pillow, ranging all the way from 8,000 to 25,000. 197 Gen. Fremont set an immense force of laborers to work on an elaborate system of fortification for the city of St. Louis, and also began the construction of fortifications at Cape Girardeau, Ironton, Rolla and Jefferson City. He employed laborers instead of using his troops, in order to give the latter opportunity to be drilled and equipped. He issued the following startling General Order, which produced the greatest commotion in the State and outside of it: Headquarters of the Western Department, St Louis, Aug. 31, 1861. Circumstances in my judgment of sufficient urgency render it necessary that the Commanding General of this Department should assume the administrative power of the State. Its disorganized condition, the devastation of property by bands of murderers and marauders who infest nearly every County in the State, and avail themselves of the public misfortunes and the vicinity of a hostile force to gratify private and neighborhood vengeance, and who find an enemy wherever they find plunder, finally demand the severest measures to repress the daily increasing crimes and outrages which are driving off the inhabitants and ruining the State. In this condition the public safety and the success of our arms require unity of purpose, without let or hindrance to the prompt administration of affairs. In order, therefore, to suppress disorders, to maintain, as far as now practicable, the public peace, and to give security and protection to the persons and property of loyal citizens, I do hereby extend and declare established martial law thru-out the State of Missouri. The lines of the army of occupation in this State are, for the present, declared to extend from Leavenworth, by way of the posts of Jefferson City, Rolla and Ironton to Cape Girardeau, on the Mississippi River. All persons who shall be taken with arms in their hands within these lines shall be tried by court- martial, and, if found guilty, will be shot. The property, real and personal, of all persons in the State of Missouri who shall take up arms against the United States, or shall be directly proven to have taken active part with their enemies in the field, is declared to be confiscated to the public use; and their slaves, if any they have, are hereby declared free men. All persons who shall be proven to have destroyed, after the publication of this order, railroad tracks, bridges or telegraphs, shall suffer the extreme penalty of the law. All persons engaged in treasonable correspondence, in giving or procuring aid to the enemies of the United States, in disturbing the public tranquility by creating and circulating false reports or incendiary documents, are in their own interest warned that they are exposing themselves. 198 All persons who have been led away from their allegiance are required to return to their homes forthwith; any such absence, without sufficient cause, will be held to be presumptive evidence against them. The object of this declaration is to place in the hands of the military authorities the power to give Instantaneous effect to existing laws, and to supply such deficiencies as the conditions of war demand. But it is not intended to suspend the ordinary tribunals of the country, where the law will be administered by the civil officers in the usual manner and with their customary authority, while the same can be peaceably exercised. The Commanding General will labor vigilantly for the public welfare, and, in his efforts for their safety, hopes to obtain not only the acquiescence, but the active support, of the people of the country. J. C. FREMONT, Major-General Commanding. Another man who appeared on the scene as Colonel of the 2d Iowa was Samuel R. Curtis, an Ohio man, who graduated from West Point in 1831, in the same class with Gens. Ammen, Humphreys and W. H. Emory. He resigned the next year and became a prominent civil engineer in Ohio. He served in the Mexican War as Colonel of the 2d Ohio, and at the close of that struggle returned to his profession of engineering, removed to Iowa, and at the outbreak of the war was a member of Congress from that State. He was a man of decided military ability, and the victory won at Pea Ridge was his personal triumph. He was to rise to the rank of Major-General and command an independent army, but become involved in the factional fights in Missouri and have his further career curtailed. 199 Still another name which appears with increased frequency about this time is that of U. S. Grant, an Ohio man, who had graduated from West Point in 1843, and had shown much real enterprise and soldiership in Mexico, but had fallen under the disfavor of his commanding officers; had been compelled to resign while holding the rank of Captain in the 4th U. S., and for eight years had had a losing struggle in trying to make a living in civil pursuits. A happy accident put him at the head of the 21st Ill., with which he had entered Missouri to guard the Hannibal & St. Joseph Railroad, and incidentally to dispose of one Thomas A. Harris, a very energetic and able man who held a Brigadier-Generalship from Gov. Jackson, and who was making himself particularly active in the neighborhood of that railroad. Grant showed much energy in chasing around for Harris, but had never succeeded in bringing him into battle, though when he left for other scenes Harris was hiding among the knobs of Salt River, with his command reduced to three enlisted men and his staff. Though he was out of favor with Gen. McClellan and many others who were directing military operations, in some way a Brigadier-General's commission came to U. S. Grant, and he was assigned to the District of Southeastern Missouri, with headquarters at Cape Girardeau, where his duty was to hold in check the poetical M. Jeff Thompson, the noisy Gideon J. Pillow and the prelatic Leonidas J. Polk in their efforts to get control of the southeastern corner of the State and menace Cairo and St. Louis. Maj. Sturgis was promptly made a Brigadier-General to date from Wilson's Creek, and assigned to the command of Northeast Missouri, where he had five or six thousand men under him. Capt. Fred Steele had accepted a commission as Colonel of the 8th Iowa; Capt. Jos. B. Plummer shortly took the Colonelcy of a new regiment, the 11th Mo.; Capt. Totten became Lieutenant-Colonel and Colonel of the 1st Mo. Art., of which Schofield was Major. 200 Notwithstanding the feeling of the officers and soldiers who had participated in the battle of Wilson's Creek against Sigel, it was found so necessary to "recognize the Germans" and hold them strongly for the Union cause that he was made a Brigadier-General to date from May 17, 1861, which put him in the same class of Volunteer Brigadier-Generals as Hunter, Heintzelman, Fitz John Porter, Wm. B. Franklin, Wm. T. Sherman, C. P. Stone, Don Carlos Buell, John Pope, Philip Kearny, Joseph Hooker, U. S. Grant, John A. McClernand and A. S. Williams, all of whose volunteer commissions bore the date of May 17. This was subsequently a cause of trouble. There appeared also another of those figures so common among the State builders of this country, and upholding to the fullest the character of a leader of pioneers. James H. Lane was an Indiana man, son of a preacher; had served with credit as Colonel of Indiana troops in Mexico, and had been Lieutenant-Governor of Indiana and Member of Congress, but getting at odds with his party had migrated to Kansas, where his natural talents and fiery, aggressive courage speedily brought him to the front as the leader of the warlike Free State men, who resisted with force and arms the attempts of the Pro-slavery men to dominate the Territory. His instant readiness for battle and the unsparing energy with which he prosecuted his enterprises so endeared him to the Free State men that when the State was admitted there was no question about his election as her first United States Senator. 201 Kansas had promptly raised two regiments, which had fought superbly at Wilson's Creek and afterwards joined in the retrograde movement to Rolla. This left Kansas without any protection, and the people naturally reasoned that in the advance upon the territory left unguarded by the retirement of the Union army, Gen. Price and his Missourians would embrace the opportunity to pay back with interest the debt of vengeance which had been running since the wars of '56 and '57. Therefore Lane received the authority to recruit five regiments in Kansas, and went about his work with his characteristic energy. The 3d, 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th Kan. at once began organizing, receiving many recruits from the young Union men who had been forced to leave Missouri, and within a week or more after the battle of Wilson's Creek Gen. Lane had mustered an effective force of about 2,500 men, who had received some clothing and equipment and much instruction from the Regular officers and men at Forts Scott, Riley and Leavenworth. With these forces in hand under a man of Lane's well-known character, neither Gen. Price nor his men had much disposition to meddle with Kansas, even if the General had not other and more comprehensive views. Gen. Price was not waiting for Fremont's plans to develop before executing his own. He employed the two weeks after the battle in diligently organizing his men, and Aug. 26 left Springfield at the head of a column of about 10,000 enthusiastic young Missourians, who had in that brief time made great progress in soldiership. He caused great alarm at Fort Scott, by pointing the head of his column toward that place, and arriving within 10 miles of it on the night of the 1st of September, sent Rains's Division, which was made up of men from southwest Missouri, forward to reconnoiter. 202 Rains's advance of 30 mounted men under Capt. Rector Johnson pushed forward to within sight of Fort Scott, on the morning of Sept. 1, and captured a drove of 80 Government mules which had been sent out to graze on the prairies. They also carried off all the able-bodied men that they could find on their line of march. Two companies of the newly-raised Kansas cavalry promptly attacked Johnson's command, which fell back across the line toward the main body, encamped at Dry Wood. Gen. Lane gathered up such of his volunteers as were in reach, and moved to Dry Wood, where he offered Gen. Rains battle, but the latter declined to be drawn from the shelter in the woods in which he had formed his lines, and Lane did not think it was prudent to attack a force the strength of which he could not ascertain. A noisy, long-range skirmish ensued, which terminated at nightfall by Lane withdrawing his forces to Fort Scott. The next day, leaving Col. Jennison with 400 cavalry in Fort Scott, Lane crossed the Little Osage and threw up fortifications on its banks to oppose Price's further advance and give him battle should he attempt to move into Kansas. Gen. Price declined to fight him in his chosen position, but drew his forces together and started to execute his cherished plan of advancing to the Missouri River and forming connection there with the troops which Gens. Harris and Green had been raising in northern Missouri, not seriously molested in their work by the Union forces under Gens. Pope and Sturgis. The action at Dry Wood was made the most of by the Secessionists, who claimed a defeat for the terror-striking "Jim" Lane. The casualties were insignificant for the forces engaged, as there were but five killed and 12 wounded on the Union side, and four killed and 16 wounded on the Confederate. 203 It was feared that after Gen. Price had moved forward to the Missouri River McCulloch would come up from Arkansas and take Fort Scott, which he had been authorized to do by the Confederate Secretary of War; but McCulloch seems to have had other ideas, and spent the weeks in inaction. The situation of the Union men of southwest Missouri became gloomy in the extreme. The whole country was overrun with guerrilla bands hunting down the Union men, and not infrequently shooting them on sight. Gen. Fremont had seriously alarmed Polk, Pillow and Thompson by his showy reinforcement of Cairo with 3,800 men. Though Pillow was reputed to have about 20,000 troops at his disposal, he was seized with a great fear, wrote to Hardee at Pocahontas urging him to come to his help, and limited the sphere of the operations of his dashing lieutenant, M. Jeff Thompson. Maj.-Gen. Polk seems to have also been deeply impressed, for he wrote to Pillow urging him to put his troops in trenches in the neighborhood of New Madrid, strongly fortify that place and stretch a chain across the river to prevent the passage of gunboats. Then Polk had another tremor, and ordered Pillow to evacuate New Madrid at once, taking his men and heavy guns across the river to the strong works of Fort Pillow. Pillow, however, as insubordinate and self-seeking as he had been in the Mexican War, and thirsting for the distinction of taking Cape Girardeau, did not obey his superior's orders, but retained his forces at New Madrid. He had the audacity to write to his superior, "Withdraw your control over me for a few hours." 204 Pillow, merely hanging on to the remotest fringe of the State, assumed the title of "Liberator of Missouri", and his correspondence, orders and proclamations were headed, "Headquarters Army of Liberation." About the same time an old acquaintance, Lieut-Gov. Thos. C. Reynolds, he of the ready pen and fluent phrases, taking advantage of a hasty journey of Gov. Jackson to Richmond, assumed full gubernatorial powers, set up his capital in Pillow's camp at New Madrid, and proceeded to clothe him with the most extraordinary prerogatives. He made himself the whole of the "Sovereign people of Missouri," and issued a proclamation withdrawing the State from the Union. He said that "disregarding the forms and considering only realities, I view an ordinance for the separation from the North and union with the Confederate States as a mere outward expression giving notice to others of an act already consummated in the hearts of the people." He then proceeded to establish a military despotism which made the worst of what had been said of Fremont pale before it. He clothed all the military commanders--not merely those of Missouri provided by the odious Military Act, but such Confederate commanders as Pillow and Hardee, who should enter the State--with a most absolute power over the lives and property of the people of Missouri. 205 The following oath was prescribed which all citizens were to be compelled to take by any officer of the Missouri State Guards or Confederate army who might come upon them: Know all men, that I------------, of the County of----------, State of Missouri, do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the State of Missouri, and support the Constitution of the State, and that I will not give aid, comfort, information, protection or encouragement to the enemies or opposers of the Missouri State Guards, or their allies, the armies of the Confederate States, upon the penalty of death for treason. In the meanwhile Gen. Price, more practical and capable than any of them, with true military foresight was rushing his troops toward the Missouri River, gaining recruits and arousing enthusiasm with every day's march. Leading his own advance he hurried towards Warrensburg, the County seat of Johnson County, about 30 miles south of Lexington, where he hoped to seize about $100,000 deposited in the State banks. He arrived too late for this however, because the Union troops had the same object in view, and had anticipated him, carrying the money off with them and leaving behind some very clever caricatures, drawn by the skillful artists among the Germans, which irritated Price and his men more than it was reasonable they should. The Union commander at Warrensburg, Col. Everett Peabody, of the 13th Mo., had kept himself well informed as to Price's movements, and retreated from Warrensburg to Lexington, burning the bridges after he had crossed them. He sent notice to Fremont of Price's movements. Col. James A. Mulligan, with the 23d 111., an Irish regiment, was ordered forward to Lexington to Col. Peabdy's assistance, and to hold the place to the last. 206 The 1st Ill. Cav., Col. Thos. A. Marshall, and fragments of Home Guard regiments in process of organization, were drawn back to Lexington, in face of the advance of Price's columns. There was also a mongrel field battery, consisting of one 4-pounder, three 6-pounders, one 12-pounder and two little 4-inch howitzers, the latter being useless on account of having no shells. The cavalry was only armed with pistols and sabers. No official Union reports are on file as to the affair, but the total strength of the garrison is given unofficially at from 2,640 to 3,300. The correspondent of the Missouri Republican gives these figures: 23d 111., Col. Mulligan............................... 800 Home Guards, Col. White.......................... 500 13th Mo., Col. Peabody................................ 840 1st Ill. Cav., CoL Marshall........................... 500 Total...................................................2,040 Col. Mulligan assumed command of the whole by seniority of commission. He was an Irishman with all his race's pugnacity, and also its effervescence. He was born in Utica, N. Y., in 1830, had graduated from a Roman Catholic college, studied law, and edited the principal Roman Catholic paper in the West, "The Tablet." 207 Lexington, which is the County seat of Lafayette County, was a very important place in frontier times, and the center of the great hemp-growing region of Missouri. It is situated on the south bank of the Missouri River, about 300 miles by its course above St. Louis, and about 84 miles below Kansas City by water, or 42 miles by rail. It consisted of two towns, Old and New Lexington, about a mile apart, having altogether about 5,000 people. It had some manufactories and two or three colleges, one of which, the Masonic College, situated on high ground between Old and New Lexington, a half mile from the river, was taken by Col. Mulligan for his position, which he proceeded to fortify with high, substantial works to accommodate 10,000 men, inclosing about 15 acres on the summit of the bluffs. Between 2,000 and 3,000 horses and other animals of the trains were gathered inside this inclosure. A week before Col. Mulligan's arrival, on Sept. 9, Gov. Jackson had briefly set up his Capital there, and held a session of that portion of the Legislature which adhered to him. The approach of Col. Pea-body caused a precipitate adjournment, and there was left behind $800,000 in coin, which was buried in the cellar of the college, with the great seal of the State of Missouri. At dawn on Sept. 12, Gen. Price, riding with his advance, Rains's Division, struck the Union pickets stretching through the cornfields outside of Lexington, but though he brought up all his infantry within reach, and McDonald's, Guibor's, and Clark's batteries, his heads of columns were beaten back everywhere by the stubborn Union soldiers, who had been waiting three days for him, and he wisely decided to withdraw two or three miles and wait for the rest of his forces and ammunition wagons to come up. 208 Col. Mulligan telegraphed to Col. Jeff C. Davis, at Jefferson City--120 miles away--the fact of Price's advance and his need for help, and Davis sent the news to Fremont, who ordered forward three regiments and two batteries to Davis, and directed him to reinforce Mulligan, which he could do by rail and river. Fremont also sent orders to Pope and Sturgis to help Mulligan out, but there was not much urgency in the orders, and each of his subordinates seems to have taken his own time and way of obeying or not obeying. Jeff C. Davis had at that time something over 5,000 men at Jefferson City, and subsequent reinforcements raised this number, it was claimed, to 11,000--certainly to 8,000. Davis afterward became a valuable division and corps commander, but he certainly did not show up well in this transaction. He, also, had too much of the "Regular" in him. He complained of a lack of wagons and harness, commissary supplies and ammunition, to enable him to make a forward movement. He had none of the spirit of Lyon and Price, to impress teams and supplies and make means to do what ought to be done. It was harvest time in that fertile part of Missouri, and his army need not have suffered for food, wherever he went. But all that he did was to send forward a couple of regiments to occupy points and prevent the Secessionists from crossing the river at those places. They had all either crossed or found other unguarded places. Pope showed similar incapacity. He had 5,000 men in easy reach of Lexington, but he was more engrossed in the Hannibal & St Joseph Railroad and in matters in Keokuk and Canton than in Lexington. He telegraphed to Gen. Fremont that he would move forward 4,000 men to Lexington, and actually did send forward Lieut.-Col. Scott with the 3d Iowa and Robt. F. Smith with the 16th 111., with instructions to form a junction at liberty, in Clay County, and then proceed to Lexington. Lieut-Col. Scott pushed on to the Blue Mills Landing on the Missouri River, where he came in contact with a large Secession force. Six regiments of the Missouri State Guard were there, making their way to Lexington. 209 D. R. Atchison, former Senator from Missouri, President of the United States Senate, and of much notoriety during the Kansas and Nebraska troubles, took command of this force and attacked Col. Scott, compelling rapid retreat. Atchison reported to Price the usual story about the small number under his command and the large force of the Yankees routed, but this does not harmonize with his praises to Cols. Sanders, Patten, Childs, Cundliff, Wilfley, and Maj. Gause, each of whom he says handled his "regiment" with great gallantry. Col. Smith met Col. Scott in his retreat, learned from him the overwhelming force in front, and retreated with him, so that portion of the relief came to naught. Gen. Sturgis moved forward from Mexico with about 4,000 men and reached the Missouri River, but finding no means for crossing, and surveying the host that was gathered around the city, retired with such haste as to leave his tents and camp equipage. Gen. Price proceeded with astonishing deliberation, when we consider that he must have known that Fremont had something over 20,000 men within striking distance. Retreat was still open for Col. Mulligan, as he had two steamboats at his command, but he felt that his orders obliged him to remain in Lexington for the protection of much public property which had been gathered there, and that as his situation was known to Gen. Fremont, relief would be speedily sent to him. 210 In the meantime, every hour had swelled Gen. Price's forces. Some of the Secession writers have claimed that there were actually as many as 38,000 men gathered in his camps. Of course, a large proportion of his force was useless unless to help beat off a relieving column, because, owing to the small extent of the position occupied by Col. Mulligan, only a limited number of men could be employed against it, and 10,000 were as effective as 100,000. A very large portion of Gen. Price's forces were men who flocked to his camp as to a picnic or a barbecue, because something was going on, and they fell away from him again when he began a backward movement, as rapidly as they came. Then ensued for six days a very strange battle. Swarms of Missourians crowded the ravines in the bluffs, behind trees, stones, the walls, fences and chimneys of the houses, and whatever else would afford adequate protection, and kept up an incessant fusillade upon the garrison safely ensconced behind thick banks of earth. When a squad occupying a secure shelter grew tired, or had fired away all its ammunition, it would go back to camp for dinner, when their places would be taken by others eager to share in the noise and excitement and have a story to take back home of the number of Yankees who had fallen under their deadly aim. If all these stories of the men "who had been at Lexington" could have been true, more men would have been sent to the grave than answered Lincoln's call for 500,000 volunteers. The artillerists were as enthusiastic and industrious as the men with "Yager" rifles and shotguns, and banged away with unflagging zeal and corresponding lack of mortality. The walls of the college were badly scarred, but the worst effect was that an occasional shell would take effect among the horses, and drop on the ground carcasses which speedily putrified under the hot sun, and added an unbearable stench to the other hardships of the garrison. 211 This went on day and night, for the moon was bright, and there was no reason why a man who had powder and shot, and could not get an opportunity at any of the coverts during the day, should not put in pleasantly a few hours at night. Naturally a rain of bullets, even though they might hit rarer than lightning strokes, had a wearing effect on the garrison. While this noisy fusillade by the mob of truculent bushwhackers was going on, there were much more soldierly occurrences by the more soldierly men on both sides. There were sorties and counter-sorties in which the greatest gallantry was displayed on both sides, and in which substantially all the losses occurred. The Secessionists captured a Union flag in one of these, which was balanced by a Secession flag captured by the 1st 111. Cav. Owing to the great superiority of the enemy in numbers, the finality of all these was against the garrison, which was everywhere pushed back from the edges of the bluff, and also from some buildings on the bluffs overlooking the works. Gen. Rains's Division invested the eastern and northeastern position of Mulligan's works; Gen. Parsons the southwestern, with Clark's Division, commanded by Col. Congreve Jackson, and Steen's Division as reserves. 212 Col. Rives, commanding Gen. Slack's Division, occupied the west along the river bank and captured the steamboats by which Mulligan could escape or receive reinforcements; Gens. Harris and Mc-Bride extended this line along the north, cutting off the garrison from all access to the river and water. This became very effective in forcing surrender, as not only the men but the animals suffered terribly from thirst. By the morning of Sept. 18, six days after the first encounter with the pickets, Gen. Price had all his forces up and properly disposed about the garrison. He and his principal subordinates were very weary of the noisy and fruitless bushwhacking, and eager for something more conclusive. Orders were issued for the whole line to close in upon the Union works, and they were gallantly responded to and met as gallant resistance from the beleaguered garrison in the 52 hours of stubborn fighting which ensued. Col. Congreve Jackson, commanding Gen. John B. Clark's Third Division, reported that he succeeded in getting to within 460 yards of the College. Col. Benj. A. Rives, commanding Gen. Slack's Fourth Division, says that after having been driven back by a gallant counter-assault, he got within 100 yards of the College. Gen. Steen lays claim for his division of having defeated Lieut.-Col. Scott, after which he passed back into the reserve. 213 Gen. Mosby M. Parsons, commanding the Sixth Division, says that he reached to within 500 yards of the College, and also crossed the river with 3,000 men, to repel Sturgis, who "retired in confusion, leaving 200 of their tents." Gen. J. H. McBride, commanding the Seventh Division, says that he succeeded in forming a breastwork with hemp bales "100 yards from the enemy's works." Gen. Jas. S. Rains says that with the Second Division, numbering 3,025 rank and file, he succeeded in gaining a position 350 yards north and 500 yards east of the College. Gen. Thos. A. Harris does not give the point he reached, but the concurrent testimony is that he was the closest of all, and is supported by the fact that his division sustained the heaviest loss. To his division is due the credit of the famous device of hemp bales as advancing breastworks. Gen. Price quietly appropriates the credit for the device to himself, saying in his report: On the morning of the 20th inst I caused a number of hemp bales to be transported to the river nights, where moveable breastworks were speedily constructed out of them by Cols. Harris, McBride, Rives and Maj. Winston, and their respective commands. Capt. Kelly's battery was ordered at the same time to the position occupied by Gen. Harris's force, and quickly opened an effective fire under the direction of its gallant Captain. These demonstrations, particularly the continued advance of the hemp breastworks, which were as efficient as the cotton bales at New Orleans, quickly attracted attention and excited and alarmed the enemy. They were, however, repulsed in every instance by the unflinching courage and fixed determination of the men. Gen. Harris says in his report to Gen. Price: "I then directed Capt. Geo. A. Turner, of my staff, to request of you 132 bales of hemp, which you promptly credited. 214 "I directed the bales to be wet in the river to protect them against the casualties of fire of our troops and the enemy's, and soon discovered that the wetting was so materially increasing the weight as to prevent our men in their exhausted condition from rolling them to the crest of the hill. I then adopted the idea of wetting the hemp after it had been transported to this position." The credit has also been stoutly claimed for Col. Thomas Hinkle, of Wellington County, Mo., who two years later was killed in command of a guerrilla organization. No matter whose, the idea was singularly effective, and despite the most gallant efforts of the garrison, the hemp bales were steadily rolled nearer, until by 2 o'clock in the afternoon of the 20th they were in places as close as from 50 to 75 yards of the Union works. At this distance it would be easy to mass an overpowering force behind their cover to rush upon and instantly overwhelm the garrison. The garrison, which had now been fighting for eight long days; which was so short of ammunition that most of the cartridge boxes were empty, and there was no supply from which to refill them; which was tortured with thirst, surrounded with hundreds of animals dying from lack of water, at last raised the white flag. After eight days of waiting there was no more sign of rescue than there was on the first, and everywhere they could look their enemies swarmed in apparently limitless numbers. Gen. Price granted the garrison honorable terms. The officers were to remain as prisoners of war, the men to lay down their arms, take the oath not to fight any more against Missouri, and to be sent across the river and allowed to go whither they would. 215 With shrewd policy he allowed Col. Mulligan to retain his sword and showed him a great many civilities. Mulligan was a representative Irishman, and this would bear fruit in the attitude of the Irish toward the war. In his report to Gov. Jackson Gen. Price sums up the fruits of his victory as follows: Our entire loss in this series of engagements amounts to 25 killed and 72 wounded. The enemy's loss was much greater. The visible fruits of this almost bloodless victory are very great--about 3.500 prisoners, among whom are Cols. Mulligan, Marshall, Peabody, White, and Grover, Maj. Van Horn and 118 other commissioned officers, five pieces of artillery and two mortars, over 8,000 stands of Infantry arms, a large number of sabers, about 750 horses, many sets of cavalry equipments, wagons, teams and ammunition, more than 8100,-000 worth of commissary stores, and a large amount of other property. In addition to all this, I obtained the restoration of the great seal of the State and the public records, which had been stolen from their proper custodian, and about $900,-000 in money, of which the bank at this place had been robbed, and which I have caused to be returned to it. Of Gen. Price's characteristics that of under-statement was certainly not one; but there is no use caviling about this, since the disaster was in all conscience bad enough for the Union side. Col Mulligan's official report is not included in the Rebellion Records. It was quite a rhetorical statement of the affair, with unstinted praise for his own regiment and Irish valor generally, much condemnation for the Germans, between whom and the Irish there was at that time a great deal of feeling, and absolutely ignoring all the rest who participated in the defense. This was particularly unjust to the 1st ID. Cav. While the 23d 111. had taken the best and strongest part of the line, the 1st 111. Cav. had defended the weakest and most exposed part, that, too, with only pistols and sabers, and had captured the only flag taken during the siege. 216 The total loss of the garrison is usually given as 39 killed and 120 wounded. Probably Gen. Price in his report only mentioned the losses in his organized forces. If his wounded did not exceed 72, his men showed unusual ability in keeping under cover. While the loss did not approach that of the desperate fight at Wilson's Creek, yet it was respectably large according to European standards, the garrison having lost about six per cent before surrendering. Gen. Fremont announced this calamity to Washington in the following telegrams: Headquarters Western Department, St. Louis, Sept. 28, 1861. I have a telegram from Brookfleld that Lexington has fallen into Price's hands, he having cut off Mulligan's supply of water. Reinforcements 4,000 strong, under Sturgis, by capture of ferryboats, had no means of crossing the river in time. Lane's force from the southwest and Davis's from the southeast upwards of 11,000, could not get there in time. I am taking the field myself, and hope to destroy the enemy either before or after the junction of forces under McCulloch. Please notify the President immediately. J. C. FREMONT, Major-General Commanding. Col. E. D. Townsend, Assistant Adjutant-General, Headquarters of the Army, Washington, D.C. Headquarters Western Department, Sept 23, 1861. Nothing since my dispatch of this morning. Our loss 39 killed, 120 wounded. Loss of enemy, 1,400 killed and wounded. Our non- commissioned officers and privates sworn and released. Commissioned officers held as prisoners. Our troops are gathering around the enemy. I will send you from the field more details in a few days. JOHN C. FREMONT, Major-General Commanding. Hon. S. Cameron, Secretary of War. The patient and much enduring President answered as follows: Headquarters of the Army, Washington, Sept. 23, 1861. John C. Fremont, Major-General Commanding, St Louis, Mo.: Your dispatch of this day is received. The President is glad that you are hastening to the scene of action. His words are "He expects you to repair the disaster at Lexington without loss of time." WINFIELD SCOTT. Fremont began to topple to his fall. 217 CHAPTER XIII. FREMONT'S MARVELOUS INEFFECTIVENESS. Gen. Sterling Price had scored a victory which gave him an enduring hold upon the confidence and esteem of the Missourians. With the least means he had achieved the most success of any Confederate General so far. His conduct at the battle of Wilson's Creek had endeared him to the men he commanded. He exposed himself with utmost indifference to the fiercest firing, showed good judgment as to movements, was not discouraged after repeated repulses, and was everywhere animating and encouraging the men and bringing them forward into line of battle. He sympathized with those who were wounded, and had them cared for, and immediately returned to the fighting with fresh troops. It is true, however, that he had shown no generalship, but merely demonstrated himself a good Colonel, in leading up one regiment after another and putting them into the fight. Lexington brought an immensity of prestige to Price and encouragement to the Secessionists and did a corresponding injury to the Union cause. It added immeasurably to the burdens which President Lincoln had to bear. He could make Brigadier-and Major-Generals, but he could not endow them with generalship. The Senate could confirm them, but they were still more confirmed in the dull, unenterprising routine of camp and administrative regulations. 218 The modest bars of a Captain on their shoulder straps had been, as it were, changed in the twinkling of an eye into the refulgent stars of a General, but they seemed to take this as a deserved tribute to their personal worth, rather than as an incentive and opportunity for the greater things which had made their predecessors illustrious. Fremont, in the palatial Brandt Mansion, for which the Government was paying the very unusual rent of $6,000 per year, was maintaining a vice regal court as difficultly accessible as that of any crowned head of Europe. His uncounted and glittering staff, which seemed to have received the Pentecostal gift of tongues--in which English was not included--was headed by a mysterious "Adlatus,"--a title before unknown in America or to the dictionaries, and since retired to oblivion. Naturally, the Adlatus's command of English was limited. His knowledge of Missouri was even more so. Though commanding Missouri and dealing intensely with Missouri affairs, the men surrounding Fremont were everything but Missourians or those acquainted with Missouri affairs. It would have been surprising to find one of them who could bound the State and name its principal rivers. This, too, in the midst of a multitude of able, educated, influential Missourians who were ardent Unionists and were burning with zeal to serve the cause. Not one of them appears in the Fremont entourage. 219 Gens. Pope, Sturgis, Jeff C. Davis, Hunter,--all Regulars and trained to war; Sigel, with his profound theoretical knowledge and his large experience; Curtis, lately returned to the Army with his military training supplemented by wide experience in civil life; Hurlbut, the brilliant orator and politician, were all busily engaged in something or other that kept them from interfering with Price while he lingered on the Missouri River gathering up recruits and stripping the Union farmers of that rich agricultural region of cattle and grain sufficient to feed his army during the coming Winter, and of horses and wagons to haul off his spoils and thoroly equip his army with transportation. The only really soldierly thing done at this time was by the "political General,"--the erratic, demagogic, trumpet-sounding "Jim" Lane. He was commanding men who had come out from home to do something toward fighting the war and not to stay in camp and be drilled into automatons. He could only maintain his hold on them and his ascendency in Kansas politics by action. Learning that Price had left a large stock of ammunition at the important little town of Osceola, the head of navigation on the Osage River, under strong guard, Lane led his brigade a swift march from Kansas upon the town, and succeeded in surprising the garrison, which, after a brief resistance, retreated and left it to Lane's mercy, whereupon he proceeded to not only destroy the very considerable quantity of stores which Price had accumulated there, but to burn down the town. This was an exceedingly ill-advised ending to a piece of brilliant soldiership, because not only was it injustice to an enemy, but it was a severe blow upon Union men who owned full one-third of the property destroyed. 220 A large number of these were engaged in the trade of the Southwest, for which Osceola was a distributing center. Goods were brought up the river during the high water and then shipped through the country by wagons. The town was also the County seat of St. Clair County, and contained the public records, etc. Still more unfortunate was it that Lane's act was taken as an excuse for the Missouri guerrillas to retaliate upon Kansas towns and the property of the Union people in their own State. Lane says in his report: "The enemy ambushed the approaches to the town, and after being driven from them by the advance under Cols. Montgomery and Weer, they took refuge in the buildings of the town to annoy us. We were compelled to shell them out, and in doing so the place was burned to ashes, with an immense amount of stores of all descriptions. There were 15 or 20 of them killed and wounded; we lost none. Full particulars will be furnished you hereafter." This shows that even he felt the necessity of apologizing for the act, but the apology is too transparent. The fact was that the Kansas men saw an opportunity to pay back some of their old scores against the Missourians and did not fail to improve it. In spite of Gen. Fremont's promise to the President to "take the field himself and attempt to destroy the enemy," he moved with exceeding deliberation. It is true that he left St. Louis for Jefferson City, Sept. 27, a week after Mulligan's surrender, but that week had been well employed by Price in gathering up all that he could carry away and making ready to avoid the blow which he knew must fall. 221 After arriving at Jefferson City, Fremont, instead of taking the troops which were near at hand and making a swift rush upon his enemy, the only way in which he could hope to hurt him, began the organization of a "grande armée" upon the European model, and that which McClellan was deliberately organizing in front of Washington. The impatient people, who were paying the $3,000,000 a day which the war was now beginning to cost, and who had begun to murmur for results, were amused by stories of plans of sweeping down the Mississippi clear to New Orleans, taking Memphis, Vicksburg and other strongholds on the way, severing the Southern Confederacy in twain, so that it would fall into hopeless ruin. This was entirely possible at that time with the army that had been given Fremont, had it been handled with the ability and boldness of Sherman's March to the Sea. Two weeks after Mulligan's surrender Fremont announced the formation of this grand "Army of the West," containing approximately 50,000 men. This was grouped as follows: The First Division, to which Gen. David Hunter was assigned, consisted of 9,750 men, and was ordered to take position at Versailles, about 40 miles southwest of Jefferson City, and became the Left Wing of the Army. Gen. John Pope was given command of the Second Division of 9,220 men and ordered to take station at Boonville, 50 miles northwest of Jefferson City. His position was to be the Right Wing of the army. The Third Division, 7,980 strong, was put under command of Gen. Franz Sigel, and made the advance of the army, with its station at Sedalia and Georgetown, 64 miles west of Jefferson City. 222 The Fifth Division, commanded by Gen. Asboth, had 6,461 men, and constituted the reserve at Tipton, on the railroad, 38 miles west of Jefferson City. The Fifth Division, 5,388 men, under Gen. Justus McKinstry, formed the center and was posted at Syracuse, five miles west of Tipton. Beside these, Gen. Sturgis held Kansas City with 3,000 men and Gen. Jas. H. Lane, with 2,500 men, was to move in Kansas down the State line, between Fort Scott and Kansas City, to protect Kansas from an incursion in that direction, and as opportunity offered attack Price's flank. Thus, there were 38,789 effectives in the five divisions, which with Sturgis's and Lane's forces made a total force of 44,289, not including garrisons which swell the total of the army to over 90,000. Among these Division Commanders were two whom Fremont had discovered and created Brigadier-Generals out of his own volition, without consultation at Washington. These were Gens. Asboth and McKinstry. Gen. Alexander (Sandor) Asboth, born in 1811, was a Hungarian and an educated engineer, with considerable experience in and against the Austrian army. He had entered ardently into the Revolution of 1848, and built a bridge in a single night by which the Revolutionary army crossed and won the brilliant victory of Nagy Salo. He became Adjutant-General of the Hungarian army, and when the Revolution was crushed by Russian troops, escaped with Kossuth into Turkey, came to this country, and became a naturalized citizen. He was by turns farmer, teacher, engineer, and manufacturer of galvanized articles. He sided with the Union Germans, went on Fremont's staff, and was appointed a Brigadier-General. The Senate refused to recognize the appointment, but in consideration of his good service he was reappointed, served creditably through the war, was brevetted a Major-General, and after the war sent as Minister to the Argentine Confederation, where he died in 1868. 223 The other, Justus McKinstry, was born in New York and appointed to the Military Academy from Michigan, where he graduated 40th in the class of 1838, of which Beauregard, Barry, Irvin McDowell, W. J. Hardee, R. S. Granger, Henry H. Sibley, Edward Johnson and A. J. Smith were members. He had served creditably in the Mexican War, receiving a brevet for gallantry at Contreras and Churubusco, and at the outbreak of the war was a Major and Quartermaster at St. Louis, where he did very much to frustrate Lyon's plans and was regarded by him as a Secessionist at heart. He continued to hold his position, however, as Chief Quartermaster of the Department of the West until Fremont appointed him Brigadier-General. Shortly after Fremont's removal he was placed under arrest at St. Louis and ordered before a court-martial, which did not convene, and he was at last summarily dismissed for "neglect and violation of duty, to the prejudice of good order and military discipline." He became a stock broker in New York City, and afterwards a land agent at Rolla, Mo. It will be seen by the map that the disposition of the troops was good, and that Fremont had the advantage of short lines from Sedalia and Rolla to cut Price's line of retreat, recapture the spoils he was hastening to a place of safely, and destroy, or at least disperse, his army. 224 Fremont, however, made no use of this advantage, and Price seems to have had no apprehension that he would. Price remained in Lexington until Oct 1, serenely contemplating the gigantic preparations made for his destruction, and then having gathered up all that he could readily get, and reading Fremont's order for a forward movement of the Army of the West, thought, like the prudent meadow lark, that probably something would be now done, and the time had come for moving. He began a deliberate retreat, crossing the Osage River at Osceola, and reaching Greenfield, 150 miles away, at the very comfortable pace of 15 miles a day. Gen. Fremont ordered the Army of the West forward, but the so-called pursuit was very much like hunting a fox on a dray. He was encumbered with immense trains, for which bridges had to be built over numerous streams and roads made thru the rough country. The trains seemed to contain a world of unnecessary things and an astonishing lack of those necessary. Apparently almost anybody who had anything to sell could find purchasers among the numerous men about Fremont's headquarters who had authority to buy, or assumed it. One astonishing item in the purchases was a great number of half barrels for holding water, rather an extraordinary provision in a country like Missouri, where in the month of October water is disposed to be in excessive quantities. Notwithstanding the astonishing purchase of mules by everybody and anybody, none of the Division Commanders seem to have had mules enough to pull their wagons. 225 The division started out like the horses of a balky team. Gen. Pope, of the Right Wing, left Jefferson City Oct. 11, Sigel got away from Sedalia with the Third Division Oct. 13, the same day Hunter left Tipton with the Left Wing, and Asboth followed on Oct 14. Even when they started their progress was very slow, for the columns were halted at streams to build bridges and in the rough countries to wait for the sappers and miners to make passable roads. When one column was halted, all the rest had to do likewise, for though Price kept the safe distance of 100 miles away, Fremont was in constant apprehension of battle, and held his columns in close supporting distance. He did not get across the Osage River until Oct. 25, or nine days after Price's leisurely crossing that important stream, on the banks of which it was confidently expected that he would give battle. Price, with his diminishing forces, had no such intention, but fell back toward Neosho, to cover as long as possible the Granby Mines, seven miles from that place, which were the most important source of lead for the Southern Confederacy, to which they supplied 200,000 pounds per month. Gov. Jackson took advantage of this breathing spell to call the Legislature together at Neosho, where it held a two weeks' "rump" session of the small minority of that body which favored Secession. They passed an ordinance of Secession and elected Senators and Representatives to the Confederate Congress, adjourning when they heard that Fremont had at last passed the Osage. 226 Then Price took up his line of retreat toward the southern boundary of the State to get near Gen. Ben McCulloch, who had posted his forces at Cross Hollow, in Benton County, northwest Arkansas. Gen. Price took up his position at Pineville, in the extreme southwestern corner of Missouri, where the rough, hilly country offered great chances to the defense, and again began communication with Gen. McCulloch to induce him to unite his force with his own and attack the Union army. He had correctly estimated Fremont's generalship, and thought there was a possibility of massing his and McCulloch's forces, to attack a portion of Fremont's army, drive it back and defeat him in detail. McCulloch, in spite of his ranger reputation, entirely lacked Price's aggressive spirit, and thought that it would be much better to fall back to the Boston Mountain, about 50 miles farther south, and make a stand there. He so informed Gen. Price. While McCulloch had no disposition to enter Missouri and defend it against the Union troops, he had no hesitation about treating it as part of Confederate territory. Desiring to embarrass and delay Fremont's advance as much as possible, he sent forward his Texas cavalry to burn the mills, forage and grain as far in the direction of Springfield as they could safely go, and urged Price to do the same. McCulloch's Texans soon lighted up the southwest country with burning mills, barns and stacks. To this Gen. Price was bitterly opposed. The mills and grain were in many instances the property of the Secessionists, and to destroy them would be to inflict worse punishment on his own people than the Union commanders had ever done, and would embitter them against his cause. 227 Price repeatedly represented to McCulloch that altogether they would have 25,000 men, and if McCulloch did not desire to go forward they could make a good defensive battle inside the State on the hills around Pineville. To leave it would cause the loss of very many Missourians who had enlisted in the State Guard to defend Missouri, and who would feel that they had no cause to fight outside of the State. After crossing the Osage Fremont halted near Connersville, about 25 miles south of Warsaw, where he crossed the river, and then advanced with Sigel to Bolivar, on the Springfield road, and sent forward Maj. Charles Zagonyi with 150 of his famous Body Guard and Maj. F. J. White with 180 men of the 1st Mo. Cav., to make a reconnoissance in the direction of Springfield. Fremont's Body Guard had played a large part in the pomp and circumstance of his administration. Maj. Chas. Zagonyi was a picturesque and effervescent Hungarian, who recounted fascinating stories of his experience as a subordinate to Gen. Bern during the Hungarian Revolution. Fremont had authorized him to raise a body guard, in imitation of the famous troops of Europe, and the novelty of the organization attracted to it a great number of quite fine young men, most of whom were from the country around Cincinnati--one company being from Kentucky. They were formed into three companies, mounted on fine blooded bay horses, showily uniformed and each armed with two navy revolvers, a five-barreled rifle and a saber. All the officers were Americans except three--one Hollander and two Hungarians. The members of the Guard, in addition to their expensive and showy outfit, did not conceal from the other soldiers that they were picked men and considered themselves superior to the ordinary run, which did not enhance their popularity with their comrades. 228 Majs. Zagonyi and White marched all that night, and the next day, about noon, when about eight miles north of Springfield, learned that there was a force of at least 1,500 Confederates in the town. One of the rebel pickets who had not been captured hastened back to Springfield and gave the alarm, so that the Confederates were in readiness for them. Feeling that this would be so, Majs. Zagonyi and White determined to move around the town and approach it from the west on the Mt. Vernon road. In this movement White became separated from Zagonyi, who, about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, came most unexpectedly upon the Secessionists drawn up in line at the end of a long lane. A heavy rail fence intervened between Zagonyi and the head of the lane, and an opening had to be made through this under a heavy fire from the enemy. The moment a gap was made, Zagonyi shouted to his men to follow him, and do as he did, raising the battle cry, "Fremont and the Union." He dashed gallantly forward, straight for the center of the rebel line, followed at a gallop by his command. The Confederate fire did fearful execution upon the Guard as it was crowded in the lane, but in a few seconds the lane was passed and the cavalry saber began doing its wild work. 229 The center of the enemy's lines was at once broken by the terrible impact of galloping horses and the Confederates began a panicky retreat, followed by the vengeful horsemen shooting and sabering them as they ran. The infantry ran through the town to the shelter of the woods, and the Confederate cavalry fell back down the road, pursued by the Guard until it was getting nightfall, when Zagonyi recalled them and returned to the Court House, raised the Union flag from it, released the Union prisoners confined in the jail, gathered up his dead and wounded, and after dark decided to fall back until he met the advance of the army. He had lost 15 men killed and 26 wounded, and reported that he had found 23 Confederates dead after the charge was over. This brilliant action, which was then compared with the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, redeemed the soldiers of the Guards in the eyes of their comrades, and it became an honor to belong to that organization. The next morning Maj. White reached Springfield with a few Home Guards, where he found the Confederates still dazed by the occurrences of the day before, and he was careful not to undeceive them as to his strength. He solemnly received the flag of truce, said that he would have to refer the matter to Gen. Sigel, threw out his men as pickets, permitted the people to bury their dead, and then prudently fell back to meet the advance of the army. Fremont took up his quarters in Springfield, and began ostentatious preparations for an immediate decisive battle, though Price was then more than 50 miles away from him. This Fremont should have known, for in some mysterious manner he was within ready communication with him, so much so as to be able to conclude the following remarkable convention which was duly published in a joint proclamation: 230 To All Peaceably-Disposed Citizens of the State of Missouri, Greeting: Whereas a solemn agreement has been entered into by and between Maj.-Gens. Fremont and Price, respectively, commanding; antagonistic forces in the State of Missouri, to the effect that in the future arrests or forcible interference by armed or unarmed parties of citizens within the limits of said State for the mere entertainment or expression of political opinions shall hereafter cease; that families now broken up for such causes may be reunited, and that the war now progressing shall be exclusively confined to armies in the field: Therefore, be it known to all whom it may concern: 1. No arrests whatever on account of political opinions, or for the merely private expression of the same, shall hereafter be made within the limits of the State of Missouri, and all persons who may have been arrested and are now held to answer upon such charges only shall be forthwith released; but it is expressly declared that nothing in this proclamation shall be construed to bar or interfere with any of the usual and regular proceedings of the established courts under statutes and orders made and provided for such offenses. 2. All peaceably disposed citizens who may have been driven from their homes because of their political opinions, or who may have left them from fear of force and violence, are hereby advised and permitted to return, upon the faith of our positive assurances that while so returning they shall receive protection from both the armies in the field wherever it can be given. 3. All bodies of armed men acting without the authority or recognition of the Major-Generals before named, and not legitimately connected with the armies in the field, are hereby ordered at once to disband. 4. Any violation of either of the foregoing articles shall subject the offender to the penalty of military law, according to the nature of the offense. In testimony whereof the aforesaid Maj.-Gen. John Charles Fremont, at Springfield, Mo., on this 1st day of November, A. D. 1861, and Maj.-Gen. Sterling Price, at Cassville, Mo., on this 6th day of November, A. D. 1861, have hereunto set their hands, and hereby mutually pledge their earnest efforts to the enforcement of the above articles of agreement according to their full tenor and effect, to the best of their ability. J. C FREMONT, Major-General Commanding. STERLING PRICE, Major-General Commanding. The practical effect of this was that Price was allowed to send such of his men as he wished home for the Winter, with a safeguard against their being molested by the Union troops, but it had no effect in protecting Union men from being harassed by guerrilla tormentors, who cared as little for conventions and proclamations as for the Sermon on the Mount. 281 In the meanwhile Fremont's astonishing ill success in purely military matters, the freely expressed opinion of all who came in contact with him as to his glaring incompetence, added to the fearful stories of the corruption of the men immediately surrounding him, were making his position very insecure. President Lincoln sent his intimate and life-long friend, David Davis, whom he was about to elevate to the Supreme Bench, to St. Louis with a commission to investigate the rank-smelling contracts and disbursements. No report was ever made public, but it was generally known that they found even worse than they feared. The Secretary of War, Simon Cameron, undertook a tour of investigation on his own account, accompanied by Adj't-Gen. Lorenzo Thomas. Some of the things which they found are set forth in the following extracts from the memorandum from Gen. Thomas to his superior officer: Gen. Curtis said of Gen. Fremont that he found no difficulty in having: access to him, and when he presented business connected with his command, it was attended to. Gen. Fremont never consulted him on military matters, nor informed him of his plans. Gen. Curtis remarked that while he would go with freedom to Gen. Scott and express his opinions, he would not dare to do so to Gen. Fremont. He deemed Gen. Fremont unequal to the command of an army, and said that he was no more bound by law than by the winds. Col. Andrews, Chief Paymaster, called and presented irregularities in the Pay Department, and desired instruction from the Secretary for his government, stating: that he was required to make payments and transfers of money contrary to law and regulations. Once, upon objecting to what he conceived an improper payment, he was threatened with confinement by a file of soldiers. He exhibited an order for the transfer of $100,000 to the Quartermaster's Department, which was irregular. Exhibited abstract of payment by one Paymaster (Maj. Febiger) to 42 persons, appointed by Gen. Fremont, viz: one Colonel, three Majors, eight Captains, 15 First lieutenants, 11 Second Lieutenants, one Surgeon, three Assistant Surgeons; total 42. Nineteen of these have appointments as engineers, and are entitled to cavalry pay. 282 Maj. Allen, Principal Quartermaster, had recently taken charge at St Louis, but reported great irregularities in his Department, and requested special Instructions. These he deemed important, as orders were communicated by a variety of persons, in a very irregular manner, requiring disbursements of money. These orders were often verbally given. He was sending, under Gen. Fremont's orders, large amounts of forage from St. Louis to.... where corn was abundant and very cheap. The distance was 160 miles. He gave the indebtedness of the Quartermaster's Department in St. Louis to be $4,606,809.73. By direction of Gen. Meigs, advertisements were made to furnish grain and hay, and contracts made for specific sums--28 cents per bushel for corn, 30 cents for oats, and $17.95 per ton for hay. In face of this another party at St. Louis--Balrd, or Baird A Palmer (Palmer being of the old firm in California of Palmer, Cook & Co.)--were directed to send to Jefferson City (where hay and corn abound) as fast as possible 100,000 bushels of oats, with a corresponding amount of hay, at 33 cents per bushel for grain and $19 per ton for hay. Capt Edward M. Davis, a member of his staff, received a contract by the direct order of Gen. Fremont for blankets. They were examined by a board of army officers consisting of Capt Hendershott, 4th U. S. Art, Capt Haines, Commissary of Subsistence, and Capt Turnley, Assistant Quartermaster. The blankets were found to be made of cotton and were rotten and worthless. Notwithstanding this decision they were purchased, and given to the sick and wounded soldiers in hospitals. One week after the receipt of the President's order modifying Gen. Fremont's proclamation relative to emancipation of slaves, Gen. Fremont by note to Capt McKeever, required him to have 200 copies of the original proclamation and address to the army, of same date, printed and sent immediately to Ironton, for the use of Maj. Gavitt, Indiana Cavalry, for distribution through the country. Capt McKeever had the copies printed and delivered. The order is as follows: "Adjutant-General will have 200 copies of proclamation of Commanding General, dated Aug. 30, together with the address to the army of same date, sent immediately to Iron-ton, for the use of Maj. Gavitt Indiana Cavalry. Maj. Gavitt will distribute it through the country. "J. C. Ft. "Commanding General. "Sept. 23, 1861." As soon as I obtained a view of the several encampments at Tipton, I expressed the opinion that the forces there assembled could not be moved, as scarcely any means of transportation were visible. I saw Gen. Hunter, second in command, and conversed freely with him. He stated that there was great confusion, and that Fremont was utterly incompetent; that his own division was greatly scattered, and the force then present defective in many respects; that he required 100 wagons, yet he was ordered to march that day, and some of his troops were already drawn out on the road. His cavalry regiment (Ellis's) had horses, arms (indifferent), but no equipments; had to carry their cartridges in their pockets; consequently, on their first day's march from Jefferson City, in a heavy rain, the cartridges carried about their persons were destroyed. This march to Tipton (36 miles) was made on a miry, heavy earth road parallel to the railroad, and but a little distance from it. The troops were directed by Gen. Fremont to march without provisions or knapsacks, and without transportation. A violent rainstorm came up, and the troops were exposed to it all night, were without food for 24 hours, and when food was received the beef was found to be spoiled. 283 Gen. Hunter stated that he had just received a written report from one of his Colonels, informing him that but 20 out of 100 of his guns would go off. These were the guns procured by Gen. Fremont in Europe. I may here state that Gen. Sherman, at Louisville, made a similar complaint of the great inferiority of these European arms. He had given the men orders to file down the nipples. In conversation with Col. Swords, Assistant Quartersmaster-General; at Louisville, just from California, he stated that Mr. Selover, who was in Europe with Gen. Fremont, wrote to some friend In San Francisco that his share of the profit of the purchase of these arms was $30,000. Gen. Hunter expressed to the Secretary of War his decided opinion that Gen. Fremont was incompetent and unfit for his extensive and important command. This opinion he gave reluctantly, owing to his position as second in command. President Lincoln sent the following characteristic letter to Gen. S. R. Curtis, who, being in command at St. Louis, was directly accessible, and a man in whose discretion the President felt he might trust: Washington, Oct 24, 1861. Brig.-Gen. S. R. Curtis. Dear Sir: On receipt of this with the accompanying incisures, you will take safe, certain and suitable measures to have the inclosure addressed to Maj.-Gen. Fremont delivered to him with all reasonable dispatch, subject to these conditions only, that if, when Gen. Fremont shall be reached by the messenger--yourself or anyone sent by you--he shall then have, in personal command, fought and won a battle, or shall then be actually in battle, or shall then be in the immediate presence of the enemy in expectation of a battle, it is not to be delivered, but held for further orders. After, and not until after, the delivery to Gen. Fremont, let the inclosed addressed to Gen. Hunter be delivered to him. Tour obedient servant, A. LINCOLN. The following decisive order was one of the inclosures: Headquarters of the Army, Washington, Oct. 24, 1861. General Orders No. 18. Maj.-Gen. Fremont, of the U. S. Army, the present Commander of the Western Department of the same, will, on the receipt of this order, call Maj.-Gen. Hunter, of the U. S. Volunteers, to relieve him temporarily in that command, when he (Maj.-Gen. Fremont) will report to General Headquarters, by letter, for further orders. WINFIELD SCOTT. 284 A special messenger arrived at Springfield, Nov. 2, with the order, which created consternation at Fremont's headquarters. It is more than probable that Fremont felt his elevation to be such that he could try conclusions with the Administration, and refuse to obey the order. There was considerable talk at that time about military headquarters as to a dictator, and this was so rife about McClellan's that his journal constantly abounds in allusions which indicate that he was putting the crown away from him with increasing gentleness each time. There was much of the same atmosphere about the headquarters of the Army of the West, and it is claimed that Fremont at first decided not to obey the order, but on Sigel's urgent representations finally concluded to do so, and issued the following farewell order to his troops: Headquarters Western Department, Springfield, Mo., Nov. 2, 1861. Soldiers of the Mississippi Army: Agreeably to orders this day received I take leave of you. Altho our army has been of sudden growth, we have grown up together, and I have become familiar with the brave and generous spirit which you bring to the defense of your country, and which makes me anticipate for you a brilliant career. Continue as you have begun, and give to my successor the same cordial and enthusiastic support with which you have encouraged me. Emulate the splendid example which you have already before you, and let me remain, as I am, proud of the noble army which I had thus far labored to bring together. Soldiers, I regret to leave you. Most sincerely I thank you for the regard and confidence you have invariably shown me. I deeply regret that I shall not have the honor to lead you to the victory which you are just about to win, but I shall claim to share with you in the joy of every triumph, and trust always to be fraternally remembered by my companions in arms. J. C. FREMONT, Major-General, U. S. Army. 285 He left at once for St Louis, with his Body Guard for an escort. Though these men had been enlisted for three years, they were ordered by Gen. McClellan to be mustered out, and Maj. Zagonyi was offered the Colonelcy of a new regiment. The time and manner of the removal enabled Gen. Fremont's ardent partisans to complain loudly that he was relieved on the eve of a battle in which he would have accomplished great things, and was thus denied an opportunity to achieve lasting fame and render essential service to the country. The evidence, however, is conclusive that at that time Price was at Pineville, fully 50 miles away, and in the midst of a very rough country, instead of being in Fremont's immediate front, as Fremont certainly supposed. Whether he would have accepted battle after Fremont had reached him at Pineville, is a matter of conjecture. The pressure in favor of Fremont continued strong enough, however, to bring about the offer of a new command to him the following year, but it was grotesquely shrunken from the proud proportions of that from which he had been relieved. It was styled the Mountain Department, and embraced a large portion of West Virginia. Even in this restricted area he again failed to give satisfaction. June 8, 1862, he fought an indecisive battle against Stonewall Jackson at Cross Keys, took umbrage at being placed under the command of Gen. John Pope, whom he had once commanded, asked to be relieved from command, and joined the ranks of the bitter critics of President Lincoln's Administration, though still retaining his commission and pay as a Major-General. He still thought his was a name to conjure with, and May 31,1864, accepted the nomination for President from a convention of dissatisfied Republicans assembled at Cleveland, resigning his commission at last, June 4, 1864. 286 The chill reception with which the country received his nomination at last disillusionized even him, and in September he withdrew from the field, to clear the way for Lincoln's re-election. He then became connected with the promotion of a Pacific railway over the southern of the routes which he had surveyed, lost his money and property in the course of time, appealed to Congress for relief, and in 1890 was by special act put on the retired list of the Army with the rank of Major-General. 237 CHAPTER XIV. THE SAD RETREAT FROM SPRINGFIELD. The partisans of Gen. Fremont bitterly blamed Gen. David Hunter for having intrigued to succeed Fremont, and they rejoiced that his tenure of that office proved to be so short-lived. This was both fallacious and unjust. Gen. David Hunter, while not of the highest type of military ability, was yet far above mediocrity. He was one of the best examples of the Old Regular Army officer--thoroughly devoted to his profession, a master of all its details, incorruptible, inflexible, and intolerant to all whose character and conduct lowered the standard of what Hunter thought an American officer should be. He was born in the District of Columbia, graduated from West Point in 1822, 25th in a class of 40 members, and had an extensive experience in Indian fighting, commanding for several years a troop of dragoons. He resigned in 1836, but re-entered the Army in 1842 as a Paymaster and served as Chief Paymaster of Gen. Wool's Division in the Mexican War. At the outbreak of the war of the rebellion he had been made Colonel of the 6th U. S. Cav.--a new regiment--and commanded a division at Bull Run, where he showed great gallantry and was wounded. He had been sent out to Fremont as his second in command and adviser, in the hope that he would control in some measure the commander's erratic course and be instrumental in promoting better methods in his administration. 238 He was true to his duties in communicating to his superiors just what he found in the Department of the West and properly representing Fremont's incompetence. It was not intended that he should have permanent command of the army, and probably no man was less desirous that he should be than he himself, for he had a modest opinion of his own abilities and never hesitated to subordinate himself when he thought another man would do better in the place. The command was given him merely as a stop-gap until another commander could be determined upon. In the same envelope which contained Lincoln's letter to Gen. Curtis inclosing the order for the supersedure of Gen. Fremont, was another reading as follows: Washington, Oct. 24, 1861. To the Commander of the Department of the West Sir: The command of the Department of the West having devolved upon you, I propose to offer you a few suggestions. Knowing how hazardous it is to bind down a distant commander in the field to specific lines and operations, as so much always depends on a knowledge of localities and passing events, it is intended, therefore, to leave a considerable margin for the exercise of your judgment and discretion. The main rebel army (Price's) west of the Mississippi is believed to have passed Dade County in full retreat upon northwestern Arkansas, leaving Missouri almost freed from the enemy, excepting in the southeast of the State. Assuming this basis of fact, it seems desirable, as you are not likely to overtake Price, and are in danger of making too long a line from your own base of supplies and reinforcements, that you should give up the pursuit halt your main army, divide it into two corps of observation, one occupying Sedalla and the other Rolla, the present termini of railroad; then recruit the condition of both corps by reestablishing and improving their discipline and instruction, perfecting their clothing and equipments, and providing less uncomfortable quarters. Of course, both railroads must be guarded and kept open, judiciously employing just so much force as is necessary for this. 'From these two points, Sedalia and Rolla, and especially in judicious cooperation with Lane on the Kansas border, it would be so easy to concentrate and repel an army of the enemy returning on Missouri from the southwest that It is not probable any such attempt to return will be made before or during the approaching cold weather. 289 Before Spring the people of Missouri will probably be in no favorable mood to renew for next year the troubles which have so much afflicted and impoverished them during this. If you adopt this line of policy, and if, as I anticipate, you will see no enemy in great force approaching, you will have a surplus of force, which you can withdraw from these points and direct to others, as may be needed, the railroads furnishing ready means of reinforcing their main points, if occasion requires. Doubtless local uprisings will for a time continue to occur, but these can be met by detachments and local forces of our own, and will ere long tire out of themselves. While, as stated in the beginning of the letter, a large discretion must be and is left with yourself, I feel sure that an indefinite pursuit of Price or an attempt by this long and circuitous route to reach Memphis will be exhaustive beyond endurance, and will end in the loss of the whole force engaged. Your obedient servant, A. LINCOLN. This letter, undoubtedly dictated by McClellan, who was then the dominant military influence at Washington, is yet strikingly characteristic of President Lincoln, and abounds in that profound common sense which made him easily the first General of the War. The army was already 125 miles away from its base of suppliess on the railroad, with a terrible rough intervening country. Consequently, the problem of supplying it was of momentous seriousness and the expense appalling. Though in the midst of a region of wonderful fertility, with its crops gathered in barns, no one seems to have though of utilizing these. They left them for Price to gather in, while they hauled their supplies from Rolla. Our officers as yet were only in the primer class in war. 240 The letter also shows the firm hold of the prevailing opinion that Secession was only a temporary madness, from which the people would recover when the Winter gave them time to reflect and reason. Probably this would have been the case had the Government put forth its power with crushing effectiveness. But the first year of the war was to end with the Secessionists successful almost everywhere, and big scores to their credit in Missouri. The fresh disaster at Ball's Bluff on the Potomac unnerved many loyal people. Possibly President Lincoln did not anticipate that his suggestions would be carried out so literally. His best information was that Price's army had virtually gone to pieces, and that by taking post at Sedalia and Rolla the central and southwestern parts of the State could be effectually controlled by parties sent out from there. He could not have conceived that Price had a strong, compact, aggressive army well in hand, and that the new commander of the Department of the West would march away from it without striking a blow or making a manuver to reduce its capacity for harmfulness. Certainly some shreds of Lyon's mantle must have fallen on that proud array of new-made Generals, and they would insist on striking a quick, sharp blow, as a return for Lexington, for the honor of the Union army, and to curb Price's rising conviction that he was an irresistible conqueror. But the next day after receiving his assignment to command, Gen. Hunter made a reconnoissance in force to the battlefield of Wilson's Greek, where Fremont had persisted in believing that Price was waiting to give him battle. He found no enemy on the scene of the terrible battle of two months before. Instead, all his information was to the effect that Price was among the rugged fastnesses about Pineville, 50 miles away, with McCulloch still farther off in the Boston Mountains. 241 Hunter therefore ordered his columns to countermarch and proceeded to carry out the President's instructions promptly and exactly. This backward movement, without a blow at Price, abandoned the whole of the Union loving country of southwestern Missouri to the Secessionists, and was a measureless calamity. The Union people, taking heart from the advance of Fremont with his great army, had returned to their homes and attempted to re-establish themselves upon their farms and in their business. All these hopes were suddenly dashed to the ground by the retirement of the army, and they had to flee again in haste before the immediate advance of Price to occupy the abandoned region. It was not his army which was so terrible, but the horde of guerrilla bands, which rushed out like venomous serpents after a warm rain, intent upon rapine, outrage and murder. It was the "Poor White Trash" let loose under such leaders as Quantrill, the Young-ers, Jameses, Haywards, Freemans, and a thousand others of bandit infamy. Aside from these calamities, the retreat, added to Price's victory at Lexington, was a most stifling moral depression of the Union sentiment in Missouri. While the condition of things in the greater central and southwestern parts of Missouri had been grievously unsatisfactory for many weeks, and seemed to be growing steadily more so, it was otherwise in the southeastern section. 242 The so-called Ozark Mountains, which are really a series of rough, picturesque highlands, separating the watersheds of the Missouri and the Arkansas Rivers, begin on the Mississippi at the mouth of the Meramec River, 20 miles below St. Louis, and extend along the Mississippi, rising frequently into cliffs of limestone 350 feet high, to Gape Girardeau, 44 miles above Cairo, Ill. This range, less than 100 miles wide, one of the richest in the world in minerals, sinks away on the north and west to the valleys of the Osage and the Missouri and the prairies which stretch across Kansas and the Indian Territory to the Rocky Mountains. To the southeast it falls into the lowlands and swamps along the Mississippi, making there a separate and distinct section--about the size of Connecticut--and of entirely different character from the rest of the State. Over 3,000 square miles of this--or nearly three times the size of Rhode Island--are swamps thickly wooded with towering cypresses, and covered with jungles impenetrable to man. The principal town In the region was New Madrid, a fever-smitten little village on the banks of the Mississippi, 44 miles below Cairo. It had once much promise, but the terrible earthquakes of 1811-12 had seamed the surrounding country with great crevices and gulches, adding hopelessly to its forbidding character, and giving a mortal blow to New Madrid's expectations. The region was drained--as far as it was drained--by the St. Francis River, a considerable stream, navigable nearly to the Missouri line, and emptying into the Mississippi nine miles above Helena, Ark. Besides the Mississippi River there were then two routes of access from St. Louis to this region. One was by the Iron Mountain Railroad, which ran through the Ozarks to Pilot Knob, 84 miles from the city, and the other by common road through Fredericktown, 105 miles from St. Louis. 243 Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston--regarded by Jefferson Davis as a great military genius, and appointed to command the entire Confederate army in the West--had some idea of moving an army up through the swamps to these roads, flanking the Union position at Cairo and taking St. Louis. The St. Francis River would aid in supplying the army. His immediate subordinate, Maj. Gen. Polk, was still more in favor of the plan, and it went in this proportion down through Gen. Gideon Pillow, with his "Army of Liberation," to the most enthusiastic advocate, of the scheme, our poetical acquaintance, Gen. M. Jeff Thompson, file "Swamp Fox of Missouri." The idea was to move in concert with Price coming up from the southeast. Maj.-Gen. Leonidas Polk, C. S. A., who had been placed in command of the Mississippi River, and subsequently had the States of Arkansas and Missouri added to his Department, had gathered about him in the neighborhood of Memphis some 25,000 or 30,000 Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee and other troops, with which, scorning Kentucky's claim of neutrality, he advanced to Columbus, Ky., the terminus of the Mobile & Ohio Railroad, and 20 miles from Cairo, Ill. Upon the high bluff there he proceeded to construct one of those "Gibraltars" so numerous in the early history of the war. With the force at his command and the opposition he was likely to meet from the Union commanders in southeast Missouri, a march on St. Louis by the roads indicated was a promising venture. Besides the forces immediately around him, he had control of McCulloch's, Pearce's and Hardee's columns in Arkansas, and potential control of Price's and Thompson's Missouri forces, making altogether an aggregate approaching 70,000 men. 244 But he hesitated, while Pillow fretted and fumed, and wrote that while he honored his superior officer as a prelate and admired him as a patriot, he had small opinion of his military judgment. M. Jeff Thompson, who had no mean opinion of his own abilities, wrote to Jefferson Davis that what the Southern Confederacy needed in that quarter was "a first-class leader," and he cast a unanimous vote for himself for that position. In the meantime an event occurred as to the significance of which Polk, Pillow and Thompson were as unappreciative as the country at large. In August, U. S. Grant, lately commissioned a Brigadier-General, was sent down to Cape Girardeau to look after matters in southeast Missouri, including Cairo, Ill., and he took with him his former regiment, the 21st Ill., to the command of which Col. John W. S. Alexander had succeeded. A peculiarity of Gen. Grant, which President Lincoln speedily noticed, was that wherever he was "things kept moving." There were no grand reviews, no sounding proclamations, no sensational announcements of plans, but somehow everybody about him was found to be speedily employed in an effective way against the enemy. But little clamor ever came from Grant for reinforcements or additional strength. If he was given a thousand men he at once set them to work doing all that 1,000 men were capable of. Given 2,000 men he would do twice as much, and so on. If supplies were not furnished him, he gathered them from the surrounding country, giving vouchers carefully based on the prevailing market rates. If no wagons or teams were at hand, he impressed them and gave vouchers. 245 As unassertive and modest as Grant seemed to be, he had a remarkable faculty for bringing in everybody near him and securing from them prompt and energetic obedience to his orders. Among Gen. Grant's subordinates was our old acquaintance, Capt. J. B. Plummer, who had done such good work at Wilson's Creek and who was now in command of the 11th Mo. There was also Col. W. P. Carlin, a Captain in the Regular Army, whom the Governor of Illinois had wisely made Colonel of the 88th 111. Carlin, a graduate of West Point in the class of 1850, was a somewhat austere, highstrung man, wrapped up in his profession, an excellent soldier, and feverishly anxious to do his duty and justify his promotion to the important position he held. Like all Regulars he was jealously sensitive about his rank, and one of his first performances was insistence that he outranked Col. C. E. Hovey, of the 33d Ill., and should therefore have command of the post. Hovey, who had been Principal of the Normal Institute before becoming a Colonel, felt that his position had been quite as high as that of a Captain in the Regular Army, and his men, who entered warmly into the dispute, could hardly understand how the Colonel of the 38th Ill. could outrank the Colonel of the 33d, and though they at last gave way, there was some bitterness of feeling. 246 Though Gen. Grant had only about 14,000 men all told, he kept Johnston, Polk and Thompson, with their 30,000, so well employed guarding points that he threatened, or might take without threatening, that their superiority was neutralized and they were kept on the defensive. Burning with desire to do something, M. Jeff Thompson, who, in spite of his gasconade, was really a brave, enterprising man, and a good deal of a soldier, started out from Columbus early in October with some 2,000 men, expecting to be joined by other forces on the way, capture Ironton and Frederick-town, open up the road for Pillow's columns to St. Lous, and to co-operate with Gen. Price. He went down the river in boats to New Madrid and there began a march across the country toward Bloomfield, which was to become the base of so many of his subsequent operations. Leaving his infantry under the command of Col. Aden Lowe, of the 3d Mo. State Guards, a prominent young attorney and politician, to follow more slowly, Thompson pushed on with 500 mounted men, whom he calls "dragoons," made a wide circuit, and struck the railroad north of Ironton at Big River Bridge, only about 40 miles from St Louis. He had made astonishing progress so far, and jubilantly reported to Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston, who had come to Columbus to watch the movement, that his men were so anxious to fight that he reached his objective point two days ahead of the appointed time. 247 At the Big River Bridge he struck a small company of a somewhat noted regiment, the 33d Ill. (the Normal Regiment), largely made up of students and teachers in the Normal Institute of Illinois, who, despite the disparity in numbers, gave him a sharp little fight, in which he lost two killed and quite a number wounded. He reported having captured 45 prisoners, with a quantity of supplies, and succeeded in burning the bridge across the river. While engaged in distributing the supplies, another company of the 33d Ill., hearing the noise, came up to the assistance of their comrades, and Thompson had another fight on his hands, in which he admits he lost four men killed and quite a number wounded, but insists that he "killed another lot of the enemy and took 10 prisoners." He said he "had the enemy terribly frightened," and that if Albert Sidney Johnston had the rest of his men in striking distance that he could take Ironton, with its 12,000,000 rations stored for the Winter, in an hour. Johnston transmitted Thompson's report to Richmond with a complimentary indorsement. Thompson also reported having received several hundred recruits and captured about 17,000 pounds of lead. These were destined to be the last of his rejoicings for some time. Thompson sent word to all the commanders of Confederate forces in the neighborhood to join in his attack on Ironton, promising them victory and unlimited spoils. Gen. Grant ordered Col. Carlin to move forward with his force from Pilot Knob and attack Thompson's main body, which was then in the neighborhood of Fredericktown. He also ordered Col. J. B. Plum-mer to march from Cape Girardeau, strike at Thompson's line of retreat, and endeavor to capture his whole force. 248 Thompson had cunningly magnified the number of his troops, and Plummer and Carlin were both impressed with the idea that he had somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 or 6,000 men and was likely to be joined by Gen. Hardee's column from Pocahontas, Ark., with many more. Grant, with that accurate knowledge of his enemy which was one of his conspicuous traits and never failed him at any time during the war, informed them that Thompson had only between 2,000 and 3,000 men. As usual in Grant's operations, the columns moved on time and arrived when expected. Col. Carlin moved Oct. 20 from Pilot Knob with about 3,000 men made up of the 21st Ill., Col. Alexander; 33d HI., Col. C. E. Hovey; 38th Ill., Maj. Gilman; 8th Wis., Col. Murphy; part of the 1st Ind. Cav., Col. Conrad Baker, and some of the guns of the 1st Mo. Art., under the charge of Maj. Schofield. Col. Plummets column, about 1,500 strong, consisted of the 17th Ill., Col Ross; 20th Ill., Col. Marsh; 11th Mo., Lieut.-Col. Panabaker; Lieut. White's section of Taylor's Illinois Battery, and two companies of cavalry commanded by Capts. Stewart and Lan-gen. Col. Plummer moved to Dallas, on Johnston's line of retreat, and there sent through a messenger to Col. Carlin, stating where he was and what his intentions were, so that the two forces could cooperate. The messenger was captured by some of the Missourians, and therefore Thompson came into possession of the plans of his enemies. He moved back with his train until he saw it safely on its way to Greenville, and then returned with his command toward Fredericktown to accommodate his opponents with a fight if they desired it and to gain time for his train to get back to Bloomfield and New Madrid. 249 Not finding Thompson at Dallas, Col. Plummer moved up to Fredericktown, arriving there at noon, Monday, Oct. 21, and found that Col. Carlin had arrived with his forces about 8 o'clock in the morning. There was immediately one of those squabbles over rank which were so frequent on both sides during the early part of the war and not absent from its history at any time. In spite of being a younger man than Col. Plummer, a younger Captain in the Regular Army, and in spite of Plummer's experience in the Mexican War and at Wilson's Creek, Carlin insisted upon the command of the whole, upon the grounds that he had been commissioned a Colonel Aug. 15, and by the Governor of Illinois; while Plummer's commission was from Fremont. Carlin insisted that he had a plan by which Thompson's whole force could be captured, but was at length induced to yield the command to Plummer, who went ahead with the combined force to attack Thompson, leaving Carlin, who was exhausted and ill, in town with a portion of his command. Possibly, what helped induce Carlin to yield was the knowledge of an agreement between Col. Plummer and Col. Ross, of the 17th Ill., who outranked both of them, that if Carlin persisted in his claim, Ross should assert his seniority and take command of the whole. Carlin retained the 8th Wis. and two 24-pound howitzers in Fredericktown to hold the place, while Plummer took the rest of the force and started out in search of Thompson. He did not have to go very far. 250 A half mile from town shots were heard, and the cavalry came back with the information that the enemy was just ahead. The leading infantry regiment, the 17th Ill., went into line to the left and moved forward into a cornfield, where the enemy's skirmishers were immediately encountered. Lieut. White came up with his section of artillery and opened fire upon a hill about 600 yards distant where it was likely that Thompson had his artillery masked. Thompson's guns could not stand the punishment quietly and opened up only to be speedily suppressed by other guns which Maj. Schofield hurried up to join two which had been firing. Col. Lowe, commanding the Missouri State Guards, first engaged, was soon shot through the head and his regiment began falling back before the steady advance of the 17th Ill., to which was soon added the fire of the 33d Ill. and a part of the 11th Mo. At first the Missourians fell back steadily, but after the rough handling of the artillery their retreat became a rout and Col. Baker dashed forward with the 1st Ind. Cav. in pursuit.. A half mile in the rear Thompson succeeded in rallying his men and also brought one piece of artillery into action, receiving the cavalry with a fierce volley, by which Maj. Gavitt, who had been active and prominent in the operations in that section, and Capt. Highman were killed. Notwithstanding this, the cavalry rallied, charged, and took the gun, which they had, however, to soon give up under a charge led by Thompson himself. 251 The 17th Ill. had already secured one gun, and now as the infantry came up Thompson's men broke and retreated rapidly in every direction. Hearing the noise of the fighting, Col. Carlin arose from a sick-bed, galloped to the battlefield, and took command of a part of the troops. The pursuit was continued by the infantry for 10 miles, and by the cavalry 12 miles farther, when it was decided that Thompson's men had scattered and gained a refuge in the swamps, and that further pursuit would be useless. Plummer recalled his forces to Fredericktown. He claims that he took 80 prisoners, of whom 38 were wounded, and buried 158 of Thompson's dead, with other bodies being found from time to time in the woods. His own loss he reports as six killed and 16 wounded. Thompson reported that he had lost 20 killed, 27 wounded, and 15 prisoners, but that he "had mowed down the enemy as with a scythe;" that "they acknowledge a loss of 400 killed and wounded," etc, etc. He admitted he had lost one cannon by its being disabled so that it could not be brought from the field. He said that his "dragoons" had stampeded in a shameful way, but that his infantry had behaved very well. Later, he reported from New Madrid that his command was "very much demoralized." Gen. Polk seems to have been much depressed by the news of Thompson's defeat, because he ordered an abandonment of the post at New Madrid and the bringing over of the men and guns to his "Gibraltar" at Columbus. Gen. Grant, though probably disappointed at the failure of his plans to capture Thompson's force, was careful to write complimentary letters to all the commanders, recognizing their good services in the expedition. 262 The fight at Fredericktown quieted things pretty effectually in southeastern Missouri, and ended for a long while the project of capturing St Louis by the New Madrid route. Gen. Grant was preparing some startling things to occupy the attention of Johnston, Polk and Pillow in quite another quarter. 263 CHAPTER XI. GEN. H. W. HALLECK IN COMMAND. Henry Wager Halleck, who succeeded Gen. Fremont in command of the Department of Missouri, Nov. 9, 1861, had been pointed to as a brilliantly shining example of what West Point could produce. He was born in 1819 near Utica, N. Y., of a very good family, and had graduated July 1, 1839, from West Point, third in a class of which Isaac I. Stevens, afterward to conclude a brilliant career by dying a Major-General on the field of battle, was the head. Other conspicuous members of the class were Maj.-Gens. James B. Ricketts, E. O. C. Ord, H. J. Hunt, and E. R. S. Can-by, of the Union army, and A. R. Lawton, a Confederate Brigadier-General. Halleck was commissioned in the Corps of Engineers, and during the Mexican War received a couple of the brevets so easily won in that conflict. With his attainments and cast of mind, he made an admirable staff officer for Commodore Shubrick and Gens. Mason and Riley in their administration of California while the territory was being reduced to an American possession. He became a Captain in his Corps in 1852, but the opportunities in California were so tempting, that he resigned to enter the practice of the law and embark in various business enterprises of railroad building and quicksilver mining. He was unusually successful in all these, becoming Director-General of the New Almaden Quicksilver Mining Company, President of a railroad, and a member of a leading law firm. He kept up his military connection by accepting the commission of Major-General commanding the California Militia. 264 He was a constant student and a ready writer, and during this time published a number of military and scientific books, some of which were original and others translations. Intellectually, professionally and socially he stood very high, and the bestowal of a Major-General's commission upon him, dating from Aug. 19,1861, met with universal approval, though it gave him seniority in that coveted rank to many distinguished soldiers. At that time Halleck was in his 46th year and the very prime of his powers. He was tall, spare, and commanding in figure, with a clean-shaven, authoritative, intellectual face in which men read great things. He had large, searching eyes, which seemed to penetrate the one with whom he was talking. As far as education and observation could go, Halleck was as complete a soldier as could be produced. Whatever could be done by calculation and careful operation, he could do on a high plane. He only lacked military instinct and soldierly intuition. Of that moral force which frequently overleaps mere physical limitation he seems to have had little, nor could he understand it in others. There was in him none of the fiery zeal of Lyon, or the relentless pugnacity of Grant; apparently these qualities were so absent in him that he did not know how to deal with them in others. He never put himself at the head of his troops to lead them in battle. 255 He could build up, block by block, with patient calculation, without comprehension that somewhere might be a volcanic energy suddenly unloosed which would scatter his blocks like straws. If he had political convictions, they were so unobtrusive as to be rarely mentioned in connection with him. Probably his views were the same as generally prevailed among the Regular Army officers of that day which were represented by the attitude of the Douglas Democrats and "Old Line Whigs." He believed, above all things, in law and system, and wanted all the affairs of this world to go ahead in strict accordance with them. The soldier epithet of "Old Brains" was bestowed upon him, and he seemed to relish the appellation. In the long and specific letter of instructions accompanying his assignment to command, Gen. McClellan directed him to carefully scrutinize all commissions and appointments, and revoke those not proceeding from the President or Secretary of War; to stop all pay and allowances to them, and if the appointees gave any trouble, send them out of the Department, and if they returned, place them in confinement. He was to examine into the legality of all organizations of troops serving in the Department, and deal with those unauthorized in a similar summary way. All contracts were to be rigidly probed, and payment suspended on those of which there was the slightest doubt. All officers who had in any way violated their duty to the Government were to be arrested and brought to prompt trial. 256 Halleck began at once to justify the high expectations entertained of him. Order and system followed the erratic administration of his predecessor. Soldiers were subjected to vigorous discipline, but they were given the supplies to which they were entitled, and they were made to feel that they were being employed to some purpose. The futile and aggravating marches made in pursuit of the elusive guerrillas and bushwhackers, who were never caught, were replaced by well-directed movements striking at the heart of the trouble. Acting under Gen. Price's orders sometimes, but frequently under their own impulses to commit outrages, inflict blows, and create excitement, a large part of the State was covered by bands of guerrillas who appeared as citizens, were well armed, rode good horses, and were annoyingly successful in sweeping down on the railroad stations, water tanks, bridges, and settlements of Union people, burning, destroying, and creating havoc generally. Gen. Halleck proclaimed martial law, and issued an order that any man disguised as a peaceful citizen, if caught in the act of burning bridges, etc., should be immediately shot. The troops proceeded to execute this order with good hearts. A large number of the offenders were shot down in the neighborhoods where they had committed their offenses; others were taken before a military commission and condemned to the same fate. Gens. Pope, Prentiss, Schofield and Henderson were given sufficient forces and ordered to move directly upon the more important bodies of Secessionists who formed a nucleus and support for these depredators. They all did so with good effect. Gen. Prentiss moved against a force about 3,000 strong operating in Howard, Boone and Calloway Counties, and succeeded in striking them very heavily at Mount Zion Church, where they were dispersed with a loss of 25 killed, 150 wounded, 30 prisoners, 90 horses, and 105 stands of arms. 257 Gen. Pope operating from Sedalia achieved even better success, capturing Col. Robinson's command of 1,300 men and about 60 officers, 1,000 horses and mules, and 73 wagons loaded with powder, lead and supplies and 1,000 stands of arms. Gen. Prentiss very effectually cleaned out the State north of the Missouri River, and in conjunction with Gen. Pope's operations south of it, made it so threatening for Gen. Price, who had advanced to the Osage River to support the Secessionists there, that he broke up his camp and rather hurriedly retreated to Springfield. The year 1861 therefore ended with the Union men again in possession of nearly four-fifths of the State, with their hands full of prisoners and supplies captured from the enemy. The Secessionists of St. Louis had been encouraged by the untoward course of events in the East. After Bull Run had come the shocking disaster of Ball's Bluff, and with Gen. Price only a short distance away on the Osage threatening Jefferson City and north Missouri, they felt their star in the ascendant, and became unbearably insolent. Gen. Halleck repressed them with a vigorous hand, yet without causing the wild clamor of denunciation which characterized Gen. Butler's Administration of New Orleans. 258 It will be remembered that at that time it was thought quite the thing for young Secessionist women to show their "spirit" and their devotion to the South by all manner of open insult to the Yankee soldiers. Spitting at them, hurling epithets of abuse, and contemptuously twitching aside their skirts were regarded as quite the correct thing in the good society of which these young ladies were the ornaments. This had become so intolerable in New Orleans, that Gen. Butler felt constrained to issue his famous order directing that women so offending should be treated as "women of the town plying their vocation." This was made the pretext of "firing the Southern heart" to an unwarranted degree, and Jeff Davis issued a proclamation of outlawry against Ben Butler, with a reward for his head. Sanguine Secessionists hoped that this "flagrant outrage" by "Beast Butler" would be sufficient cause for the recognition of the Southern Confederacy by France and England. Gen. Halleck met the same difficulty as Butler very shrewdly. The Chief of Police of St. Louis had some measure of control over the disreputable women of the city, and made law for them. Under Gen. Hal-leek's order he instructed these women to vie with and exceed their respectable sisters in their manifestations of hostility to the Union cause and of devotion to the South. Where the fair young ladies of the Southern aristocracy were wearing Secession rosettes as big as a rose, the women of the demimonde sported them as big as a dahlia or sunflower. Where the young belle gave a little graceful twitch to her skirts to prevent any possible contamination by touching a passing Yankee, the other class flirted theirs' aside in the most immodest way. It took but a few days of this to make the exuberant young ladies of uncontrollable rebel proclivities discard their Secession rosettes altogether, and subside into dignified, self-respecting persons, who took no more notice of a passing Union soldier than they did of a lamp-post or tree-box. 259 Another of Gen. Halleck's orders did not result so happily. It will be remembered that Gen. Fremont declared free the slaves of men in arms against the Government, and that their freedom would be assured them upon reaching the Union lines. In the inflamed condition of public sentiment in the Border States on the negro question this was very impolitic, and the President promptly overruled the order. Gen. Halleck went still further in the issuance of the following order, which created as intense feeling in the North as Gen. Fremont's "Abolition order" had excited in the Border States: It has been represented that important information respecting: the number and condition of our forces is conveyed to the enemy by means of fugitive slaves who are admitted within our lines. In order to remedy this evil, it is directed that no such persons be hereafter permitted to enter the lines of any camp, or of any forces on the march, and that any now within such lines be immediately excluded therefrom. It was particularly distasteful to the Radicals in Missouri who had been represented by Gen. Fremont. During his administration the Union party in the State had divided into two wings--the Radicals and the Conservatives, who soon came to hate each other almost if not quite as badly as they did the Secessionists. The Radicals, or, as their enemies called them, "the Charcoals," were largely made up, as before stated, of the young, aggressive, idealistic Germans who had poured into Missouri after the suppression of the Rebellion of 1848, and who looked upon slavery as they did on "priest-craft" and "despotism"--all monstrous relics of barbarism. They had absolutely no patience with the "peculiar institution," and could not understand how any rational, right-thinking man could tolerate it or hesitate about sweeping it off the earth at the first opportunity. Those of them who had gone into the army had only done so to fight for freedom, and without freedom the object of their crusade was lost. 260 The German newspapers attacked Halleck with the greatest bitterness, meetings were held to denounce him and secure his removal, and strong efforts were made to obtain Sigel's promotion to a Major-General and his assignment to the command. Gen. Halleck, in a letter to F. P. Blair, explained and justified this order, as follows: Order No. 3 was, in my mind, clearly a military necessity. Unauthorized persons, black or white, free or slave, must be kept out of our camps, unless we are willing to publish to the enemy everything we do or intend to do. It was a military, and not a political order. I am ready to carry out any lawful instructions in regard to fugitive slaves which my superiors may give me, and to enforce any law which Congress may pass. But I cannot make law, and will not violate it. You know my private opinion on the policy of confiscating the slave property of the rebels in arms. If Congress shall pass it, you may be certain that I shall enforce it. Among other well-taken measures was the passage of a law by Congress authorizing the enrollment of citizens of Missouri into regiments to be armed, equipped and paid by the United States, but officered by the Governor of Missouri, and employed only in the defense of the State. This had many advantages besides giving the services to the Government of about 13,000 very good soldiers. It brought into the ranks many wavering young men who did not want to fight against the Union, nor did they want to fight against the South. To enlist for the "defense of the State" satisfied all their scruples. 261 The time had come when every young man in the State had to be lined up somewhere. He could not remain neutral; if he was not for the Union he would inevitably be brought into the Secession ranks. The law authorized the necessary staff and commanding officers for this force, and prescribed that it should be under the command of a Brigadier-General of the United States selected by the Governor of Missouri. Our old acquaintance, John M. Schofield, Gen. Lyon's Chief of Staff at the battle of Wilson's Creek, who had since done good work in command of a regiment of Missouri artillery, was commissioned a Brigadier-General to date from Nov. 21, 1861, and put in command of the Missouri Enrolled Militia, beginning thus a career of endless trouble, but of quite extended usefulness. It will be remembered that Brig.-Gen. U. S. Grant, recently promoted from the Colonelcy of the 21st Ill., had been relieved from his command at Jefferson City, and sent to that of a new district consisting of southeast Missouri and southern Illinois. He had made his headquarters temporarily at Cape Girardeau, to attend to M. Jeff Thompson, who was determined to lead the way for Gens. Leonidas Polk and Gideon Pillow into St. Louis by the Mississippi River route. Grant, as we have seen, organized his movements so well that Thompson was driven back from Fredericktown and Ironton with some loss, and returned to his old stamping-ground at New Madrid, below Columbus, Ky., where Polk had established his headquarters and the fighting center of the Confederacy in the West. 262 Polk was reputed to have at that time some 80,000 men under his command, and Grant, following his usual practice of getting into proximity to his enemy, transferred his headquarters to Cairo, where, also in accordance with his invariable habit, he begun to furnish active employment for those under him in ways unpleasant for his adversary. An enemy in the territory assigned to Gen. Grant was never allowed much opportunity to loll in careless indolence. This idiosyncrasy of Gen. Grant made him rather peculiar among the Union Generals at that stage of the war. Two days after Grant arrived at Cairo he learned that Gen. Polk was moving to take Paducah, at the mouth of the Tennessee River, 45 miles above Cairo. This was a most important point, as a lodgment there would have stopped navigation on the Ohio, and absolutely controlled that on the Cumberland and Tennessee. Grant at once decided that he would anticipate him and telegraphed for permission to St. Louis, but his telegram and another one still more urgent received no attention, and he proceeded to act on his own volition, loading his men on the steamers and starting for Paducah in the night, arriving there in the morning, thereby anticipating the rebel advance some six or eight hours. This was characteristic of Grant's other operations around Cairo, and it was not long until he had that point not only free from apprehension as to what Polk might do against it with his mighty army, but he had Polk becoming anxious as to what Grant might do against him at Columbus, which he had proclaimed as the "Gibraltar of the West." 263 Everywhere in his district Grant had introduced the best discipline into the force of 20,000 men which he had collected. He had looked out carefully for their wants, and had them well supplied, and he was gaining their confidence as well as his own by well directed movements which always led to considerable results. Fremont, who had at last started out in his grand movement against Price, was fearful that Price's army might be strongly reinforced by Polk from Columbus, and it was made Grant's duty to prevent this. Grant with his habitual boldness had been desirous of moving directly against Columbus, but the reputed strength of the works and the force there made the suggestion carry shivers to the minds of his superiors, where the memories of Bull Run and Ball's Bluff were so painfully recent. But if Grant was not allowed to do one thing, he would always do another. He heard of a force under M. J. Thompson, numbering about 3,000, on the St. Francois River, about 50 miles to the southwest of Cairo, and promptly started Col. Richard J. Oglesby with about 3,000 men to beat up Jeff Thompson and destroy him. Later he ordered Col. W. H. L. Wallace to take the remainder of the 11th Ill., and some other troops to move after Oglesby, to give him help should he need it. Soon after, believing that Jeff Thompson had gotten out of Col. Oglesby's reach, he sent another order to Oglesby to move directly upon New Madrid and take the place. This was a bold performance, for the capture of New Madrid would have placed him on the Mississippi below Columbus and cut off Polk's principal line of supplies. 264 Urgent dispatches continued to come from Fremont to prevent any reinforcement of Price from Columbus, and Grant started in to impress Gen. Polk with the idea that he would have quite enough to attend to at home. He sent orders to Gen. C. F. Smith, commanding at Paducah, to send a column out to threaten Columbus from that side, and to Col. Marsh to advance from Mayfield, Ky., and Grant himself, gathering up about 3,000 men from the troops he had around Cairo, embarking them on steamers, and under the convoy of two gunboats (the Lexington and Tyler), steamed down the river directly for Columbus, 20 miles away. Nov. 6 the flotilla dropped down the river to within six miles and in full view of Columbus, and landed a few men on the Kentucky side. This was to still further confuse the mind of Gen. Polk, and make him believe that he must expect an attack on the land side in co-operation with the forces advancing from Paducah and from Mayfield directly in front of Cairo. Gen. Grant says that when he started out he had no intention of making a fight, and of course did not contemplate any such thing as a direct attack with the force he had upon the immensely superior numbers at Columbus, but he saw his men were eager to do something, and that they would be greatly discontented if they returned without a fight. Therefore, on learning that the enemy was crossing troops to the little hamlet of Belmont, opposite Columbus, presumably with the intention of cutting off and crushing Oglesby, he resolved to strike a blow, and determined to break up the small camp at Belmont, which would give the enemy something else to think about. 265 About an hour after daybreak he began landing his men on the west side of the Mississippi River, while the gunboats moved down a little further and waked up the enemy by throwing shells into the works at Columbus. Grant handled his men with the skill he always displayed on the field of battle, pushing forward the main body through the corn fields and woods, but leaving a regiment in a secure position in a dry slough as a resource for an emergency. They with the gunboats were to protect the transports. Gen. Polk probably saw all this, but interpreted it as a mere feint to get him to send troops across the river and thus strip his fortifications so as to make easier the work of the columns advancing from Paducah and Mayfield. He therefore held his men with him and did not interfere with Grant's movements. Grant pushed on through the cornfields and woods for a mile or more, and then rearranged his lines and pushed forward a heavy line of skirmishers. By this time the enemy in camp at Belmont had learned of the movement, and started out to meet it. The two lines of skirmishers soon came in contact, and there was a spiteful, bickering fire opened between them. Both sides were expert woodsmen and riflemen, and thoroly at home at this kind of work. The Union line pressed the Confederates slowly back for four hours, receiving and inflicting considerable losses. Grant's horse was shot under him, but he got another, and kept his place in the advance, directing and encouraging the men, whom he says acted like veterans and behaved as well as any troops in the world could have done. 266 He pushed the enemy so closely that when the latter reached the abatis they broke into confusion and rushed over the river bank for shelter, yielding possession of their camp to the victorious Unionists. This triumph completely intoxicated the victors. They broke ranks, threw down their guns, began rummaging through the camps for trophies, running up and down and cheering wildly. Their officers were no better than they. Many of them had been political "spellbinders" in civil life and very naturally proceeded to "improve the occasion" by getting on stumps and delivering enthusiastic Union speeches and addresses of congratulation over the gallantry of their men and the wonderful victory achieved. In vain did Gen. Grant try to recall them to a sense of soldierly duty and discipline. He alone appeared to comprehend the object of the expedition, and what was necessary to be next done. He could not rally enough men to go down the river bank and capture the garrison which was sheltered there. A number of the men who were attracted by the captured cannon began firing them with great jubilation down the river at steamboats which they saw there, and Grant tried to have them, since they would fire guns, turn them upon the steamers which were coming across from Columbus loaded with troops. Polk had at last waked up to what was being done across the river, and began a fire upon Belmont from his siege guns, while he hurried troops aboard steamers to recover the lost position. 267 The shells began to startle the exultant soldiers, and Grant took advantage of this to employ them in setting fire to the tents and other camp equipage. Presently the sky of victory was overcast by the sudden announcement that the rebels were in line of battle between them and the transports, and that they were cut off and surrounded. The exultation of victory was followed by almost a panic, but Grant steadied them with the quiet assurance "We have cut our way in here, and we can cut it out again." This was taken up by the officers as they reformed their men for the battle. Again the skirmish line was pushed forward in search of the enemy, but he offered only a moderate resistance, and the troops made their way back to the transports with little difficulty, though the excitement was tremendous. The commanders of the gunboats had kept alert, and came promptly forward to engage the guns on the Columbus bluffs and later to discourage the pursuing rebels with liberal volleys of grape and canister, which, as the bend of the river gave them an enfilade on the river line, were delivered with great effect and considerable slaughter. The troops were gotten again on board the transports without any particular trouble, though about 25 wounded were left in the hands of the enemy. The Union troops had brought off about 175 prisoners and two guns, besides spiking four other cannon. While the wounded were being gathered up and brought aboard, Gen. Grant rode out some distance to reconnoiter, and almost rode into a body of the enemy. He turned and made his way back to the transports, which were just starting; the Captain recognized him, and held his boat for a moment while Gen. Grant's horse slipped down the steep bank and then trotted on board over the single gangway. The expedition returned to Cairo immediately. 268 Gen. Grant officially reported his losses as 485 in killed, wounded and missing. Gen. Polk officially reported his losses as killed, 105; wounded, 419; missing, 117; total, 641. He estimated the Union losses at 1,500; "fourteen-fifteenths of that number must have been killed, wounded or drowned." He also said that he had a stand of colors, something over 1,000 stand of arms, with knapsacks, ammunition, and other military stores. Medical Director J. H. Brinton gives the following list of losses by regiments: Command. Killed. Wounded 27th Ill. Vol.......................... 11 47 80th Ill. Vol......................... 9 27 31st Ill. Vol.......................... 10 70 22d Ill. Vol........................... 23 74 7th Iowa Vol........................... 26 93 Cavalry and Artillery................. 1 11 Total.................................. 80 322 While Gen. Grant and the officers and men under him regarded the affair as a great victory, and deservedly plumed themselves upon their achievements that day, there was a decidedly different opinion taken in the North, and the matter has been the subject of more or less sharp criticism ever since. It was pronounced by the McClellan-Halleck school of military men as a useless waste of men in gaining no object, and probably the most charitable of Gen. Grant's critics could find no better excuse for him than that he was like the man in the Bible who had bought two yoke of oxen and wanted to go and try them. All this did not disturb the equanimity of Gen. Grant and his men in the least. He knew he had accomplished what he had set out to do, to give Gen. Polk something else to occupy his mind than capturing Oglesby or reinforcing Thompson and Price. 269 Col. Oglesby made his way unmolested back to Cairo. Polk was probably beginning to think that he would have quite enough to do to stay in Columbus, and his dreams as to St. Louis were dissipated. Gen. Grant's men knew that they had met their enemies on equal terms in the open field, and had driven them, whether they were in their front or rear, and so they were content. The Confederates of course proclaimed a great victory, and made the most of it. Albert Sidney Johnston enthusiastically congratulated Polk, Jefferson Davis did the same, and the Confederate Congress passed a resolution of thanks to Maj.-Gen. Polk and Brig.-Gens. Pillow and Cheatham and the officers and soldiers under their commands. The battle was the occasion of still further increasing the bitterness between Polk and his insubordinate subordinate, Gideon J. Pillow, who resigned his commission, and sent to the Confederate War Department a long and bitter complaint against Gen. Polk, a large part of which was taken up with charges against his superior for non-support when he, Pillow, was engaged in a terrible struggle on the west side of the river with a force "three times my own." Pillow asserted that he had repeatedly driven back the Unionists at the point of the bayonet, after his ammunition had been exhausted, and no more was furnished him by Gen. Polk. He said that Polk had thus needlessly sacrificed many brave men, and that a like, if not greater, calamity was possible if he were to continue in command. "His retention is the source of great peril to the country." Pillow said: "As a zealous patriot, I admire him; as an eminent minister of the Gospel, I respect him; but as a Commanding General I cannot agree with him." 270 Southeastern Missouri had, therefore, a season of rest for some time. 271 CHAPTER XVI. HUNTER, LANE, MISSOURI AND KANSAS. Maj.-Gen. David Hunter felt that fortune was not smiling on him according to his deserts. He had graduated from West Point in 1822, and had been in the Army 39 years, or longer than any but few of the officers then in active employment. He was a thorough soldier, devoted to his profession, highly capable, inflexibly upright, strongly loyal, an old-time friend of President Lincoln, and enjoyed his full confidence. He had done a very painful piece of necessary work for the Administration in investigating the conditions in Gen. John C. Fremont's command, faithfully reporting them, and in relieving that officer, thereby incurring the enmity of all his partisans. Then he had handed the command over to Maj.-Gen. H. W. Hal-leck, who had graduated 17 years later than he, and who had been seven years out of the Army. Gen. Hunter had been assigned to Kansas, which was created a Department for him, but it had few troops, and was remote from the scene of important operations. He was particularly hurt that Brig.-Gen. Don Carlos Buell, 19 years his junior, should be assigned to the command of a splendid army of 100,000 men in Kentucky; and Brig.-Gen. Thos. W. Sherman, 14 years his junior, should be selected to lead an important expedition to the coast of South Carolina and Georgia. 272 Like the faithful soldier he was, however, he made little plaint of his own grievances, but addressed himself earnestly to the work to which he was assigned. He soon had other troubles enough to make him forget his own. His hardest work was to keep the Kansans off the Missourians. In the strained and wavering conditions of public opinion, every effort had to be made to prevent any pretext or incentive to take the young men of Missouri into the ranks of Price's army. Gen. Halleck estimated that indignation at the border raids of Lane, Jennison and Montgomery had given Price fully 20,000 men. The years of strife along the borders had arrayed the people in both States against one another. Every Kansan considered every Missourian the enemy of himself and the State, and the feeling was reciprocated by the Missourians. For years Kansas had been inflicted with raids by the "Poor White Trash," "Border Ruffians," and "Bald Knobbers," who had, beside committing other outrages, carried off into Missouri horses, cattle, furniture, farm implements, and other portable property. The Kansans held all Missourians responsible for these crimes by the worser element, and the war seemed a chance to get even. When opportunity offered, Kansas parties invaded Missouri, bringing back with them everything which they could load on wagons or drive along the road. 273 The great mass of the Missourians still held aloof from both sides, remaining as neutral as they would be allowed. Douglas Democrats, Bell-and-Everett Old-Line Whigs, two-thirds of the entire population, were yet halting between their attachment for the Union and their political and social affiliations. It was all-important that they should be kept loyal, or at least out of the Confederate camps, hence the stringency of Halleck's orders against any spoliations or depredations by Union troops, and hence his orders that the negroes should be kept out of the camps, and their ownership settled by the civil courts. Every offense by Union soldiers was made the most of by Price's recruiting agents to bring into their ranks the young men for the "defense of the State." At the head of the vengeful Kansas element was the meteoric James H. Lane, who had for years ridden the whirlwind in the agitation following the passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, and the rush of settlers into those Territories. Volumes have been written about "Jim Lane," but the last definitive word as to his character is yet to be uttered. Arch demagogue he certainly was, but demagogues have their great uses in periods of storm and stress. We usually term "demagogues" those men active against us, while those who are rousing the people on our own side are "patriotic leaders." No man had more enemies nor more enthusiastic friends than "Jim Lane." As with all real leaders of men, the source of his power was a mystery. Tall, thin, bent, with red hair, a rugged countenance and rasping voice, he had little oratorical attractiveness, and what he said never read convincingly in print. No man, however, ever excelled him before an audience, and he swayed men as the winds do the sea. 274 Lane was born in Lawrenceburg, Ind., in 1814, and was therefore 47 years of age. His father was Amos Lane, a lawyer of great ability, a member of Congress, and conspicuous in Indiana. James H. Lane went into politics at an early age, and entered the Mexican War as Colonel of the 3d Ind., distinguishing himself at Buena Vista, where he was wounded. Upon the expiration of the term of service of his regiment he raised the 5th Ind., and became its Colonel. This gave him quite a prestige in politics, and he was elected Lieutenant-Governor, and Representative in Congress. The atmosphere of Indiana was, however, too quiet for his turbulent spirit. He broke with his party, joined in the rush to Kansas, and speedily became the leader of the out-and-out Free State men. On the strength of his Mexican War reputation these elected him Major-General of their troops, in the troubles they were having with the Pro-Slavery men and the United State troops sent to assist in making the Territory a Slave State. When the Free State men gained control of the Territory, he was made Major-General of the Territorial troops. His principal lieutenants were James Montgomery and Dr. Charles R. Jenni-son, brave, daring men, colleagues of "Old Osawatomie Brown," entertaining the same opinions as he with regard to slavery, and with even fewer scruples than he as to other forms of property. 275 When the United States troops were assisting the Pro-Slavery men, Montgomery and Jennison went into active rebellion at the head of some hundreds of bold, fighting men--"Jayhawkers"--who carried terror into the ranks of their adversaries. They insisted that they were acting according to the light of their own consciences and the laws of God. So terrible did they become that, Nov. 26, 1860, Geo. M. Beebe, Acting Governor of the Territory, reported to President Buchanan that Montgomery and Jennison, at the head of between 300 and 500 "well-disciplined and desperate Jayhawkers," equipped with "arms of the latest and most deadly character," had hung two citizens of Linn County, and frightened 500 citizens of that County into flight from the Territory. One of their number having been captured, was about to be brought to trial before the United States District Court at Fort Scott, and what they alleged was a packed jury. They had proceeded to so frighten the court that the Judge and Marshals incontinently fled to Missouri, leaving a notice on the door that there would be no session of the court. Therefore Gov. Beebe humanely recommended to the President that Montgomery and Jennison be immediately killed, as there would be no peace in the Territory until they were. In spite of Lane's constant prominence, there was always a faction in Kansas as bitterly his enemies as his friends were enthusiastic for him, and it was ever a question which of the two were the stronger. It demanded his utmost activity and cunning to keep himself on top. Upon the admission of the State, Lane succeeded in having himself elected Senator, but the legality of the proceeding was questioned and this called for more activity to keep himself at the front. 276 When the Union army retreated after the battle of Wilson's Creek, Aug. 10, there went back with it the 1st and 2d Kan.--all the organized troops the State had in the field. This left the border exposed to the vengeance of Price's on-sweeping hordes, who made loud threats of what they proposed to do. Lane sounded the trumpet. Wilson's Creek with Bull Run had awakened the people to the stern realities of the contest, and there speedily gathered into camp the men who formed the 3d, 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th Kan., Montgomery becoming Colonel of the 3d Kan.; Jennison of the 7th (Jennison's Jayhawkers). Lane took command of the troops assembled at Fort Scott, moved out aggressively on Price's flank, gave Rains, who was in command there, a sharp skirmish at Dry Wood, and his manuvers were so menacing that Price called Rains back when within five miles of the Kansas line, relinquishing his cherished idea of "scourging the Abolitionist nest," and pushed on to Lexington. Lane then made a dash into Missouri in Price's rear, fought a lively skirmish at Papinsville, and followed up the retreating Confederates, capturing Osceola, as has been previously stated. After Gen. Hunter assumed command Lane reappeared with a commission as Brigadier-General of Volunteers, of which he had beguiled President Lincoln, and began playing a game which gave intense annoyance to the bluff, straightforward old soldier. To Hunter he represented that he was there merely as a Senator and a member of the Senate Military Committee, which latter he was not. To the President and War Department he represented that he and Hunter were in brotherly sympathy and confidence, and planning a movement of mighty importance. The "sympathy" and "confidence" part were believed so completely, that the War Department did not take the trouble to communicate with Hunter in regard to the details of the proposed movement. 277 To his friends and to the press he talked magniloquently about a grand "Southern expedition" to be made up of 8,000 or 10,000 Kansas troops, 4,000 Indians, seven regiments of cavalry, three batteries of artillery, and four regiments of infantry from Minnesota and Wisconsin, which he would command. It would move from Kansas down into Texas, and there meet an expedition coming up from the Gulf of Mexico. The War Department seems to have been impressed with the feasibility of this, and began ordering troops, officers and supplies to Fort Leavenworth to report to "Brig.-Gen. James H. Lane." Lane's enemies as well as his friends in Kansas heartily approved of this, as it would take him away from Kansas, and the Kansas Legislature united in a request to have him appointed a Major-General, as that would vacate his seat in the Senate. General-in-Chief McClellan "invited" Gen. Hunter's attention to the proposed expedition, and suggested that he prepare for it and report what might be necessary. Gen. Hunter replied that he had had no official information as to the expedition, and gently complained that the War Department seemed entirely unmindful of the Commander of the Department, and had consistently ignored him. As to the expedition, he regarded it as impracticable. It was 440 miles from Leavenworth to the nearest point in Texas, and the road was over a wild, barren country, which would require an immense train of supplies for the troops. He had in the Department only about 3,000 men, entirely too few to successfully defend Fort Leavenworth and its valuable supplies against a raid such as Price and McCulloch were continually threatening. He said he knew no such person as "Brig.-Gen. J. H. Lane," to whom so many came with orders to report. He also said that Lane himself now saw that he had raised expectations which he could not fulfill, and that he was seeking to pick a quarrel with the Department Commander to give him an excuse for dropping the whole business, and was making himself very annoying in a thousand ways. 278 Secretary Stanton was profoundly distrustful of Lane, and said that he would leave the Cabinet rather than put him in independent command. Finally the matter came to President Lincoln, who wrote the following characteristic letter: Executive Mansion, Washington, Feb. 10. Maj.-Gen. Hunter and Brig.-Gen. Lane, Leavenworth, Kan.: My wish has been and is to avail the Government of the services of both Gen. Hunter and Gen. Lane, and, so far as possible, to personally oblige both. Gen. Hunter is the senior officer, and must command when they serve together; tho in so far as he can, consistently with the public service and his own honor, oblige Gen. Lane, he will also oblige me. If they cannot come to an amicable understanding, Gen. Lane must report to Gen. Hunter for duty, according to the rules, or decline the service. A. LINCOLN. Lane, who then thought his seat in the Senate safe, decided that he would rather serve his country in the forum than in the field, and his commission was cancelled. Five years later, dismayed to find he had lost his hold on the people of Kansas by his support of Andrew Johnson, he ended his strange, eventful history with a pistol-shot from his own hand. Gen. Hunter having reported that the division of Kansas from Missouri was unwise, the Department was merged into Gen. Halleck's command, and Gen. Hunter assigned to duty in South Carolina. 279 Gen. Halleck's laboriously elaborate system received a little shock so ludicrous as to be almost incredible were it not solemnly told in an official communication by himself to Gen. Sterling Price: St Louis, Jan. 27, 1862. Maj.-Gen. Sterling Price, Commanding, etc., Springfield, Mo. General: A man calling himself L. V. Nichols came to my headquarters a day or two since, with a duplicate of your letter of the 12th instant. On being questioned, he admitted that he belonged to your service; that he had come in citizen's dress from Springfield, avoiding some of our military posts and passing through others in disguise, and without reporting himself to the Commander. He said that he had done this by your direction. On being asked for his flag of truce, he pulled from his pocket a dirty pocket-handkerchief, with a short stick tied to one corner. Gen. Halleck then proceeded to read Gen. Price a lecture on the etiquette of flags of truce. A feature of peculiar pathos was the war storms' reaching and rending of the haven of refuge which the Government had provided for its wards in the Indian Territory. More than a century of bitter struggling between the Creeks, Seminoles, Cherokees, Choctaws, and Chickasaws, and the Carolinians, Georgians, Floridians, Alabamians, and Mississippians, marked by murderous massacres and bloody retaliations, had culminated in the Indians being removed in a body from their tribal domains, and resettled hundreds of miles west of the Mississippi, where it was confidently hoped they would be out of the way of the advancing wave of settlement and out of the reach of the land-hungry whites. Their mills, churches, and school houses were reerected there, and the devoted missionaries, the Congregationalists, Methodists, Baptists, Moravians and Jesuits resumed with increased zeal the work of converting them to Christianity and civilization, which had been so far prosecuted with gratifying success. 280 In their new home they had prospered wonderfully. Their numbers increased until they were estimated from 100,000 to 120,000. Many of them lived in comfortable houses, wore white men's clothes, and tilled fields on which were raised in the aggregate great quantities of wheat, corn, cotton and potatoes. They had herds of horses, cattle, sheep and swine large beyond any precedent among the whites. It was common for an Indian to number his horses and cattle by the thousands, while the poorest of them owned scores which foraged in the plenty of limitless rich prairies and bottom land. Churches, school houses and mills abounded, and they had even a printing press, from which they issued a paper and many religious and educational works in an alphabet invented by a full-blood Cherokee. Each tribe constituted an individual Nation under a written Constitution, with a full set of elective officers. Slavery had been introduced by the half-breeds, and the census of 1860 shows the following number of slaves and slave-owners in the five Nations: Owners. Slaves. Choctaws..........................385 2,297 Cherokees.........................384 2,604 Creeks............................287 1,661 Chickasaws........................118 917 Semlnoles..................... ....-- ------. One Choctaw owned 227 negroes. Into the Territory the Government also gathered other tribes and remnants of tribes, Quapaws, Kiowas, Senecas, Comanches, etc., mostly in the "blanket" stage of savagery. 281 The dominant sentiment in the civilized tribes was strongly averse to the war and in favor of peace. The memories and traditions as to the meaning of war were too fresh and grievous. The object lessons as to the advantage of peace were everywhere striking and overwhelming. They hoped to maintain a complete neutrality in the struggle, and pleaded to be allowed to do so. June 17, 1861, John Ross, Principal Chief of the Cherokees, wrote a long official letter to Gen. Ben. McCulloch, in which he said that his people had done nothing to bring about the war, were friends to both sides, and only desired to live in peace. As in the rest of the South, the Confederates were not listening to any talk of neutrality, and they proceeded as energetically to stifle it as they had the Union and peace advocates in the several Southern States. All the Indian Agents and officials were ardent Secessionists, and at the head of them was Superintendent Albert Pike, originally a Massachusetts Yankee, and the son of a poor shoemaker. He had gone South as one of the numerous "Yankee schoolmasters" who invaded that section in search of a livelihood, had become a States Rights Democrat, and, as usual with proselytes, was the most zealous of believers. He was a lawyer of some ability, a successful politician, an active worker in Masonry, and made much pretense as a poet. Nothing that he ever wrote survives today. [Illustration: 281-General Albert Pike] Each of the Indian Agents began enlisting men into the Confederate service and using them to impose Secession ideas upon their fellow-tribesmen who were either indifferent or actually hostile. 282 The missionaries, being mostly from the North, were strongly for the Union, and their influence had to be encountered and broken down. The Indian Agents were commissioned Colonels in the Confederate service, and were expected to raise regiments, with the Chiefs as subordinate officers. The leader among the Agents was Douglas H. Cooper, Agent for the Choctaws, a man of courage, decision and enterprise, who raised a regiment mainly of the half-breeds of the Choctaws and Chickasaws. The Cherokee regiment was almost wholly half-breeds, with Stand Waitie, a half-breed, courageous, implacable, merciless, as its Colonel. Albert Pike was rewarded for his great service in bringing the Indians into line with a commission of Brigadier-General, C. S. A., and placed in command of the whole force. Principal Chief John Ross temporarily bowed to superior force and gave his adhesion to the Southern Confederacy. A large portion of his people would not do this. They, with a similar element in the other Nations, gathered around the venerable Chief Hopoeithleyohola, nearly 100 years old, and whose span of life began before the Revolutionary War. He had been a dreaded young war leader against Gen. Jackson in the sanguinary scenes at Fort Mimms, Tallapoosa, and Red Sticks in 1813-14. When he was a boy his people were allied with the Spaniards in Florida to resist the British encroachments upon their tribal empire in Georgia. When he was a War Chief, the British at Pensacola and Mobile had put muskets and ammunition into his hands for his men to resist the North Carolinians, Georgians, Tennesseeans and Kentuckians. In every decade he had fought and treated with the grandfathers and fathers of the same men who were trying to coerce him. 283 Every battle and every treaty had ended in a further spoliation of the "hunting grounds" of his people. He was now to end his career as he began, and consistently pursued it, in stern resistance to his hereditary enemies. He calculated that he could put into the field about 1,500 reliable, well-armed warriors, who would be more than a match for the Indians who had entered into the Confederate service. If the white Confederates came to their assistance, he could make an orderly retreat into Kansas, where he hoped to receive help from Union troops, if they should not have advanced before then. Col. Douglas H. Cooper was sent against him, and at first tried diplomacy, but the wily old Hopoeithleyohola had seen the results of too many conferences, and refused to be drawn into one. Cooper then assembled a force of 1,400 men, consisting of some companies of white Texas cavalry and the Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole regiments, under their War Chiefs, D. N. Mcintosh and John Jumper, and moved out to attack Hopoeithleyohola, who beat them back with considerable loss. The advance of Gen. Fremont called for the concentration of every available man to oppose him, so Hopoeithleyohola was given a few weeks' respite. As soon, however, as the Union army retreated to Rolla and Sedalia, Col. Cooper resumed his operations against Hopoeithleyohola, who at Chusto-Talasah, Dec. 9, inflicted such a severe defeat upon him that Cooper retreated in a crippled condition to Fort Gibson. There Col. James Mcintosh, commanding the Confederate forces at Van Buren, Ark., went to his assistance with some 1,600 mounted Texans and Arkansans, and the combined force closed in upon the Union Indians at Shoal Greek. 284 Hopoeithleyohola and his Lieutenant, Haleck-Tustenugge, handled their men with the greatest skill and courage in an obstinate battle, but after four hours of resistance the overpowered Union Indians were driven, pursued by Stand Waitie's murderous half-breeds, who took no men and but few women and children prisoners. Back over the wide, shelterless prairie, bitten by the cruel cold and pelted by the storms of an unusually severe Midwinter, Hopoeithleyohola led his defeated band to a refuge in far-away Kansas. The weather was so severe that Col. Cooper reports some his men as frozen to death as they rode along, but the scent of blood was in the half-breed Stand Waitie's nostrils, and he pressed onward remorselessly. More than 1,000 men, women and children of Hopoeithleyohola's band left their homes to whiten and mark the dismal trail, and the aged Chief himself died shortly after reaching Fort Scott, where he was buried with all the honors of war. Upon the fertile Indian Territory descended the war storm which blighted the work of the missionaries, and completely ruined the fairest prospects in our history for civilizing and Christianizing the aborigines. When the storm ended, one-quarter of the people had perished, the fences, houses, mills, schoolhouses and churches were all burnt, and the hundreds of thousands of horses, cattle, sheep and hogs had disappeared so completely that the Government was compelled to furnish the Indians with animals to stock their farms anew. 285 Sterling Price had reached his zenith in the capture of Lexington, Sept 20, 1861. In substantial results it was the biggest achievement of the war that far. Bull Run had been, indeed, a much larger battle, but at Lexington Price had captured 3,000 prisoners, including five Colonels and 120 other commissioned officers; 1,000 horses and mules; 100 wagons; seven pieces of artillery; 3,000 stands of arms; $900,000 in money, and a very large quantity of Commissary and Quartermaster's supplies. Though he was to fight nearly four years longer with the greatest enterprise and determination, though he was to command vastly stronger forces, and though he was to be followed by myriads of Missourians with unfaltering courage and enthusiasm, he was never to approach a parallel to this shining achievement. It was felt that Lexington was only the earnest of incomparably greater things he was going to do in delivering Missouri from the hated Yankees, and making hers the brightest star in the Southern Confederacy, paling with her military glory even historic Virginia. Then McCulloch would come up with his Texans, Louisianians and Arkansans, and Albert Pike with his horde of Indians. There would be such an overthrow and annihilation of their enemies as the world had never before seen, followed by a race to get to St. Louis before Polk, Pillow and M. Jeff Thompson could reach her from down the Mississippi. Sterling Price was eager to fight Fremont among the rough, high lands south of Springfield, and his ardent followers wanted a repetition of the triumph of Lexington; but McCulloch would not come up from his fastness at Cross Hollows. Without him Sterling Price, his strength depleted by defections on his long retreat, did not feel warranted in offering battle, even with the advantage of the defensive hills. 286 McCulloch was importuned to come forward without success. The best comfort he could give Sterling Price was to destroy that part of Missouri and make it worthless to the enemy. McCulloch wanted to advance into Kansas, however, and utterly destroy that Territory, to strike terror to the Abolitionists. It speaks very badly for their intelligence system that both Price and McCulloch maintained, that neither of them was aware for days that the Union army had left Springfield, Nov. 8, on its retreat to Rolla and Sedalia. Although their camps were only some 70 miles from Springfield, they did not learn of the retreat until Nov. 16, when McCulloch, seized at last with a sudden desire to enter Missouri, rushed all his mounted men forward in hopes to capture trains and detachments. They were disgusted to find upon arriving at Springfield that the last Union soldier and wagon had left there more than a week previous. After some destruction of property, McCulloch sullenly returned to his old position in Arkansas, where, leaving his command to Col. James Mcintosh, lately Captain in the United States Army, he departed for Richmond to give the Confederate War Department his version of the occurrences in his territory. Sterling Price had learned the same day, Nov. 16, of the departure of the Union army, and set his columns in motion northward, announcing that he was going to winter on the Missouri River. Again he sent an appeal to McCulloch to cooperate, but Col. Mcintosh declined, on the ground that the troops were not properly clad for the rigorous weather so far north, and, besides, he did not think that the expedition would do any good. 287 Sterling Price simply let loose his army on the country evacuated by the Union troops, and a reign of indescribable misery ensued for the Union people and those who were vainly trying to keep the neutral middle of the road. The army was spread out as much as possible in order to gather in recruits and supplies and assert its influence most widely. From Marshall, in Saline Co., Sterling Price issued a most remarkable proclamation to the people, calling for 50,000 volunteers. He reminded them that their harvests had been reaped, their preparation for Winter had been made, and now they had leisure to do something to relieve the people from the "inflictions of a foe marked with all the characteristics of barbarian warfare." He admitted that the great mass of the people were not in the war, and especially the substantial portion of the population, for, he said, "boys and small property-holders have in the main fought the battles." He begged, he implored that the herdsman should leave his folds, the lawyer his office, and come into camp to win the victory. He even dropped into poetry in his tearful earnestness, quoting the school boy's declamation from Marco Bozarris: Strike, till the last armed foe expires; Strike, for your altars and your fires! Strike for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land! An infinitely harmful part of the proclamation was the following: Leave your property at home. What if it be taken--all taken? We have $200,000,000 worth of Northern means in Missouri which cannot be removed. When we are once free the State will indemnify every citizen who may have lost a dollar by adhesion to the cause of his country. We shall have our property, or its value, with interest. 288 This was naturally interpreted as meaning that all those not distinctly favorable to Secession forfeited their property to those who were. This seemed ample warrant to the Poor White Trash banditti for seizure of the property of any man whose principles might not be of exactly the right shade. Experience teaches us that that class of people are pretty certain to find heterodox the opinions of any man who has something they may want. It certainly made a very dark outlook for anybody in Missouri to hold moveable property. The turbid thrasonics of the proclamation shows that it was not written by Price's Adjutant-General, Thomas L. Snead, who was a literary man. He was then absent at Richmond looking after the fences of his General. The proclamation sounds the more as if it came from the pen of our poetical acquaintance, M. Jeff Thompson, the "Swamp Fox" of the Mississippi. It concluded in this perfervid style: But, in the name of God and the attributes of manhood, let me appeal to you by considerations infinitely higher than money! Are we a generation of driveling, sniveling, degraded slaves? Or are we men who dare assert and maintain the rights which cannot be surrendered, and defend those principles of everlasting rectitude, pure and high and sacred, like God, their author? Be yours the office to choose between the glory of a free country and a just Government, and the bondage of your children! I will never see the chains fastened upon my country. I will ask for six and one-half feet of Missouri soil in which to repose, but will not live to see my people enslaved. Do I hear your shouts? Is that your war-cry which echoes through the land? Are you coming? Fifty thousand men! Missouri shall move to victory with the tread of a giant! Come on, my brave boys, 50,000 heroic, gallant, unconquerable Southern men! We await your coming. 289 Sterling Price established his headquarters again at Osceola, on the banks of the Osage, but sent forward Gens. Rains and Steen to Lexington, the best point on the Missouri to hold the river and afford a passage for recruits coming in from the northern part of the State. The results of the proclamation were not commensurate with the desperate urgency of the appeal. Large parties of recruits, it is true, tried to make their way toward Price's camp, but many of them were intercepted, and dispersed; strong blows were delivered against Price's outlying detachments, driving them in from all sides. Meanwhile those he had in camp were melting away faster than hew ones were coming in. Sterling Price had other troubles. He was not a favorite in Richmond. Jefferson Davis was a man never doubtful as to the correctness of his own ideas, and he was most certain of those relating to military men and affairs. He had had extraordinary opportunities for familiarizing himself with all the fighting men, and possible fighting men, in the country. He graduated from West Point in 1828, 23d in a class of 33; none of whom, besides himself, became prominent. He had served seven years as a Lieutenant in the Regular Army on frontier duty, and as Colonel of a regiment in the Mexican War, where he achieved flattering distinction. He had been four years Chairman of the Senate Committee on Military Affairs, and four years Secretary of War. It must be admitted that his judgment with regard to officers was very often correct; yet he was a man of strong likes and dislikes. His reputation was that of "having the most quarrels and the fewest fights of any man in the Army." 290 Undoubtedly his partialities drew several men into the Confederate army who would otherwise have remained loyal, and his antipathies retained some men in the Union army who would otherwise have gone South. His reasons for disliking Price are obscure, further than that Price was a civilian, who had had no Regular Army training or experience, and that he believed Price to be in conspiracy to set up a Trans-Mississippi Confederacy. But little evidence of such intention is to be found anywhere, yet that little was sufficient for a man of Davis's jealous, suspicious nature. Repeatedly, at the mere mention of Price's name, he flew into an undignified passion and denounced him unsparingly. Price's men were carrying havoc as far as they could reach. Nov. 19 they burned the important little town of Warsaw, the County seat of Benton County and a Union stronghold. In 1860 the people of Benton County had cast but 74 votes for Lincoln and but 100 for Breckinridge, while they gave Bell and Everett 306 votes and Douglas 574. Dec 16 Platte City, County seat of Piatt County, was nearly destroyed by them. This was another Union community, and a large majority of the people were Bell-and-Everett Unionists or Douglas Democrats. Dec. 20 a concerted foray of guerrillas and bushwhackers burnt the bridges and otherwise crippled nearly 100 miles of Northern Railroad. But Halleck's splendid systematizing had begun to tell. 291 The northern part of Missouri was made unbearably hot for bridge-burners and other depredators by the swift execution of a number of "peaceful citizens" caught red-handed, and the probability that others would be caught and served in the same way. Gen. John Pope, commanding in Central Missouri, began at last to show the stuff that was in him, and by a skillful movement got into the rear of Bains and Steen, compelling them to hurriedly abandon the line of the Missouri River, and striking them so sharply in their flight as to capture 300 prisoners, 70 wagons, with loads of supplies for Price's army, and much other valuable booty. Another of Pope's columns, under Col. Jeff C. Davis, surprised a camp at Mil-ford, Dec. 18, and forced its unconditional surrender, capturing three Colonels (one of whom was a brother of Gov. Magoffin, of Kentucky), 17 Captains, and over 1,000 prisoners, 1,000 stands of arms, 1,000 horses and mules, and a great amount of supplies, tents, baggage, and ammunition. In a couple of weeks Gen. Pope, with a loss of about 100 men, captured 2,500 prisoners. Jan. 2 Gen. Fred Steele, commanding at Sedalia, and a level-minded man, who kept himself well informed, telegraphed to Gen. Halleck: Price's whole force not over 16,000. In all 63 pieces of artillery, none rifled. Horses very poor. Price says he is going to Jefferson City as soon as they are organized. At present he has no discipline; no sentinels or picket to prevent passing in and out. Rains drinking all the time. Price also drinking too much. Clearly Price had in him none of the startling aggressiveness which distinguished Lyon and Stonewall Jackson. He made no effort to suddenly collect his forces and inflict an overwhelming blow upon one after another of the columns converging upon him and defeat them in detail. Instead, he lost heart, and, abandoning the strong lines of the Osage and the Pomme de Terre, fell back to Springfield, where comfortable quarters were built for his men, and he gathered in an abundance of supplies from the Union farmers of the surrounding country, expecting that he would be left undisturbed until Spring. 292 Thus the year 1861 ended with some 61 battles and considerable skirmishes having been fought on the soil of Missouri, with a loss to the Union side of between 500 and 600 killed, treble that number wounded, and about 3,600 prisoners. The Confederate loss was probably in excess in most of the engagements. Besides, they had lost fully four-fifths of the State, and were in imminent danger of being driven from the restricted foothold they still retained in the southwestern corner. The Union State Government, with the conservative, able Hamilton R. Gamble at the head, was running with tolerable smoothness. Courts were sitting in most of the Counties to administer justice. Under Halleck's orders Judges, Sheriffs, Clerks, jurors, parties and witnesses had to take the oath of allegiance. Gen. Schofield was rapidly organizing his 13,000 Missouri Militia to maintain peace in the State, and incidentally to keep many of the men enrolled out of the rebel army. 293 CHAPTER XVII. PRICE DRIVEN OUT OF THE STATE. When he abandoned the strong line of the Osage and took up his position at Springfield, Gen. Sterling Price, like the Russians against Napoleon, relied upon his powerful allies, Gens. January, February and March. At that time the roads in Missouri were merely rough trails, running over hills and deep-soiled valleys of fertile loam, cut every few miles by rapid streams. The storms of Winter quickly converted the hills into icy precipices, the valleys into quagmires, and the streams into raging torrents. The Winters were never severe enough to give steady cold weather, and allow operations over a firmly-frozen footing. Rain, sleet and snow, hard frosts and warm thaws alternated with each other so frequently as to keep the roads in a condition of what the country people call a "breakup," when travel is very difficult for the individual and next to impossible for an army. When, therefore, at the last of December, Gen. Price returned to Springfield, in the heart of the rich farming district of southwest Missouri, and 125 miles or more distant from the Union bases--Rolla and Sedalia, at the ends of the railroads, he had much reason for believing he would be left undisturbed for at least two months, which rest he very much needed to prepare for the strenuous campaign that he knew the industrious Halleck was organizing against him. He wanted the rest for many reasons. Yielding to the strong pressure of Missourians, Jefferson Davis had agreed to appoint Price a Major-General, C. S. A., but upon the condition that he bring in the Confederate service a full division of Missouri troops. 294 With his towering influence in Misssouri this would not have been a difficult thing to do with the whole State to draw from. It was quite otherwise with three-fourths of Missouri held by the Union troops and Halleck's well-laid nets everywhere to catch parties of recruits trying to make their way to Price. Still, Price was justified in his confidence that the Union troops would be satisfied with holding northern and central Missouri during the Winter, and would not venture far from their base of supplies on the Missouri River and the termini of the railroads at Rolla and Sedalia. Whatever aggressive disposition they might have which the condition of the roads would not dampen would be quelled by the knowledge that McCulloch's army of Texans, Louisianians, Arkansans and Indians lay at Cross Hollow, within easy supporting distance of him. Therefore, Price settled down at Springfield, and his men built comfortable cabins in which to pass the time until Spring. The Union farmers in the country roundabout were stripped of their grain and cattle for supplies, and Price proceeded with the organization of his Confederate division. Jefferson Davis's feelings toward Price and Missouri are in a measure revealed in the following querulous letter, which also indicates Mr. Davis's tendencies to pose as a much-enduring, martyr-like man: 295 Hon. W. P. Harris, Confederate States Congress. My Dear Sir: Language was said by Talleyrand to be useful for the concealment of one's thoughts; but in our day it falls to communicate any thought. If it had been otherwise, the complaint in relation to Gen. Price of which you speak could not have been made. The Commissioners of Missouri were informed that when that State offered troops they would be organized according to our military laws, and Generals would be appointed for brigades and divisions. Until then I have no power to appoint Generals for those troops. The same statements, substantially, were made to the members of Congress from Missouri who called on me yesterday. They were also informed that, from conversation with Informed persons and from correspondence now on file in the War Department, I was convinced that it was needful to the public interest that a General should be sent to the Arkansas and Missouri Division who had not been connected with any of the troops on that line of operations; and to the statement that the Missouri troops would not fully enlist under any one except Gen. Price, I asked if they required their General to be put in command of the troops of Arkansas, of Texas, and of the other Southern States. To bring these different forces into harmonious co-operation is a necessity. I have sought to effect it by selecting Gen. Heth to command them in combination. If it is designed, by calling Heth a West Point Cadet, merely to object to his education in the science of war, it may pass for what it is worth; but if it be Intended to assert that he is without experience, his years of active and distinguished service on the frontier of Missouri and the territory west of it will, to those who examine before they censure, be a sufficient answer. The Federal forces are not hereafter as heretofore to be commanded by pathfinders and holiday soldiers, but by men of military education and experience in war. The contest is therefore to be on a scale of very different proportions than that of the partisan warfare witnessed during the past Summer and Fall. I have long since learned to bear hasty censure, in hope that justice, if tardy, is sure; and in any event to find consolation in the assurance that all my ends have been my country's. With high respect, JEFFERSON DAVIS. 296 Gen. Ben McCulloch thought best to go on to Richmond to explain his course since Wilson's Creek, and also to look after the very tender subject of his rank and powers. He left Gen. James S. Mcintosh in command of his troops. Mcintosh had grievances of his own. He was not being recognized by the Confederate authorities as he thought a man of his abilities and soldierly experience should have been, and he seems to have liked cooperation with Gen. Price very much less even than did Gen. McCulloch. In no very gentlemanly terms he repelled Price's proposition to combine their forces and push forward to the Missouri River. The best that Price could get out of him was the assurance that if the Federals advanced upon him at Springfield he, Mcintosh, would come forward to his assistance. Price had greatly underestimated Gen. Halleck's energy and aggressiveness. Gen. Halleck was the first of our commanders to really rise to the level of the occasion and take a comprehensive grasp upon affairs. Unlike some others, he wasted no time in sounding proclamations or in lengthy letters of advice to the Administration as to the political conduct of the war. He was a soldier, proud of his profession, true to his traditions, and possibly had ambition to be reckoned among the great commanders. He had been noted for high administrative ability, and this trait was well illustrated in his grasp of the situation in Missouri and on the borders of the State. His main communications to the people were orders, plain, practical, and to the point. Whatever he did was on the highest plane of the science of warfare as he understood it. Proper military discipline and subordination were introduced everywhere and a rigid system of accountability. He had troubles with his own men to add to his difficulties with the enemy. We find the most note of this with reference to the Germans. 297 The Missouri Germans were a splendid lot of men, taken as a whole, and had an unusual number of officers who were trained soldiers of considerable military experience. At the head of this class was Gen. Peter J. Osterhaus, who had been a private soldier under Lyon in securing the Arsenal, and had commanded a battalion with high credit to himself at Wilson's Creek. He was now a Colonel commanding a brigade. With this excellent material there was a large per cent that ranged from worthless to actually criminal. Many adventurers from the European armies had hastened to this country to sell their swords to the best advantage, and many black sheep, who had been forced out of their armies, sought in our troubles and our ignorance of military matters an opportunity for their own exaltation and profit. Halleck dealt with all with a firm, unsparing hand. He began to weed out the worthless officers and to court-martial the rascals. Company, battalion and regimental organizations which he found too mutinous and disorderly for hopeful management, he either disarmed and set to hard labor or discharged from the service. The raids of the vengeful Kansans across the Missouri borders gave him excessive annoyance, and he issued orders that all Kansas parties entering the State should be arrested and disarmed. That he might have more complete control of them, however, he recommended that the Department of Kansas be merged with his command, and as this was in had mony with Gen. Hunter's ideas, it was subsequently done. In the meanwhile he had to look out for the Mississippi River and the highly important point of, Cairo. He started to construct a fleet of gunboats to help control the river and assist the Army in its operations. 298 His next neighbor to the eastward was Maj. Gen. Don Carlos Buell, commanding the Department of the Ohio, which extended from the Cumberland River to the Allegheny Mountains. Gen. Buell's complete cooperation was necessary to the management of affairs in the Mississippi Valley, but this seems to have been difficult to secure. Buell had his own ideas, and they frequently did not harmonize with those of Gen. Halleck. Halleck recommended that Buell's Department be put under his own command, which was also done later. Bridge-burning and other outrages by straggling bands claiming to be Confederates seriously disturbed the peace, embarrassed operations, and worried the Commanding General. Halleck reported that within 10 days prior to Jan. 1, 1862, these bridge-burners had destroyed $150,000 worth of railroad property and that they had concocted a plan to burn, simultaneously, every railroad bridge in the State, and set fire to the city of St. Louis in a number of places. In his comprehensive order advising summary and severe punishment against these marauders he took careful guards against such being made the pretext for any private vengeance or official malice, and instituted Military Commissions of not less than three responsible officers, acting under the solemnity of an oath, and making written reports of their proceedings. This order brought down a storm of abuse from the Secessionist and semi-Secessionist press, which Halleck calmly disregarded. Gen. Sterling Price on Jan. 12 wrote Gen. Halleck a strong letter protesting against the order and asking the question whether "individuals and parties of men specially appointed and instructed by me to destroy railroads, culverts, bridges, etc." were, if captured, to be regarded as deserving of death. 299 Gen. Halleck in reply said: You also complain that "individuals and parties of men specially appointed and instructed by you to destroy railroads, culverts and bridges by tearing them up, burning, etc., have been arrested and subjected to a general court- martial for alleged crimes." This statement is in the main correct. Where "individuals and parties of men" violate the laws of war they will be tried, and if found guilty will certainly be punished, whether acting by your "special appointment and instruction" or not. You must be aware, General, that no orders of yours can save from punishment spies, marauders, robbers, incendiaries, guerrilla bands, etc., who violate the laws of war. You cannot give immunity to crime. But let us fully understand each other on this point. If you send armed forces wearing the garb of soldiers and duly organized and enrolled as legitimate belligerents to destroy railroads, bridges, etc., as a military act, we shall kill them, if possible, in open warfare, or, if we capture them, we shall treat them as prisoners of war. But it is well understood that you have sent numbers of your adherents in the garb of peaceful citizens, and under false pretenses, through our lines into northern Missouri, to rob and destroy the property of Union men and to burn and destroy railroad bridges, thus endangering the lives of thousands, and this, too, without any military necessity or possible military advantage. Moreover, peaceful citizens of Missouri, quietly working on their farms, have been instigated by your emissaries to take up arms as insurgents, to rob and plunder and to commit arson and murder. They do not even act under the garb of soldiers, but in false pretenses and in the guise of peaceful citizens. You certainly will not pretend that men guilty of such crimes, although "specially appointed and instructed by you," are entitled to the rights and immunities of ordinary prisoners of war. If you do, will you refer me to a single authority on the laws of war which recognizes such a claim? You may rest assured, General, that all prisoners of war not guilty of crime will be treated with all proper consideration and kindness. With the exception of being properly confined, they will be lodged and fed, and where necessary clothed, the same as our own troops. I am sorry to say that our prisoners who have come from your camps do not report such treatment on your part. They say that you gave them no rations, no clothing, no blankets, but left them to perish with want and cold. Moreover, It is believed that you subsist your troops by robbing and plundering the non- combatant Union inhabitants of the southwestern Counties of this State. Thousands of poor families have fled to us for protection and support They say that your troops robbed them of their provisions and clothing, carrying away their shoes and bedding, and even cutting cloth from their looms, and that you have driven women and children from their homes to starve and perish in the cold. I have not retaliated such conduct upon your adherents here, as I have no intention of waging such a barbarous warfare; but I shall, whenever I can, punish such crimes, by whomsoever they may be committed. 300 An examination of the correspondence leads to the conclusion that Halleck possessed very superior talents as a letter writer. Contrasted with Fremont, McClellan, Buell and others, Halleck gave great satisfaction in Washington, and Secretary Stanton telegraphed him as follows: Your energy and ability receive the strongest commendation of this Department You have my perfect confidence, and may rely upon the utmost support in your undertakings. The pressure of my engagements have prevented me from writing, but I shall do so fully in a day or two. Though he made the most of every resource, Halleck was sorely pressed for money and supplies for his force. His letters and messages mention the shipment of pantaloons to this one, shoes to another, blankets to a third, as he could get hold of articles to supply present wants, and of counsels of patience as to delays in paying off, since the Paymasters were far behind in their work. Jan. 17 he telegraphed to Gen. Curtis: General: Yours of yesterday received. I regret to inform you that neither the Pay nor Quartermaster's Departments have any money. Troops are sent from here to Cairo without pay. I can do no better for you. The moment money is received the forces under your command shall be supplied. They were all paid to the 31st of October. Some here and in north Missouri are not paid for September and October. I have done everything in my power for the troops at Rolla, and they have no cause to complain of me. The truth is that Congress is so busy discussing the eternal nigger question that they fail to make any appropriations, and the financial departments are dead broke. No requisitions for money are filled. The extra-duty pay will be forthcoming as soon as we get any money. Assure these men that they will be paid, but they must have patience. I am doing everything in my power for them. We must all do the best we can to make the men comfortable and contented till we get more means. I rely upon you to use all your powers of conciliation, especially with the German troops. You told me you could manage them, and I rely upon you to do it At present we have more difficulties to conquer with our own men than with the enemy. 301 While engaged in these numberless activities Gen. Halleck came down with a severe attack of measles, and was confined to his room for two weeks, but there does not appear to have been any intermittence in his energy. Gen. Halleck's plans contemplated sending forward a column sufficient to crush Price, if he could be brought to battle, and drive him out of the State anyway. Another column was to advance from Ironton or Fredericktown and interpose between Polk at Columbus and Price, to prevent the former from assisting the latter. In the meanwhile Gen. Polk would have sufficient to occupy his attention in his "Gibraltar," as Gen. Grant would make a flank movement up the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers. Halleck had come to the conclusion that Columbus would cost too much in life and blood to be taken by a direct assault, and it would be better therefore to turn it. This plan was an excellent one, as Halleck's plans usually were, at that time, and it was subsequently carried out substantially as conceived. There were the most conflicting reports as to the number of men Price had with him at Springfield at that time, but it was supposed all the way from 25,-000 to 50,000, with rather the stronger emphasis on the greater number. The Secessionists insisted upon the immensity of the army which had flocked to Price encouraged by the events untoward to the Union cause of the last half of 1861 and the indignation aroused by the invasion and depredations of the Kansas Jayhawkers and the "St. Louis Dutch." 302 It was reasonable to suppose, from the state of feeling in Missouri, that Price might have from 40,000 to 50,000 men, but Halleck, who was unusually well-informed for our Generals at that period of the war, decided that a column of about 10,000 men would be sufficient for the work. In this he was at a disagreement with Gen. Curtis and others in nearer contact with Price, who estimated the Secessionist force at Springfield in the neighborhood of 20,000 or 25,000. Yielding to their urgent representations, he increased his force to about 15,000, of which 3,000 were required to guard the lengthening line of communications, leaving a movable column of 12,000 to move directly against Price. This force was officially designated the "Army of the Southwest," and there was assigned to its command our old acquaintance, Brig.-Gen. Samuel R. Curtis, West Point graduate, lawyer, Mexican veteran, railroad engineer, and Congressman. This made more or less heart-burning among Brig.-Gens. Franz Sigel, B. M. Prentiss, S. A. Hurlbut, S. D. Sturgis and others who had hopes in that direction. Sigel stood no chance for the place, however, for Halleck had conceived a strong distrust of him growing out of his action at Wilson's Creek, and also because he was a leader among the radical Germans who wanted to pull slavery up by the roots. Sturgis felt that more consideration should have been given to him as commander of the army at Wilson's Creek after Lyon fell. Curtis, in turn, gave strong dissatisfaction to some of the brigade commanders by selecting Jeff C. Davis, a Captain in the Regular Army and Colonel of the 22d Ind., and Eugene A. Carr, also a Captain in the Regular Army and Colonel of the 3d Ill. Cav., to command two of his four divisions. 303 In its forward movement the commanders had the benefit of the burning zeal of the young volunteers. These, who had enlisted to put down the rebellion, wanted to lose no time in doing their work. They were not minded to lie around camps, no matter how comfortable, during the long Winter months. In the Northern homes from which they came the Winter had always been a season of great activity. They could not understand why it should not be so in Missouri and they hungered for active employment to the great end of suppressing the rebellion. Their recent successes had inspired them with hopes that they might be able to finish up the work and get back home in time for their Spring duties. Though the Winter of 1861-'62 was an exceptionally hard, disagreeable one in Missouri, the volunteers left their camps with alacrity, pressing forward through the storms and mud with sanguine hopefulness that they were now about to accomplish their great purpose. Gen. Curtis selected his first base at Lebanon, 55 miles distant from Springfield, and sent forward Col. Carr with about 1,700 infantry and cavalry to occupy that point, gain information as to the condition of things in Price's camp, and to set on foot preparation for supplying the advancing army from the surrounding country. The Union commanders were to learn a lesson from Price, who did not encumber himself with long trains, but "compelled war to support war" by drawing his supplies from the country through which he operated. Under Halleck's orders Gen. Curtis directed that the cavalry should locate all the mills convenient to the line of march, set them to work grinding grain, and encourage the Union farmers to bring in their grain, hogs and cattle, for which the Quartermaster would pay them fair prices. This work was an admirable education for Halleck's Chief Quartermaster, a young Captain named Philip H. Sheridan, who was to turn the lessons then learned to magnificent account afterwards. 304 Lebanon was taken possession of without more resistance than a running fight in which a notorious Capt. Tom Craig, of the Confederate army, was killed. Gen. Curtis arrived at Lebanon Jan. 31, leaving Sigel and Asboth at Rolla to follow as fast as the roads would permit. The recent severe storms of sleet and snow had been quite trying to the men and animals, but the columns were pressed forward, and on Feb. 7 Sigel's and Asboth's men were all in Lebanon, where they were joined by Jeff C. Davis's Division marching from Otterville by the way of Linn Creek. Halleck's orders to Curtis were clear, comprehending and purposeful. Curtis seems to have been not a little apprehensive of the force he might have to encounter, but Halleck constantly urged him forward, at the same time enjoining him to keep his troops well in hand, and not allow Price to attack him in detail. He was to "throw out his cavalry carefully, like fingers to the hands." Most particularly he was not to allow Sigel to go off on any independent expedition and serve him as Sigel had served Lyon at Wilson's Creek. Halleck urged Hunter to advance his Kansas troops down through his department so as to threaten Price's left flank, and he told Curtis that if he, Curtis, would take care of Price, that he himself would look out for Johnson, Polk, Beauregard and Hardee. 305 The splendid young Missouri, Iowa and Illinois volunteers, welded into superb regiments by months of service, with the worthless of their officers removed by Halleck's rigid pruning, pressed forward with an enthusiasm that no storms could diminish or wretchedness of roads discourage. They forded swollen, icy streams, pulled their wagons up steep hills, or pried them out of quagmires, and bore the fury of the storm with sanguine cheerfulness, believing they were now moving directly forward to the great end of crushing the enemies of the Government and closing the war. Price's outlying detachments were come up with and struck with a suddenness and vigor that sent them flying in utter rout. It speaks very ill for Price, with all his means for accurate information, that he knew nothing of this rapid advance of the Union army until the heads of Curtis's columns were at his very pickets. He was entirely unready for battle, and could only hastily gather his men together and make a quick retreat to the rough hills south of Springfield, leaving all his stores and his laboriously-constructed cantonments for the Union army. Feb. 13 Curtis had the satisfaction of reporting to Hal-leck as follows: The Flag of the Union floats over the Court House of Springfield, Mo. The enemy attacked us with small parties at 10:30 o'clock 12 miles out, and my front guards had a running Are with them most of the afternoon. At dusk a regiment of the Confederate cavalry attacked the outer picket, but did not move it. A few shots from a howitzer killed two and wounded several. The regiment retreated to this place, and the enemy immediately commenced the evacuation of the city. I entered the city at 10 a. m. My cavalry is in full pursuit. They say the enemy is making a stand at Wilson's Creek. Forage, flour and other stores in large quantities taken. Shall pursue as fast as the strength of the men will allow. 306 In Gen. Sheridan's "Memoirs" he gives this sidelight on the advance upon Springfield: By hard work we soon accumulated a sufficient quantity of flour and corn meal to justify the resumption of our march on Springfield, at or near which point the enemy was believed to be awaiting us, and the order was given to move forward, the Commanding General cautioning me, in the event of disaster, to let no salt fall into Gen. Price's hands. Gen. Curtis made a hobby of this matter of salt, believing the enemy sadly in need of that article, and he impressed me deeply with his conviction that our cause would be seriously injured by a loss which would inure so greatly and peculiarly to the enemy's benefit; but we discovered afterward, when Price abandoned his position, that about all he left behind was salt. When we were within about eight miles of Springfield Gen. Curtis decided to put his troops in line of battle for the advance on the town, and directed me to stretch out my supply train in a long line of battle, so that in falling back, in case the troops were repulsed, he could rally the men on the wagons. I did not like the tactics, but, of course, obeyed the order. The line moved on to Springfield, and took the town without resistance, the enemy having fled southward, in the direction of Pea Ridge, the preceding day. Of course, our success relieved my anxiety about the wagons; but fancy has often pictured since the stampede of six-mule teams that, had we met with any reverse, would have taken place over the prairies of southwest Missouri. It was felt almost certain that Price had only abandoned Springfield in order to offer battle more advantageously in the rough hills south of the town where Wilson's Creek had been fought. The spirit of the army was up, and it moved promptly forward to engage him in his chosen fastness. The Secessionist historians and the admirers of Price, Marmaduke, Shelby and others give thrillingly sanguinary stories of the fierce resistance offered in the defiles and passes through the foothills of the Ozarks, but these statements are not supported by either the official reports or the regimental histories of the Union army. These all concur in the statement that while there was a great deal of noisy cannonading, Price's troops yielded ground quite easily, and all were surprised that no more effective resistance was made at places that offered such wonderful opportunities for defense. 307 In his report to Gov. Jackson Gen. Price gives this succinct statement of his share in the movement: About the latter part of January my scouts reported that the enemy were concentrating in force at Rolla, and shortly thereafter they occupied Lebanon. Believing that this movement could be for no other purpose than to attack me, and knowing that my command was inadequate for such resistance as the Interest of my army and the cause demanded, I appealed to the commanders of the Confederate troops In Arkansas to come to my assistance. This from correspondence I was confidently led to expect, and, relying upon it, I held my position to the very last moment, and, as the sequel proved, almost too long, for on Wednesday, Feb. 12, my pickets were driven in, and reported the enemy advancing upon me in force. No resource was now left me except retreat, without hazarding all with greatly unequal numbers upon the result of one engagement. This I deemed it unwise to do. I commenced retreating at once. I reached Cassville with loss unworthy of mention in any respect. Here the enemy in my rear commenced a series of attacks running through four days. Retreating and fighting all the way to Cross Hollows, in this State, I am rejoiced to say my command, under the most exhausting fatigue all that time, with but little rest for either man or beast and no sleep, sustained themselves and came through, repulsing the enemy upon every occasion with great determination and gallantry. My loss does not exceed four to six killed and some 15 to 18 wounded. That of the enemy we know to be ten times as great. Gen. Price's estimate of the losses he inflicted is widely divergent from that of Gen. Curtis, who does not admit any losses in killed in the noisy engagements while pushing Price back through the rough gorges, until he arrived at the Sugar Creek Crossing, six miles into Arkansas, where he lost 13 killed and 15 or 20 wounded in a very spirited little fight with the combined troops of Price and McCulloch, and camped that night upon the battlefield from which the enemy had retreated. Here Col. Cyrus Bussey joined him with five companies of the 3d Iowa Cav., having made a forward march from Rolla, Mo., in four days. 308 Curtis was so encouraged by his success that he kept on pushing Price back upon McCulloch, even upon the boasted "Gibraltar" at Cross Hollows, and then, to the astonishment and delight of himself and the whole army, forced the evacuation of this stronghold by a flank movement The rebels' abandonment of it was so complete that they burned all their stores and the great array of cabins built for quarters, leaving only the chimneys to mark the long rows. Thus any expectation of a sanguinary battle fell in disappointment. So much had been said about Cross Hollows that the Union troops were certain that they would have to fight a desperate battle at or near it. It was known that at least 4,000 regularly-organized troops had been quartered there for months, subjected to thorough drill and discipline. Gen. McCulloch had boasted that he had prepared a trap in which to catch and ruin the Federal General if he ventured that far south. McCulloch's only fear was of being unable to draw the Federal General into the trap. The Confederates left their sick and wounded behind them in the hospitals, and the untiring Gen. Asboth, commanding the cavalry, pushed the rear guard rapidly through to Bentonville. Returning to Curtis's camp a day or two later, Gen. Asboth was sent with a force of cavalry to Fayetteville, a most important town in northwestern Arkansas, where he learned that his enemies had hid themselves in the Boston Mountains. 309 Gen. Curtis had completed his work of driving Price from Missouri and some distance beyond her borders. He then drew his forces together and established himself at Cross Hollows, with the ultimate intention of retiring to the better position of Sugar Creek Crossing, in the event of the enemy concentrating any force against him. In the meanwhile he would hope that the turning movements which Halleck had planned would occupy Price's and McCulloch's attention, and draw them away from him. 310 CHAPTER XVIII. GEN. EARL VAN DORN TAKES COMMAND. Jefferson Davis carried out his determination to appoint an officer superior in rank to both Gens. McCulloch and Price. After first appointing Gen. Harry Heth, and then offering the appointment to Gen. Braxton Bragg, he selected another of his favorites, Gen. Earl Van Dorn, who had been a fiery partisan among the officers of the Regular Army for States Rights and Secession, was a native of Mississippi, and had graduated from West Point in 1842, 52d in a class of 56. Whatever his intellectual qualities may have been, he was a man of great force and energy, and had won two brevets for distinguished gallantry in the Mexican War. He gained still more distinction by his successful expeditions against the fierce Comanches, a tribe then in the hight of its power. In one of these his small command killed 56 Indians. In his engagements with the Comanches he had received four wounds, two of which were quite serious. He had been very active in bringing about Gen. Twiggs's disgraceful surrender of his command in Texas. When Jefferson Davis, as Secretary of War, organized the additional regiments for the Regular Army he took particular pains to promote into them men of his way of thinking on States Rights, and who would be useful in the coming contest which he foresaw. 311 One of these new regiments,--then called the 2d U. S. Cav., later changed to the 5th U. S. Cav., was quite remarkable for this selection, as it showed Mr. Davis's thorough acquaintance with the character of the Regular officers, and what they could be relied upon to do when Secession should be brought about. He made Colonel of the regiment Albert Sidney Johnston, later General, C. S. A.; Lieutenant-Colonels, Robert E. Lee, afterward General, C. S. A.; W. J. Hardee, Lieutenant-General, C. S. A., and E. Kirby Smith, General, C. S. A., and the Majors were George H. Thomas, W. H. Emory, Major-Generals, U. S. A., and Earl Van Dorn, Major-General, C. S. A. Mississippi seceded Jan. 9,1861. Earl Van Dorn promptly tendered his resignation and became active, if he had not been before, in bringing about the surrender by Gen. Twiggs of the United States troops, stores and munitions of war in Texas, by which we lost nearly half of the entire strength of the Regular Army, besides some $2,000,000 of supplies, the control of the Mexican frontier, and a large portion of Indian frontier. Van Dorn had been commissioned Colonel in the Confederate army, and hoped to add the surrendered troops to the military establishment of the Southern Confederacy. He put a great deal of pressure upon the officers and men to induce them to change their allegiance, but was remarkably unsuccessful in the latter, not a single enlisted man accepting his offers of promotion and increased pay. Only those officers went over whose course had been predetermined. None of previous loyalty wavered for an instant. 312 Gen. Twiggs had made a capitulation with Gen. McCulloch, of Texas, as if treating with another Nation. The terms were that the troops should be conveyed to the nearest seaport, and thence sent home. The steamer "Star of the West," which had come into notoriety as being the object at which the first gun of the rebellion was aimed, had been sent to Indianola, Tex., to receive Twiggs's troops. Van Dorn, enraged by his failure to accomplish his purpose, violated the terms of the capitulation. He marched his forces upon the unarmed troops gathered near Indianola, compelled them to surrender, and captured the "Star of the West." The officers and men were kept prisoners in Texas for months afterwards, and subjected to much hardship. Halleck wrote to Curtis: "Beware of Van Dorn. He is an energetic officer." Van Dorn was not to justify the high expectations entertained of him, and after several failures to improve great opportunities he finally fell, in 1863, at the age of 42, before the pistol of an injured husband. Van Dorn promptly repaired to his command, and seems to have been welcomed with entirely loyal subordination by both Price and McCulloch, though both were much older than he, and had held higher commands, Gen. Price having been a Brigadier-General at a time when Van Dorn was only a First Lieutenant. 313 At first Van Dorn meditated moving into Missouri by the Pocahontas route, intermediate between the Mississippi route and that by the way of Springfield. He began assembling troops at Jacksonport, Ark., to move directly up through the Ozark Mountains. Then the isolated situation of Gen. Curtis's little army, with scattered detachments thrown out in every direction, tempted him to concentrate suddenly his forces and make the effort to cut off the outlying Union detachments and finally crush the main body. Therefore, he hastened to the Boston Mountains, sending messages to the scattered Confederates to meet him there, and was welcomed on a chilly, snowy March 3 with the Major-General's salute of 40 guns, which were heard by Gen. Curtis at Cross Hollow. After driving Gen. Price off into the Boston Mountains and successfully flanking Gen. McCulloch out of his "Gibraltar" at Cross Hollow, Gen. Curtis prudently halted his army there to consider his next move. The line of Sugar Creek offered fine opportunities for defense, and from there he could hope to maintain his communications along the great road leading to Springfield and Holla. Not having been able to force either McCulloch or Price to a decisive battle in which he might destroy or at least cripple them, it did not seem discreet to venture further forward where every step made them stronger and him weaker. Halleck had relied upon Gen. Hunter sending down a flanking column from Leavenworth by the way of Fort Scott, but this had not materialized, owing to the disputes between Gens. Hunter and Jas. H. Lane. Thus 5,000 men who should have been effectively employed, either in menacing Van Dorn's flank or increasing Curtis's strength, were held idly, at Leavenworth. [Transcriber's Note: The print copy has a two page error in numbering.] 316 Halleck had also relied upon the effect of Gen. Grant's startling victory at Fort Donelson, which shattered the first Confederate line, to withdraw a large portion of the forces west of the Mississippi, and relieve pressure upon Curtis. Nor had this at that time resulted. Though the general Confederate the roads leading northward crossed Sugar Greek, and several of them came together some two or three miles north of a country hostelry known as Elkhorn Tavern on the main road to Springfield, at the northeastern end of Pea Ridge. [Illustration: 316-Battle of Pea Ridge] At 2 p. m., March 4, Gen. Curtis was at Gross Hollow with Col. Carr's Fourth Division. The extreme left of his army was Col. Wm. Vandever, of the 9th Iowa, at War Eagle Mills, near White River, 42 miles to the southeast. The extreme right--the First and Second Divisions, under Gen. Franz Sigel--was at Cooper's Farm, four miles in front of Bentonville and 14 miles to the southwest of Sugar Creek. The Third Division, under Col. Jefferson C. Davis, had moved back to the line selected in rear of Sugar Creek, where Col. Bussey with his regiment was in camp. By 2 o'clock scouts and fugitives had convinced Gen. Curtis that Van Dorn had concentrated his forces, and was in rapid march upon him, only a few miles away. He sent orders by swift riders to all his outlying parties to march at once to the designated rendezvous at Sugar Creek, and started back himself with Carr's Division, arriving on the crest about 2 a. m. of March 5, and immediately setting his men to work preparing for the battle. Col. Dodge worked until midnight blockading with fallen trees the road from Bentonville to Springfield west of Leetown. 317 In spite of their wide dispersion, Gen. Van Dorn brought McCulloch's, Pike's and Price's forces together with great rapidity. How many fighting men he was able to assemble is a question. Gen. Curtis gravely estimated it at 30,000. Gen. Van Dorn in his reports after the battle, when he was putting the best face upon matters, stated his force at one time at 16,000 men, and again at "less than 14,000." Probably if we follow an old arithmetical device, adding Curtis's overstatement and Van Dom's understatement together and dividing the sum by two--the number of statements--we may get somewhat near the truth. This would give Van Dorn 22,000 men. Students since the war have arrived at the conclusion that he actually had 26,000 men. Analysis of the various reports points to this being nearly correct. Feb. 24--nine days before the battle--Van Dorn reported to Albert Sidney Johnston that with the combined forces of McCulloch, Pike and Price, he would "be able to take about 26,000 men into battle." The best organized and drilled troops west of the Mississippi were McCulloch's. March 2 he reported his "effective total" to be 8,384 men, with 18 cannon. He received some accessions after that, raising his whole force to nearly 10,000 men. His division was organized as follows: FIRST BRIGADE. Col. James Mcintosh commanding:--1st Ark. M. R., Col. T. J. Churchill; 2d Ark. M. R., Col. James Mcintosh; 4th (9th) Tex. Cav., Col. W. B. Sims; 6th Tex. Cav., Col. B. W. Stone; South Kansas-Texas Regiment, Col. E. Greer; Lamar Cav., Capt. H. S. Bennett. SECOND BRIGADE. Col. Louis Hebert commanding--4th Ark., Col. E. McNair; 14th Ark., Col. M. C. Mitchell; 16th Ark., Col. Hill, 17th Ark., Col. Frank Rector; 21st Ark., Col. D. McRae; 1st Ark. Battery, Maj. W. H. Brooks; 3d La., Col. Louis Hebert; Tex. Cav., Col. W. C. Young; Tex. M. R., Maj. J. W. Whitfield; Art. Bat. (four companies), Capt. W. R. Bradfute. 318 Nothing definite can be ascertained as to Albert Pike's force. A short time before the battle he wrote confidently about having 10,000 men. The force he actually brought up is generally stated at 6,000, two of the regiments being white. The following extract from Gen. Sterling Price's report of March 22--eight days after the battle--gives us the best obtainable idea of the strength and organization of his force: My forces consisted of the First Brigade, Missouri Volunteers, Col. Henry Little commanding; the Second Brigade, Brg.-Gen. Slack commanding; a battalion of cavalry, under command of Lieut.-Col. Cearnal, and the State troops, under the command of Brig.-Gens. Rains, Green, and Frost, Cols. John B. Clark, Jr., and James P. Saunders, and Maj. Lindsay; numbering in all 6,818 men, with eight batteries of light artillery. Price, most probably, did not differ from other beaten commanders in minimizing his force to the utmost, so that it is entirely reasonable to assume that he had 2,000 or 3,000 more than he reported. Probably he and Van Dorn excluded from their fighting strength thousands, like Pike's In-lians, who proved themselves worthless in the actual shock of battle. Therefore we have the following aggregate of minimum strength: McCulloch...................................... 10,000 Pike........................................... 6,000 Price.......................................... 9,000 26,000 It seems, therefore, entirely fair to say that Van Dorn had at least double Curtis's 10,000 when he left Cove Greek on the morning of March 4, with three days' cooked rations in his men's haversacks, and the intention of destroying the invaders and recovering the State of Missouri. 319 Both sides were keenly eager for battle. The Confederates had been harangued with stories of great victories in the East, which they were to emulate; the Indians were fierce for scalps and plunder; the Missourians burning to march back to their homes m triumph. On the other hand, Curtis's men, weary of interminable marching and skirmishing, longed to deliver a decisive blow which would end all. Van Dorn's plan of battle was well-conceived, and if his immense preponderance of force had been adequately handled it would have won a crushing victory. McCulloch, during his long stay at Cross Hollow, had familiarized himself with the ground, and Price was also well acquainted with it. In the conference held in Gen. Van Dorn's tent it was decided not to attack in front, where Gen. Curtis had prepared, and where he had in addition to his obstructions the advantage of the steep side of the ridge. Instead, a movement would be made on Bentonville, to the southwest of Curtis, where it was hoped to catch Sigel and destroy him before he could receive assistance, then destroy Curtis before Vandever's Brigade could reach him from Huntsville. Pike's Indians were to follow McCulloch's Division, and when Curtis was beaten the wild Indian riders would be let loose to exterminate the fugitives. 320 Sigel, with his usual indifference to orders, did not immediately obey Curtis's command to abandon his camp four miles west of Bentonville and move back to Sugar Creek. Instead he deferred starting his troops from Cooper's Farm until 2 o'clock of the morning of the 6th, and stopped himself with a small force at Bentonville while his troops and train were passing through the town, and he was attacked about 11 o'clock. Van Dorn reports that it was 11 o'clock before he could get the head of his column to Ben-tonville, and "we had the mortification of seeing Sigel's Division, 7,000 strong, leaving it as we entered. Had we been an hour sooner we should have cut him right off with his whole force, and certainly have beaten the enemy the next day." Sigel had kept back about 600 men. His troops were part of the 12th Mo. and seven companies of cavalry, besides five field guns. They were resting with stacked arms when the rebel cavalry swarmed in upon the town from various directions. Sigel was able, however, to get his men together and march out of town to cover of some woods, where his artillery drove back the Confederates, who charged them, and the retreat was resumed. This performance was repeated several times along the road, which ran around the ridges through a growth of scrubby blackjacks, which broke up Sigel's men and also the eager Confederates who were trying to cut them off. Col. Elijah Gates, 1st Mo. Cav., Price's Division, led the pursuers with great activity and skill. There were incessant assaults with constant volleys of artillery, until Col. Osterhaus, who had reached Curtis's line, was ordered back to his relief, preceded by Col. Bussey with the 3d Iowa Cav. When they met Gen. Sigel he had just broken through the Confederate cavalry, which was still making efforts to surround him, but the arrival of the reinforcements caused the Confederates to withdraw, and the Union troops marched back to the camp which had been formed at Sugar Creek. The Union loss in this affair was reported as 35 killed and wounded. 321 After a forced march of 42 miles from Huntsville, Col. Vandever's Brigade reached Pea Ridge at dusk, and Curtis had his whole army together. A night attack from the south was confidently expected, and every preparation was made for it. When night came on Van Dorn built fires, pretending to go into camp, but moved forward until he came upon the blocked road, which halted him until after midnight, when he moved forward much embarrassed by the obstructions Dodge had placed in the wretched roads. Dodge on his return from blockading the roads notified Gen. Curtis of Price's movement to the rear, but Gen. Curtis did not believe it, as other reports were to the effect that Van Dorn's attack would be on the Sugar Creek front. Price having been delayed until after midnight, did not reach the telegraph road, a mile or so north of Elkhorn Tavern, until 7 o'clock on the morning of the 7th. McCulloch, in the meanwhile, was forming his men in the fields and woods near Leetown, west of Pea Ridge, with Albert Pike's Indians behind him. While, therefore, Curtis's men were straining their eyes southward from his strongly fortified position on Sugar Creek for the advance of the enemy, the whole Confederate army had gained their flank and rear, with Price's Division directly across their line of communication and retreat. 322 Seeing no enemy in front, Curtis's men had a good, leisurely breakfast, but about 7 o'clock their commander was startled to learn of McCulloch's position on his right and Van Dorn and Price in his rear. With great promptness he faced his men about and swung his line back so that his new right--formerly his left--rested on Elkhorn Tavern, while his left rested where his old right had been, on the slope above Sugar Creek. This reversed the order of the divisions--Col. Carr's being the right at Elkhorn Tavern and Gen. Asboth's the extreme left, with Col. Osterhaus's and Col. Davis's in the center. It was now about 8:80 o'clock, and Gen. Curtis directed Col. Osterhaus to advance a force of cavalry, artillery and infantry and bring on the battle. There was soon after a swelling up of the firing about Elkhorn Tavern, where Carr was, which disturbed Curtis. He wanted the battle where he was preparing for it, and hoped that his opening it would stop any flank movements to his right. While Osterhaus was getting ready to advance, Curtis rode over to Elkhorn Tavern to see what the trouble was with Carr. During the early morning Price's troops getting into position on the main road had run afoul of the Union pickets about a mile northeast of Elkhorn Tavern. A little after 7 o'clock two companies of cavalry and one of infantry were sent out in that direction to investigate. They found a force of cavalry, which they drove back until they saw the woods full of Confederates, when they took cover behind trees and rocks and began a noisy skirmish, with the enemy slowly pressing forward and extending out on both flanks, as Van Dorn and Price brought their troops up and put them into line. 323 The affair showed such seriousness that Col. Dodge came up about 9 o'clock with his brigade, and formed in line of battle to the right of Elkhorn Tavern, with the 85th Ill. on the left, the 4th Iowa in the center, the 3d Ill. Cav. on the right, and the pieces of the 1st Iowa Battery distributed along the line, and immediately moved forward and engaged the enemy. In the meanwhile Van Dorn and Price were placing their strong force of eight batteries in advantageous positions to crush out the Union artillery and pave the way for the advance of the infantry. When the storm burst the Confederate artillery quickly overwhelmed the Union guns, but Col. Dodge was able, after a sharp struggle, to beat back across the open fields the advance of the very much superior forces of the Missouri divisions, commanded by Gens. Steen, Clark, Frost, Rains and Green. He was so hard pressed, however, that Col. Carr, who accompanied Col. Dodge, sent back for his other brigade--Col. Vandever's--a mile and a half away, which arrived and went into position near Elkhorn Tavern in time to aid in repelling a fresh assault. More artillery had been brought up, but not enough to successfully contend with Van Dorn's massed guns. The Union infantry lay behind the cover of fences, logs and stumps, and when the Confederate infantry was pushed forward waited until it was within 100 paces, and then poured a deadly fire into it which shattered the ranks and drove it in retreat. Gen. Slack, one of Price's ablest brigade commanders, was killed and Lieut.-Col. Cearnal severely wounded. 324 There was a lull in the battle about 2 o'clock while Van Dorn and Price were reforming their men for a fresh and more determined assault. The brunt of it fell upon Col. Vandever on the crest of a hill about 300 yards north of Elkhorn Tavern. Vandever succeeded in driving back the enemy, though at a great cost, since the 9th Iowa lost upward of 100 men and Col. Phelps's 26th Mo. about 75. Though the enemy was repulsed, Col. Vandever deemed it better to fall back to Elkhorn Tavern, leaving the battleground in the possession of the enemy. Col. Carr sent to Gen. Curtis for reinforcements, but Curtis, still believing that the main fighting was in front of Leetown, could only spare him his headquarters guard, with two howitzers. He also sent urgent counsel to Carr to "persevere" and hold his ground with the utmost obstinacy. Another lull in the battle occurred while Van Dorn and Price were bringing up and forming fresh troops. This time it was Gen. Clark's Missouri Division, reinforced by other troops. The Union soldiers received it, as they had the others, lying behind fences and logs and waiting until the enemy was where every shot would tell. It was about 3 o'clock when this charge was repulsed. Again Col. Carr sent to Gen. Curtis for reinforcements, and this time the General sent him five companies of the 8th Ind., under Lieut.-Col. Shunk, and three rifled cannon. 325 Van Dorn and Price now brought up everything, and concentrated their energies for a supreme effort to drive the stubborn Yankees from the field and achieve a victory before darkness should intervene. Their artillery speedily overpowered and drove off the Union guns, but when the infantry advanced it met the same terrific fire. This time the rebels did not give way, but pressed on around the left flank so that the Second (Vandever's) Brigade had to fall back. The First Brigade (Dodge's) held its position until night. The log barricades it had built enabled it to defeat charge after charge of the enemy, and when they swung around this flank a part of the 8th Ind. and 3d Ill., in a countercharge, drove the enemy back, protecting and holding that flank until dusk. In this bloody melee Lieut.-Col. Herron and Lieut.-Col. Chandler were wounded and captured, and nearly all the field officers were more or less severely wounded. Col. Dodge had three horses shot under him, and was himself wounded, and Col. Carr received the fourth wound of that day. Three of the Union guns were taken. The Second Brigade when it fell back took up a new and strong position a quarter of a mile to the rear, facing open ground, and resumed the battle. As evening was coming on, Curtis became at last convinced that the fighting in his front was over, and started the First and Second Divisions over to the right to the assistance of the Fourth. Gen. Asboth hurried forward in person with four companies of the 2d Mo. and four guns of the 2d Ohio Battery, and assisted in checking and driving back the last assault. Gen. Curtis came up, formed a new line along the edge of the timber, with the fields in front, and the men lay down on their arms for the night. Let us return to the left, in front of Leetown, where the main battle had been expected by both sides. 326 Col. Osterhaus does not seem to have formed any very dear plan when he went out from the center at 9 o'clock to open the battle with McCulloch's and Pike's forces. Gen. Curtis sent Col. Bussey out in advance with five companies of the 3d Iowa Cav., four of the 5th Mo. Cav., four companies of the 1st Mo. Cav., and two companies of the 4th Mo. Cav., with three pieces of Capt. Elbert's Battery. Col. Greuset's Brigade of infantry followed the cavalry at a short distance. Col. Bussey went out to Leetown and thence to the open fields about half a mile north. The infantry took position in the fields north of Leetown. Col. Osterhaus came up to the head of the cavalry column where Col. Bussey was, and they saw the Confederates in plain view about a quarter of a mile away. It was Van Dorn's trains and cavalry guards which they saw moving towards the telegraph road. They did not see, however, McCulloch's troops, Mcintosh's Brigade of cavalry and Pike's Indians formed in heavy masses to the right and close to them. Col. Osterhaus ordered Capt. Welfley to open on the men in front, and the shells caused a very visible stampede. Osterhaus then ordered Col. Bussey to send two companies down the road to investigate the position. Col. Bussey ordered Lieut-Col. Trimble, who commanded the 3d Iowa Cav., to execute this order, while he gave his attention to the Fremont and Benton Hussars, then coming forward and forming line in rear of the guns. Lieut-Col. Trimble started with five companies of the 3d Iowa Cav., only to run into a heavy line of battle at close musket range, receiving a deadly fire which killed several of his men and was himself severely wounded in the face. 327 A minute later Mcintosh, at the head of five regiments of cavalry, and Pike leading three Indian and two Texas regiments, burst upon the cavalry and over the guns with appalling yells and a tempest of bullets. The Union cavalry was simply ridden down by overwhelming numbers and mixed up in a hand-to-hand conflict, but fought their way out and retreated through the open field to Osterhaus's infantry, where Col. Bussey rallied them and formed in line. The yelling Confederates rushed on until they came upon Greusel's line, where their yells were hushed by a storm of canister and bullets which stopped their advance. The Union line moved into the timber, where McCulloch was found working his way towards Curtis's camp. A terrible battle was fought with varying success until at 11 o'clock Col. Jeff Davis came to Osterhaus's assistance with the Third Division. The fighting was obstinate and bloody, generally duels between opposing regiments which crept slowly toward one another until they got within 60 or 70 yards, when they would open fire, maintaining it until one or the other gave way. The irregular lines thus surged back and forward for perhaps an hour, with the Union troops generally gaining ground. During this fighting Gens. McCulloch and Mcintosh were both shot through the heart by Union sharpshooters. Gen. McCulloch, who was easily distinguished by his peculiarly-colored clothes, was killed by Peter Pelican, of Co. B, 36th Ill. How Gen. Mcintosh was killed does not appear, further than he was shot through the heart. The shooting that day was remarkably accurate. The men who held the rifles were perfectly accustomed to their use. 328 After four hours of constant and desperate fighting there was a noticeable fading in the vim of the Confederate assaults and diminishing stubbornness of resistance to the Union blows. When the Union soldiers pushed on through the woods after their enemies they found them falling back across the fields beyond in great disorder. A few shells from the Union guns frustrated all attempts to rally them. Osterhaus and Davis pushed their skirmishers through the woods for a mile, and the cavalry went still further, finding the three guns of the flying battery with the carriages burned off, and reporting back that everything seemed to be in full retreat for Bentonville. One squad of cavalry came back with Col. Hebert, the next in command to Gen. Mcintosh; Col. Mitchell and Maj. W. F. Tunnard, of the 3d La., of the same division; a Major, two Captains and 33 privates, all having been separated from their commands in the rush through the woods, and unable to regain them. After the fall of Gens. McCulloch and Mcintosh the command in that part of the field devolved upon Gen. Albert Pike, and it is rare that so great a responsibility falls upon one so unfit. Something of a poet Pike certainly was; much more of a successful politician and place-hunter, but nothing of a leader of men upon the battlefield. His soldiership became sicklied o'er when he went beyond the parade ground. Apparently he did not know what to do, nor, if he did, how to do it. Regimental commanders reported that they were unable to find him. 329 His own verbose report, made six days after the battle, is quite full of unintentional humor. He says that after the first charge the field was "a mass of the utmost confusion, all talking, riding this way and that, and listening to no orders from any one." He could get no one to pay any attention to what he said. His Indians, who had stopped in the charge to scalp the dead and wounded, would at once stampede whenever a shell was thrown in their direction. He devoted himself for a couple of hours to what has been described as "heavy standing around." Then he fell back with some of the troops a short distance and did some more standing around, until a Union artillerist noticed him and threw a shell in his direction, when he fell back out of range, and again stood around until some one informed him that a body of 7,000 Federals was moving around the left flank. He quickly decided that the "position was not tenable," and fell back still more, "when the officers assured me that the men were in such condition that it would be worse than useless to bring them into acton again that day." Such is the demoralization of "standing around." Finally, it occurred to him to take what troops he could gather and join Gen. Van Dorn, whose cannon had been thundering two or three miles away all this time. First, however, he decided to march them back some distance to a creek, "where they could all get a drink, and join Gen. Van Dorn in the morning." Col. E. Greer, 3d Tex. Cav., who became the senior officer of McCulloch's Division, reported that he gathered up fragments of regiments to the number of 3,000 after the casualties to his superiors, and being informed that Gen. Pike had left the field with the remainder of the command, retired some distance, sending word to Gen. Van Dorn that, unless he ordered otherwise, he would march to join him at 1:30 in the morning. Van Dorn approved of this. 330 The night of March 7 closed down with a tumult of widely-varying emotions in the 33,000 men who joined battle in the morning. All of Gen. Pike's Indians, except a portion of Col. Standwaitie's regiment of Cherokee half-breeds, and several thousand whites were rushing off toward the Arkansas River at full speed. The remnant of McCulloch's Division, which Col. Greer had rallied, and which had some fight left in it, unutterably weary, hungry and depressed, bivouacked near the battlefield, awaiting Van Dora's orders. Price's Missourians, who were no less weary and hungry than their comrades, from a night of severest marching and a day of sharp fighting, camped on the ground which they had wrung from Carr's Division by seven hours of bitter struggling and the cost of a number of prominent officers and several hundred men. Their success, though dearly bought, was sufficient to encourage them. They had captured several hundred prisoners and two pieces of artillery. They had driven Carr's Division back a quarter of a mile, were across the Union line of retreat, and Van Dorn had his headquarters at Elkhorn Tavern. 331 Price had greatly endeared himself to his troops by his conduct during the day. He was everywhere at the front, leading and encouraging his men, and though wounded in the arm had refused to quit the field. His generalship was not so conspicuous as his soldiership. With him and Van Dorn it was the story of Wilson's Creek over again. Instead of lining up their superior force and sending all forward with a crushing solidarity, they had personally led detachments, and when these had been fought out, gone back and brought up fresh forces, Van Dorn had shown generalship only in the concentration of his artillery. He had been so engrossed in this, and in pushing forward detachments he had better left to the Missouri leadership that he neglected his powerful right wing, which had gone to pieces, as there was no one left to take the place of McCulloch and Mcintosh. He hoped, though, with the aid of 3,000 men whom Greer was bringing to him, to complete his victory in the morning. There was much to depress Curtis's men in their tireless bivouac south of Elkhorn Tavern. Dodge's and Vandever's Brigades had been very roughly handled in the long struggle. Rebel bullets had made sad havoc in their ranks. They had lost two guns and over a quarter of their force in killed and wounded. Osterhaus's and Davis's Divisions, in the center, had had costly encounters with the enemy, and had lost five pieces of artillery. They did not then know that in reality the victory was theirs, but believed that most of the enemy had merely left their front to augment the mass which was formed across their line of retreat They therefore looked forward to the morrow with well-grounded apprehension. They had no rations in their haversacks, and their animals had been without forage for two or three days. Unless the enemy could be driven from their "cracker line" the very next day, starvation for man and beast stared them in the face. 332 CHAPTER XIX. THE VICTORY IS WON. Gen. Curtis's army was far from realizing as the night closed down on that exciting March 7 how completely it had whipped the overwhelming numbers of Van Dorn, Price, McCulloch, Mcintosh and Pike. Those of Jeff C. Davis's and Osterhaus's Divisions, who had done the heavy fighting on the Leetown front, knew that they had driven away the mass of the enemy in their front until there was no longer any show of opposition. They of Carr's Division, on the extreme right, the brigades of Dodge and Vandever, realized that they had had a terrible fight, in which they had generally defeated the enemy, inflicting great slaughter, though they had suffered heavily themselves. Still, the enemy had gained a little ground. The men of Carr's Division felt that now, since the rest of the army was coming to their help, they would undoubtedly win a victory in the morning, and clear the rebels from the road leading back to Springfield. This confidence was shared by the men of Jeff C. Davis's and Osterhaus's Divisions, who had come to their assistance, and they all felt more hopeful than did Sigel and Asboth's Division, which had taken little or no part in the fighting. The following remarkable letter from Gen. Asboth to Gen. Curtis, written at 2 o'clock in the morning of March 8, reveals the general belief of that portion of the army that the condition was desperate and it would require extraordinary efforts to release the army from a very hazardous situation: 333 Headquarters Second Division, Camp Near Sugar Creek, Ark., March 8, 1862; 2 a. m. General: As Oen. Sigel, under whose command you have placed me, with my division, has not yet returned to our camp, I beg to address you, General, directly, reporting that all the troops of the Second Division were yesterday, as well as now, in the night, entirely without forage; and as we are cut off from all supplies by the enemy, outnumbering our forces several times, and as one more day without forage will make our horses unserviceable, consequently the cavalry and artillery as well as the teams, of no use at all, I would respectfully solicit a decided concentrated movement, with the view of cutting our way through the enemy where you may deem it more advisable, and save by this, if not the whole, at least the larger part of our surrounded army. Gen. Curtis seems to have realized quite early in the afternoon the condition of affairs on his left in front of Leetown, and that the fight there was over. He therefore directed the cavalry under Col. Bussey to take up the best positions, holding the ground. All the infantry and artillery were ordered over toward the Springfield road to form a new line of battle, substantially a prolongation of that established at the close of the fighting by the stubborn resistance of Dodge's and Vandever's Brigades, which had so decisively repulsed the last attacks upon them the previous evening. 384 Sigel, who had a remarkable faculty for incurring criticism in every battle, had not made use of Gen. Asboth's Division at any time to relieve the pressure upon Davis and Osterhaus, so that it had hardly fired a shot. He now had trouble about getting his troops into line, and it was 8 o'clock in the morning before he finally took his place on the left, notwithstanding the fact that he was ordered to have his divisions in line before daylight. Curtis had now all his artillery up, and though it was not so numerous as that opposed to him, it was better equipped and drilled, and promptly opened the battle with a fire to which the Confederate guns could make no adequate reply. The whole line then moved forward with blazing rifles, sweeping unchecked up the hillsides, straight for the enemy's front. In a few minutes the Confederate line parted in the center and disappeared. Most of the Missourians fell back toward Keetsville, directly north. Greer and his remnants ran around our left toward Bentonville, pursued by Col. Bussey's cavalry. Van Dorn and Price with another remnant broke around our right, going through an obscure hollow and taking the road to Huntsville. Like most men of impetuous initiative, Van Dorn when he was whipped was badly whipped. He sent riders post haste to order his trains burned, but Gen. Green, who commanded the train guard, was of cooler mettle, and succeeded in getting the trains away safely. Gen. Sigel pursued the central portion through Keetsville, seven miles to the north, capturing nearly 200 prisoners and a great quantity of arms and stores. He believed Curtis would retreat, and was well on his way to Springfield when ordered back by Curtis to make his camp on the battlefield with the rest. Gen. Curtis officially reported his loss as follows: 335 UNION LOSSES. Command. Killed. Wounded It will be noticed by the above figures that Davis's Division lost four officers and 42 men killed, 18 officers and 256 men wounded, while Sigel's two divisions lost only three officers and 28 men killed, seven officers and 149 men wounded. The heaviest loss fell upon the 9th Iowa, which had 39 killed, 176 wounded and four missing. The next heaviest was upon the 4th Iowa, which had 18 killed, 139 wounded and three missing. Gen. Van Dorn estimated his loss at 1,000 killed and wounded and 300 missing. This is known to be inaccurate, because more Confederate than Union dead were buried on the battlefield, and Gen. Curtis sent 500 prisoners to the rear. The question naturally occurs: Why did Van Dorn relinquish such a supreme effort with such a small loss? 336 Our amusing acquaintance, Gen. Pike, does not conceal the fact that he and those around him were very badly whipped. After joining Van Dorn he resumed his old habit of standing around "observing the enemy." He reports that he did this for two hours at a stretch when Curtis was delivering the final crushing blows upon Van Dorn. He then moved with much promptness toward the rear, for an officer came up with the stunning intelligence, "You are not safe here, for the enemy's cavalry are within 150 yards of you." This seemed to have escaped his "observation" up to that time. He rode on, and his pace was accelerated by hearing another officer cry out "Close up; close up; or you will all be cut to pieces." He halted presently, but had to start again, for a shell was sent by the enemy up the road from the point of the hill around which he had just passed. The cry of "The cavalry are coming was raised, and everything became confusion." He escaped the "enemy's cavalry by rapid riding," but was unable to get ahead of his fastgoing troops and stop them, until they reached Elm Spring, many miles away. He came to this sage conclusion: The enemy, I learn, had been encamped at Pea Vine Ridge for three weeks, and Sigel's advance was but a ruse to induce our forces to march northward and give them battle in positions selected by themselves. There were others who shared his feelings; for he says: Just before night, Saturday afternoon, I had met Col. Rector in the hills, who told me he had about 500 men with him; that they were in such condition that they could not go more than six or eight miles a day, and that he thought he would take them into the mountains, hide their arms in a secure place, and, as he could not keep them together and feed them, let them disperse. He asked my opinion as to this, and I told him that no one knew where the rest of the army was; that Gens. Van Dorn and Price were supposed to be captured and the train taken; that if his men dispersed with their arms they would throw them away, and that I thought the course he proposed was the wisest one under the circumstances. The enemy were pursuing on all the roads, and as it was almost impossible for even a dozen men in a body to procure food, I still do not see what better he could have done. 337 Curtis's cavalry found these guns and brought them into camp; also, all the artillery that was captured the day before from Davis's and Carr's Divisions. Gen. Van Dorn made several reports which are strangely inconsistent with one another, and seem the natural efforts of a man to find the best excuses that will present themselves from day to day for his failure in a great effort. His first report, which was to Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston and the Confederate War Department, and sent two days after the battle, reads as follows: Headquarters Trans-Mississippi District, March 9, via Hog Eye; March 10, 1862. Fought the enemy, about 20,000 strong, 7th and 8th, at Elkhorn, Ark. Battle first day from 10 a. m. until after dark; loss heavy on both sides. Gens. McCulloch and Mcintosh and Col. Hebert were killed; Gens. Price and Slack were wounded (Gen. Price flesh wound in the arm); the others badly wounded, if not mortally; many officers killed and wounded; but as there are some doubts in regard to several I cannot yet report their names. Slept on the battlefield first night, having driven the enemy from their position. The death of Gens. McCulloch and Mcintosh and Col. Hebert early in the action threw the troops on the right under their commands in confusion. The enemy took a second and strong position. Being without provisions and the right wing somewhat disorganized, determined to give battle on the right on their front for the purpose only of getting off the field without the danger of a panic, which I did with success, but with some losses. I am now encamped with my whole army 14 miles west of Fayetteville, having gone entirely around the enemy. I am separated from my train, but think it safe on the Elm Springs road to Boston Mountains. The reason why I determined to give battle at once upon my arrival to assume command of the army I will give in report at an early day. 338 In this it will be seen that he disclaimed any intention on the second day of making more than a fight to cover his retreat. This is clearly an afterthought to excuse the poor battle that he put up. There is no doubt that he had still hoped to whip Curtis's army, and that he had men enough to do it, if they had been handled properly and had fought with the same determination and aggressiveness that the Union troops did. For some weeks he continued to send in reports, explanatory and partially contradictory of his first. Gen. Sterling Price's report, made March 22, gives no idea that the retreat was determined on after the events of the first day, but says with relation to the close of the struggle on the evening of March 7: The fiercest struggle of the day now ensued; but the impetuosity of my troops was Irresistible, and the enemy was driven back and completely routed. My right had engaged the enemy's center at the same time with equal daring and equal success, and had already driven them from their position at Elkhorn Tavern. Night alone prevented us from achieving a complete victory of which we had already gathered some of the fruits, having taken two pieces of artillery and a quantity of stores. My troops bivouacked upon the ground which they had so nobly won, almost exhausted and without food, but fearlessly and anxiously awaiting the renewal of the battle in the morning. The morning disclosed the enemy strengthened in position and numbers and encouraged by the reverses which had unhappily befallen the other wing of the army when the brave Texan chieftain, Ben McCulloch, and his gallant comrade, Gen. Mcintosh, had fallen, fearlessly and triumphantly lead-. ing their devoted soldiers against the Invaders of their native land. They knew, too, that Hebert--the accomplished leader of that veteran regiment, the Louisiana Third, which won so many laurels on the bloody field of the Oak Hills, and which then as well as now sustained the proud reputation of Louisiana--was a prisoner in their hands. They were not slow to renew the attack; they opened upon us vigorously, but my trusty men faltered not. They held their position unmoved until (after several of the batteries not under my command had left the field) they were ordered to retire. My troops obeyed it unwillingly, with faces turned defiantly against the foe. 339 It will be noticed that Price is not as frank as usual in giving reasons for his rapid retirement at the moment when, he claims, he was in the full flush of victory. "The retirement of several batteries not under my command" is a conspicuously inadequate excuse. In the course of a month or so Van Dorn managed to gather himself together again so as to begin voluminous communications with Richmond, explaining that "I was not defeated, but only foiled in my intentions." He proposed to return to his old Pocahontas plan, "relieve Gen. Beauregard by marching my army upon the Federals at New Madrid or Cape Girardeau, and thence on to St. Louis." He would turn his cavalry loose on Gen. Curtis's long line of communications, and send Gen. Pike with his Indians to harry southwestern Missouri and Kansas. The Confederate War Department did not think highly of this, but shortly transferred him and his troops east of the Mississippi. Gen. Price was also transferred east of the Mississippi, with the Missouri troops he had taken into the Confederate army, and his farewell to the Missouri State troops is worth reproducing as a specimen of the heated rhetoric customary in those days: Headquarters Missouri State Guard, Des Arc, Ark., April 8, 1862. (General Orders No. 79.) Soldiers of the State Guard: I command you no longer. I have this day resigned the commission which your patient endurance, your devoted patriotism and your dauntless bravery have made so honorable. I have done this that I may the better serve you, our State and our country--that I may the sooner lead you back to the fertile prairies, the rich woodlands and majestic streams of our beloved Missouri--that I may the more certainly restore you to your once happy homes and to the loved ones there. Five thousand of those who have fought side by side with us under the Grizzly Bears of Missouri have followed me into the Confederate camp. They appeal to you, as I do, by all the tender memories of the past, not to leave us now, but to go with us wherever the path of duty may lead, till we shall have conquered a peace and won our independence by brilliant deeds upon new fields of battle. 340 Soldiers of the State Guards! Veterans of six pitched battles and nearly 20 skirmishes! Conquerors in them all! Tour country, with Its "ruined hearths and shrines," calls upon you to rally once more In her defense, and rescue her forever from the terrible thraldom which threatens her. I know that she will not call In vain. The Insolent and barbarous hordes which have dared to Invade our soil and to desecrate our homes have Just met with a signal overthrow beyond the Mississippi Now Is the time to end this unhappy war. If every man will but do his duty, his own roof will shelter him In peace from the storms of the coming; Winter. Let not history record that the men who bore with patience the privations of Cowskln Prairie, who endured uncomplainingly the burning heat of a Missouri Summer and the frosts and snows of a Missouri Winter; that the men who met the enemy at Carthage, at Oak Hills, at Fort Scott, at Lexington and on numberless lesser battlefields In Missouri, and met them but to conquer them; that the men who fought so bravely and so well at Blkhorn; that the unpaid soldiery of Missouri were, after so many victories and after so much suffering, unequal to the great task of achieving the Independence of their magnificent State. Soldiers, I go but to mark a pathway to our homes. Follow me! Very few but those who had already been cajoled into the Confederate service followed. A great deal of bitterness was developed from the discovery upon the battlefield of a number of Union dead who had been scalped by Pike's Indians. Many of these belonged to the 3d Iowa Cav., and the investigation of the matter was conducted by order of Col. Bussey, by his Adjutant, John W. Noble, afterwards Secretary of the Interior. Col. Bussey became Assistant Secretary of the Interior. 341 The bodies of at least eight of the 3d Iowa Cav. were exhumed and found to have been scalped and the bodies otherwise maltreated after their deaths by the scalping knives and tomahawks of merciless Indians. The matter was made subject of a strong communication from Gen. Curtis to Gen. Van Dorn, and the latter's Adjutant-General, Dabney H. Maury, replied, cordially condemning any such deeds, but claiming that, on the other hand, many prisoners of war had been killed in cold blood by Curtis's men, who were alleged to be Germans. The letter said: The General commanding feels sure that you will do your part as he will in preventing such atrocities in the future, and that the perpetrators of them will be brought to justice, whether Germans or Choctaws. Gen. Curtis was promoted to Major-General for his victory, and well deserved that honor, in spite of some bitter critics. Sigd was also made a Major-General, with much less reason. Asboth had his withheld Brigadier-Generalcy confirmed to him. Cols. Carr, Davis and Dodge were made Brigadier-Generals, but Cols. Osterhaus, White and Bussey, who had done conspicuous fighting, had to wait some months for their promotion, and Cols. Greusel and Pattison never received it. Among those who received praise for their gallantry that day was Maj. John Charles Black, of the 37th Ill., later a Colonel and Brigadier-General, Commissioner of Pensions under President Cleveland, Representative-at-large from Illinois, Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, and now President of the United States Civil Service Commission. Maj. Black was severely wounded in the sword arm in the fight, but refused to leave the field until Gen. White ordered him to do so. Another was Maj. Phillip Sidney Post, of the 59th Ill. He later became Colonel and Brigadier-General; was left for dead on the field at Nashville, but recovered, to be Consul-General at Vienna and represent Illinois for many years in Congress. He was also wounded in the sword arm, and also refused to leave the field until he was peremptorily ordered to do so. 342 The moral effect of the victory was prodigious and far-reaching. High expectations had been raised by Van Dora, McCulloch, Mcintosh, Price and Albert Pike, which were abjectly prostrated. The mass of fugitives, white and red, who scattered over Missouri, Arkansas and the Indian Territory, each with his tale of awful slaughter and disheartened defeat, had a blighting effect upon the Secessionists, and greatly strengthened the Union sentiment. It was a desperate two-days' wrestle between the very best that the Southern Confederacy could produce west of the Mississippi River--the ablest commanders and the finest troops--and a small Union army. It was breaking, test, under the fairest conditions, of the fighting qualities of the two combatants. Though bitter, merciless, sanguinary fighting was to perturb the State for three years longer, it was no longer war, but guerilla raiding and bandittism, robbery and murder under a pretext of war. Price, indeed, made an invasion of the State two years later, but it was a hurried raid, without hope of permanent results. At the conclusion of the battle Missouri was as firmly anchored to the Union as her neighbors, Illinois, Iowa and Kansas. The battle for Missouri had been fought and won. 
23391	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 23391-h.htm or 23391-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/3/9/23391/23391-h/23391-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/3/9/23391/23391-h.zip) SALLY OF MISSOURI by R. E. YOUNG [Illustration] New York: McClure, Phillips & Co.: Mcmiii Copyright, 1903, by McClure, Phillips & Co. Published, October, 1903 _Dedicated to Florence Wickliffe_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. STEERING OF NEW YORK, 3 II. PINEY OF THE WOODS, 23 III. THE PROMISED LAND, 36 IV. FOR THE BENEFIT OF CARINGTON, 62 V. BOOM TIME IN THE TOWN THAT JACK BUILT, 73 VI. FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 95 VII. THE GARDEN OF DREAMS, 109 VIII. WHEN A GIRL FINDS HERSELF, 119 IX. GOOD-BYE! 137 X. WHO'S GOT THE TIGMORES? 153 XI. TALL THINGS, 170 XII. THE COLOSSUS OF CANAAN, 194 XIII. MISS SALLY MADEIRA'S SWEETHEART, 203 XIV. WHEN THE MEAL GAVE OUT, 222 XV. A MISTAKE SOMEWHERE, 242 XVI. MADEIRA'S PEACE, 251 XVII. JUST A BOY, 258 XVIII. A PRETTY PRECARIOUSNESS, 268 XIX. WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE, 274 SALLY OF MISSOURI PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE STORY Steering, of New York Old Bernique, of French St. Louis Piney, of the Woods Crittenton Madeira, of Canaan Sally, of Missouri _There are also some kind-hearted people:_ _Farmers, Housewives, Store-keepers, Miners, etc._ _Chapter One_ STEERING OF NEW YORK "Hoo-ee-ow-ohme!" It was half a sob, half a laugh, and, half sobbing, half laughing, the young man stopped his horse on the crest of the Tigmore Hills, in the Ozark Uplift, raised in his stirrups, and looked the country through and through, as though he must see into its very heart. In the brilliant mid-afternoon light the Southwest unrolled below him and around him in a ragged bigness and an unconquered loneliness. As far as eye could reach tumbled the knobs, the flats, the waste weedy places, the gullies, the rock-pitted sweeps of table-land and the timbered hills of the Uplift. The buffalo grass trembled across the lowlands in long, shaking billows that had all the effect of scared flight. From the base of the Tigmores a line of river bottom stretched westward, and beyond the bottom curved a pale, quiet river. In the distance wraiths of blue smoke falteringly bespoke the presence of people and cabins; on a cleared hill an object that might be horse or dog or man was silhouetted, small and vague; and in the farthest west the hoister of a deserted zinc mine cut up against the sky a little lonely way. The near and dominant things were constantly those tremulous, fleeing billows of grass, the straight strong trees, the sullen rocks, the silent, shivering water. "_Hoo-ee-ow!_" It was too vast, too urgent. Waiting, ready, it lay there aggressively, like a challenge. As the young man faced it, it claimed him, forcing back his past life, his old habits, his old haunts, into the realm of myth and moonshine. His old habits! His old haunts! They hung aloof in his consciousness, shadow pictures, colourless and remote.... That zestful young life at New Haven, the swift years of it, the fine last day of it, Yale honours upon him, his enthusiasms cutting away into the future, his big shoulders squared, his face set toward great things, the righting of wrongs, grand reforms, the careers of nations.... A bachelor hotel; a club whose windows looked out on the avenue; an office where Carington and he had pretended to work down on Nassau Street; drawing-rooms where Carington and he had pretended to be in love, on various streets; the whole gay, meaningless panorama of his life as a homeless, unplaced New York sojourner, who had considered that he had too much money to be anything seriously and too little money to do anything effectively.... Then another picture, jerking, mazy, a study in kinematics--"Crazy Monday" on the Street, Carington and he swept along in that day's whirlwind of speculation.... A blank in the panorama while he got used to things and thought things out.... Then a wintry twilight at the club, Carington and he by the window, talking it over, looking out upon the drifted light of the city, loving the city, in the way of New Yorkers. Then Carington's voice saying, "Bruce? Bruce, m' son? Why don't you try Missouri?" Saying it with that in his voice to indicate that there was nothing else left to try. Then the long thoughtful talk, Carington and he still by the window, while he showed Carington how little chance he had even in Missouri; then Carington's strong-hearted insistence that, in view of the agitation over the ore discoveries at Joplin, he go on "out there" and prospect; and then Carington's foolishly irrelevant heel-piece, "Miss Gossamer sails for Europe Saturday!" and the sudden appeal of the notion to go "out there," its sharp striking-in.... Carington and he taking counsel with some of the other fellows in his rooms later on, all the deep voices roaring at once, all the boys insulting him at once, belittling his cigars, saying sharp things about his pictures, that being their way of showing him that they were badly broken up over his leaving them; all their eyes shining interest in him and hope for him and even envy of him, as the young man who was "going out West," while the great soft fluff of smoke in the room made the past a dream and the present an illusion and the future a phantasm.... Then the long journey overland, the little impetus toward the new life flickering drearily, while he gripped up his heart for any fate, growing quieter and quieter, but more and more determined to take Missouri as she came.... Then Missouri herself, the stop at St. Louis, the dip into the State southwestward, toward the lead and zinc country and his own debatable land; good-bye to the railroad; by team, in company with other prospectors, through the sang hills, up and down stony ridges, along vast cattle ranges.... And now here, quite alone, twenty miles from the railroad, Missouri on all sides of him, close-timbered, rock-ribbed, gulch-broken, mortally lonely, billowing around him, over him, possessing him. That sense of being possessed by Missouri, committed to her, had grown upon him intolerably all day. All day he had been fighting it and resenting it. At various points along the rocky ridge road he had come upon hill cabins and hill people, and, facing them, his fight and his resentment had been momentarily vicious. "Gudday, stranger!" the people had called from the porches of the hill cabins, "Hikin' over the Ridge?" "Yes, friend," Steering had called back, and had then projected his unfailing, anxious question: "Can you tell me how far it is to Poetical?" At that the people from the porches had got up and come across the baked weeds of the cabin yard. Assembled at the stile-block in front of him, the people invariably lined up as a long, gaunt farmer, a thin, flat-chested woman, a troop of dusty children, and a yellow dog. "Yass, I cand tell you. It's six sights and a right smart chanst f'm here to Poetical, stranger," the long, gaunt farmer had invariably drawled, with more accommodation than information. "Six sights--six sights and a right what _what_?" "W'y," the Missourian had explained forbearingly, blinking toward the sun, and waving his loosely jointed arms westward, "it's this-a-way--you'll git sight of Poetical f'm six hills, an' whend you git to the bottom of the sixt' hill they's a right smart chanst you won't be to Poetical evum yit awhile. You cand see far in this air. It's some mild f'm here to Poetical, an' sharp ridin' at that." Each time that Steering had heard that, little varied in phraseology, save for the number of "sights," according to his progress, he had felt so dismal and looked so dismal that, each time, the native before him had added quickly, "Better git off an' spin' the night with us. Aint got much, but what we got's yourn." Each time the house beyond the stile-block had looked miserably uninviting,--a plough on the front porch, harness on the porch posts; all around the house the yard litter of cheap farm life, a broken-down harrow, broken-backed furniture, straw, corn-shucks, ghosts of past winters and past summers on the farm, that had shuffled out there and died there; each time the cleared patches beyond the house had looked lean; each time the native had been sallow and toil-worn; but each time that welcome word had been a finely perfect thing, good to hear. Steering had noticed that in declining each invitation he had suddenly stopped short in his inner fight and resentment and assumed his best manner, as though his finest and highest courtesy had responded instinctively to something in kind. Idling on for a more expansive moment at each cabin door, the conversation had usually shaped itself like this: "Two has already rid over the Ridge to-day--Old Bernique and the tramp-boy. Old Bernique he's on the trail ag'in. The tramp-boy he's kim along so far with Old Bernique." In saying this, or something very like it, the hill farmer who spoke had always seemed to want it definitely understood that the neighbourhood had its excitements, and seemed to argue that if the stranger knew anything he must know Old Bernique and the tramp-boy. Proceeding leisurely and reflectively, as though he had decided in his own mind how to classify the stranger, the farmer had generally added, "Lots of prospectors ride by nowadays. They head in to the relroad f'm here,--you know you aint a-goin' to ketch the relroad at Poetical?" "Yes, I know, but when I left my friends at Bessietown yesterday I was hoping I could make it all the way across country to Canaan before to-night." "Oh, you goin' on to Canaan?" "Yes, going on to Canaan." Each time the words had echoed through Steering's head with an old-time promise in a mocking refrain, "Going on to Canaan! Going on to Canaan!" Immediately the hill tribe had eyed him with renewed interest. "Going on to Canaan!" the farmer at their head had repeated, an impressive esteem in his treatment of the word Canaan. "Gre't taown, Canaan! You strike the relroad tha' all righty. Dog-oned ef th'aint abaout ev'thing tha'. Got the cote-haouse an' all, the relroad an' all--Miss Sally Madeira, Mist' Crit Madeira's daughter, _she_ lives tha'." It had gone like that every time. Not once in the last twenty miles had Steering exchanged a word with man or woman without this sort of reference to Canaan and, collaterally, to Miss Sally Madeira. Miss Sally, he had perceived early, excited in the hill-farm people a species of awe, as though she were on a par with the circus, thaumaturgic, almost too good to be true. "The court house, the railroad and Miss Sally!" he had finally learned to murmur, in order to meet the demands of the situation. "Yass, oh yass." The farmer had given his head a dogged twist, and looked as though he were cognisant of the fact that in certain essential particulars Canaan did not have to yield an inch of her title to equality with the biggest and best anywhere. "Yass, saouthwest Mizzourah's hard to beat in spots; th'aint no State in the Union quite like her. She's different," he had said, rocking on his heels, his chest lifting. "I think you must be right about that," Steering had answered, every time with profounder emphasis. Off here alone on the ridge road now, Missouri's unspeakable difference was coming over him in great submerging waves. Though he tried bravely to face the State and have it out with her, he couldn't do it. "Missouri," he said at last to himself, and to her confidentially, "I'd like to cry. I'd give five hundred plunkerinos if I might be allowed to cry." Then he flicked his riding-crop over his leg in a devilishly nonchalant way, and rode straight forward. The road went on interminably, its dust-white line, with the rocky ridge through the middle, dipping and rising and getting nowhere. The horse grew nervous and shied repeatedly from sheer loneliness. The road entered a wood. Deep in its leafy fastness wild steers heard the beat of the horse's hoofs, laid back their ears and galloped into safer depths, bellowing with alarm. Steering gave up, as helplessly homesick as a baby, his head dropped forward on his chest in a settled melancholy, from which he did not rouse until he had cleared the timber; and then only because he saw a horseman down the ridge road ahead of him. What instantly attracted Steering's attention was the man's back. It was a small but proud back. It had none of the hill stoop. It was erect, sinewy, soldierly. Steering was so lonely that he would have welcomed companionship with a chipmunk. The chance of companionship with a man who had an interesting back grew luminous. He urged his horse forward eagerly, almost hysterically glad of his opportunity. "Good-afternoon," he called, having recourse to his well-tried form of greeting. "Can you tell me how far it is to Poetical?" The man addressed half turned, disclosing a thin and delicate face to Steering. Then he reined his horse in gently. "Good-evening, sair. Is it that you inquire to Poetical? It is a vair' long five miles f'm here, sair." Steering rode up beside the man, more and more pleased, regarding and analysing. The man's hickory shirt, his warped boots, his blue jean trousers, his heavy buskins were mean and earth-stained, but inherent in the quality of his low, musical voice and courteous manner was an intangible suggestion of something different, some bigger and happier past, to which, go where he would and clothe himself as he might, voice and manner had remained true. "I wonder," said Steering, almost sighing, "if you will mind a little of my company. The road is terribly lonely, sir. The country is terribly lonely in fact." "Yes, sair, a tr-r-ue word that. It is lonely. But sair, what will you of this particulaire portion? It is vair' yong in the Tigmores. It cannot be populate' in a day, a year. You, sair, come from the East, hein? Sair, relativement, effort against effort, they have not done as much in the East in feefty years as we have done in the Southwest in twenty,--believe that, sair." It was that same feeling for the State, that quick, leaping passion of nativity that Steering had thus far found in every Missourian with whom he had come in contact. "You are a Missourian, I see," said Steering, to keep his companion talking along the line of this enlivening enthusiasm. "Indeed, sair, yes. From that Saint Louis--François Placide DeLassus Bernique, at your service." "Thank you. My name is Steering, from New York, if you please, but very deeply interested in Missouri just now, sir." From that on they made easy progress into acquaintance. Bernique proved talkative, full of anecdotes about Missouri's past, and full of belief in her future. In his rich loquacity he roamed the history of the State painstakingly for the edification of Steering, as one who stood at Missouri's gates, inquiring of her true inwardness. He told Missouri's history back to Spain and France, forward to unspeakable splendour. He was intelligent, naïve, unusual. Steering, responsive to the attraction that was by and by to hold them strongly together, listened delightedly. "Yessair,"--through Bernique's speech ran a reminiscence of his native tongue, faint, sweet, fleeting, like the thought of home,--"yessair, it is I know the fashion in the eastern States to considaire all the West as vair' yong countree, and it is tr-r-ue, sair, that you, par example, have come upon the most yong part of thees gr-r-eat State of Missouri, but it is to be remembaire that this Missouri is not all rocks and wood, uncultivate', standing toward the future, but that her story date back to a remoter period and a fuller and finer civilisation, in that day when France and Spain held sway over the province of Louisiana, than does the story of many of the eastern States who hold this countree new, raw, uncivilise'. I myself,"--continued the speaker, spreading out one slender hand with an exquisite grace,--"have gr-r-own up in this State of Missouri, at that St. Louis, with the most profound convincement, aftaire much travel and observation, that for elegance we have in that city the most to it belong people in the United States of America, yessair!" "Ah, well," admitted Steering, borne along rapidly on the vehement current of Bernique's ardour, "with your sort of spirit in the people of Missouri, whatever she was and whatever she is can be but a mighty promise of what she will become----" "Ah, there you have it, the note!" interrupted François Placide DeLassus Bernique eagerly, "What she will become! That is the gr-r-and thought, sair. I who say it have preserve' my belief in what she will become through the discouragement ter-r-ible. I who speak have prospec' this land from end to end. I know her largesse. Believe me, sair, the tr-r-easures that were sought by the Castilian knights of old through all thees parts are indeed to be found here,--not the white silvaire of Castilian dreams, but iron! Coppaire! Lead! Zinc!" "I suppose," ventured Steering, "that it would be foolish to hope for deposits in this part of the State similar to the deposits about Joplin, and all through the thirty-mile stretch?" "Pouf!" Old Bernique made one of his pretty gestures, but said nothing. "You have," went on Steering, "you have to the west here the Canaan Tigmores, Mr. Bernique?" "Eh? Yessair, the Canaan Tigmores," repeated old Bernique, looking out over the ridges of hills and the flats listlessly; so listlessly that, by one of those flashes of intuitive perception that light us far along waiting paths, Steering knew suddenly that he had to deal with a man whose experience had somehow crossed the Canaan Tigmores.--"And also, Mistaire Steering, we have to the far south the Boston Range, in Arkansas, and far to the west the Kiamichi, in the Territoree." "Yes, but about these Canaan Tigmores, Mr. Bernique," insisted Steering, not at all deflected by Bernique's effort, "what about your Canaan Tigmores, Mr. Bernique?" Steering's experience with the French Missourian had been too fragmentary for anything but conjecture to come of it, and his own plans were too immature and too heavily conditioned for him to project them directly, but he had a feeling that he should want to know Bernique better some fine day, and he was moved to get some sort of grip upon the old man's interest while the chance lasted. "The Canaan Tigmores are not as far away as the Boston Mountains, Mr. Bernique. Much nearer than the Kiamichi. What's your idea about the Canaan Tigmores--in relation to zinc, Mr. Bernique?" "Pouf!" The old man made airy rings of smoke from the cigar with which Steering had furnished him. He would not talk about the Canaan Tigmores at all. "You will see Mr. Crittenton Madeira in Canaan about all that," he said. "And now, sir, I have the regret to leave you. Our roads part at the sign-post yonder. I ride east." "Well, tell you what I wish!" cried Steering, with the pertinacity that was a part of him. "I am on my way to Mr. Crittenton Madeira now, and I wish you would come to me in Canaan some soon day and let me tell you the result of my business with him." Time was limited, for the horses were close to the cross-roads sign-post. "The Canaan Tigmores won't always belong to old Bruce Grierson, Mr. Bernique!" It was a random shot, but it told against Bernique's glumness. "Pouf! The bat-fool! The blind mole!" "The Canaan Tigmores are entailed, Mr. Bernique! The next owner may have eyes!" "God grant!" growled Old Bernique. "Grey eyes, eh, Mr. Bernique?" Steering flashed his own eyes smilingly at the French Missourian. The horses were at the sign-post. "Eh, what?" cried Old Bernique, "is it that----?" "We shall meet again, Mr. Bernique?" "I ride east for many a day, I think," said Bernique dubiously. "But you come back to Canaan?" "Ah, God in Heaven, yes!" cried the old man then, with a sudden fierce impetuosity, "I ride east, ride west, ride the wide world ovaire, but always I come back,--come back to Canaan." He stopped abruptly, as though afraid of himself, and faced Steering for a silent moment. Up to the silence, cleaving it gently, musically, there came unexpectedly the notes of a rollicking song: "_The taters grow an' grow, they grow!_" On the instant old Bernique's face relaxed pleasantly. He half grunted, half laughed. "The potato song!" he cried, his eyes gay, his mouth twitching. "Mistaire Steering, if you will ride on a little way you will have fine company. That is the tramp-boy yondaire. He is in the woods above the gulch there. He will have emerge' to the road presently. The yong scamp is musical, sair!" "Aye, hear that!" cried Steering appreciatively, "gloriously musical!" Out of the great green timber mounted the tenor notes, piercingly sweet, pure, true, like a bird-call: "_A tater's good 'ith 'lasses._" Bernique's horse was growing restless. The old man rode a little nearer Steering and regarded him searchingly. "Good-bye, sair," he said then, "it shall be what you say. I shall come back to you in Canaan." "Good-bye, Mr. Bernique. I'm glad to have you decide that way." Steering clung to his notion that he and Bernique were to know each other better. They shook hands under the cross-roads sign-post with understanding. The rain was coming on fast. All the east lay grey behind Steering, all the west grey before him as he moved away from the cross-roads. But out of the west rolled the melody of the carolling boy, the voice of one singing in the wilderness, young and undismayed. Under the cross-roads sign-post old Bernique sat his horse motionless for a time, looking after Steering. From Steering his eyes roamed afar toward the Canaan Tigmores. A little shiver caught him. "The man that was expect'," he mused, "the man that was expect'!" Then he, too, rode away. _Chapter Two_ PINEY OF THE WOODS Where the ridge road dropped down close to the pale river at a dip in the hills, Steering overtook the tramp-boy, hallooed to him, and watched him, as he turned his pony about and sat waitingly. He was a youth of sixteen or seventeen, and from under the peak of his felt hat, slouched and old, peered out a slim young gypsy face, crowned by a thick mop of black hair that tumbled about wide temples. Motionless there, the tremble of his song still on his lips and the gladness of youth and health on his face, the tramp-boy made Steering think of the rosy young shepherd Adonis, he was so glowing, so fine and fresh. "I have been right after you all the way from the cross-roads," explained Steering, by way of a beginning, riding up to the lad's side, "I have just parted from a friend of yours,--Mr. Bernique,--so you see we are almost friends ourselves." "A'most." The boy smiled, showing white teeth. He seemed to like Bruce's method of dealing with him. "Wuz Unc' Bernique cross because I didn't go rat back like I said I'd do?" he queried slily. "No, I think not. And for my part, I am glad you didn't, for I am hoping that if you are going toward Poetical you won't mind my company. You see, it's pretty dog-on lonely." A very little of the ridge road sufficed to make Bruce sick for comradeship, and his voice showed it. The boy turned an impressionable, sympathetic face. "Come rat along," he said. He looked at Bruce a moment questioningly before adding, "Reckin's haow you aint usen to the quiet yit. Taint so lonely, the woods an' the hills whend you know um." He twisted his head like a bird and looked out across the extensive sweep of the land and the long slow curve of the river, a deep inspiration swelling his chest. "Simlike they up an' talk to you, the woods an' the hills an' the quiet, whend you know um," he said. All on the instant Steering knew that, as in the case of Old Bernique, here again was character. "Character" seemed distinctly the richest and the pleasantest thing in Missouri. He rode in a little closer to his companion, drawn to him irresistibly, recognising in him the sweet, untutored poetry of a wildwood nature, whose young timidity was trembling and steadying into the placating, magnetic assurance of a boy, fresh-hearted as a berry. Steering had encountered the same sort of poetry in other unspoiled boys, splendid child-men whom he had known in other walks of life, and he had a quick affection for it. It was always as though on its crystal clearness a man might see the white sails of his own youth set back toward him. "Yes," he answered, "I think you are right about that. They do talk, the hills and the woods and the quiet,--only a fellow grows dull, gets his ears full of electric gongs and push-bells, and forgets to listen." The boy looked up with quick-witted question. "Y'aint f'm this part of the kentry, air you?" he asked. "No. I am from--well, from Bessietown last. Where are you from?" The boy laughed and glanced gaily at his briar-torn clothes. "F'm the woods," he said. "My name is Bruce Steering." "Mine's Piney." They fell then to talking of many things, as they rode toward Poetical, but inevitably they spoke chiefly of the great State of Missouri. On the subject of Missouri the boy talked, as old Bernique had talked, with expansive naïveté. In his roamings he had ridden the State up and down, and had found much to love in it. "You'll like her, too, all righty," he told Bruce confidently, "whend you git broke to her." On one of youth's candid impulses to speak up for the life on the inside, the cherished desire, the gallant ideal, the buoyant fancy, he made a supple, sudden divergence in the conversation. "D'you know," he said, "they aint _no_ place whur I'd drur be than Mizzourah ceppen only one." "Where's that?" asked Bruce, and to his immense astonishment the boy answered quickly: "Italy." "Why, how does that happen, Piney? Ever been there?" "Nope. Hearn Unc' Bernique tell abaout it, thass all. It 'ud suit me, though. I know that." His eyes grew dreamy and he seemed to be looking far beyond Missouri. One could almost see the fine, illusory spell of the far Latin land upon him, the spiritual bond, the pull of temperament that made the hill boy at one with Italy, blest of poetry. "I d'n know huccome I want to go so bad," he went on with a deep breath, "wouldn' turn araoun' th'ee times on my heels to go anywhur else, but I shoo do want to go to Italy." "Were your people Italians, Piney?" "Nope. Kim f'm S'loois. But still, I got that feelin' abaout Italy. Simlike I'd be--oh, sorta at home tha'. Had that same feelin' ev' since Unc' Bernique begand to tell me abaout Italy. I'm a-goin' tha', tew, some day, all righty," he concluded at last, waking up from his little dream slowly. "Goin' to be long over to Poetical, Mist' Steerin'?" he diverged again, with his lively mental agility. "No, son. From Poetical I am going on to"--Bruce stopped to gather strength to project the word with the large and cadenced inflection he had enjoyed in the hill farm people,--"going on to Canaan!" "Gre't gosh!" said the boy, and something in the way he said it made Bruce look at him quickly. Piney's brows were lifted and his lips were pulled back. He seemed to try to be as much impressed as Bruce expected him to be. To Steering this sort of comradeship was growing golden. "Well, now," he said, playing with the little joy of being understood, "haven't they the court-house at Canaan? And the railroad? And haven't they Miss Betsy,--or Miss--Miss----" "Sally." "Ah, yes, Sally! Know Sally, son?" "Ev'body in the Tigmores knows her." "I am beginning to want to know Sally myself." Bruce let his eyes go drowsing toward the pale river up which the slow rain was beating, and talked foolishness idly: "Red-cheeked Sally! Freckled Sally! Roly-poly Sally! What's a Missouri girl like anyway, Piney?" "Wy, people think she's purty," protested the boy with a quick palpitant shyness, "an' most people l----," he stopped trying to talk, laughing brusquely and flushing with a very young man's self-consciousness. "All of which goes to prove me an ass," cried Bruce, "for talking about a lady whom I have never seen." Looking repentantly at Piney, he felt a sudden ache for him. He was not very familiar with conditions in Canaan, but it occurred to him suddenly that even in Canaan there might be social gradations, and that the tramp-boy, rare little chap though he seemed to be, was probably miles away from the daughter of the promoter, Mr. Crittenton Madeira. "I retract, Piney," he added gravely. "Aw!--not as I keer whut you say abaout her,--or whut anybody says." Piney slashed at some brilliant sumach by the wayside and his mobile lips jerked and quivered. "I should have supposed that she was older--well, than you," said Bruce, trying to set himself right. "May be in what she knows,--aint in what she feels,--not as I keer----" The boy was so deliciously new to his own emotions that they flashed away beyond his control, minute by minute. His eyes looked misty, with a little spark of high light cutting bravely through. He would not finish his sentence. "Did Unc' Bernique say whend he's comin' back to Canaan?" he asked moodily. "No, he didn't, though I urged him to. That's a fine old man, Piney." Piney's eyes softened beautifully. "Takes mighty good keer of me," he said. "Is he kin to you?" "I d'n know abaout that. He's took my side always. Y'see, I aint got no people an' I just ride araoun'. Y'see,"--Piney quivered with boyish fire,--"I just _got_ to ride araoun'. I cayn't stay on no farm an' in no haouse. Kills me. I got to git to the woods an' the hills. An' Unc' Bernique he stands by me, an' keeps me in his shack whend they's any trouble abaout it. Y'see, some people think I oughter--oughter work!" Piney laughed from the gay, melodious depths of his vagabond heart and Bruce laughed with him. "An' Unc' Bernique has he'ped me abaout that," explained the tramp-boy. He let his dancing eyes dart off to the west where the hills were shouldering into a thickening drift of grey. "Hi, look yonder!" he cried. "We got to cut and run to git to Poetical before that rain." So they cut and ran, the boy setting the pace and singing lustily, with that high melody of voice, as of temperament, of his, as they dashed down the road in the first cool scattering pelt of the rain. "Want to go to the _ho_tel, don't you?" he called over his shoulder, and Bruce called yes. It was grey, rainy twilight now, and through the gloom five or six houses sprawled out across the little plateau toward which the road twisted. Some geese flew up under the feet of the horses, squawking wildly, some "razor-back" hogs grunted from the dust-wallows, some cow-bells tinkled, some small yellow spheres of light shone through windows. "How far from Poetical, Piney?" shouted Steering. "'Baout a foot," answered Piney. He made his lightning-like pony go more slowly so that Bruce's horse might come alongside, and he shook his head, his ready sympathy again on his face. "Say, it's goin' to be kinder tough on you to stay here to-night, aint it? This is ev' spittin' bit there is tew Poetical. Here's the _ho_tel." They drew rein before a rickety two-story frame building and Bruce lifted his shoulders shudderingly. A man came out on the hotel porch, said "Howdy," and waited. "Say,"--Piney in a lower tone, voiced a notion that evidently drifted in to him on the high tide of his sympathy,--"why don't you ride over to Mist' Crit Madeira's? Taint so far. I'll show you the way. They cand take care of you over tha'. They'd be glad to have you. You cand caount on that. It's that-a-way in Mizzourah." The boy's conscientious earnestness was sweet. He was in good spirits again and he whisked one roughly-booted foot out of its stirrup and laid it across his saddle-horn, while he regarded Bruce. "You cand git ter see Miss Sally ef you do that," he added, pursing up his lips, a subtle sense of humour on his face. "You cand see what Mizzourah girls are like." "Now come, Piney, you know I've been thinking everything beautiful about Miss Sally since I found out--something----" "Aw! Tisn't no such thing. She jes likes to hear me sing. _You're crazy!_" The tramp-boy's young voice had its fashion of breaking and shrilling into a high soprano, like a girl's, for emphasis; he was as red as a beet, and he put his foot back in the stirrup, thrust out his under jaw and looked at the stirrup as though he had to determine how much wood had gone into its making. Again Bruce was conscious of a little ache for the boy. "But you go on over tha'," insisted Piney. "No! Thank you for trying to look out for me, son, but I shouldn't like to do that. Oh, I can stand this all right," cried Bruce, with a flare of big bravery and, turning to face the hotel, was seized by his loneliness so violently that he shuddered again. "Here Piney!" he cried on a sudden inspiration, "why won't you come in and stay with me? Huh? How would that suit you? We can talk and smoke." "Naw," Piney extended his hand and shook his head, as though to push the hotel out of the range of possibilities for him, "I couldn't. Much oblige'. But I cayn't sleep in haouses. Got to git back to the shack in the woods. Wisht you'd go on over to Madeira's." "No. I'll buck it out here alone," lamented Bruce. He hated to lose Piney and take up the gloomy, rainy evening alone on this little, high, remote place in the Missouri hills. "See you again some day, then," Piney promised in final farewell. "I'm up an' daown the Ridge rat frequent, I'll run 'crosst you." "Well now, I should hope so," cried Bruce cordially. "Don't you ever come to Canaan?" "Nope. Hate a taown! But me an' Unc' Bernique will strike you sometime, somewheres along the trail. S'long!" "So long, Piney, so long!" The boy turned his pony to the hills. The man on the porch came on out to take charge of Bruce and Bruce's horse. Black night settled down. Through the darkness cut the sound of the squawking geese, the tinkling cow-bells, the grunting hogs. Lonely, lonely Missouri! Bruce went inside, to sit in a little room upstairs, with his chin in his hand, his eyes staring through the window, his thoughts roaming after Carington, the office on Nassau Street, a girl who was a dainty fluff of lace and silk. In his ears rang the sound of Carington's voice: "Why don't you try Missouri,--Miss Gossamer sails,--Why don't you try Missouri,--Miss Gossamer sails--" a faint, recedent measure, and intermingling with it the sound of a boy's voice singing gaily on the misty hills: "_A tater's good 'ith 'lasses._" Steering leaned far out of the window, eager for the lad's music. It was so sweet. _Chapter Three_ THE PROMISED LAND From the remotest beginning of things for the Southwest, Canaan had been a "gre't taown." From the beginning she had been the county seat, and from the beginning there had poured through her one long street, with its two or three short tributaries, the whole volume of business of Tigmore County; the strawberries, the chickens, the ginseng. Almost from the beginning, too, she had had the newspaper and the hotel and some talk about a bank. Canaanites held their heads high. So high that when it began to be rumoured that the railroad was showing a disposition to curve down toward Tigmore County, the Canaanites, unable to see past their noses, appointed a committee to go up to Jefferson City to protest to the Legislature against the proposed innovation. The committee contended to the Legislature that the railroad would cut off trade by starting up rival towns. It also contended that ox-teams had been used for many years and were reliable, rain or shine, whereas in wet weather the railroad tracks would get slick and be impracticable. Moreover, and moreunder, there was no danger of an ox-team blowin' up and bustin' and killin' somebody. The railroad was melted to acquiescence by the appeal, and went its way some ten miles west of Canaan. Towns sprang into being along the line of the serpent's coil. Canaan said all right, but wait till the spring rains come. The rains came, the trains went by over the slick tracks gracefully. Canaan said all right, but wait till something busts. Time passed, nothing busted. The County was careening westward. There was no stopping it. Canaan kept her head high, but her heart grew as cold as ice. Then the paper up at the new railroad station of Shaleville crudely referred to Canaan as "that benighted hamlet." It was too much. When Crittenton Madeira reached Canaan from St. Louis, the first thing that he proposed for the city of his adoption was the Canaan Short Line, and, coming at the opportune moment, the consummation of that proposition placed Madeira at the head of Canaan's municipal life for the rest of his days. In a very short time after he came to Canaan, Canaan not only had a railroad, but her own railroad. Reassured, bland, she caught step with progress, by and by saw that she was progress, and settled back into her old superiority. Her trade prospered anew, the cotton came to her depot, she got accustomed to the noise of her two trains daily, and had lived through many contented years when the twentieth of September of 1899 opened up like a rose, fair, fragrance-laden, warm, around her. Out on the face of the day there was nothing to suggest change or crisis, nothing to be afraid of, nothing to be hopeful for, a day like yesterday, like to-morrow, a golden link in a golden monotony. At Court House Square, a few farm-teams, strapping mules and big Studebakers, stood at the hitching rail. A few people came and went up and down and across the Square. Occasionally a mean-natured man said "huh-y!" to a cow or "soo-y!" to a hog in the middle of Main Street. Some coatless clerks, with great elbow-deep sleeve protectors on their arms and large lumps of cravats at their throats, lounged in store doors. The most conspicuous, as the most institutional, feature of the landscape was the group idling on boxes in front of the old Grange store--just as they had idled on boxes before the war. They were the same men, it was the same store, and it was not inconceivable that they were the same boxes. As the men idled they spat, somewhat to the menace of the passers-by, though in defence of this avocation it may be argued that any truly agile person, by watching carefully and seizing opportunity unhesitatingly, could get by undefiled. Sometimes a vehicle rolled into the street toward the Square, and when this happened it was amusement to the men to say whose vehicle without looking up--jack-knives, watch-fobs, and other valuables occasionally changing hands on an erring guess between the slow, solemn trot of Mr. Azariah's Pringle's Bess and the duck-like waddling of Mrs. Molly Jenkins' Tom, or between the swinging canter of Miss Sally Madeira's Kentucky blacks and the running walk of the small-hoofed Texas ponies from We-all Prairie. Once a great waggon, piled high with cotton, creaked by; once a burnt-skinned boy, hard as a nut, shrieking with an irrepressible sense of being alive, loped past on a mustang. Once a small, old man, in mean clothes and with a fine bearing, crossed the Square, cracking his whip nervously, his spur clicking on his boot as he walked. Once a large florid man and a tall girl came down the street and entered the door of a two-story brick building next the Grange. The man had an expansive, blustering way. The girl looked as though she were accustomed to admire the man and to badger him; her face was turned up to his adoringly, while her fun-hunting eyes, just sheathed under her lids, gleamed gaily. The building had a plate-glass window across the front of it, and on the window, in gold letters bordered in black, two legends were flung to the public: BANK OF CANAAN CRITTENTON MADEIRA When the man and the girl had gone into the Bank of Canaan, the group at the Grange stopped gambling on the incoming teams and talked less drowsily. "Looks like that girl gets purdier and purdier." "Mighty pleasant ways she keeps. Never gone back on her raisin'. Never got too good for Mizzourah." "As far as I go, I like her ways better'n her pappy's ways." "Crit _is_ a little toploftical." "They mighty fond of each other, though. Seems like she's not in a hurry to marry and leave her pappy." "Wall naow, I shouldn't be s'prised ef Miss Sally never did git married, talkin' abaout marryin'. 'Twould not s'prise me a-tall, 'twouldn't." Mr. Quin Beasley was talking. Mr. Beasley was the keeper of the Grange store and admittedly a man of fine conversational powers. His jaws worked on and he seemed able to get nutriment out of his ruminations long after a cow would have gone back to grass hungrily. "Aint sayin' I never am s'prised, becuz am, but do say that that wouldn't s'prise me, an' no more would it." Mr. Beasley brought his jaws in from their loose meanderings just as the clatter of a horse's hoofs became audible down the side street that, a little way along, became the road to Poetical. "Name the comer, Beasley. Up to the sugar-tree about now. Name-er, name-er!" The challenger took from his pocket a huge horn knife, covered it with his hand and shook it in the face of Mr. Beasley, who responsively got his hand into his pocket and drew forth a knife, which he held covered after the manner of his opponent. "Unsight, unseen," said Mr. Beasley. "It's Price Mason's pony." The challenger chuckled deprecatingly over the carelessness of judgment evinced: "Price Mason's pony comes down with a hippety-hop," he remarked pityingly--"lemme listen--it's--no, taint, aint favorin' his right front foot--it's--wy!" the challenger suddenly twisted his head to one side and held it there like a lean-crawed chicken deciding where to peck. Simultaneously the other men glanced down the side street where it came into the Square, and when someone said, or whistled, "Wy, who the h-e-double-l _is_ it?" everybody was waiting for an answer. They had not long to wait. The horseman in question galloped straight toward the group and drew rein in front of them only a few minutes later. He was a big fellow, broad and lithe of shoulder and chest, and young and alert of face. "Gentlemen," he called from his horse's back, "I want to find Mr. Crittenton Madeira. Ah!" he laughed, a deep, rich note, as he saw the gold and black sign, "gentlemen, I have found Mr. Madeira!" He leaped from his horse and began to tether him to a staple, set in the pavement in front of the Grange. "Yes," replied a member of the Grange group, all of whom rose sociably, "Crit and Miss Sally,"--the young man laughed again, softly, as though he could not help it,--"Crit and Miss Sally jes went into the bank; I don't reckin they've come out again." "Miss Sally's come out again," interposed another Granger, "because I seen her." "It's the father that I want to see," said the horseman, with smiling emphasis, "not the daughter, not Miss Sally." He passed through the bank door, still smiling, and the Grange group looked at each other, rife with speculation on the instant. "Hadn't-a said not, I'd-a said it wuz Miss Sally he wanted to see. Looks to me like he might be one of her beaux. Wears sumpin the same clothes." "Looked like a Yank to me." "Uh-huh, betchew he lets his biscuits cool before he butters 'em." "Haven't heard Crit say he was looking for a stranger." "Reckon if you keep up with Crit's business, my friend, you'll have to walk faster." While the Grangers were wondering, supposing, reckoning, the man who probably let his biscuits cool before he buttered them entered the Bank of Canaan. When the cage for the clerical force had been put into the Bank of Canaan, there was not a great deal of the bank left, so the man stopped where he thought he was least apt to be scraped, in the little space in front of the Force's window. The Force put his pen behind his ear, and, without waiting for inquiry or request, called off to the rear of the room. "Mist' Madeira! He's here! Can he come on in? If you'll go right down there"--went on the Force,--"to that door in front of you, you can go through it." The thing seemed feasible, as the door was half open, so the visitor attempted it. As he reached the door, however, his way was temporarily blocked by a big red-faced man who held out both hands to him and took possession of him with violent cordiality. "God bless my soul! Howdy, howdy, howdy!" cried the big man. "Been looking for you for a week. Only last night I told Sally that I wasn't going to look for you any longer. Just eternally gave you up. How in the Sam Hill have you taken so long to get here? Come on in and have a seat." As he talked, the Missourian led his guest inside a small private office, handed him to a chair and stood up before him, big, colossal, dominating the younger man, or at least meaning to. "I am very rapidly concluding that you are Mr. Madeira, and that you know that I am Steering," smiled the visitor, sinking into a chair adaptably, though he realised that, for two men who had never seen each other before, the meeting had been unusual. He also realised that, off somewhere in the sphere of imponderable influences, the effect when his hand clasped the big man's hand had been exactly that of the clashing of two swords. "Oh, God love you, there's no black magic about my knowing you for Steering--only stranger that's been expected in Canaan for six weeks!" cried Madeira, "and as for your guessing that I'm Madeira, you don't deserve a bit of credit for it. My sign's out." His manner conveyed that his sign was quite as much his personality as the black and gold letters on the window. "Yes, I'm Madeira, and you are Steering, and we both might as well own up to it. And now what's kept you so long on the road? How'd you manage to put in a whole week between here and Springfield?" Madeira seated himself in a swivel chair in front of his desk and eyed his visitor with that aggressive geniality, that tremendous sense of himself, warm and vivid in his face and manner. And, as in the moment when he had faced Missouri from the top of the Tigmore Hills, Steering had a feeling that he was being claimed, absorbed. "Why, the explanation is of the simplest. At the very last minute, there at Springfield, too late to get a word of advice out to you, I fell in with some fellows who were going to ride across country toward the Canaan Tigmores, and I joined them. They gave out at Bessietown, but I've come every foot of the way over the Ridge on horseback, and alone at that. I wanted to see Missouri, get acquainted with the home of my ancestors, at close range, as it were." Madeira chuckled. "God bless you, you certainly went in at the back door to do it," he said. Madeira's God-bless-you's and God-love-you's were valuable crutches to his conversation. With them and his bluster he seemed able to cover a great deal of ground. "And then I didn't hurry," went on Steering, "because I thought, from what you wrote me, that it would, without doubt, be some weeks before that amiable relative of mine could be dragged around to any real attention to our projects." "Ah, but that's where you missed out!" cried Madeira, a great ring of triumph in his voice. He crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and pushed out his chest. "That's where you didn't know C. Madeira. Young man, I've been hammering at Bruce Grierson night and day ever since I got you interested in this scheme,"--Steering looked at Madeira with a little quick motion of inquiry, but Madeira's arrangement of subject and object was evidently advised; Madeira showed that it was by repeating, "ever since _I_ got _you_ interested, I've been trying to get Grierson interested. We couldn't move hand or foot without him, you know that. The land is his, you know, even though you are the heir apparent, and there was no use trying to do anything with the land without him. I had got you into it without much trouble,"--Madeira paused just long enough to take the cigar that Steering offered him. (Steering could always see better through smoke.) "Yes, I had got you!" cried Madeira, biting off the end of the cigar with a sharp snap of his teeth, "and having got you, the next thing was to get Grierson. Well, I got him, got him since you left New York." He chuckled his spill-over chuckle again, swung around to his desk and took from one of its pigeon-holes an envelope addressed to him in a deep-gouging hand. The expression of geniality lingered about the wings of his nose and the corners of his mouth, as though it had been moulded there by long habit, but his eyes narrowed and the play of light from them was by now like the whisk of a sharp knife through the air. "You know I chased that old fellow all over Colorado with my letters about my scheme to open up the Tigmores, until I got him mad," he said, holding the letter up to say it, as though the contents would be illumined by his saying it. Then he handed it to Steering, who took it from its cover, flapped it open, and read: "DEAR CRIT: "Use this power of attorney to open up hell if you want to, but don't you write to me. "Your obedient servant, "B. GRIERSON." It was the sort of letter to make a man laugh, and Steering laughed. Then the phrase "open up hell" caught his eye again, like a sign of sinister warning. "I've never been able to understand," he began with a questioning inflection in his voice, "what's the trouble with the scion of the house of Grierson. Why is he so indifferent to a project for the development of his property that may mean a million to him?" "Aw, you know he's cracked!" replied Madeira quickly and harshly. "No, I don't know him at all, you will remember. Never saw him, never had a line from him." "Well, he's cracked. He fooled around here in the Tigmores for twenty years hunting silver, God bless you! Spent everything he had riding that hobby, then got another hunch, for zinc this time, borrowed money, sank it, borrowed more, sank that, then got a feeling that he was abused and went away from here declaring that the Canaan Tigmores could slide into the Di before he would ever raise a finger to stop them. That's why he wouldn't write you. I've handled his affairs--what's left of them--for years, and I've had enough trouble handling them, let me tell you." He took the letter from Steering and replaced it in the pigeon-hole. "But I've got him settled now," he said, "and we can go right on--oh! for the matter of going on, things are pretty far on already." He began rummaging through his desk in other pigeon-holes. "I'll just show you what I've drawn up." Steering found himself unable to keep up with Madeira. He took his cigar from his mouth, conscious of a sensation that he was being jerked along by the hair. He tried to get the best of the sensation by leaning back comfortably in his chair and observing Madeira leisurely. He tried to feel that he was following Madeira voluntarily, that he didn't have to if he didn't want to. When he had quitted New York he had been sustained by an idea that he had, in his correspondence, put before Madeira a plan that had some merit and promise in it, in the way that it got around the terms of a will, under which he was heir apparent to a vast acreage of land whose title now rested in another man, his relative. He and Carington had worked the thing over conscientiously, and, there in New York, they had taken some pride in the thought that they had hacked out a good base for the operations of a potential Steering-Grierson Mining and Development Company. Here, in Missouri, in Madeira's office, before the on-roll of Madeira's manner, Steering was no longer sure that he and Carington had had anything to do with the case. "Here's my prospectus," Madeira was saying, his voice ringing triumphantly again, "and here are the articles. God bless you, we are right up to the point where we can effect the organisation and issue the first one hundred thousand shares of stock. There are some Tigmore County men that I want you to meet, some fellows who can be used to fill out the directorate, and, first thing you know, we'll be filing an application for a charter, my boy." "Just so," said Steering absently. He had the papers in his hand, and was running them over. Both men were pulling at their cigars with strong puffs, and the room was so vaporous with smoke that Steering was beginning to see very clearly indeed, as he went through the papers. They were couched in good, clear English, the succinct English that Carington used, with admirable changes here and there, which brought out Carington's points still more clearly. "I am familiar with these," said Steering, looking up presently. "You seem to have let it stand about as we drafted it in the New York office. What changes you have made I like." "Oh, God bless you! you can rely upon liking the things of this kind that I do." Madeira's assumption was comprehensive and bland. There was absolutely no sense in going against that manner of his at this stage of developments. Steering began to ask questions and to wait. "Now, according to what we set forth here,"--Steering tapped the paper,--"the object and purpose of our corporation will be the mining of zinc and lead ore in the Canaan Tigmores. We are projecting upon the hypothesis that there is ore in the Tigmores, but we can't go too far upon hypothesis. There in New York it seemed worth while to take up the idea that, as there was ore all around through southwestern Missouri, there might be ore in the Canaan Tigmores. Then, being equipped for theorising only, Carington and I passed easily into the consideration of the possibilities _if_ there were ore in the Canaan Tigmores. You say that we are ready to organise, but it looks to me just now as though before we organise it might be in order to solidify hypothesis into fact. I don't think organisation is the next step at all; the next step, according to my notion, is to get off paper into the ground. Question now is, _is_ there any ore in the Canaan Tigmores?" "Question now is," interrupted Madeira baldly, "are there enough fools in the United States to donate us a fortune while we are finding out whether there is or isn't ore in the Canaan Tigmores? Oh, God bless you, my boy, you must bear in mind that gold isn't the only thing that can be minted! You can mint a man's thirst for gold, if you are up to it. The Southwest is zinc crazy right now. The time is as ripe as a nut----" "Well, one minute--what's your private opinion about the chance for ore in the Canaan Tigmores, Mr. Madeira?" "I d'n know a thing about it. And God bless you, I don't care a thing about it. I know that old Bruce Grierson butted his brains out on the Tigmore rocks, on the jack-trail, for twenty years, and I know, that all over the country,--not here in Tigmore County, but farther southwest,--men are drilling into rock that looks rich, and cuts blind, quick enough to ruin them; and I know that we are not going into this thing to lose money, but to make it, coming and going; I know that we've got to stand to win, coming and going. That's business." Face to face with this sort of frank self-commitment to "business," Steering was impressed into silence, and Madeira took advantage of the silence to push on in the big way he had that was like the broad-paddling, tooting vehemence of a river steamer. "I'm for getting a drill into the hills right away, just as much as ever you can be, my boy, understand. It will look better. We'll do it. But Lord love you, we won't hold back the organisation for that. Just leave these things to me. I've got a programme arranged here that will suit you, I think. First thing is to take you around and let you see that document in the recorder's office,--I believe you said you wanted to read the Bruce Peele will,--then you can come out and have dinner with Sally and me. I've got a nice place three miles out, and I've got a daughter that is not to be beat, in New York or out of it. Then this evening we'll get together some of the fellows that I handle around here, and take up some of the preliminary business." Madeira had risen, preparatory to conducting Steering to the recorder's office in accord with the first number of his programme, and Steering got up, too. While Madeira shut up his desk, Steering threw away the stump of his cigar and brought his flexed arms back to his shoulders with an expansive pull on his chest that sent a big influx of air into his lungs. After his séance with Madeira he felt as though he had been pummelled down flat. Madeira had to open his desk again for something he had forgotten and Steering passed on to the door, impatient for some outside air. As he opened the door, with his eyes rather thoughtfully fixed upon the floor, he saw, peeping around the curve where the Force's cage elbowed its way out into the room, a foot. Being a slender foot, in a well-fitting walking boot, it held him an unconscionably long time, then drew him on mandatorily, up the little space between the Force's cage and the wall, until he had rounded the curve and had come out by the Force's window, where a bare-headed girl leaned, talking merrily, gouging a hat-pin into the hat that she had taken off. "Oh, it's Mr. Steering,--isn't it?" she asked at once, and put her hand out to him. "I heard Father say that he was expecting you. And then, too, a friend of yours, who seemed much concerned about your fate over at Poetical, rode to our house last night and made me promise to welcome you to Canaan. I am Sally Madeira." "Hi, Pet, you there?" Madeira's big voice came through the door of the private office and took possession of the minute and the girl--"entertain the New Yorker until I get through here, will you? I got to monkey with this blasted lock again." "Yes, Father, I'm entertaining him," Madeira's daughter called back, while Bruce held helplessly to the hand she had given him. A peculiar mistiness had come over his senses. He could have sworn that through it he saw a picture that had been with him a good deal during the past year of his life, a picture of a woman's flower face, her fluffiness,--as of silk and lace,--lose colour, outline, significance, like a daguerreotype in the sunlight. A swift joy that he was in Canaan possessed him. All he could say was, "So you are Miss Sally?" It sounded very dull, so dull that he hastened to add, "So you know Piney?--Awfully kind of Piney to attract your attention to me." Remembering with horror some of his conversation with Piney about Miss Madeira, he repeated solemnly, "Awfully kind." "Well, I think you can give the little vagabond credit for a kind heart." Miss Madeira laughed softly. "I give him credit for much more than that," said Bruce. He was envying Piney, seeing that the tramp-boy's intuitive appreciations matched his vigorous young beauty, that he was far more poet than vagabond, that he, Bruce, had attempted to play clownishly upon what was a worthy and lovely idyl in the boy's heart. As though she, too, had some faint, perturbing consciousness of Piney, the girl flushed a little, laughed a little, and turned the subject readily. "I know yet another friend of yours," said she. "I am glad of that." Bruce had released her hand, forgotten the business that had brought him to Missouri, forgotten Crittenton Madeira, and stood with his arms folded, looking down upon her, glad that she was so tall, glad that he was taller, glad about everything. "Yes, another friend," she nodded with fleeting meaning, "I was at Vassar with Elsie Gossamer." Face to face with a woman like Sally Madeira the thought of a woman like Miss Gossamer must necessarily stay hazy in a man's brain. As with another Romeo, Rosaline had but laid the velvet up which came the surer feet of Juliet. "Well," said Steering happily, "all this is going to make us acquainted, isn't it?" "It may, if you like." She had a splendid comradeship of manner. Her father's energy stopped short of bluster in her. Borne up on her breezy westernism was a fragrant reserve, a fine reticence that disengaged a tantalising promise. "Oh, I'll like!" cried Bruce with conviction. "Do you live in Canaan?" "Out at Madeira Place. Father said you were to come out to dine with us to-day. I hope you will." "He will, he will! Trust me for that!" Madeira came through the space between the wall and the Force's cage noisily. For the first time that morning Steering felt no repugnance to that disposition of Madeira's to take charge of him, and he went off with Madeira, a moment later, across Court House Square to the recorder's office, with tread elastic and eyes sparkling. When the two men had left her, the girl moved over to the plate-glass window and watched Steering, a little smile on her lips, an adequate enjoyment of his undoing dancing mercilessly in her long amber-hued eyes. Steering stopped behind Madeira at the door of the recorder's office and, looking back at the plate-glass window unexpectedly, saw the girl's eyes fixed demurely on the floor where her boot showed under the hem of her long straight gown. It was a very little moment that they stood thus, he with his eyes on her, she with her eyes on her boot, but it was an electric moment. With him it was a cycle of self-abuse for the unadvised rot that he had talked to Piney, an era of gratitude to Piney for being the sort who would not report any of it to Miss Madeira. (Even so little did Steering understand that a boy like Piney would necessarily have to tell a woman like Miss Madeira about all that he knew; tell it exuberantly, bubblingly, without ever being quite conscious that he was telling anything.) Steering followed Madeira inside the recorder's office slowly, and the girl went on standing at the plate-glass window, studying her foot. "Yes, indeed, sir," she began calling to him soundlessly, and broke off abruptly and stood there at the window for a time, motionless and thoughtful. She was a tall girl, of a broad-shouldered, athletic type, a college girl by the sign of the austere cut of her gown, but a western girl by the sign of the flying ends of the scarf about her throat, the unafraid looseness of her bright hair. Her face, lit by her amber eyes and crowned by those loose masses of hair, had a rare, dusky-gold beauty. Despite her hair she was dark-skinned, smooth and warm like bisque, and that same gold-dusted radiance that was in her hair and that same amber-gold light that was in her eyes glowed ineffably from beneath her skin. She was a pulse of light, colourful and vibrant. "Yes, indeed, sir," she resumed after a while, jabbing the hat-pin into the hat relentlessly, "_this_ is what a Missouri girl is like!" _Chapter Four_ FOR THE BENEFIT OF CARINGTON My dear Carry: I should have written you sooner, save that the developments here have given me so little that is pleasant to write about. My experience with Grierson's agent has been too exasperating for description, and I should have given up and have got out at once had it not been for the Missouri in me, and had I not got a feeling of encouragement from other experiences. To begin with: When I reached Missouri, I lit out for the southwestern part of the State by train. At Springfield I fell in with some English fellows who are over at Joplin in the interests of a Welsh company. They had an expedition all planned to take in some of the Southwest by team on their way back to Joplin, and as they were going to push down pretty close to my objective point, I joined the expedition. There was a great deal of enthusiasm among us about zinc,--jack they call it down here,--and the talk at first was all of the stupidity of Missourians in not getting at this part of their State, as well as the section about Joplin, in the search for ore. I noticed that as we got into the rough-going of the ridge roads, and the hills got steeper and the woods denser and the rocks thicker, the opinion seemed to grow upon us that Missourians might understand their country better than we did. We had a driver who knew the roads well, when he could find them. We had a geological expert who got sadder and sadder every time we spilled out of the waggons and speared around in the rocks for a little while. And we had a great deal of bacon. Still, when we reached Bessietown, where we struck the steam-cars, the Joplin crowd broke for the train on a run. From Bessie there was a straight trail over the Ridge to Canaan and I decided to make the trip on horseback. I had got stubborn. Well, by and by, and more and more full of bacon, I was at Canaan, and had found Crittenton Madeira, that agent with whom we had the correspondence. I walked in upon Madeira with a pretty little notion that you and I had had something to do with the projection of a plan for developing and mining the Tigmores; I could have sworn that we originated the idea of hypothecating my heirship to the Canaan Tigmores; I remembered that in New York the fact that I would inherit from Grierson seemed to make my association with any enterprise for the development of the Tigmores of vital importance. I had not forgotten that that was our argument, and I was nursing a feeling that I was fairly necessary to any permanency of operations in the Tigmores. I am all straightened out on that score now, thanks to Madeira. The situation that I find here is this: Madeira has calmly taken over our ideas, and his plans of organisation are about complete. He is qualified to act for Grierson absolutely. The company that he will organise is to be known as The Canaan Mining and Development Company. He appreciates stingily that it may be some advantage to have me associated with the company, for the purpose of imparting a feeling of confidence to investors, but he does not begin to attach the importance to me that you and I did. He will let me in if I want to come in, but it is quite evident that he can get along without me, and yet more evident that if he takes me in, I must resign myself to his dictation,--dictating is his strong suit. To the gentleman who expected to be the president of the Steering-Grierson Company, that is not a pleasant programme; yet, my dear Carington, my circumstances are so precarious that I might attempt to fill it, if I did not see through Madeira's lack of principle, negatively speaking,--rascality, positively speaking. Now, I may have winked one eye occasionally during my business career, but I have never yet been able to shut both at once. It may be taste and it may be morals. Heretofore I have taken business too casually really to know how I am equipped for it. I have never before really met myself, spoken to myself, as I hustled through the few commercial hours of each day of my life. But out here business has become a thing of wider import on the instant, and already I am face to face with something stiff and hard on the inside of me that promises not to be very malleable under Madeira's hands. Madeira's hands, my dear boy, are pot-black. The plan that with us was a fair and square enterprise has become with him a clap-trap scheme to rob investors. I don't know how he means to do it, but he will do it. There is a chance that the company may get good money out of the Canaan Tigmores in zinc, but there is a much richer chance that Madeira will get good money out of the company, zinc or no zinc. So here I am in a pleasant situation. I can take my choice between a block of shares in the new company, my vote to be in Madeira's control, and a place far back, where I can watch Madeira operate my land to his profit while I wait for old Grierson to die. I am holding off as yet, dazzled by both prospects. Meantime the organisation of Madeira's company is being effected among the local capitalists, the store-keepers and the substantial farmers, and it's only a question of a few days until the directorate shuts in my face. Madeira is to take me over to Joplin to-morrow,--to let the showing there have its effect upon me, to let me catch the ore fever, I suspect. Immediately upon my arrival here, I looked into the history of my relationship to Grierson, and also looked up the record of the Peele will. Grierson is the grandson of one of the sisters of old Bruce Peele, while I am the great-great-grandson of another sister. My great-grandfather did not like pioneer life and went back East to live and cultivate the Steering family-tree into me, as the last, topmast, splendid blossom. The Grierson family stayed in Missouri and petered out into this Bruce Grierson. He is of my grandfather's generation, though he is a much younger man than a grandfather of mine could possibly be with the record of my age and my father's age to be accounted for. [Illustration: Two branches of the family tree.] I got profoundly excited in studying out the two branches of the family that are involved in the entail. Here is a map of the relationship for your benefit. You can understand from that, can't you, Carington?[1] The Peele will is simple. Old Bruce Peele lived a long life as a bachelor, with a strong aversion to matrimony. Toward the end he suffered one of those revolutions in valuations that sometimes upturn people of extreme prejudices. His will sets forth emphatically that he came tardily to realise that posterity is the best thing a man can leave behind him. He had two sisters, both of whom were well along in life, unmarried, and possessed of their brother's disinclination to marry. To encourage them to cross the Rubicon he made the will that entailed the Canaan Tigmores to the heirs, first of one and then the other, under the following provisions: the land was to go to the male heirs of his sister Nancy Peele, from oldest son to oldest son so long as there were male heirs, provided that in each generation the oldest male representative of Nancy married before he reached the age of thirty-five. If, in any generation, Nancy's representative fails to marry at thirty-five, the Canaan Tigmores pass to the male representative of Kate Peele, upon the death of the man who failed. Nancy Peele married a Grierson, and so pronounced was the inherited aversion to matrimony in the house of Grierson that compliance with the terms of the will has lasted through two generations only. The present Bruce Grierson let the time-limit overtake and pass him twenty years ago, but, unmarried and grouchy, he has stood between me and the Canaan Tigmores ever since. I don't count until he dies, and not then unless I am married before I am thirty-five. (However, I feel that I might be more disposed to meet the will's requirements than the Griersons have been.) The present Grierson is utterly unapproachable. He has not lived in this section for many years. He is particularly unapproachable on the subject of the Canaan Tigmores because he spent a great part of his youth prospecting through these hills, hoping and being disappointed. At last he turned his back upon Canaan, bitterly disillusioned, and he has been a wanderer upon the face of the earth ever since, sometimes hunting gold in the Rockies, sometimes after silver in Mexico. Half the time even Madeira does not know where he is. The queerest thing about the mining business, Carington, is the "hunches." The Englishmen told me that down at Joplin a man would rather have a dream that he walks two miles sou'-sou-west, turns around three times on his heels and finds ore under his left heel, than to have a geologist assure him that his house sits on a ledge of Cherokee limestone that ought to be all right for zinc. I have met great numbers of miners who are hunchers. The most interesting is a man named Bernique, an old chap of education and refinement from St. Louis. He has a hunch about the Canaan Tigmores--at least so far in my intercourse with him I have not found anything more tangible than a hunch. I fell in with him just before I reached Canaan, and though he then declared his intention of being absent for some days, he did not go away, sought me out in Canaan next day and has spent a good deal of time with me ever since. He is a splendid old character. Missouri is chuck full of character, for the matter of that. Besides old Bernique, I have made another friend, named Piney. Isn't that a pretty nice name? He is a sort of gipsy lad who roams the woods in company with old Bernique. I have seen him nearly every day since I have been here, because old Bernique and I ride about the Tigmores, and Piney is sure to fall in with us somewhere along the road. I have also met some others. You can have no conception, Carry, of the strength of pull that Missouri can exert over a fellow. You stand up on a hill and look at her, and something, your dead forefathers maybe, comes up to you in waves of influence. "Come back to your own!" says the Something, "I am waiting for you! By me conquer!" The longer I stay in Missouri, the longer I mean to stay. I have accepted the challenge of this great unconquered, waiting land. It is my own country. Sorry to have kept you so long over all this, but I thought that you ought to know. Shall write you the out-look after the Joplin trip. I have a notion that things will be adjusted toward the future after that. Give my love to the fellows. Yours, B. S. P. S. Please express me one of those fold-up, carry-around-with-you bath-tubs. When Carington, in the office down on Nassau Street, had read that, all of it, he turned over the last sheet and looked blankly at its blankness, quoted from the first paragraph, "Had I not got a feeling of encouragement from other experiences"; reread the entire letter, and was still afflicted with a sense of something lacking. "Now where the dickens did he get the encouragement?" cried Carington fretfully. "Psha! he has not put that in at all!" As a matter of entity and quiddity, it is well-nigh impossible to put into a letter the little quivering lift of spirit that may come to a man just because a girl's hair is lustrous, her eyes winey, her voice delicious, her smile one of gay fellowship. FOOTNOTE: [1] Carington could not. _Chapter Five_ BOOM TIME IN THE TOWN THAT JACK BUILT "Here we are! This is the town that jack built, this is the town the poet wrote about!" Madeira was leaning forward from the rear seat of a high road-cart to talk to Steering, who sat on the front seat beside the driver. Madeira had the back seat by himself, but, leaning forward, with both arms spraddled out behind Steering and the driver, he seemed now and then to take possession of the front seat, too. "Yes!" cried the driver, who, fearless, confident, glowing, was managing her spirited horses skilfully, "at Joplin's gates, you must chant the classic, 'Hey this, what's this?'" "And up from the city rolls the triumphant answer, 'This is the town that jack built!'" declaimed Steering, glancing down into the driver's face with accordant appreciation. He felt accordant and he felt appreciative. He had enjoyed the little railway journey from Canaan in company with the Madeiras. He had enjoyed the night before, which he had spent at the house of a Joplin friend of the Madeiras. He was enjoying the ride now. The friend of the Madeiras had put good horses at Madeira's disposal and Miss Sally Madeira could get speed out of good horses as easily as other women get a purr out of a kitten. Even Madeira, just behind him, crowding forward upon him, did not very much bother Steering. It was all enjoyable. They were on a long wide street that presented violently contrasted activities, hard to encompass with one pair of eyes. For blocks the buildings lined off on either side, low, flimsy and hastily constructed--mining-camp architecture, that gave way at abrupt intervals to tall and sightly brick-and-stone structures, built for the future metropolis rather than for the present camp. A section of an electric railway that was thirty-two miles long ran through the street, and the handsomely equipped cars on it clipped past mud-encrusted mule teams from distant hill farms, prairie schooners, and dilapidated carryalls. The scene was tremendously, occidentally irregular, setting forth that merciless clutch of the future upon the past that makes the present mere transition. The town was hard pushed to catch up with its own vast possibilities. A small place, set suddenly forward as one of the world's great ore markets, it could not even house the mining business that had poured in upon it, and that made of its main thoroughfare a tossing, turbulent stream of people. Almost every building that Steering saw was crowded to the doors with mining brokers' desks, mining brokers' desks spilled out on the side-walk, desks could be seen at the doors of the retail stores and desks kept banking-house doors from shutting. The windows of the newspaper offices and of the mineral companies were crowded with displays of ore. The hub-bub about these places was fierce, unbearable. Young men, with their handkerchiefs in their collars, hurried from one office to another, warm with excitement, flapping great bunches of letters and memoranda in their hands as they hurried. Messenger boys ran up and down the streets with telegrams. Buyers from the Kansas smelters, smelters in Illinois, smelters up about St. Louis, smelters in Indiana, smelters in Wales, nosed around like ferrets. Fine young men, who were supposed to look after the interests of the big foreign companies, sauntered out of bar-rooms, doing violence to the supposition. Map-sellers whacked their hands with folders. Wooden booths flung signs to the streets bigger than the booths themselves: "Mineral Companies Promoted," "Mining and Smelting," "Mines, Options, Leases,"--there was no end to the variations of the eternal theme of mining. Town lots, switches of flats, and hill ridges were being swapped and sold and leased from the curb-stone; leases were being made from buggies and options were being granted from a horse's back. "Whewee!" marvelled Steering, with a little itch of fear for the ore-mad people, "legal forms are being put to fearful strains, are they not, with all this heedless buying and selling?" Madeira laughed loudly, "God bless you, legal forms! All that a man who wants to sell has to do is to throw a plank, any little rotten plank, across the chasm of future litigation and ten buyers will walk it with nerves of steel." He patted Steering's shoulder. "My boy, it's this headlong impetus that assures the success of the Canaan Company. If I get that thing started once, all I have to do is to advertise it down here a week. The stock will go like hot-cakes. People don't care what they buy, just so they buy. They've got no sense of value left. Why, a man found an outcrop of a zinc lode under his chicken-coop yesterday--and to-day the price of chicken-coops has gone up." Madeira patted Steering's shoulder again and laughed again, pleased at his aptness in figuring the thing out. "He's just exactly right," said the girl, nodding at Steering. "Over here the average man needs a guardian to keep him out of the clutches of the 'boodlers.' I almost hate to see this sort of excitement come into Canaan. Father has been pretty busy all his life looking after infant men, but from now on his plight is going to be pitiable. I saw that yesterday afternoon, Dad, when the farmers were filing into the bank to put their money into your hands." The girl, turning back to smile at Madeira, was the cause of Steering's turning back, too, and he was surprised to see a patriarchal, benign expression on Madeira's face, as though a reflection of the girl's illusions about his character lay warm upon him. "Oh, I don't mind my job as nurse for the Canaanites, Pet," said Madeira softly, and then waved one hand out toward the city and changed the subject. "Pretty good for a lazy semi-southern State, eh, Steering?" He nudged the girl next and added: "Before we are through with him we'll have convinced the New Yorker that a good deal happens outside New York. Won't we, Pet?" "Yes, sirree," said the girl, imitating her father's manner adroitly, as she put her horses through the crowded thoroughfare, "the United States of America has more than one way of living the life strenuous, and Broadway, New York, doesn't begin to be the only place where she lives it. Look abroad, look abroad!" She was altogether fascinating as she pointed out to Steering little typical features that he would have missed without her humourous, boastful sallies. As they continued on their way, Madeira and the girl bowed and smiled to acquaintances, and once the horses were stopped at the curb to enable Madeira to talk to some man whom he knew well. While waiting, with the road-cart drawn up close to the curb, Steering and the girl could hear talk all about them,--zinc and lead, jack, jack, jack! Flying chips of conversation assailed their ears as the people scurried by; references to old companies and their latest projects, and to new companies and new finds; talk about the menace of the runs pinching out, and talk about the danger of over-stocking the world's zinc markets; grumbling talk about the wildcat exploitation going on at every corner, and envious talk about a report that some wildcat promoter had just succeeded in selling a face of ore that had cut blind under the drill of the buyer in a few lamentable days; condemnatory talk about what an extremely gold-brick country this was, and awed talk about the remarkable prices that some of the gold bricks fetched. All the talk was frankly of millions. The scale was gigantic. Even poor men seemed to have acquired a familiarity with the sound of great sums that made them take themselves as somehow richer and bigger. Voices shook with eagerness and avidity; hands worked constantly at button-holes, or at lapels, or with watch-guards. When acquaintances passed on the street they did not say "how-do-you-do"; they looked at each other's bulging pockets and said, "lemme see your rock." What Steering and the girl heard as they waited in the road-cart was fragmentary but significant: "Scotch Company will divide off another one hundred thousand acres, so they say--No, sirree-bob, no more hand-jigging for me--Wouldn't take one-quarter of a million for it, if you'd give it to me--Boston Company is bound to make millions--Yes, that's Madeira,--Canaan Tigmores--Oh, he will mint money out of it, no doubt in the world about that he goes in to win----" The girl turned to Steering with pleased pride. "You see? He always wins. People expect him to." Madeira was over at the edge of his seat, talking earnestly to the man on the curb. Steering, beside the girl, looking down at her, not seeing Madeira because of her, nodded approvingly, the approval being for her honesty, her sweetness, her vitality. Something, perhaps the near climax for her father's enterprise at Canaan, seemed to have keyed her to a high pitch. Steering, who by now had had opportunities to see her often, had never seen her so beautiful, nor so quick of expression in word and look. Her voice thrilled him; and while he was thrilling, Madeira's voice came on to him: "You needn't hold back on that account," Madeira was saying: "God bless you, I've got the next heir in the deal, too." "Oh-ho," said the girl, who also heard, "we are taking you for granted, aren't we?" Steering only smiled at her again. He had fallen into the habit of smiling at her, and some prescience seemed to urge him to exercise the habit while he could. Madeira was turning from the man on the curb: "All right, I'll allot you one thousand shares, eh? Good-day.--Pet, you'd better drive on out to Chitwood, lickety-split." Miss Madeira put the whip to her horses, and they left the Joplin streets behind them, and sped out a gritty white road that crossed a lean sweep of prairie. Ahead of them Steering could see presently a sort of settlement; wooden sheds, wide and low; hoister shafts, tall and slim, on stilts; scaffolding; pipes; chimneys; tramways; surface railways. His eyes leaped from moundlike piles of tailings, the powdery crush spit out by the concentrating mills, to boulder-like heaps of rocks that had been wheeled away to save the teeth of the mills, and his ears turned distraught from the groaning clank of unwieldy iron tubs, swinging up through skeleton shafts, to the sputtering plunk-plunk of drill engines and the booming roar of machinery. "Hard to keep up with, eh? God bless us, it certainly _is_ hard to keep up with!" cried Madeira. "Drive into the enclosure there at the Howdy-do, Pet, Throcker will be expecting us. I telephoned him. Yes, sir, this is the place to see what zinc means." Madeira was leaning forward again, one arm about his daughter and the other arm fathering Steering. "This is the place to understand what can be done by seeing what has been done." He seemed to want to fire Steering with the idea that just such another astounding development could be wrought out down there in the Canaan Tigmores, and though Steering was aware that he would soon be at a crisis where he would need an austere strength of judgment, uncoloured by enthusiasm of any kind, he could not help responding to the aura of enthusiasm into which he was entering. The great plant of the Howdy-do mine disseminated enthusiasm in shaking vibrations. Milled enthusiasm stood about in cars, ready for the smelters. Enthusiasm roared and whirred from the concentrating mill where wheels were turning and bands were slipping; where a tub, ore-laden, was jerking and clanking through the hoister shaft; where men on an upper platform were shovelling the dump from the tub into great crusher rolls; where the rolls were grinding and pounding, and the water was fashing and gurgling down the jigs. The whirr of it all, the whizz and bang of it, the whole effect of it all, was, to any man interested in the development of ore, a great forward impetus that swung him far out, limp and dizzy. "Waiting for you, Mr. Madeira!" cried a man, who fairly shone with enthusiasm, and whose voice tinkled gladly as he came across to the hitching rail where Miss Madeira had stopped her horses. "Mighty glad to see you, Miss Sally--Mr. Steering, glad to meet you, sir. Here you, Mike! come and look after these horses. Miss Sally, I'm a-going to have to take you round to the tool-house for some covers, please ma'am." The accommodating and friendly mine-boss of the Howdy-do led Madeira's party to a shed opposite his mill and there outfitted them with rubber coats and caps, talking to them all the while in that tinkling voice, with the glad note singing in it. "God bless my soul, Throcker, how much did the last blast bring down?" Madeira turned to Steering before Throcker could reply. "Whenever a miner's voice shakes and sings like that, his last blast has meant a heap." "You are right, sir!" cried Throcker, "we opened up a face yesterday that,--well, it's going to take us weeks to handle even the loose ore we've brought down, sir. Come this way, Miss Sally, please ma'am." Steering began to wish that the mine-boss were not so happy. It had an electric effect upon him. And he began to wish that he himself were not so happy. He dreaded developments that would surely be change. "Well, Throcker, my boy, my ledge of Cherokee runs up here from the Canaan Tigmores, d'you know that?" said Madeira. He put his thumbs in his pockets and rocked upon the balls of his feet with a springing, tip-toe movement, as Throcker stopped them in front of a shaft out of whose cavernous depths a cage was swinging toward them. From Madeira's manner you might have inferred that the Cherokee had a Madeira permit to "run up here." In the cage it was necessary for Steering to extend his arm behind Miss Madeira, as there were no sides between the great cables at the four corners. It was not a very large cage and the number on it crowded it, so that the girl rested lightly on Steering's arm. He could think of no place so deep down that he would not be well satisfied to journey to it like that. But there came a jolt and a jar, the cage settled upon the stope, and the journey was over. Throcker led the way through a thick underground gloom. Great masses of crush-rock slid under foot, there was a black drip from ceiling and walls, and the excavation was filled with the hollow boom of the water-and air-pumps. With lights flaring uncertainly, they followed the mine-boss out upon a rocky crag that gave upon a deep abyss, faintly illuminated by the flicker of the lamps of the working force below and by torches set in the wall. There was an upward slope in the formation of the ledge from the bottom of the cavern to the spur upon which they stood, but it was made by irregular juttings with ugly, saw-tooth projections. Unless they were very near the edge they could not follow the dim outline of the slope at all. Throcker in his eagerness to point out the ore, shining like specks of gold all up and down the slope, worked dangerously near the edge, but he was accustomed and recovered his balance easily when a piece of his support crumbled away under his feet. Steering, who was agile and athletic, had no difficulty in keeping up with the miner, but Madeira had to be watchful. The miner would not let Miss Madeira come far out on the crag, though he let the men follow him, calling warnings to them as they came. "From where you stand, Miss Sally," Throcker turned toward the girl who waited below the summit of the crag, "from where you stand up to here, the loose ore is worth about sixty-five thousand dollars!" The girl looked up at them responsively. Standing there under the strange flickering light of her torch, with the black folds of the rubber coat swathing her, her face, with its fine eyes, was cut out for Steering sharp as a cameo. "I am delighted for your sake, Mr. Throcker," she called gaily, but with a little uneasiness in her voice. "Father, please be careful." "Sixty-five thousand dollars! Why, Lord love you, Throcker, a hundred thousand, if one." Madeira, taking charge of the probabilities in the case, moved toward the edge to support his estimate by measuring with his eye the distance down the crag. "Father, please be careful. Watch him, Mr. Steering,--O-h-h-h!" A woman's cry of horror rang though the tunnelled walls as Madeira's great frame toppled on the edge of the crag, and disappeared. Throwing out his right arm protectingly, as though in answer to the girl below, Steering had been able to knot the sinewy fingers of one hand about Madeira's collar as the latter fell. The force of the fall brought Steering to his knees, then flat out across the ledge, to get all the purchase power he could. Madeira's weight was terrific, even after Steering had brought his other hand into requisition; and though Throcker sprang to the rescue, Throcker was a weak man and the best aid that he could render was to assume a small share of Madeira's weight by getting down flat upon the ledge, after Steering's fashion. In the black hole below the miners saw what had happened and two burly men began to clamber up the treacherous slope. "Gently, boys, gently," warned Throcker, as the men came on; he and Steering could feel the rock upon which they lay vibrate; there was a rending and splitting going on all through the ledge. "Can you hold on a minute alone, sir?" gasped Throcker suddenly. "I have a bad heart and it's going back on me,"--he fell weakly beside Steering. "Yes, I can hold on alone." Steering's face was in the loose crush, and his lips were cut by the rock when he opened them, so he stopped trying to talk. "Get back, Mr. Throcker--let me get my hands down and help Mr. Steering." It was the girl's voice, and the girl was beside Steering, quiet and capable. "Oh, you?" said Steering. He had known all these seconds that he was doing this for her, but the strain that he was on had somehow pulled him beyond the comprehension of her as actual; for the last ten seconds she had been rather a big abstraction, a high principle of his soul, a good desire in his heart. To see her there before him was to see abstraction, principle, desire becoming adequately incarnate. "No, you mustn't try to reach down here,--your arms aren't long enough,--the commotion on the edge here is dangerous,--if you will just put something, your handkerchief, under my face where the sharp little rocks are at it,--ah, you should not have done _that_!"--she had slipped her hands beneath his face, and the touch of her fingers was like velvet as she worked away the sticking, stinging bits of ore and rock that worried him. He had not known how chief a part in his sensation of discomfort those bits had played until he could bury his face in the relief of her soft hands. As a matter of fact, with those bits out of his cheeks,--and his face in her hands,--he felt no great discomfort at all. If it had not been for her shivering sigh of relief he would have been sorry when the miners drew Madeira up. Madeira had not spoken, and he was purple as they carried him to a place of safety some distance back on the ledge. "He is just the sort of man physically who ought not to be subjected to choking experiences," said Steering. One of the miners had brought water, and Steering and Miss Madeira were reviving Madeira with it. Madeira did not seem to be unconscious, but his senses were obtunded, and it was some minutes before he could sit up. "God bless my soul! God bless my soul!" he said, at last, and shivered. Then he turned to Steering: "My boy, you know how to hold on. I believe you've got as much stick-to-it-iveness as I have." It was his supremest form of acknowledgment, and, in making it, he made, too, an impression upon Steering that he resented the circumstances that compelled him to make it. They got back to the upper air presently, followed by a cheer from the mine force below. The miners had watched Steering perform one of those supernatural feats of strength and endurance that an onlooker can never explain afterward. Usually the performer knows that the thing was a matter of motive and will, not muscle. Up in the daylight again, Madeira was quickly himself again. He resumed charge of affairs in his comprehensive way, and though the mine-boss, frightened and remorseful, was limp now, all his enthusiasm gone, Madeira's welled up again strong within him. They went back to their horses without loss of time, and, waving adieux to Throcker and some of his men who had gathered about, they were soon journeying back down the white road toward Joplin. Miss Madeira's hands were in bad condition for driving, Steering thought, but she had taken the reins just the same. "We are all dilapidated for the matter of that," she said. "Father is as grey-faced as a rat, your cheeks are all cut and pricked--my hands don't count." Twilight was coming on and a full moon was rising. The great sweep of flat stretched out about them in a mesh of soft light. The ride back was gay, and when they stopped at the house of the Joplin man, who was their host, all three were still in nervously high spirits. A negro servant came out for the horses, and Steering helped Miss Madeira to alight. The girl had drawn off her driving gauntlets, and the ungloved hand that she gave him was scratched and scarred across its brown back. "Isn't that shameful,--and you did it for me!" mourned Steering. "Oh, if I could have done more!" she cried breathlessly, "if I could do more,--as much as you have done for me! If I have not thanked you, you know,"--what she was saying was fragmentary and confused, but her eyes were shining sweetly upon him,--"it's because I can't. You must understand that. I never can talk when I am busy feeling. How are your shoulders?" "I don't know that I have any," replied Steering, with wretched prevarication. "Come on, Honey, come on." Madeira was at the stone steps of the Joplin house, and the girl took his arm and climbed the steps with him. At the top Madeira turned back to Steering, who was a step behind. "Well, old man, let's have it out now, before we go in and get mixed up with these strangers. What about those shares? Coming in with us, I reckon?" It was like Madeira to select a position of advantage like that, a higher place from which he could look down and dominate, with his daughter beside him, and it was like him to select a moment like that, a moment when the three were close, on the very summit of their friendship and sympathy. "We are to be all together on that deal, aren't we?" Though the girl, her arm linked through her father's, was waiting for his answer, and though Steering saw that she expected his acquiescence as the right and natural thing, her influence upon him, despite that, was all for the rejection of Madeira's proposition. She looked so young, so straight, so honest, that, as an influence, she was ranged against Madeira, even though, in her ignorance, she imagined herself to be in harmony with him. Steering, looking at her first and Madeira next, knew that she really fashioned his answer, that it was really all because of her that his words came, swiftly, earnestly: "Don't allot me any shares at all, Mr. Madeira. I have decided not to go into the company." Madeira emitted a breezy "All right. God bless you, all right." The girl looked sorry and puzzled. Steering came on up the steps behind them, with a sense of mingled elation and sadness, and the three passed through the door of the Joplin man's house. _Chapter Six_ FATHER AND DAUGHTER Madeira Place was the old Peele Farm, whose square brick house had been the boast of Canaan township ever since it had been put up,--out of brick hauled by team across three counties,--by the man who had established, but failed, despite his effort, to make permanent the fortunes of his family. When the grandnephew, Bruce Grierson, came on, the brick house was plastered with a mortgage that somehow passed eventually into the hands of the then alert young sapling land-agent, Crittenton Madeira. Crittenton took the house, and, by and by, Bruce Grierson, the second, took himself, with money borrowed from Madeira, out of Canaan, never to return. It was not long after this that Crittenton Madeira, who was still a slight man, with a young wife and a pretty baby out at the brick house, began to be named "our esteemed fellow townsman" by the _Canaan Call_. Madeira built a hotel for Canaan, promoted the Canaan Short Line, and established the Bank of Canaan. His wife died, and his little girl grew, and he became large of girth. It was not until his daughter was twelve that he had to share honours with anyone as the foremost personage of Tigmore County. At twelve the daughter began to show that she had inherited her father's vitality, though the sphere of her activities was different. He bought and sold and made money. She lassoed heifers, broke colts, and rode up and down the Di in rickety skiffs. The community took as much pride in her adventures as it did in his achievements. The Madeiras were very happy together all through those days, and very proud of each other. She recognised that her father was superior to the Canaan men, that they did what he told them to do, and he recognised that she was the most wonderful child, and the most beautiful, that had ever come into the world. His convictions on that score were so profound that they seemed to him something surer and bigger than the customary paternal pride and affection. As the girl grew older he spent a great deal of his money on her education and pleasure--at first blindly, guided only by a big impulse to have her as good as the best, an impulse that resulted in some funnily pathetic scenes where the little girl, frightfully over-dressed, wandered through the St. Louis shops, holding to the big man's finger, trying to think up something else that she might possibly want. Later, under the girl's own direction, the money went to better purpose. His daughter's way of spending the money early became, in Madeira's manner of getting at the thing, a sort of balance-wheel to his way of making it. Although he had made money in the same way before she was born, and although he would have made it in the same way had she never been born, he grew to like the feeling that what he did he did for her, and that his desire to make money had a soul in his desire to have her spend it. This feeling was in the ascendant always when he was with her. Unconsciously she fanned it within him. She had spent her young life couched rosily on his love for her and hers for him; at home she was lonely; at home Madeira was well-nigh perfect, and the girl's imagination made all her ideals live in the big, handsome, assertive man who was at once father to her and hero. Perceiving this, Madeira, with her, entered into a sort of world of make-believe, and, with her, was sometimes able to take himself for what she held him, a man whose honour matched his ability, and, with her, sometimes surprised in himself the little glow that she seemed to get when she was profoundly appreciating him. One Sunday afternoon they were sitting, father and daughter, in the garden, behind the brick house, he with a St. Louis paper on his knee, his head bare, his waistcoat loose, his feet in slippers. His chair was tilted back against a crab-apple tree at the side of one of the garden walks. For several weeks his face had been showing some sort of strain, but at this moment he looked comfortable. She had been telling him that she was glad that he had put up the new watering trough in Court House Square, and the way she had talked about it had made him feel sure that he had had some notion, when he did it, of benefiting the community, instead of insuring that the farmers would stop in front of the Grange store, in which he was interested. She sat on a bench near him, quite idle; her gown, a tawny drapery, whose half-hidden suggestions of blue were like shy spring flowers, was sheathed closely about her; her eyes were following the pale wide river below the garden; her hair, so light that it made her eyes seem lighter, was piled above the warm, creamy tan of her forehead; there was a little drowsy droop on her face; the dusky-gold radiance was all about her. "Daddy," she said, by and by, "do you know that I swam the Di once?" He laughed sleepily. He remembered. "I wonder if I could do it now--I was pretty awful as a youngster, wasn't I, Daddy?" "You certainly had a reputation," he admitted. "Do you know that I still have a good deal of a reputation"--she turned upon him with more directness and a little laughing pugnacity--"as though I were the same terrible child, up to the same riotous tricks as when I was twelve!" "Hump-mmh, hump-mmh!" He looked at her from under his slanted lids and shook his head, while his big face quivered with amusement. "You haven't given up all your riotous tricks even yet--don't tell me." He spoke with the indulgence that had allowed free rein to her caprices all her life. "Never you mind, I do precious little that is riotous any more; I am getting used to harness," she made answer, and looked as though she did not mean to be interfered with in the precious little that was riotous that she still clung to, and then looked as though she were threatening herself with sweeping reform. "Go back to sleep, Daddy. You will be in my way presently, anyhow." "Anybody coming?" "Your Mr. Steering." "'My!'" Madeira's face clouded over, and he thrust out his jaw grimacingly. "If he _were_ mine, you know what I should do with him?" he asked, in a sharp voice. "No, I don't know. What would you do with him?" "I should send him packing back East. This country don't need,--aw, the people of this country are good enough for the country and the country is good enough for them. We don't need outsiders." He was so vehement that she regarded him questioningly. "Don't you like him any more?" she inquired, with a little dubious shake of her head. "I don't like"--Madeira got up and walked back and forth under the crab-apple tree--"I don't like for a man without any practical knowledge or experience to get a lot of ideas about a thing and bring them to a field and try to push other chaps out, other chaps who are already in the field." "Yes, but----" It occurred to her that she was defending Steering--"but if he brings the ideas, he ought to have the credit for originating the ideas, oughtn't he?" "No! No!" Madeira's voice rang up, urgent, strident; he did not seem conscious that he was talking to her; he seemed rather to be having something out with himself. The strain of the past weeks had come back to his face. "Plenty of people before this Steering have thought of ore in the Canaan Tigmores. Look at old Grierson himself! Originate the idea! Grierson had the idea before Steering was born! We can get ideas in this country, and work 'em out, too, without any help from outsiders." "Mr. Steering is not exactly an outsider, is he?" "Yes, he is, too. He hasn't any more claim to this land now than you have; it isn't any more his business what's done here during Grierson's lifetime than it's Rockefeller's business. Not a bit. Let Steering wait till the land is his." "Well,"--she was troubled,--"in the meantime, what is old Grierson going to do?" Madeira seemed to be trying to quiet himself. He went down to the garden fence and looked at the oak forest on the other side of the Di, puckered up his mouth, as though to whistle, but stopped short of it, and came sauntering back toward his daughter. "He is going to do what I tell him to do, Honey," he made answer. "And I'm telling him to put the Canaan Mining and Development Company into the Tigmores after zinc." "I should think, though," she said then, slowly, "that even if the matter is in your hands now, it would be to your ultimate advantage to have Mr. Steering in with you. He is the next owner, and, if old Grierson should die, whatever work you have done on the Tigmores would go for nothing. I should think it would be almost essential for you and Mr. Steering to be together." He let his chair down angrily. "There isn't a big enough scheme in the universe to accommodate Steering and me together! He is a blamed idiot," he said doggedly. And it became clear to her that in his bull-headed way he had forged all the links of one of his intense antagonisms. He had been like that all his life; of pronounced personality himself, he had never been able to abide pronounced personality in those with whom he came in contact. He had ridden rough-shod over inferior men all his life; he liked to ride rough-shod; he was never pleased when his path crossed people over whom he could not ride rough-shod. Generally she had accepted his classification of those who opposed him strongly as "blamed idiots"; sometimes with a little of her laughing banter, but usually, his superiority standing out sharp and clear when opposed to the dull Canaanites, endorsing his opinion. "I sort of wish," he went on, with that keen, wire-edged exasperation still sawing in his voice, "that you wouldn't have much to do with that chap. He isn't my kind of people. I shouldn't mind if, now that you've given him a good high swing, you'd let him drop." "Why, Father! You oughtn't to forget that there was one time in your life when he might have let you drop--and didn't!" He saw that he had got himself before her in too keen a light. "Yes, but you don't expect me to let him hold me up by the collar forever, do you, Pet? That's his dog-on way, anyhow--wants to dictate. I can't stand a man who wants to dictate. I think we've had enough of him. That's what I mean, and all I mean." He patted her hands and got up from his chair again. "There comes Samson with the mail," he said nervously. A negro man rode up through the big gate at the front of the grounds and came on to Madeira, who took two letters from him. "One for you, Sally," said Madeira, "and one for me." "Oh, from Elsie Gossamer!" she cried, and took her letter and sat, unobservant of him, for several moments, the little frown that his words had brought out still on her brow. Presently she looked up and saw that he had read his letter, and had put it in his pocket; he was tilted back against the crab-apple tree again, his forehead knit, his eyes brilliant, a peculiar fixity in their gaze. "Oh, here!" she cried protestingly, "you look as though you had just decided to become the President of the United States of America! Stop scowling and listen; Elsie is after me again to join her in Europe. She is fairly eloquent with the project----" He broke in upon her with a sudden intensity of interest: "Do it!" he cried. "It's the very thing. You go. You go and have a good time." "I don't want to go so awfully," she began hesitatingly. "I've been away from you a lot in the last two years. I don't care so much about it." "Yes, you do; you go." He was always keen for her pleasure, but in the present case he seemed especially earnest. "Want to get rid of me, huh?" "No; you know I'll half die without you. But I am going to be fearfully busy from now on,"--his mouth seemed hot and dry as he talked,--"it will suit better now than ever. You go." "Well, maybe," she said. She was accustomed to let her own fancy settle such questions for her. "Maybe I'll go. Maybe I shan't." There was a click at the front gate. "I expect that's Mr. Steering," she announced. Madeira got out of his chair quickly. "If it is, I don't want to see him," he said, "he--oh, he irritates me, that man,--always wanting to dictate. I'll go in. Don't want ever to see him again,--and say, Pet?" "Well, Dad?" "I'd be glad if you would never see him again. Just stop where you are, will you?" She drew a long sighing breath. "Just stop where I am? Well, I'll see," she said, laughing and flushing in the warm, rich fashion of her skin, but there was the faint far call of uneasiness in her laughter, like a wind-whisper of coming rain. "Tell Samson to bring Mr. Steering out here to me," she commanded, and Madeira went off toward the house and disappeared through the green-latticed porch. Inside the house he retired to the room that was known as his office, locked the door and came over to his desk. As he did it a peculiar consciousness of himself suffused him like the first fumes of a deadly narcotic. He began to see that he was lifting his feet stealthily, advancing them stealthily, stealthily setting them down, with the soundless fall of a cat's foot on velvet. Reaching his desk, he half fell into a chair there, a thin line of white froth between his lips, his big face purplish. "Eh, God?" he cried, "what's this? what's this?" The seizure passed as suddenly as it had come. By and by he heard Steering pass through the house under Samson's escort. When the sound of Steering's foot-steps had died away, Madeira took a letter from his pocket, spread it open before him and read it over and over. "Dear Crit," [the letter said] "I have thought this thing to a finish. I want you to turn the Tigmores over to my cousin, Bruce Steering. Let him start at once on the jack trail, that primrose path of dalliance. As for me, my dear sir, by the time this reaches you, I shall be on the long trail. You needn't blow any trumpets about it, for B. G. will have no funeral. The name that I gave you as the name that I live here under is good enough to die here under. The certain fact for your consideration is that I die at once, and that the question of this property entail is now confided to you to arrange for my heir, young Steering. Write to the clerk of Snow Mountain County for the documents that I have left with him for you. They establish everything. Tell my cousin that, besides the Tigmores, I bequeath him my debts to you. This leaves me not at all envious of the job ahead of him, and, as ever, "Your blindly devoted servant, "BRUCE GRIERSON." _Chapter Seven_ THE GARDEN OF DREAMS Crittenton Madeira's daughter wandered down the garden path, singing softly, after her father had left her, but there was in her song, as there had been in her laughter, a little tremble of unrest. The garden was a delicious place, whose fragrance beat up in waves of sweetness at every turn. All the flowers were in their luxuriant last bloom. There were great roses and sweet elysium, mignonette, peppermint pinks, crêpe myrtle, riotous vines and creepers. Long ago she had taken everything out of the garden that was not sweet. She had a fancy that fragrance was one of the spirit's tremulous paths into heaven, and out in the garden she liked to shut her eyes and, with her little straight nose in the air, go drifting off toward what was infinitely good, fine, strong, imperishable. It sometimes seemed to her that the most intimate and exquisite happinesses of her life had come to her with her eyes shut in that garden. She called it the Garden of Dreams. When Steering found her, she was waiting for him, her arms on an old vine-covered stump, that dusky-gold radiance of hers playing over her and from her, the most beautifully, glowingly alive woman in the world. What he said to her was "How-do-you-do?" But what he wanted to say was, "Oh, stand there so forever, and let every grace, every beauty burn into my brain, so that all my life I may carry you about with me, your wine-warm eyes, your sunlit hair, the whole sweet glow of you,--having you perfectly, knowing you perfectly everywhere, everyhow, near, far, in the sunshine, in the dark!" And when a man wants to talk like that "how-do-you-do" is as good a catchphrase as the next to keep his tongue discreet. "I do very well," she told him, smiling at him, maddening him, "I always do well, here in my garden,--but you, you put my sense of well-being to shame. You look so glad!" "I am the gladdest man on earth," Bruce told her, knowing chiefly that he had her hand in his. He barely remembered in time that she was rich in gold and lands and cattle, and that he was poor, and that the positivism of his personality had already incurred the ill-will of her father. "Still, I don't think there is any doubt in the world how it is all going to end," he said hazily. He still had her hand. She had the hardest hand to put down that he had ever taken up. "I don't quite follow? All what?" She bit her lip; her eyes flashed off across the Di, bright and swift as mating birds, as she drew her hand gently away. "I was only thinking that a man may go on and on through so many meaningless years, of no special significance to himself or to anybody else and then suddenly,--think everything is going to be all right some day." He clasped his hands and leaned on the other side of the vine-covered stump and looked at her wishfully, and she laughed at him, with her eyes still on the pale river. "How do you like my garden?" she asked divertingly. For answer he shut his eyes and breathed deeply. "Oh, how good!" she cried, satisfied, "that's the only way really to follow the path of fragrance,--that's my own way!" He blessed his stars that he had sniffed at the roses. "Where did the path lead you?" she queried, as he opened his eyes dreamily upon her golden beauty. "Into heaven," he murmured with sublime conviction, and she clasped her slender hands, delighted at their mystical congeniality. "I am so glad that we like the same thing," she continued, hurrying a little; "haven't you noticed?--we both like the garden,--and we both like Piney. When did you see Piney?" "Piney? Oh, I see Piney often." He rather wished that she had not mentioned Piney. Since he had come to know the tramp-boy better his first ache for him had become sharper and sharper. "Piney and I were out on the hills together only yesterday. Poor Piney!" "Why," she took his hand and led him forward through a tangle of rose-bushes; she would not look at him, but the bewildering sweetness of her hair, her gown, the curve of her cheek came back to him--"why _poor_ Piney?" She was guiding him to a bench of twisted grape-vines from which they might look down upon the river. "Sit down," she said, "and tell me why poor Piney?" "Well," he sat down and looked at the river, half-frowning, "it has seemed to me--I've had a notion--oh, I don't know. I suppose it is not poor Piney after all." "Tell me," she insisted, "tell me what you started to tell me." "Well, it has seemed to me ever since I first met Piney that he was in the way of trouble," he dashed on more abruptly, thinking only of Piney for a moment--"I have come to love that boy. I find myself clinging to him. I think it is because he stands to me for the spirit of my own boyhood; perhaps that, perhaps because he stands for the spirit of the woods he loves; because he stands for simplicity, honesty, spontaneity. At any rate he is rare, what with his musical gift and his high melody of living--and--oh well, I've sometimes felt sorry that he is not all wood-spirit, that he is part human." The characteristics that had made Steering stand too determinedly to suit Crittenton Madeira made him forge ahead determinedly now. "Piney would be apt to suffer less if he were wholly the sylvan, irresponsible creature, the faun, he sometimes seems to be. But, alas, Piney has a man's heart, Miss Madeira. He will have to suffer for that, for he will have to love. That's why 'poor' Piney; because he will have to love." "Would that be so terrible?" The flash from the amber eyes that she turned up to him made the world go zig-zagging through a long space while Steering looked on with a great tremulous intake of breath. Then he steadied again to what he wanted to say to her and could say to her for Piney's sake. "It would be for Piney. Piney is going to love hopelessly," he saw that a little shiver caught her and he was glad of it. "Yes, it would be terrible to love hopelessly, wouldn't it?" he said, to strengthen his hidden appeal for Piney. He wanted to make her realise what she was doing for Piney, realise that for sheer kindness, kindness as to a dumb thing, she should never let the lad come near her. He had forgotten the woman in her when he began to formulate that appeal. She laughed a light, mocking laugh. "I believe that you think that Piney loves me!" she cried. "Piney, the spirit of the oaks! the song of the night-wind! Piney suffer! Piney love!" Steering was sorry to hear the note of evasion in her voice. No woman, he remembered, too late, could be brought to treat man's love or boy's love quite honestly. His eyes clouded. He felt masculinely, sanely sympathetic with Piney. "I wish," he said gloomily, "that you would sometimes put yourself in the place of a man who loves you, put yourself in Piney's place." Her eyes crinkled up again. "I'll just do it," she said gaily, "I'll do it now. Presto," she shut her eyes. "Now I have his point of view. Now I'm seeing what he sees--that Miss Sally Madeira likes to hear him sing, and humours him and pets him because he is gay and glad to be alive, and because Uncle Bernique says that he needs somebody to mother him. I mother Piney. Can't you see that." She laughed again and arose and stood in front of him, gay, mocking, nonchalant. "Piney love! And if Piney could love, that you should fancy that he might dare love Salome Madeira!" He forgot about Piney. She blocked his farther vision like a shaft of light. He could not see an inch beyond her. Madeira's voice rang down the garden walk. Steering did not hear it. "Salome! Salome!" he murmured, "Is that it, Salome?" "Yes, that's it, Salome. Isn't it foolish? The Di down there is the Diaphanous, too. Some pioneer poet named it for its shimmer, but what good did it do? Missouri promptly called it the 'Di.' No more good is it to name a child Salome in the backwoods of Missouri. She's bound to grow up Sally. I've always been Sally, except at school. I'll always be Sally down here with my own people." "No, you won't always be Sally--no you won't always be down here with your own people either,"--he leaned back on the bench and watched her, his eyes half shut, his whole sense of being illumined by her, his tongue playing audaciously with his discretion. "Yes, I shall always be Sally, too." That bisque-warm skin of hers flushed wondrously and she seemed to talk out of a little confused audacity of her own. Madeira's voice rang down the walk again. "Yes, Father!--and down here with my own people, too. Yes, Father!" "Company's here, Sally." "All right, Father, coming." "And I have to go?" asked Steering piteously. "Oh no, come up to the house and meet our sixteen-to-one congressman, Quicksilver Sam." "No--I'll go," chose Steering. "Say, can't I get through from the garden here, and go down the river road?" "Yes, you can. Samson shall bring your horse around, if you like. There's a bridle-path down to the river; it's Piney's way." "Well, if you will be so good as to have the horse brought, I'll take Piney's path. I'm going to the hills to try to find Piney and Uncle Bernique. Think I'll sleep in the hills with them to-night. I feel so sad. When may I come back?" "Well, you see," the trouble crept into her voice again, misty, tremulous--"you see, I may go away." "Oh!" he cried, and then again, "Oh!" a bitter wailing note. "Yes, I may," she said hastily. "You see, your friend, Miss Gossamer, wants me to join her in Europe. She is very insistent about it." "And you may go?" "And I may go." He knew that she said that she would see him again before going, if it came to pass that she decided to go, and that she pressed his hand, with the grateful look that she had bestowed upon him when she had tried to thank him for holding on to her father in the Joplin mine; and that afterwards she stole away through the garden, and a negro man-servant brought his horse around to the rear grounds and showed him a bridle-path to the river; but these things were hazy. The vivid thing was an imprecation that by and by took awful form, like a monster of the mist, hissingly, from between his clenched teeth: "_Damn Miss--Europe!_" _Chapter Eight_ WHEN A GIRL FINDS HERSELF Sally Madeira went to her own room early that Sunday night. It was a large room, sheer and white, with its wall space broken here and there by cool, calm etchings, cows knee-deep in clover, sunsets on small rivers, old windmills, wheat fields in harvest, hills where the snow lay thick. When she had lit her lamp a rosy light suffused the room through the tinted globe. The pictures on the walls looked so tonefully tender, intimate, in the soft glow, that the girl, noticing them for the thousandth time, moved from one to another, admiring and loving them. They were, in a way, sign-posts of her development. She had begun to buy them when she had stopped working in colour with a man who had a famous studio in New York. One day she had gone with the man to an exhibition of oil paintings which were infused with a matchless poetry of colour. "If I paint all my life am I ever going to be able to paint like that?" she had asked of the man earnestly. "No, my child, you are not," he had answered, quite as earnestly. "I wonder why I should try to do something poorly that someone else can do so well?" she had mused. And then, because she had talent, and, finest of all, an exquisite temperament in whose pulses the sense of colour beat in veritable tides of joy, the man from the studio had encouraged her with warm words of praise. "You will some day paint well enough to win a high place," he had reminded her. But she had stayed thoughtful, and a day or two later had talked to him again. "I don't believe, since I have thought it all out, that I can get what's in life for me out of it in a high place," she had said, shy but eager. Then, on that line, she had forged on to a swift and comprehensive conclusion. "You have told me," she had continued to the studio man, "that what I have in me for painting is not the real thing, and since I have seen the real thing I know for myself that colour is too rich and assertive, too apt to run away with one, for any but master hands to use it. I feel that I don't want even to see poor colouring on canvas any more. I shan't ever even have poor colour pictures around me. I can get my colour stories outside. Inside, the stories shall all be told in light and shadow. And I am not going to paint bad pictures myself any more." "Ah, but the work, the beautiful work!" cried the painter. "Well, as for me, do you know, I've come to believe that my work is just living--for a time anyhow." "Well, then, the fame!" cried the painter. "I don't seem to care for the fame." It had gone much like that with her music. She had a fine voice, and her New York teacher had told her over and over that she "must go on." She had been pleased with his praise and had worked hard for a time. Then she had gone to him, too, one day, open-eyed and inquiring. "Go on to what?" she had asked. "Why, to glory," the singer had said. She had shaken her head, unconvinced. "I don't seem to care for the glory," she had said. And beyond learning to use her voice well she would not work with it. "It is not that I am lazy," she had protested to the singer, "but I couldn't get what's in life for me out of it by singing." "What's in life for you?" queried the singer, interested, for the girl was beautiful and rich and aspirant. "Ah, I don't quite know yet," said the girl, the pretty pathos of youth and waiting upon her, "but some day I shall find myself; then I shall know." All through her college days she had been looking for herself. When the time had come that she had gone to Elsie Gossamer's house to visit, and there had met men--college boys at first and later on men of a larger world--she had still been looking for herself. But though in the meantime she had learned how to meet men and how to treat them--capably, Elsie Gossamer said--she had not found herself. During the past summer, since her return from college, she had idled on here through a little interim with her father, comfortable, dreamy, waiting, seeking. But she had not found herself. As she began to make ready for bed that Sunday night she had, suddenly and subtly, a quiver of consciousness that the waiting and the seeking were nearly over. Just how she knew it she could not have told, or just what she meant by knowing it, or just what would happen because of knowing it. Moving about the large room softly, her harmonious strength and grace were revealed in the swing of her long lithe limbs, the reach of her satiny brown arms, the breadth of her sweet smooth breast, the straightness and firmness of her tall frame. Only a self-reliant girl could have moved as she moved, a girl made self-reliant by exuberant health and ideals and hope. When she stopped moving about and stood before her mirror, her hand on the great rope of shining hair that hung over her shoulder, her body assumed a rare natural poise, classically, ancestrally beautiful, Grecian. By and by she roused from the little reverie before the mirror, put out the light, and came over to the window. "Oh," she cried at once, "that was what was the matter with me, that was why I felt that something was about to happen! It was the storm!" Beyond the window a Missouri tempest was rising. The girl, responsive as a reed to the wind, sat down in a low chair, the subtle quiver of consciousness intensified within her, and watched the lightning that began to play over the hills, and the rain that began to beat through the trees. Strangely enough, as she sat there, in the flashes she could see little, but in the dark--a warm, wind-blown, sweet-smelling dark--she saw several things. For one thing, she saw that, most probably, she would never again in her life spend an evening with a sixteen-to-one congressman. It had been a very tiresome evening. For another thing, she saw that she was not going to Europe. Her father needed her; or if he didn't he ought to. For a third thing, she saw that, in some way, she was going to have to make her father like Bruce Steering again. Then she saw the fourth thing. There had not been a flash for some minutes. Seeing that fourth thing, in the intense dark, she gave a trembling sigh, put one of her hands on top of the other on her breast and pushed, as though she were pushing her heart down. Then presently the pressure of her hands relaxed, her head dropped down until her chin touched her fingers, and a great flush that was like a charge from something electric surged through her. "Oh," she cried, "oh, is it you! Have you come!" It was a triumphant, shy, thrilling greeting to something, something that she had been waiting for, born for. The dark grew intenser, sweeter, warmer. She lifted her arms and held them out yearningly toward the Tigmore hills, half-leaning out the window, catching the rain on her eager young face, in her shining hair, on her broad low breast. "I am so glad of it!" she panted, in a singing whisper, "I am so glad----" A great sheet of lightning unrolled across the Tigmore hills and held steadily magnificent for a moment, revealing everything to everybody, so it seemed to Sally Madeira. She crept into bed shaking, ecstatic, afraid. Next morning she made her toilet away from the mirror as much as was possible, not being quite ready to face her whole found self as yet. But before she went downstairs she crossed to the window and looked out at the tumbling Tigmore line, a kissing sigh on her lips. When she reached the dining room she found that Madeira had not yet come down, so she walked out into the garden, where she stood for a little while by the vine-covered stump, her eyes closed, her little straight nose in the air, the broad daylight beating down on her. Then presently she opened her eyes determinedly. "Yes, I can stand it," she said, as though she had been afraid that she couldn't, and looked straight up into the rain of light over-head. "I can stand it, in the daytime as in the dark, from now on forever." In the air was an autumn mellowness that had not been there the day before. It nipped, with a strong, winey flavour, as it went down. All around her lay drifts of petals, rain-beaten roses, ragged lilies. The storm had stolen the garden's glory. "To put it into my heart!" cried the girl, in her all-conquering joy. "Oh, you Garden of Dreams, you! See, my eyes are wide open, and this, _this_ is better than dreams!" She went back to the house with her arms full of the very last roses. "For now, I must go bring my father around," she said. Madeira had had a bad night. He had not slept at all as far as he could tell. For hours he had had to lie on his bed and face the dark, with Bruce Grierson's letter under his pillow, licking out at his temples like a tongue of flame. But he had not taken the letter away all night long. "Let it burn," he had said. "Let it find out who's stronger, me or it. That's my way." All night long he had made plans, with his face set toward the dark. When he got to the dining room that morning he went to the window and stood there waiting for Sally, revolving one of the night's plans in his head, deciding with how much force to project it, how to hit the mark patly with it. "For I won't have him here at my house again," Madeira was telling himself there at the window. "God! I _can't_ have him here." He caught at the vest pocket above his heart. His teeth were chattering. His daughter, with the roses in her arms, entered the room just then. As long as she lived Sally Madeira never forgot the way the dining room looked that morning, as she came into it from the Garden of Dreams: the dull green wall spaces, broken by some of her beloved cool etchings, and by great walnut panels that deepened and toned and strengthened the room beautifully; the old walnut side-board that had been her mother's mother's; in the centre of the room the heavy round table, unlaid, snowy, waiting for her effective interference; Madeira, her big handsome father, idling by the window, his fine physical maturity cut out strongly against the light, his deep chest, his great height, his wide, well-featured face, his good clothes, the adaptability with which he wore them; and on beyond Madeira, outside the window, the satin green foliage of the pet magnolia tree. It was all finely satisfying. She had tried her hardest to kiss the foolish gladness out of her eyes and voice into the roses in her hands, but things grew so increasingly pleasant that all her endeavour went for nothing. As soon as her father saw her and heard her, he said: "Well, Honey-love, are you as happy as _that_?" She put her roses into an old blue bowl and went over to him, and he sat down in one of the big chairs by the window and drew her to his knee. Then they fell into a caressing habit of theirs, he with both arms about her body, she with both arms about his neck, half-choking him with tenderness, rumpling his thick hair with the tip of her chin. She looked as much mother as child like that. "What a big girl you are, Pet!" "I have a big excuse for it, Dad." "But your mother, now, was little, Sally. My, yes, reckon that was why I loved her so. Such a little, little thing!" "And I'm so big--'reckon' that's why you love me so, huh?" "Reckon," he said. They sat on for a moment silent, looking out of the window. There was a lost cardinal whisking among the satin leaves of the pet magnolia, gazing wistfully at an old nest that swung in the branches like the ragged ghost of a summer's completeness and happiness. The nest seemed to arouse memories and hopes in the cardinal's breast. He had to flirt about it nervously for some minutes before he could satisfy himself that his housekeeping notions were unseasonable. Finally he perched himself on an humble syringa bush and stared at the nest, quiet, depressed. "Are you betting on the magnolia tree with anybody this winter?" she asked, her eyes, too, on the high nest. "No one left to bet with, Pet. Everybody knows now that it can live through the worst that can come to it. Let's see, it's twenty years since I planted it there, and I've won twenty jack-knives betting that it would live, twenty different winters. Twenty years! Sally, that's a good while, my honey. Why, twenty years ago you didn't come knee-high to a puddle-duck. We had just moved down here from St. Louis, your mother and I, twenty years ago." As he talked, the moment shaped itself for Madeira as a little negligible interim, wedged in between the restless night, with its defined purposes, and the next hour, when he should have consummated at least one of the night's purposes. "That mother of yours was a lovely little thing, Sally." The girl was sure of it. She had felt the loveliness of her mother all her life. Once she had gone to her mother's old Kentucky home, and though her mother's people were all dead long ago, the great Kentucky house was still there, and, standing before it, she had been almost able to see the aura of influence that it had been in the moulding of the loveliness of her mother, the southern girl, lifting from it to ensphere her, the western girl. "I know she was lovely," said Sally. "Oh my, yes,--just about at her loveliest twenty years ago. But as for twenty years, Sally, why, I can go a lot farther back than that. I can go back forty years, close to my beginning. This is all sort of different from my beginning, Sally." Out beyond the window, into the September sunshine, rolled the fat corn lands, hundreds upon hundreds of acres, the wheat flats, the miles of cattle range of Madeira Place. Around them shut the strong walls of the old Peele house, a memorable house in its way, massive and wide-porched and staunch. "You can hardly imagine anything more different from this than was my beginning," went on Madeira. "This is pretty luxurious, isn't it? In its way, though it is down here on the Di, it's just about as good for a country house as the places you saw on the Hudson, aint it?" "Oh, it has a lot more soul and story than the Hudson places," she acquiesced at once. Sometimes she could feel that desire of his to give her as good as the best palpitate like a pulse through his words. "Well, anyhow, Lord knows it's mighty different from what I began with, Sally. Why, Honey, in my boy-days living on a farm in Missouri was mighty much like living on the fringes of hellen-blazes. Br-r-rt!" He clamped and unclamped his big hand, watching the strong muscle-play in it. "I can feel my fingers burn to this day where the frozen fodder sawed and rasped 'em in winter and the hot plough-handles bit and blistered 'em in summer. And then, afterwards, those old St. Louis days meant hard pulling, too, of another kind. From grocery clerk, to dry-goods clerk, to old Peele's real estate office, it was pull, pull, if not over one thing, over another. Takes a thundering lot of pulling to pull out in this world, Sally." All in a minute his voice sounded perplexed and resentful. "Well, you did it, didn't you? You pulled out. I'm proud of you. I like the way you did it." "Do you, Pet? Do you like me?" he queried with a peculiar anxiety. "Yes, sir, I do." Black Chloe, who had been making slow trips between kitchen and dining-room for some minutes, stopped now to say, in a sort of Arabian Nights measure, "Ef you raddy fuh yo' brekfus, yo' brekfus raddy fuh you." "Better than anybody?" pursued Madeira, but his daughter was drawing him to the table, and he did not notice that her only answer was a quivering laugh. They sat down to a breakfast-table whose delightful appearance was due to that sense of colour in Sally Madeira's temperament. Both ate some fruit, because it was juicy and went down easily, and both looked at their coffee-cups. "Why don't you eat your breakfast, Daddy?" "Why don't you?" Perhaps if he had waited for her to tell him, her gladness would have sent her story bubbling to her lips, but he did not wait. "I'm bothered, Honey, that's why I can't eat." "What's the bother, Dad?" Madeira, considering that this was his opportunity, closed in determinedly, with that iron grip of his. "It's that man Steering, Honey." "Taken a foolish old dislike to him, haven't you, Dad?" She was ready for him, eager to get her case before him, to make her points quickly and surely. "Foolish," Madeira gasped and put his hand to his vest pocket. "Sally, girl, it's a matter of life and death, I take it." He rose from his chair, his face grey. Staggering a little to the left, he moved to the window, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the Garden of Dreams. Behind him the girl sat on quietly. She had put one hand to her chin, so that her face was up-tilted. The light from the window was strong on it. "Sally," began Madeira again, "I've never asked very much of you, have I? Always let you do as you please, haven't I? And it's too late now to try to force you to do anything, isn't it? Besides, I wouldn't do it anyway. I wouldn't like it that way. But I'm going to ask you to do something for me. Then I'm going to leave the doing wholly to you. I'm going to ask you to drop that man Steering. I thought it all out last night, Sally. I know that he and I are going to mix up if he doesn't keep well out of my sight. I'm going to ask you to drop him, for my sake, Pet." He came back toward her, and again he half reeled as he started. With one hand on her shoulder, he looked down at her. By now she was staring unseeingly at the bird that stared at the nest in the magnolia tree. "Are you going to do what I want, Honey?" His hand shook on her shoulder and when she turned to look up at him the ashen hue of his face frightened her. She nestled her cheek into his hand. "It's the God's truth I'm telling you, Sally," went on Madeira, "it's life or death, I think. I've got to get rid of Steering--I--I--oh, I hate him so." "And you won't tell me why, Daddy?" "And I won't--I can't--there's reason enough, Sally, that's all I can say. Can't you let it go at that, and help me out?" "Yes, Dad, yes," she said. "You've done such a lot for me, you've helped me out--it--be--a pity,"--her voice went astray in her throat, and in the strong light Madeira saw a wild pain on her upturned face--"pity if I couldn't do anything you ask me to--wouldn't it?" She got up suddenly and ran to the door. "Sally!" he called, "Sally, you don't mean--you don't--it isn't that"--but she was gone. _Chapter Nine_ GOOD-BYE! Madeira went off in the buckboard late that morning, and, having left word with black Chloe that he might have dinner at the Canaan Hotel, did not come home at all at noon. His daughter stayed in her room all morning, and far past her lunch hour. About the middle of the afternoon she got up from the bed where she had been lying and sat by the window that looked out across the Tigmores. Her father's face, in its frame of entreaty, trouble, unrest, hung between her and the hills, so that, for a time, she saw nothing but Madeira. Little by little, however, the hills themselves became insistent. They were very beautiful, a long, massed glory of colour, red and gold and green, all looped about by the silver cord of the Di. As the girl watched, a lone horseman came out of one of the wooded knobs and galloped down the ridge road toward Canaan. She could see him plainly, his breadth of shoulders, his high-headedness, his good horsemanship. She got up quickly, swaying toward the window, her hands over her heart, with the strange little pushing gesture, as though she must push her heart down. The horseman went on down the road toward Canaan. "Oh!" cried the girl presently, pleadingly, "if I may see him just once again! If I just don't have to lose him all at once!" She ran then across the room to another window, through which she whistled shrilly at the negro man dozing in the succulent grass in front of the stable. "Samson!" she shouted, "saddle Ribbon the quickest you ever did in your life!" And when she saw that the negro had roused sufficiently to execute her commands, she turned from the window hurriedly, went to her clothes-closet hurriedly, changed her house gown for a riding-habit hurriedly, and was out in the yard at the mounting block as the saddle mare was led up from the stable. Taking the bridle from the negro's hand, she leaped into the saddle and was off across the yard like a flash, while the lip of the astonished Samson sagged with impotent inquiry. Out on the ridge road, she urged the mare to a gallop. All the way she was talking to Madeira, almost praying to him. His face with its trouble and pain still moved before her. "Ah, but you will forgive me!" she was saying to it. "You wait. Wait and see how this ride turns out. I'm going to give myself just one chance, Dad. I'm going to find him, and I'm going riding with him. And I'm not going to say anything. But I look nice, don't I, when I'm riding--and loving--and hoping--and maybe he can't stand it, and if he can't stand it, and rides up close, and stops his horse and tells me--oh, what I hope he will tell me--why, Daddy, dear, I _must_ lean over into his arms for just one minute, mustn't I? You see that, don't you? And maybe after that, everything will be all right, and we can all be happy ever after. I don't see how we could help being happy ever after that, Dad!" And, praying so, on the galloping mare, Sally Madeira came into the main street of Canaan, and drew rein at last in front of her father's bank. Madeira saw her at once and hurried out to her. "I'm going to take a little last ride with Mr. Steering, Dad," she said, her head as high as a queen's and her voice strong and sweet. "I didn't want you to think that I was deceiving you. I wanted you to know about it before I did it." Often there was a good deal of the child in Sally's straight gaze, and Madeira saw it there now and loved it. "You do just exactly whatever you want to, Honeyful," he said. "I don't know--I----" He could not go on at all for a minute, and when he could go on he said abruptly, "I'm going to see Steering, too, before I quite bust up with him, Sally." Then he went quickly back to the bank, and the girl passed on down the street to the post-office, in front of which she saw Steering's horse at the hitching-rail. She sent a bare-footed boy inside to post a letter to Elsie Gossamer and to ask Mr. Steering to come out to her. While she waited, she could see Steering at the pen-and-ink desk, loitering there, one arm on the desk, watching the thin stream of people that went by him to the convex glass-and-pine booth where the post-office boxes were. The men from the Canaan stores, a lonely drummer from the hotel, some belated farmers and several Canaan young ladies passed Steering, the young ladies seeming not to see him, but, in some subtly feminine way, making it impossible for Steering not to see them--their glowing young faces, their enormous hats, the way their gowns didn't fit, the slip-shod carriage of their bodies, all the differences between them and the only other real western girl he knew. None of the people went out of the post-office at once, all idling at the door for a few minutes. From time to time there was quite a little crush at the door, so that Steering did not see Miss Madeira until her messenger reached him. Then he ran out to her quickly. "I shan't get down," she told him, speaking in a lower tone than the listening Canaanites approved of. "I was hoping that I might find you here. Get on your horse and let's go to the woods. Wouldn't you like to? The hills are one long glory to-day." It was not the note of her prayer, it was well-ordered and calm. Still, Steering's heart leaped like a boy's at her friendliness, and he began to speak his gratitude in a lyric tune: "Ah, what fortune! Just to be young and alive and off on the hills with you!" he said, and vaulted to his horse's back from the curb, so easily that even the Missourians who were candidly watching and listening, remarked, "Oh, well, it's because he's got some Missouri in him, that's why-for." Side by side, the horses moved down Main Street. At the bank Crittenton Madeira was standing at the plate-glass window. He had his thumbs in his trousers pockets, and he was rocking to and fro, shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet peculiarly, as though seeking for balance. His eyes were moodily thoughtful, and he kept snapping at his lower lip with his big white teeth. "Why, God bless you, Steering!" he cried pleasantly, moving out to the curb as the horses came up, "I made a mistake in missing you at the house yesterday. Want to see you again, as soon as I can. What about to-night, young man? Going to get in home early, aren't you, Sally?" "Yes, Dad, early." "Well then, my boy, you just stop by the bank, when you get in from the hills, will you? I shan't leave the bank before eight o'clock. Shan't be home to supper, Honeyful." "All right, Mr. Madeira, I'll come," assented Steering; "look for me sometime before eight." "All right, my boy. So long, Honeyful." Again the horses moved off, side by side. Soon the town lay far behind the riders, who were following the shimmering Di around the blue hills. Where the road ran up the bluff into heavy timber they got into deep odorous silences, the silences of young unspoiled places; musical, too, somehow, over and beyond the stillness. Where the road came down to the bottom land along the river the silence shook with the river's silver mystery. No matter where the road ran, always off beyond them lay the hills, ridge upon ridge, beautiful, glorious. "Aren't they tremendous?" said the girl, "Aren't you glad they are almost yours?" A sense of possession was indeed mounting into a cry of rejoicing within Steering. He admitted it and then laughed at it. "It's the house of Grierson that should rejoice," he said longingly. "Wait until I bring you out above Salome Park," said the girl. "I, too, have some land up here that's worth while. From my land you can look straight across the country for miles, back again into your land." Sometimes, as they journeyed, they passed log cabins backed up against the long hills, or squatting close to the shining river. Sometimes, as they journeyed, the red bluffs beetled up above them, tall and frowning. Sometimes the trees, trailing long green veils, all but met across the Di below them. Once they passed a saw-mill, set and buzzing; once they had to wait in the woods while a string of cattle stampeded by; once they saw a man in a skiff far down the Di. He raised his hand and waved to them for loneliness' sake. He looked sick with loneliness. "You know your Missouri by heart," Steering commented admiringly, as she led him through bridle-paths and by short cuts with a fine woodsmanship. "Well, I ought to. The times that I have been over it, with Piney, a ragged Robin-goodfellow at my heels! This is the apple-jack country that we are in now. Did you know that? Apple-jack stands for our big red apples and for zinc. There's some of both down here, see!" She stopped him on a high spur in the ridge road and waved her riding whip toward the flats below, whose miles upon miles of apple trees made him wonder. "But wait for Salome Park," she insisted, and led him on. Riding along beside her, listening to her, forgetful of his complications, his hills billowing toward him, Steering grew intensely happy. Just to look at her was enough to make a man happy. Her black, semi-fitting riding-habit outlined her graces of form enchantingly, the admirable litheness of her broad deep chest, her firmly-knit back. In her vigour of well-shaped bone and sinew and muscle she constantly emphasised the unpoetic nuisance of superfluous flesh. Beneath her little black hat her burnished hair lay coiled in soft smooth masses low on her neck. The wonderful vitality that beat through her veins brought the red colour to her cheeks in delicate waves. In her sunny amber eyes the high lights danced far back, dazzlingly. "Now," she cried at last, "one more climb, and here we are at the summit! Fine, isn't it? That's Salome Park, all of it, as far as you can see, until you see the Tigmores curving around way off yonder to the west again. Ah, yes, I thought you would like it!" From the summit of the Tigmore Ridge, on which they had stopped, there spread out an endless stretch of country, with small cleared spaces where the wheat and corn could grow, and with trout glens gleaming here and there through the trees, and with bosky places and woodsy places in between. "Oh, it's wonderful," said Steering. "This is the best view in the Tigmores," said the girl. "From here you can imagine that you see the Boston Mountains on a clear day. And away off down there run the Kiamichi--you will have to take my word for it, you can't see them. Cowskin Prairie, where the three States and the Territory come together, is off that way, too." The big Missouri loneliness hung over it all, shutting them in, shutting the world out. "Psha! there isn't any world outside," said Steering, and drew his horse nearer to hers. "There isn't any world outside. This is all there is to it, and just you and I in it. Don't you believe me?" "We will play that's the way of it," she said, the spell of the land upon her, too, the spell of the day upon her, her own heart's red spell upon her. "Oh, me! Oh, me!" He brought his horse up closer, his eyes finding hers, and pleading with them. "Well?" she cried, "well?" a wavering, waiting smile on her lips. Even like that, even leaning toward him she had a splendid self-trust; she was confidential, but a little remote. Suddenly the man beside her clamped his jaws together harshly and held his tongue imprisoned behind his teeth. His chest lifted and shook as he sucked down a deep breath. There, near her, the glory of the hills outrolled before him, the keen snap of the elixir of love, the deathless, in his blood, life seemed hard, brutally hard. Everything was hard, and wrong. He had come down here for practical purposes, he had come needing every ounce of his energies for those purposes, yet, day by day, and minute by minute, he was being confronted by psychic or moral crises, of one kind and another, that used up all the force in him. Here and now the demand upon him was terrific. His love for Sally Madeira had grown upon him daily, hourly, engaging all that was best in him, pulling him away beyond his old best, inspiring, and remaking him. To have to fight it, even for her sake, even because he must protect her from so hard a fate as fate with him promised to be, was like sacrilege. The force of his self-conflict took all the colour from his lips, all the light from his eyes. "My God! My God!" he cried, a short, sharp cry, that beat up the Tigmores and broke and splintered into the big loneliness futilely. Then he jerked his horse about abruptly. "We must go back now," he said. But the girl, who had been watching, turned her eyes from him and held her horse still for a short moment. The glory of the hills came on across the wide park to her and enfolded her, met in kind by the radiance of her wonderful hair, her sunny eyes, her glowing skin. The joy of the night before, the morning's passionate grief, the ingenuous hope and prayer in her ride after Steering, the sweet, anxious torture of the journey to Salome Park were all giving place to a large, impersonal comprehension of the conflict in Steering's soul. She had known before that there was trouble brewing between him and her father. She knew now, past all doubting, that he loved her, knew it from his face, his voice. And even while her heart filled and quivered with knowing it, some higher power of divination made her know, too, that he was caught between his love of her and his difficulty with her father in an inexplicable, soul-shaking way. When Steering, a few feet below her, turned again towards her, she looked finer, fairer, more immortally young and strong than he had ever seen her look. She rode down to him fearlessly and put her hand out. "Sometimes the thing to do is just to stand steady," she said, "isn't that it?"--bridging all the unspoken thought and feeling between them, understanding, helping. He clung to her hand, and its answering pressure was that of a comrade's, strong and reassuring. "Miss Madeira," he said, at last, simply, "things are so bad with me that if I don't stand steady and face them exactly as they come, not giving in an inch anywhere along the line, I shan't be able to stand at all." "Ah, but you will stand that way--steady," she said, and drew her hand from his, and led the way homeward. She had accepted her fate to wait and endure while he "faced things." They went back into the sunset together, almost silent. Far and wide rolled the hills in their flaunting glory, and, now and again, the girl's breath trembled and stung her,--that tidal sense of colour leaping and rioting within her, perhaps. Now and again the man's jaws set together more firmly. When they talked at all it was of little things. "Why didn't I ever meet you at Miss Gossamer's?" he asked once. "You were in Philadelphia when I was visiting Elsie, that was why. Neither you nor Mr. Carington were in New York that month. I remember that I got an idea that Elsie missed Mr. Carington, or you, or both. Mr. Carington was in love with her, wasn't he?" "Yes, he's always been in love with her, I think.--Do you like the East?" he asked again, not caring for the subject of Miss Gossamer. "To get an education in." "You are well educated," he said, as though making comparisons. In that matter of education, her selective abilities had been indeed good. She had taken from her opportunities developmental elements and used them within herself wisely. She had fine conceptions of art, she was well-read; and because she had foreseen that she would be too rich to have any separate use for the things of art and learning, she had seized upon and welded all her inclinations and accomplishments into an harmonious, delightful completeness as Woman. In the result, her education seemed to be one of the especial reasons that you liked her. "But as for that," said Steering, speaking his thought aloud, "reasons don't count. There are plenty of reasons, but one really never gets at the biggest reason of all." "You hardly expect me to understand that," she said, laughing frankly, a musical laugh that had in it the shaking, white flash of a rock-fluted hill-stream. "No, no! I don't expect you to understand that," he said. They went on through the deep, odorous wood, down close to the river's pale, shallow mystery again, and so back to the big gate at Madeira Place. There at the gate the girl put out her hand to him again. "Good-bye!" she said softly, "good-bye!" As he bent to kiss the hand his breath came hard. "It is not good-bye," he said. "It shall not be. I swear it." Then he dashed on down the ridge road toward Canaan, to find Crittenton Madeira. _Chapter Ten_ WHO'S GOT THE TIGMORES? That Monday was hard on Madeira. It was his normal mental habit to come to a conclusion instantly, and cut a way for it across other people's ideas and notions with the impetus and onslaught of a cannon-ball. That Monday his mentality was below--or above--normal. He kept telling himself that he was mixed. His desire to crush Steering, pick him up and crumple him and thrust him aside, stood before him constantly, like the picture of the physical thing. Up to the time that he had seen his daughter run out of the dining-room that morning, her face averted, the desire had been steadily taking on colour and size. But, with the girl's brave broken cry, there had come on to him an intolerable question. For a long time he would not let the question get into words, or in any way define itself within his brain. Still, all morning long, he recognised that the question and that desire of his to crush Steering were ranged before him in some sort of fierce competitive effort. A thousand times he wished that he had had the courage to ask Sally candidly just what she had meant, just where she stood with regard to Steering, but he knew that he could never have asked her. Good friends though he and his daughter were, there was between them the definite reserve that lies between all good friends in the sphere of the big things of life. He could not have asked her, and she could not have told him if he had asked her. He fretted through a busy morning in a terrible uncertainty. When Sally had come by the bank to tell him of her proposed ride with Steering, he had watched her with painful, anxious scrutiny. But the girl's control had become perfect by that hour, and Madeira had to go back into the bank with the uncertainty still thickly upon him. Pausing there in the bank at the plate-glass window for a reflectful moment, he came to a swift resolve. He saw that he could not afford to make any mistake. He resolved to give Steering another chance to get right on the company matter. When he had gone out to the curb to make an appointment for the evening with Steering, he had told himself that it was because the boy might as well have the chance as not have it, and, when he had gone back, he had known that, lie to himself about it as he might, it was because he was afraid for Sally Madeira, afraid that this Steering was about to mean something in her life, afraid that he, as the girl's father, might bring some unhappiness upon her. All the long afternoon the thing continued to worry him; added to the torment he was suffering from the burning letter in his vest-pocket, it was well-nigh unendurable. He had to work vehemently to make the time pass. Toward six o'clock, he began to realise that he had been shaping the time toward the evening's appointment with Steering. As he got it shaped he grew more peaceful. He was arranging things so that he could win out with Steering. Little by little he came to accept the winning out as an assured thing, and in accepting it his grievance against Steering lightened, finally appearing to him as an easy thing to dispose of. Even the letter in his pocket grew less scorching. Sometimes he forgot, for minutes together, that it was there. Upon the hypothesis that Steering would "come around" everything smoothed out. Resting securely upon that hypothesis, Madeira even formulated the words with which he would take Steering's surrender: "God love us, that's all right! You just trust to me from now on. From now on I'll look out for you, my boy." He could hear himself saying that. At six o'clock, still shaping the day toward the appointment with Steering, he took a great bevy of men, farmers, stockmen, storekeepers, to the Canaan Hotel for supper. Headed by Madeira,--who kept close to him a man named Salver, to whom he constantly referred as "our engineering friend from Joplin,"--the party stamped into the hotel dining-room. And though various members of the party were heavily booted, big, brawny, and in other ways cut out as assertive, it was much as though they were not there, so completely did Madeira fill the room. In the hotel office, after the supper had been disposed of, though every man had a cigar or a pipe in his mouth, it seemed as though Madeira were really doing all the smoking, so insistently did the smoke wreaths twist about his big face, as the others edged nearer him and closed in upon him. On the outside, on the way back up town, the street seemed full of Madeira. Even when some few of the satellites broke away from him and scattered into other parts of the town, at the livery stable, the drug store, the Grange, talking a little dubiously, the impression was definite that they were only meteoric scraps, cast-off clinkers that could not stand the fire and the fizz and the whirl in Madeira's orbit. The superintendent of the Tigmore County schools, a long, lean man with a trick of covert sarcasm, happened to be in Canaan that day, and he cracked a joke about Madeira's "galley-gang," as the bevy of men swept past him on their way back to the bank. In Canaan almost any joke had a fair chance to become classic through immediate and long-drawn repetition, and the superintendent's joke was soon going up and down the street as majestically as though swathed in a Roman toga. By seven o'clock the joke had come on to Madeira's ears. At eight o'clock the superintendent was one of seven men who sat in conference with Madeira in the private office of the bank. That was Madeira's way. Besides Salver, the Joplin man, and the superintendent, there were at the conference Larriman, a man who counted his acres by the thousands in We-all Prairie; Heinkel, the German sheep-raiser from the southern part of the county; Shelby, from the cotton lands of the Upper Bottom; Pegram, the Canaan postmaster, and Quin Beasley, from the Grange store. They were all still there when Steering came in. Fresh from the hills, young, alert, deep-lunged, brown-faced, Steering was a good sort to look at as he strode into the room. He had ridden on into Canaan to the tune of high, purposeful music, after parting with Sally Madeira. His experience with her out there on the hills, his profounder impression of her fineness, had acted upon him like unbearably sweet harmonies, urgent, inspirational. He was this minute keen for something to do, something hard, earnest, momentous. If the whole truth were told, he wanted to fight. Madeira got up and shook hands with him, the more vigorously and noisily because of a sharp lambent flare that leaped out from the younger man's consciousness like a warning, and, reaching Madeira, stung and irritated him. As they stood gripping each the other's hand, both big, both vigorous, both determined, there was yet a fine line of distinction between them. On one side of the line stood the younger man with his ideals. On the other side stood Madeira, without any ideals. "Come in, Steering, my boy!" In spite of himself, in spite of the "my boy," Madeira's voice rang harshly. "Lord love us, we are having a little preliminary meeting here. You know all these gentlemen, I think? I'm just reading to them some matter that I have got ready. I'll go on reading, if you don't mind. Sit down over there and listen." And, Steering, shaking hands with the men nearest him, and bowing to the men farthest from him, sat down and listened. As Madeira resumed his chair at his desk, he seemed to brace himself toward some sort of finality. His voice, when he spoke, was ominously quiet for a noisy man's voice. "Here's something about the country in general," he began slowly, dispassionately, "that I think might interest a fellow who is considering coming down here either to mine or to farm. See what you think of this: 'It was in 1874 that the first carload of zinc ore went up to the zinc works in Illinois. That was the beginning. Heretofore Missouri had been supposed to be agricultural only, but here was a new Missouri, whose wheat and corn and fruit wealth was found to be supplemented by a mineral wealth of mammoth greatness. Settlers who wanted to mine began to come in, towns to spring up, and capital to be invested. The country was developed with lightning-like speed. From the Joplin stretch as a nucleus, lines of development have been steadily projected since 1874 to this day. There are not a great many undeveloped big acreages of land left in any of the southern Missouri counties. Of the few that remain by far the largest and most promising is the country known as the Tigmore Stretch. A remarkable feature of this region, besides its great agricultural possibilities, is that the surface exposure in the hillsides shows distinct mineral-bearing horizons, beds of zinc carbonates, whose promise of zinc sulphide at a greater depth is absolutely reliable. That it needs only deep shafting and drilling to unearth more remarkable riches than even Missouri herself has as yet yielded up, is evident from the outcrops'--by the way, gentleman," Madeira here interrupted himself to say, still in his quiet, dispassionate tone, "Salver has spent a good many days in the hills lately, and he has decided that the deeper-seated sulphides are just as surely in the hills as are the carbonates. He has done a lot of verifying. Aint that right, Salver?" Salver shuffled his feet and said yes, that was right, and Madeira read again from his notes, picking out bits here and there, and beginning each time, "Now take this. See what you think of this," his voice staying monotonously even. "'But, besides the zinc and lead and iron and coal, Missouri's well-improved farms invite the intending settler.'" (Steering thought of the lean hill farms as he listened.) "'There is an abundance of timber, in itself a great saving to the house-builder, and there are innumerable streams and water-courses and lakes. The altitude is over one thousand feet above the sea-level, and the climate is the healthiest in the United States. Both mining and farming can be carried on the year round.' ... And now, lastly, about this form letter that I have drafted for intending investors--it runs like this: 'Dear Mr. So-and-So,' (I mean to have the name filled in in each one, I want it to be a personal letter) 'May I ask you to examine the status of our Canaan Mining and Development Company, as set forth briefly in the enclosed pamphlet. A careful reading will convince you that we are organised for legitimate business and development, rather than for speculation. From personal knowledge, I am able to vouch for all the representations made by the Company. There are a half hundred Tigmore County men already in the Company'--which will, of course, be the fact when the letter is sent," explained Madeira. "'If you are not already one of them, I should like for you to be. I think you know my record in this part of the country, as well as the record of the enterprises for which I have stood sponsor, and I am confident that when you begin to feel interested in the mining developments through this section, you will investigate the Canaan Company before investing with the other companies that are sure to spring up like mushrooms in our track.' ... And then, this: 'The chief working properties of the Canaan Company, the Tigmores, can without doubt be made to pay from one hundred to five hundred per cent, on any investment within the first year. The Canaan Company will not have to depend upon shallow sheets of mineral against dead rock, as do many of the speculative enterprises of the mining section. The Canaan Company will not cut blind. It knows its field, it knows its chances, it knows its future'--and so on, and so on--how do you think it goes, boys?" They thought it went rapidly, and they said so with loud endorsement. "Well, I decided I'd get the thing moving here at home first," elaborated Madeira; "when all's said and done, a fellow likes to see his own place and people profit by what's going on. I'm going to send that letter out first to the Tigmore County people, and then move out in wider circles later. Shouldn't you think that was the way to work it out?" Yes, they thought that was the way. Indeed, the way seemed such a good one, and the work was evidently to be so carefully, so conscientiously performed that, to Steering, as he had listened, the crying shame of it all had been not that it wasn't true,--it might be true, there was no telling,--but that Madeira, its promoter, didn't care a rap whether it was true or not. Or, after all, was he, Steering, wrong about that? Had Madeira changed about? Been himself convinced that the actual prospects were so good that it was senseless not to depend upon them, without any of the wings that his fancy might give them? Had the thing become with Madeira, during these more recent days, something larger, something legitimate? All the other men were taking Madeira's attitude seriously. They showed that they were by the emotionalism, effusive, admiring, with which they hung upon Madeira for a few last words, by their blind dependence, their awe. When the séance broke up finally, they strayed away from him haltingly, like lost sheep. The impression of Madeira upon the men, as he let them out of the door, was so profound that it came on to Steering with the value of a reflection. He felt himself growing a little hopeful that the thing really was to be right and straight, as he watched Madeira turn from the door. For his part, Madeira came back toward his desk with a peculiar revulsion of feeling upon him. This effort of his to bring Steering around by strategy was galling him. He resented that any such effort should ever have been saddled upon him. He considered that from the start Steering should have been with him. Most fiercely of all he resented that he, Crittenton Madeira, should have let himself get into the position of trying to mollify Steering. "By God!" he was saying to himself with a convulsive anger, "Me to have to mollify! By God! Me!" Then the thought of Sally came back to him, goading him and confusing him. On a sudden impulse of candour he cried out to Steering, as he came on to his desk. "Steering! God love you, why do you want trouble between you and me? Don't you see that I have this thing here under my thumb? Don't you see that you mustn't go against me, my boy? Here's your chance back again. I'm handing it out to you. Stand by me. You won't be sorry. All my plans are made now. I have once or twice in my life thought the thing to do down here was to stir up a furore over some of the lakes and the springs and the scenery and make a health resort out of the region, but I have settled away from that now, settled straight at zinc. But Lord bless you! zinc or no zinc we can't fail to make a pile of money out of this. Why do you want to be a fool and hold back from me when I'm willing to pull you along? You ought to see by now that you can't do anything without me, or go against me. 'Tisn't everybody I'm willing to pull along, Steering. Why, boy, from the start, I've treated you on the square, let you know me on the inside--let--and, here and now, I'm still willing to pull you along, if you'll come along!--eh, what?" With Madeira's words, matching Madeira's excitement, blazing furiously and whitely, out leaped the slower, stronger fire of the younger man's personality. "See here!" shouted Steering, "twice now I've done my best to hope that somehow, somewhere you were going to throw me one line of commercial honesty and decency. I haven't asked you to measure up to very high standards, I'd have been satisfied with damned little; I've waited on you and hoped for you and let you try to bull-doze me, but by God! I'm done. You hear, I'm done!" He got up and the lean strength of his determination and the long reach of his body were all-powerful. "Don't you try this game with me again, Mr. Madeira! Don't you ever try any game with me again--No! Keep back! Not that either!" Madeira had gone crazy for the time. Possessed only by that desire to crush the thing that opposed him, he lifted his big clenched fists straight up over his head and came at Steering, fiery-eyed, perfervid with relish of the moment when he could close down on his enemy and make an end of him. He panted as he came, and as he came the veins in his temples stood out, purple and knotted. A little line of froth lay upon his lower lip. "Eh, God! You!--Wait there!--You!--You!----" Steering, with the old prowess that had made the boys on the gridiron stand aside and howl for him, reached up and brought Madeira's arms down with a circling, sweeping blow, then caught the bulky, staggering body and thrashed it into a chair, forgetful that it was Madeira, forgetful of Sally Madeira, forgetful of everything for one red instant save a savage masculine joy in his own strength. Then he took out a cigar and lit it, and his mental readjustment followed quickly. "Mr. Madeira," he said, puffing slowly at the cigar, the match's yellow light on his face showing that he was pale, "I am sorry that you made me do that, sir. Still, I must add this to what I've said,--don't, please, ever try to pull me along with you again. I guess I'm going in a different direction. This leaves everything settled between us. Our paths aren't apt to cross again. You aren't hurt, I hope? There is nothing that I can do for you?" Madeira made no answer. He was sitting, a wooden figure, in front of his desk where Steering had thrashed him down. His temples were still purplish, but the crazy light was no longer in his eyes. They were dull and fishy. Steering had gone to the office door, then the bank door had clanked to behind him before Madeira moved. He began working his fingers then, watching them questioningly, stupidly. They felt stiff and numb. Suddenly he leaned forward exhausted. His head rolled on the desk. "Sally?" he whimpered, in a furtive, scared way, "Sally?" Then, all in a moment, he jumped to his feet, clutching at the pocket that held the Grierson letter, while words came from his mouth in vehement staccato yelps: "Eh, God! He'll go against me, will he? Wait. I'll show him. Who's got the Tigmores? Answer me that now? Who's got the Tigmores?" Off beyond his window tumbled the long Tigmore line. He crossed the room, all his strength back with him, and looked out upon the high black hills. "Eh, God!" he shouted, and beat at his chest where the letter lay, "Dead men tell no tales! _I've got the Tigmores!_" _Chapter Eleven_ TALL THINGS One late fall afternoon a man and a boy lingered under the shadow of tall trees and pondered tall things. The boy was propped against the trunk of an oak; his hat was pushed back from his face; his black tumbling hair made his slim brown face seem browner, his long eyes darker than they were; his young intensities of fancy and feeling were aroused, and manifest in the tremble of his lip, the vibrancy of his voice, the shaking light of his glance. The man lay flat on his back with a book spread out over his stomach and his long white fingers interlaced across the book fondly. Down at their feet the Di flowed swiftly, with the eyrie shiver on her bosom, making haste, like a frightened woman, past the lonely Tigmores toward the livelier corn and cotton lands. All around the horizon the sky so throbbed that here and there it rent the sheer cloud-veil that lay in delicate illusion over the blue. Through the trees played frightened flashes of colour, the whisk of a cardinal's wing, the burnt-red plume of a fox-squirrel's tail. In the air there was a palpitancy that was to the dream senses what colour vibrations are to the eye. The man took up the book and began to read from it, and this was the burden of the reading: "'Nobody can pretend to explain in detail the whole enigma of first love. But a general explanation is suggested by evolutional philosophy,--namely, that the attraction depends upon an inherited individual susceptibility to special qualities of feminine influence, and subjectively represents a kind of superindividual recognition,'" the man smiled gravely and repeated the last stave with questioning care, "'and subjectively represents a kind of superindividual recognition?--a sudden wakening of that inherited composite memory which is more commonly called passional affinity.'--I have a notion that that may mean something or other, Piney?" "Don't ast me." The reader began again: "'Certainly if first love be evolutionally explicable, it means the perception by the lover of something differentiating the beloved from all other women,--something corresponding to an inherited ideal within himself, previously latent, but suddenly lighted and defined,'--an inherited ideal--something differentiating the beloved from all other women," murmured the reader earnestly. He put the book back upon his stomach, and there was a long silence in the woods, broken by a distant reverberation, short, sharp, suggestive. Piney jumped, like the highly strung, alert young animal that he was. "Whut wuz it, Mist' Steerin'?" "Uncle Bernique's blasts, Piney. He's on the trail." The silence remained unbroken for another long period. "Mist' Steerin'," began Piney at last; he had a long spear of sere grass in his mouth and he chewed at it argumentatively, "d'you think,--I couldn't adzackly tell whut that writin' wuz a-aimin' at, but simlike f'm the way it goes on that ef the sort of thing it makes aout to happen happens onst, it oughtn't never to happen agin, hmh?" Piney's long drawn notes of rising inflection were musical. "Simlike, ef a man onst finds the right woman they oughtn't never to be no more right women, hmh?" "There ought not to be, Piney, son." "Well, but they gen'ly is, hmh?" Bruce straightened out one foot with an impatient kick. Ever since they had fallen into the habit of abstracted talks on this imponderable subject, Piney had seemed able, with a sort of elfin craft, to make Bruce remember Miss Elsie Gossamer's light, fleeting touch upon his life. He had never mentioned Miss Gossamer to Piney in all their mutual experience, yet the tramp-boy was constantly skirmishing up from afar with a generalisation, like a high-held transparency, that illuminated Miss Gossamer's memory for Bruce. Three hypotheses had presented to Bruce in the way of explanation: one, that he himself was possessed by a little embarrassed consciousness that he should have had any past at all in view of the present; another, that Miss Sally Madeira had just possibly set Piney on to worry him about Miss Gossamer; and the last, that Piney, divining that a man could hardly reach Bruce's age without some pages of romance behind him, was forever, out of his own perspicacity, trying to make Bruce re-read those pages, so that this new page, that had been turned under the hand of Sally Madeira, might not be written. "Piney," Bruce answered at last regretfully, "it's a pagan world. Men make mistakes. I think it's largely because they want so much to love that they love somebody, anybody, till the right person comes along." "Should think they 'ud wait," demurred Piney stubbornly. "Well, n--o, that's the notion of a man who has met the right person exactly in the beginning; or it's a woman's notion; but it isn't the notion of a man who, with a sense for beauty and sweetness, waits, like a harp for its music, out in the open where beauty and sweetness beat down upon him. Out in the open a man gets blind. Lord!" went on Steering, remembering Miss Gossamer again, and trying to explain her to himself, "how can a man help loving prettiness! That's what a man loves often and always, Piney, prettiness, grace, vivacity--and then once in his life he loves a woman--Hah!" cried Steering, as though he had at last got the best of Miss Gossamer, "that's it--that sounds good." "Well, d'you think," went on Piney, jerking his spear of grass viciously, "d'you think that a man cand fall in love with a lady rat off, just knowin' her a few weeks?" This was one of Piney's ways of manifesting the jealousy that disquieted him, slurring covertly, and with his lips flickering peculiarly, at Steering's brief acquaintance with Miss Madeira. He was always showing in innumerable ways the hold that Bruce had taken upon his young affections, but he could not help showing, too, the sore spot of his valuation of Steering's regard for Miss Madeira. Though they mentioned Miss Madeira between them only casually, Bruce knew for himself that Piney, in his crude but vehement way, was living through a boy's own high tragedy of love for a woman older than he and beyond his reach, and Piney knew for himself that Steering, in the most perfect flower of his capacity, had attained his destiny as a perfect lover, under circumstances most unpropitious. The fact that the woman who was the object of the boy's enraptured fancy had levied royal tribute upon the man's love in the same purple-mannered fashion brought boy and man close. Tacitly they recognised that the bond between them was strong enough to bear the weight of Piney's jealousy, and, both watching, they allowed the boy to depend from it, swing on it and strain it just enough to make both conscious that the bond was there. "You know what I think, Piney," said Steering after a long wait, in which he had been busy remembering the fulness of one moment in the Bank of Canaan. "I think that if she is the right woman a man can fall in love in one minute. And I think that if she is the right woman all eternity will not give him time to fall out of love with her and no sort of hell of bad situations will ever be wide enough to keep his thoughts away from her." Steering spoke with a well-ordered restraint, but a sense of the combination of situations that he himself had come into lent a ringing, protesting resonance to his voice, and Piney forgot to be jealous and flashed him a long, keen look of delight. Steering realised that he sometimes put into words the things that Piney yearned toward and dreamed, but could not express; and he also realised, from the added satisfaction that he got out of his words because of Piney's satisfaction in them, that Piney sometimes enlivened and enriched his own emotions for him. Their romancing made boy and man delicately complementary to each other. Steering had taken Piney's love for the girl who was beyond him as a fine and simple thing, and, taken in that way, it played up to Bruce's love with the rich imageries and colours of youth, and made Bruce younger, quicker for it. Piney, on his side, had a keen, shy consciousness of immaturity and inexperience that made him attend upon Bruce's outbursts of passion as upon an illumination of what this thing of man's love could be and should be at its biggest and best. "That's just exactly the truth," maintained Steering earnestly. It was remarkable how earnest he could be on this line of opinion. Miss Elsie Gossamer would have marvelled to hear him. Time was when he had agreed with Miss Gossamer that only people who had known each other a long time, as he and she had, could depend upon their attitude toward each other. The attitude between Miss Gossamer and him had seemed very reliable in those prehistoric days when congeniality of taste, a flower face and the probability of getting through life without much worry on your mind and a good cigar in your mouth had seemed sufficient to him. Things like that seemed pitifully insufficient now. He wheeled about restlessly and considered. From where he and Piney were they could hear the sound of a steam-drill, thud-thud-thudding into the heart of a distant knob of the Canaan Tigmores. That notion of Carington's and his about getting into the hills had undeniably balled up into the veriest nonsense under the pressure of Crittenton Madeira's control of the Tigmores. Steering pounded on the ground with one fist and clenched his hands tightly about his knees. That was not the worst, and he might as well face the worst. There was also by now the bitterest sort of animosity toward him on Madeira's part. Old Bernique, who was very fond of Miss Madeira and loathed her father, had commented to Steering upon that being Madeira's way with everyone who promised to be too much for him to handle--bah! it made Steering angry to consider that Madeira should ever have tried to "handle" him. He loosed the clench of his hands about his knees and jumped to his feet. That was not the worst, and he might as well face the worst. Naturally enough the daughter had had to go with the father. That ride across the sunset glory of the Tigmores had been good-bye after all. It had been two weeks since he had stood with her on the spur above Salome Park, and he had seen her twice since; once at the post-office, where she had said, "Good-morning, Mr. Steering"; once on Main Street in front of her father's bank, where she had said, "Good-evening, Mr. Steering." But for all these things, he was not done with Missouri yet. Even now he was waiting for old Bernique. When Bernique should come they would be off again on a long prospect. Bernique and he had been in the hills for two weeks, skirting the Grierson entail, picking, digging, sniffing for ore by day, sleeping long sleeps on forest leaves, heaped and aromatic, by night. He had that day ridden into Canaan for some clean clothes, and was beating back toward Old Bernique now, having picked up Piney down the river road. "Well, Piney, son," Steering invaded the rush of his own thoughts ruthlessly, "I expect I ought to be toddling. Going to ride part of the way with me? I think we shall fall in with Uncle Bernique up-stream a mile or so." "Why, yes," assented Piney, rising; he made a keen calculation of the time by the sun, as he got to his feet; "I'll go a-ways with you. I'd like to see Unc' Bernique--aint seen him simlike fer a long time." Their horses were tethered in a little glade below them and they went into the glade as they talked. "We like Uncle Bernique, don't we, Piney?" suggested Steering, relishing Piney's reference to the old Frenchman. "Best old man in the world," answered Piney, with the soft, sweet shyness, like a girl's, that was always in his voice when he let his affections find expression. Before this Steering had heard, from old Bernique himself, the short story that had connected the affections of the tramp-boy and the wandering prospector. Piney, Old Bernique had said, was the child of a woman whom he had known in St. Louis in the old days. Old Bernique, who was only middle-aged Bernique then, had lived as a neighbour to the woman, whom he had loved very much. But the woman had married another man, and had gone away to the Southwest. And, later on, Old Bernique had followed. And in these later days, since the woman's death, it had been given him to keep watch and ward over her child, Piney. Piney's parents had not been Italians at all, so Old Bernique told Steering, just plain, everyday Americans, from up "at that St. Louis," quite poor and always on the move. The father had been known throughout the country-side as a "blame' good fiddler" and the mother had been, oh a vair' wonderful woman, if one could believe Old Bernique. But there was no Italian blood in Piney. His feeling for Italy had to be explained in another way. It was the great sweet note of poetry, music and beauty, of that far country, vibrating across the years and the miles, taken up as a memory in the Missouri hills by Old Bernique and, through him, reaching a Missouri boy's heart, all tuned and pitched for it. That was all there was to Piney's story. It was only a fragment. Reaching their horses in the glade, Steering and Piney mounted and started up the river road. "Can't you come with us for the rest of the week, son?" asked Bruce, as they journeyed. "Nope. Goin' trampin' by myse'f." It was Piney's habit to disappear for days, gipsy that he was. Perhaps the habit was growing upon him a little of late. He had no abiding place; sometimes he referred to one hill shanty, sometimes to another, as home; but the home-feeling with him was at its fullest and strongest when he was "trampin'." Ostensibly his vocation was that of a travelling farm-hand, but it was all ostentation. Piney would not work. Not while the pony could carry him from hospitable farm-house to hospitable farm-house. He was a knight of the saddle, the uncrowned king of the woods, and Bruce, riding along beside him now, regarding him, enjoying him, would not have exchanged comradeship with the boy's simple, high-tuned relish of life for comradeship with kings. "Miss Madeira is going to Europe, I hear, Piney," adventured Steering. "Yass." Piney said nothing more for some time. He looked very thoughtful. "Y'see," he went on after a bit, "I'm a-thinkin' abaout ridin' off--some'ere--over the Ridge,--bein' gone fer a long time." "Oh, Lord!" groaned Steering. He very well knew what was taking Piney away. It was hard on him that the boy's plan for absence should pile up on Sally Madeira's plan, but he could understand that it would be harder on the boy to stay in the Tigmores with the inspiration of the Tigmores hushed and gone. "Not thinking of going to Italy yet, Piney?" It had come to be an accepted joke with them, that penchant of Piney's for Italy. The boy was willing to laugh about it, but his eyes always sobered dreamily in the end, and invariably he wound up with, "but I'm a-goin', all righty, an' don't you fergit it." He did now. "But y'see, whilst I'm a-waitin' I git kinda tired the hills, Mist' Steerin'," he complained, trying to explain how it was with him without telling anything. "Lots er times I go off an' don't come back fer a long time." Not till Miss Madeira comes home, Bruce added out of his own intuition. "Git sorta tired the hills," repeated Piney stubbornly. "Do they stop talking to you, the hills and the woods and the quiet?" "Yass, they do, sometimes, when I'm pestered--not as I pester much," he laughed and broke off suddenly in his laughter, with a little sobbing shake in his breath, and passed on ahead of Steering, who looked away from him up the bridle road that cut into the Canaan Tigmores. "There comes Uncle Bernique!" cried Steering then, glad of a chance to divert Piney. Gazing toward Bernique welcomingly, he was diverted himself. The old man made no answer to the shouts that Piney and Steering sent out to him. He peered straight toward them, through them, his eyes dry and brilliant. He seemed hardly able to sit on his horse, because of a sort of enervating restlessness; he paid no attention whatever to his bridle; both of his hands were in the pockets of the tattered old coat that covered his body. "Hi there, Pard!" hallooed Piney, with a boy's rich assurance that recognises neither class nor age. "Found!" the old man tried to speak, but made a dry, clicking sound instead. He took his hands from his pockets and held up in each hand a lump of mineral earth. As he came toward them in that way, both hands upheld, the wild fever light in his eyes, his thin body electrified with a strange new vitality, to Steering, who saw all at once what it meant, his movement was that of the last full strain of the miner's epic. "Found! Found!" he repeated, as though the sound was blessed, and he held up the rocks, as though the sight was heaven. When they reached him, trembling by now themselves, they had to help him from his horse and quiet and rest him by the roadside before he could tell his tale. Waiting nervously, Bruce took the nuggets and regarded them; beautiful specimens, one stratum opaque, and seaming on to that stratum another, reddish and glinting, like the spiked fire of gold; and on that stratum another, grey and silver-faceted. "Pretty splendid," cried Steering, and sat down suddenly and weakly. It was not to be forgotten that Old Bernique had emerged from the bridle-path in the Canaan Tigmores. "When did you make the find, Uncle Bernique?" he asked hoarsely. "Thees minute," control was coming back to the old man, he raised his head from Piney's shoulder and leaned toward Bruce--"only thees minute! And for twenty year I have known that it must be here, the ore, lead and zinc, in the gr-r-eat quantity! For twenty year! And just thees minute have I found it!" At the wailing sound of time lost, life lost, in Bernique's voice, long lines of ghostly, bent-backed miners, with ghostly, unavailing picks and shovels, seemed to defile down the bridle-path from the Canaan Tigmores in historic illustration, conjured up by the hypnosis of the old man's words. "The troub' has been," went on Bernique feverishly, "that we have not looked for the ore in that place where the ore is----" "That's always the troub'," muttered Piney. He had got his composure back and he seemed now rather good-naturedly contemptuous. Piney's was not a nature to accommodate itself to the exaltation of an ore find. "The mother lode runs through the Canaan Tigmores," went on Bernique hurriedly, "of that I am now convince', but it comes to the surface,--it comes to the surface,--ah, God above! I expire with it,--let us go to Choke Gulch, and I will show you where it comes to the surface!" He was insistent, his breath had come back to him, and they let him have his way, following him up the bridle-path into the long shadow of the Canaan Tigmores. On the top of the first bluff they tied their horses again and took a foot trail where the bluff, having rolled back a mile from the river, tumbled precipitately into a deep yawning gully. From the timbered eminence the prospect below was as dank and gloomy as a paleolithic fern forest. Sodden, mossy, and almost impenetrable, the hill split and dropped into Choke Gulch. From far down within the black and tangled fastnesses came the solemn ripple of slow-running water. A veil of weird loneliness hung over the cavernous place and the air that shivered up to the three was cool and laden with damp, sweet odours. Old Bernique began to descend. As they proceeded, the old man's sense of something stupendous impressed itself more and more upon his companions. Farther on down, the solemn quiet of the Gulch became unbearable, but no one spoke. Little sunlight penetrated the dense curtain of brown and red leaves overhead, and what little flickered through had an electric brightness against the dead brown of the leaf-carpeted ground and the grey and hoary tree-trunks. Every bird that came to the tree-tops sang once, but it was only when he discovered his mistake, lifted his wings and careened away gladly into the upper light. "Whayee!" Piney found a shivering voice at last, "ef I never git rich till I come down into an ugly hole fer riches I'll be mighty pore all my days." Bruce smiled absently at the boy's susceptibility, but threw a reassuring arm about his shoulder. He smiled again when presently Piney drew away. That was Piney's habit, as affectionate in instinct as a kitten, and as timid of manifestation as a wild doe. Old Bernique called his little party to a halt at the bottommost dip of the Gulch, where a deep, clear and rock-bound spring wound murmurously over a rocky bed. Two red spots came out in the old man's cheeks, his eyes began fairly to flame again, his breath came in wheezy gasps, and his old face pinched up sharp and sensitive as a pointer's nose. He pointed to the débris of shattered rock about the spring. "The wataire fell over a cap-rock here," he said brusquely, the nervous constriction of his throat making it hard for him to say anything. "The strata underneath were soft and had been worn away by the wataire. I put a duck-nest of dynamite in there this morning,--and--see--there!" Anybody could see; the zinc and lead ores were disseminated, rich and warm, in the loose rocks of the out-cropping. "It's a vein thirty inches thick and it runs,--it runs str-r-aight through the Canaan Tigmores,--sometimes sinking many feet from the surface,--but always there,--I am vair' sure of that,--str-r-aight through the Canaan Tigmores----" The old man's breath began to jerk with a sick, sobbing sound. "Well,"--Steering was not so unaccustomed a miner by now but what the sight there in the Gulch had its effect upon him,--"Well," he said gingerly, "if you are right, Uncle Bernique, if the face doesn't cut blind, why, Mr. Crittenton Madeira and old Grierson have a good thing, haven't they?" "Urg-h-h!" Old Bernique made a gnashing sound and leaned his head listeningly. The thud of the stream-drill reached them faintly from its place afar in the Canaan Tigmores. "They come fas'!" he said mournfully. "Wisht I wuz aouter this," interrupted Piney, shivering. "I have been track' thees mother lode,"--began old Bernique again, his feverish gaze again seeking out Bruce,--"I think,"--he stopped and fell to musing,--"What you gawn do, Mistaire Steering," he queried suddenly, with his weary old head twisted to one side, "what you gawn do about thees?" "Lord, Uncle Bernique, I can't do anything. You might do something for yourself. You might sell your rights of discovery, might not you?" "Non! Non! There is othaire thing,--there is a most good possibilitee,--thees mother lode, Mistaire Steering, it come out,--I think it come out somewhere, eh?--Mistaire Steering, have you got leetle mawney?" "That's exactly how much, Uncle Bernique, a little." "Mistaire Steering, eef you got leetle mawney to buy leetle land, I think I know good land to buy." "I have told you all along to consider my money your money, Uncle Bernique." "We must be vair' quiet about all thees, Mistaire Steering,--Piney, you compr-r-ehend that we tr-r-us' you, as I have always tr-r-us' you, absolutement! We must be vair' quiet. Thees leetle piece land run down close to the rivaire, below Poetical, at those Sowfoot Crossing, and eet ees not vair' good land for the farming----" Thud! Thud! The old man caught his temples with both hands. "I am 'most craze' by that steam-drill," he whispered. "Eet come so close to our secret. Let us get away. That sound cr-r-aze me. Found! Found! Vair' large lode, Mistaire Steering.--Sacré! The sound of that steam-drill is to me the most worse thing. That lode run through and come out by the rivaire, eef I am not mistake', Mistaire Steering. I go to buy that land to-night. You go back with Piney, please sair. Eef you come with me, you excite the question and the price. To me it will be sold without question. I am eccentrique, they say. You return to Canaan and have your mawney ready for me, Mistaire Steering. That bat Grierson, Mistaire Steering! When I think----" Old Bernique was still throwing out riches of castigation at Grierson, Madeira, himself, fate, still half incoherent, when the three friends at last got back to their horses, and separated. Down at the foot of the bluff again, Steering, a little sore-headed with the ache of anticipation, hope, doubt, sat his horse in Piney's company and watched the old man ride off up the river unattended. Steering felt excited and exalted himself, but the old Frenchman was really, as he said, "craze'." Piney was the only sensible one left. Piney was not at all enthused and stayed very quiet until he parted with Bruce some distance out from Canaan. Bruce went on back to town to wait for Old Bernique at the hotel. Piney took the path that led up to the bluff behind Madeira Place. As he came through the Madeira grounds Crittenton Madeira came out of the house and stood on the back porch, regarding him quizzically. Piney had a peculiar, poorly hidden dislike of Madeira that, taken with the boy's charm of personality, more or less amused the Canaan capitalist. "Where have you been, young man?" "In the woods." "Look here, learning anything when you are out with that man Steering?" "Yep." "What, for instance?" "Not to talk." Madeira laughed carelessly. "You go and get Miss Madeira to sing, young Impudence," he said. "I'd just as soon hear the tenor, too. I am going to rest,"--he sighed deeply,--"I'm going to try to rest out here in the garden. I'd like some music." Madeira went to the garden and stretched out on a bench, the smile that he had given Piney staying on his face, crinkling in automatically with the grievous strain that was about his eyes and mouth in these days. After a little he closed his eyes softly, enjoyingly. From the library came the carolling sweetness of Piney's tenor. And by and by, following it, soaring up with it, the glorious fulness of Salome Madeira's velvety soprano. Bruce, far down the river road, heard, too. _Chapter Twelve_ THE COLOSSUS OF CANAAN After Crittenton Madeira had organised the Canaan Mining and Development Company the _Canaan Call_ sent him in one leaping, exultant paragraph out of his position as "our esteemed fellow townsman" into a position of far more classic significance by naming him the "Colossus of Canaan." Madeira was a man of lightning-like execution of a plan, once he had got hold of his plan, and Bruce Steering, sharpened by circumstances into a consideration of every chance about him and even beyond him, had brought Madeira the plan from far away New York. Throwing his immense energies toward the prospect of ore in the Canaan Tigmores, bringing forward every dollar of his fortunes,--as usual not so large as they were accredited with being,--to finance his new projects, Madeira had accomplished wonders within an incredibly short time. There were those, unacquainted with the contents of an envelope in Madeira's vest pocket, who marvelled that a sharp man should let his projects be entangled with entailed property, but for the most part Canaanites were too accustomed to follow where Madeira led to marvel, or to ask foolish questions. Even for those so inclined Madeira had good answers. On the one side, he could show, from the progress already made, that there must be such a great quantity of ore in the Canaan Tigmores that it would be possible to take fortunes out of them during old Grierson's possession of the hills, even though the old man lived but a few years. On the other side he could show that it was not in the Canaan Tigmores alone that he was pushing the search for ore, but in the outlying land that had passed into his control as well. It was true that he had put a steam-drill into the Canaan Tigmores, but it was equally true that he had put steam-drills up the Di at two or three points far beyond the Tigmores. He made it as plain as day that the operations of the Canaan Mining and Development Company would extend all over that section, and that the Company's chances could not be taken away even by the death of Grierson. And he made it equally and cheerfully plain that Grierson would not die. Out on the streets of Canaan, among the puppets who danced at his touch upon the strings, Madeira never faltered in his exposition of the Company's affairs and enterprises, and in the Company's offices behind the Bank of Canaan, his direction was steady, resourceful and comforting. He could build up potential profits for the investing Canaanites and build down potential failure in a manner so satisfying that the Canaanites gladly gave him their money and fondly hung upon him. It was Mr. Quin Beasley, that conclusive reasoner, who said, "Simlike ef you talk to Crit fer abaout th'ee bats of your eye he cand show you that ef innybody,--don't keer who,--would putt, wall say,--wall, don't keer haow much you say,--as much as tin thousand,--in the Comp'ny an' leave it slumber fer say--wall, don't keer haow long you say,--as much as fo', five months,--it 'ud be wuth,--be wuth,--wall, I don't keer to over-fetch, but I reckin f'm whut Crit says, th'aint no tellin' whut it _would_ be wuth." And it was the _Canaan Call_ that endorsed Mr. Madeira in that emphatic editorial, which is herewith reproduced, just as it was doled out relentlessly to the few Canaan sulkers, under the caption of "IT WILL BE DRAMATIC, BY GOSH! "When Crit Madeira, the Colossus of Canaan, accomplishes what he surely shall accomplish, when the roar of mill machinery begins to reverberate through the hills of the future Joplin, arousing the vast energies and resources of We-all, Pewee and Big Wheat, let us be generous. If there was a sponge, kicker, shirk or drone, let us cover his selfishness with the mantle of charity. Leave him under the beating light of progress to wrestle with whatever remnant of a conscience he may happen to have. If he can stand by and coolly watch us work our gizzards out for the common good, and then reach out to share the fruits of our sacrifices, energies and enterprise, without a qualm, we can remember that there are many things in this world worth far more than money, one of which is that sense of having done our neighbour's share as well as our own. It will be enough for us to watch when, bewildered by the lusty life and growth and the maze of new-made streets of the future city, the laggard stands debating with that other self, that genius that has kept him what he is. Fancy his striking attitude, thumbs in arm-pits and eyes rolling up to some tall spire, crying out to his other self, 'Thou canst not say I helped do this! Shake not thy towseled locks at me!'--By gosh, it will be dramatic!"[2] Within a month after Bruce Steering had entered the portals of Missouri, Madeira had put his first steam-drill into the hills. Within two more weeks he had put in another. It took him less time to do the things that other men think about and talk about and put off than any man Steering had ever known. One day, not so very long after old Bernique's find in Choke Gulch, word had gone over Canaan like an eagle's scream that ore had been struck in the Canaan Tigmores. Old Bernique had wrung his hands, and Steering had gone grimly back to a little up-river shack, at Redbud, below Sowfoot Crossing, where he was spending a great deal of his time these later days. As the winter broke, Madeira's ability to seize the pivotal point on which to turn theory into practice wrought so surely and so swiftly as to be inexplicable to anyone unaware of the fever that drove him on. His first face of ore had cut blind, but he only put two more drills to work, and in the early spring one of the drills struck ore again, a small face, but ore. They had not found the big lode yet, but every indication was that much to the good. The _Canaan Call_ became so jubilant over the second find that even the sulkers lost sight of the fact that the find was on entailed property. Confidence in Madeira went to high pitch, a supreme tension that a touch might snap. All Canaan was waking up in these days, all Tigmore County was nervous. Town and county were in a pleased, tortured, ante-boom consciousness that, first thing you know, there would be a new Canaan. Some new streets were laid out; a number of people bought chenille portières; and though Crittenton Madeira quietly drew his money out of the Grange, for other and weightier uses, the Grange secured new capital elsewhere and flourished mightily. For farmers from We-all Prairie and Pewee and Big Wheat Valley, cotton raisers from the "Upper Bottom" and corn and cattle men from the "Lower Bottom" came into Canaan "to trade," and filled the aisles of the Grange, gossiping, getting information about the ore developments, then crossing swiftly and determinedly to Madeira's bank to leave their money with the president of the Canaan Mining and Development Company. Out at his house, in his office, in the garden, on horseback, on foot, Madeira kept his daughter Sally near him. He watched his daughter almost constantly, just for the satisfaction of seeing her. As the girl went about her household duties, or walked in the garden with her long, supple stride, or rode the high-tempered horses from the stable, or drove with him, the fine glow on her face, her magnificent health and honesty and strength radiating from her, she was, for Madeira, a continual justification. "Catch me taking anything away from a girl like that to give it to a damn Yankee like Steering," he would tell himself over and over. "Won't she do the most good with it? It'll be hers soon. Won't she do the most good? Answer me that, now." So much for the outside where Madeira lived in the world of realities and met the various demands of each day's relations capably and coolly. Inside his private office behind the bank, at his desk, he lived in another world, a world where shadow became substance, possibility became actuality and fear made facts out of fancy. At night, after Canaan had put its lights out and had lapsed into the shroud-like stillness of a country town's sleep, Madeira was there, with his ghost, in his office,--figuring, figuring. On the roll-top of his desk he kept a letter spread out in front of him. It always happened that he took that letter out of his vest pocket for the purpose of destroying it, and it always happened that when he got up, far into the night, he picked the letter up and replaced it in his pocket. If the words of the letter had been seared across eternity with the red-hot iron of fate they could not have been more indestructible. Besides the letter, Madeira always had on the desk maps, geological surveys, time estimates. Von Moltke never figured half so carefully nor on half so many shaky hypotheses as did Madeira in his office during these nights. He came to know, through awful, blood-sweating hours, that with so much blasting, so much pick-and-shovel work, allowing for so many back-sets from water and blind rock, so many shifts of men could progress to certain points, in so many days. He sometimes realised that all this was unnecessary; that it was aging him and crazing him; that he could put his work through on the Tigmores long before word of old Grierson's death would, by any unfortuitous accident, leak into Canaan, if it ever got there; that he would never have to resort to the subways that he was figuring on to steal the ore out of the Canaan Tigmores; that all this ceaseless, merciless calculation was but the reaction of a conscience, stalking, gaunt and lunatic, through the charnel-house of its own experience. But for all that he had to go on crossing bridges that he was never to reach, covering black tracks that he was never to make. Often at his desk there, his mind became strangely obtunded and he babbled vapidly; his big face pinched up till it seemed lean and grey, and he pitched forward, face down, upon the desk. FOOTNOTE: [2] The author acknowledges a conspicuous indebtedness to a Southwestern weekly for this editorial. _Chapter Thirteen_ MISS SALLY MADEIRA'S SWEETHEART Miss Sally Madeira, trying to make her way down Main Street one Saturday afternoon, in the early spring of the year 1900, had to go very slowly because of the country people in front of the Grange. Occasionally some of the farm-wives called to her shily. The road was noisy and dusty with the passing of mule-teams, buggies, buckboards, riders on horseback. Out of the continuous rattle a child's voice piped shrilly. The owner of the voice was a little girl who wore a hat with a bunch of cherries on it. She stood up in the bed of a farm-waggon and screamed at Miss Madeira, who at once made her way to the edge of the side-walk of broken bricks and waited for the little girl's waggon to come in to the curb. The waggon was full of children, but Miss Madeira was somehow able to call them all by name. "He gimme fifty cents!" was what the cherry-hat little girl said immediately, with some genius for steering conversation toward the things that interested her. "You rich thing!" cried Miss Madeira, and then foolishly, and unnecessarily, inquired, "who is he?" "Yo' sweetheart." Miss Madeira lowered her voice in such a suggestive manner that when the little girl spoke again her voice was lowered, too. "When did you see him?" asked Miss Madeira. "See him ev' day. I cand go daown to Sowfoot by myse'f. He's sick." Miss Madeira looked quickly at some of the older members of the family in the waggon. They were a hill farm family from Sowfoot Crossing neighbourhood. "Yep, he's been sick,--with the malary simlike," was what the older members had to say upon the subject. Miss Madeira quickly left the subject and talked about the corn crop and the price of chickens for a little while, then presently went on down Main Street toward her father's bank, where her black horses were hitched. Far down Main Street, in front of one of the frame houses that edged the street on either side, some children were enjoying a bonfire of dead leaves, front doors were opening and women were coming out to watch the fire; and, by their interest-lit eyes and by what they called to each other across the slumberous afternoon air, were showing that they were skilled in getting diversion out of smaller things than bonfires. It was the neighbourhood of Canaan's biggest and best. The doors that had opened had shown glimpses of the finest three-ply carpets in all Tigmore County, and though the women who had come out on the porches had grammatical peculiarities of their own, they were distinctly unapologetic and assured. You could easily imagine them laughing, with a consciousness of advantage, at the other grades of grammar and carpets in Canaan. "Smells real good, don't it?" called one who was comfortable and portly, and who had her apron wrapped about her hands, "always makes me feel that spring's came when the rakin' and burnin' begin." "Mrs. Pringle told me that they had some big fires aout toward the Ridge las' night. Burned the rakin' aout to Madeira Place. I missed that. D'you see it? I mighta seen it just as well's not from my back porch, tew!" shrilled another woman, in whose words a well-defined jealousy was patent, the jealousy of the person whose life is too small for her to afford to miss any of it. "Yes, you oughta saw it," chimed in another. "Cert'n'y was no little-small flame. I could see Sally movin' araoun' in the flare. Had that tramp-boy taggin' abaout with her. I declare, if he di'n' look like a gipsy!" The neighbourly throng was at this moment augmented by the appearance of two ladies who fluttered out on the porch of a rose-trellised cottage, like small, proud pouter pigeons. They were the Misses Marion, twin-sisters, quite inseparable, and, because their minds had run in exactly the same groove for all of their lives and because they were of about equal mental readiness, apt to get the same impression at exactly the same time, and apt to attempt expression in exactly the same breath. Occasionally this was trying, both to the Misses Marion and to their hearers, and it was particularly trying when the two now called simultaneously from the rose-embowered porch to the women in the neighbouring yards: "Have you heard----" "Have you heard----" Miss Shelley Marion turned to Miss Blair Marion with delicate courtesy: "Continue, sister," she said, just as Miss Blair said, "Sister, continue." "Have we heard what, for goodness' sake?" snapped one of the would-be hearers, breaking in rawly upon the soft waves of the hand and the imploring taps with which each of the two gentlewomen was endeavouring to make way for the other. "I continued last time, sister." "I think not, Blair; I think I did. Proceed." "Have you heard the news?" Miss Blair having yielded with great self-rebuke to Miss Shelley, the question gurgled liquidly from yard to yard, like a small twisting brook. The two women whose yards adjoined the Misses Marions' yard came down to the separating fences and leaned their arms on the paling rails waitingly; the third woman moved up to the corner of her yard which was nearest the Misses Marion. She was the woman who had deplored missing the hill fires, and there was a resolute look on her face. "Talk loud, Miss Blair," she said commandingly. But before Miss Blair could get her mouth open to talk at all there was the sound of horses' hoofs from up toward Court House Square, and a light vehicle, drawn by two powerful Kentucky blacks, rolled into view. "Lawk, it's Sally Madeira!" cried Miss Blair impulsively, and then looked immediately convicted, for Miss Shelley had got only as far as "Lawk!" When the slender equipage, with its spirited, long-tailed horses, and its high springy seat, with the erect young figure on it, had gone by, the women looked at each other, with pursed lips and knowing eyes. "There, aint I been sayin'," cried the fat one, "she's a-lookin' peaked!" Then somebody noticed that the Misses Marion were in the throes of another spasm of courtesy, and, reminded by that of the critical juncture where Miss Blair had left off a few minutes before, one of the women called to her: "What news was that, Miss Blair? Say, you! Miss Blair! What news?" "Why," said Miss Blair, having finally effected some sort of affectionate compromise with Miss Shelley, "why, these news,--they say that that N'York man _is_ Sally Madeira's sweetheart, tew!" "Lan' alive! I've heard that m'self!" said Mrs. Beasley, the wife of the Grange storekeeper. She had heard no such thing, but Mrs. Beasley was an idealist of no mean order, and she at once got a feeling about the matter that was little short of knowledge, and went on with headlong impetus, "I've heard that m'self. Yes, he's her sweetheart." "The men up to the Grange said not, at first." "Men never know." Meantime, out beyond the town, Miss Madeira had circled around to the river road, and, coming up behind Madeira Place, passed it at a smart clip. Farther along, the river road left the river to bend through Poetical on its little plateau, and the gait at which Miss Madeira went through Poetical was disturbing to the geese and hogs there. East of Poetical she got back to the river. It was very still along the Di. She could hear her own heart beating. Once it occurred to her that life would have been much simpler if she had gone to Europe the past fall, as Miss Elsie Gossamer had insisted upon her doing. Once she murmured, "It would be all right if he would only tell me,--I can't do anything until he tells me--what _can_ a woman do until he tells her!" On ahead of her she could see a little shack perched up the bluff, and in front of the shack, on a log that served for a bench, a man sat, making something out of something. His hands were busy. He got to his feet a little unsteadily as she came toward him. It seemed to him that there was a blue veil across his eyes, but he winked it away quickly enough, shook the ache out of his shoulders, put down the shoe-string that he was making out of a squirrel's skin, and stood in front of the shack waiting, with his hat in his hand. He had on a mud-stained corduroy hunting suit and big buckskin leggings, and there was a week's growth of beard on his face. He looked not unlike a highly civilised bear, and he felt his looks. She did not seem to see him until she was close upon him. "Oh," she cried, "I was not expecting to find you here," and when that sounded a little bald, added quickly, "I heard that you were sick and I thought it likely that you were up in Canaan." "Oh, no, I am not sick," he told her, hastening down to the trap, the delicious excitement that possessed him well restrained, "and since you have found me here, won't you get out and have some,--well, let me see,--some coffee and bacon? And I can make a lovely corn-dodger. Also I have some kind of good stuff in a can, though I can't get the can open. Do please stop and dine." Steering, sick, gaunt, gay, mocking at hardship, hope deferred and far-reaching disappointment, was at his best. Her eyes slipped away from his as he pressed his invitation. Then she laughed softly, with the little shake of her laughter when a notion appealed to her happily. "I'm going to accept," she said, "I'll cook things and you can eat them." "I'll make a sacred duty of my part," he promised gravely; he was lifting her from the buggy; her hands were on his shoulders; for a little delirious minute she was in his arms; he could not keep his hands from closing about her sweet body lingeringly as he lifted her; her eyes were looking into his, her face was coming down close to his; he had a wild fleeting hallucination that she---- "Don't imagine," she began, and his senses came back to him and he set her down, "don't imagine that I can't cook. Where's your range?" He showed her a scooped-out place in the side of the bluff. "There are two bricks in the back, two on each side and two on the top," he explained with some pride. "I am afraid you have brought foolish habits of luxury out of the East with you," was her reply. She made him build her a fire and bring some water and meal and then she took things entirely out of his hands. "It's a picnic," she said. Her gown she had folded back and pinned up until a little tangle of silk and lace frou-froued beneath it bewilderingly; her sleeves she had rolled back until the creamy tan of her round slim arms showed to the elbow; her hat she had taken off, and the sun danced in the gold lustres of her hair. She was all aglow; she belonged out in the fresh air and the sunlight like this; she could stand it; that dusky-gold radiance played from her like a burnish. Steering sat down on the log bench and watched her, hypnotised by her into haunting fancies of something, somebody, somewhere. She was one of those beings whose rich magnetism of face and personality brings them close to you, not only for the present, but also for the past, one of those people who are apt to make you feel that you have known them before, forever, a feeling that flowers into elusive fragrances, suggestions, reminiscences, flown on the first stir of a thought to catch them. "What a long time since I even so much as saw you," he sighed happily, happy because here before him in the body again she was exactly the girl he remembered, exactly the girl he had dreamed of all winter. "What have you done all winter?" he asked. "Nursed Father. He has stayed at home with me a good deal. It was a lovely winter, wasn't it?" Steering thought of the long, quiet, lonely days, the weeks, the months during which he had seen her only to bow to her. Then he thought of the calendar inside his office. Every day that he had seen her on his rare trips up river to Canaan was marked with an imitation of the rising sun. There were only eight rising suns for the whole winter. Then he thought how the memory of those sun days had stayed with him and made him feel blessed. Then he answered, "Yes, it has been lovely,--nice, open weather. I have been out on the Di in a skiff almost every day." He did not add that every day his journey had been to the upper water near Madeira Place; but he might have. "Once or twice I have seen you." She did not add that she had stood at her window, behind a partly drawn blind, gazing after him through slow tears; but she might have. "What a very long time indeed since we saw each other,--and talked to each other!" "Oh, about two thousand years," he answered with careful calculation. "I wonder if you remember the ride across country into the sunset?" Should he ever forget it? Then the spring wind blew up to them from off the Di with a coolish, dampening touch. "What do you hear from Elsie?" he asked, heeding the wind's touch. "She is in love. What do you hear from Mr. Carington?" "That same. It seems very right and fit. Carington and Elsie are well mated. The wedding will happen in July. Carry wants me to come back to him for it." She was stirring the meal and water together briskly, with her back half turned to him. At his words she stopped in her work and put her hand up to her heart with her strange little pushing gesture, as though she must push her heart down. "And you will go, I suppose?" "No, I shan't go." She took her hand down and laughed lightly. He could not hear the joyful relief in the laugh, but she could. "My, but you have become attached to Redbud, haven't you? Hasn't it been lonely for you here?" "Well, the cherry hat little girl up above Sowfoot has been a comfort. And then I've studied a heap." "Studied what?" "Mizzourah!" "Redbud and Sowfoot are good teachers," she laughed; then her face sobered quickly, "but I don't think you should stay down here by the river when you are ill," she said. Her sweet, wistful interest was balsamic to him. For a moment he tried to look sicker than he was. "Oh, it's nothing, nothing," he protested in a gone voice. "Yes, it is something," she had the corn-dodgers going over a slow fire and was dubiously regarding a second skillet that he had brought her. "Don't you ever try water for it?" she interrupted herself to ask. He admitted that he was not as careful of the skillet as he should be, and she went back to her first anxiety, "Why do you stay here when you are ill?" "Oh, I'm not ill a bit, not really." He had forgotten to be ill. Regarding her dreamily from his bench he was wishing that the moment could be eternity, that he could be hungry forever and that forever she could make corn-dodgers for him. "I think you are sick. _Something_ is the matter with you?" "Yes," he changed his position a little on the bench, "something is the matter with me." "Well, why don't you go on and say what?" She put the skillet on some of the coals and the coffee-pot on the skillet, being too busy to look around at him. "Oh!"--he wanted to tell her, but his pride saved him in time. She was in rich in gold and land and cattle, in ore, too now; and he? He didn't know how he was going to fill his meal sack the next time it was empty. That was where matters had got with him. "I think I won't go on and say what, after all; let's not bother. Let's just be happy for the minute. That's something I have learned out here in Missouri, just to be happy when you get the chance, minute by minute, no matter what sort of hours are to come after. This, now, is so much more than I had hoped for. I hadn't really hoped to see you again before----" "Before what?" "Well, a fellow can't go on like this forever, can he? I expect I am going to cut all this." "_What!_ And leave Uncle Bernique?" "Uncle Bernique can hold the claim alone, you know. And I'm wasting hope and energy here. What's the use in staying longer?" She was very busy with the bacon now and he did not see her face. There was a wild quiver on it, of grief, fright, dismay. "You ought not to leave Uncle Bernique and Piney, I am sure of that," she said at last earnestly, almost commandingly. "Heigh-ho! I think Bernique is getting restless, too. He will be drifting off soon on that tidal wave of ore fever that comes over him; Piney has been gone for a great while. It's pretty lonely. It's getting on my nerves. Of course I shouldn't pet my nerves if I had any hope about the run here, but I haven't. I think that the work we have carried on is fairly conclusive." "But wait a minute, didn't you buy this land? Didn't you put some money in it?" Steering laughed blithely. "Not much," he said. The thing that made him laugh was the fact that though it was not much it was all that he had, and it was, in a way, amusing to consider how he was to get away from Canaan. Looking at Sally Madeira, who suggested luxury nonchalantly, trouble about ways and means was bound to be untimely and laughable. Indeed, looking at Sally Madeira all troubles were more or less laughable. "You haven't gone to Europe?" he reminded her, after he had drunk her health in the coffee. "No! I haven't gone." "Are you going?" "Not unless Father's health improves." "Isn't he well?" "No," her face clouded sadly, "he is over-working. Oh, you don't know how sorry I am," she began, and faltered. "Sorry? for him?" "Yes. And for you. And for m-- and because things have come around like this." "Let's not be sorry just now," said Steering. "Won't you, please, talk about glad things now. It's so pleasant to have you here." Since she was unhappy, he took charge of her unhappiness, and would not be serious any longer about anything. When she brought him his corn-dodger on a shingle and more coffee in a tin dipper, he was foolish with happiness, kept his own spirits high and overcame every little disposition to seriousness on her part until their picnic had to come to an end, and she must be starting back down the river road. "Do you feel like doing something for me?" she asked, her hand in his, as she made ready to go. "Something? Everything." "Then wait just as long as you can, will you?" "Yes, I will, gladly, since you ask it, just as long as I can." Steering's voice sang as he answered. She would not let him accompany her on her homeward journey, but went on down the river road alone, and Steering returned to the shack, and carefully measured the amount left in his meal sack, and carefully counted the money in his wallet. There was just about enough in the sack to last ten days, flanked by the potatoes and the bacon, and there was so little in the wallet that any kind of emotion about it seemed a waste. Still, he did not appear to appreciate the extremity of the situation as yet. His face was all lit up and the sound of his own voice pleased him. "I will wait, just as long as I can," he repeated at the end of his calculations, "and I can till the meal gives out." _Chapter Fourteen_ WHEN THE MEAL GAVE OUT Steering sat on his bunk in his shack with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and his eyes upon an empty bag that hung from the bough of a weeping-willow tree. He had just written Carington to explain that it could not be said that he had conquered Missouri, and that he was leaving next day for Colorado to try his luck at gold on the Cripple Creek circuit. He had not explained to Carington that he would walk the greater part of the way. By some strange perversity of pride a man never does explain a thing of that kind to anybody, least of all to Carington, best friend and close sympathiser. Arrangements for his journey were about complete. Before he had left New York he had turned everything into ready cash that could be so turned, so that even when he first reached Missouri his personal effects had not made travel a burden to him. During the past weeks all the balance of his belongings that possessed any negotiability whatsoever had been turned into meal. And his meal sack was empty! By no sort of foreknowledge can a man accustomed to enough money for current expenses,--a goodly budget as recognised by the class of which Steering was an exemplar,--imagine, during his easy circumstances, how he would feel if ever things should so go against him that he would be left staring into an empty meal sack. Steering felt an awkward incompetence to realise the case now. He had looked at the sack at close range, patted it, as though to mollify its consequences to him, pooh-poohed it, taken it philosophically, taken it smilingly, but he had been all the time unable to get his eyes off it, even though he had finally carried it down to the river's edge and hung it upon the bough of the weeping willow tree. His eyes were still upon it, he was still regarding it at long range, through the shack door, getting the foreshorten of it, getting the middle distance, getting the perspective, utterly unable to stop his ceaseless staring into the emptiness of it, stop wondering what next and how next. He got up and went to the door of the shack and looked out. By and by it occurred to him that the case would be much worse if there were anyone besides himself concerned. All the vague fleeting sympathies that had ever been aroused within him by newspaper stories of starving families, the nearest he had ever come to the actuality of starving families, quivered and stirred within him. The first thing he knew, he was feeling infinitely relieved that he had no starving family. He had a sensitive and active imagination, and, as he pictured the hungry little children that he did not have, tears of gratitude came into his eyes, and he blew gay kisses to those airy little folks. It was glorious weather. Wild spring flowers were abundant, and there were cheerful whiskings among the trees where the birds and squirrels were busy again. The young shoots strained with the urge of the sap, making little popping noises. Steering started now and again and held his head waitingly. He had been watching and hoping for Piney for days, and was on the alert. Every noise, however, resolved itself into the noise of bird, squirrel, or sapling. There was never the voice nor the footfall of the human. Once that very afternoon, he had been so sure that he had heard Piney's pony up on the bluff that he had gone up there searchingly, joyfully. But except for a little scatter, that he took to be the lift of a covey of quail somewhere off in the Gulch bushes, not a sound or sign came up to the bluff. Steering mourned for Piney. If the tramp-boy had not gone away, things might have been more bearable. But the lad's jealousy and his love for Steering were in battle royal now, and Piney kept far from his hero, on the misty hills. Uncle Bernique was off on the hills, too, almost all the time; at the moment of this present crisis Bernique had been away for days. It was the merciless loneliness of the effort there at Redbud that had been most effective in dulling Steering's endurance. If he had been less lonely he might have devised ways of standing Missouri yet longer. Up at Dade farm they kept telling him, when he went up there for one of his visits to the little girl with the cherries on her hat, that he had "malary." It did not seem to him a very able diagnosis, but, as he had admitted to Miss Madeira, something was the matter with him, and it had now become his notion that the quicker he got out of Missouri the quicker he would be cured of the something. He was all ready to commence his treatment; he had corn-dodgers for supper that night, and for breakfast next morning, and with the morning sun he meant to travel on. The only reason that he did not start now, this minute, was because--well, she had come up the river road about this hour once, and he was waiting. Circumstanced as he was now, with the only three people whom he could count as friends in Missouri almost always away from him, life had come to mean little but this feverish, alert waiting. He went out and sat down by the shivering Di for his very last wait for any of the three. It was there that old Bernique came upon him. Steering was shivering a little, too. "Dieu! You have the malaria!" was the Frenchman's greeting. "Go 'long, I have no such thing; I'm only as lonely as the devil." Steering got up and shook hands with the old man with so much energy that Bernique made a grimace of pain. "Come up here and talk," cried Steering, his eagerness to hear the sound of a human and friendly voice making him overlook the excitement under which Bernique laboured. He tied Bernique's horse to a bush and drew the old man up the bluff. "Where have you been this time? Where is Piney? Hello! what's the matter with you anyhow? struck another lode?" Old Bernique spread out his palms avertingly. "You go fas'," he protested. "Wait, I beg. I have again had those exper-r-ience that so much disturb me. But no, I have not found anothaire lode, though I have been on the hills vair' long time. Thees day I come a-r-round by the way of Canaan. At the pos'-office I am stop'." The old man was talking now with his eyes burning into Steering's eyes, an expression of horror flattening his face; he held the four fingers of one lean hand pressed to his mouth, so that his words came out inarticulate and broken, though they seemed to scorch his throat like balls of fire. "At the pos'-office one say to me, 'Here is lettaire for you!' I take the lettaire and read.... Now, I ask you, Mistaire Steering, to take it and read." Bernique drew forth a letter from his pocket and thrust it into Steering's hand with a finely dramatic gesture. He had the appreciation of his race for climax. The letter, Steering saw at once, was in the same gnarled handwriting as that letter which Crittenton Madeira had given him to read on the first day of his arrival in Canaan, and its contents made evident the same gnarled personality that had been made evident by that first letter. "Read it aloud," said Bernique, and Steering read: "'Deep Canyon, Colorado, September 23rd, 1899,' hey! what's the matter with the date, where's the slow-boy been?" "Read on, Mistaire Steering," said Bernique grimly. But Steering looked at the post-mark on the envelope in his hand before he read on. "Post-mark's dated April 23rd, 1900--why----" "Read on!" cried old Bernique. "It is explain'," and Steering read on. "'My dear Placide:--You and I were good friends in the days that we spent in prospecting over the Canaan hills, and, even though I incurred your displeasure when I abandoned the hills, I am depending upon the old friendship to influence you to do a last friendly act for me. It is not necessary for me to acquaint you with the detail of humiliations and persecutions to which I have been subjected by the man of whom I was once so foolish as to borrow money, any more than it is necessary for me to condone to you the desire that has developed within me to make him bite the dust, even as he has made me bite it. I am not remorseless in this. I gave him his chance to escape me, but, quite as I anticipated, he has fallen into the trap that I set for him; else would you not be reading this letter to-day, nearly a year after it was written. "'Look close now, friend Placide. Nearly a year prior to the date that you will get this, that is to say on the 23rd of last September, the same day that I write this letter to you, I wrote Crittenton Madeira that I should be dead when my letter reached him, dead under an assumed name, in a strange land. It was the God's truth. I was dead when the letter reached him. You are reading a letter from the dead now, friend Placide.'" Steering stopped for a moment with a little shiver, but Bernique urged him on, and he read again--"'Placide, in that letter to Madeira were my instructions to turn over the Canaan Tigmores to Bruce Steering, because, I being dead, the hills were due to pass on to my heir. Well, Placide, has Madeira done that? Has he carried out my instructions? Has he fulfilled his trust? Has Steering possession of the Canaan Tigmores? "'Like the thief that he is, Madeira has not done his part. Had he done it, you would not be reading this letter to-day. I wrote it and placed it with the clerk of Snow Mountain County, the county in which I died, to be mailed to you on the 23rd of April, 1900, only in case no inquiry had ever come from Madeira to verify my death. No inquiry has ever come! So the clerk of the county, who is my executor, mails this letter to you. This letter, Placide, is to attest that for seven months Crittenton Madeira has been in unlawful possession of the Canaan Tigmores, defrauding my heir and holding land under my name after being advised of my death and of the means of verifying the advice. There are now, in the keeping of the clerk of Snow Mountain County, two sealed envelopes, to be delivered by him, the one to you, the one to Crittenton Madeira. Madeira's has never been called for. See that yours is. In it you will find the credentials of my identity, my sworn statements, and the documents that prove my late encumbency of the entail. I am buried in the pauper's field in the cemetery of Deep Canyon. The stone slab that I have directed to be put over me bears the inscription, "James Gray, Died September 23, 1899." "'Get your proofs together, Placide, and carry them to the defrauded heir. I have not forgotten the letters that I received from him, nor his young eagerness to get at the land that is now his and that should have been his nearly a year ago. Put the proofs before him. And I pray that he may be quick and sure to deal out judgment and retribution. He is my kinsman. Let him for me, as well as for himself, wield the lash that I put in his hands. "'Do these things for me, friend Placide, and believe that even in the grave, I remain, "'Very gratefully yours, "'BRUCE GRIERSON.'" The letter fell from Steering's hand and fluttered to the ground, while he sat with his hands hanging limply from his knees for a moment. "Grierson is dead! Grierson is dead!" he repeated. The funereal words rang through his ears like a grand Praise-God. He knew that he ought to be sorry and that he was inexpressibly glad, not because the grim old man was dead--dead, with his malevolence reaching out toward Madeira, spinning and twisting like a great cobweb snare from the grave--but because of what must now happen, because vistas of wonderful beauty were opening up through the long shadows of the Tigmores, because if the end had come to the house of Grierson, beginning had come to the house of Steering. Life, big, splendid, stretched out before him. Old Bernique had risen and was pacing the banks of the Di nervously. Steering, too, got to his feet. Going down to Bernique, he took the old man's hands in his. Neither heard a little rustle up the bluff in the leafy bushes. "Oh, Uncle Bernique!" said Steering, and stopped because of the wild sound of his own voice. He saw that it would be dangerous for him to try to talk with his mind in that high tremulous whirl. The old man clung to him, silent, too, for a teeming moment. "Now God above, why not Crit Madeira tell you that tr-r-ue way of things?" shouted Bernique at last fiercely. "Why not?" The two men looked into each other's eyes, Steering bearing up the old man, who clutched him feverishly. When the Frenchman began to talk again his teeth were chattering. "Why not? Hein? Because he t'ief. But God above! We got those proof! Dead for mont's. And Madeira know it! The Teegmores are yours for mont's, Mistaire Steering! And Madeira know it! We put that fine man where he belong. We jail him! He t'ief! We r-r-uin him, as he would r-r-uin you!" "Ruin him!" Bruce said the words over measuredly. "We can do it easily. Everything he has has gone into the company that is getting its chief encouragement out of the Tigmores. It will be easy to ruin him." "Yes, God above, it will be easy! We r-r-ruin him. We do that thing quick and glad." Bernique slid his lean hands up Steering's arms and held to him. "Wait! Wait!" The Frenchman's convulsive anger received a sudden check by the sound of Steering's voice. He clung more tightly to Steering's arms as he looked into Steering's face, then shrank back helplessly. "My God!" said the old man, "I forgot!" "Yes," answered Steering, no hesitation in his voice. "Yes, you forgot _her_. We must not do that, you know." After a while they sat down and talked it over at length from beginning to end, and then back again, from end to beginning. Up in the Tigmores Crit Madeira's drills beat and bore at the heart of the earth, deeper, deeper; by the Redbud shack, the two men, on the ground, bore into Madeira's trickery, deeper, deeper. By the light of that torch from the Rockies, they followed the twisting trail all the way from inception to finish. The tortuous, underhand curve of it now and then looked like the self-deceptive work of lunatic cunning. As they talked about it, they talked too earnestly for the little whisking movements in the growth up the bluff to reach their ears. "At least," cried old Bernique at last, "at least the Teegmores are yours! At last! At last!" At last! At last! Steering's eyes were travelling the long tumbling Tigmore line. "If they are," he said in that musing way he had developed within the last quarter of an hour, "if I take the Tigmores now, Uncle Bernique, I'll pull Madeira's house about him. That company of his is not so secure that it could stand a blow at its head. If I take the Tigmores,--Uncle Bernique, listen a minute," he was pleading, "she has been used to much all her life. I can't take her father's fortune away from him. Don't you see that? I can't do anything. You understand?" he was commanding. Bernique jumped to his feet. "God above, you mean----" The thought snapped in the old man's brain, the words stuck in his throat. "I mean that we must leave things as they are. I can't ruin her father. That's all I mean!" Bernique doubled up both fists. "I'll see him damn' before he shall keep those Teegmores! I can r-ruin him!" But Bruce caught the old man's arm in a grip that hurt. When Bernique spoke again it was to say breathlessly, "You take the Teegmores, Mistaire Steering, and protect Madeira's fortune. You can do that easy." "I know. It looks easy. But think back a little. Madeira is sure to fight. Grierson's death occurred months ago under an assumed name. To prove that he died we must prove when he died, where he died and who he was. To prove all that is to let the light in upon dark places. I hardly see how the light can be let in, Uncle Bernique, without cutting Madeira out sharp and keen as a rascal. Madeira would never allow,--at this juncture, he couldn't allow us to establish my claim to the Tigmores on my word and yours. He has done unwise, crazy things already. He would fight us. I know it, you know it. We could win. But where would our victory leave him, Uncle Bernique? Ah, you see?" The old man was shaking from head to foot. He clung close to Steering. "Oh, my God!" he moaned, "I will not let this thing be." "Yes, you will let it be! It is my affair even more than it is yours. You will do as I say about it, Uncle Bernique. Here and now, you shall swear this oath with me: I by my love for Sally Madeira, you by your love for Piney's young mother, that never, so help us God, shall one or the other of us carry word of these matters to anyone, least of all to Crittenton Madeira or his daughter Salome!" The old man's breath came gustily, his cheeks flamed, the hectic burned like fire in his shrivelled cheeks. He loosed his clinging hold and tried to shake Bruce off. "Swear," Bruce decreed again, his powerful grip on the old man, his eyes half shut, "I by my love for Sally Madeira, you by your love for Piney's young mother! Swear!" He held up his own right hand, and Bernique said brokenly: "God above, I swear!" The old man was crying. Neither heard the swish in the bluff growth, neither saw the brave light in the two eyes that peered through the bushes. "Why now, everything is all right," cried Bruce. "Are you going on into Canaan to-night, or shall you sleep here with me? I think that I shall take the skiff now and go up toward Madeira Place, then drift back down-stream, a sort of good-bye journey. What will you do meantime?" Old Bernique hardly knew. He was sore, bewildered. He thought he might spend the night on the hills, then again he might come back to the shack for the night. He wanted to go into Choke Gulch first thing. Bruce pushed away in the skiff through the swollen Di. Bernique got his horse and started off, climbing the yellow road up the bluff slowly, heading toward Choke Gulch. As he neared the top, he lifted his head and saw Piney and the pony outlined on the bald summit of the bluff. The boy made a trumpet of his hands and shouted to Bernique. "Hurry! For God's sake! So I cand talk to you!" Piney's was a reckless and impassioned young figure, cut out against the sky sharply, on a pony that danced like a dervish. The old man nodded, with a flash of pleasure at the sight of the boy, then let his head fall wearily upon his breast. He felt very powerless. When he reached Piney's side he put out his hand and held to the boy's hand as though he found its warmth and firmness sustaining. "Let's git into the timber," said Piney, and they rode forward a little way quite silent. "I don' want Mist' Steerin' to look back an' see me here," the boy explained. In the growth where the hills began to roll down toward Choke Gulch, Piney stopped short, with a detaining hand upon Bernique's bridle. "I hearn," he said. His young face was so grey and solemn that Bernique regarded him questioningly. "I was simlike half asleep up there in the bushes. Whend you begand to tell your story, I waked up an' I listened. I hearn all you said an' all he said. Ev'thing. Unc' Bernique, you cayn't tell nobody! Mist' Steerin', he cayn't tell nobody!--but Me!" the boy was breathing harder, his face was growing greyer, "Unc' Bernique, I'm f'm the hills, an' not like them," the blood began suddenly to come back to his lips; he raised in his stirrups and slashed at the branches of a black-jack tree with his riding switch, as though he cut a vow across the air, high up. "But what I can, I will!" he cried, and clenched his hands proudly. "Fer her an'--an' fer him!" he choked. Whatever he meant to do, his young passion for Salome Madeira and his young affection for Steering, his hero, leaped out on his face whitely. "She loves him, too, Unc' Bernique!" he cried in a final, broken crescendo. Old Bernique stared at the boy in exaltation. "God above!" he shouted, "if that is it, it begins to be hope in my old breast! All may come right yet, and no oaths broken!" "None broke!" cried Piney. "One more took! I'm a-ridin' saouth, to Madeira Place, Unc' Bernique;" he gathered up the reins from his pony's neck,--"I'm a-goin' to Miss Sally Madeira to tell her abaout Mist' Steerin';" he was blind with hot, young tears. "She'll do the rat thing whend she knows, Unc' Bernique;" he had put the pony about,--"I'll see you on the hills in the mornin'!" he was gone down the yellow road like a winged Mercury. On the hills behind him, Old Bernique, comprehending and envying, locked his hands on his saddle-horn in a vehement tension. His lips moved, and what he said seemed to float out after the flying figure of the boy like a benediction. _Chapter Fifteen_ A MISTAKE SOMEWHERE The afternoon of that day was golden out at Madeira Place. Through the kitchen windows the sun streamed in, in broad, unfretted bands of light. Just beyond the window the crab-apple trees and the quince trees and the pear trees and the damson trees were rioting in blossom. The kitchen itself was a place to take comfort in. By a table sat fat black Chloe, seeding raisins, when she was not asleep. Before another table stood Sally Madeira, her brown, round arms bared to the elbow, flapping cake batter with a wooden paddle. With her sense of eternal fitness the girl was a fine housekeeper as easily as she was a sweet singer and a good horsewoman. She had kept the past beautifully intact in the old brick-floored room. Overhead hung strings of red peppers, streaks of scarlet on the heavy black rafters. Little white sacks of dried things, peas and beans and apples, depended from hooks. Against the walls were quaint old tin safes, their doors gone, their shelves covered with dark blue crockery. The tin and brass stuff shone brightly. On a low shelf stood a great piggin of water, a fat yellow drinking gourd sticking out of it. The whole picture was a kitchen pastel, delicately toned, a kitchen of the long ago, Sally Madeira fitting into it exquisitely, re-establishing the stately domesticity of an old régime by her fine adaptability and appreciation. Chloe brought the raisins over to Miss Madeira at last, and let them drop slowly into the crock, watching carefully for stray bits of stem. "Simlike nowadays ef he teef go agin a hardness spile he tas' fuh de cake," she said anxiously. "We do have to humour his poor appetite, don't we, Chloe? Never mind, he'll be better soon, I hope." "Whut madder wid he, Miss Sally, innyhow, Honey?" "Just overwork, I think, Chloe. Works all the time; in the office now, bent double over his desk." The darky shuffled restlessly on her flat feet. "Simlike to me he pester'd. I d'n know. Miss Sally, who else gwine eat dishyer cake tumorreh, Honey?" "I'm not expecting any company at all, Chloe. Father isn't really well enough to care to talk to people." "Miss Honey, simlike de house gittin' mighty lonesome nowadays. Taint like it uster be." "Do you feel it, Chloe? Do you know I've grown to like it better quiet." The girl's voice was wistful, she let the batter trickle recklessly while she gazed off out of the window. Then she sighed and began to beat the batter very hard. "Miss Honey-love?" "Yes, Chloe." "That tha' Mist' Steerin' aint ben come no mo' fuh gre't while, air he?" "No." "Samson he say he gwine ride down by Redbud this evenin'." "Well, Chloe, I'm sorry that I can't send an invitation to your favourite, but I'm afraid Father isn't well enough--oh, there's Piney, Chloe!" The boy had come up the bridle-path slowly, his mission weighting him and making him languid. At the latticed porch he jumped to the ground, turned the pony's nose into the grass and came into the kitchen. "Howdy, Miss Sally. Hi, Chloe. Cand I have a drink, please'm, Miss Sally?" He drank long and greedily from the gourd dipper, so long that Sally Madeira turned to him laughingly at last. "Well, Piney, son, got Texas fever?" she began, and then, being quick of wit, saw at once that the boy's pallor, his thirst, his absorption meant something especial. "I'm glad you came, Piney," she went on capably, and gave the batter paddle to Chloe. "I've been wanting to see you all day to have a little talk with you. Let's go out under the crab-apple tree." She took off the great apron and led the way from the kitchen, the boy following her with dragging feet. Under the crab-apple tree she drew him down upon a bench beside her. The orchard blooms shut them in close. The stillness was unbroken save for the warm sibilant droning of the insect life in the air. The shadows on the orchard grass were like lace-work. "Now, Piney, lad," began Miss Madeira at once, "what's the trouble?" Her voice sounded strong, maternal, to Piney, who had been wondering how he was to tell her, calling himself a fool for having undertaken to tell her, reminding himself that he couldn't for the life of him begin. Here, suddenly, the girl was making it easier for him, showing him that the way to begin was to begin. "I wouldn' tell you the trouble ef I could he'p it, Miss Sally," he said pleadingly, his hands shut about his knees, his eyes beseeching as a fawn's. "Ef they wuz inny way to make things come aout rat lessen I told, I wouldn' tell. But I don' see no way." It was easier to talk up to the thing and around the thing, than to get directly into it. "Is it your own trouble, Piney?" she asked, helping again. "No'm." "Whose trouble, Piney?" "Mist' Steerin's, Miss Sally." "Ah!" She leaned nearer Piney. "Tell me quickly, dearie," she said, "is he ill?" "Well'm, it's your trouble, too, Miss Sally." "Yes, surely, Piney, go on, go on!" "And your father's trouble, Miss Sally." "Something about the Tigmores, I suspect, then, Piney, go on." "Yes'm, abaout the hills." Then, fortunately for both, his youth made up in directness what it lacked in finesse. "It's this-a-way, Miss Sally," he blurted savagely, "Ole Bruce Grierson is dead an' Mist' Steerin' owns the Tigmores." Her face shone with joy. "But, Piney, boy, where's the trouble in that? When did Mr. Grierson die? That's not trouble even for him, Piney. He was a weary old man. When did he die?" "Las' September, Miss Sally," answered the boy gravely. "Last September? _Last Septem_---- Why, where's the word been all this while, Piney? Why hasn't my father known?" "He--he has known, Miss Sally. Miss Sally, it was this-a-way, simlike: that ole man writtend Mist' Madeira he wuz goin' to die an' he tol' Mist' Madeira to give the hills to Mist' Steerin'. But I don't reckon your father believed ole Grierson, Miss Sally." The girl on the bench under the crab-apple tree was beginning to draw herself up proudly. "There is some mistake somewhere, I can see that, Piney, dear. Where did you learn all this?" "Wy, Miss Sally," cried the boy, a great, painful reluctance in his voice, "that old varmint Grierson writtend another letter to Unc' Bernique an' had a man hold it up an' not mail it till las' week. Then he lay daown an' died. An' here las' week the letter to Unc' Bernique was mailed, aouter ole Grierson's grave like--an' Unc Bernique he's jes got it, an' it tells him that ole Grierson died las' September an' that he writtend your father to say so." "I don't understand that, Piney. Mr. Grierson died last September and has written letters since he died, you are getting it all mixed, aren't you?" Very slowly and laboriously Piney told then what he knew, told it over and over until she had comprehended it, whether she believed it or not. When the boy had finished she was leaning back on the bench, dull and pale. "But it isn't true," she said, with white lips. "And Mr. Steering, Piney,--has Uncle Bernique told Mr. Steering this fantastic tale?" "Yes'm." "And what did Mr. Steering say and do, Piney?" The memory of what Steering had said and done seemed to come on to Piney like an inspiration. "Miss Sally, he set his jaw an' he ketched Unc' Bernique by the arm an' helt him an' made him swear like this, 'You by your love for Piney's young mother, I by my love for Salome Madeira, that never, s'help us God, will you or I carry word of this to Crittenton Madeira and his daughter Salome'--sumpin like that, Miss Sally. I don' adzackly remember the words." The dulness had all gone out of her eyes, the colour beat back into her cheeks. She had forgotten Crittenton Madeira. "'I by my love for Salome'--are you sure, Piney?" "I'm sure, Miss Sally. An' so I thought as wuzn't nobody else to tell you, I'd tell you. I d'n know as I done rat," the boy's face was all a-quiver, too, as he looked up at the girl on the misty heights of her passion. His self-abnegation, his young heroism made him for the moment as finely luminous as she was. Sally Madeira took his head between her hands and gazed into his eyes tenderly, caressingly, and there was in her touch something large and sweet and tender that comforted and soothed the boy while it made his heart leap within him. "Ah, Darling," she said, "how bitter-sweet it is, this loving! But be patient. Some day it will all seem right." She took her hands away from him and stood up straightly. "I'm going in to my father now, Piney. There's a mistake somewhere. You wait for me here until I get it all explained. Wait here till I come back." She went off toward the house then, a fragrant shower of orchard blossoms falling upon her and shutting her away from the boy's eyes as she went. _Chapter Sixteen_ MADEIRA'S PEACE Sally Madeira crept to the door of her father's study and listened. In the pallid light that was stealing up to her from Piney's story her face was shadowy, with hurtful doubt, ashamed fear, and she steadied herself by the wall with hands that shook. She had stopped to put on a white gown that her father loved and her lustrous hair lay banded closely, a halo, about her shapely head. Her face looked like a saint's. "It is not so much to save Bruce Steering's inheritance for him, it's to save my father for myself." Her lips moved stiffly as she whispered. "My old dream-father, my idol, I cannot live without him!" As she opened the door and passed in, she felt as though he had been away on a long journey and that this might be the hour of his return. Inside Madeira sat at his desk, Bruce Grierson's letter spread out before him, the ghost of his torture. At night he heard it move, with a spectral rustling, under his pillow where he kept it. By day it writhed, a small, hot thing, over his heart. He had tried again and again to destroy it. Everything else that had got in his way he had destroyed, but this he had not destroyed. He was trying to destroy it now, but he returned it to his pocket, unable to destroy it, ruled by it, when he raised his eyes and saw his daughter before him. She had not been without foresight even in her shame and sorrow. She had taken great pains to gown herself especially for him, especially to establish her influence over him. He held out his arms to her lovingly. In the sickness of soul and body now upon him he had turned more and more to her; she had to be with him almost constantly. "You look so sweet," he said. "You are sweetest like this. I love you like this." Despite the relief that came when with her, he talked nervously, his mouth jerking. His hands wandered to her head, and he held her face and peered at her. "Sally, I wish I was a girl like you," he said, "girls look so peaceful. Business tangles a man,--just to have peace, Sally." "It will come Father, it will come. Father, Piney rode in from the hills just now, and he brought me news." He could feel the tremor of her lithe body against his breast, and he moved quickly and uneasily, suspecting danger. His dreams had so long been terror-fraught that he was all nerves and suspicion. "News of what, Sally?" The whitest, deadest voice, for so simple a question; on his face the most awful strain! She drew back on his knee and looked at him steadily, lovingly, and his eyes dropped and his hands began to drum on the chair-arm. "Father," she said, "Piney has heard a long story. He was hid on the bluff-side, up at Redbud, and he heard a letter read at the shack there, a dead man's letter." "A dead--oh, God bless you--wait--Sally, did that move? eh, what foolishness is this, a dead man's letter? What dead man? eh? what dead man?" "Bruce Grierson, father." "They lie! They lie! Let them prove it!" "Ah, that was what I told Piney, Father! I knew, I knew that you could explain it. And you can now, and you will, Father?" She was really beseeching him to rise up against her and the accusation against him, rise up in a great storm of indignation; she was praying that he would do that, expecting that he would, so firm were her convictions of his nobility. She drew back a little, to give him room, as it were; her hands fell upon his knee, and she leaned from him the better to see him, her face aglow with her fierce hope, her big belief, while she waited for that storm, that outraged denial, that tremendous vindication. And while she waited, erect, hopeful, eager, he shrank in upon himself; crumpled and wrinkled in upon himself until he looked weazened and small. "Let them prove it, let them," a whining mumble. "They will not, Father." She was leaning toward him again, her face quiet as the first frightened dawn of a grey morning; her voice was beaten and sad, but she went on dauntlessly. "The letter was to Uncle Bernique, Father. And Bruce Steering read it. And though it told him that he was the owner of the Tigmores, he and Uncle Bernique will not prove it." For a moment she paused, and then, with some new purpose on her face, she began again, "There was an oath to make all sure that they would not prove it. Listen, Father, these were the words of the oath: 'Swear, I by my love for Salome Madeira, you by your love for Piney's young mother, that never, so help us God, shall one or the other of us carry word of this thing to anyone, least of all to Crittenton Madeira and his daughter, Salome!'" "Ah-h-h!" The words of the oath seemed to bring Madeira his first brief respite in a long torture. The girl shivered at such relief, then went on resolutely: "So now you see, Father, everything is safe. I have come to let you know that everything is safe, that you need not be troubled, sleeping or waking, any more about this thing. You may keep the Tigmores as long as you will," the light of her eyes beat upon him like a rain of pure gold, "you may be as rich as you like, Father. Mr. Steering is to leave here; you need never be dispossessed during your lifetime. It is all safe and sure. Uncle Bernique will not tell, Mr. Steering will not tell, Piney will not tell, I shall make no sign." The tragic strength of her endeavour to make him see that it was all with him; to leave it all to him; if so be that the better part were to be chosen, to make him choose it for himself; re-establish himself in so much as was possible for her loving regard, was in the hot clasp of the young hand that she laid upon him, the sweet earnestness of the face that leaned toward him. It was a strange fight, a battle of vast forces. He began to shake like an aspen leaf, but his eyes lifted to hers presently, to drink from them as from a fountain of life. His lips moved. "Just to have peace," he gasped hoarsely, "take that letter--take it from my pocket--send it to Steering." "Father!" It was the cry of victory well won. "Father! I am so glad!" over and over again. "All my life, Father, I have expected the good thing to happen because of you, the right thing, I am so glad!" Laughing, crying, she kissed him, took the letter and stole to the door. "Piney shall be its bearer," she cried as she went, "Piney shall take it; he will say the very best that there is to say!" She ran out, and the door swung quickly behind her, so that she did not see that he put his hand over his empty pocket and held his heart with a great relief; then pitched forward suddenly, his head on the desk, a look of late-come, profound peace on his face. _Chapter Seventeen_ JUST A BOY It was not quite dark when Piney left Miss Sally Madeira in the garden back of Madeira Place, the Grierson letter in the inside band of his hat. The pretty spring day had closed in grey and sullen, and a high wind tore through the bluffs. Up in Canaan people were going anxiously to their windows, and trying to decide what was about to happen out there in that whirl of dust and wind and high-spattering rain. Down at Madeira Place it was grey, windy, and damp, but the rain had not come on yet. Piney went down the bridle-path from the Madeira grounds and out into the river road at a gallop, and the pony sped on like mad toward the little shack down stream at Redbud. All the way Piney kept a watch on the Di, which was sucking and booming. Long before he reached Redbud the boy had begun to hope that Steering had not put through his evening programme to that last number of going back to Redbud by water, after the haunting visit to the waters about Madeira Place. The river seemed very black and restless with the long urge of the spring rains within her. Now and again, he called loudly, prompted by some fear, he knew not what: "Steerin'! Steerin'! Steerin'!" He reached Redbud by and by, to find no Steering, only the little empty shack. The lean bunks, swaddled roughly in their bedding, looked strangely deserted. Piney sat down on Steering's bunk for a moment to take breath. Once his hand patted the covers, and once he stooped down and clung to the pillow. "Oh, may God bless you! For I love him, my dear Piney! Bless you, for I love him, my dear Piney!" he kept saying over and over, with an hysterical quaver in his voice, his lips pale and moving constantly. "Oh, may God bless you, for I love him, my dear Piney!" It was what Salome Madeira had said to him when he had left her, a white, angelic figure, swaying a little toward him, there in the garden back of Madeira Place. "Oh, may God--for I love him!" The odour of Bruce's cigars hung about the shack. Piney jumped up suddenly and went down close to the Di to wait and think. At Redbud the river seemed fiercer than farther up-stream. One of the two skiffs that rocked there usually was there now, swashing up and down in the current, but the other was gone. There was a strong eddy in front of Redbud. The bar, Singing Sand, and the Deerlick Rocks choked up the bed of the river and made the water dash vehemently through a narrow channel. Logs went by and branches of trees. Piney paced the bank in a rising fever of impatience, calling, calling; but for a long time his call was without avail, the wind roared so defeatingly in the trees. Close into Deerlick Rocks drifted a great fleet of logs. "Mist' Steerin'! Mist' Steerin'!" The sweet tenor broke again and again, but again and again Piney pitched a vast effort into it. And, at last, an answer: "Halloo! That you, Uncle Bernique? I've been----" The voice was wind-blown, and slipped weakly away. "It's ME! Where are you?" No answer. "Where are you? Hi! Is that you by the bar? Lif' your han' above the drif'-wood! Cayn't you lif' your han'?" A hand shot up from the back of a log that was well hidden by other flotsam, then fell back weakly. "Ay, here I am! Dead-beat, Piney----" A long roar of wind shut off the rest. "Hold to your log. I'm a-comin'! comin'! comin'!" The tenor rang and rang across the water as Piney loosed the skiff from its moorings, took up the oars, and pushed out into the Di. With the force in that whirl of black water he realised that there was danger; the skiff trembled and leaped as though some wrathful Ægir caught and shook it. It was well for Steering that Piney was strong, with the strength of the hills and the woods and the quiet. As he went on some sort of revulsion seized Piney. He stopped calling and began to mutter blackly. "Wisht you'd draown! Wisht you uz dead! Wish-to-hell, you never needa been!" The log, with its one lamed passenger was drifting slowly in toward Singing Sand, and Piney came on, hard after it. When he reached it at last, Steering was quite speechless, but, with the boy's help, scrambled into the skiff, where he slipped like water to the bottom, the fight back being altogether Piney's. When Steering could talk at all, he gasped out how it had happened. He had gone much farther up than Madeira Place, and had not put his boat about until two hours before; and then only because a great many logs were coming down, and he decided that he did not want to be caught among them when night should drop. He had got along all right until a log smashed into his skiff and overturned him. He thought he must have struck his head as he went over. At any rate, things were very mixed for a good while. He knew that he had swum for what seemed to be hours, and that then he had realised that he was numb, and had used what little strength he had left to climb upon another log that passed him. He had been on it ever since, flat out, an eternity. Piney was getting the skiff inshore fast, as Steering talked, and once Steering stopped to admire his youthful vigour. He was a strong man himself, and it was a new sensation to lie weakly admiring strength in somebody else. "Do you know, Piney, I'm dead-beat," he whispered. "You've had a good deal to stan' in more ways than one to-day," replied Piney. "What do you mean by that?" asked Steering. "We're a'most in." It was only a few minutes later that Piney effected his landing, and, river-lashed and dripping, both scrambled out and fell on the bank by the Redbud shack. For a little while, even Piney was past any further exertion, but when he could use himself again, he got up agilely, hunted up dry wood and made a roaring fire. The twilight had closed into night now; the rain had shifted with the wind and passed by Redbud. Piney brought a blanket from the shack and wrapped Steering in it. Before the fire, Steering lay with his eyes shut for a time, a smile on his face. "You are precious good to stand by me like this, Piney," he said once. "Where have you been for so long, you stingy nigger? Why have you cut me lately?" "Well, I--oh, I d'n know adzackly." Piney's voice was flat, his face tragic. He was heaping wood on the fire, and in the yellow flare he looked pale with the exhaustion of his work on the river and the excitement under which he was labouring. During this last half hour that he had been working hard to save Steering, taking care of him, helping him, he had had another revulsion of feeling that had swung him up close to his hero again. But crisis was still following crisis in his emotions. "Well, you turned up at just the right minute for me, Piney. How did you happen along?" "Oh, I wuz a-huntin' fer you, I reckon. I wuz sent aout to hunt fer you. I gotta letter fer you,--f'm--f'm Miss Madeira." Steering opened his drowsy eyes and regarded Piney. "Yes, I have. I gotta letter fer you. Y'see, Miss Sally, she's found aout sumpin--sumpin that you didn' want her to find aout." The fire leaped and crackled; Bruce leaned away from its scorch, nearer to Piney. "Y'see, she knows abaout the Tigmores naow," went on Piney steadily. "Unc' Bernique didn' tell her. I told her." "Piney!" Steering, warm with wrath, turned upon Piney savagely, "You little fool! You brutal little fool!" he cried fiercely. "It's a good thing that you're just a boy, Piney--and you, _you_! profess to love----" "Mist' Steerin'." Piney had a man's dignity all in a minute. "I didn' ast you fer no leave to tell her, an' I don't ast you fer nothin' naow. But she had to know. I hearn Unc' Bernique tellin' you abaout that Grierson letter. I hearn you read the letter. I hearn you an' Unc' Bernique swear. Then I swore, too. Then I went an' told her. And then she saw her father, an' she leffen it to her father to make things right, an' he's made things right. She told me I wuz to tell you that. She showed him that he was safe to keep the Tigmores if he wanted to keep 'em, but he didn't want to keep 'em. She told me to tell you that. An' she told me to give you this letter." Piney's young body rocked now with a hushed, sobbing fervour; he lifted his peaked hat from his head, took the letter from the inner band, and pushed it into Bruce's hand. "This letter kim to her father a long time ago, and she ast me to ast you to think of her father abaout it gentle as you can--an' I'm a-astin' you to think of him gentle," the lad's voice suddenly rose shrilly, and he jumped to his feet, "an' I'm _a-bustin'_ to have you say you won't think of him gentle, er sumpin 'at I cayn't stan' an 'll hit you fer! I'm jesta boy, Mist' Steerin', but good God!" Bruce got to his feet, too. When he caught Piney's flaming eye at last, they stood and faced each other a great moment, then Bruce put his hand out. "Piney," he said, "I wish I were half the man that you are." "Oh, Mist' Steerin'! Mist' Steerin'!" On Bruce's shoulder, he sobbed like a child until the terrific strain that he had been on for hours slackened, and he could talk again. "She's waitin' fer you," he said at last. "She's up yonder in the garden, waitin'. She loves you, Mist' Steerin'. Don't you go fergit that, with y'all's pride an' all. She loves you." "What? What's that you are saying, Piney?" "She loves you. I know it, Mist' Steerin'. An' I'm a-tellin' ev' durn thing I know!" declared Piney vehemently, with a high-toned, stubborn self-justification in his voice. "Dog-on you, old man," Bruce said, turning to grip Piney's hand again. He had it in mind to say a great many other things, in the way of appreciation, thanks, enthusiasms, but all he said was "dog-on you, old man, dog-on you," gripping Piney's hand as he said it. "You make yourself comfortable here in the shack to-night, will you, old man, and I'll go on up there. They are in a little trouble over this up there, Piney." Steering tore the Grierson letter to bits as he spoke, and, then, his eyes wet and shining, he found Piney's pony and went to her in the garden. Piney lay back on the ground beside the fire. The glow fell squarely over his features, relaxed and softened now. He looked very hopefully and comfortingly young. There was a big, shy gratification on his face. "'Old _man_,'" he muttered once or twice. "'Old _man_.'" A little sob shivered through him. He got up quickly and went into the shack bunk, where he fell asleep at once--because he was so young--and dreamed fine dreams of Italy--because he, too, was fine. _Chapter Eighteen_ A PRETTY PRECARIOUSNESS As Bruce galloped up the river road toward Madeira Place, he found himself so weak with excitement and physical exhaustion, that he had to bow over the saddle-horn and cling there, like an old man. It was a ride to remember. Once he raised his head and looked out into the night. The storm had broken, and high in the quivering heavens the moon shone with a wild, palpitant glory. In the north and east the clouds had gathered with a mighty up-piling, from which the eye sank back affrighted, it towered so near heaven. The trees along the river, the shaking, shimmering river itself, were all shot with light. It was a grand scene, but removed, turbulent, unreal. Steering's strength failed him again, and he fell back over the saddle and hung on. There come times in a man's life, good times as well as bad times, when he can do nothing but hang on. On these dizzying peaks of happiness, Steering scarcely dared let himself look beyond the pony's nose. He was so high up, so near the consummation of--oh--of everything. It would be ridiculously easy to set matters straight now, in one way or another. She loved him! If that were true, it would make everything else come right. And that was true. Piney had been sure of it, and Piney had just left her. Everything else, all life, could be made to close around that salient, delicate fact like the rose-leaves close around the heart of the rose. Let her father keep the hills; he did not care, if he could have the girl. He did not care about anything, if he could have the girl. And he could have the girl. Thank God for that. Little by little he began to allow himself a meagre consciousness that he was drawing nearer, nearer! Now, just below the grounds of Madeira Place! Now, up along the bridle-path! Now, at the garden gate! He leaned over the pony's head, slipped the gate latch, and passed into the garden. Dismounting, he tied the pony, and turned toward the house. Dark, in the shadow of the trees behind it, the house lay very quiet, unlighted, infinitely peaceful. In front of the negro cabin at the side of the house, Bruce could see Samson, his chair tilted against the cabin wall, his pipe in his mouth, his bare feet swinging contentedly. From inside the cabin came the low croon of Samson's fat black wife. Some hens clucked sleepily in the hen-house. With the moonlight disintegrated and softened by the trees, everything up toward the house breathed peace. Out here in the garden, however, where the gold light beat down straightly, there was a sense of waiting, unrest, sweet and tumultuous. Out here in the garden it was glorious, but it was not peaceful. What was it that was responsible for that misty halation of incompleteness, longing? the shaking breath of the wide-lipped roses? the secrets within the bowed slender lilies? the tortured joy of the whole garden life of fragrance and beauty? Over by the old vine-covered stump there was a gleam of white, swaying a little, breathing a little, it seemed, and Steering went toward it, strength coming back into his limbs, his head lifting as he came, his arms outheld. "I hoped that you would come, Mr. Steering. I have been waiting a long time for you," she said, not moving, her eyes meeting his, something in her face, her rigidity, stopping him. Her hands were pale and still on the grey-green of the vines; her face had caught the wild, gold gleam of the moon. "I wanted to tell you myself about that letter, Mr. Steering. I wanted to tell you myself about the Tigmores being yours. I have grown afraid, out here in the dark, that Piney might not have been able to make you understand, might have misled you in some way about--what I said. I was very much excited when I talked to Piney, Mr. Steering, and I am not sure that I made it clear to him that I am very glad indeed that the hills are yours at last; glad because we are--or have been--such good friends, Mr. Steering, glad for that reason--for friendship's sake, and for nothing," her voice wandered, and the beat of her low broad breast was girlishly pitiful, "else, but friend----" she could not go on. "Ship," suggested Bruce, with a great desire to help her, but very much at sea. Was it to be failure, after all? Had Piney made a vast mistake? This proud, pale woman here--suddenly an awful timidity seized him, but he shook himself out of that brusquely and came on. "_She loves you, don't you go fergit that!_" Piney's admonition piped up to him on a high and tuneful memory. He realised that he was walking a path through the flower-tangled, pretty precariousness of romance as he came on toward her--potential lovers' quarrels, separation, the irate parent, a girl's pride, her foolish, solemn effort to fight him back for fear that she had led him on too far, a man's uneasy timidity, the complication of their circumstances--the memory of them all made little snares for his feet, as he came on toward her. But he came on, growing bolder as he came, deciding what to do as he came. It was a crisis for romance as he faced her across the old vine-covered stump. He put his hands down on the stump near her hands, and his face caught the gleam of the light overhead, as hers did. "Piney has just pulled me out of the river," he said in a wan voice, "and it was all I could do to get here. I--I am as shaky as a kitten." She looked up at him, betrayed into it by his careful conservation of that weakness in his voice, and, seeing how pale he was, her hands stole in under his. "Oh, but I am weak, _and_ sick!" he went on, pursuing his advantage mercilessly, his hands closing over hers, while her face leaned toward him, all lit and trembling, "I am weak, but I love you so!" "Ah--h!" she cried, a shaking, joyful cry, "you ought to have said that long ago, Bruce! Tying my hands all winter! _Now_, it doesn't matter which of us owns the old hills, does it?" It was there, under the pale, wild light of the moon, with the wide-lipped roses, the slender-bowed lilies, the tremulous fragrance, the delicate unrest, the tortured joy of the garden's life of beauty all around them, that she crept into his arms shyly and radiantly. The trees rustled with low glad music, and the night air seemed full of mystic influences, blessings, happinesses. From the quiet house beyond, there drifted toward them the sense of late-come, profound peace. _Chapter Nineteen_ WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE There was a vast turmoil in Canaan. For the matter of that, there was a vast turmoil far out the road toward Poetical, and away across Big Wheat Valley, and all over We-all Prairie. The very air was a-tremble. In Canaan all the stores were closed or closing. Court House Square was full of vehicles that seemed poised at the very moment of departure; people were laughing or talking excitedly, with foolish good-humour, as though they did not know what they were saying, but realised that it made precious little difference whether they knew or not. Children were being lifted into waggons, surreys, buggies. Great hampers were being stowed and re-arranged under the seats of the vehicles, sometimes tied to the single-trees to swing there with solemn, heavy gaiety. Young men, very alert, in red neckties and unbuttoned kid gloves, wheeled and turned recklessly through the streets in light road sulkies, drawn by high-stepping trotters. Dogs trotted about with their tails in the air, sniffing, quivering; there was a warm, cutting smell of harness, axle-grease, horse-flesh. The sun beat down upon it all and into it till the whole scene hung electrified, etched out in light, a supreme moment on the very top of Canaan's history. Then a young boy, with a red sash strapped over his right shoulder and under his left arm, cantered up on a pony, pony and boy both tremendously important. "Piney's marshal er the day," said a big man, laughing indulgently. "D'you know the Steerin's air sendin' that tramp-scamp to Italy?" called another man with a bewildered, incredulous inflection in his voice. "Well he cand go fer all me. You couldn' pull me aouter Mizzourah with pothooks these days," declared the big man earnestly. "What's that the tramp-boy's sayin' naow?" The tramp-boy was making a trumpet of his hands. "All ready!" he shouted, with one of his high, musical yodels, "Le's start!" The lesser activities of stowing away hampers, locking store doors, wiping children's noses, broadened quickly into a wide concerted movement. Everybody was picking up his reins. Everybody was clucking to his horse. Every horse was starting. Everybody was gone. Canaan was deserted. A long irregular cavalcade crept out across the country toward Razor Ridge. And as it went it was constantly augmented at the cross-roads by farmers from We-all and Big Wheat and Pewee, until waggons and surreys and buckboards and buggies and horseback riders stretched out endlessly, the balloons of the children, the red neckties of the young men, the gaily flowered hats of the girls making the spectacle joyous. Then, too, everybody was laughing, everybody was glad about something. When the cavalcade began to defile past Madeira Place, wild cheers rang out. Samson at the side of the big house, inspanning the Kentucky blacks, took the demonstration to himself with hysterical joy, bowing and gesticulating, doubling over and holding his stomach, while he danced up and down, his white teeth showing, his eyes rolling. "Hurrah furrum! Hurrah furrum!" came in a great rollicking volume of sound from the road. "Thass all ri'. Yesseh! Thanky! Thass all ri'. Yasseh! You bet!" yelled Samson up by the house. A girl in a gauzy black gown and a drooping black hat came out on the front porch of the house and waved to the passing people. "We'll be along! Yes, we are coming! Yes, we'll hurry!" There were bright tears in the girl's eyes. A man came out of the house and stood behind her, his arm on the door post, his face smiling. She turned to him, the tears in her eyes, the smile on her lips. "Aren't they pretty splendid?" she cried, a fine enthusiasm on her face as she watched the people, "Look at them! There's something in them! There's the best of all America in them! And they will have their chance now." For answer the man put his arm about her. "Greatest State in the Union, this Missouri," he said with tremendous conviction. "Where's Uncle Bernique?" "Gone an hour ago." "Well then, can't we start, too?" The same tingle of impatience seemed to reach both at once. They ran back into the house. The cavalcade wound on up Ridge Road toward the Tigmores. At its far-away end now trotted the Kentucky blacks, drawing a light trap. The man on the box-seat was a big, deep-chested man, long and powerful of forearm. He held the exuberant, snorting blacks easily with one hand. The woman beside him was a good mate for him, firmly knit, strong in her movements. Under her black hat the burnish of her hair and skin made her look gold-dusted. They were high up Razor Ridge. Below the Ridge, Big Wheat Valley and We-all Prairie stretched away from the Tigmore foot-hills in broad strips of harvest gold. The sky was brilliantly blue; even Choke Gulch's glooms were flecked with light. The scrub-oak, the dog-wood, the chinca-pin, the walnut, the hickory, sumach and sassafras trailed over the Tigmores like a giant green veil. On beyond the Tigmores the pale wide Di ran slowly, goldenly, a molten river. As the procession went on up the hill the people called from one waggon to another, their tongues set going by the passing of Madeira Place and the advent of the Kentucky blacks into the procession. "They say Miss Sally, Miz Steerin', that is, feels mighty broke up because her paw didn' live to see all that's a-goin' on this day." "Yass, reckin's haow that's true." "Howdy, Miz Dade, haow you come on?" "Huccome you to come, Asa?" "They say the Steerin's air goin' away to-night. Goin' back East on a visit." "Yass, that's true. The tramp-boy is goin' along. D'you know that? Yass, goin' to N'York, on his way to Italy. The Steerin's air sendin' him." "Well, they cand all go whur they please, I wouldn' leave Mizzourah these days, not me. Wy, ev' farm in the Tigmores is liable to turn into a zinc mine any night. Say, do you know air the Steerin's to be long gone?" "Nope, not so long. Unc' Bernique's to run things while they away." "Oh, well, then." The cavalcade's forerunners had now reached the top of the Tigmore Uplift. They began to deploy into the woods overhanging Choke Gulch. A trail had been cut, the trees were down until it was possible to get through with the vehicles, though it was rough going. At the end of the newly made road a great clearing opened up to the on-coming people. The teams were driven over to a thicket and the people spilled out of the vehicles and swarmed over the clearing. One by one, then two by two, in their hurry, the teams came in, until everybody had arrived. The Kentucky blacks came last. Then there was a waiting, a restraint, the people looked at one another. Finally their uneasiness and unspoken question were answered by an edict from the mouth of a small upright Frenchman, who mounted a stump and declaimed with a great flourish of graceful pomposity: "'Tis the wish of Mistaire and Meez Steering that none go to the mill until that the bar-r-becue shall be end." He was generously applauded and his fine shoulders stiffened responsively. This was the sort of thing that François Placide DeLassus Bernique liked. The people contented themselves within the clearing the little time that remained of the morning. At one side of the clearing, fenced off by ropes, was a long trench, across which stretched poles of tough green hickory. On top of these poles lay great quarters of beeves, whole hogs, slit through the belly and spread wide till the dressed flesh wrinkled into the back-bone in thick layers, sheep, tongues, venison, an army's rations. Down in the trench glowed the red-hot coals of a vast Vulcan fire, set going the night before and fed and beaten all night into its present perfect equability. Up and down the sides of the trench walked men in great aprons, long-handled brushes, like white-wash brushes, in their hands. These brushes they dipped into buckets of salt and pepper, strung along the trench at regular intervals, and smeared the sizzling meat, a sort of Titanic seasoning process. Rough pine boards, supported on tree stumps, formed long lines of tables on which loaves of bread were piled two feet high. Beside the bread were great buckets of pickles, preserves, jams, whole churns of butter, cheeses, cakes, pies, hundreds and hundreds of them, as though the whole world had become one enormous maw with an enormous clamour for food. The rich aroma of the sizzling meat and the slow sweet scorch of the green hickory poles drifted up into the trees and hung there, a visible odour, tantalising, insistent. The men who had got into their wives' aprons and had begun to cut sandwiches at the long tables were invited to hurry up. The men who were varnishing the meat with salt and pepper were told that they were too slow. The boys who had begun cracking ice were applauded. The girls who had begun to squeeze lemons were offered help. The women who had begun to set out knives and forks and plates were interrupted and set back by hoots of encouragement. Children were stepped on and soothed, a continuous performance. The committee-on-cooking got in the way of the committee-on-washing-the-dishes; the committee-on-waiting-on-the-table almost came to blows with the committee-on-slicing-the-bread. Toward noon the scramble for places began. Then the people began to gorge. There was a constant reaching and grabbing. The clearing resounded with phrases of intricate politeness: "Thank you to trouble you fer one them pickles, Si." "Please'm gi' me a little your tongue, Miz Dade." "Reach me some more bread, if you don't care whut you do, Quin." Beyond the long tables little private parties sat here and there, ranged around red table-cloths, flat on the ground, stuffing, greasy-fingered, hospitable, happy. Beyond these little parties, off in the young trees, in the buggies and buck-boards, were still smaller parties, the red-necktie young men and the girls with bright flowers in their hats, two and two, two and two, all through the thicket, each duet very happy, drinking out of one tin cup, the red-necktie young man assiduously putting his lips to the cup on the spot where the girl's lips had touched it. Everybody ate incessantly. At first to appease hunger; then probably because of a dim prevision that by the middle of next week some reproachful memory might assail one if one did not do one's full part by the present abundance. It was not until the sun had long passed the zenith that the gorging and stuffing came to an end, and then it was only because word began to circulate among the people that "the mill was open"; that "the people could go down now," in fine, that the great hour of that great day had come. Following upon the rumour, François Placide DeLassus Bernique again mounted a stump. This time he said: "I am authorise' to make to you the announcement that the first mill of the Canaan Mining and Development Company is now to commence to r-r-un, and to invite you in the name of Mistaire Steering to assemble in the Choke Gulch, there to behold the begin' of a new e-r-a of pr-r-osperitee for thees gr-r-eat State of Missouri. But before that we go, I ask your attention for the one moment to those word of our fellow-citizen, Mistaire Steering!" He stopped, reluctantly but heroically, and Steering, quitting the side of the girl in black, mounted the stump. "Ladies and gentlemen," said Steering, "it was my wife's idea to make the opening of the first mill of the Canaan Mining and Development Company a gala day, a holiday, and I believe that you are all prepared to agree with me that it was a good idea. All that I want to say to you now for myself and for Mr. Carington, and for the eastern gentlemen whose money Mr. Carington represents, is just this: A great opportunity has opened up for us all down here. A new Missouri is about to be made. All our dreams are coming true. The golden harvest of our wheat fields has been found to be rooted deep in mines of wonderful richness. But just because we have found something inside these hills of ours, don't let's neglect the outside of the hills. We must cultivate and improve on the outside, while we dig down deep on the inside. Life is going to give us chances from now on that we have never had before. As a people we must rise to these chances all along the line. We must come up all along the line. We must get better schools, better houses, better barns, better farming implements, better kitchen implements, better roads. Our watchword down here in the Southwest must be to _come up_. Don't forget it. We've got our chance now, now we must come up!" Bruce sat down and the people, who had listened to him attentively, the faces of the farm-women especially keen and responsive, broke into another vast applause that set the leaves astir. Somebody began to insist then that somebody else ought to make a speech of thanks, appreciation, to the Steerings for the day, and for the general satisfaction and prosperity that had come into Canaan with the new régime of the Canaan Company's affairs. Everybody began to turn toward Mr. Quin Beasley. Those nearest him nudged him. Very slowly Mr. Beasley got to his feet, mounted the stump, fell off and mounted it again. "Frien's an'," Mr. Beasley's scared eye lit upon some children just beneath him who were regarding him with awe and the ecstatic hope that he would fall off again, and, encouraged by the awe, he levelled his next words at them powerfully, "Fellow Citizens! Taint fer me to say anythin' more ceppen only that ef I did say anythin', which I shan't, it 'ud jes be to say over whut Mist' Steerin' has said as bein' the whole thing, an fer that reason I'll say nothin'." It was a master stroke! Never in his life before had Beasley refrained from saying anything because he had nothing to say. The Canaanites were impressed. They said, "Good! Good!" For fear of some anticlimax Bruce at once gave his signal and the people began to swarm down the hillside into Choke Gulch, defiling through the Gulch toward a great shed that stood backed up to the hillside arrogantly. Although all Canaan had watched the building and rigging day by day, in Choke Gulch, the sight of the shed made the people almost hysterical, as though they had never seen the "plant" of the Canaan Mining and Development Company before, the shack office, the tool-house, the big proud mill shed, the tramway, the hoister. There was a group already ranged at the door of the engine-room as the people came on. Bruce Steering and his wife, Old Bernique, and the tramp-boy were in the centre of the group. "We are all steamed up!" cried Bruce. "Make ready there, boys! Hurrah for the greatest zinc run in the greatest State in the Union! _Now_, Piney!" The tramp-boy, on his face an unaccustomed appreciation of this larger side of the workaday world, stepped back inside the engine-room, laid his hand on a throttle, and at the signal, as if by magic, there was a whirr of slipping bands, a mighty throb, the renewed fashing of water down the jigs, a grinding, a pounding, a crunching, a gurgling; and a long, resonant shout went up again and again from the elastic throats of the exalted Canaanites; for the first mill of the Canaan Mining and Development Company was running! Later on someone over in the crowd spoke. "Pity Mist' Crit Madeira aint here to see all this. Haow he woulda taken to it. That son-in-law of his woulda jes adzackly suited Mist' Crit. Pity he had to die off sudden-like jes whend ev'thing wuz comin' araoun'." It was a woman's voice and it was all softened with pity. "Yass, oh yass," said a man next her gingerly. He was a man who had not believed in Crit Madeira, but it occurred to him that this was not the time or the place to recall that. The evening of that gala day was a glorious evening. Rich and warm and beautiful, self-indulgent nature had swaddled herself about in barbaric bands of colour, a drowsy opulence of green and scarlet, soft-toned amber and pale, veiled azure. It was an hour when the senses riot in carnival, when colour sings and sound seems pink and gold, when light is fragrant and flowers emit sparks of light. Steering and his wife stood in the Garden of Dreams and the hour swirled up to them out of the sunset, mystical, urgent, sweet. The house was shut and locked behind them. Below them was the shivering Di. Off beyond them tumbled the Canaan Tigmores. Canaan, the proud, lay to the West in a fecund waiting. "Do you know," said Steering, "I do not like to leave Missouri, Sally, not even for a little while, not even to show you to Carington and Elsie. We've no business along with brides and grooms anyway, we've been married two months. I wish we weren't going to leave Missouri, Sally." She turned her face up to him banteringly; her travelling hat was in her hand; above her black gown her bright hair shone with its beautiful lustres. "They must get along without you here for a little while, Mr. President of the Canaan Mining and Development Company. I need some clothes." "Lay hold on my title gently, please, Mrs. Steering. Every time I hear it I feel that it needs more glue." "Mrs. Steering! That's something of a title, too, isn't it? But, after all, who is so proud of newcome titles as the Superintendent of the Gulch Mine, François Placide DeLassus Bernique, eh, Mistaire Steering?" "Old chap's satisfaction is good to live in. Oh, we are all happy, happy! Elsie and Carington seem to be hitting it off well, too, don't they?" Steering heaved a benevolent sigh, as though he felt that he had missed something whose missing was little short of escape. He regarded the magnificent, glowing woman beside him worshipfully. "Hark!" he cried next, "Piney's happy too, dear boy. That's the best of all! Hear that!" From the river road below the garden came the sound of the pony's galloping feet and down by the sheen of the river, the tramp-boy was outlined presently, a gallant young figure, full of life and fire. "I'm a-goin' to meet you at the station," he called up to them. "I'm a-sayin' good-bye to Mizzourah! D'you think Italy's a-goin' to beat this, Miss Sally?" He indicated the shimmering river, the woods beyond, the wonderful sky in the west, with a half-homesick gesture, then dashed on down the river road, gay with anticipation again, carolling the potato song lustily: "_The taters grow an' grow, they grow!_" "That was a fine idea of yours, Sally, to send him to Italy. I suppose he will have to be disappointed, for Italy, with him, is all dream-stuff; still, life would never have been fulfilled for Piney without Italy." "No, it wouldn't. And he won't be disappointed. You see, it's the music in him. That will count big some day. And Italy is the place for him to find himself. He won't be disappointed, and we shan't be disappointed in him. He is worth his chance. But see how low the sun is, Bruce. We, too, must say good-bye to Missouri now, if we are to make the train. Take your last look until we come back to it all." The fragrance trembled about them. The pale wide Di quivered below them. Far to the west flamed the sunset. Down through the ether dropped great swaying draperies of orange and purple. Fair into the heart of heaven unrolled a path of violet and blue and rose. Young, ancestral, sweet, she stood there beside him, his. Steering turned his eyes from the dusky-gold radiance of her face and hair to the land beyond, where his hills billowed toward him with mighty promise, submerging him again, reclaiming him, as they had done on a lonely day not one year gone, making a Missourian of him, as it had done on that day. The girl, the land, he, all the world, seemed banded in a golden irradiation. "Oh, Missouri! Missouri!" he cried, with a joyful, trembling, upleaping of spirit, his arms shut close about his wife, his eyes coming back to her as to the spirit of this new and wonderful West, "You glorious State! You sweet, wide land! I adore you!" THE END. * * * * * ADVERTISEMENTS * * * * * By Henry Harland Author of "The Cardinal's Snuff Box" MY FRIEND PROSPERO A novel which will fascinate by the grace and charm with which it is written, by the delightful characters that take part in it, and by the interest of the plot. The scene is laid in a magnificent Austrian castle in North Italy, and that serves as a background for the working out of a sparkling love-story between a heroine who is brilliant and beautiful and a hero who is quite her match in cleverness and wit. It is a book with all the daintiness and polish of Mr. Harland's former novels, and other virtues all its own. Frontispiece in colors by Louis Loeb. $1.50 * * * * * McClure, Phillips & Co. * * * * * By Stanley J. Weyman Author of "A Gentleman of France" THE LONG NIGHT Geneva in the early days of the 17th century; a ruffling young theologue new to the city; a beautiful and innocent girl, suspected of witchcraft; a crafty scholar and metaphysician seeking to give over the city into the hands of the Savoyards; a stern and powerful syndic whom the scholar beguiles to betray his office by promises of an elixir which shall save him from his fatal illness; a brutal soldier of fortune; these are the elements of which Weyman has composed the most brilliant and thrilling of his romances. Claude Mercier, the student, seeing the plot in which the girl he loves is involved, yet helpless to divulge it, finds at last his opportunity when the treacherous men of Savoy are admitted within Geneva's walls, and in a night of whirlwind fighting saves the city by his courage and address. For fire and spirit there are few chapters in modern literature such as those which picture the splendid defence of Geneva, by the staid, churchly, heroic burghers, fighting in their own blood under the divided leadership of the fat Syndic, Baudichon, and the bandy-legged sailor, Jehan Brosse, winning the battle against the armed and armored forces of the invaders. Illustrated by Solomon J. Solomon. $1.50 * * * * * McClure, Phillips & Co. * * * * * By Henry Seton Merriman Author of "The Sowers," etc. BARLASCH OF THE GUARD The story is set in those desperate days when the ebbing tide of Napoleon's fortunes swept Europe with desolation. Barlasch--"Papa Barlasch of the Guard, Italy, Egypt, the Danube"--a veteran in the Little Corporal's service--is the dominant figure of the story. Quartered on a distinguished family in the historic town of Dantzig, he gives his life to the romance of Desirée, the daughter of the family, and Louis d'Arragon, whose cousin she has married and parted with at the church door. Louis's search with Barlasch for the missing Charles gives an unforgettable picture of the terrible retreat from Russia; and as a companion picture there is the heroic defence of Dantzig by Rapp and his little army of sick and starving. At the last Barlasch, learning of the death of Charles, plans and executes the escape of Desirée from the beleaguered town to join Louis. Illustrated by the Kinneys. $1.50 * * * * * McClure, Phillips & Co. * * * * * By A. Conan Doyle Author of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" THE ADVENTURES OF GERARD Stories of the remarkable adventures of a Brigadier in Napoleon's army. In Etienne Gerard, Conan Doyle has added to his already famous gallery of characters one worthy to stand beside the notable Sherlock Holmes. Many and thrilling are Gerard's adventures, as related by himself, for he takes part in nearly every one of Napoleon's campaigns. In Venice he has an interesting romantic escapade which causes him the loss of an ear. With the utmost bravery and cunning he captures the Spanish city of Saragossa; in Portugal he saves the army; in Russia he feeds the starving soldiers by supplies obtained at Minsk; after a wonderful ride. Everywhere else he is just as marvelous, and at Waterloo he is the center of the whole battle. For all his lumbering vanity he is a genial old soul and a remarkably vivid story-teller. Illustrated by W. B. Wollen. $1.50 * * * * * McClure, Phillips & Co. 
35207	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) THE COURIER OF THE OZARKS THE YOUNG MISSOURIANS SERIES BY BYRON A. DUNN AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG KENTUCKIANS" SERIES WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. S. DeLAY CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1912 Copyright A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1912 Published September, 1912 W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO _To the Loyal Men of Missouri, who as members of the militia did so much to save the State to the Union, this book is dedicated. History gives them scant notice, and the Federal government has failed to reward them as they deserve._ [Illustration: "Follow the colors," he shouted.] PREFACE During the year 1862, after the capture of Island No. 10 and New Madrid, no large armies operated in Missouri; but the State was the theater of a desperate guerrilla warfare, in which nearly or quite a hundred thousand men took part. It was a warfare the magnitude of which, at the present time, is very little known; and its cruelty and barbarity make a bloody page in the history of those times. This book is a story of this warfare. It is a story of adventure, of hair-breadth escapes, and of daring deeds. In it the same characters figure as those in _With Lyon in Missouri_ and _The Scout of Pea Ridge_. It tells how our young heroes were instrumental in thwarting the great conspiracy by which the Confederate government, by sending officers into the State, and organizing the different guerrilla bands into companies and regiments, was in hopes of wresting the State from Federal control. As in former books, history is closely followed. BYRON A. DUNN. Waukegan, Illinois. _August, 1912._ CONTENTS I BRUNO CARRIES A MESSAGE II AN INTERNECINE WAR III A MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION IV MOORE'S MILL V A FIGHT IN THE NIGHT VI KIRKSVILLE VII POINDEXTER CAPTURED VIII LONE JACK IX CAPTURED BY GUERRILLAS X THE GUERRILLA'S BRIDE XI THE STORY OF CARL MEYER XII THE NEWS FROM CORINTH XIII PORTER CAPTURES PALMYRA XIV TEN LIVES FOR ONE XV A GIRL OF THE OZARKS XVI A WOUNDED CONFEDERATE XVII TRAILING RED JERSEY XVIII LIVE--I CANNOT SHOOT YOU XIX MARK HAS A RIVAL XX CAPTURING A TRAIN XXI THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS XXII MARK CONFESSES HIS LOVE XXIII INTO THE LION'S MOUTH XXIV PRAIRIE GROVE XXV CALLED TO OTHER FIELDS ILLUSTRATIONS "Follow the colors," he shouted. "Halt the advance. Ambuscade!" gasped Harry. Down the street they rode at full speed. "You pretend to be men and call this war?" To catch the rider as he reeled from the saddle. Her revolver was pointed at his breast. He was looking into the muzzle of a revolver. An old man leaning on a staff. THE COURIER OF THE OZARKS CHAPTER I BRUNO CARRIES A MESSAGE "Down! Bruno, down!" These words were uttered in a guarded whisper by a boy about seventeen years of age, to a great dog that stood by his side. At the word of command, the dog crouched down, his whole body quivering with excitement. His master gently patted him on the head, and whispered, "There, there, old fellow, don't get nervous. Our lives would not be worth much, if we were discovered." The boy was lying full length on the ground, concealed in a dense thicket, but from his point of vantage he had a full view of the road which ran a few yards in front of him. This road ran north and south, and nearly in front of where he lay another road entered it, coming in from the west. The cause of the dog's excitement was apparent, for coming up the road from the west was a large body of horsemen, and a motley troop they were. They were mostly dressed in homespun, and armed with all sorts of weapons, from cavalry sabers to heavy knives fashioned out of files by some rude blacksmith; the army musket, the squirrel rifle, and the shotgun were much in evidence. As the head of the column reached the north and south road the leader called a halt, and looked up and down the road, as if expecting some one. He did not have long to wait. The sound of the swift beating of horse-hoofs was heard from the south, and soon three men came riding up. One, a man of distinguished looks and military bearing, was a little in advance of the other two. As he came up, the leader of the little army saluted him awkwardly and exclaimed, "Glad to see you, Colonel. What news?" "Glad to see you, Captain Poindexter," replied the Colonel. "I see you are on time. As for the news, all goes well. Within a week all Missouri will be ablaze, and the hottest place for Yankees in all Christendom. How many men have you, Captain?" "About five hundred, and more coming in all the time." "So that is Jim Poindexter, the bloody villain," muttered the boy between his set teeth, and nervously fingering his revolver. "How I would like to take a shot at him! But it would not do. It would be madness." The next question asked by the Colonel, whose name was Clay, and who had been in the State for the past two months promoting the partisan uprising, was, "Where is Porter?" "At Brown's Springs. I am to join him there tonight. But he was to meet me here with a few followers, knowing you were to be here." "Good! I will be more than pleased to see him," answered Colonel Clay. "But I thought he was farther north." "Most of his force is," answered Poindexter. "But he promised to meet me at Brown's Springs with five hundred followers. We have our eye on Fulton. My spies report it is garrisoned by less than a hundred men. Fulton captured, I can supply my men with both clothes and arms, and then Jefferson City next." "Jefferson City?" asked Colonel Clay in surprise. "Do you look that far?" "Yes. Thanks to the Yankee Government, there are not over five hundred soldiers in Jefferson City. Fulton once taken, the boys will flock to our standard by thousands, and Jefferson City will become an easy prey." "Accomplish this, Poindexter," cried Colonel Clay, "and Missouri will be redeemed. All over southwestern Missouri the boys are rallying and sweeping northward. The object is to capture Independence, and then Lexington. This done, we will once more control the Missouri River, and the State will be anchored firmly in the Southern Confederacy. Then with your victorious legions you can march south and help drive the Yankee invaders from the land. Poindexter, Missouri can, and should, put fifty thousand Confederate soldiers in the field." Poindexter shrugged his shoulders. "Colonel, not so fast," he exclaimed. "I could not drag my men into the regular Confederate service with a two-inch cable. Neither do I have any hankering that way myself. The free and easy life of a partisan ranger for me." Colonel Clay looked disgusted. "Captain," he asked, "don't you get tired of skulking in the brush, and waging a warfare which is really contrary to the rules of war of civilized nations? There is little honor in such a warfare; but think of the honor and glory that would await you if you could free Missouri, and then help free the entire South. Why, it is not too much to say that the star of a general might glisten on your shoulder." A look of rage came over the face of Poindexter. "If you don't like the way we fight," he growled, "why are you here, urging us to rise? If we can free this State of Yankees, we will accomplish more than your armies down south have. We prefer to fight our own way. Here, I am a bigger man than Jeff Davis. I fight when it suits me, and take to the brush when I want to. If you have any thoughts of influencing me or my men to join the regular Confederate army, you may as well give up the idea. As for the rules of civilized warfare, I don't care that," and he snapped his fingers contemptuously. Colonel Clay concealed the indignation and disgust which he felt towards the fellow, and said: "While we may not think alike, we are both working for the same cause--the liberation of our beloved Southland from the ruthless invasion of the Yankee hordes. If you can accomplish what you think, surely the South will call you one of her most gallant sons. Neither should we be too squeamish over the means used to rid ourselves of the thieves and murderers that have overrun our fair State." "Now you are talking," exclaimed Poindexter, with an oath. "If Porter comes--and he should be here by now--we will discuss the situation more thoroughly; but the first thing for us to do is to capture Fulton." "Are you sure," asked Clay, "that your plans will not miscarry? Mr. Daniels, one of the gentlemen here with me, informs me that that regiment of devils, the Merrill Horse, is only a few miles to the west. May they not interfere with your plans?" At the mention of the Merrill Horse, Poindexter's countenance took on a demoniac expression. Striking the pommel of his saddle with his clenched hand, he hissed: "I will never rest until I shoot or hang every one of that cursed regiment. But you are mistaken in thinking the force west consists of the entire Merrill Horse. Only part of the regiment is there; the rest is up north. The force west is about five hundred strong. I have given out the impression that I am making for the woods which skirt Grand River, to join Cobb. Every citizen they meet will tell them so. Little does Colonel Shaffer, who is in command, think I have slipped past him, McNeil believes Porter is up around Paris--the most of his force is--but he is to join me here with a goodly number. Ah! here he comes now." Down the road from the north a party of horsemen were coming at a swift gallop. They rode up, and salutations were spoken and hands shaken. A look of passion came into the face of the watching boy, and again he fingered his revolver. Even the dog partook of the boy's excitement, for his whole body was quivering. "Quiet, old boy, quiet," whispered the boy. "No doubt you would like to tear the bloody monster to pieces, and I would give ten years of my life for a shot, but it will not do." The boy was now listening intently, trying to catch every word that was said. "Mighty glad to see you, Jo," Poindexter was saying. "How many men have you at Brown's Springs?" "About four hundred when I left; but squads were coming in continually. I count on six hundred by night." "Good! Then we will swoop down on Fulton tonight." "Don't know about that," answered Porter. "Many of the boys have ridden, or will ride, fifty miles to join us. Their horses will be tired. Tomorrow will be all right. How is everything?" "Splendid," answered Poindexter, rubbing his hands. "Not over a hundred soldiers in Fulton. The only drawback is that there is a Yankee force of about five hundred a few miles to the west, part of them the Merrill Horse." "The Merrill Horse! The Merrill Horse!" cried Porter with a dreadful oath. "I thought they were north. They are surely giving me enough trouble up there." "About four companies are down here, under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Shaffer," answered Poindexter. "They have been trying to find me for the past week. But they haven't found me yet," and he chuckled. "The fact is," he continued, "I have fooled them. Shaffer thinks I am making for the woods along the Grand River, to join Cobb. I skipped past him last night. By this time he is making for the Grand River as fast as he can go. No trouble from him in our little business with Fulton." "Don't be too sure," exclaimed Porter. "Shaffer is about as sharp as the devil; but I trust you are right." The conversation now took a general turn, Colonel Clay going over the ground, telling them what was being done, and what he hoped would be accomplished. "As for me," he said, "I must be across the river by tomorrow. Everything depends on the movement to capture Independence and Lexington. Then, if you gentlemen are successful here, and capture Fulton and Jefferson City, our brightest hopes will be fulfilled. I must now bid you good-bye. May success attend you." The Colonel and his two friends rode back towards the south, from whence they came. Poindexter watched them until they were out of sight, and then, turning to Porter, said: "What do you think, Jo? The Colonel wanted me and my men to join the regular Confederate army." "Humph!" sniffed Porter, "I reckon you jumped at the chance." "Not much; but he did more. He mentioned that I was not conducting this blood-letting business strictly on the rules of genteel, scientific murder." "I reckon, before we indulged in a necktie party, he would want us to say, 'Beg pardon, sir, but I am under the painful necessity of hanging you,'" replied Porter, indulging in a coarse laugh. "I told him," continued Poindexter, "we fought as we pleased, and asked no favors of General Price, Jeff Davis, or any other man. As for the Confederate service, none of it for me." "They have offered me a colonelcy, if I take my men down into Arkansas," answered Porter. "If it gets too hot for me here I may go. You know there is a price on my head. But I must go, or my boys will be getting uneasy. Join me at the Springs as soon as possible." Thus saying, he and his party rode away. Poindexter ordered his men to fall in, and they followed Porter, but at a more leisurely gait. When the last one had disappeared, the boy arose and shook himself. "What do you think of that, Bruno?" he asked, patting the dog's head. The dog stood with hanging head and tail, as if ashamed he had let so many of his enemies get away unharmed. He looked up in his master's face and whined at the question, as much as to say, "I don't like it." "Well, my boy, there is the Old Nick to pay. Both Porter and Poindexter on the warpath. Fulton to be attacked, and not a hundred men to defend it. Shaffer with the boys miles away. How are both to be warned? We must see, old fellow, we must see. There is no time to lose." Thus saying, the boy hurriedly made his way back through the woods where in a hollow in the midst of a dense thicket a horse stood concealed. Those who have read "The Scout of Pea Ridge" will readily recognize the boy as Harry Semans, and Bruno as his celebrated trained dog. After the battle of Pea Ridge and upon the dissolution of the company of scouts under the command of Captain Lawrence Middleton, Harry had returned to Missouri, and become a scout for the Merrill Horse. The Merrill Horse, officially known as the Second Missouri Cavalry, was a regiment composed of companies from Missouri, Illinois, and Michigan. It can safely be said that no other regiment in the Federal army ever saw more service in fighting guerrillas than did the Merrill Horse. From the very first of the war their work was to help exterminate the guerrilla bands which infested the State. The name "Merrill Horse" became a terror to every bushwhacker and guerrilla in Missouri. No trail was so obtuse, no thicket so dense that members of that regiment would not track them to their lair. A true history of the Merrill Horse, and the adventures of its different members, would read like the most exciting fiction. When Harry reached his horse he stood for a moment in deep thought, and then speaking to Bruno, said: "Yes, old boy, you must do it. I know you can, can't you?" Bruno gave a bark and wagged his tail as if to say, "Try me." Tearing a leaf from a blank book, Harry wrote a brief note to Colonel Shaffer, telling him what had happened, and begging him to march with all speed to Fulton. This note he securely fastened to Bruno's collar and said, "Bruno, go find Colonel Shaffer and the boys. You know where we left them. Go." For a moment Bruno stood and looked up in his master's face, as if undecided. "Go and find Colonel Shaffer. Go," Harry repeated, sternly. The dog turned and was away like a shot. Harry gazed after him until he was out of sight, then patting the glossy neck of his horse, said, "Now, Bess, it's you and I for Fulton; the machinations of those two archfiends, Poindexter and Porter, must be brought to naught." Harry believed he would have no trouble in reaching Fulton, as the guerrillas were generally quiet near a place garrisoned by Federal troops, therefore he took the main road, as he was desirous of reaching Fulton as soon as he possibly could. He had not gone more than two miles when he met two men, rough-looking fellows, whom Harry had no desire to meet, but there was no way to avoid it, except flight, so he rode boldly forward. Harry was dressed in the homespun of the country, and had all the appearance of a country bumpkin. As to arms, none were visible, but stowed away beneath his rough jacket was a huge navy revolver, and Harry was an adept in the use of it. "Hello, youn' feller," cried one of the men. "Whar be yo' goin' in sich a hurry? Halt, and give an account of yo'self." "Goin' to Fulton, if the Yanks will let me," drawled Harry. "Whar be yo 'uns goin'?" "That 's nun yo' business. Air yo 'un Union or Confed?" "Which be yo'uns?" "Look heah, young feller, nun of yo' foolin'. I reckon yo' air a Yank in disguise. That 's a mighty fine hoss yo 'un air ridin'. 'Spose we 'uns trade." "'Spose we 'uns don't." During this conversation Harry's right hand was resting beneath his jacket, grasping the butt of his revolver. "I reckon we 'uns will," jeered the fellow, reaching for his pistol. Quick as a flash Harry had covered him with his revolver. Fortunately for him, the two men were close together. "Hands up," he ordered. "A move, a motion to draw a weapon, and one or both of you will die. It don't pay to fool with one of Porter's men." The hands of both went up, but one exclaimed, "One of Porter's men? Be yo' one of Porter's men? We 'uns are on our way to join him. We 'uns heard he was at Brown's Springs." "Yo 'uns will find him thar. I am taking a message from him to a friend in Fulton. Yo 'uns can lower your hands. I reckon we 'uns understand each other now." "We 'uns certainly do," said one of the men, as they dropped their hands, looking foolish. "Wall, good-bye; may see yo 'uns in Fulton tomorrow." And Harry rode off, leaving the men sitting on their horses watching him. "Ought to have shot both of them," muttered Harry, "but I cannot afford to take any risks just now." Harry had no further adventures in reaching Fulton, and at once reported to Captain Duffield, who was in command of the post. Captain Duffield listened to Harry's report with a troubled countenance. "A thousand of the devils, did you say?" he asked. "Yes, and more coming in every hour." "And I have only eighty men," replied Duffield, bitterly. "If they attack before I can get help, there is no hope for us." "Colonel Shaffer is a few miles to the west with about five hundred men," replied Harry. "If they do not attack tonight, as I do not reckon they will from what Porter said, he may be here in time to help. I have sent him word." "Sent him word? By whom?" asked Outfield, eagerly. "By my dog," and Harry explained. As Duffield listened, his countenance fell. "I see no hope from that," he said. "It is preposterous to think that a dog will carry a message for miles, and hunt up a man." "If you knew Bruno, you would think differently," replied Harry, smiling. "I can put no dependence on any such thing," said Duffield. "My only hope is getting word to Colonel Guitar, at Jefferson City. If I get any help, it must come from him. God grant that Porter may not attack tonight." "I think there is little danger tonight, but they may be down in the morning," said Harry. "Do you think Guitar can reinforce you by morning?" "He must; he must. I will send a message to him by courier mounted on one of my fleetest horses." "Bess is about as fast as they make them," replied Harry. "I know the country. I will go if you wish." Duffield looked at him a moment doubtfully, and then said, "You may go, as you can tell Colonel Guitar all you have told me. But I will send one of my own men with you." Captain Duffield wrote two messages, giving one to Harry, and the other to the soldier who was to accompany him. "If you have trouble," said Captain Duffield, "for the love of Heaven, one of you get through, if the other is killed. The safety of this post depends on Colonel Guitar receiving the message." "It will go through, if I live," calmly replied Harry, as he carefully concealed the message in the lining of his coat. To Harry's surprise, the soldier detailed to go with him proved to be a boy, not much older than himself. He was mounted on a spirited horse and his manner showed he was ready for any kind of an adventure, no matter where it might lead. The shades of night were falling when Captain Duffield bade them good-bye, and they rode away and were soon lost to view in the dusk. Captain Duffield stood looking after them, and then said to one of his lieutenants, "I don't know what to make of that boy. He told a straight story, but his thinking that dog of his would take a message to Shaffer is a little too much to believe." But Captain Duffield soon had other things to think about. Reports began to come in from other sources of the gathering of the guerrillas at Brown's Springs, and their number was augmented to two thousand. He posted his little force in the best manner possible to resist an attack, and with an anxious heart, watched and waited through the long hours of the night; but to his immense relief, no attack came. CHAPTER II AN INTERNECINE WAR After the battle of Pea Ridge, the Confederate Government had no regular organized troops in Missouri. General Sterling Price, with his Missouri regiments, which had enlisted in the Confederate service, was ordered east of the Mississippi. But there were thousands of State troops that had followed Price, and although they refused to enlist in the regular Confederate service, they were, at heart, as bitter towards the Union as ever. These men found their way back home, and although thousands of them took the oath of allegiance to the Federal Government, the majority of them were not only ready, but eager, to ally themselves with some of the guerrilla bands which were infesting the State. The Federal authorities, knowing that Price, with his army, had been ordered east, thought that the Confederates had given up all hopes of holding the State, and that the fighting was over, except with small guerrilla bands, that could easily be kept in check. Therefore, the great majority of the Federal troops in Missouri were withdrawn to swell the armies of Buell and Grant. The Confederates now thought they saw their opportunity. Numbers of the Confederate officers secretly made their way into the State and commenced to organize the disloyal forces, co-operating with the guerrilla bands. Among these officers was Colonel Clay, who appeared in the first chapter. This movement was so successful that during the summer of 1862 it is estimated that there were from thirty to forty thousand of these men enrolled and officered. Places of rendezvous were designated, where all were to assemble at a given signal, and, by a coup-de-main, seize all the important points in the State which were feebly garrisoned. Then they were to co-operate with an army moving up from Arkansas, and the State would be redeemed. It was a well laid plan, but fortunately it was early discovered by General J. M. Schofield, who was in command of the Department of Missouri. How General Schofield first received his information will be told hereafter. General Schofield frantically appealed to Halleck for aid, and then to Washington, but he was answered that owing to the great military movements going on, not a regiment could be spared. General Schofield, thus left to his own resources, rose grandly to the occasion. He would use the Confederates' own tactics. So he ordered the entire militia of the State to be enrolled. Thousands of Confederate sympathizers fled the State, or took to the bush. During the summer of 1862 between forty and fifty thousand loyal State militia were organized. Thus the whole State became one vast armed camp, nearly forty thousand men on a side, arrayed against each other. It was father against son, brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. The only wonder is that owing to the passions of the times there were not more excesses and murders committed than there were. During the year 1862 there were at least one hundred and fifty engagements fought on the soil of Missouri, in which the numbers engaged varied from forty or fifty to five or six thousand. In these engagements General Schofield says the Union troops were successful in nine out of ten, and that at least three thousand guerrillas had been killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, and that ten thousand had fled the State. This terrible warfare between neighbors receives scant mention in history, but in no great battles of the war was greater bravery shown, greater heroism displayed, than in many of the minor engagements fought in Missouri. CHAPTER III A MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION In the month of May, 1862, a young Federal officer reported in St. Louis, and found himself without a command, and without a commission. This officer, Captain Lawrence Middleton, had greatly distinguished himself during the first year of the war on the staff of General Nathaniel Lyon. After the death of Lyon he was commissioned a captain by General Fremont, and authorized to raise an independent company of scouts. With this company he had rendered valiant service in the campaign which ended with the battle of Pea Ridge. Many of the acts of Fremont, and a number of commissions which he had granted, had been repudiated by the Government, and thus Middleton had found himself free. But he had no intention of remaining inactive, his heart was too much in the cause. If no other field was open, he would enlist as a private soldier. But there was no need of that, he was too well known. Though young, scarcely more than eighteen, he had rendered services and performed deeds which made his name known throughout the State. He had thwarted the machinations of Frost, Price, Governor Jackson, and other disloyal leaders in their efforts to drag Missouri out of the Union. While Lawrence was undecided just what to do he met Frank P. Blair, who was overjoyed to see him. He had been Blair's private secretary during the troublesome months before the opening of the war, and a lieutenant in one of his regiments of Home Guards. Blair, who had been appointed a brigadier general in the Federal army, had been at home on business, and was about to return to his command. "Never better pleased to see anyone in my life," said Blair, nearly shaking Lawrence's arm off. "Oh, I've kept track of you, you've been keeping up your reputation. But what are you doing in St. Louis? I thought you were with Curtis." Lawrence told Blair of his predicament,--that he was now without a command or a commission. "Good!" cried Blair, shaking Lawrence's hand again. "I was about to write to Curtis to see if I could not get you away from him. I will see that you are commissioned as captain, and I will detail you on my staff. I need just such fellows as you." "I couldn't ask anything better," said Lawrence, "and, General, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It is more than I could have possibly hoped, more than I deserve." "Too modest, my boy. If you had your deserts, you would be wearing a star on your shoulder, as well as myself. I am a little selfish in asking you to go on my staff. I want you." So it was all arranged, and Lawrence went to see his uncle and tell him of his new position on Blair's staff. This uncle, Alfred Middleton, was one of the wealthiest citizens of St. Louis, and an ardent secessionist. Now that Lawrence was out of the army, he was in hopes that he would stay out, and he showed his disappointment in his face. He had also been greatly worried of late. His only son was with Price, and it was a sore spot with him that the Missouri Confederate troops had been ordered east, and not been left to defend their native State. In fact, the Confederates of the State felt that they had been deserted by the Richmond Government, and bore Jeff Davis and his cabinet no great love. "I am sorry, Lawrence," said his uncle, sadly. "I was in hopes that as long as you were out of the army you would stay out. Why will you persist in fighting against those who were your friends? Your whole interest lies with the South." "Uncle, please do not let us discuss that question again," replied Lawrence. "You and I are both firm in our belief, and no amount of discussion will change either." Mr. Middleton sighed, but did not resume the subject. That Lawrence, whom he looked upon almost as a son, should take up arms against the South was to him a source of endless regret. The next two or three days were busy ones with Lawrence. The new arrangement had one drawback, it would separate him from Dan Sherman, who had been a lieutenant in his company of scouts, and the two were inseparable. Dan would not hear of parting from Lawrence; he would go with him if he had to go as his servant. "I can never consent to that, Dan," said Lawrence. "I had rather tell Blair I have reconsidered his proposition and cannot accept." "You'll do no such thing," retorted Sherman. "I will try and behave myself, but I feel that something will happen, and we will not be separated." Something did happen, much quicker than either one expected. Something which entirely changed the calculations of Lawrence. It was to be some months before he saw service with Blair. Lawrence and Dan were passing a newspaper office, before which a large crowd had gathered, reading the war bulletins. They told that Halleck was tightening his lines around Corinth and that the place must soon fall; and that McClellan was well on his way towards Richmond. It was curious to watch the faces of those who read. The countenances of those who were for the Union would brighten when anything was posted favorable to the Union cause, and now and then a cheer would be given. The iron heel of the Yankees was on St. Louis, and the Confederate sympathizers dare not be so outspoken, but when anything favorable to the South was posted their eyes would flash, and their countenances beam with joy. And thus the crowd stood and read, once friends and neighbors, but now ready to rend each other to pieces at the first opportunity. Lawrence mingled with the crowd, and as he read he felt a bulky envelope thrust in his hand and caught a glimpse of a dusky arm. He glanced at the address and then turned to see who had given it to him, but could not. He glanced at the envelope again. Yes, it was for him. In bold letters was written, "For Captain Lawrence Middleton. Important." The writing was strange to Lawrence, and making his way through the crowd he sought a private place where he could see what had so mysteriously come into his possession. As he read, a look of surprise came over his face, and then his countenance grew stern and grim. Carefully he read the document through from beginning to end. It was signed "By One Who Knows." There was not a mark to tell who was the writer. The writing was strong and bold, and possessed an originality of its own, as if the writer had put much of his own character in it. Lawrence sat and pondered long. He looked the manuscript over and over again to see if he could not discover some private mark, something that would identify the writer, but he found nothing. "Strange," he muttered, "but if Guilford Craig was alive I would swear he was the writer of this. Who else would write me, and me alone, and give such important information? Who else could obtain the information contained in this letter? Yet Guilford is dead. Benton Shelly was seen to shoot him. There were those who saw him lying on the ground, still in death, his bosom drenched in blood. But his body was not found. Guilford, Guilford, are you still alive? But why do I indulge in such vain hope that he is alive? The proof of his death is too plain. This letter must have been written by another, but who? Who? And why send it to me?" The letter was, in fact, a full and complete _exposé_ of the plans of the Confederates. It told of the conception of the plot; who was carrying it out; of the hundreds who had taken the oath of allegiance in order that they might work more securely, and that many had even enlisted in the State militia, so that when the supreme time came they could desert: the time set for the uprising was the last of July or else the first of August, by which time they hoped to have at least forty thousand men enrolled. "Blair and Schofield must see this, and no time lost," said Lawrence to himself as he placed the communication carefully in his pocket. Blair was soon found. After carefully reading the letter he said, "I am not surprised. I warned the Government of the folly of removing so many troops from the State. But who could have written this?" "If Guilford Craig was alive there would be but one answer," replied Lawrence. "As it is, it is a mystery." "Let us see Schofield at once," said Blair. "There should be no time lost." Repairing to the headquarters of General Schofield, they were readily admitted. General Schofield was the chief of staff to General Lyon at the time of the battle of Wilson Creek, and, of course, knew Lawrence well. "Glad to see you, Captain," said the General. "Curtis has written me of your good work. You are not with him now, are you?" "No, you know the commission I held was granted by Fremont. The authorities at Washington declared it illegal." "Ah, there was a large number of those commissions. I must see what I can do for you." "I thank you, General, but General Blair has just done me the great honor of appointing me on his staff." "General Blair, as well as yourself, is to be congratulated," answered the General. Blair now spoke. "General, our business with you is very important. Captain Middleton, please show the General the communication you received." Lawrence handed the General the mysterious message and Schofield read it with a darkened brow. "Who wrote this?" he asked, abruptly. "General, I do not know." "Then it may be a fake, a joke. Someone may be trying to scare us." "General, it is no joke, the proof is too positive," replied Lawrence, earnestly. "That is so," answered the General. "It also confirms rumors I have been hearing. There has been unusual activity among Southern sympathizers, all over the State, yet outside of the guerrilla bands there have been no hostile demonstrations. This must have been written by someone deep in their counsels." "General, do you remember Guilford Craig?" "Remember him! Indeed, I do. Can I ever forget what he and you were to Lyon?" "If Guilford Craig had not been killed at the battle of Pea Ridge I would be positive the communication came from him. But the handwriting bears no resemblance to his." "Are you certain he was killed?" "The proof seems positive, but his body was not found," answered Lawrence. Schofield sat for a moment in silence, and then suddenly said to Blair, "General Blair, I have a great favor to ask of you." "What is it, General? Any favor I can give you will be readily granted." "That you relinquish your claim on Captain Middleton, at least, until this crisis is over, and let me have him." Blair looked surprised, but no more so than Lawrence. "You know," continued Schofield, "there is no one who can help me more just now than Captain Middleton. No one who understands the work before me better. This Guilford Craig, as you are aware, was a curious character. To no one would he report but to Captain Middleton. This _exposé_, coming to Middleton, instead of to me, leads me to believe that Craig was not killed, as supposed, but in some way got off the field, and for reasons, known only to himself, remains in hiding. Judging the future by the past, if he is alive, and has more information to impart, it would be given only through the same source. For these reasons I would like to attach Captain Middleton to my staff." "General, your reasons are good," replied Blair, "and it shall be for Captain Middleton to decide." "Where I can do my country the most good, there I am willing to go," answered Lawrence. So it was decided that for the summer Lawrence should remain with General Schofield. The words of General Schofield had also given Lawrence hope that Guilford lived. But as weeks and months passed, and no other communication came to him, he again looked upon Guilford as dead. Hopeless of getting relief from the Federal Government, General Schofield entered upon the gigantic task of organizing the militia of the State. In this Lawrence was of the greatest service, and through a system of spies and scouts he was enabled to keep General Schofield well informed as to what was going on in the State. In helping organize the militia, Lawrence had many adventures and many hair-breadth escapes, and by his side always rode the faithful Dan Sherman, and together they shared every danger. By the last of July, as has been stated, there were nearly one hundred thousand men arrayed against each other. It was a partisan warfare on a mighty scale, and the storm was about to burst. CHAPTER IV MOORE'S MILL We left Harry Semans and his young companion just starting on their lonely ride to Jefferson City, a distance of twenty-seven miles. The soldier with Harry proved rather a garrulous youth. He said his name was David Harris; that he belonged to the Third Iowa Cavalry; was a farmer boy, and rather liked the service. "It's exciting, you know," he added. "Very much so at times," dryly answered Harry. "Say, what makes you dress like a blamed guerrilla?" suddenly asked Dave. "You are a soldier, aren't you?" "I am a scout," replied Harry. "I dress like a guerrilla because I have to pretend to be one about half the time. Just before I reached Fulton today I passed myself off as one of Porter's men. It saved me a dangerous encounter, perhaps my life." "Gee! it must be exciting," said the boy. "I wish I was a scout." "Couldn't be one," laughed Harry. "Your Yankee brogue would give you away. I notice you say 'keow' instead of 'cow' and 'guess' instead of 'reckon.' But please don't talk any more, we must keep both ears and eyes open." After this they rode along in silence; that is, as much as Dave would allow, until Harry ordered him to ride in the rear, and if he must talk, talk to himself, and so low that no one else could hear. For some ten miles they proceeded at a swift gallop without adventure, meeting two or three horsemen who seemed as little desirous of making acquaintance as they were themselves, and Dave began to think the ride rather tame. As they were passing a place where the bushes grew thickly by the side of the road, they received a gruff command to halt. Instead of obeying, Harry, as quick as thought, drew his revolver and fired, at the same time putting spurs to his horse and shouting to Harris, "Ride for your life." There was a rustling in the bushes, an angry exclamation as well as a groan. Harry's shot had gone true, and came as a surprise to the bushwhackers as well, for two or three seconds elapsed before three or four shots rang out, and they went wild. "Well, how do you like it?" asked Harry, as he drew rein, considering the danger past. "It was so sudden," said Dave. "I think I would have halted, and asked what was wanted." "And got gobbled, and in all probability hanged afterwards. Dave, you have to learn something yet before you become a scout. Always be ready to fire at a moment's notice; and if you have to run don't tarry on your going. I took chances as to whether there was a large party or not, but concluded it was not, or some of them would have been in the road." "Did you think of all that? Why, the word 'Halt' was hardly out of the fellow's mouth when you fired." "Think quickly, act quickly; it has saved my bacon many a time. You ought to have been with me when I was with Captain Lawrence Middleton. There is the fellow to ride with. But this wouldn't have happened if Bruno had been with me." "Bruno? Who is Bruno?" asked Dave. "Bruno is my dog. He would have smelled those fellows out before we were within forty rods of them. I am never afraid of a surprise when Bruno is with me. But no more talking now." Once more their horses took up a swinging gallop, and they met with no further adventures, and within less than three hours from the time they started they were halted by the Union pickets who guarded the approach to the river opposite Jefferson City. Harry demanded of the Lieutenant in command of the picket that they be ferried across the river without loss of time, but the Lieutenant demurred, saying it was against orders to allow anyone to cross the river during the night. "I have important dispatches from Captain Duffield to Colonel Guitar. Refuse to take me over, and I would not give much for your command," angrily answered Harry. "Who are you?" demanded the Lieutenant. "From your dress you are certainly not a soldier." "I am Harry Semans, scout for the Merrill Horse," answered Harry. "At the name 'Merrill Horse' the Lieutenant became as meek as a lamb. "Excuse me," he exclaimed. "I will see that you get over the river immediately. Anything new at Fulton?" "Porter and Poindexter are within eleven miles of the place, and Duffield expects to be attacked by morning." The Lieutenant gave a low whistle. "The devil," he ejaculated, and rushed to give the necessary orders. It was eleven o'clock before the river was crossed and the headquarters of Colonel Guitar reached. He had just retired, but Harry and Dave were without ceremony admitted into his bedroom. The Colonel read the dispatch of Captain Duffield, sitting on his bed in his nightclothes. At once all was excitement. There were but five hundred men guarding the important post of Jefferson City. Of this force, Colonel Guitar ordered one hundred to accompany him to Fulton. He dared not deplete the little garrison more. While Harry and Dave were in the Colonel's bedroom, Harry noticed that Dave was regarding Guitar with a great deal of interest. When they passed out Dave said to Harry in a whisper, "That general don't amount to shucks. Think of him fighting Porter?" "Why, what's the matter with Guitar?" asked Harry. "Matter! He wears a nightgown just like a woman. Who ever heard of a man wearing a nightgown?"[1] [Footnote 1: A true incident.] Harry exploded with laughter. "Many men wear nightgowns," he explained. "I have no doubt but what General Schofield does. I reckon you will find out that Guitar will fight." During the day there had been two important arrivals in Jefferson City, that of Lawrence Middleton and Dan Sherman. They had told Colonel Guitar of the rapid concentration of the guerrilla bands all through the counties north of the river, and had warned him to be on the lookout for trouble. In fact, they had brought orders from General Schofield for him to send two of his companies to Columbia, as it was thought that was the place in greatest danger. Lawrence and Dan were told of the danger that threatened Fulton, and they determined to accompany Guitar in his expedition. It was not until they were on the ferryboat crossing the river that Harry was aware that Lawrence and Dan were of the number. He nearly went wild on seeing them. "And how is Bruno?" asked Lawrence. "Bruno is all right. I sent him with a dispatch to Colonel Shaffer." Hurry as fast as they could, it was long past midnight before the force was across the river, and then there was a twenty-seven mile ride ahead of them. On the march Harry had an opportunity to tell Lawrence much that had happened to him since they parted. It was daylight when Fulton was reached, and, much to their relief, the place had not been attacked, but the excitement ran high. Rumor had increased Porter's force to two thousand. Colonel Guitar believed this estimate to be much too high. So, small as his force was, only one hundred and eighty, he determined to move out and attack Porter without delay. When this became known to the few Union inhabitants of Fulton they implored Guitar not to do it. "Your force will be annihilated," they exclaimed, "and Fulton will be at the mercy of the foe." Lawrence agreed with Colonel Guitar. "We came here in the night," said he. "Porter does not know how many men you brought. No doubt your force is magnified, the same as his. Assuming the offensive will disconcert him, and also prevent him receiving further reinforcements." So it was decided, and the little force took up the march for Brown's Springs, eleven miles away. Couriers were dispatched to find Colonel Shaffer, for even if Bruno had succeeded in delivering Harry's message Shaffer would march for Fulton instead of Brown's Springs. It was about eleven o'clock when the column reached the vicinity of Brown's Springs. Nothing as yet had been heard from Colonel Shaffer, but Guitar determined to attack. Lawrence had been asked by Guitar to act as his aid, to which he gladly assented. Two or three small parties of guerrillas had been sighted, but they took to the brush at the sight of the Federals. The command now moved cautiously forward, but there was to be no battle. Harry, who had been scouting in front, returned with the news that the guerrillas had fled. Their camp was soon occupied. Everything showed a rapid flight; even the would-be dinner of the guerrillas was found half cooked. Along in the afternoon Porter's force was located near Moore's Mill, about four miles distant. As Colonel Guitar's men had not slept a wink the night before, and as both men and horses were tired out, the Colonel decided to camp, rest his men and await the coming of Shaffer. Why Porter fled from Brown's Springs and yet gave battle the next day, after Shaffer had come up, will never be known. If he had fought at Brown's Springs he would have had five men to Guitar's one. He may have thought Shaffer was miles away. What Poindexter had told him would lead him to believe this. And it would have been the case had it not been for Harry and the faithful Bruno. Every precaution was taken by Colonel Guitar to guard against a night attack, but his little army was allowed to rest in peace. During the night the couriers sent out to locate Shaffer reported. Bruno had done his work well, but Shaffer had been miles farther away than thought, and as had been requested by Harry in his report, had marched for Fulton. He was yet ten miles away, and it would be impossible for him to join Guitar before morning. The morning came and with it Shaffer, and with him five hundred and fifty men, eager for the combat. How Guitar's men did cheer when they saw Shaffer coming. Scouts reported that Porter still occupied his camp, and showed no sign of moving. It looked as if he had resolved to stay and fight. Colonel Guitar gave the order to move forward and attack. The advance had to be carefully made, for the country was rough, wooded, and covered with a dense undergrowth of bushes. Harry now had Bruno with him, and leaving his horse, he, with the dog, made his way to the front, in order to discover, as far as possible, the plans and position of the enemy. So dense was the undergrowth he could not see thirty feet ahead of him, but Bruno, as stealthy as a tiger in the jungle, crept through the bushes ahead of him and more than once gave him warning to turn aside his steps and take another direction. At last he came to quite a hill, on the summit of which grew a tree with branches close to the ground. Leaving Bruno to guard, Harry climbed the tree, and to his satisfaction had a good view of the country. But what he saw filled him with consternation. The road on which the Federals were marching was narrow and on each side lined with dense underbrush. Ahead of the Federal advance, the road itself was clear, not a guerrilla in sight, but Porter had left his camp and all his forces were stealthily creeping through the woods, and concealing themselves in the bushes which lined the road. Harry knew that that meant an ambuscade, and the Federal advance was almost into it. In his eagerness he hardly knew whether he fell, jumped, or swung himself down by the branches, but he was out of the tree and tearing through the brush like a mad man to give warning. He came to the road just as Colonel Guitar came along, riding at the head of his column, the advance, consisting of twenty-five men of Company E, Third Iowa Cavalry, being a short distance ahead. "Halt the advance. Ambuscade," gasped Harry. He could say no more, as he fell from exhaustion. [Illustration: "Halt the advance. Ambuscade," gasped Harry.] Guitar understood. "Halt," he cried, and to an aid, "Warn the advance." The aid put spurs to his horse, but he was too late. Before he could give warning there came a crashing volley from the jungle on the east side of the road, the thicket burst into flame and smoke. It was an awful, a murderous volley. Out of the twenty-five men who composed the advance, hardly a man or horse escaped unscathed; all were killed or wounded. Swift and terrible as this blow was, it created no panic in Guitar's little army. The road was narrow, thickets on each side. Nothing could be done with cavalry. Quickly the order was given to dismount and send the horses back in charge of every fourth man. Guitar then formed his slender line in the edge of the thicket on the west side of the road, with orders to hold until Shaffer came up, for Shaffer was still behind. Hearing the sound of the conflict, Shaffer rushed forward, sent back his horses, and along the road and through the tangled undergrowth the line was formed and the battle became general. The guerrillas displayed a bravery they seldom showed when engaged with regular troops, and fought with determination and ferocity. They had the advantage in position and numbers, but Guitar had the advantage in having a couple of pieces of artillery. One of these pieces was brought up by hand and planted in the road where it could sweep the woods in which the guerrillas were concealed. Hidden from view, the guerrillas crept up near, poured in a murderous volley, and then raising a blood-curdling yell, dashed for the gun. Four of the gunners had fallen before the volley, and for the time the gun was silent. But behind the piece lay a line of sturdy cavalrymen. They waited until the guerrillas had burst from the thicket and were within forty feet of the gun, then sprang to their feet and poured a terrific volley almost into the faces of the foe. Staggering and bleeding, the guerrillas shrank back into the woods, but only to rally and with fearful yells dash for the gun again. This time they were not met by the cavalrymen alone, but the cannon belched forth its deadly charge of canister in their faces. When the four gunners fell at the first charge, Dan Sherman, seeing that the piece was not manned, rushed forward and snatched the primer from the dead hand of the man who was about to insert it when he fell. Dan inserted the primer, pulled the lanyard and sent the contents of the gun into the ranks of the enemy. Two of the artillerymen who had not been injured came to his assistance, and again the gun was thundering forth its defiance. Through the chaparral Shaffer's men now pushed their way foot by foot. It was a strange conflict. So dense was the undergrowth the line could not be followed by the eye for thirty feet. No foe could be seen, but the thickets blazed and smoked, and the leaden hail swept through the bushes, tearing and mangling them as if enraged at their resistance. The duty of Lawrence was a dangerous one. He had to break his way through the thickets, see that some kind of a line was kept, and that orders were being executed. While the men were sheltered by trees, logs and rocks, he had to be exposed, but as if possessed of a charmed life, he passed through unscathed. Foot by foot the Federals dragged themselves forward, slowly pressing the guerrillas back. At last, tired of fighting an unseen foe, the men arose to their feet, and with a wild cheer sprang forward. Surprised, the foe wavered, then broke. The flight became a panic, and they fled terror-stricken from the field. The battle of Moore's Mill had been fought and won. There was no pursuit that night. The day had been intensely hot, and the battle had raged from twelve noon until four. The soldiers, with blackened, swollen faces and tongues, were fainting with thirst. Colonel Guitar ordered his men to occupy the camp deserted by the foe. The dead were to be buried, the wounded cared for. So precipitously had the guerrillas fled that except the severely wounded, few prisoners were taken. Porter had impressed upon his men that to be captured by the Yankees meant certain death. While searching the field Lawrence noticed some white object crawling along like a large reptile. Upon investigation he found to his surprise that it was a man, and entirely nude. "Why are you without clothes?" asked Lawrence. The man looked tip into Lawrence's face with a scared expression and whined, "The guerrillas captured me, and they stripped me of my clothing." "Then you are a Federal soldier?" inquired Lawrence. "Y-e-s," came the halting answer. "You lie," exclaimed Lawrence. "You are one of the guerrillas." The fellow then broke down, and, piteously begging for his life, said he was one of Porter's men, and that he looked for nothing but death if captured, so he had divested himself of his clothing, hoping to pass himself off as a Federal.[2] [Footnote 2: A true incident of the battle.] Lawrence ordered him to be tenderly cared for, and tears of gratitude ran down the fellow's face when he realised he was not to be murdered. The battle of Moore's Mill, insignificant as it was compared to the great battles of the war, was important in this: It frustrated the plans of the conspirators, and was the beginning of a series of conflicts which forever ended the hopes of the Confederates to recapture the State by an uprising. Colonel Guitar reported his loss in the battle as thirteen killed and fifty-five wounded. The guerrilla loss he reported at fifty-two left dead on the field and one hundred and twenty-five wounded. In all the partisan battles in Missouri the guerrillas never reported their losses, and only the reports of the Federal commanders are accessible. In many cases no doubt these reports are exaggerated. CHAPTER V A FIGHT IN THE NIGHT Early the next morning Colonel Guitar started in pursuit of the enemy. Lawrence took the advance with a party of six men. As a matter of course, Harry and Bruno made a part of this force. "This seems like old times, Harry," said Lawrence, as they started off. "It does that, Captain," replied Harry. "You, Dan, Bruno and myself make four of the old gang. Now if only Guilford was with us--" He stopped and sighed. His mind had gone back to the time when he and Guilford had so nearly faced death in among the Boston mountains. "You have heard nothing of him, have you, Captain?" "Nothing. I did receive a communication about two months ago that I thought might be from him; but I have received nothing since and I have given up all hopes." The trail left by the guerrillas was very plain. It followed the Auxvasse for some two miles, and then turned off into the hills. The country was very rough, the places for an ambuscade numerous, but with Bruno scouting, Lawrence had no fears of being surprised. Soon they came to a place where the road forked. On the road that led to the left up the Auxvasse the trail was plainly marked; but the road that led on into the more open country had little appearance of being traveled; but it was rocky, and by being careful a large force could have passed over it and left but few traces behind. Harry dismounted and carefully examined the ground. As for Bruno, he seemed to have no doubt; he was taking the blind trail. "A blind," said Harry. "Not more than fifty took to the left, and they left as broad a trail as possible. The main force passed up the other road. If Guitar follows the broad trail it will lead him away among the hills and then disappear, for the party will separate." Just then the advance of Guitar's force appeared, led by a young lieutenant. "What are you waiting for?" he asked Lawrence. "Have you discovered the enemy?" "No, but Porter evidently divided his forces here, and we were discussing which road the main body took." The Lieutenant dismounted, and after looking over the ground, said, "Why, it's as plain as the nose on a man's face; they went to the left." "Harry and Bruno both think differently," answered Lawrence. The Lieutenant sniffed. "Much they know about it," he exclaimed. "I have trailed too many guerrillas to be mistaken." Just then Colonel Guitar, at the head of his column, appeared. He was appealed to, and after examining the road, decided to take the left hand road, but told Lawrence he might keep on the other road with his scouts, and see what he could discover. As a matter of precaution he increased Lawrence's force to ten men. The Lieutenant rode off highly elated over the fact that Colonel Guitar agreed with his views. "Let them go," sputtered Harry. "They will be disgusted before night." And so it proved. The trail led Guitar over hills, through ravines and rocky dells, through tangled forests, and twisted and turned, until it disappeared entirely; and, much to his disgust, Guitar found himself along in the afternoon within two miles from where he had started. The wily guerrilla chieftain had fooled him completely. Guitar led his mad, weary and swearing force back to the old camp grounds, and there awaited the return of Lawrence and his scouting party. Lawrence did not think for a moment but that Harry was right, and that fact soon became evident. They were now in a more open country, and the signs that a large body of troops had passed became numerous. Not only this, but in the houses along the road they found a number of severely wounded that the guerrillas had been forced to leave. After some miles they came to a road that crossed the one they were on, and which led to the west. Here the ground had been much trampled, and that but a short time before. Again Harry dismounted and examined the ground carefully. "We are close onto them," he said. "I do not believe they have been gone half an hour." "Harry, you are a regular Kit Carson for trails," laughed Lawrence. "Are you sure you are right?" "Perfectly, and what is more, their force divided here, but the larger force kept on. The explanation is plain. Porter operates to the north and east, so he has kept on with the larger force; Poindexter and Cobb have their chief haunts along the Chariton and Grand, so with their forces they have gone to the west." "We had better hurry back to Guitar and tell him this," exclaimed Lawrence. "No," snapped Harry. "I don't propose to be snubbed again. You only have my word now. Let's keep on until you and everyone present have proof that cannot be doubted." "I believe you are right, Harry," said Lawrence, and he gave the command to continue on. They had proceeded a mile when Bruno came running back, showing by his manner he had news to impart. Halting his squad, Lawrence dismounted, and taking Harry, they carefully made their way to the brow of a hill which lay in front. Cautiously peering over, they saw about a quarter of a mile ahead a commodious house, around which a number of horses were hitched. It was evident that they had come on the rear guard of the retreating guerrillas, and that they had halted to rest, and were being well entertained, for a number of black women were passing back and forth from the house to a rude outdoor kitchen, all bearing dishes, and it looked very tempting to Lawrence and Harry. "Feel like eating myself," whispered Harry. "I didn't know I was so hungry." "How many do you reckon there are?" asked Lawrence. Harry carefully counted the horses and then said, "Not over fifteen or twenty. I can count only fifteen horses, but there may be some out of sight." "Feel like appropriating that dinner myself," said Lawrence. "The boys would never forgive us if we didn't," answered Harry. Hurrying back they explained the situation, and by unanimous vote it was decided to make a charge on that dinner without loss of time. "Harry and I will ride a little ahead," said Lawrence. "Harry is dressed in homespun and my uniform is so dusty they won't be able to distinguish its color until we are close to them. Dan, when I give the signal, come on in a rush." So Lawrence find Harry rode ahead, the squad some fifteen or twenty paces in the rear, leisurely following. Scarcely had they rode over the brow of the hill when two sentinels they had not seen before suddenly showed themselves on the road. The sentinels seemed much alarmed, and drew up their carbines as if to shoot. Harry waved his hat and signaled they were friends. Seeing the squad coming so leisurely and the two in advance, the sentinels lowered their guns and waited, thinking it must be some of their own men. But when Lawrence and Harry were a few yards from them one of the sentinels caught the color of Lawrence's uniform. Giving a terrific whoop, he raised his gun and fired, the ball just missing Lawrence's head. The other sentinel fired, but his shot went wild. Both wheeled their horses and dashed back, yelling, "Yanks! Yanks! Yanks!" There was no need of Lawrence signaling Dan to come on, for the squad were urging their horses to the limit. The guerrillas at dinner heard the firing and came pouring out of the house. Close on the heels of the flying sentinels thundered the Federals. The guerrillas took one look, and with cries of terror sprang for their horses, and cutting the halter straps were up and away. By this time the balls were falling among them thick and fast, killing two, and the horse of a third one fell and the rider was taken prisoner. The fight was over and Lawrence rode up to the house, and was met on the porch by a white haired, fine looking old gentleman. "Sorry to trouble you," said Lawrence, urbanely, "but with your permission I will have my men finish that dinner that your friends have so ungraciously and suddenly declined." "Step right in, suh, the dinner is waiting," the old gentleman replied with a wan smile, "but my guests are not accustomed to invite themselves." "Sorry, sir, but when you consider the improvement in the character of your guests, you should rejoice," rejoined Lawrence. "Entertaining such guests as have run away is dangerous." "I shall feed no Yankees," cried a shrill voice, and a young lady flounced out of the door, her face red with anger. Lawrence saw that she was good to look at, tall, willowy and fair of face. Taking off his hat and bowing politely, he said, "My dear lady, I humbly beg your pardon, but my men must certainly finish that dinner you so kindly prepared for those who were so impolite and cowardly as to run away and leave it. It would take more than Rebel bullets to make me decline a meal prepared by your fair hands." The compliment was lost. "Cowardly?" cried the girl. "Is it cowardly for twenty to flee before a regiment of Yankee cut-throats?" "There are only a dozen of us," said Lawrence, "and a dozen finer gentlemen you never entertained, every one a prince and as brave as a lion. If it were not so, twenty of your friends would not have fled from them." The young lady flashed a look of scorn at him and cried, "Yankee cut-throats and robbers--gentlemen and brave! You amaze me." She abruptly turned and went into the house, and much to Lawrence's regret he did not see her again. "You must excuse my daughter," said the old man, nervously. "That's all right, so we get the dinner," answered Lawrence. "Don't you see my men are getting impatient?" "Come right in. I feed you, not because I want to, but because I must." Thus speaking, he led them into the house, where they found a sumptuous repast but partly eaten; and not a man in the squad but did full justice to it. Lawrence found the prisoner they had taken shaking with terror, for some of the men had coolly informed him that after dinner he was to be hanged. Lawrence was about to reprimand the men for their cruel joke, when it occurred to him he might use the fellow's fears to some advantage. So he told him if he would tell all he knew, not only would his life be spared, but that he would be paroled, but he would have to be careful and tell nothing but the truth. The prisoner eagerly embraced the opportunity, and confirmed what Harry had said. He moreover stated that before Porter and Poindexter parted they had agreed to gather up all the men they could, and join forces again somewhere along the line of the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad. "I guess that is straight enough for Guitar to believe, instead of that upstart lieutenant," said Harry. Back to find Guitar the scouts rode; but it was night when they found him and then nearly where they had left him. All day his men had marched beneath a broiling sun, and when they found out how they had been led astray, against the protests of Harry, they wanted to lynch the smart lieutenant; and it was a long time before the poor fellow heard the last of it. Colonel Guitar concluded to rest his men until morning, and then continue the pursuit. "I will chase Porter clear to the Iowa line, if necessary, to catch him," he said. While it was arranged that Colonel Guitar should march straight for Mexico, Lawrence, with a detail of ten men dressed as guerrillas, was to follow directly on the trail of Porter, thus keeping track of his movements. Lawrence chose ten of the Merrill Horse to go with him. One of the men in looking over the squad and noticing that with Lawrence, Dan, and Harry there were thirteen of them, demurred, saying that another man should be added, as thirteen was an unlucky number. "No thirteen for me," he said. "Step aside," ordered Lawrence. "I want no thirteen cranks. I, for one, am not troubled over the old superstition of thirteen. Who will volunteer to take this fellow's place?" A dozen were eager to go, and Lawrence chose a manly looking fellow. "Our timid friend here counted wrong," he said. "He forgot Bruno, and he is equal to a dozen men." This raised a laugh, and the party started in the highest spirits. After going a short distance, Lawrence halted and made his men a short speech. "Boys," he said, "dressed as we are, it will be certain death if we are captured. If circumstances arise where we must fight, fight to the death--never surrender. We are strong enough to beat off any small party, and large ones we must avoid. But remember, our object is to get information, not to fight. To all appearances we must be simon-pure guerrillas. If we meet with guerrillas, as no doubt we will, keep cool, and let Harry or me do the talking." "All right, Captain," they shouted, and they rode merrily forward, careless of what dangers they might meet. So often had they faced death, they considered him an old acquaintance. They found little trouble in following the trail of Porter. Taken for guerrillas, every Southern sympathizer was eager to give them all the information possible. For two days they traveled, frequently meeting with small parties of guerrillas, and to these Lawrence always represented they belonged south of the river, and had been obliged to cross to avoid a large party of Federals, and that they had concluded to keep on and join Porter. By questioning, Lawrence found all of these parties had orders to join Porter at or near Paris. Some of these parties gave Lawrence a good deal of trouble by wanting to join forces with him, but he put them off by saying it would be safer to travel in small parties, as they would not then be so liable to attract the attention of the Federals. Porter in his flight had crossed the North Missouri Railroad near Montgomery City, but in his haste did little damage. It was after Lawrence had crossed this railroad that he had his first serious trouble. Here he came onto a company of at least fifty guerrillas under the command of Bill Duncan, a leader who often acted with Porter, and as noted for cruelty as he. The company was hastening to join Porter at Paris. Lawrence thought it best to change his story. Duncan had roughly ordered him to join his company. This Lawrence firmly refused, saying they belonged to Poindexter's command; that after Poindexter and Porter had parted, Poindexter had found it impossible for him to join Porter, as he had promised, and that he had been sent post-haste by Poindexter to find Porter and inform him of the fact. "But now," said Lawrence, "I need go no farther, as you can carry this information to Porter." "Where are you going if I do this?" asked Duncan. "Back to join Poindexter, as I promised," said Lawrence. "I don't know but you are all right," said Duncan; "but I don't like the looks of your men. What did you say your name was?" "I haven't told you, but it is Jack Hilton. Porter knows me well. Give him my respects. Be sure and tell him what I have told you, for it is very important. Good-day, Captain. Come on, boys," and Lawrence turned and rode back the way he had come. Duncan watched them until they were out of sight; then, shaking his head, said: "I almost wish I hadn't let them go, but I reckon they're all right. That young chap in command told a mighty straight story." About this time Lawrence was saying: "That was a mighty close shave, Dan. That fellow had a big notion to make trouble." Bruno, who had been told to keep out of sight, joined them after they had gone some distance. He acted dejected and dispirited, and if he could have talked would have asked the meaning of it all. Time and time again he had given warning of the approach of guerrillas, only to have his master meet them as friends. He had given notice of the approach of Duncan's party, and to his surprise nothing had come of it. He was a thoroughly disgusted dog, and walked along with drooping head and tail; but it only took a word from Harry to set him all right again. "We must turn north again at the first opportunity," said Lawrence. "This will put us back several miles." They had not gone far before they met a solitary guerrilla. He was one of Duncan's party, and had gone out of his way to visit a friend. He was halted, and explained who he was. "Ah, yes," said Lawrence; "your company is just ahead. We left it only a few moments ago." "Whar be yo' goin'?" asked the fellow. "Back to join Poindexter, where we belong. I was carrying a message to Porter from Poindexter, but on meeting Duncan I gave it to him, so we are on our way back." The fellow had sharp eyes, and Lawrence noticed that he was scrutinizing his party closely, and when he saw Harry, who had been a little in the rear, and just now came up, he started perceptibly, but quickly recovered himself, and exclaimed, "I must be goin'." Putting spurs to his horse, he rode rapidly away. Harry gazed on his retreating figure, his brow wrinkled in perplexity. Suddenly he cried: "Captain, I know that fellow, and I believe he recognized me. If he did, we are going to have trouble." "Are you sure?" asked Lawrence, startled. "Quite sure. I arrested him near Paris a couple of months ago, and he gave his parole. I had hard work to keep Bruno from throttling him. Where is Bruno?" "There he comes now," said Lawrence, "and he seems to be greatly excited." Bruno was indeed greatly excited, and he ran around Harry, growling, and then in the direction the fellow had taken, looking back to see if Harry was following. "Bruno knows him, too," said Harry. "He never forgets. If that fellow saw Bruno, it is indeed all up. He will tell Duncan, and we will have a fight on our hands as sure as fate." "By hard riding we can reach Mexico and avoid the fight," said Lawrence; "but I don't like the idea of running away." "Nor I," said Harry. "Even if the fellow knew me, Duncan may not follow us." "What do you think, Dan?" asked Lawrence. Dan took a chew of tobacco, as he always did when about to decide anything weighty, and then slowly remarked: "Don't like to run until I see something to run from." "That's it," cried Lawrence. "It is doubtful if Duncan follows us at all. If he does, it will be time enough to think of running." It was therefore decided to take the first road they came to which led in the direction they wished to go. They soon came to the road, but before they turned into it, Lawrence took the precaution to make it appear that they had ridden straight on. "Reckon Bruno and I will hang near this corner for a while," said Harry. "I want to make sure whether we are followed or not. I feel in my bones Duncan is after us." Harry had good reasons for feeling as he did, for the guerrilla whose name was Josh Hicks, had not only recognized him, but he had also seen Bruno, and he bore the dog an undying hatred, for it was he who had captured him, and would have killed him had not Harry interfered. No sooner was Hicks out of sight of the scouts than he put his horse to the utmost speed. "I have an account to settle with that dawg and his master," he muttered, "and it will be settled tonight or my name is not Josh Hicks." He overtook Duncan's command, his horse covered with foam. "Hello, Josh, what's up?" asked some of the men, as he dashed up. "Yo' un acts as if the Merrill Hoss was after yo'. What has skeered yo'?" "Whar is Bill?" Hicks fairly shrieked. "Up in front. What's the matter?" and the men began to look uneasy. Seeing the excitement in the rear, Duncan came riding back. "What's the trouble?" he asked, gruffly. "Don't know," answered one of the men, "but Josh Hicks has jest come up, his hoss covered with foam, and he seems mighty skeered about something." Just then Hicks caught sight of Duncan, and yelled: "Bill, did yo' un meet a party of about a dozen men a few minutes ago?" "Yes; what of it?" "An' yo'un had them and let them go?" fairly screamed Hicks. "Of course; they were Poindexter's men." "Poindexter's men! Hell!" Hicks shouted. "They was Yanks in disguise, an' one of them was that damned boy scout of the Merrill Hoss. I know him, and I saw the dawg." "Be you sure, Josh?" asked Duncan. "Sure? Of course I'm sure. Don't I know the boy, and don't I know the dawg? Can I forgit the brute that had his teeth in my throat? Oh, yo' un be a nice one, yo' un be, Bill, to let them fellers slip through your fingers!" Duncan flushed with anger and chagrin. "Look here, Josh," he roared, "none of your insinuations, or you settle with me. I never met that feller, and if you had been with us, as you ought to have been, instead of gallivanting around the country, you would have known them. Them fellers told a straight story, they did; but they'll never fool Bill Duncan but once. About face, boys." In a moment more the guerrillas were thundering on the trail of the scouts. They had little difficulty until they came to the road where Lawrence had turned off. Here Duncan carefully examined the ground, and with the almost unerring instinct of his class, decided rightly as to the way the scouts had gone. Harry had taken a position about half a mile from where the road turned, and where he had a good view without being seen. He saw the guerrillas stop and hesitate, and then take the right road. "They are after us, sure," he muttered, and, spurring his horse, he did not pull rein until he had overtaken the scouts. "They are close after us!" he exclaimed, pulling up his panting horse. "It will soon be dark; we can elude them," said Lawrence. "Let's fight them," said Dan, taking out his plug of tobacco and holding it until a decision was made. "Yes, let's fight them," said the men. "This is the tamest scout we've ever been on--hobnobbing with the villains instead of fighting them." "All right," replied Lawrence. "Let's ride rapidly ahead until dark. Dan, you and I must think up a bit of strategy in the meantime." "All right," said Dan, biting off a big chew from the plug he was holding, and restoring the rest to his pocket. If the decision had been against a fight, Dan would have put the plug back without taking a chew. When Dan put his tobacco back unbitten, it was always an infallible sign that something had gone in a way that did not suit him. That Lawrence and Dan had fixed up that bit of strategy was evident, for just as darkness was closing in, Lawrence ordered the scouts to stop long enough to gather a good feed of corn for their horses, from a near-by field. Then they rode on and camped in a wood, some little distance from the road. "The guerrillas will not now attack us until some time in the night," he said, "thinking to surprise us." He gave orders for the horses to be tethered a little distance in the rear of the camp, where they would be sheltered. "Hitch them so you can loose them in a twinkling, if it becomes necessary," he ordered. Then he told the men they might build a fire, make some coffee, and roast some corn, if they wished. "Had we not better dig a hole for the fire, and screen it with blankets?" suggested one of the men. "A light might give us away." "Just what I want it to do," answered Lawrence, to the astonishment of all but Dan and Harry. Lawrence then explained to his men his plan: "The guerrillas will attack us some time during the night, thinking to surprise us. I want the surprise the other way. Therefore I propose to camp as if we were unconscious of danger. The fire is to be left, not too bright, but smouldering enough to give a little light. Each man of you is to prepare a dummy. A log with a blanket around it will do. These will be placed in a row a short distance from the fire. In the dim light they will look exactly like a row of sleeping men. Last of all, we will fix a dummy sentinel, leaning against a tree as if asleep. "We will all lie down a little to one side in the bush. Then, when the guerrillas charge on the supposed sleeping camp, give it to them. If things go wrong, each man make for his horse, and get away the best he can. Make for Mexico." These instructions were obeyed implicitly, and soon the camp was buried in apparent slumber. To make sure they were right, the guerrillas had inquired at the first house they passed, and were told that a small party of men had passed but a short time before. "We are on the right track, boys," exclaimed Duncan, gleefully, "and if they don't take the alarm and dodge us in the dark, they are ours. We must not press them too closely. Let them go into camp, and we will get them when they are asleep." Just as darkness began to fall, Duncan became fearful that the scouts would not halt, but keep on for Mexico, and he gave orders to gallop, but concluded to stop at the first house and inquire. He did so, and an old man came to the door, and in answer to his inquiry replied that a party whom he supposed to be guerrillas passed just before dark. "Confound them!" he exclaimed, "they stopped at my cornfield and gathered a good feed for their horses, and never said even 'Thank you.' They are camped in the woods about half a mile ahead, for I saw the gleam of the campfire. I am going down in the morning, and see if I can't collect for that corn." "We will collect it for you," chuckled Duncan, "and while we are about it we will collect enough to pay for a feed for our horses. There are sixty or seventy of us. Them fellers are not our men; they are Yanks." "Good land!" exclaimed the old fellow. "Don't worry--we'll collect for that corn, all right," said Duncan. The guerrillas waited until ten o'clock, then approached the wood as near as they dared, and Duncan sent two of his men ahead to spy upon the camp. They were gone so long that Duncan began to be impatient, but at last they returned, and their report was all that could be wished. "We almost crept on them before we discovered them," said one. "The fools do not seem suspicious of any danger. They have but one man on guard, and sure as shooting he is leaning against a tree, sound asleep. It will be no trick to send them to the devil as they sleep." "And to the devil we will send them," growled Duncan. "Understand, no quarter." "The dawg? Didn't you see the dawg?" asked Hicks, anxiously. "That dawg seems to trouble you, Hicks," sneered one of the men. "He would trouble yo' un if yo' un had had the experience I have," retorted Hicks. "I tell you I don't like it. Them Yanks seem too blame careless. It ain't like them. An' that dawg--didn't he make no fuss when yo' un crept up?" "Not a bit. If thar was any dawg, he must have been asleep, too." "I tell yo' un I don't like it. Thar is something wrong. That dawg----" "Shut up," commanded Duncan. "Josh, if you are afraid of a dawg, stay with the hosses. Some of the boys will have to stay, and there is not one, unless it is you, but wants a hand in this job." "Yes, stay, Josh, stay!" jeered the men. "Josh is getting skeery. He is afraid of a dawg." "Stay nothin'!" snorted Josh, mad as a hornet. "An' if any of yo' uns insinuates I am afraid, yo' uns will have to settle with Josh Hicks, an' that mighty quick." "No quarrelling, boys," commanded Duncan. "Josh is all right. Don't want to stay with the hosses, Josh?" "Not by a thundering sight." "All right, Josh, we will give you the first crack at that boy, the owner of the dawg, to settle old scores." They were to creep up on the scouts and kill them as they slept. If an alarm was given, they were to rush on them and make quick work of it. Slowly the guerrillas worked their way through the wood, as noiselessly and stealthily as Indians. By the dim light of the campfire they saw what they supposed were the sleeping forms of their enemies. The sentinel stood leaning against a tree, his head on his breast, apparently sound asleep. The sentinel was right in front of Josh Hicks. He drew a huge knife, his eyes gleaming with hate and cruelty. Nearer and nearer he crept, then sprang forward and buried his knife in the bosom of the supposed man, but instead of striking flesh and bone, he struck a log of wood, and so fierce was the blow he could not withdraw the knife. As he struck there was a hoarse growl, a huge form shot through the air, and the teeth of Bruno were buried in his throat. He gave a blood-curdling yell, which died away in a sickening gurgle. The guerrillas, thinking themselves discovered, rushed upon the sleeping forms. As they came into the light, the woods to the right and left burst into flame. Men reeled and, clutching the air, fell. The wood resounded with horrid curses, groans, and yells of terror. Firing a random volley, those that lived turned and fled, pursued by the scouts. The battle was soon over. A full third of the attacking force lay on the ground, dead or grievously wounded. But of all the dead, there was none so ghastly as Josh Hicks. He lay with his throat torn in shreds, and on his face there was still a look of mortal terror. The next morning, when the guerrillas came creeping back to bury their dead and care for the wounded, a feeling of superstitious awe crept over them when they saw the body of Josh Hicks. "That dawg--that dawg!" they whispered. "Poor Josh! He must have had a presentiment." From that time on Bruno was to them an uncanny beast, in league with evil spirits. CHAPTER VI KIRKSVILLE No sooner had the affrighted cries of the guerrillas died away, than Lawrence, calling back his men, said: "We must now be up and away. By morning the guerrillas will be over their fright, and we will be surrounded. Let the dead and wounded lie, though make the wounded as comfortable as possible. It will not be long before some of their comrades will be creeping back to care for them." To Lawrence's delight, he found that not a single one of his men had been harmed. In the highest of spirits, the men mounted their horses and rode away. All night they rode and, when morning came, they halted by a field of corn, and once more gave their horses a fine feed, while the men made coffee and feasted on roasting ears. "Boys, which shall it be--Mexico or Paris?" asked Lawrence. "From what we learned from Duncan, it is the intention of Porter to unite all his force near Paris, and then move north. Guitar must be in Mexico by this time, but there will be no fighting there. No doubt he will keep on to Paris." "To Paris!" shouted the men. "Let's go where the fighting will be. Our horses are quite fresh. We can be there by night." "What if we run into Porter and his whole gang?" asked Lawrence, smiling. "Lick the whole gang!" they yelled. "You're all right, boys, but I hardly think you can do that; at least, we won't try as long as I'm leader," laughed Lawrence. The day was hot and the roads dusty, and Lawrence favored the horses all possible, but they made good progress. Taken for guerrillas by the inhabitants, they fared well, and much information was given them. Much to Lawrence's surprise, he learned that Porter had taken and sacked Paris the day before, and that McNeil had moved down from Palmyra and driven him out. More serious still was the news that Porter had been reinforced, and had attacked and expected to recapture the place. This was news, indeed. If true, Porter was squarely between them and Paris. A consultation was held, and it was the unanimous opinion that they should keep on and join McNeil, if they could. As they neared Paris, they heard firing, and became aware a slight skirmish was in progress. They halted, and while debating what best to do, a couple of guerrillas came riding towards them. "Who be yo' un?" they asked of Lawrence, as they rode up. "We 'uns are from Galloway County, on our way to join Porter," answered Lawrence. "I heah fightin'. What is it?" "Oh, a few of us are only amusing the Yanks while Porter gits away," said the men. "Then Porter is not heah?" "No; he an' most of his men air miles north by this time. He left about a hundred of us here to make believe we 'uns ware goin' to attack Paris, so to give him time to git away. Thar, yo' uns don't hear any shooting now. The boys have amused the Yanks as long as they wanted to, and now air on their way to jine Porter, and bet your life the Yanks don't catch them." "What are you doing here, away from your command?" asked Lawrence, sternly. The guerrillas started at the change in the speech and manner of Lawrence. "We 'uns," they stammered, "we 'uns live about five miles back, and we 'uns was goin' to see the folks. We 'uns can easily overtake the boys by riding all night." A sign from Lawrence, and, to the amazement of the guerrillas, they were looking into the muzzles of revolvers. "It's all up with you, fellows," said Lawrence. "We are Yanks. Boys, disarm them." The guerrillas' faces were as white as chalk, and they began to beg for their lives. They had only just joined Porter, they declared, and they were sick of it already. They had never molested a Union man. In fact, they had told a lie--they were deserting, instead of going to visit their families, as they said. "If that is the case," said Lawrence, "you will readily give us all the information you can. No doubt Colonel McNeil will be pleased to see you; so come along." It was as the prisoners had said--the guerrillas had gone, and Lawrence had no trouble in riding into Paris, where he was gladly welcomed by McNeil, who had been in fear he was being attacked by an overwhelming force. It was welcome news that Lawrence brought, that Colonel Guitar was in Mexico by this time, with five hundred good men; but that Porter was retreating north, was a big surprise to McNeil. "He must have at least a thousand men," said McNeil. "I thought he would stay and fight this time, sure. I see we will have to chase the fox." During the night the advance of Colonel Guitar's column came in. Guitar had been taken sick at Mexico, but had sent forward five hundred men under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Shaffer. McNeil, his force now augmented by Shaffer's, resolved to push Porter to the limit, and if possible bring him to battle. A pursuit now commenced which lasted a week--a pursuit that every soldier that was present will always remember. Men grew haggard for want of sleep; horses staggered under the weight of their riders, and then fell dying by the side of the road. Across prairies and streams, through woods and tangled thickets, over rocky hills, almost inaccessible, the pursuit led. By every art known to the wily Porter did he try to mislead his pursuers; but they hung on to his trail like grim death. More than once would the pursuers have been at fault had it not been for Lawrence and his little band of scouts. Hanging on to the flank and at times almost ahead of Porter, they were enabled to keep McNeil well posted as to the movements of his foes. More than once did the faithful Bruno keep the scouts from falling into ambuscades, and more than once shots were fired at him by the vengeful guerrillas. But Bruno had become as cunning and wary as a fox in keeping out of danger. It was but a glimpse the guerrillas could get at him as he stole through the woods. "What now, Bruno? What's the matter?" asked Lawrence one day, as the dog came rushing back in the greatest excitement. The scouts were in advance, and had been following the trail through a rough and broken country. The dog gave a short bark, and looked to the front, as if to say, "Look out--trouble ahead." Lawrence gave the order to halt, and told Harry and another of the company to dismount and steal carefully through the woods, and see what they could discover. They did so, and soon came to a stream. The bridge that spanned it had, to Harry's astonishment, been only partially destroyed; it could easily be crossed. This looked suspicious. The other bank of the stream was covered by a thick growth of bushes. Their leaves rustled gently as they were touched by the breeze, and that was all. There was no sign of life. Bruno, as he looked across the stream, gave a low, menacing growl, and his eyes shone like two coals of fire. The road, after crossing the bridge, was narrow, and ran between two hills, both thickly wooded. "There's something over there in the bushes," whispered Harry. "We'd better go back and report to the Captain." They did so. "We'll wait until some of the command come up," said Lawrence. They had not long to wait. A company of Merrill Horse that was leading the advance came in sight. To the Captain in command Lawrence explained his fear of an ambuscade in front. The company was halted, the men dismounted, and a skirmish line formed. The men were instructed to work their way carefully to the bank of the stream, but not to show themselves. "I see nothing alarming over there," said the Captain of the company, as he swept the other side of the stream with his glass. "There is something," said Lawrence. "I have just seen a bush tremble more than if stirred by the wind. That half-destroyed bridge is but a trap." By this time more of the troop had come up, and had been halted. With them were a couple of pieces of artillery. "We are losing valuable time," grumbled the Captain. "We'd better ride on, before McNeil gives us thunder." "Not if I can prevent it," said Lawrence. "Bring up that artillery." The two pieces were brought as close to the river as they could without being seen. The horses were then unhitched, and the pieces run forward by hand, so that a few yards more would bring them into view, and in a position where they could sweep the bushes on both sides of the road across the stream. "Load with canister," ordered Lawrence. "When all is ready, I will order a volley fired across the river into the bushes. Wait for the returning volley, for I am sure it will come; then run up your pieces and sweep both sides of the road." The skirmishers crept carefully forward, and at the word poured a volley into the bushes across the stream. The effect was electrical. The bushes seemed to burst into smoke and flame, and then came a crashing volley in return. Quick as thought, the two cannon were run forward and a storm of canister swept the bushes. There were howls of rage, curses and groans, and the guerrillas were in wild flight. With cheers the men ran back, mounted their horses and started in pursuit, thinking the time had come for them to annihilate Porter and his gang. Porter had planned well. A short distance from the bridge the road passed through a narrow, rocky defile, and this was so obstructed that it took two hours to remove the obstructions so the command could pass through. Porter had left his horses on the other side of the obstruction, so when his men broke all they had to do was to make their way to their horses. Porter did not try any more ambuscades. His only thought was to elude his pursuers and get away. He came nearly doing it, and for a day McNeil was in doubt as to which way he had gone--to the northwest or the north. It was Lawrence and his scouts who brought the news. His report was: "Porter crossed the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad last night at Shelbina. He is said to be making for Kirksville, where he expects to be joined by the guerrilla bands of northwestern Missouri. His force is estimated at two thousand, which, I think, is an overestimate, but as he goes north, it is hourly increasing." "I don't care whether he has two thousand or five thousand; I am going to catch him and make him fight," said McNeil, grimly. The pursuit was once more taken up, the column headed for Kirksville. There is only one county in Missouri north of the county in which Kirksville is situated. It was as far north as Porter could hope to go without being surrounded by enemies. Full of hope that he would be forced to give battle at Kirksville, McNeil pressed on. So rapid was the pursuit that McNeil, as he neared Kirksville, could not bring over five hundred men into action. His trains and his men with broken-down horses had been left behind. All along the route Porter's force had been reported as fully three thousand, but three thousand did not alarm McNeil, who had faith in his little army. As the Federals approached Kirksville, Lawrence, who had been scouting, reported that Kirksville had been occupied by Porter, and that he had expelled the entire inhabitants of the place. His horses he had concealed in the brush west of the town. "These facts," said Lawrence, "I have learned from the three prisoners I have here." McNeil questioned the prisoners, but they were surly and would say nothing. The facts that Lawrence had learned were told him when they believed him to be one of their number. When undeceived and told to surrender, their surprise was only equalled by their chagrin. In bringing them back, Lawrence noticed one of the prisoners stealthily throw away some papers. They were secured and found to be a parole and an oath of allegiance to the National Government. "I'm sorry," said Lawrence, "but this fact must be reported to Colonel McNeil."[3] [Footnote 3: This prisoner and fifteen others were afterwards executed by McNeil for the breaking of their paroles.] It was a beautiful August morning when McNeil's little army reached the outskirts of the village of Kirksville. To all appearances, they gazed upon a deserted town. If the angel of death had passed over the place and had smitten every man, woman and child, it could not have been more silent, death-like. The hot sun beat down upon the streets and houses, but awoke no life. The stillness was unearthly, appalling. What did it mean? "Can it be that Porter has slipped away without our knowing it?" asked McNeil. "Impossible," answered Lawrence. "The whole guerrilla force is concealed in the stores and houses. They are hoping we will think the place unoccupied; then as we ride through the streets they can open fire and slaughter us without mercy." "How can we find out where they are?" asked McNeil, rather anxiously. Lawrence thought a moment, and then said: "Colonel, give me a few men and I will make a dash down the main street, and around the square. If they are hidden, we will surely draw their fire, and thus reveal their position." McNeil looked at Lawrence in amazement. "Do you mean it?" he asked. "I certainly do." "Why, it would mean almost certain death--suicide." "I am willing to try." McNeil thought a moment and then said: "Captain, you must not do it. If you were one of my officers, I might consent; but with you it is different. You are on special duty from General Schofield. It is true you have acted as one of my aids, and as leader of my scouts, for which I am grateful. But for you to lead such a forlorn hope, I cannot--will not--permit such a sacrifice on your part." Colonel Shaffer, of the Merrill Horse, who had been present during the conversation, now said: "Colonel, you are right. To permit Captain Middleton to do what he proposes would be a reflection on our command; especially would I consider it so on the Merrill Horse. I will make a detail, and lead the forlorn hope myself." "No, you will not," cried three or four officers of his regiment, who had come up in time to hear his proposal. "Our Colonel leading as desperate an undertaking as that, and we looking on! Why, every mother's son of us should be shot for cowardice. Detail one of us." Shaffer looked upon his officers with pride. "It is just what I might have expected," he exclaimed, his voice trembling. "Lieutenant Coudrey, you spoke first. You may go if you wish; but mind, I don't order you." Coudrey saluted and said: "Colonel, I thank you. I need no order." "How many men will you need, Lieutenant?" asked Shaffer. "Eight, I think, will be enough. I do not wish to expose more than necessary." Lieutenant Coudrey returned to his company, explained to them what was to be done, and added: "Not one that comes with me may ever come back. I want eight volunteers." He looked up and down the line. For a moment there was not a sound. The men gazed into each others' faces blankly; and then, as if by common impulse, the whole company rode forward. "God bless you, my men, my brave boys! I might have known it, but I cannot take you all. The first eight will do. That will save me choosing man by man." History tells of great charges. Pickett's charge at Gettysburg, and Hood's at Franklin, will live as long as American history is written; but history tells nothing of these small affairs. Yet who will say that Lieutenant Coudrey and his eight men did not perform a braver deed than do men who, in the heat of battle, rush up to the mouth of the cannon? It is the individual bravery, the scout and the skirmish, which make the romance of war. All was ready, and as they started a thousand eyes followed them, and with bated breath their comrades watched them as they rode. Each carried a heavy revolver, that they might return the fire they would receive. Down the street they rode at full speed, but not a shot was fired; the town lay still as dead. They reached the square. "Is it possible----" exclaimed McNeil, but his speech was cut short. As the little squad turned to ride around the square, flashes of fire and little clouds of smoke burst from doors and windows of stores and houses. The village had suddenly come to life. [Illustration: Down the street they rode at full speed.] From their revolvers Coudrey and his men returned the fire as they rode. A horse goes down, then another. A man throws up his arms and tumbles headlong, but those that live dash on. The circuit is made, the hell of fire passed through, and the enemy is located. Coudrey, his face blackened with smoke, and his eyes blazing with the light of battle, came riding back. His hand was grasped by both McNeil and Shaffer. Neither could speak for a moment, and then they could only gasp: "Thank God!" Strange as it may seem, Lieutenant Coudrey had passed through the fiery ordeal unscathed; but of the eight men who rode with him, two were killed, three more wounded, and five of the eight horses lay dead. The position of the enemy uncovered, McNeil dismounted his force, and the battle was opened. From house to house the men forced their way, and at the end of two hours the enemy were in full flight. The artillery of the Federals played an important part in the action, and did much towards turning the victory. Porter had at least three or four men to one in this action, but his force was poorly disciplined, and stood little show against the seasoned veterans of McNeil.[4] [Footnote 4: Colonel McNeil reports his loss in this action as twenty-eight killed and sixty wounded. He estimates the loss of the guerrillas as one hundred and fifty killed, three hundred wounded and forty-seven prisoners. Horses captured, one hundred and fifty.] The routed guerrillas took refuge in the timber which skirted the Chariton, but early the next morning the Merrill Horse was after them. The next day Porter was caught at Stockton and completely routed, losing nearly a hundred men. Porter himself barely escaped, but with a few followers he made his way back to his old haunts, and a couple of months later was the cause of one of the most lamentable tragedies enacted in Missouri during the war. CHAPTER VII POINDEXTER CAPTURED Hundreds of the guerrillas who had been with Porter worked their way south to join Poindexter, and that chieftain found himself at the head of a force of from a thousand to fifteen hundred men. That part of Porter's force that had joined Poindexter had been closely followed by a portion of McNeil's force, among them a hundred of the Merrill Horse. With them came Lawrence and Harry with Bruno. When they reached Mexico, Lawrence found a dispatch waiting him from General Schofield, which filled him with amazement. It stated that he had received a communication, apparently from the same hand that had sent the first communication to him (Lawrence), in May, which revealed the plot of the partisan uprising. This communication stated that a large body of troops was moving up from Arkansas to coöperate with the guerrillas, the object being to capture Independence and Lexington, and that the movement was a month later than expected, but now it was well under way. "I am not satisfied," wrote General Schofield, "with the way the officers in that district are meeting the emergency, and I want you to go there immediately and report to me the full situation." Lawrence reluctantly bade Harry and Bruno good-bye, and he and Dan started for their new field of work, where we will leave them for a time, and follow the adventures of Harry. Poindexter and Cobb had now come back into the territory that was commanded by Colonel Guitar. That officer had fully recovered from his sickness, and, hastily collecting a force of five hundred men, he started in pursuit of Poindexter. Harry and his dog were now so well known that Guitar placed him in command of a small body of scouts. They were dressed as guerrillas, and they certainly looked and acted the part. Poindexter had expected to join Porter in his retreat north, at or near Kirksville, but he had been attacked and driven back by a force under General Ben Loan, thus preventing the union which Porter and Poindexter had planned. Poindexter was now hiding in the woods and thickets along the Chariton, and numerous guerrilla bands were flocking to his standard. It was Colonel Guitar's business to find him and scatter his forces before they became too strong; and to find him Guitar could employ no better means than Harry and Bruno. For his companions, Harry had chosen five boys, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty, all native Missourians, skilled in woodcraft, accustomed to firearms, and all burning to avenge themselves on the guerrillas, for all had suffered terrible wrongs at their hands. Just as Harry was about to start on his scout, a boy by the name of Jack Harwood came to him and begged to be allowed to be one of the party. He was about eighteen years of age, of slender build, but as wiry and active as a cat. His face bore a rather sad expression, for his father had been shot down in cold blood by some of Porter's gang; the house had been burned over his mother's head, and she had died a few days later from shock and exposure. Fortunately for Jack, he was not at home at the time, or he would have shared his father's fate. Jack buried his mother, bade farewell to his ruined home, and enlisted. He seemed never to tire, and was never as happy as when he was hunting guerrillas. He was brave to recklessness, and early in the service had been promoted to a sergeantcy in his company. Harry looked him over and told him he would see what he could do. The eyes of the boy glowed with a fierce flame as he told Harry of his wrongs. It was so much like his own story that Harry's heart went out towards him. Colonel Guitar readily granted Harry's request that Harwood might be added to his force, and so Harry found himself at the head of six young, adventuresome and daring scouts. Harry's orders were to locate Poindexter, but keep in touch with the column as much as possible. No sooner were they away from the command than Harry halted and said: "Boys, I must make you acquainted with Bruno, so he may make no mistake." The great dog was called, and he came and stood before his master, wagging his tail and looking up in his eyes, as if to say, "What is it?" "Bruno, this is Jack Harwood. He is all right." Bruno smelled Jack, gave a short yelp and, lifting one of his paws, offered it to him. The boy shook it with wonder and delight. Bruno was then introduced to each of the scouts, and they seemed to pass muster, for to each one he offered his paw. "Good," exclaimed Harry. "Bruno will now know any one of you among thousands, and you will find him the most valuable member of the squad." Harry rode to the northwest, for he knew it was in that direction Poindexter was rallying his forces. The country through which they passed seemed to be terror-stricken. But few men were seen, and they were old. The women gazed at them with scared eyes as they passed, and little children would run and hide, or peer at them around the corners of the houses with frightened faces. To questions asked, both men and women were noncommittal. They knew nothing. They were the first guerrillas they had seen for days. As for Yankee soldiers, they knew of none nearer than the towns where they were garrisoned. Towards evening Bruno gave warning of foes ahead. Soon a party of ten men rode in sight, manifestly guerrillas. "Let me do the talking, boys," Harry said, "but be sure and sanction everything I say; and be ready to fight at the word, if necessary. For your life, don't let them get the drop on you. At the first suspicious action, draw and fire." The scouts did not seem loath to have a little skirmish. They loosened the revolvers in their holsters, and remarked they were ready. "Bruno," said Harry, "I don't want them to see you. Go and hide, and don't come till I whistle." The dog slunk into the woods that grew along the road, and in a twinkling was out of sight. The scouts marvelled. "Why, he is human," said one. "Almost, but not quite, about some things," answered Harry. The band of guerrillas had seen them, and halted, and were scanning them carefully, as if debating whether to advance or not. "They seem to be a little afraid," laughed Harry. "Let's ride leisurely forward, as if satisfied." As they approached, the guerrillas made a movement as if to raise their guns, but evidently thought better of it, and sat still to await their coming, but with hands on the butts of their revolvers. "Hello, boys; whar yo' uns goin'?" called out Harry, as he came up. "The way yo' uns act, yo' uns must think we' uns air Yanks." "Who be yo' uns, an' whar be yo' uns goin'?" the leader asked, scowling. "We' uns? We' uns air from Franklin County. We' uns was a little too close to St. Louis to be healthy for sich fellers as we' uns, so we reckoned we' uns would come over and join Poindexter. Do yo' uns know whar we' uns can find him?" "Don't know an' don't care," growled the leader. "Yo' uns had better come with we' uns. Had enough of stand-up fightin'! We' uns was with Porter at Kirksville, and got hell kicked out of us." Harry now learned that they were a part of Porter's band; that after his last defeat Porter had advised his men to break into small parties and make their way back to their old haunts, where they could rally if he needed them. They could be nice, peaceable citizens until he wanted them again. It was more fun harassing and robbing Union men and surprising small parties of Yanks than it was to face the enemy in an open battle. "I tell yo' uns," added the leader, shrugging his shoulders, "it's no fun facing them rotten balls. They skeer a feller." "Why didn't yo' uns lick 'em?" asked Harry. "Lick 'em? Say, young feller, Did yo' un ever face the Merrill Hoss?" "No; but the boys heah reckon they would like to have the chance." "Ha! ha!" laughed the guerrillas. "Wall, go on and join Poindexter, an' yo' uns may have a chance. See how you like it after the Merrill Hoss gits a whack at yo' uns," and, laughing and jesting, they rode on. When the guerrillas were first met, Jack Harwood gave a start of surprise, and a look of fierce passion swept over his face. He suddenly pulled his slouch hat down so as to hide his features, turned and kept as far away as he could without exciting suspicion. When the guerrillas had gone, he rode up to Harry, his eyes blazing, and his whole body trembling with suppressed excitement. "I know two of those fellows," he exclaimed, "They were with the gang that murdered father. One of them was the one that fired the house. Mother knew them. There were six of them, and I know every one. I have sworn to get the whole six, and I will if I live." The look of hatred on his face made Harry shiver, but he knew how he felt; so had he felt when he saw his father lying dead before him. "I had all I could do to keep from shooting them while they were talking to you," continued Jack. "It makes me feel like a coward to let such a chance go." "It would have been madness, Jack. Then, we are not out to fight if we can avoid it, but to get information. Never let your passion lead you to do a foolish thing." Jack said no more, but fell back in the rear. It was almost night, and Harry decided to go into camp, as he had not learned the exact whereabouts of Poindexter. Suddenly some one asked, "Where is Jack Harwood?" Harry looked. He was nowhere to be seen. "Does any one know anything about him?" he asked, anxiously. One of the men said: "Jack stopped just after the guerrillas left us. He said the girth of his saddle was loose, and he would have to fix it. I thought no more about him, and as I have been riding in front, I did not notice he was not with us." Could Jack have been captured by lurking guerrillas? They would go back and see. It would not do to leave a comrade in peril. If Jack had been captured, Bruno would have little trouble in following the trail. It was not more than two miles back to the place where the soldier had seen Jack dismount to fix his saddle girth, but there was no sign of a struggle there; no evidence that any guerrilla had been lying in ambush. But by the side of the road there were tracks of where a horse had been turned and ridden back. "By heavens!" exclaimed one of the men, "Jack has deserted. Don't you remember one of those guerrillas said they lived in Ralls County?--and Jack is from Ralls." The other men began to swear. "If we ever catch him," they muttered, with clenched fists. "Hold on, boys," ejaculated Harry; "Jack has not deserted, but he has gone, and gone alone, on one of the maddest adventures that ever single man set out to do." Then he told them of what Jack had said, and added: "No doubt he has gone back to try and get those men." "Let's go back and try to help him!" exclaimed the squad in unison. Harry shook his head. "No, boys," he said; "and if you wish to continue with me, you must promise me that you will not leave under any conditions whatever, without my consent. We are soldiers. We are under orders, and those orders are to find Poindexter. To try and find Jack would lead us we know not where, and bring the whole object of our scout to naught." The men saw, and turned back; but with heavy hearts, for their thoughts were with Jack. The scouts went into camp not far from a substantial farmhouse, and the occupants were a little more communicative than common, especially when Harry told them to set up a good meal for them, and he would pay for it, saying they had captured some Yankee money. Their mouths being open, Harry found they had a son with Poindexter, and he had left home only that morning. They had heard the son say Poindexter was preparing to attack some place. They thought it was Columbia, but were not sure. Harry made his camp in the edge of a wood, a field in front. A rough road ran through the wood, a short distance in the rear. If danger came, it would be by that road that Harry calculated to retreat. They were to rest till three o'clock, then up and away. Harry knew that with Bruno on guard there would be no surprise, but he could not rest. He was thinking of Jack Harwood. About eleven o'clock, to Harry's surprise, Harwood made his appearance. "If it hadn't been for Bruno," he said, "I would never have found you. He met me down the road a ways, and guided me here." "Where have you been?" asked Harry. "Where have I been?" he answered, slowly. "On private business. I will tell you about it in the morning." "You must promise never again to leave without permission, or this is your last scout with me," said Harry, sternly. Jack did not answer. He turned to care for his horse. When Jack stopped, under the pretence of fixing the girth of his saddle, it was with the fixed purpose, come what would, of following those guerrillas and killing the men who had helped murder his father. Had he not taken a solemn oath to kill them on sight? He did not stop to think how he could accomplish his purpose--of the danger of the undertaking. He only knew he had seen the men; that was enough. He would track them, if necessary, to the ends of the earth. As it was, fate favored him. The guerrillas, all unconscious that Nemesis was on their track, rode on until dusk, when they stopped at a fine plantation, and roughly ordered supper and feed for their horses. Mr. Rice, the owner of the plantation, was a hot Southern sympathizer, but he did not relish his present company. He felt like kicking them out of doors, but he knew it would not do to refuse them, so he made the best of it, and ordered supper prepared. It was a good supper, and, in the highest of spirits, nine of the guerrillas sat down; the tenth was on guard. But he did not notice a silent figure creeping up to the window of the room in which the rest were dining. Suddenly there was a sharp report, a crash of glass, and one of the diners sprang to his feet and fell backward, shot through the brain. At the same time a voice rang through the room. "Remember Thomas Harwood, Number One. Let the other five beware!" At the sound of the shot and the fall of their comrade, the other guerrillas sat as if stunned for a moment; then with cries of terror they rushed from the house, thinking a Yankee force was on them; but a single shot, and excited cries from the sentinel, were all that they heard. Before the attack, the sentinel had seen or heard nothing, but afterwards he had caught a glimpse of a dim figure fleeing up the road. He had fired, but there was no response to his shot. When told what the voice had said, he turned pale and trembled. "My God!" he exclaimed, "it must have been Jack Harwood, Tom Harwood's son. There were six of us who put a quietus on that old Abolitionist. I heard the boy took a terrible oath he would never rest until he got the whole six. After that we lay for the boy, but he gave us the slip and went in the Yankee army. So, poor Ben is done for. He was one of the six. My being on guard is all that saved me. But whar did the boy come from? How did he know we' uns was heah?" This question greatly puzzled the guerrillas, until one of them spoke: "I reckon them seven fellers we' uns met was Yanks. That Harwood boy must have been one of them. He saw you two fellers, and follered we' uns heah, and got poor Ben." "Boys, I'll never feel easy as long as Jack Harwood lives," said the one who had escaped. "That boy is a devil. That's nine of us--only seven of them. Let's turn back and take them by surprise. We' uns can shoot them up." It was agreed to, and so the guerrillas turned back. After the return of Jack, Harry had lain down for a time, but could not sleep. He knew something had happened, but could not imagine what it was. Surely, Jack had not engaged the guerrillas single-handed. But he would have to wait until morning to know. Just as he was sinking into sleep, Bruno caught him by the shoulder and shook him. He was on his feet in a second. Everything seemed quiet, and the guard said he had heard nothing, but Bruno showed by his actions everything was not right. "Arouse the boys," said Harry; "something is in the wind." The scouts were aroused, but nothing could be discovered. Everything seemed quiet and asleep. "Jeffreys," said Harry to one of the men, "creep down towards the house and see if any mischief is going on down there. Be careful; keep in the shadow of the fence, and get back as quickly as possible." Jeffreys was gone nearly half an hour and Harry was beginning to get alarmed, when he came back. He had a startling story to tell. He had crept up nearly to the house and found the yard full of men and horses. The nine guerrillas had come back and stopped at the house to make inquiries. "The villain who lives there," continued Jeffreys, "told them all about where we were camped and the best way to surprise us. They were making arrangements to creep up on us when I thought it time to come back. I heard them talk of some one of our number who had killed one of their men. What did they mean?" "Never mind now," answered Harry. "Let's get ready to give them a warm reception. We know just how many there are, and they are the ones who will be surprised." It was a warm reception they got. Harry let them come almost up to them before he gave the signal to fire. First the carbines, then the revolver, had been his order. In a minute all was over. Stunned by the reception they received, those who had not been killed or wounded beat a hasty retreat. Investigation showed three of the guerrillas dead and three more desperately wounded. The wounded were carried to the farmhouse to be cared for. Among the dead was the one who had stood guard. Jack gazed at him a moment in silence and then muttered, "Number Two, but who killed him?" Jack now told Harry how he had followed the guerrillas and shot one. Harry listened in silence and then said, "Jack, I know how you feel. I once felt the same way, until Captain Middleton taught me better. He says this is a war of principles, not against individuals. That it is simply murder to kill for private wrongs." "Wrong to kill guerrillas?" asked Jack in surprise. "Yes, the way you did. In killing Ben Storms you had no idea of aiding the great cause for which we are fighting. You did it for revenge. In doing it you put yourself on the same plane as the man you killed." "Why, you have just helped me in killing several. What's the difference?" asked Jack in astonishment. "We killed those men in battle, and to save our own lives. The difference is great. If I had cruelly killed those wounded men instead of taking them to the house to be cared for, that would have been murder, not warfare." A thought came to Harry and he asked, "Jack, if that other man who helped kill your father had been only wounded and not killed, what would you have done?" Jack hung his head and whispered, "Killed him." "I thought so, I would have done the same to a man who helped kill my father if it had not been for Captain Middleton. I have learned better, and now thank him for it. Jack, promise me you will never leave the command again without my permission." Jack made the promise, but was rather doubtful as to the expediency of sparing the life of a guerrilla guilty of murder. Owing to the fight it was well along in the morning before the scouts started. They had not gone over two miles before they met a man riding rapidly. To him they told the story of going to join Poindexter. "Better go to Switzler's Mill," he said. "Poindexter starts for there this morning. I left him not over six hours ago. I'm on my way to try and rally some of Porter's men to come to his assistance." "Is that so?" dryly answered Harry. "You had better come with us. You are just the man we've been looking for." And to the fellow's amazement, he found himself a prisoner. "Now, boys," cried Harry, gleefully, "back to Guitar, I've found out all I want to know." Horse flesh was not spared, and Guitar was found about noon, his column on the march. To him Harry told the news, and with all speed the head of the column was turned towards Switzler's Mill. Now commenced a chase that lasted for seven days and did not end until the command had ridden two hundred and fifty miles over the roughest of roads. Poindexter turned and twisted like a fox. There was no fight in his men; they ran like a pack of frightened coyotes at the first crack of a gun. Guitar struck him at Switzler's Mill and scattered his force like chaff. Hot on Poindexter's trail the tireless troopers clung. Horses suffered more than the men. Scores fell by the roadside and died of exhaustion. At Little Compton Poindexter was once more brought to bay, and, scarcely firing a shot; he fled, leaving behind his trains, most of his ammunition, several hundred stands of arms, and five hundred horses. His army was now little more than a fleeing mob. Once more he was struck at the Muscle Fork of the Chariton. Many of his men were drowned trying to get across the stream. With only four hundred followers out of the fifteen hundred he had at the beginning, Poindexter fled westward. Guitar could follow no farther. Men and horses were exhausted. In this remarkable campaign Guitar states that he lost only five men wounded, while he estimates that at least one hundred and fifty of the enemy were killed and drowned, and he had captured one hundred men and a thousand horses and mules. Poindexter's misfortunes were not ended. As he fled west and south the remnant of his force was struck by General Ben Loan and totally dispersed, every guerrilla seeking his own safety. Poindexter found himself a wanderer without a single follower. Disguising himself he skulked in the woods and found shelter in the houses of friends, but tireless on his path were Harry and his scouts. From covert to covert and from house to house they trailed him and at last ran him down. They entered a house where an apparently sick man sat cowering in a corner, wrapped in a blanket. With a snarl Bruno was about to spring upon him when Harry stopped him, and going up to the man said, "The jig is up, Poindexter. You're not half as sick as you pretend." With a groan and a curse the guerrilla chieftain yielded himself a prisoner. CHAPTER VIII LONE JACK Although the dispersion of Porter's and Poindexter's forces had apparently put an end, at least for a time, to the guerrilla warfare in Northeast Missouri, the situation was still threatening in Southwest Missouri. It was for that reason General Schofield had ordered Lawrence to that field to inspect the posts, and to see that the officers in command were vigilant and doing their full duty. Rumors were rife that a large party under Hughes, Quantrell and others was gathering to attack Independence, also that a force was moving up from Arkansas to join them. Independence captured, the combined forces were to move on Lexington. Lawrence was to sift down these rumors, and find out how much truth there was in them, and above all to impress on the officers in charge of the different posts the necessity of eternal vigilance. But the blow fell just before Lawrence reached Lexington. Lieutenant Colonel Buell, in command at Independence, although repeatedly warned, allowed himself to be surprised. His forces were divided and not well posted, and after a spirited fight Buell surrendered, and with him about three hundred men were taken prisoners. The Confederate commander, Colonel Hughes, was killed in the action. The capture of Independence greatly elated the guerrillas, and recruits came pouring in by the hundreds. They now only awaited the arrival of Colonel Coffee from the south and they would move on to Lexington. When Lawrence arrived at Lexington he found the place in the wildest excitement. Rumors said that the enemy numbered thousands, and that they were already marching on the place. Lawrence acted quickly. He applied to the commander of the post for a detail of ten men, dressed in citizen clothes. "Tell them," he said, "it is for a scout, so they will not be deceived as to the danger of the undertaking." The ten men were easily procured, and, headed by Lawrence and Dan, started. The object was to find out the strength of the enemy under Coffee, and whether he could not be prevented from forming a union with the forces which had captured Independence. The scout was far more successful than Lawrence could have hoped. Representing themselves as coming from north of the river, they had no trouble in meeting on friendly terms several small parties of guerrillas with whom they fell in. They were all on their way to join Thompson, who was now in command of the forces which had captured Independence. Everyone expected Lexington would be the next to fall, and they were all anxious to have a hand in the affair. Lawrence represented they were to find Coffee and hurry him up. At length they were fortunate enough to fall in with a single guerrilla who was sitting by the side of the road, making the air blue with his curses. "What's the matter?" asked Lawrence. "My hoss stepped into a hole and threw me, and I have broken my leg," he groaned. "That's bad," said Lawrence. "I will see what I can do for you." "Yes, it's bad, and I was on my way from Colonel Coffee to Colonel Thompson." "Ah! were you? Perhaps I can help you. I can send one of my men with the message. What was it?" "That he would camp near Lone Jack on the evening of the fifteenth, and wanted Thompson to join him thar." "How many men has Coffee?" Lawrence asked. "About a thousand, but more are coming in all the time." The information was important. It was just what Lawrence wanted, but what to do with the man and still keep him deceived puzzled Lawrence. This problem was solved by a native coming along driving a raw-boned horse before a rickety wagon. Lawrence stopped him. The disabled guerrilla was lifted into the wagon and taken to the nearest farmhouse. Here Lawrence left instructions for them to send for a physician to set the broken leg. "Now I've done all I can for you," he told him, "and I must leave you, for my business is very important. I shall see that your message to Colonel Thompson is safely delivered." No sooner were they out of sight than Lawrence said, "Now, boys, for Lexington." When Lawrence made his report, Colonel Huston, in command at Lexington, acted with promptness. It was decided to send a force to strike Coffee at Lone Jack before Thompson and Quantrell could join him. The utmost that could be done was to gather a little force of about seven hundred and fifty. This force was placed in command of Major Emery Foster. There was another force of about the same number under the command of Colonel Fitz Henry Warren at Clinton. Clinton being about the same distance from Lone Jack as Lexington, Warren was ordered to march there and join Foster, and the two forces combined to attack Coffee without delay. In the meantime General Blunt, in command at Fort Scott, Kansas, had learned that Coffee had slipped past Springfield and was making north, and he started in pursuit with a thousand men. A third force under Colonel Burris of the Kansas Infantry was ordered to move from Kansas City and try to catch Thompson and Quantrell before they could join Coffee. Thus it looked as if the Confederates were hemmed in, and if everything went right, could be captured. Lawrence decided to join the expedition under Foster. Foster's little army left Lexington on the morning of the fifteenth of August, and by a rapid march reached the vicinity of Lone Jack by evening. Here at nine o'clock at night he surprised Coffee in camp, routing him, his men fleeing in confusion. Foster took possession of the abandoned camp and waited until morning. Warren had not been heard from. Lawrence still was in command of his scouts, and he volunteered to see if he could find Warren. The night was dark and they had to be careful. "If we only had Harry and Bruno," sighed Lawrence to Dan, as they were groping their way along as best they could. "If we had we wouldn't be going at this snail pace," answered Dan. They could find nothing of Warren and started to return. On the way back they came to a cross road and halted in doubt as to which road to take. While debating, the sound of approaching horses was heard. "Halt," commanded Lawrence as two guerrillas rode up. "Who are yo' uns?" they asked, surprised. "We 'uns are from Thompson. I was afraid yo' uns were Yanks. Whar is Coffee?" "The Yanks struck his camp a few hours ago and made us git." "Many hurt?" "I reckon not. We 'uns run too fast." "Glad to heah that. Thompson sent me to tell Coffee he would be with him by morning. Coffee hasn't run clear away, has he?" "No, he's gittin' his men together and will be all right by morning. How many men has Thompson?" "About twelve or fifteen hundred. You see, Quantrell and Hayes air with him. An Red Jerry has promised to come with his company." "Together we 'uns ought to eat the Yanks up tomorrow." "I don't see any use of your going farther, as Thompson is coming," said Lawrence. "So you might as well go with us into camp." To this the guerrillas agreed, and their surprise can be imagined when they found themselves in Foster's camp instead of Coffee's. The report of Lawrence that he could not find Warren, and that Thompson would join Coffee in the morning troubled Foster. "The whole combined force will be down on us in the morning," he said. "Where can Warren be? Surely he cannot fail, for his orders were positive, and mine were positive to stay here and wait for him. And stay I will, if all the devils in Missouri are around me." Lawrence looked at him with admiration. "Major, you are a man after my own heart," he said. "I will make one more attempt to find Warren. This time I will only take Sherman with me, as I do not wish to deplete your little force by a single man." "It will be dangerous, only two of you," replied Foster. "Not as much danger as you will be in if Warren does not come," answered Lawrence. "God grant I may find him." "Amen!" said Foster, fervently. The two men shook hands and Lawrence and Dan rode away. It lacked but an hour till day. Morning came, but there was no Warren, and neither had Dan and Lawrence returned. The new day had hardly begun when the guerrilla hordes poured down on Foster's little army, confident of an easy victory. Now began one of the bloodiest and most fiercely contested small battles of the war. The enemy had no artillery, but Foster had two pieces of the Third Indiana battery. The lieutenant in charge of the piece, J. F. Devlin, had been removed by Major Foster the night before for being intoxicated, and the guns placed in charge of Sergeant James M. Scott, and nobly did he uphold the confidence placed in him. Never was there a battery better or more bravely served. Time and time again did the enemy charge upon the guns, only to be flung back, bleeding and torn. During a lull in the conflict, Lieutenant Devlin, somewhat recovered from his drunken debauch, staggered on the field and ordered his men to abandon the pieces. Accustomed to obey their superior officer, the men did so. The enemy saw and with fiendish yells of triumph swarmed upon and over the pieces. It was a critical moment. Major Foster hastily collected sixty men and charged on the guns--so shamelessly abandoned by the order of a drunken commander. Of the sixty men who charged, but eleven reached the guns, the rest had fallen, and among them the gallant Major. Others now rushed to the rescue, the artillery men came back, and once more the guns were thundering their defiance. The enemy again rushed on them, only to be bloodily repulsed. Disheartened, the Confederates now fell back, leaving the field to those who had so valiantly defended it. But the situation of the little band was perilous. Nothing had been heard from Warren, and nearly one-half of the force had fallen. Captain Brawner, on whom the command had fallen, resolved to retreat to Lexington. In doing this the two cannon had to be abandoned. Every horse had been shot, even the harnesses were in tatters. Of the thirty-six artillery men manning the guns, twenty-four had been killed and wounded. The severely wounded had to be left, among them the gallant Foster.[5] [Footnote 5: The brave Major recovered from what was supposed to be a mortal wound, was exchanged, and afterwards did valiant service for the Union.] So severe had been the punishment administered to the enemy that the Federals were not molested in their retreat. It put an end to all the Confederates' hopes of capturing Lexington.[6] [Footnote 6: Out of the seven hundred and forty Federals engaged in the battle the loss was two hundred and seventy-two. The Confederates never reported their loss, but a Confederate officer told Captain Brawner that they buried one hundred and eighteen, who had been killed outright, besides their hundreds of wounded.] But where were Lawrence and Dan all the time the battle was raging? Why had they not brought Colonel Warren to the rescue? In the early morning they had run into a small party of guerrillas, had boldly charged them and put them to flight, but the sound of firing had brought a larger party, and they blocked the way Lawrence and Dan wished to go. It was now light, and they saw the band numbered at least fifty. There was no help for it, they had to turn and run, and that in a direction that for aught they knew would bring them in the midst of the enemy. With fierce yells the guerrillas took up the pursuit and the chase was a hot one. Lawrence and Dan were well mounted, but a few of the guerrillas were just as well mounted, and pressed them closely. Now as they fled, above the sound of their horses' hoofs rose the sound of battle. Just the faint cracking of musketry, and then the boom of the cannon. "Great Heavens!" gasped Lawrence. "They are at it. Foster and his little band against thousands. Why did we leave them? We might have been of a little help." "And we are going farther away from Warren every minute," groaned Dan. Here the whistling of a bullet from the revolver of the nearest guerrilla brought their thoughts back to the seriousness of their own situation. They had now gone beyond the sound of the musketry, but the roar of the cannon grew more incessant, and they knew they were almost in the rear of the enemy. Coming to where there were open fields, they glanced to the right and saw the stragglers and wounded drifting to the rear, as is always the case in time of battle. They must turn or they would soon be in the midst of the rabble. Fortunately, they came to a cross road and turned into it. They were now followed by only five or six of their pursuers, the rest having turned back to take part in the battle. But these half dozen were mounted on the fleetest horses and were gaining on them rapidly. Already the bullets were singing around them freely. "This cannot last," Lawrence exclaimed. "Our horses are becoming winded. We must find some way to stop those fellows." "We've got to stop them," said Dan. "My horse is staggering and I look for him to drop any minute." They rode over a little hill that for a moment put them out of sight. "Now," said Lawrence, halting and wheeling his horse. Dan did the same. "When they come over the hill give it to them," exclaimed Lawrence. "It will be a question of who can shoot the straightest." Dan smiled and he drew his revolver. He was known to be a dead shot, and nothing rattled him. They had hardly two seconds to wait when four of the guerrillas dashed over the rise. Seeing Lawrence and Dan facing them and not thirty yards away, startled them and they instinctively tried to check their headlong pace. It was a fatal mistake, for it disconcerted their aim and their shots went wild. To his astonishment, Lawrence recognized one of the guerrillas as Jerry Alcorn, his old time enemy. Lawrence fired, but just as he did so Jerry's horse threw up his head and the ball struck him squarely between the eyes. The horse dropped like a stone, pinning Jerry for a moment to the ground. Dan had fired the same time Lawrence did and his guerrilla pitched headlong. The report of his shot had not died before he shot again and a second guerrilla fell. The remaining guerrilla had no stomach to continue the fight, and wheeled his horse to flee. Once more Dan's revolver spoke, and the guerrilla fell forward, but he clung desperately to the neck of his horse and was soon carried from view. It took Jerry Alcorn but a moment to extricate himself from his horse, and as he half rose he fired at Lawrence, but missed. Lawrence returned the fire, and the ball struck Jerry's revolver and sent it spinning. With a mocking laugh Jerry sprang into the bushes along the road. "Not this time, Lawrence Middleton," he shouted as he disappeared, "but we'll meet again." "Let's get out of here," said Lawrence. "We can't follow Jerry in the brush and we are now safe from pursuit." Even the short stop had allowed their horses a breathing spell and they could now ride more leisurely. "Dan, I'm a poor stick. I should be reduced to the ranks and you given my commission," said Lawrence. "How's that?" asked Dan. "Didn't you get three of those fellows, and I only killed a horse and disabled a revolver. Missed three shots." Lawrence had fired again at Jerry as he disappeared in the brush. "Bah! I'm ashamed of myself." "Look here!" said Dan. "It was that measly horse. He had no business to throw up his head at that moment. Served him right to get killed." "But the second shot, Dan. It went wild and hit his revolver, and the third missed altogether. And of all men to let Jerry Alcorn escape. Kick me, Dan." "Might have bored one of us if you hadn't knocked the revolver out of his hand," answered Dan, "so shut up." They had ridden far out of their way and had to make a wide circuit to get back. A little before noon the distant booming of the cannon was heard no longer. "It's all over," sighed Lawrence, "and I'm afraid." Dan's jaws came together with a snap and a dark scowl came over his face. "Why in thunder didn't Warren come?" he wrathfully exclaimed. "Some of these officers make me tired." It was the middle of the afternoon before Warren was found. He was fearful of an attack on himself, and was several miles from the battlefield. To Lawrence's request to hurry the Colonel replied, "You say the battle is over and in all probability Foster's whole force captured. In that case I can do no good. My force is but little greater than that Foster had." "But they may not all be captured. You may be able to cover the retreat," Lawrence urged. "The best I can do is to stay and watch the enemy, and wait for reinforcements," replied Warren. Lawrence and Dan were disgusted, but Warren was right in not seeking an engagement with his small force. "What shall we do, Dan?" Lawrence asked with a heavy heart as they turned away. "Try and see what has become of Foster," answered Dan. "You're right, Dan." They were about to ride away when news came that Foster's force was in full retreat for Lexington, and that those who survived the battle were safe. Lawrence and Dan concluded to stay with Warren. Knowing that a force from Kansas City, as well as General Blunt from the far south, was closing in on the Confederates, they had high hopes that they might be captured. But during the night Coffee's entire force slipped by Blunt and, before the movement was discovered, was well on its way to Arkansas. The guerrilla bands of Quantrell, Red Jerry and others took to the brush, there to remain hidden until the Federal troops had returned to their several posts. Lawrence and Dan returned to Lexington disgusted. They believed that if the different forces had acted together, and the campaign been managed rightly, the entire force of the enemy could have been captured. CHAPTER IX CAPTURED BY GUERRILLAS There is little doubt that Major Foster's plucky fight at Lone Jack saved Lexington, for had he not gone out and attacked the Confederates, they would have marched straight on that place, as was their intention. The fight halted them and gave the Federals time to concentrate. All danger of the Federals being driven from the State by a partisan uprising now being over, and the deep laid plans of General Hindman and other Confederate leaders being brought to naught, General Schofield resolved to concentrate his army at Springfield. The army that was known as "The Army of the Northwest" had now been designated "The Army of the Frontier," and General Schofield decided to leave the command of the Department of Missouri in other hands and assume the command of the Army of the Frontier in person, with headquarters at Springfield. Before returning to St. Louis business took Lawrence to Fort Leavenworth. He had not been there since 1856, when a forlorn little boy of twelve, without money and without friends, he had taken passage for St. Louis. How the memory of those days came rushing over him. The mob, the tarring and feathering of his father, Judge Lindsly taking them in,--the gallant defence of his father by Judge Lindsly,--the raid by John Brown,--the flight to Kansas,--his father's death,--it all came back to him like a mighty rushing torrent. He wondered how Judge Lindsly was now. How was he faring in these troublesome times? Was he being robbed by both guerrillas and Federals? He determined to visit him. Perhaps he might be of some protection to him as far as the Federal side was concerned. He spoke of his determination to the commander at Fort Leavenworth and that officer replied, "You cannot go without an escort. The country is swarming with guerrillas who never lose a chance of shooting any Federals who are unwise enough to stray outside of the lines. There is a detachment of our troops at Platte City and I will give you an escort that far. How far is it from Platte City to where Judge Lindsly lives?" "I should say nine or ten miles," replied Lawrence. "Well, do not try to make the trip from there without a good escort. A Captain Leeper is in command at Platte and he will readily supply you with one." Lawrence thanked him and was ready to start when the escort, which consisted of a sergeant and five men, made their appearance. Dan had found some old friends at Leavenworth who had been with him in the troublesome times on the border before the war, and he concluded to stay with them while Lawrence made his visit. As it turned out, it was fortunate that he did so. Crossing the river on a ferry, Lawrence and his escort mounted their horses and started for Platte City, but a few miles away. It was with a sad heart that Lawrence looked over the country. What had been one of the most beautiful portions of the State had become almost a desolate waste. Ruined houses and deserted farms met his gaze at every turn. When Platte City was reached Lawrence received a cordial welcome from Captain Leeper, who, on hearing his request, readily consented to give him an escort of a corporal and four men. "A few days ago," said the Captain, "I would not have dared to send so small an escort, for a gang of bushwhackers under the command of a notorious guerrilla named Lamar has been scourging the neighborhood, but Colonel Penick, last week, came over from Liberty and scattered them. He captured two, whom he shot, and burned two or three houses whose owners had been harboring the gang. It has been very quiet ever since. I think he has thoroughly dispersed the gang." This news was not very cheering to Lawrence. Shooting guerrillas after they were caught and burning houses did not tend to make those left less cruel. When Lawrence came in sight of the once fine plantation of Judge Lindsly his heart bled. The fields were neglected, not half of them under cultivation, and those that were, poorly tended, but to his relief the house had not been disturbed. Although greatly surprised, the Judge received Lawrence with open arms. "I often see your name in the papers," he said, "and rejoice at your advancement, although it is at the cost of the cause I love." "Tell me of yourself," said Lawrence, "and all that has happened to you during the last months of trial." The Judge sighed deeply and replied, "Look and see for yourself what this unhappy war has not only brought upon me, but on the whole State. I have been preyed upon by both Federals and guerrillas. Most of my slaves have left me. To make my position more intolerable, I am _persona non grata_ with both sides. The guerrillas do not like me because I denounce guerrilla warfare. I tell them if the independence of the South is ever achieved, it will be done by the great armies in the field, and that the place of every man who loves and would fight for the South should be in the army, not hiding in the brush. General Price should have had the fifty thousand men he called for. He would have had them if everyone who has played the part of guerrilla had responded. With such an army he would have swept the State clear of Federals. "I told them the late uprising of the partisan bands would only bring more misery, bloodshed and murder on the State, and nothing would be accomplished, and so it has proven. "I was denounced for these opinions and my life has been threatened by Quantrell, Lamar and others. "On the other hand, I am continually being threatened with arrest by the Federals. I have absolutely refused to take the oath of allegiance to the Federal Government. Now that the worst has come, I am with the South heart and soul, and I will not perjure myself." Lawrence was deeply moved. He could only press the hand of the old Judge in sympathy and say, "If I have any influence you will never be arrested. If you ever get in trouble let me know. What I can do I will." This the Judge promised, and when it came time to part he held Lawrence's hand lingeringly and said with emotion, "Would to God, Lawrence, you were my own son and fighting for the right, but I love you as it is. May your life be spared." Lawrence's eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak, but his voice failed. He could only press the hand of the Judge as they parted. Riding a short distance he turned and looked back. Judge Lindsly was still standing on the porch looking after him and waved his hand. Lawrence choked back a sob as he waved his hand in return. The once erect form of the Judge was bowed and bent; his gray hair was perfectly white, and he leaned on his cane, weak and trembling. It was months before Lawrence saw him again, and then it was in a prison pen at Kansas City. All unconscious of danger, Lawrence started back to Platte City. His visit had left a heavy load on his heart. He thought of the time the Judge saved his father's life, risking his own to do so, and his image rose before him, as he stood, proud, erect, like a lion at bay, facing the mob.[7] [Footnote 7: See "With Lyon in Missouri."] They had covered about half the distance to Platte City without incident, Lawrence and the corporal riding side by side, the four troopers a short distance in advance. Suddenly from a thicket two rifles blazed. The corporal fell from his horse dead, the horse which Lawrence rode plunged forward on his head, throwing Lawrence heavily, and he lay unconscious in the road. The four troopers, seeing both Lawrence and the corporal, as they supposed, lying dead, put spurs to their horses and rode for their lives to Platte City to give the alarm. At the head of twenty men Captain Leeper started for the scene of action, but all he found was the dead body of the corporal, and that of Lawrence's horse. The horse had been shot through the head and both saddle and bridle were missing. The guerrillas had hung the body of the corporal from a tree and there it dangled over the road, a gruesome object. To the lapel of his coat they had pinned a paper on which was written, "The fate that awaits all Kansas Jayhawkers." Of Lawrence there were no signs, and as night was falling, Captain Leeper returned to Platte City full of wrath, but impotent to avenge. When the guerrillas fired the corporal was slightly in advance of Lawrence and the bullet had gone clear through his body and struck Lawrence's horse. The horse falling had saved Lawrence's life, as he being thrown had caused the second guerrilla to miss him. When Lawrence came to, there were two guerrillas standing gloating over him. "Say, Jim," said one. "This feller ain't dead. He's wiggling. Shall I finish him?" "No, let's take him to the captain," replied the other. "He's a Yankee officer, and if we 'uns hang him all the boys will want to see the fun." It was not long before Lawrence fully came to. To the jeers and taunts of his captors he made no reply. But when he saw there were but two of them he mentally cursed the four escorts who had so cowardly left him to his fate. After he was securely bound he was forced to stand while the two, with foul epithets, hung the body of the corporal over the road. "Thar yo' un can see what yo' un are coming to," one said, grinning at Lawrence. "How do yo' un like it?" Lawrence made no answer, and with a curse and a growl the guerrillas turned away. Lawrence was now placed on the horse that had been ridden by the corporal, his hands tied behind him and his feet securely bound beneath the horse on which he rode. One of the guerrillas tied the halter of the horse to the saddle of the one he rode, and they started for the secret rendezvous of the gang. It was long after nightfall before they reached it. Captain Lamar and most of the gang were found to be away, so supperless and bound, Lawrence was placed under a tree to await the morning. The cords with which he was bound cut into his flesh and he was parched with thirst. He asked for water, but a curse was the only answer. There throughout the rest of the night Lawrence lay, the stars looking pityingly down upon him. He could not sleep, his sufferings were too great, and there was the uncertainty of the morrow. What would the end be? All his life passed before his mental vision in a panoramic vision. He lived it all over again. Morning came, but Captain Lamar and the rest of the gang had not yet returned. He was given some breakfast, but taunted with the fact that it would be his last meal on earth. Better than the food was the water which cooled his parched mouth and tongue. No nectar that ever flowed tasted half so sweet. About nine o'clock Captain Lamar came. He was in a towering rage, for his expedition had failed and he had lost two men. When told two of his men had killed a Yankee and captured a Yankee captain, he asked what had been done with the captain. "He is heah," said one of the men. "We 'uns have been waitin' to see what yo' un wanted to do with him." "Hang him or shoot him, I don't care which," he growled as he turned away. "I'm tired and hungry and want some breakfast." The Captain's decision was told, but the gang decided to wait until the men who came in with the Captain had had breakfast, so all could enjoy the sport. To the savage men the hanging or shooting of a Yankee was an enjoyable event. When breakfast was over there was quite a discussion as to whether Lawrence should be hung or shot. Those in favor of hanging carried the day, so he was led under the projecting limb of a tree and a rope placed around his neck. Lawrence felt all hope was gone. He was standing face to face with death. For a moment he felt faint and a deadly fear seized him. Few there be who in health and strength can face Death without a fear. As they look him in his face and his shadowy wings cover them, nature recoils and would flee from him. But it was only a moment that Lawrence feared. He gulped back the lump in his throat; his trembling nerves became as steel. He was a man--a soldier again. He had faced death on the battlefield without a quiver and he would do so now, though this was different, it was coming in such a horrible form; but he would face it. He looked into the scowling faces around him without a sign of fear. "What do yo' un have to say before we 'uns string you up?" demanded one of the men. "Nothing," answered Lawrence, "but I would be thankful if you would inform Judge Lindsly of my fate. He at least will give my body a decent burial." At this the guerrillas burst into a boisterous laugh. "That's a good one," they cried. "He reckons we 'uns bury the Yanks we 'uns hang. Young feller, we 'uns will pitch your carcass in the brush and leave it for the buzzards to pick--that is, if a Missouri buzzard will pick a dead Yank." At this sally there was another burst of laughter. Just then there came a diversion. One of the men, Cal Jones, who had been one of the party with Lamar, had missed a Federal soldier at short range, and his companions were guying him unmercifully. "Why," drawled one called Hooper, "Cal couldn't hit a barn door at fifty paces." Cal was hopping mad. "I'll bet yo 'un a hoss I ken put a ball through that Yank's heart at fifty paces," he roared. "Done," exclaimed Hooper. "Heah, boys, stop that picnic for a few moments. Cal has bet me a hoss he can plug that Yank through the heart at fifty paces the first shot." Some of the men began to demur, but Hooper, in a tantalizing tone, drawled, "Don't be skeered, boys. Cal will sure miss him, and we 'uns can have our fun afterwards." "I'll show yo' un. I'll show yo' un," yelled Cal, hopping around like a mad turkey. They now all fell in with the idea, and Lawrence was placed with his back against a tree. To him the diversion came as a welcome relief. He would now die like a soldier and not like a felon. "Hold on thar!" cried Hooper, as Jones began to pace the distance. "I said fifty paces, not fifty steps. Yo' un don't come that on me." "I am pacin'." snarled Cal. "Want to back out, do yer?" "Not much, but I'll do that pacin' myself." And he began. "No, yer don't," yelled Cal. The men were about to fight when the others interfered, saying it was only fair a third party should do the pacing. This was agreed to and the pacing duly done. Jones took his position, a huge navy revolver in his hand. Lawrence stood facing him. Not a muscle quivered as he looked his would-be executioner in the eye. Jones raised his weapon. "Stand back," yelled Hooper. "Don't get too close, some of yo' uns will get hurt. The Yank is in no danger." Jones fired, but he was too angry to shoot straight, and his shot went wild. "What did I tell yo' un? What did I tell yo' un?" cried Hooper. "Never teched the Yank or tree, either," and he kicked up his heels like a young colt. "That hoss is mine." The whole crowd shouted in derision, and Jones, in anger, fired every shot in his revolver before they could stop him. Lawrence stood unmoved and smiling. One shot had struck the tree an inch above his head, another had passed between his arm and body, and a third had cut a little piece out of his coat on the shoulder. The humorous aspect of the affair struck him, and he laughed outright. The guerrillas simply went crazy with delight. Many of them threw themselves on the ground rolling and kicking with laughter. Captain Lamar heard the shots and the uproar and came to see what it meant. He had just finished his breakfast and was in a little better humor. When he heard what had happened he remarked with a cruel smile, "Turn about is fair play. Better put Cal up, and see what the Yank can do." This suggestion took like wildfire. Cal was seized by his comrades and, frightened and begging for his life, was being hustled to the tree to take Lawrence's place when the Captain interfered. "Hold on, boys," he said. "I only wanted to frighten Cal. But if he don't learn to be a better shot I'll hang him sure. But that Yank must be a gritty fellow. I'll have a look at him." "Gritty," said one of the men. "Well, I should say so. He turned kind of white around the gills when he first felt the halter around his neck, and then braced up and not a whimper. Why, he actually laughed when Cal was shooting at him." "That was because Cal was shooting so wild," remarked the Captain. "Three of the shots came mighty close to him. Only missed him by a hair's breadth." "Glad to hear Cal is improving," said Lamar dryly, as he walked towards Lawrence. He had no sooner looked him in the face than an expression of surprise came over his countenance. He stepped back, swept his hand across his eyes, as if he was brushing away something, looked again and then turned away, saying, "There'll be no hanging. Untie the prisoner and bring him to my tent." The men gazed at each other in astonishment. But great as was their surprise, greater was Lawrence's. The shock was almost as great as when he thought he had to die. Then he began to realize he had stepped from the shadow of death, and there was hope of living, and he breathed a prayer of thankfulness. His surprise grew when Lamar called the two men who had captured him and asked what they had of his. "Everything, Captain, but his hoss. That was killed. But we 'uns have got the hoss of the Yank that was killed," they answered. "Well, bring everything you have of his, and the horse you captured--saddled and bridled," he ordered, and the men departed wondering. When Lawrence was brought before Lamar he asked him what he was doing in this part of the country. Lawrence told him he had been to visit Judge Lindsly, who had greatly befriended him when he was small. "Are you the boy whose father was tarred and feathered, and the Judge took you both in?" "I am." Lamar chuckled. "Say, boy, do you know I was in that crowd?" "No," answered Lawrence, more astonished than ever. "Well, I was. But here is your horse and everything taken from you. You are at liberty to take them and ride away. Nay, more, I will send an escort with you to protect you until you are near the lines of your friends." Lawrence's lips trembled and his voice was husky as he answered, "Captain, I don't know why you have granted me such clemency, but I am thankful from the bottom of my heart. Be assured if the time ever comes when I can return you the same mercy you have shown me it will be done." "We are at quits now," said Lamar. "You saved my life once." "I?" cried Lawrence. "I never remember having seen you before." "You have. About a year ago I belonged to a body of partisans commanded by Captain Proctor. A fellow by name of Semans peached on us. We paid him off by burning his buildings and shooting him. Just as we finished the job a body of cavalry charged down and drove us off. I was left on the field desperately wounded. Some of the men were about to shoot me as I lay there helpless, but the captain of the cavalry, a mere boy, sprang in, with his sword, beat down the guns, and swore that no wounded man, no matter what he had done, should be ruthlessly murdered while he was commanding that company. Captain, you are that boy; I am that wounded man." "Ah, I remember," murmured Lawrence. "That is not all," continued Lamar. "You tenderly cared for me, had me taken to a near-by house, where I stayed until I recovered. Captain, no thanks. As I have said, we are quits now. If we meet again it will be on even terms. One promise you must make me. You must not lead the Federals to this place for the next twenty-four hours. After that I do not care." "The promise is freely given," answered Lawrence. The two men, so strangely met, shook hands, and Lawrence mounted his horse and, accompanied by two of the guerrillas, rode away. On the way they met several rough-looking men who looked at Lawrence with malevolent eyes, but a few whispered words from his guards and they were allowed to pass on. Lawrence now saw why Captain Lamar had sent a guard with him. After they had traveled several miles Lawrence saw a line of blue galloping towards him. "Go, I will see you are not followed," he said to his guards. They raised their hands in salute, turned, and putting spurs to their horses, were soon out of sight. In a moment more Lawrence was in the arms of Dan Sherman, who was hugging him, laughing and crying at the same time. "I'll never leave you again," he cried. "It is fortunate that you did," replied Lawrence, "for if you had been with me there would be no Dan Sherman now." The officer in command of the company now bustled up. "Did I not see two men with you, Captain?" he asked. "They looked to me very much like guerrillas." "They were friends," answered Lawrence. "Neither can I guide you to the haunts of those who held me prisoner. Tomorrow you are at liberty to find them if you can. Turn back with me to Platte City and I will tell you my story." When they heard the story they marvelled and swore they had never heard of any gratitude in a guerrilla's heart before.[8] [Footnote 8: Several months after this Lamar was captured, not by Lawrence, but by an officer who knew the story. He was paroled and lived to become a good citizen after the war.] CHAPTER X THE GUERRILLA'S BRIDE "How did you come to be with the soldiers I met?" asked Lawrence of Dan. The two were now in Leavenworth, waiting for a boat to take them down the river. "It was this way," answered Dan. "When those rascally cavalrymen deserted you and rode back to Platte City, word was sent post-haste here, asking for a company to go to the aid of Captain Leeper, and help chastise the band which had murdered you, and, if possible, to procure your body. I was nearly wild when I heard you had been killed, and nothing could have prevented me from accompanying the company sent to Captain Leeper. I tell you, charges ought to be preferred against those four men who so basely deserted you. They should be court-martialed for cowardice and shot." "Not so fast, Dan," replied Lawrence. "Those men heard the shots, looked back and saw, as they supposed, the Corporal and myself both killed. They did not know how many guerrillas were in the brush, and they did the best and about the only thing they could do--get to Platte City as soon as possible, and give the alarm." "They should have known there were but two from the report of the guns," grumbled Dan. "I tell you it was a cowardly trick. Do you think I would have left you, if I had been one of the four?" "No, Dan," said Lawrence, laying his hand on his shoulder, affectionately. "You would have charged back there if there had been fifty guerrillas, instead of two; but all men are not dear old Dan." There was a suspicious moisture in Dan's eyes, but he only said: "Pshaw! Any fellow with any grit would have done it." A boat coming along, they took passage for Lexington, the boat making quite a long stop at Kansas City. They found that all fear that the enemy might be able to capture the towns along the Missouri had subsided. Everywhere the guerrillas had been beaten, and they were fleeing south by the hundreds to hide in the Ozarks or among the mountains of northern Arkansas. Still, numerous small bands remained in hiding. Within a radius of a hundred miles, taking Lexington as a center, then were a score of these bands operating, but there were two of them which were especially daring and troublesome. One of these bands was led by the notorious Quantrell, and the other by Jerry Alcorn, known as Red Jerry. Jerry, the year before, had fled from St. Louis, being detected in a plot to assassinate Lawrence Middleton and Guilford Craig. He had joined Price's army, but soon deserted to become leader of a band of guerrillas. Lawrence, with his scouts, had met this band the year before, and given it a crushing defeat. As has also been seen, it was Jerry and his men that chased Lawrence and Dan as they were going in search of Colonel Warner at Lone Jack. When Lawrence reached Lexington, he received dispatches from General Schofield, saying he would not be able to go to Springfield to take command of the army quite as soon as he had expected, and that Lawrence should report to him at St. Louis; but before he reported he was to see that all the guerrilla bands around Lexington were dispersed. Lawrence found that a force was being organized in Lexington to try to surprise and capture Red Jerry and his entire band. He determined to accompany it. But when he found the officer who was to command the expedition was a Colonel Jennison, he hesitated. He had but little use for that officer. He commanded one of those regiments known as jay-hawkers. The men composing the regiment were fighters, but in their tactics differed little from the guerrillas. With them it was "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." Lawrence talked it over with Dan, and they were so anxious that Red Jerry be brought to justice for his many crimes that he decided to overcome his repugnance to the Colonel, and go, taking the place of the Major of the regiment, who was sick. Jerry was reported as hanging around the plantation of a Mr. Floyd Templeton, a very respected old gentleman, but a bitter Southern partisan. Mr. Templeton had two children--a son who was with Price, and a daughter who oversaw the household, the mother being dead. This daughter, Agnes by name, was at this time about twenty, and was a strikingly beautiful girl. Her lustrous hair, dark as midnight, crowned a well-shaped head, which she carried as proudly as a queen. Her dark eyes, lovely in repose, could with a languishing glance cause the heart of the most prosaic of men to beat more rapidly; but in their depth was a hidden fire which would blaze forth when aroused, and show the tempestuous soul which dwelt within. She was above medium height, and her body was as lithe and supple as a panther's. In vain had her hand been sought by the beaux for twenty miles around. When the war came, she told them no one need woo her until her beloved Missouri was free of the Yankee foe, and he who did win her must be a soldier, brave and true. Some months before, Jerry's gang had been attacked and scattered, and Jerry, his horse being killed, fled on foot. In his flight he came to the Templeton house, his pursuers close behind. He implored Agnes to save him, and this she did by secreting him in a hidden closet behind the huge chimney. To the Federal soldiers in pursuit she swore the guerrilla chieftain had passed by without stopping. A careful search of the house revealing nothing, the soldiers were forced to believe she told the truth. Jerry was not only grateful to his fair preserver, but fell violently in love with her. The rough guerrilla soldier was not the soldier of the dreams of the proud, aristocratic girl. Concealing her repugnance to his advances, she gently but firmly refused him, telling him her duty was to her aged father. Jerry was so persistent in his advances that she finally told him he must never speak of the subject again, or he would be refused the house. More than once did Jerry conceive the scheme of carrying her off by force and marrying her against her will; but he became aware that the girl possessed as fierce a spirit as his own, and if need were she would not hesitate to plunge a dagger in his heart. With the fires of unrequited love burning in his heart, he had to cease his advances; but, like the silly moths that flutter around a candle, he made every excuse to call at the Templeton residence. The girl warned him by saying that by his course he was bringing not only danger on himself, but on her father as well. Jerry knew this, and the dastardly thought came to him that if the Federals did make way with her father, Agnes, in her loneliness, might come to him. It was a thought worthy of his black nature, but that he madly loved the girl, there was no doubt. The expedition against Jerry was well planned, but he got wind of it, and scattered his force. In a running fight that took place, Jerry captured two of Jennison's men. These he calmly proceeded to hang, almost in sight of Templeton's door, for the purpose of bringing down the wrath of Jennison on Templeton's head. Only too well did the damnable plot succeed. Jennison was beside himself with rage, and after pursuing Jerry until all hopes of catching him had ended, he returned to the Templeton place, and, calling the old man to the door, he denounced him in the most violent terms, calling him a sneaking rebel, who made his house a rendezvous for murderers. Mr. Templeton drew himself up proudly. "I may be what you call a rebel," he exclaimed, "but I am not a sneaking one. My heart and soul are with the South in her struggle for liberty, and every one knows it. As for the men you call guerrillas, I can no more help their coming here than I can help your coming." "You lie, you old scoundrel!" shouted Jennison. "You invite them to come, and aid them in their nefarious work. The murderers you have been harboring hanged two of my men yesterday, almost at your very door, and no doubt you looked on and approved." "I did no such thing," answered Mr. Templeton. "I did not know of the deed until it was done; then I told Alcorn never again to set foot on my premises." "More lies, you canting old hypocrite. Do you know what I am going to do with you?" shouted Jennison. "I am in your power; you can do anything you wish," answered Mr. Templeton, with dignity. "I am going to shoot you, and burn your house," yelled Jennison. "You will never harbor any more guerrillas." At these words, Agnes sprang before her father, with a scream. "If you shoot any one, shoot me--not him," she said. "If there has been any harboring, it is I who am to blame. I have harbored those fighting to rid our State of such as you, and I glory in it. Shoot me--not him." Lawrence and Dan just now rode up and gazed in astonishment at the scene. The girl stood in front of her father, her arms outspread, her bosom heaving with excitement, her eyes blazing, inviting the deadly volley. Her tragic attitude, her wondrous beauty, awed the men, and they lowered the guns that had been raised to slay the father. "Drag her away, and shoot!" commanded Jennison, with an oath. "Hold!" cried Lawrence. "Colonel Jennison, do you realize what you are doing? What does this mean?" "It means I'm going to shoot this old villain and burn the house. It means I am going to put an end to this harboring of guerrillas, if I have to burn every house in this accursed State," thundered Jennison. "Now drag the girl away." "The first man that touches that girl dies!" cried Lawrence, drawing his revolver. "I'm with you," said Dan, drawing his revolver, and taking his place by Lawrence's side. For a moment Colonel Jennison was too astonished to speak; then his face turned livid with passion. "Young man," he hissed, "do you know what you are doing? By a word I can have you both shot--shot for mutiny--and, by God! I ought to say the word." "But, Colonel, what you are going to do is an outrage," cried Lawrence, "a damnable outrage--one that will bring black disgrace on our arms. It is an act that General Schofield will never countenance, and in his name I ask you to countermand the order." "Which I will not do!" exclaimed Jennison, white with rage. "I have been trammelled enough with orders from headquarters. I propose to deal with these red-handed assassins as I please. We, along the border, propose to protect ourselves. Captain Middleton, you and your companion are under arrest for insubordination. Lieutenant Cleveland, take their swords, and with a detail of six men escort them back to Lexington. When I return I will make a formal charge against them." There was no use in resisting. The majority of Jennison's regiment was composed of men from Kansas who had suffered from the raids of the Border Ruffians before the war, or had been driven from their homes in Missouri, and heartily sympathized with the Colonel in his warfare of retaliation. Lawrence also knew he had committed a grave offence when, in his indignation, he tried to prevent the execution of Templeton by force. So he quietly submitted to arrest; but as he rode away there came to his ears the shrieks of the girl, then the sharp crack of three or four carbines. Lawrence shuddered and, looking back, he saw great columns of smoke rolling up, and through the blackness red tongues of leaping flame. After the volley killing her father had been fired, the girl uttered one more shriek, and then stood with dry eyes, gazing as if in a trance; then with a low moan she threw herself on the still body, enfolding it with her arms as if she would shield it from the profane gaze of those around it. She lay as if dead; and so they left her. Hours afterward, Red Jerry came creeping up from his hiding place, and found her. At first he thought her dead, but at his touch and the sound of his voice she aroused and stood up--but a changed being--changed from a woman into a demon. She spoke a few words to Jerry, but in so low a tone his few followers who had gathered round could not hear. Jerry gently led her away from the rest; but the men noticed she walked as one seeing not. They stopped under a tree not far away. "Jerry," she said, in a tone devoid of the least sign of feeling, "you have often told me you loved me, and wanted me to become your wife. I have as often refused. I am now ready to marry you, if you make me one promise." Red Jerry's heart gave a great bound. He had won. The peerless Agnes Templeton was to become his wife--he, a guerrilla chieftain. "Anything you ask," he cried, rapturously, and attempted to take her in his arms. "Do not touch me," she said, in the same passionless tones. "You must not touch me until you have promised, and not then until the words are spoken which give you a right." "What is it you want me to promise, Agnes? You know anything in my power will be granted," Jerry replied, his voice showing the depth of his passion. "That you will let me dress as a man and ride by your side; that you will never order me away, however great the danger; that where you are, I may always be." "For you to ride at my side would be bliss," said Jerry; "but, oh! Agnes, to lead you into danger--how can I do it?" "It must be as I say, or I can never be your wife," was her answer. Jerry promised, and side by side they rode away to the home of a minister. It was near midnight when they reached it, and there, amid the clashing of the elements--for a fearful storm had arisen--the words were spoken that made Agnes Templeton the bride of Jerry Alcorn, the guerrilla. Sacrificing everything feminine, except her luxuriant hair, which she coiled tightly on top of her head and concealed under a wide sombrero, she rode by the side of her husband throughout his career. No Federal thought the smooth-faced, handsome young man who was always with Jerry was a woman. The band became known as one of the most cruel and merciless in the State. It revelled in deeds of bloodshed, and of all the band, the young man with the angel face and the heart of a demon, who rode by Red Jerry, was known as the most merciless. CHAPTER XI THE STORY OF CARL MEYER "Of all outrages!" exclaimed Dan. "That girl! Wasn't she splendid?" answered Lawrence. "She made me think of some great tragic queen. What a scene for the stage!--and we saw it in reality." "Wasn't thinking of the girl," sputtered Dan. "I was thinking of the outrage of sending us back under arrest." "He had a right to, Dan. We could be court-martialed and shot." "What! For interfering with the hellish work of that murderer? He is as bad as a guerrilla," angrily responded Dan. "For drawing a weapon and interfering with his orders," replied Lawrence. "Good God! I could almost afford to be shot for the pleasure of putting a bullet through the black heart of Jennison. That girl--I wonder what will become of her!" "Girl again!" growled Dan. "And don't blame Jennison too much. He had great provocation. No doubt that old scoundrel had been shielding Jerry." But Lawrence did not answer. He knew Dan's aversion to girls, and little was said as they rode on, mile after mile. Both Lawrence and Dan bitterly felt the disgrace of reporting back to Lexington under arrest. Lawrence knew that the case would have to go to Schofield. If there was any court-martial, Schofield would have to order it, and Lawrence felt that the General would deal leniently with him. But the case never went to Schofield. On his return from his raid, Colonel Jennison released Lawrence from arrest, saying he did so on account of his youth, and that no doubt he acted as he did from sudden impulse, owing to the distress and beauty of the girl. Neither did he think Lawrence understood the situation. Harsh means had to be used to prevent the guerrillas from murdering Union men. The fact was, Colonel Jennison did not wish the case to be investigated. He, Lane, and others had been reprimanded so often by the Federal authorities that more than once they had threatened to turn guerrillas and wage warfare on their own account. Soon after this affair, Lawrence was ordered to report at St. Louis. "Now I suppose I can leave and join General Blair," said Lawrence, after he had given General Schofield a full report of what had happened. "I trust you will stay with me a while yet," answered the General. "As I wrote you, I am about to take the field in person. We will have but little rest until Hindman, who is gathering a large force in northern Arkansas, is thoroughly whipped. There will be stirring times for the next two months. Blair is not needing you yet. Grant's army is very quiet--hasn't done much since Corinth fell and Memphis was taken. They are making slow progress along the Mississippi now." Lawrence agreed to stay in Missouri a while longer. He was granted a two weeks' furlough, and then he was to report at Springfield. The first use Lawrence made of his furlough was to visit his uncle, and he found that personage greatly elated over the prospects of the South. "I tell you, Lawrence," he exclaimed, "the independence of the South is already as good as secured. Why, just consider: McClellan whipped on the Peninsula, his army barely escaping; Pope completely crushed, his army almost annihilated, the remnant seeking refuge in the fortifications around Washington. Lee's army is sweeping victoriously through Maryland; Harper's Ferry taken with ten thousand prisoners. It will only be a matter of a few days until Washington is taken. "Bragg is thundering at the very gates of Louisville. The whole of Tennessee and Kentucky will soon be redeemed. Buell's army will be driven across the Ohio. Grant has not gained a foot since the capture of Corinth. He has not, and never will, get past Vicksburg, I tell you, Lawrence, it's all over. The South has won." "I admit, uncle," replied Lawrence, "that this has been a bad year for us. But the war isn't over. The worst is yet to come. In the end the South will be crushed." "It cannot be! It cannot be!" cried his uncle, excitedly. "Uncle, don't let us discuss the war," said Lawrence. "How long since you heard from Edward? I am anxious to hear all the news." "He was well the last time I heard from him," said Mr. Middleton, "but I do not hear very often. It is harder to get letters through than it was; but, thank God! those we do get don't come through the hands of that traitor, Guilford Craig. You have heard no news of him, have you?" "No; but it is curious his body was never found. There is little doubt but that he fell at Pea Ridge, and that at the hands of his step-brother." "Served him right," growled Mr. Middleton. "And Randolph Hamilton--what of him?" asked Lawrence. "Randolph is also well, Edward writes." "I am glad to hear that," answered Lawrence. "Randolph is a noble fellow. Lola Laselle did a fine thing when she saved him. How is Mrs. Hamilton now?" "Mrs. Hamilton and Dorothy have gone to Europe," answered Mr. Middleton. "Mr. Hamilton thought it best to take her away from the excitement of the war." "So Dorothy is gone," said Lawrence, "Well, she won't have to hold aside her skirts for fear of contamination, if I happen to pass her on the sidewalk." "I thought you and Dorothy were great friends--kind of childish sweethearts," replied his uncle. "That was before I turned Yankee," laughed Lawrence. "Ah, my boy, Dorothy is not the only one who has been disappointed in you," sighed his uncle. While Lawrence and Mr. Middleton were talking, a newsboy came running down the street, yelling: "Extra! Extra! Terrible battle in Maryland. McClellan whips Lee. Fifty thousand men killed." Mr. Middleton rushed out and purchased a paper. It told of the great battle at Antietam. He turned pale as he read, and his hands trembled so he could scarcely hold the paper. Lawrence heard him murmur, "Thank God! Edward was not in it." Lawrence had no thought of exulting over the news in his uncle's presence; instead, he told him that the first reports of a battle were always exaggerated; but at the same time his heart was singing for joy. Afterward, when the news came that Lee had succeeded in getting his army safely across the Potomac, Mr. Middleton's hopes revived. It was a drawn battle, after all. There was one in St. Louis that Lawrence could not fail to visit, and that was Lola Laselle, the girl who had taken his part on the steamboat, when a forlorn, dirty, homeless boy, and who had chosen him for her knight-errant when he went into the army. Of all the young people Lawrence had associated with before the war, Lola was one of the few who had remained faithful to the old flag, and by so doing had been mercilessly cut by her young companions. But one day Lola hid Randolph Hamilton to keep him from being arrested as a spy, and this somewhat restored her to favor, especially with the Randolph family. No sooner did Lola see Lawrence than she ran toward him with outstretched hands, crying, "Lawrence, Lawrence, is this indeed you? How glad I am to see you! And how you have grown! Why, you are a man!" "And I am afraid I have lost my little girl," said Lawrence, as he took her hand, and gallantly raised it to his lips. "You have grown to almost a young lady." "I don't know whether I like it or not," said Lola. "I sometimes think I had rather remain a little girl." "I believe I am of your opinion," replied Lawrence, looking at her admiringly. "Why, am I growing homely?" pouted Lola. "That's not it. If you were still a little girl, I--I might have been permitted to kiss your cheek, instead of just your hand. Remember----" "Stop! You mean thing!" commanded Lola, blushing furiously. Lawrence gazed on her with admiration. She was certainly budding into a most beautiful girl. "Lola, you are splendid!" he cried, "I wouldn't have you a little girl again. You are far ahead of any girl I know." "How about Dorothy Hamilton?" she asked, mockingly. "Dorothy Hamilton be hanged! How did you and she part?" "Good friends. She and I correspond. After I saved Randolph, she could not do enough for me." "Then she has some heart. I am glad to hear it," answered Lawrence, bitterly. "When I saved her from being crushed beneath the horse's feet, she rewarded me by calling me a miserable Yankee." "Maybe she will be good to you some time," said Lola. "Remember how she used to cut me." "I reckon I do," said Lawrence, "and it used to make me tearing mad. Lola, of all the girls I used to associate with, you are the only one who does not pass me with looks of contempt; but your friendship and sympathy are worth all I have lost--yes, a thousand times more." "Don't magnify my importance; but I shall always be your friend, Lawrence," she said, simply. They then fell to talking of other things, and Lawrence had to tell her of all his experiences. When he told her of his capture by the guerrillas, and how he had been ordered to be put to death, she shuddered and turned so pale he thought she was going to faint. "Stop! Stop!" she gasped. "It was awful--awful! I cannot bear it." "Wait and let me tell you how I escaped death," said Lawrence. When he had finished, her eyes, though bedewed with tears, were shining with joy and pride. "Lawrence," she cried, "I am prouder of you than ever. You were shown mercy, because you were merciful; and I would have my knight-errant as merciful as he is brave." "How can he be otherwise, when she whose colors he wears is so kind and merciful?" gallantly replied Lawrence, and, taking her little hand in his, he raised it and pressed his lips against her trembling fingers. "A true knight can always kiss the hand of the lady he serves," said Lawrence. He then bade her good-bye, with the promise of coming again before he went to the front. Is it strange that, as he went on his way, his thoughts were all of the beautiful girl he had just left? But, all unbidden, there arose before him a mental vision of the face of another girl--a girl whose queenly head was crowned with a wealth of golden hair, but whose eyes flashed with scorn at the sight of him--whose very soul loathed the uniform he wore; and he sighed, he hardly knew why. Suddenly the thoughts of all girls were driven from his mind, for in the crowd before him he saw a well-known face--the face of Carl Meyer. Carl was a German boy, about a year older than Lawrence. It was he who had induced Lawrence to join the Home Guards, and thus paved the way to his acquaintance with Frank Blair. They had not met since the battle of Wilson Creek, when Carl went back with a broken arm. In a moment the two clasped hands, their eyes telling what their lips refused to utter. At length Lawrence found voice. "My! how you have grown!" he exclaimed; "and this,"--he touched the strap of a second lieutenant on his shoulder--"Oh, Carl, I am so glad." "And you," replied Carl, the joy gleaming in his honest eyes; "I see it's Captain now." "Come with me, Carl. I must hear all that has happened to you since the last time we met." In the privacy of Lawrence's room, Carl told his story--a story that Lawrence listened to breathless attention. "The wound which I received at Wilson Creek was a bad one," said Carl, "and at first it was thought I would have to lose my arm; but I have it yet, and a pretty good arm it is. After I had recovered, which was early in January of this year, I was with the army which operated against New Madrid and Island Number 10. Lawrence, you should have been with me. It was glorious. The river fight--the mighty siege-guns--the great mortars which hurled shells weighing hundreds of pounds. It was as if all the thunders of heaven had gathered in one place to smite the earth. "Then think of digging a canal twelve miles long, six miles of it through heavy timber. Great trees were sawed off beneath the water, to make a road for the transports." "How could you do it? How could you do it?" broke in Lawrence. "By standing on rafts or in boats and using saws with very long handles. It was a giant's task, but at last it was completed. Not only this, but, amid snow and chilling rains, bayous were waded, swamps considered impassable struggled through; and at last New Madrid and Island Number 10 fell. "The fruits of these victories were glorious: nearly two hundred cannon, great and small; seven thousand prisoners, as many small arms, great stores of the munitions of war, and several transports sunk. All of this with a loss of only fifty." "It was glorious, Carl," cried Lawrence. "No wonder you feel proud of being one of an army that dared so much, and accomplished so much." "Wait until you hear the rest," replied Carl. "After Island Number 10 fell, most of the army was sent to reinforce Halleck before Corinth; but my command was left. We soon had possession of the Mississippi nearly to Memphis; but rumors came of the Confederates building an immense fleet of gunboats and ironclad rams. "Our gunboats moved down and attacked, but were repulsed and driven back. Colonel Charles Ellet had been given authority to build some rams. He hastily constructed some out of old river steamboats, converting them into engines of destruction. With these wooden rams, without cannon, and without an armed crew, Colonel Ellet proposed to attack and destroy the whole fleet. "Eleven sharpshooters had been chosen and placed on the _Monarch_. I was fortunate enough to be one of the eleven. We were the only armed men aboard the ram. The _Monarch_ was commanded by Colonel Alfred Ellet, a brother of Charles. Charles was aboard the ram, _Queen of the West_. "It was dusk when we came to our fleet of gunboats anchored across the Mississippi. Below them, a little above Memphis, lay the Rebel fleet, anchored in a line across the river. There the two fleets lay like two great beasts ready to spring on each other. "Colonel Ellet anchored and waited for the morning. Hardly was it light when there came the boom of a great gun. It was a beautiful morning, and as the thunder of the gun reverberated over the water, thousands of the people of Memphis rushed to the bluffs to witness the battle and, with waving flags and shouts of encouragement, cheer their men on to victory. "On, in imposing line, comes the Rebel fleet, the smokestacks of their vessels belching forth great clouds of smoke, and their guns thundering as they come. Now the guns of our fleet answer their thunder, and the bluffs on which the people are gathered shake and tremble with the concussion. A black wall of smoke settles down and hides our fleet from view; only through the blackness can be seen the flashes of the great guns. "Hardly had the battle opened when Colonel Ellet signalled for his fleet of rams to get under way. The _Queen of the West_ and the _Monarch_ got off first, and straight for the wall of blackness, lit by the fitful flashes, we steered. We entered that wall, and everything was blotted from view--only around and about us was the roar of the great guns, the bursting of shells. "Suddenly, as if emerging from the mouth of a tunnel, we burst from the cloud of smoke, and before us at full speed was coming the Rebel fleet, nearly a dozen gunboats and ironclads, against two wooden, unarmed rams. "Colonel Ellet never swerved; ahead at full speed he drove the _Queen of the West_ for the _General Lovell_. We could see the tall figure of Colonel Ellet standing on the hurricane-deck of the _Queen_. With his hat he signalled his brother to steer for the _General Price_, and on the two rams rushed, the _Queen_ slightly ahead. "The _General Lovell_ drew out from their line and steered straight for the _Queen_. Like two great monsters, the boats rushed at each other. We forgot to cheer; we heeded not the thunder of battle; we could only look at these two vessels rushing to what seemed certain destruction. "Even the excited cheering of the crowd on the bluffs grew silent. With tense nerves and white faces, they watched the two vessels. Coming as they were, it meant the destruction of both. Would not one swerve to avoid the coming blow? Still standing on the deck of his vessel, his eye fixed on his prey, Ellet drove the _Queen_ forward--not a hair's breadth would he swerve. "Just before the shock came, the _General Lovell_ swerved to try to avoid the coming blow--but too late. Full amidships the _Queen_ struck her, cutting her through like a great knife, and the vessel sank beneath the turbid waters of the river, all the crew not killed struggling in the water. "From the thousands on shore there came a mighty groan--a wail of agony which seemed to throb and quiver through the air, making itself felt even above the roar of the battle. "Now was our turn. The _Monarch_ struck the _General Price_ a glancing blow, not sinking her, but shaving off her starboard wheel; and she was out of the fight. "Before the _Queen_ could be disentangled from the wreck of the _General Lovell_, the _Beauregard_ and _Van Dorn_ both attacked her. Colonel Ellet fell with a ball through the knee; but as he lay on the deck, he continued to direct the fight.[9] [Footnote 9: Colonel Ellet died of his wounds.] "The _Monarch_ saw the danger which threatened the _Queen of the West_, and straight for the _Beauregard_ she went, crashing into that vessel's side, and putting her out of the conflict. "The Confederate fleet thought only of escape now. The battle drifted down the river, past the city. The gunboats joined in the chase, and but one Confederate vessel escaped. Those that had not been sunk or disabled were run on the shore on the Arkansas side and set on fire by their crews, before escaping into the swamp." "Carl," cried Lawrence, "I would have given ten years of my life to have seen that battle, and, like you, to have been a part of it." "Very little part I had," replied Carl, modestly, "except to fire a few shots when we were at close quarters. But after the fight--ach! Lawrence, that is something worth telling." "What was it, Carl?" "Toward the close of the fight, a white flag was run up in the city of Memphis. Colonel Ellet sent his son, a medical cadet, no older than yourself, Lawrence, to demand the surrender of the city. He chose three men, of whom I was one, to accompany him. "We rowed ashore in a small boat, and landed in the midst of a howling, excited mob of thousands. "Young Ellet handed the message which his father had written to the Mayor, and then we started for the postoffice. The mob closed in around us--four men in the midst of thousands. They cursed, they howled; they heaped upon us the most violent names; they threatened to tear us to pieces. "We reached the postoffice, ascended to the top of the building, and began to lower the Confederate flag. A frenzy seized the crowd. They surged to and fro; they howled and gnashed their teeth like beasts of prey. Some drew revolvers and began shooting at us. "'Don't fire back,' said young Ellet, coolly. 'They can not hit us this high.' "The Stars and Bars came down, and the glorious Stars and Stripes arose, and as its folds unfurled to the breeze we swung our hats and gave a rousing cheer; but I do not think we were heard above the roar of the mob. "Leaving the flag waving, we descended, and once more the mob surrounded us, snarling, cursing and howling; but a great fear kept them from tearing us to pieces. "We walked through their midst as coolly as if we were being showered with bouquets instead of curses, and reached our boat in safety." "It was a brave thing to do, Carl. I wouldn't have missed hearing your story for anything," said Lawrence, as he warmly shook his hand at parting. The next day Lawrence went to bid his uncle and aunt good-bye, before starting for the front. As they talked, they were again interrupted by a newsboy crying, "Extra! Extra! All about the great battle at Corinth! Generals Price and Van Dorn whipped! The Missouri brigade annihilated!" "What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Middleton, turning pale. Lawrence secured a paper and gave it to him. He glanced at it and groaned. It told how Van Dorn and Price had been disastrously defeated before Corinth; how the Confederate Missouri brigade had charged up to the very mouth of the cannon of Fort Robinette, and that but few of them were left alive. "We must hope for the best," said Lawrence, as he looked at the stricken faces of his uncle and aunt; but he could say no more. Mr. Middleton, with shaking limbs and halting footsteps, assisted his wife to her room. In St. Louis that night many sat weeping, yet hoping that their loved ones were safe; for St. Louis had many a son in that battle, both on the Federal side and the Confederate. CHAPTER XII THE NEWS FROM CORINTH All the Missourians who had enlisted in the Confederate service had been transferred to the east of the Mississippi River, and with them their beloved General, Sterling Price. It was a bitter blow to them, for they had to leave their State overrun with Federals, and at the mercy of what they considered an inhuman foe. The first months of their service in Mississippi had been tame. The great Federal army which had laid siege to Corinth had been divided, the Army of the Cumberland going east under Buell, and the Army of the Tennessee, under General Grant, remaining in northern Mississippi and western Tennessee. For three months there had been only desultory fighting, no great battles. At the Confederate camp at Baldyn, Mississippi, a group of officers of the Missouri regiments were gathered in a tent, discussing the situation. In the group was Edward Middleton, the son of Alfred Middleton; Randolph Hamilton, brother of Dorothy; and last, but not least, Benton Shelley, a step-brother of Guilford Craig. Edward Middleton had become major of his regiment. He was everywhere regarded as among the bravest and most reliable officers in Price's army. He was a bitter partisan, had the utmost contempt for everything Northern, but withal a noble and chivalric gentleman. He could never forgive Lawrence, whom he had regarded as a brother, for going into the Yankee army; yet after Lawrence had saved his life at the battle of Wilson Creek, and in so doing nearly lost his own, Edward had had a kinder feeling for him. Randolph Hamilton was but little older than Lawrence. He was of a generous nature, fought for the South because he believed the South right, and not from any hatred toward the North. Before the war, he and Lawrence were the closest of friends, and now, although they were fighting on different sides, neither allowed that to interfere with their friendship. Randolph was now captain of his company, and idolized by his men. Benton Shelley was of a different nature. Brave he was, but he had a haughty and cruel disposition, and believed himself to be made of finer clay than the soldiers under him. For this reason he was tyrannical, and was hated by his men as much as Randolph was loved. As for the Yankees, there were no terms too contemptuous for him to apply to them. Toward Lawrence he held undying hatred, and tried in every way to encompass his death. Toward his step-brother, Guilford Craig, he held the same hatred. He frequently boasted how, at the battle of Pea Ridge, he had slain his step-brother, and he always added: "And I'll get that Lawrence Middleton yet. See if I don't. I nearly got him at Wilson Creek, and will not fail the next time." "It seems you did meet him again, Bent," said Randolph, with a sly twinkle in his eye; "but, like the fellow who caught the Tartar, the Tartar had him--not he the Tartar." Benton turned white with rage. "Look here, Captain Hamilton," he exclaimed, furiously, "don't presume on our friendship too much, or I shall demand the satisfaction of a gentleman. You have already thrown that up to me several times. I have told you my horse was shot, and I was lying helpless on the ground, when that cowardly traitor attacked me, and would have murdered me if he had not been stopped by an officer more humane than he." Major Middleton turned like a flash; his face was set and grim. "Captain Shelley," he said, in a low, even tone, but terrible in its earnestness, "I have no love for my cousin, as you well know; but he is no coward. He is a Middleton. As for his killing you in cold blood, that thought comes from your excitement of the moment and your chagrin at your overthrow. From your own account, he had every opportunity of killing you, if he had so wished." "I thought I was among friends," said Benton, "but I see I am not, and will go." "Hold on, gentlemen," commanded General Green, who was present; "I cannot have this--my best and bravest officers quarrelling, and threatening to shoot each other. You, Captain Hamilton, are to blame for taunting Captain Shelley for an unfortunate situation in which any of you may be placed some time. And you, Captain Shelley, are to blame for trying to mitigate your misfortune by charging your opponent with cowardice and cruelty. There is not a drop of coward's blood in a Middleton's body. There stands a noble example," and he pointed to Edward. "I can also understand," he continued, "why Captain Shelley feels so bitter against Lawrence Middleton. He believes him to have been instrumental in leading his step-brother astray, and thus bringing a damning disgrace on his family." "That's it!" cried Benton, eager to set himself right. "I can never forget, never forgive, the disgrace." "That being the case," continued the General, "I trust that Captain Hamilton, even in jest, will never allude to the subject again, and that all of you will be as good friends as ever, eager only to sheathe your swords in the bosom of our enemy. That reminds me that I dropped in to tell you the season of inactivity is over." "What!" they all cried, everything else forgotten. "Are we to fight at last?" "It looks like it," answered Green. "You know Bragg is sweeping everything before him in Kentucky--will be in Louisville before a week. The point is to keep Grant from rushing any of his troops to aid Buell. The Yankee troops here must be held. The orders are to make it lively for Rosecrans. We are to move on Iuka tomorrow." Then from those officers went up a cheer. They were to meet the foes of their country; no thought of the danger before them; no thought that before many hours some of them might be lying in bloody graves. "Here's for old Kentucky!" cried one. "We are going to reinforce Bragg." "Better say we are going to thrash Rosecrans at Corinth," chimed in another. That night Price with his army marched straight for Iuka, some fifteen or twenty miles east of Corinth. The place was only held by a small detachment, which beat a hasty retreat, leaving a large quantity of military stores to the jubilant Confederates. From Iuka Price could cross over into Tennessee, and pursue his way northward to join Bragg, or turn on Rosecrans at Corinth. It was decided for him: Rosecrans no sooner learned that Price had captured Iuka than he set forth from Corinth to attack him. Portions of the two armies met two miles from Iuka, a bloody battle was fought, the Federals being driven back a short distance, and losing a battery. During the night Price beat a hasty retreat, leaving the battery he had taken, all his dead unburied, and many of his sick and wounded. The Missouri brigade was not up in time to take part in this battle, and when they learned a retreat had been ordered, both officers and men were furious. "I feel like breaking my sword!" exclaimed Major Middleton, and his jaws came together with a snap. "Why did General Price do it?" cried Randolph Hamilton, tears of humiliation running down his face. "You will know in time," replied Benton Shelley. He was on General Price's staff, and was the officer who had brought the orders to retreat. The fact was, General Price knew if he did not retreat he would be soundly whipped the next day. Then, General Price had just received a communication from General Van Dorn that he was ready to join him, and, with the combined armies, make an attack on Corinth. The news that they were to attack Corinth fired the army with enthusiasm, and eagerly did they go forward to what they thought was certain victory. The Missouri regiments marched with song and cheer, as if going to a festival. The time they had longed for had come; they were to wipe out the disgrace of Pea Ridge; they would show the rest of the army what Pop Price and his boys could do. At noon on October third the battle opened, and now around the little village of Corinth, where in the spring it was thought the great battle of the war would be fought, was waged a most desperate conflict, lasting for two days. The hills trembled, and the very heavens seemed shattered with the thunder of artillery. Thickets were swept as with a great jagged scythe by the leaden hail which swept through them. Nothing could withstand the fierce rush of the Confederate troops. The Federals were swept from their outer line of intrenchments. With yells of victory, the Confederates rushed on. Before them was the second and stronger line of intrenchments. They were met with a storm of shot and shell. The carnage was awful, and the charging columns halted, staggered, and then began to reel back. Most of the officers of the Missouri regiments had fallen, killed or wounded. Both the colonel and lieutenant-colonel of the regiment to which Edward Middleton belonged had fallen. Major Middleton spurred his horse in front of his men, and, waving his sword over his head, shouted: "Forward, men! Forward, for the honor of Missouri! I will lead you!" The reeling column straightened, grew firm, and with a shout sprang forward. Major Middleton's horse fell; but, sword in hand, he pressed forward, followed by his men. Nothing could stay them, and soon their shouts of victory were heard above the roar of the battle. The line was taken, the Federals in full retreat for their last and strongest line of works, which ran around the edge of the little village. Night had come, and the Confederates, flushed with victory, lay on the ground they had so bravely won--to complete, in the morning, as they supposed, the destruction of Rosecrans's army. When morning came, the Confederates once more rushed to the conflict. Again did Major Middleton lead his regiment. The color-bearer went down, but the flag was seized by Randolph Hamilton, and held aloft. "Follow the colors!" he shouted, as he sprang forward. The Federals shrank from the advancing line of steel, and fled in dismay. As Randolph mounted the breastwork, a young Federal lieutenant, the last to leave the works, levelled his revolver on him, but as he did so a look of surprise came over his face, and he turned his weapon and shot a soldier who had sprung on the works by Randolph's side. Randolph did not return the shot. The young lieutenant was Leon Laselle, the brother of Lola. Everywhere along the front of Green's division the wild cheers of victory were ringing. Not only had they swept the Federal breastworks, but forty cannon had been captured. Oh, it was good! It was glorious! But it was no time to stop and rejoice. The Yankees must be completely crushed--Rosecrans's whole army captured; and into the village they followed the fleeing but not demoralized Federals. Into the houses, and behind every garden fence and hedge, the retreating Federals gathered. Every house became a flaming fort, and into the advancing ranks of the Confederates was poured a storm of balls, while the loud-mouthed cannon swept away with an iron hail the front of the advancing foe. The Confederates wavered, halted; then there sprang forward a line of blue-coated soldiers, and as a great wave bears on its crest everything before it, so did this line of blue bear back the Confederates. In vain did Edward Middleton struggle before it. He was as helpless as a log of wood borne onward by the surging tide. Randolph Hamilton once more seized the standard of the regiment. "Let us die with it floating," he cried. As he cried, the hand of a Federal lieutenant reached out to grasp the flag, and then both went down, and Randolph Hamilton and Leon Laselle lay side by side, the blood stained flag between them. On rolled the wave of blue, catching and flinging back hundreds of the fleeing Confederates. The armies of Van Dorn and Price that had had no thought but victory, that had fought so bravely and won so much, now fled from the field in wild confusion, leaving behind them over a thousand of their dead, hundreds of their wounded, and nearly three thousand prisoners. They had fought as only brave men can fight--and lost. Throughout the North the name of Rosecrans, before but little known, was on every tongue.[10] [Footnote 10: A few weeks after this battle Rosecrans was appointed Commander of the Army of the Cumberland.] It was the news of this battle that caused such excitement in St. Louis, for in it hundreds of Missourians had met Missourians, and as we have seen, the first news was that the Confederate regiments of Missouri had been annihilated. Excitement was at fever heat, and anxious hearts awaited authentic news. It came in a telegram from Leon Laselle, reading: "Am seriously but not dangerously wounded. Randolph Hamilton dangerously wounded, and captured. Edward Middleton safe." Lawrence was at the Laselle home when the telegram came. Mr. Laselle was sick at the time and unable to go to his son, if he had wished. When the telegram was read Lola clasped her hands and cried, with tears streaming down her face, "Leon wounded! I must go to him." "I am afraid that is hardly possible," said Lawrence. "I will see what can be done, but first let me take this telegram to my uncle and aunt. It will take a great load from their minds." When the telegram was read to Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, they both dropped to their knees and thanked God their son was safe. Days afterwards, when the news came of his bravery, and how he had been promoted to the colonelcy of his regiment, they, in their pride, forgot the agony they had suffered. As for Lawrence, he hastened back to Mr. Laselle's. "I must go to Leon," Lola cried. "There is no one else to go." Lawrence showed her how impossible it was for her to go. "I will see General Schofield," he said. "Perhaps I can manage to get permission to go." "Oh! do, do," cried Lola, and the whole family echoed her wish. "There is Randolph," said Lawrence. "The telegram says he is dangerously wounded." "In my anxiety over Leon, I forgot Randolph," said Lola. "What a pity! His mother and Dorothy both in Europe, and Mr. Hamilton somewhere east. Why not--" she stopped, and added lamely, "I am so sorry for him." "We are all sorry, Lola," replied Lawrence. "Randolph is a noble fellow, and believes he is doing his duty both to his God and his country in fighting as he does. You may rest assured I will do all I can for him." Lawrence had no trouble in getting the requisite authority from General Schofield to visit his friend. "I shall not be ready to take the field yet for some days," said the General. "So take your time." Lawrence went from St. Louis to Memphis by steamboat and from Memphis to Corinth by rail. Once the train was fired into by Confederate raiders. There were quite a number of soldiers on board and Lawrence, placing himself at their head, succeeded, after a brisk little fight, in driving the raiding party off. But the track had been torn up and there was a delay of several hours, a delay under which Lawrence chafed, for he was anxious to get to his friend. At length Corinth was reached. All signs of the battle had been obliterated, except the shattered houses, the mangled forest and thickets and row upon row of new-made graves. To his joy, Lawrence found Leon improving. He had not only been shot through the arm, the arm he had stretched forth to seize the flag, but had also received a scalp wound. Lawrence would not have known him with his head all swathed up, if he had not been pointed out to him. The meeting between the two friends was a joyful one. "How are the folks and how did they take my being wounded?" was Leon's first question. And thus it is. The first thought of a soldier as he sinks dying or wounded on the battlefield is of home and the loved ones. Lawrence told him and added, "Lola was crazy to come to you, but you know it could not be." "I reckon there would be another one besides me glad to see Lola," said Leon. "Poor Randolph, he lies on the third cot, there. Don't go to him, he seems to be asleep, and he needs rest. The surgeons cut the ball from his thigh yesterday. It had lodged against the bone. They have hopes of his recovery now, if blood poisoning does not set in. He has been delirious most of the time, and what do you think? He is continually raving about Lola. Seems to be living over again the time he was pursued as a spy, and would have been captured if it had not been for her." Somehow it gave Lawrence a little pang to hear this, then he cast the thought out as unworthy. When Randolph awoke, Lawrence went to him, pressed his hand in sympathy and whispered that everything was all right, and not to talk. Randolph smiled and, closing his eyes, went to sleep again. The doctor came and looked at him. "Friend of yours?" he asked of Lawrence. Lawrence nodded. "Mighty plucky fellow. Had a close call, but I think he will pull through. Fever's most gone," exclaimed the doctor as he felt Randolph's pulse and then hurried away. Lawrence and Leon held a consultation that night, and it was determined that if they could get Randolph paroled they would take him back to St. Louis with them, for Leon had already been granted a furlough. The parole was easily secured, but a week passed before they considered it safe to move Randolph. The journey back was safely made and Leon, in spite of his bandaged head and wounded arm, was nearly smothered with kisses. Lawrence found that Mr. Hamilton had not yet returned; in fact, he had met with an accident, and it would be several days before he could travel. What was to be done with Randolph? That was the question. "Bring him with me," said Leon. "I want someone to fight with while I am getting well, and fighting with tongues is not as dangerous as with guns." "Where are you taking me? This is not home," exclaimed Randolph, as the ambulance stopped before the Laselle residence. "No," replied Lawrence. "Your father has met with a slight accident, not severe, but enough to detain him for several days. So we have brought you to Mr. Laselle's. Leon wants you for company. You two can fight your battles over while you are convalescing." "But--" "Not a word. Just think of what a nurse you will have. I almost wish I was in your place." Randolph smiled and made no more protestations. Lawrence could hardly help envying Randolph, who had found a haven of rest for at least some weeks, while he must once more face the hardships and dangers of the tented field. The orders came in a couple of days and Lawrence went to say good-bye to his friends. He found Leon and Randolph had been placed in one room, and there they lay, Union and Confederate, side by side, as they had lain on the battlefield, but now no blood-stained flag lay between them. Lawrence watched as Lola, with gentle hands, administered to Randolph's wants. He saw how his face lighted up as she came near, and--well, he didn't like it. When it came time for him to go and Lola followed him to the door, he said in a tone of carelessness, "Lola, as you have not only Leon, but Randolph to look after now, I suppose you do not care to hear from me any more." The girl looked at him in surprise and tears gathered in her eyes. "Lawrence, what do you mean?" she asked in a trembling voice. "Are you not my own, my true knight-errant?" "There, Lola, I was only joking. Of course, I am your knight-errant," answered Lawrence hastily, "and my Lady of Beauty must not forget me. God bless you, Lola." He raised her hand to his lips and was gone. Lola gazed after him with troubled eyes, and then a thought, a thought that had never entered her head before, came. The color in her cheeks came and went. "He couldn't have meant that," she murmured, as she looked at his retreating figure until it was out of sight. Then with a sigh she turned and went into the house. CHAPTER XIII PORTER CAPTURES PALMYRA With the disastrous defeats and scattering of the guerrilla bands of Poindexter, Cobb and Porter, it looked as if Northeast Missouri was, at last, free from partisan warfare, but such did not prove to be the case. Porter had escaped, and was soon back in his old haunts, gathering together as many of his followers as possible. Harry Semans reported this fact to McNeil, who had now been appointed general in the Missouri militia. That officer could hardly believe that Porter would be able to gather a force large enough to do much damage, but he bade Harry be watchful and report at the first signs of danger. "Hist! Bruno, keep quiet!" It was Harry Semans, who was once more lying in a thicket by the side of the road, and as usual the faithful Bruno was by his side. The dog was now showing that he scented danger. Harry's method of scouting was peculiar. When in need of information he and Bruno generally scouted alone, and that during the night. In the daytime he would lie concealed in some thicket, close to a road, his horse always picketed some distance from him. He would observe any men that passed along the road, the direction they were going, and thus be able to determine whether the guerrillas were gathering for a raid or not. If so, it was his duty to find their rendezvous, report with all possible speed, and bring a Federal force down upon them. When he thought best, he had no scruples in passing himself off as a guerrilla. It was only in case of urgent necessity that he rode in the daytime. For one reason he did not wish the guerrillas to know he was always accompanied by a dog. In the night he could not be recognized, and he was never in fear of a surprise, for Bruno always gave warning. To the guerrillas it was a matter of wonderment how the Federals so often found out their secret hiding places, and many a suspected Union man was accused of giving information, and suffered in consequence, when it was Harry who was the guilty party. Feeling safe, McNeil had left only one small company in Palmyra to guard the place, and to protect the prisoners, of whom he had nearly a hundred. He was away looking after other posts in his territory. The news of McNeil's absence and the small number of soldiers at Palmyra was borne to Porter and he determined to make a raid on the village, liberate the prisoners, and capture some of the Union citizens who had made themselves obnoxious to Porter and his gang. The news was given out and the guerrillas were rallying at a given place in the western part of the county. It was this gathering of the guerrillas that Harry was now watching. He quickly quieted the dog and the cause of his excitement was now apparent, for six men came riding past, all armed to the teeth. "There is deviltry on foot, old fellow," whispered Harry to Bruno, "and it 's up to us to find out what it is. There's twenty of these villains ridden past since we've been hiding here. "How I wish I could hear what they are saying," continued Harry. "I must, I _will_ find out what's brewing." Harry was in a place which he could not safely leave before night, so he waited impatiently for the coming darkness. As soon as he dared he made his way back to where he had left his horse, and cautiously led it to the road. He then mounted and rode in the direction the guerrillas had taken. Two or three times Bruno gave warning, and Harry quietly drew out by the side of the road and let men pass. He had gone some two or three miles when he came to a main road leading to Palmyra. Bruno showed unusual excitement, and Harry stopped and listened intently. From up the road there came the sound of the trampling of horses, as if a large body of cavalry was coming. "Quick, Bruno, we must get out of this," exclaimed Harry, and wheeling his horse he rode back a short distance. Then he rode into a clump of bushes where he dismounted and tied the horse. "I dare not leave you too near the road when that cavalry passes, you might give me away," he said, patting his horse's neck. "Bruno, you stay here." Back on the run went Harry. Climbing a fence he quickly made his way to the road over which the cavalry must pass. Here a fence ran close to the road and the corners were overgrown with weeds and brush, making a safe hiding place. He was none too soon. Six men came riding by. "An advance guard," muttered Harry. In a short time the head of the column appeared, and in front rode two men. As they came abreast of Harry he heard one of them say, "What time do you expect to attack Palmyra, Colonel?" "Just at daybreak." It was the voice of Colonel Porter that answered. Harry breathed hard. It was Palmyra that was to be attacked, and he knew the weakness of the garrison. He calculated as closely as he could the number that passed, and concluded there must be about four hundred in the band. What was he to do? The whole force was squarely between him and Palmyra. He could never get through that body of men. He must ride around. But would he have time? Could he find his way in the darkness? He could try. Harry waited until the last man had passed, then going back he mounted his horse and followed the band. So close was he after them that three or four stragglers overtook him, and taking him for one of their number, told him to hurry up or he would be too late for the fun. "My hoss is plumb tired out," was Harry's answer, "but I reckon I will git thar in time." After riding three or four miles Harry came to a road that he believed might enable him to get around Porter's force, and by hard riding get to Palmyra first and give warning. Taking the road he put his horse to a fast gallop. Two or three times he was hailed as he passed houses, but he dashed on regardless of the fact that a bullet might be sent after him. He soon became aware that the road was taking him away instead of in the direction he wished to go. He brought his horse down to a walk. "I'm afraid it's all up," he sighed, "but I will never cease trying until all hope is gone." Keeping a sharp lookout he soon came to a road that ran in the direction he wished to go. True the road seemed but little traveled, but it was his only hope, so he turned into it, and again urged his horse forward. The road twisted and turned and Harry soon lost all idea of direction. Worse than all, it grew fainter and fainter and soon became little more than a trail. Harry felt himself hopelessly lost. He knew not where he was, nor in what direction he wanted to go, but he knew by the woods which bordered the trail he must be near a stream. Soon he came to a clearing, in the middle of which stood a rough log house. There was a light burning in the house, and before it a horse stood saddled and bridled, and Harry noticed that a shotgun lay across the saddle. Though he knew it was risky he determined to stop and find out where he was and to inquire the shortest way to Palmyra. Hitching his horse and telling Bruno to keep out of sight, but near him, he carefully made his way to the house. He soon became satisfied it was tenanted only by a man and woman; if there were children they were asleep. The man kept coming to the door and looking out as if he expected some one. Harry saw he was a sinister looking fellow, and that he wore a belt which held in place a huge revolver. Harry waited until the man had closed the door after one of his visits, and then marching boldly up he gave a short rap. The door was immediately opened and the man he had seen exclaimed, "Hello, Steve, yo' un air late." When he saw Harry he stopped and his hand went to his belt, "Who be yo' un," he growled, "and what do yo' un want?" "Don't be alarmed, pard," laughed Harry. "I reckon yo' un and I air in the same class. I'm from Shelby an' on my way to join Porter. Yo' un knows we 'uns air to make it hot for the Yanks in Palmyra. I have lost my way, an' want to know whar I kin find the direct road to Palmyra." "Yo' un only have to foller the trail to the branch, cross it and yo' un will strike the main road. But I kalkerlate to have a hand in that little job at Palmyra myself. Have three or four debts to pay, one agin old Allsman. He reported me to McNeil as a dangerous char'ter. He'll never peach agin if I lay hands on him." "Thank yo' un. I'll be goin'," said Harry, "or I'm afraid I'll be late." "Hold on, pard," said the man. "I be jest waitin' for Steve and Sol Jones. We 'uns will all go together." "Sorry I can't wait. I must be goin'," replied Harry, turning to go. "Stop!" cried the man, hoarsely. Harry wheeled, his hand on his revolver. "Better not," drawled the man, with a grin. "The old woman has you kivered and she's a dead shot." Harry glanced up. Sure enough the woman, a gaunt, muscular virago, stood in the door, a rifle at her shoulder, and Harry saw that he could look right into the muzzle. "Ha! Ha!" chuckled the fellow, "yo' un didn't count on that, did yo' un? Fact is, I didn't take to yo' un's story and I giv' the old woman a sign to look out. If yo' un be from Shelby, how'd it happen yo' un got in this timber along the branch. Yo' un may be all right, and if yo' un air it will be no hurt for yo' un to wait and go with we 'uns. Thar, stop fingering that thar revolver, or I'll giv' the old woman the wink. Better up with yo' hands. Thar, I heah Steve and Sol comin'. If yo' un don't prove all right, we 'uns will have a hangin' bee before we 'uns start. Hands up, I tell yo' un." Harry was still looking into the muzzle of the rifle. It seemed to him as big as a cannon. His hands slowly went up, but as they did so he gave a low, peculiar whistle. Like a flash a great black body bounded through the air and Bruno's teeth were buried in the shoulder of his victim. The force of the impact threw the fellow over, and as he fell Harry ducked. The woman fired, but the shot went wild. In a moment Harry had wrenched the gun from her, and with a blow bent the barrel of the rifle around the door frame. But now was heard the approach of horses, and the cries of men. Steve and Sol Jones were coming, and the sound of the rifle shot had alarmed them. "Here, Bruno, come quick," commanded Harry. But Bruno was unwilling to release his victim, and it took a hard cuff and a sharp command to make him let go. Steve and Sol were now there, excitedly crying, "What's up? What's up?" Without a word Harry opened fire. One of the horses and the rider went down; the other wheeling his horse, was off like a shot, fortunately going the way Harry had come. Without waiting to learn the result of his shots, Harry rushed for his horse and rode away. He reached the branch spoken of, and, crossing it, was soon on the highroad to Palmyra. But Porter and his men were still in between him and the place. Harry now came to where he was acquainted with the country. He could ride around Porter, but it was a good six or eight miles out of his way. "I can never do it and be in time," he groaned, "but I may do some good." Again his good horse was urged to a stiff gallop. Day was just breaking and Harry was still three miles from Palmyra, but he had got past Porter, and would enter the place from the east. He was congratulating himself that he might still be in time, when the faint echo of firearms was borne to him on the breeze. Spurring his horse forward he rode some distance, then halted and listened. The sounds of firing were unmistakable, but the reports were scattering, not as if any considerable number of men were engaged. Harry reached the fair grounds on the eastern edge of town. Here he unstrapped the blanket from his saddle, and carrying it into a vacant stall, said to Bruno, "Old fellow, watch that blanket until I come back." The dog lay down by the side of the blanket, and Harry patted his head and told him to keep his eyes open, then he left him, thinking to return shortly. Harry now rode boldly forward, thinking he would have no trouble in passing himself off as one of the guerrillas. He soon saw squads of them riding through the town and stopping at the different houses. He shuddered, for he knew Union men lived in every one of those houses. The firing up in the center of the town now grew more severe. "Seems as if they air havin' quite a time up thar," he said to a guerrilla whom he met. "Yes," growled the fellow. "The Yanks have got into the court house and a brick store. Porter ordered them to surrender and they answered if he wanted them to com' an' take them. That they'd fight till the last man fell before they'd surrender. The Kunnel will find it hard work to get them out without cannon." Harry's heart gave a great bound. If the Federals were in the court house and a brick store, they might hold out for hours. Might he not get help from Hannibal? McNeil was at Monticello, only thirty miles away, with part of the Merrill Horse. Would it be possible to bring help to the besieged men? He would try, and he turned up a side street. "Hullo! Whar be yo' un goin'?" asked the guerrilla. "Thar's a feller up here aways I've got an account to settle with, an' I'll git him no matter what happens," exclaimed Harry, fiercely. Then a happy thought came to him, "Say," he asked, "didn't the Kunnel tell us whar to rally after this affair was over?" "Yes, at Whaley's Mill," was the answer. "Wall, I must git my man an' then I'll find yo' un," Harry answered. On the outskirts of the village Harry met another guerrilla who told him he had better be getting back, as Porter had given up all hopes of capturing the soldiers in the court house, and they were going to gather up their booty and prisoners and evacuate the place. "Very well," answered Harry. "Thar is one feller out heah I want to get, an' I'm goin' to get him." "Better hurry up then," replied the guerrilla. Porter had no idea of holding the place when he made the raid. His orders were that while some of his force should engage the soldiers at the court house, the rest should disperse through the city and arrest every Union man in the place; expressly were they ordered to find and arrest Andrew Allsman, who had made himself very obnoxious to them by acting as guide to the Union forces. Allsman was found in bed. He was dragged out, ordered to dress himself, and taken away. Porter expected to find a large quantity of arms and munitions of war in the place. In this he was disappointed, but he succeeded in taking the jail and liberating a number of prisoners. One Union citizen was shot down as he stood in the door of his house. The soldiers, in defending the court house, had a few men wounded. The guerrillas lost one killed and had several wounded. When Porter withdrew from the place he halted on the outskirts of the village and paroled all his prisoners except four, and one of the four was Allsman. This done he started for the appointed rendezvous at Whaley's Mill. He expected no immediate pursuit, for he knew McNeil was at Monticello. CHAPTER XIV TEN LIVES FOR ONE Harry succeeded in clearing the village in safety, and, when about half a mile away, halted and looked back. Porter's men were already leaving the place, and Harry saw they had quite a number of prisoners. Porter halted in an open meadow near the edge of the village, and the prisoners were gathered together. "My God!" groaned Harry. "Are they going to murder them all?" But the prisoners were not murdered. They were all paroled with the exception of four, to whom allusion has been made. Harry watched until he saw the paroled men start back to the village, and the guerrillas riding away. He drew a long breath of relief. The fact was, McNeil held so many of Porter's men prisoners that the guerrilla chieftain dare not command such wholesale murder. "What is to be done now?" asked Harry of himself. "I know," he cried suddenly. "If I can make Monticello before night, McNeil can get to Whaley's Mill nearly as quickly as Porter. I'll make Monticello or die in the attempt." Thus saying, he turned his horse to the north and rode swiftly away. He had gone some distance when he suddenly drew rein. "Great guns!" he exclaimed. "I have forgotten Bruno. He will stay by that blanket until he starves." He reined in his horse and sat a moment in deep thought. "It's no use," he sighed. "It's full five miles. I can never go back and make Monticello in time. Poor Bruno! I won't let him suffer for more than a day or two." His mind made up, Harry rode on at as swift a pace as his horse could stand. Residents along the road gazed in wonder as Harry dashed past. Most of them took him for a guerrilla fleeing from his foes, and looked in vain for blue-coated pursuers. A number hailed him and two or three sent a ball after him on receiving no answer. When about half way to Monticello three rough-looking men blocked the road, demanding his name and the reason of his haste. "I'm carrying the news to the boys," he explained. "Porter captured Palmyra this morning." "Yo' un don't say. But who air yo' un carryin' the news to?" "To Sam Dodds. Porter wanted him to rally all the boys he could and join him at Whaley's Mill." This was a guess by Harry. He only knew Dodds was a leader among the guerrillas in that section of the country. "That's a lie. Sam Dodds is with Porter and--" The guerrilla never got further. Harry's revolver cracked and the fellow rolled from his horse. Bending low over his horse's neck, Harry was off like a shot. For a moment the other two guerrillas were dazed by the unlooked-for attack, then drawing their revolvers sent ball after ball after Harry, who, as they fired, felt a sharp pain in his left arm, but he only urged his horse to greater speed. One of the guerrillas sprang from his horse and went to his fallen companion. "Dead as a doornail," he exclaimed. "Shot through the heart. Jack, let's after that boy. I reckon one of us winged him, for I saw him winch. We 'uns can come back and see to poor Collins heah, after we catch him. I reckon that young devil was the famous boy scout of the Merrill Hoss. I've heard Porter say he'd give a thousand dollars for him dead or alive." Without further parley, leaving their dead companion lying in the road, the two guerrillas mounted their horses and started in pursuit. Harry by this time had gained a good lead, but the guerrillas' horses were fresh, and they gained on him rapidly. As dark as it now looked for Harry, his being pursued proved to be his salvation, for he had not gone more than two miles when six guerrillas blocked the road. "Halt and give an account of yo'self!" they cried. Without checking his horse, Harry shouted, "Yanks! Yanks!" The guerrillas saw the cloud of dust raised by Harry's pursuers and wheeling their horses fled with him. Harry now had company he did not relish, but not for long. Coming to a cross road which led into a wood they turned into it crying out to Harry to do the same, but to their amazement he kept right on. "Reckon he's so skeered he didn't notice," said one. "Hold," said another, "thar's only two comin' an' they don't look like Yanks. If they be, we 'uns can tend to them." Drawing their weapons they waited for the two to come up, when they found they were two of their own gang. Explanations were made and there were curses loud and deep. "We 'uns air losing time," cried one of the first two. "The feller's hoss must be badly winded. We 'uns can catch him." The leader of the six shook his head. "No," he exclaimed, with an oath, "it's all off. Thar is a scouting party of Yanks up the road. They chased us. That's the reason we 'uns are down heah. That feller will fall in with them before we 'uns can ketch him." So, much to their chagrin, the guerrillas gave up the chase and went to attend to their dead comrade. About five miles from Monticello Harry overtook the scouting party, now on their way back to that city. Taking Harry for a guerrilla, they ordered him to surrender, which he did very willingly. Harry was white with dust, blood was dripping from his left hand and his horse, white with foam, stood trembling. The lieutenant in charge of the party rode up. "Well, young man," he began, then stopped and gazed in wonder. "Good Heavens!" he exclaimed. "It's Harry Semans. Harry, what's up?" "Porter is on the warpath. He has captured Palmyra," gasped Harry. The news was astounding. "When?" cried the lieutenant. "This morning. But I have no time to talk. Give me a fresh horse. I must see McNeil." "But your hand, my boy. Let me send one of the boys with the news." "No, no!" cried Harry. "I must see McNeil. The wound is nothing. It is nothing but a scratch." Harry took a horse from one of the troop, and accompanied by the lieutenant and three men rode post-haste for Monticello, leaving the troop to come more leisurely. General McNeil was greatly surprised by the news. He had supposed Porter's band to be entirely dispersed. "You say the garrison did not surrender?" asked McNeil. "No, but Porter plundered the town and took every Union man in the place prisoner. From what I could see he paroled all, or most of them." "God help Andrew Allsman if they captured him," exclaimed McNeil; "but if Porter dares--" The General said no more, but his jaws came together with a snap. Harry now told the whole story and ended with: "General, they are to rendezvous at Whaley's Mill. You can catch them if you act promptly. It's not much farther to Whaley's Mill from here than it is from Palmyra; and Porter has no idea you can get there nearly as quickly as he." McNeil lost no time. Fortunately there was a battalion of the Merrill Horse at Monticello, and he could muster five hundred men for the pursuit. "I wish you could be with us," said the General to Harry. "I certainly shall be," answered Harry. "But your wound, and thirty-six hours without sleep or rest," said the General. "My wound is nothing," said Harry, "but that reminds me it has not been dressed, and that I am nearly famished, but I will be ready as soon as you are." "Only cut deep enough to make it bleed freely," said the surgeon, as he dressed Harry's arm. "You will be all right in a week." "I'm all right now, except a lame arm and an empty stomach," laughed Harry, "and I will attend to the stomach now." It was not long before McNeil, at the head of five hundred stout troopers, was on his way to Whaley's Mill, every man eager for the conflict. But as Harry rode there came to him the thought of Bruno. His first impulse was to turn back and ride for Palmyra, but he knew how dangerous it would be, and then he felt his duty was to continue with McNeil. It would not make more than a day's difference, and if he started alone, the probabilities were he would never get to Palmyra, so with a heavy heart he rode on. All through the night they rode. Porter, never dreaming McNeil could reach him so quickly, went into camp at Whaley's Mill to await supplies and reinforcements. The next day McNeil was on him like a thunderbolt. Never was there a surprise more complete. Many of the guerrillas cut the halters of their horses and without saddles or bridles galloped furiously away. Frequently two men were seen on one horse, digging in their heels and urging him to the utmost speed. The relentless Merrill Horse were after them, cutting, shooting and taking prisoners those who threw down their arms and begged for mercy. For two days the pursuit was kept up, and at last in desperation Porter cried to the men who had kept with him, "Every man for himself." And every man for himself it was. The band was totally dispersed. When Porter saw all hope was lost, he paroled three of the four prisoners he had kept; but Andrew Allsman was held, and from that day all authentic news of him ceases.[11] [Footnote 11: It is claimed by friends of Porter that he also paroled Allsman, and that he had nothing to do with his disappearance.] Porter did not rally his band; he collected as many as he could and fled south into Arkansas, where he held a commission as colonel in a regiment of provisional troops. Owing to this pursuit six days had elapsed before Harry could get back to Palmyra. During this period the thought of Bruno keeping his lonely watch over that blanket caused Harry many a sharp pain. More than once he thought of deserting and going to the relief of the animal. Those of the officers who knew the story laughed at Harry's fears, saying no dog would stay and watch a blanket until he starved, but Harry knew better. Upon reaching Palmyra he rode with all haste to the fair grounds where he had left Bruno. He found the dog lying with his head and forepaws on the blanket, his eyes closed. So still he lay, so gaunt he looked, that Harry's heart gave a great bound; he feared he was dead. But the moment Harry's footsteps were heard, Bruno gave a hoarse growl and staggered to his feet, every hair on his back bristling. But no sooner did he see who it was than he gave a joyful bark and attempted to spring forward to meet him, but fell from weakness. In a moment Harry's arms were around his neck and he was weeping like a child. The dog licked his hands and his face in an ecstasy of joy. "Bruno, Bruno, to love me like this, after I left you to starve and die," sobbed Harry, "but I couldn't help it, if the guerrillas had seen you they would never have let you live. They would rather have your life than mine, and Bruno you are worth a dozen of me." If ever a dog was cared for and fed tidbits, it was Bruno, and in a few days he showed no signs of his fast. The taking of Palmyra was a humiliating affair to General McNeil. That the town in which he made his headquarters should be raided, every Union citizen in it captured, one shot down and another carried off, and in all probability murdered, was a bitter pill for him to swallow. He had often declared that if any more murders were committed in his district he would shoot ten guerrillas for every man murdered. Had the time come for him to make that threat good? McNeil was not naturally a cruel man; to his friends he was one of the kindest and most generous of men, but to his foes he was relentless. He believed that the guerrillas of Missouri had broken every law of civilized warfare, and were entitled to no mercy. But now that the time had come for him to make his threats good, he hesitated. He arose and paced his room. "No, no," he murmured, "I cannot do it. There must be some way out of it." Just then his provost marshal, Colonel W. R. Strachan, entered the room. Strachan was a coarse featured man and his heavy jaw showed him to be a man of determined will. His countenance showed marks of dissipation, for he was a heavy drinker, and this served to further brutalize his nature. That he was cruel could be seen in every lineament of his face. But he was a man of marked executive ability, and when occasion demanded he wielded a facile and ready pen. His defence of McNeil in a New York paper showed him to be a man possessing ability of the highest order. Such was the man who came into the presence of McNeil at this critical moment. He stood and regarded McNeil as if he would read his very thoughts, and then remarked, cynically, "I haven't seen anything of that proclamation of yours yet, General." McNeil started as if stung. He hesitated and then said, "Strachan, I can't make up my mind. It seems so cold blooded." "The Rebels say you dare not," sneered Strachan. McNeil flushed. "I allow no man to question my courage," he answered hotly. "Pardon me, General, it is not your physical courage they question. That is above criticism. It is your moral courage, the courage to do right, because it wrings your heart to do right. You feel for the ten men you doom to die, but, Great God! look at their crimes. Does not the blood of the Union men murdered by Porter's gang cry for vengeance? Think of that. Think of Carter, and Preston, and Pratt, and Spieres, and Carnegy, and Aylward--but why enumerate every one of these men murdered by these assassins. Now they come and, right under our very eyes, carry off Allsman, to be foully dealt with--and yet General McNeil hesitates."[12] [Footnote 12: All of these men named by Strachan had been cruelly murdered by guerrillas.] "Say no more, Strachan," cried McNeil, "the proclamation will be forthcoming." A cruel smile played around the lips of Strachan as he saluted his superior and departed. The next morning a proclamation appeared, directed to Joseph C. Porter, saying that if Andrew Allsman was not returned before the end of ten days ten of his followers held as prisoners would be taken out and shot. The proclamation was posted on the door of the court house and soon a motley crowd gathered around to read it. Some read it with satisfaction, some with lowering brows, but the most with jeers. "McNeil will never do it. It's only a bluff," declared a sullen-looking man. A tall, lank, cadaverous native ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice and drawled, "Directed to Joe Porter, is it? That's a mistake; the General should have directed it to the devil. He's the only one who can return ole Allsman." "Think so, do you?" said a soldier, who, overhearing the remark, laid a heavy hand on the fellow's shoulder. "Come along with me." Protesting vehemently, the fellow was taken to prison. This episode ended public criticism. There were not many in Palmyra who believed Porter could return Allsman if he wanted to; the universal belief was that he had been murdered. What would McNeil do when the man was not returned, was the question. The general belief was that the proclamation was only a bluff to try and scare Porter; so the people of Palmyra went about their business disregarding the ominous cloud hanging over them. As the days slipped by and Allsman was not returned and no explanation made, McNeil began to be uneasy. He caused the proclamation to be made throughout all Northeast Missouri. He even sent Harry on a dangerous ride to deliver a copy to the wife of Porter, and to beg her to get a copy to her husband, if she knew where he was. She replied she did not know where he was. The fact was, Porter had fled south, as has been noted, but McNeil did not know this. No representations were made to McNeil that Allsman had been paroled by Porter, as was afterwards claimed by Porter and his friends, and that he was afterwards murdered by unknown parties. His proclamation was utterly ignored. The ninth day arrived and Strachan sought his chief. "Well," he growled, "the time is up tomorrow and Allsman has not been returned. He will not be. We might as well prepare for the execution." "Is there any way out of this, Strachan?" asked McNeil, with much feeling. "I hate this." "Going to show the white feather?" sneered Strachan. "No, but what if I issue a proclamation that if the men who actually murdered Allsman are given up these ten men will be spared?" "They will pay just as much attention to it as they did to your first proclamation," said Strachan. "General, if you do not carry out your proclamation there is not a Union man in the State whose life will be safe, and their blood will be on your hands. You will be cursed by every loyal citizen, and your enemies will despise you as a coward. Better, far better, you had never issued any proclamation." McNeil felt the force of Strachan's reasoning. It would have been better if no proclamation had been made. To go back on it, and at the eleventh hour, would proclaim him weak and vacillating, and the effect might be as Strachan said. "Go ahead, Strachan. I will not interfere," he said abruptly, and turned away. Strachan departed highly elated, and repaired to a carpenter shop, where he ordered ten rough coffins made. The village suddenly awoke to the fact that the execution would take place. Then faces grew pale, and all jeering ceased. McNeil was besieged by applicants imploring him to stay the execution. Among these were a number of Union men. But McNeil remained obdurate; his mind was made up. Strachan picked out ten men among the prisoners and they were told that on the morrow they must die. Why Strachan picked the ten men he did will never be known. They were not chosen by lot. Among the ten men was a William S. Humphrey. Mrs. Humphrey had arrived in Palmyra the evening before the execution, not knowing her husband was to die. When told of his fate she was horrified, and in the early morning she sought Strachan to plead for his life, but was rudely repulsed. Then with tottering footsteps she wended her way to the headquarters of General McNeil. He received her kindly, but told her he would not interfere. Half fainting she was borne from the room. Her little nine-year-old daughter had accompanied her as far as the door. Catching sight of the child, she cried with tears streaming down her face, "Go, child, go to General McNeil, kneel before him and with uplifted hands beg him to spare your father. Tell him what a good man he is. How he had refused to go with Porter after he had taken the oath." The little girl obeyed. She made her way to General McNeil; she knelt before him; she raised her little hands imploringly; with the tears streaming down her face she sobbed, "Oh, General McNeil, don't have papa shot. He never will be bad any more. He promised and he will not break that promise. Don't have him shot. Think of me as your little girl pleading for your life." She could say no more, but lay sobbing and moaning at his feet. The stern man trembled like a leaf; tears gathered in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "Poor child! Poor child!" he murmured, as he gently raised her. Then turning to his desk he wrote an order and, handing it to an officer, said, "Take that to Colonel Strachan." The order read: COLONEL STRACHAN: If the fact can be established that Humphrey was in Palmyra when Porter was here and refused to leave, reprieve him and put no one in his place. McNEIL. When the order was delivered to Colonel Strachan he raved like a madman. He had had ten coffins made, and though the heavens fell, they should be filled. Like Shylock, he demanded his pound of flesh. "For God's sake!" said Captain Reed to Strachan, "if you must have the tenth victim, take a single man." Strachan stalked to the prison and glancing over the prisoners called out, "Hiram Smith." A young man, twenty-two years of age, stepped forward. "Is your name Hiram Smith?" asked Strachan. "It is," was the answer. "You are to be shot this afternoon." The young man drew himself up, gazed blankly at Strachan for a moment, and then without a word turned and walked across the room to where a bucket of water was standing. Taking a drink he turned around with the remark, "I can die just as easily as I took that drink of water." And this young man knew he had but two hours to live.[13] [Footnote 13: It was currently reported at the time, and believed for years, that young Smith voluntarily offered himself as a substitute for Humphrey; and that McNeil accepted him as such, and had him shot, after his performing an act that would have placed him among the world's greatest heroes. This is what the author believed until in writing this book he wrote to Palmyra for the full facts in the case, which were furnished him by Mr. Frank H. Sosey, editor of the Palmyra Spectator. No doubt this belief had much to do in intensifying the feeling against General McNeil]. The time came and amid the groans and sobs of the populace, the ten men were taken to the fair grounds, where seated on their coffins, they bravely faced their executioners. The firing squad consisted of thirty soldiers, three to a man. A few hundred pale faced spectators looked on. The fatal order was given and the volley rang out. From the spectators there burst a cry of horror. Strong men turned away, unable to look. Many of the firing squad were nervous and their aim was bad; others had shot high on purpose--they had no heart in the work. Of the ten men, only three had been killed outright. Six lay on the ground, writhing in agony; one sat on his coffin, untouched. "Take your revolvers and finish the job," thundered Strachan. Harry, who had witnessed the scene, fled from it in horror, as did most of the spectators. It was a scene that those who lived in Palmyra will never forget. The fair grounds was never again used as such. It was a place accursed.[14] [Footnote 14: The Palmyra incident has gone into history as one of the most deplorable during the war. Even at this late day it is more often referred to than the horrible massacres committed by Anderson and Quantrell. That General McNeil did not violate the rules of civilized warfare will be generally admitted, also that his provocation was great. But the incident always hung over him like a cloud, and was the means of defeating him for several responsible official positions. The dark blot against McNeil was that he did not bring Strachan to account for disobeying his orders, and that he took no notice of the awful crime of which Strachan was accused in connection with this affair. As for Strachan, his acts showed him to be a brute, and in connection with this affair a crime was charged against him for which he should have been court-martialed and shot. He was court-martialed a year or two afterwards, but not for the Palmyra affair, and sentenced to a year in military prison, but never served his sentence, as he was pardoned by General Rosecrans. He died in 1866, unwept and unmourned.] CHAPTER XV A GIRL OF THE OZARKS In one of the loveliest valleys in the heart of the Ozarks lived Judge Marion Chittenden. He was the youngest son of a Kentucky pioneer, one who did much in the building up of that commonwealth when it was known as "The Dark and Bloody Ground." In his youth, Marion Chittenden--that was not his name then--was wild and wayward, and became involved in numerous brawls and personal encounters. When about twenty years of age, in a drunken brawl he shot and killed one of his best friends. Filled with horror, and knowing the consequences of his crime, he fled. Although a large reward was offered for his apprehension, all efforts to find him proved unavailing. As years passed and nothing was heard from him, his relatives breathed sighs of relief and considered him as one dead. The fact was, he had fled beyond the Mississippi and became lost in the wilds of Missouri. Here he changed his name, and no one ever knew but that he always had been Marion Chittenden. In the Ozarks he made his living by hunting and fishing, and for some years lived almost the life of a hermit. In one particular his crime made him a changed man; from the moment he fled he never touched another drop of liquor. One day while hunting he came across a lovely valley. Through it ran a purling stream, its waters as clear as crystal. Around and about the valley the hills rose to a height of from five to eight hundred feet, clothed to their tops in a forest of living green. When he first saw the valley it was from the top of one of the hills where he had trailed and shot a bear. As he stood and looked, the scene was so peaceful, so beautiful, that a longing for rest came over him. The wild and wandering life he had led for years all at once palled upon him. The memory of his childhood came like a flood. His waywardness, his crime, arose before him with startling distinctness. He was naturally a lover of the refinements of civilization, and the rough, lonely life he had led was the result of his crime, not of inclination. Standing there, he suddenly exclaimed, "Here will I make my home; here will I forget the past; here will I begin a new life." He descended into the valley, startling a herd of deer that bounded into the forest which clothed the hills. But they need not have been afraid--for the time being he had lost the instinct of a hunter. He stood by the side of the little river, its clear waters showing the fish darting to and fro, as if in wanton play. A little back was a knoll crowned with noble trees. "Here," thought he, "will I build my house. Here will I begin my new life. It is beautiful. The stream is beautiful. It shall be called La Belle, and this the valley of La Belle." And the valley of La Belle it became. He went to St. Louis and preëmpted the land, for he had no fears the rough, bearded hunter would be taken for the immaculate young dandy who had fled from Kentucky. He built him a home; the range of thousands of acres of land was his, and his flocks grew and flourished. Time passed, and other settlers began to invade the seclusion of the Ozarks. One day there came into the hills a man by the name of Garland. He had seen better days, but had become impoverished and fled to the Ozarks, thinking that in that wilderness he might make a home, and in a measure retrieve his fortune. His family consisted of his wife and one daughter, a young lady about twenty years of age. Mr. Garland settled some miles from where Chittenden lived his lonely life; but in a wilderness those who live miles away are considered neighbors. Mr. Chittenden visited them, and, though charmed by the beauty of the daughter, he had no thoughts of giving up his bachelor life. But misfortune seemed to have followed Mr. Garland. He had not been there a year before his wife died, and in a few months he followed her. Before this Mr. Chittenden had not thought of marriage, but now the helplessness of the girl appealed to him. He proposed and was accepted. He never had cause to regret his action, for beautiful Grace Garland made a wife of whom any man might be proud. His marriage also made a great change in Mr. Chittenden. The house was enlarged and beautified. He greatly prospered, and in time became one of the prominent men in his section of the country. He was called Judge, and sent to the Legislature, and was even pressed to run for Congress. Against this he resolutely set his face. The ghost of the past arose and frightened him. As a congressman his past might be traced. A couple of years after his marriage a daughter was born and was named Grace, after her mother. Mr. Chittenden continued to prosper, and in time bought a few slaves. This put him on a higher plane, for to be a slave-holder was to belong to the aristocracy, and it was a matter of pride among the Ozarks that Mr. Chittenden owned slaves. Little Grace grew up a true child of the mountains, as wild and free as the birds. When she was about ten years of age her mother died. If it had not been for his daughter, Mr. Chittenden would have lost all interest in life. Now everything centered in her, and she became a part of his very life. The death of his wife left him without a competent housekeeper, so one day he informed Grace he was going to St. Louis to see if he could not buy a colored woman recommended as a good housekeeper, and that if she liked she might go with him. The girl was overjoyed, for she had never been away from her lovely valley home. The hills to her had been the boundary of the world, and often as she gazed at them she would wonder and wonder what was beyond. The birds were her friends, and they seemed to sing of things she did not know. They had wings and could fly and explore that wonderful beyond. She often wished she too had wings, so she might fly with the birds--then she would know too. Her mother early had taught her to read, and Mr. Chittenden had gathered quite a library. Grace read every book in it with avidity, but they told her of a world she could not understand. But now she was to go beyond the barrier; she was to see the world, and she could hardly wait for the time to start. At last the day came and the journey was begun, first on horseback and then by a lumbering stage coach. In due time they reached the city, and what she saw filled her with wonder and surprise. But when she woke in the morning and heard no singing of birds, but instead the din and roar of the street; and when she looked out and saw no lovely valley, no stately hills, no La Belle, its waters sparkling in the sun, but instead row upon row of great buildings, she sighed--she hardly knew why. The next day when her father showed her around the city she said, "It's all very wonderful, papa, but it isn't like home. The houses are not as beautiful as the hills, and even the great river does not sing as sweetly, and its waters are not clear and sparkling like La Belle." One day Mr. Chittenden told Grace there was to be an auction of slaves, and he would go and try to get one for a housekeeper. The little girl was eager to go with him, but he would not allow it. She wondered why and rebelled, but her father was obdurate and left her crying. Grace's slightest wish was generally law to her father, and to be refused and left alone was to her a surprise. She did not realize that her father did not wish her to see the distressing scenes which often took place at an auction of slaves. In due time Mr. Chittenden returned, accompanied by a comely mulatto woman about forty years of age. The woman's eyes were red with weeping, and now and then her bosom would heave with a great sob which she would in vain try to hold back. "This is Tilly, Grace," said her father. "She is said to be a good housekeeper and a famous cook." "Why do you cry?" asked Grace. "Papa is a good man; he will use you well." "It's not that," sobbed the woman: "it's mah honey chile, mah little Effie. I'll neber see her moah." And she broke down and sobbed piteously. Grace turned with a distressed countenance. "Did Tilly have a little girl?" she asked. "Y-e-s," answered Mr. Chittenden, rather reluctantly. "Why didn't you buy her too?" she asked indignantly. "What if someone should take me from you?" Mr. Chittenden winced. "That is different, child," he answered. "As for Tilly's child, a trader from New Orleans bought her, paying an enormous price. She was nearly white, and gave promise of becoming quite a beauty. Rich people give large prices for such for maids. I could not afford to buy her. As it was, I had to pay a big price for Tilly." Grace said no more, but from that time new thoughts entered her mind, and when alone with Tilly she tried to comfort her. Tilly proved as good a housekeeper and cook as Mr. Chittenden could have desired, and in time seemed to have forgotten her child. But Grace knew better, for when alone with her Tilly never tired of telling her about her "honey chile," and Grace was learning what it meant to be a slave, and all unconsciously to herself she was drinking in a love of freedom. As for Tilly, she came to worship the very ground that Grace walked on. Willingly she would have shed every drop of blood in her veins for her. Years went by and other settlers came into the Ozarks, but they were a rough, uneducated class, and Mr. Chittenden had little in common with them. In time a Mr. Thomas Osborne settled about four miles from him. He was a northern man, well educated, and had come to the Ozarks for his health, being threatened with consumption. He had a daughter, Helen, about the age of Grace, and the two became inseparable friends. When Grace was about fifteen years of age it was evident that she would be a very beautiful woman. She was by no means an ignorant girl, for her father had employed a private teacher for her, and she was far better acquainted with the elementary branches and with books than most girls who attend fashionable boarding schools. But she was still a child of nature, the birds her best companions. The wind whispering through the forest told her wonderful stories. She could ride and shoot equal to any boy who roamed the Ozarks, and was the companion of her father as he looked after his flocks and herds. The father saw she was fast budding into womanhood, and sighed, for he felt she should know something beyond the rough life of the mountains, and, although parting from her was like tearing out his own heart, he resolved to send her to a boarding school in St. Louis. His daughter must be a lady; he had not forgotten his early life. Grace heard his decision. She had not forgotten her visit to that wonderful city five years before, and, now that she was older, thought she would like to see and know more of it. "But how can I leave you, papa?" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing kiss after kiss upon his brow. Mr. Chittenden clasped her to his breast. "It will not be for long, child," he said huskily, "and I would have my little girl a lady." "Am I not a lady, now?" she asked, pouting. "Yes, yes, Grace; but I would have you know something of the ways of society. I do not want you to be always a mountain girl. You are worthy to adorn the grandest palace in the city." "I don't want to adorn a palace. I love the valley of La Belle," she replied. "I want to live and die here." "You may think differently some day, child. It is only for your good I would have you go, for, Grace, you do not know how hard it is for me to part from you." Again the girl threw her arms around him. "Don't make me go, papa," she sobbed. "I thought I wanted to go, but I don't now. I don't want to be a fine lady. I want to stay with you." "No, Grace; it is for the best." And so it was fully decided. The time came for her to go. The parting with Helen Osborne was a tearful one, but Tilly was inconsolable. "All de sunshine will be gone frum de house," she moaned. "When Missy Grace goes, Tilly want to die." "Oh, no, Tilly; you want to be here to welcome me when I come back," said Grace. Grace was taken to St. Louis and placed in one of the most fashionable schools in the city. Lola Laselle and Dorothy Hamilton were members of the same school, but as they were day pupils, Grace did not become very well acquainted with them. Grace's gentle, unaffected ways soon made her a favorite, but there were a few of the pupils who looked down on the mountain girl as beneath them. But gentle as Grace was, there was the blood of a fiery and proud race in her veins, and she soon taught those girls she could not be snubbed with impunity. She was an apt pupil and soon became the most popular girl in the school, and the haughty ones were proud to be classed as her friends. The rules and restrictions of the school were irksome to her, and she became the leader of a bevy of girls who delighted in having a good time, and many were the little luncheons they enjoyed together after the teachers thought all good girls were in bed. One day Grace heard the girls discussing a book which at that time was creating a sensation. "It's dreadful," said one of the girls. "Every copy printed ought to be destroyed, and the woman who wrote it burned at the stake." "Have you read it?" asked one of the girls. The first girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Read it!" she exclaimed. "I would as soon touch a viper as that book." "How do you know it is bad, then?" persisted the second girl. "Because I have heard papa say so. It's all about slavery, and makes out that the people that own slaves are the wickedest people in the world. Papa says the book will cause a war yet." "My papa says," spoke up another, "that the South is going to secede, and when it does he says there may be war." "Pshaw! the Yankees will not fight," exclaimed a girl from Mississippi. "Brother Ned says they are a cowardly lot, and that one Southern gentleman can whip ten of them." The conversation now took a general turn over what would happen if war came, and it was the opinion of most of the girls that it would be just grand. Grace listened eagerly to the conversation, but took no part. So far she had given little attention to the strife which was agitating the country. Even the conflict which had raged along the borders of Missouri and Kansas had only come as a faint echo among the Ozarks. But now she asked, "What is the name of the book you girls are talking about?" "Uncle Tom's Cabin. It's a horrid book," replied one of the girls. Grace said no more, but she determined to have that book; she wanted to see what made it so terrible. The first time she had leave to go downtown she made an excuse to go into a book store and purchase a copy. She concealed it in her clothes and then made a few other purchases. "Why, Grace, what made you so long?" asked the monitor in charge of the girls when she returned. "Couldn't get waited on before," answered Grace demurely. That evening Grace swore her room-mate to eternal secrecy, and then showed her the book. The girl was horrified. "What made you buy it?" she wailed. "Why, if I should take that book home I would be arrested and sent to prison." "I am determined to see what kind of a book it is," answered Grace, doggedly. "When I see, I can burn it up if I don't like it." "I wouldn't touch it for the whole world," exclaimed her room-mate. "Burn it up. Burn it up now, Grace. What if the girls found it out! We would be disgraced, ostracized, perhaps expelled!" "If you don't tell, I will take care that no one else sees it," said Grace. The next day Grace feigned a headache, and remained in her room to read the book. That evening her room-mate asked about it. "You will never see it," replied Grace. "I looked into it and concluded you were right; it would never do for that book to be found in our room. I have destroyed it." "Grace Chittenden," cried the girl, "I believe you pretended to have a headache so you could stay in our room and read that book! I have a mind to report you. What kind of a book was it? Tell me." "Do you want me to corrupt you too, Mabel?" laughed Grace. "No; the book is destroyed, and that ends it. It is not the kind of a book I thought it was--not so horrid; but it makes one think. I am almost sorry I read it." That night Grace lay awake a long time thinking of Uncle Tom and Little Eva, and more than once she sighed, "Tilly is right. Slavery is wicked--wicked!" Grace had been in school two years when the war opened. Even the seclusion of a girl's boarding school could not help being penetrated by the fierce excitement which swept through the whole country. The streets were filled with marching troops. Many of the girls had brothers in Frost's militia. Then Camp Jackson was taken. Grace heard the distant firing, saw the surging mob in the streets, but in the midst of the excitement her father came. He had hurried to the city to take her home--to take her to the heart of the Ozarks, where he hoped the red waves of war would never come. Marion Chittenden was by nature fierce and combative, but the horror from which he had fled had so changed him that it was only when some great excitement moved him that his passions were aroused. He was a strong partisan of the South and believed the North wholly wrong. It was only his age and an injury that forbade protracted riding on horseback that kept him from offering his services to the State. Mr. Chittenden's fierce denunciation of the North alarmed Grace. What would he say if he knew she was for the Union? She resolved to keep still and say nothing. She noticed a large number of rough men calling on her father, and a great number of secret consultations were held. The first great shock came to Grace when one day her father said, "Grace, I wish you would cease visiting Helen Osborne, and by all means do not invite her here. I want no intercourse between the two families." Grace opened her eyes in astonishment. "Why, father, what is the matter?" she asked. "Osborne is a sneaking Yankee, an abolitionist, and the old fool can't keep his mouth shut." "What difference should that make as far as Helen and I are concerned?" asked Grace, her eyes flashing. Surprised at the feeling his daughter showed, Mr. Chittenden said more gently: "Grace, you do not understand, you do not realize the feeling throughout the country. To be friendly with the Osbornes would bring suspicion on me. Even your visits would be misconstrued. Do as I ask you, Grace, for my sake." She promised, though very reluctantly. More than once she resolved to tell her father her true feelings, but shrank from the ordeal. After that Grace did not leave the valley. Rough, uncouth men came to visit her father more frequently than ever, and she heard enough to know that the waves of war had rolled clear down to Springfield and that the whole State was becoming a vast armed camp. One day her father seemed much perturbed, and at last rode away in company with several men. Grace noticed they were all armed. Feeling alarmed as well as lonely, she resolved to take a ride. Ordering her favorite horse saddled, she soon was galloping down the valley towards the Osbornes. Why she took that direction she hardly knew. She rode as near to the Osbornes as she thought prudent, and was about to turn back, when she saw a great cloud of smoke arising. "It must be the Osborne house," she exclaimed, and urged her horse forward. When she came to where she could see she reined in her horse and gazed at the scene in horror. Not only was Mr. Osborne's house in flames, but his barn and outbuildings, as well as stacks of grain. But it was not so much the fire as what else she saw that made her face pale and her breath to come in gasps. A little apart from the fire stood a group of men, and in their midst Mr. Osborne, with a rope around his neck. His wife and daughter were clinging to him, and even from where Grace was their shrieks and cries for mercy reached her ears. She took one look, then struck her horse a sharp blow and, like a whirlwind, came upon the scene. Astonished, the men stood like statues. "You pretend to be men, I suppose," she cried, "and call this war. Cowards! Poltroons! Murderers!" [Illustration: "You pretend to be men and call this war!"] Just then she caught sight of her father in the group. "You too!" she gasped, and fell fainting from her horse. When she came to she was in her father's arms, the men had gone, and bending over her was Helen Osborne, bathing her face. She opened her eyes and then, shuddering, closed them again. She had looked into the face of a man stricken as unto death. "Grace, Grace," he moaned, "another such look as that will kill me. You do not understand. I was trying to save life, not take it." A shiver went through her body, but she did not open her eyes nor answer. "Grace, hear me. I am not what you think. O God!" "What did you say, father?" she whispered. "That I was trying to save Mr. Osborne, not hang him." Once more her eyes opened, but now they looked with love into her father's face. "Thank God!" she murmured, and her arms went around his neck. The strong man wept as he clasped her to his breast and kissed her again and again. "Take me home," she whispered weakly. "I feel, oh, so faint!" On the invitation of Mr. Chittenden the Osbornes accompanied him. The next day he sent them out of the country. When Grace was strong enough to hear, her father told her all. Mr. Osborne's pronounced Northern principles had made him very obnoxious to those who sympathized with the South. "It was for this reason, Grace," he said, "I forbade your visiting Helen. Even a friendly intercourse between you two would have brought suspicion on me. You cannot understand the terrible feeling towards all Yankees and those who sympathize with them. Mr. Osborne was repeatedly warned to leave the country, but he paid no attention to the warnings. Instead, he became active in giving information to the Federal authorities. Some time ago it became known that he had sent to the Federal commander at Rolla the name of every active Southern sympathizer in the country. My name was on the list as one of the leaders. "This was too much for the boys, and they decided on summary punishment, but, knowing that I was opposed to extreme means, they tried to keep what they were to do from me. I found it out and did all in my power to save him, but a vote was taken, and it was decided he should be burned out and then hanged. It was only your timely arrival that saved him. He is well out of the country now, for which I am thankful." Grace listened to his account in silence, then said: "I'm so glad, father, you tried to save him. I thought--oh, I can't tell what I thought, it was so dreadful." She then seemed struggling with herself, as if she wanted to say something and dared not. "What is it, child?" asked Mr. Chittenden gently. Looking at him with yearning eyes, she whispered, "Do you love me?" "What a question, Grace! Better than my life! You should know that!" "And will you let anything come between? Will you always love me, even if I am not what you think?" "Grace, what do you mean?" he cried, brokenly. A terrible suspicion came to him that her mind was wandering, that the shock she had received had unbalanced her reason. "Father, I must tell you. I cannot think as you do. This war is terrible, and I believe the South is all in the wrong." Mr. Chittenden could only gasp his astonishment, then he commenced laughing. "Is that all, Grace? I thought--well, it hardly matters what I thought. It was unworthy of me. But what makes you think the South is all wrong?" "I do not know as I can make you understand, but, father--I hate slavery! I think I was born with a love for freedom. I have drunk it in from my childhood. This valley, the grand old hills around it, all speak of freedom. La Belle murmurs it as her waters dance and sparkle on their way to the sea. The wind in the trees sings of freedom, the birds warble it." "Grace, you are poetic; it is only these fancies that make you think as you do." "No, father. You know I love history, and you have some good histories in your library. I have learned how slavery came into this country, how it grew; and I also know something about what is called State Rights. I believe the South claims any State has a perfect right to withdraw from the Union at pleasure." "Yes, the doctrine is true. We are no rebels." "I can't believe it. To trample on the flag of our common country is rebellion. Father, I love the starry flag. I carry it next my heart." To her father's surprise, she put her hand in her bosom and drew forth a tiny flag. "I made it, father, at school. While the other girls were making Confederate flags, I made this one." Mr. Chittenden could only say, "Thank God, you are not a boy." "Father, you do not hate me?" "No, child; I look at what you have said as only the foolish fancies of a girl. You will laugh at them yourself when you are older. But, Grace, let me ask you a question. According to your ideas I am a rebel. Does that make you love me less?" For answer she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "No, father, for you are doing what you think right. If you were in the army, riding at the head of your regiment, I would be proud of you--pray for you." "Would to God that I could," cried Mr. Chittenden, "and, old as I am, I would if it were not for this infernal rupture. But, Grace, I can never forget that look you gave me when you thought I was one of the gang about to hang Osborne. If I had been, would you still love me?" His voice trembled as he asked the question. The girl shivered and was silent for a moment, then said: "When--when I thought you were, it was as if a dagger had pierced my heart. I believe I would have died then and there if I had not learned differently. It would have been my love for you that would have killed me. To think my father was a mur----" She did not finish the sentence. A look of anguish, of terror, came into the father's face. He trembled like a leaf--what if his daughter knew his past! "What is it, father?" cried Grace in alarm. With a tremendous effort Mr. Chittenden recovered his composure. "Nothing now, Grace, but your words were so terrible. Don't say them again, Grace. I--I would die if I lost my daughter's love." "You never will, father. You are too good, too noble," and she drew his head down and kissed him again and again. Oh! the past! the past! How it stung that father as he felt his daughter's pure kisses on his brow! "Father, you are not angry with me, are you?" asked Grace, wondering at his silence. "No, darling; only, for my sake, keep your belief to yourself." "For your sake I will be just as little a Yankee as possible," answered Grace, smiling. CHAPTER XVI A WOUNDED CONFEDERATE A few days after the battle of Pea Ridge there came riding into the valley of La Belle a wounded Confederate soldier. He was mounted on a raw-boned, emaciated horse that staggered as it walked. The rider seemed as weak as the horse, for he swayed in the saddle as he rode, and the bridle reins hung limp in his hands. The soldier's left arm was supported by a dirty sling, and the front of his uniform, if uniform it could be called, showed it had been soaked in blood. The deep-set eyes of the soldier glowed with an unnatural fire, and he was muttering to himself, as if in delirium. Of his own accord, the horse turned up to the door of Mr. Chittenden's house, and that gentleman came out just in time to catch the rider as he reeled from the saddle. [Illustration: To catch the rider as he reeled from the saddle.] "He is about done for," he exclaimed as he ordered him carried in. "Tilly," he called, "here is a patient for you." The colored woman came running, and with her Grace, who looked at the wan features of the soldier with piteous eyes. "Why, father, he's nothing but a boy," she exclaimed. "Where did he come from?" "A sorry-looking horse brought him here, is all I know," replied her father. A hasty examination showed a ball had gone through the muscles of his left arm about half-way between the elbow and shoulder and then torn a great jagged wound in the breast. Tilly was a born nurse. The first thing she did was to turn to Grace and say, "Now, Missy Grace, yo' jes go 'way an' leave this boy to me. Dis is no place for a youn' lady." The next time Grace saw the boy he was lying in a clean bed, his wounds neatly dressed. His bloody uniform had disappeared and instead he had on a soft white night-shirt. As Grace looked at him, so thin and pale, her eyes filled with tears, and she murmured, "Poor boy! Poor boy! I wonder if he has a mother." Then she turned to her father and asked, "Will he get well?" "I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Chittenden. "He is not only badly wounded, but has a raging fever. I have sent for Doctor Hart. He will do all he can for him." Doctor Hart lived miles away, and it was not until the next day he arrived. After examining the boy he said, "The wounds are bad, very bad. Without the fever, I would say he had a chance, but now I can hold out little hope. Who is he?" "I know no more than you," replied Mr. Chittenden, and related how the boy came. "Strange, very strange!" said the Doctor. "These wounds have the appearance of having been inflicted several days ago, and yet I have heard of no fighting near by. Must have been shot in a brawl." "There is the battle of Pea Ridge; you know we have just heard of it." "Mercy, man! what are you talking about! It must be between one and two hundred miles to where that battle was fought. I do not see how this boy could have ridden ten miles with the wounds he has. He must be a spunky chap, and I will do the best I can for him; but I reckon, Chittenden, you will have a funeral on your hands in a day or two." But the young soldier did not die, although it was Tilly's careful nursing rather than the skill of the doctor that saved him. For two days he tossed in delirium, and then the fever left him and he began to mend. Tilly was assiduous in her attentions, and until he was out of danger could hardly be persuaded to leave the bedside, even for rest. When the wounded soldier became well enough to talk he told his story to Mr. Chittenden. He said his name was Mark Grafton, that his parents were dead, and that he had no living relatives who cared for him. "I am all alone in the world," he said, "and, Mr. Chittenden, if you had let me die there would have been no one to weep." "Are you as friendless as that?" asked Mr. Chittenden. "As friendless as that! I am nothing but a poor private soldier," answered Mark. He then went on and told how he had been with Price from the beginning, how he had fought at Wilson Creek and Lexington and numerous other engagements. "But at Pea Ridge----" Mark stopped and sighed. "Pea Ridge!" cried Mr. Chittenden. "Was it at Pea Ridge you received your wounds?" Mark nodded. "And you rode all the distance from there here, wounded as you were? It seems impossible." "I reckon I must," said Mark; "but I remember little about it. It was this way: We whipped them the first day; that is, Price's army did. Before the battle, McCullough's men--and he had a larger army than Price--made fun of our appearance and said they would show us how to fight, but they ran like sheep, while we drove the Yankees before us. We thought the victory ours. But with McCullough out of the way, the next morning the whole Yankee army attacked us, and we had to retreat. The retreat became a rout. I was wounded and left on the field for dead. When I came to it was night and the stars were shining. I staggered to my feet and was fortunate enough to catch a stray horse and, by taking a defile through the hills, was able to get away. I stopped at a house and had my wounds roughly dressed. It was reported that the Yankee cavalry were scouring the country, picking up the fugitives, and, although I was so weak from my wounds I could hardly stand, I determined to push on. Then my head began to feel strange: I saw all sorts of things. From that time until I came to and found myself here, I have no remembrance, how I got here, or how long it was after the battle." "The battle had been fought about two weeks when you put in an appearance," said Mr. Chittenden. "I must have stopped, and got some rest during that time," said Mark. "But where--it's all a blank. I feel I owe my life to you, Mr. Chittenden. Not many would be as kind to a poor friendless soldier as you have been to me. I feel----" "No thanks, my boy; you must stay with us until you get entirely well." "I reckon I will have to," replied Mark, with a smile. "I don't feel much like traveling." There seemed to be something troubling Mark, and at last he asked Mr. Chittenden what had become of the clothes he wore when he came. "Burnt up, Mark." Mark gave a convulsive start and looked as if he were going to faint. "There, don't worry; I'll see you have much better ones; those you wore were in awful condition," replied Mr. Chittenden. "But--but what became of what was in the pockets?" Mark asked the question with a visible effort to appear calm. "All safe, nothing disturbed. I gave orders that nothing should be touched until we saw whether you lived or died." Mark looked relieved, but he only said: "There is nothing to worry about; but I had a little money in my pockets, and it might have been taken from me while I was wandering, not myself." "We will see," said Mr. Chittenden, and he got the articles which had been taken from Mark's clothing. Mark hastily glanced them over and said, "It's all right. I am glad there is money enough here to pay you, in part, for your trouble." "None of that, Mark. I will throw you out of the house if you ever say pay again. In fact, I would take it as an insult," said Mr. Chittenden. Mark said no more, but, glancing over the articles, he abstracted two or three papers, and handed the rest back to Mr. Chittenden, asking him to keep them for him. No sooner was he gone than Mark called Tilly and handed her the papers he had kept, asking her if she would not burn them. "Don't let anyone see them, Tilly, and burn them right away." "Dat what I will," said Tilly, taking them. "And, Tilly, don't say anything about it to anyone." "Honey boy kin trust Tilly," exclaimed the woman as she turned to hurry away, highly pleased that she had been trusted with a secret errand. "I can now rest easy," murmured Mark, as he closed his eyes and went to sleep. One day as Tilly was administering to his wants Mark said, "Tilly, I don't know, but it seems as if I have seen you somewhere before, but for the life of me I can't remember where." "Dat is jes what I said 'bout yo', Marse Mark," cried Tilly, her face brightening. "I said shorely I hev seen dat boy somewhar. It jes 'peared to me that Tilly had held yo' in her arms some time, an' Tilly tuk yo' to her ole heart right away, an' she grab yo' when de ole deth angel had hole of yo', and she sed, 'Go 'way, ole deth angel, dis is mah boy,' an' she tuk yo' right out of de clutches of dat ole deth angel, she did, an' now yo' air mah boy." Mark smiled as he said, "Yes, Tilly, I believe you did cheat the death angel, and if anyone has a claim on me, you have. I shall always remember you." "An' Missy Grace, she helped too," cried Tilly. "Yo' mustn't forgit Missy Grace." "I shall never forget her," replied Mark, and there was more meaning in his words than Tilly thought. That night Mark lay thinking over what Tilly had said about holding him in her arms, and suddenly he remembered. "She is right," he almost sobbed. "She has held me in her arms, but she must never know." At last the day came when Mark could sit in a chair on the porch and look out over the beautiful valley and stately hills. The valley was arrayed in all the freshness and loveliness of spring; La Belle was murmuring her sweetest music. "What a lovely valley you have here," he said to Mr. Chittenden. "One should be perfectly happy here--so peaceful, so beautiful, so far removed from the unrest and turmoil of the world." "You talk like a philosopher, young man," replied Mr. Chittenden, laughing. "Not many of the world would like it; the mass of mankind prefer the rush and roar of the cities. There is little room for ambition here. The world would never have grown to what it is if all preferred to live as I do. Yet I would live nowhere else. Yes, it is very quiet here, or was before the war." "Has the war disturbed you much?" asked Mark. "Yes, a great deal. As yet there has been no fighting nearer than Frederickstown, but the hills are full of small guerrilla bands, I would not be surprised to have a Federal cavalry force visit us any day. I try to impress on the boys that it would be better if they were in the army fighting, but few of them care to become regular soldiers." Mark said no more, but sat apparently buried in deep thought. It was not to be expected that Mark had remained at Mr. Chittenden's all of this time without him and Grace becoming fast friends. Mark was so different from what she had expected when he represented himself as a poor, homeless private soldier, that it puzzled her. "There is a mystery about him," she said to herself, "and I am going to find out what it is. Whatever he is now, he was raised a gentleman." As for Mark, he almost regretted he was getting well. The girl had come to fill a large share of his thoughts. He had also learned some things that surprised him. He had heard Grace and Tilly talk when he was lying, as they thought, asleep, and he knew that Grace's heart was with the North, and not the South, and that she hated slavery. One day Tilly told Grace a story that caused every nerve in his body to tingle, and he scarcely could keep from crying out. Mark was very curious to know whether or not Mr. Chittenden was cognizant of his daughter's heresy, and soon found that he was, but that he looked upon it as a mere girlish whim. As Mark grew stronger he and Mr. Chittenden grew very intimate, and he never tired to hear Mark tell of how he had fought with Price at Wilson Creek, at Lexington, and at Pea Ridge. In turn he confided to Mark that his house was what might be called a station between Missouri and Arkansas. The route through the valley of La Belle was little known to Federals, and practically unguarded. It touched no towns in their possession, and thus left an almost uninterrupted gateway between the two States. Mark soon noticed that a good many Confederate officers were making their way north, and he learned that a gigantic conspiracy was on foot, but, being only a private soldier, he was not taken into their confidence. One day there came to the house on his way north the same Colonel Clay spoken of in our first chapter. He noticed and asked about Mark, and, when told, exclaimed, "Remarkable! I would like to speak to him." He made Mark tell him the whole story. Not only this, but by questioning he learned that Mark had not only a keen knowledge of military affairs but was wonderfully well informed as to the army. "It's a shame you were kept in the ranks. You should be an officer," cried Clay. "All can not be officers, and I was content to serve my country in the most humble capacity," modestly replied Mark. "Alas! I am afraid I can serve her no more." And he touched his wounded arm. "I don't know about that," said Colonel Clay. "You may be able to serve your country even in a greater capacity than you yet have. I have some important documents which I would like to get into St. Louis to certain parties. I will not deny that if you were caught with them on your person it would be certain death; but I believe you are both brave and shrewd." "The boy is not able," spoke up Mr. Chittenden. "He has not been out of bed more than a week. His wounds are not healed yet." "So much the better," said Clay. "If he can ride, he can get through where a well man can not." "I will go. A man can die but once, and it is for my country." As Mark said this his eyes fairly seemed to shine. "Bravely spoken, my lad," cried Clay. "Would we had more like you!" So it was arranged that Mark was to make the dangerous journey. "Why do you do this, Mark?" asked Grace when he went to bid her good-bye. "It is for my country," answered Mark. "You mean it is to help destroy your country. I despise the cause for which you fight." "Yes, I know; your father told me." "You knew, and never let on?" "Why should I?" "Because father says I am a traitor to the South." "Grace, if I never come back, remember that there is one who never will despise you, believe what you will." "Take it easy," said Clay to Mark as he started to ride away. "Don't overtax your strength. Two or three days will not matter much." Colonel Clay had liberally supplied Mark with money for the journey; in fact, the Colonel seemed to have plenty of money. "Clay, I don't like it. You should never have sent him," said Mr. Chittenden. "I am afraid he never will live to see St. Louis, and I have grown fond of the boy. We raised him, as it were, from the dead." "Never fear," replied the Colonel. "The same grit that brought him here will take him to St. Louis. If he dies after he gets there--well, it won't matter much. His mission will be done, and it may mean the redemption of the State. What is one life to that?" Grace overheard the heartless remark, and a fierce anger seized her. It was well the Colonel left the next day, for she resolutely refused to serve him or sit at the same table with him. The days passed. Two weeks passed, and then three, and Mark had not returned. Grace grew restless, her father anxious, and Tilly kept asking, "Whar is mah boy?" But one day Mark appeared. He was riding slowly, so slowly, and his face was flushed. It was seen the fever had him again. "Help me off." His voice was almost a whisper. He was helped off, and almost carried into the house, and it was some weeks before he was able to leave it. "I do not regret the journey," he said to Mr. Chittenden. "I was entirely successful in my mission, and I rejoice that I was able to do something for my country, wounded as I am." During his convalescence this time, Grace was with him a good deal. She sang and read to him, and Mark thought he never had heard a voice so sweet. Even the hand of Tilly was not so gentle and soothing on his fevered brow as was the hand of Grace. By the first of August he had nearly recovered, but with August came Colonel Clay, returning to the South. He was in a towering rage, for all his planning had come to naught. The defeat of Porter at Moore's Mill, and then his complete overthrow at Kirksville, the dispersion of Poindexter's army, and his capture, ended all his hopes of capturing Missouri by a partisan uprising. But one hope remained to him--that the movement in Southwest Missouri might be successful and Independence and Lexington captured. If so, the blow must be struck, and struck quickly. It had been ordered, but Colonel Clay was afraid it would not be struck quickly enough. Therefore when he saw Mark his face brightened. "Ah, my boy, I learned weeks ago that your mission was entirely successful. You are a faithful courier, and I have another job for you." "The one he had nearly proved the death of him," spoke up Mr. Chittenden. "The hardships of the trip were too much for him, and he lay for days with a return of the fever." "He must go; I can trust no one else," cried Clay. "He is a soldier. I command him." "I need no commands. I will go," said Mark proudly, drawing himself up. "That's the talk. I knew I could depend on you," replied Clay. When Grace learned Mark was to go again, she solemnly assured him that if he did and got the fever, he would have to look for someone else to nurse him, but her voice trembled and tears gathered in her eyes as she bade him good-bye. As for Mark, he only said as he rode away, "God bless you, if I never see you again." After Mark had gone Colonel Clay apologized to Mr. Chittenden for sending him, saying there were so few he could trust with so delicate a mission. Then with an oath he exclaimed, "Chittenden, there is a traitor somewhere. Schofield got hold of our entire plans in regard to this uprising. If I only knew who it was." He brought his fist down with a resounding blow on the table beside which they were sitting. "Have you any suspicion?" asked Mr. Chittenden. "No, it is some one high up, but I'll get him yet." The next day Colonel Clay continued on his way to the south. In a few days he had the satisfaction of hearing that Independence was taken and Foster defeated. But a little later came the discouraging news that the Confederate forces in Southwest Missouri were again in full retreat for Arkansas. This time Mark was not gone as long as before but he returned in a weak and exhausted condition. When Colonel Clay went away he left orders for Mark to join him in Arkansas on his return. "I shall do no such thing. He has no right to order me," exclaimed Mark. "What I have done I have done of my own volition." "Good for you, Mark," said Mr. Chittenden. "Stay right here and get entirely well. Then you can help me, as I have some important orders to fill for supplies for General Hindman." "Thank you. You are very kind," replied Mark. "So kind that I am afraid I shall trespass on your hospitality longer than is well." As he said it, his eyes wandered over to where Grace was sitting. CHAPTER XVII TRAILING RED JERRY Lawrence sat reading a letter. It was from Harry and told of his adventures since their parting. It closed as follows: "Captain, I want to come to you. Bruno and I are becoming too well known in this section. Then it has been very quiet here since Porter and most of his men fled south. I understand General McNeil and most of his force have been ordered to Southeastern Missouri, so there is little here for me to do. Try and get me transferred if you can. I have a mate now, a boy about my age, by the name of Jack Harwood. He is a good one, and is crazy to come with me. See if you can't get him transferred too." Dan came in just as Lawrence finished reading the letter. "What do you think of that, Dan?" asked Lawrence, handing it to him. Dan read it. "Don't see what you can do for him when you can't keep me," said Dan, lugubriously. He had been in the dumps ever since he thought that he and Lawrence might have to part. "Cheer up, Dan," said Lawrence. "I have good news for you. General Schofield finds so much requiring his attention that he will not be able to take the field in person for some time yet. He has requested me to take a force of fifty men and scout down through the Ozarks and then make my way to General Blount in Northwest Arkansas. Of course, you will go with me." Dan was so excited that he took three chews of tobacco, one right after the other. "You can send for Harry now, can't you?" asked Dan. "Yes, and to please him I will also ask for a transfer for that mate of his. He must be a good one to have Harry like him so well." Lawrence had no trouble in getting Harry Semans and Jack Harwood, scouts, transferred to his command. When the transfer came Harry was overjoyed, and lost no time in reporting at Rolla, where Lawrence was organizing his company. "Hello, you here already?" cried Lawrence, as Harry made his appearance. "Mighty glad to see you and Bruno, too. How are you, old fellow?" and Lawrence patted the dog's head and heartily shook the paw extended to him. "Here is Jack, Captain, you mustn't forget him," said Harry introducing his companion. "Ah! Jack, glad to meet you," said Lawrence so heartily and cheerily that Jack's heart was at once won. "Anyone that Harry recommends needs nothing more. You are more than welcome." "I can never hope to equal Harry," replied Jack, modestly, "but where he leads I can follow." "The trouble is he wants to go ahead where there is danger," laughed Harry. "I reckon I will have to put leading strings on both of you," replied Lawrence, with a smile. Just as Lawrence was ready to start for the Ozarks he received a message from General Schofield, saying that Red Jerry and his band were making a great deal of trouble along the Osage; that he had lately surprised and nearly annihilated a force of seventy-five men under a Captain Dunlay, and that the victory had encouraged him to commit further excesses. "Can't you go and teach him a lesson he won't forget, before you start for the Ozarks?" asked the General. "Here, what do you think of this, Dan?" asked Lawrence, handing the message to his lieutenant. "Let's go by all means," replied Dan, his face brightening. "I am just aching to get a chance at that fellow." "The same here," exclaimed Lawrence. Hearing that Captain Dunlay, who had been in command of the force Red Jerry had routed, was in Rolla, Lawrence hunted him up to learn all he could of his whereabouts, and the supposed number of his band. When Dunlay heard Lawrence was to go after Red Jerry with fifty men he was astonished. "Captain," he exclaimed, "It's suicidal! Your force will simply be exterminated. Red Jerry has at least two hundred men and they fight like devils." "Never mind the number of his men, or how they fight," said Lawrence. "What I want to know is where I will be most likely to find him." "I can tell you where I found him," snapped Dunlay, nettled at what Lawrence had said, "and I wish you joy when you meet him." "No offence, Captain," replied Lawrence. "Just tell me what you know about his hiding places." The Captain told all he knew, and when Lawrence thanked him and went away, Dunlay turned to a brother officer standing by and remarked, "That young popinjay will be wiser before many days." The next morning Lawrence was on his way bright and early. It was not until the afternoon of the second day that he began to hear anything of Red Jerry. He then learned that he had attacked and was chasing a small scouting party towards Versailles. "Dan, we are in luck," said Lawrence. "Jerry will not be expecting a force from this way, and we may meet him on the way back." The meeting took place quicker than Lawrence expected. Towards evening there came from the front the sound of several shots, and in a few minutes Harry Semans, who was in command of the advance guard, came galloping up. "Guerrillas ahead, Captain," he reported. "How many?" "I only saw four, but I reckon there are more back. Bruno had hardly given a warning of danger ahead when these four came around a bend in the road at full gallop. They seemed surprised at seeing us, and after firing one volley wheeled their horses and went tearing back. The boys were eager to pursue, but I held them back, fearing an ambuscade." "You did right, Harry. We have a wary foe to contend with, up to all sorts of tricks. We can't be too careful." Leaving the troop in charge of Dan, Lawrence rode forward with Harry to where the advance had halted. "Seen anyone since I left?" asked Harry. "No, but that dog of yours acts mighty queer." "Plenty of rebs around then? Hello! There's a couple." Two horsemen had appeared around the bend. When they noticed they had been discovered they halted and one of them, who was on a magnificent gray horse, raised a field glass to his eyes. "Don't fire, boys, the distance is too great and I want to look at them," said Lawrence. Lawrence took a look through his glasses and after a moment exclaimed, "Jerry Alcorn, as I live, on that gray horse. The one with him is a young fellow. Well, we have found the game we came after." At the same time Jerry was saying to his companion, "I know that fellow, Agnes.[15] Curse the luck. It's Lawrence Middleton. It's run now instead of fight. Where in the world did he come from? and how did he get here?" [Footnote 15: Jerry called his wife Agnes only when they were alone. At other times she was known as Billy and called so by his men.] "Don't let's run until we have to," replied Billy. "This Middleton is the fellow who cut your command all to pieces last fall, is he not?" "Yes, and the same one who run me out of St. Louis; but I hold no grudge against him for that, for if he had not I never would have met you. The ----" This exclamation was caused by Lawrence and the advance guard charging down upon them. Lawrence had come to the conclusion that the guerrillas were surprised and totally unprepared for a fight. This was true. They were returning from their pursuit of the scouting party and were strung out a long distance along the road. Wheeling their horses, Jerry and Billy rode madly back and after them thundered Lawrence and the guard. When they turned the bend in the road Lawrence saw a sight that made his heart thrill. On each side of the road for over a mile there were open fields. Scattered along the road for the whole distance was Jerry's band riding at leisure. "Tell Dan to bring forward the whole troop at full gallop," shouted Lawrence. Eager for the fray the troopers came. Jerry saw his danger and was wildly gesticulating for his men to turn back. They understood, and wheeling their horses, in a moment were in full retreat. The troop came up and the order "Charge" was given. Soon the hindmost of the guerrillas and the foremost of the Federals began to exchange shots. A guerrilla's horse went down, but the rider scrambled to his feet and was over the fence and running like a deer when a carbine rang out and he fell, all crumpled up, and lay still. Lawrence saw one of his men reel and then fall forward, clutching his horse's neck. Some of the guerrillas riding the fleetest horses formed a rear guard, and taking advantage of every rise of ground would hold the advance of the Federals back as long as possible. The chase had continued some three miles, when the road became narrow and lined with bushes on each side. Jerry saw his opportunity; he knew the pursuit must be checked, or his whole band would be captured or dispersed. As it was, he had already lost six or seven men. He dashed to the head of the column and quickly gave orders. As the men passed him, three would spring from their horses and disappear in the brush, the fourth one riding on with the horses. The road through the brush was a winding one, and Jerry was in hopes the Federals might not see what was being done and ride into the trap. Mounted men would have but little chance in that narrow road against an enemy concealed in the brush. But Lawrence was not to be caught. He saw the opportunity afforded for just such a move; not only this, but he caught sight of the last of the guerrillas as they were disappearing in the brush. "Halt!" he ordered. His men drew rein, wondering why they were halted. When the column closed up, Lawrence ordered half of the men to dismount, form a skirmish line on each side of the road and to advance cautiously. This was done, and soon the crack of the carbines and revolvers showed that the guerrillas had been aroused, and then the cheers of his men told Lawrence the enemy were retreating. Jerry had failed to draw the Federals into his trap, but he had saved his gang, for night was now near at hand and it would have been madness for Lawrence to continue the pursuit in the darkness. Lawrence went into camp near a farmhouse, where he noticed there was plenty of provender for the horses. The house was tenanted by a woman and three children. At the sight of the Yankees the children shrieked in terror and ran cowering behind their mother, who tried to preserve a brave front, but could not conceal her fears. By questioning, Lawrence became convinced her husband was one of Jerry's band, but he quieted her fears by saying, "There is no reason for you to be alarmed. Your house will not be disturbed. I will see that no soldier enters it. What feed the horses need I will take. I also see some fat pigs. I shall let my men kill one. Some sweet potatoes may be dug and a few chickens killed, but nothing will be taken that we do not actually need, and nothing will be destroyed. But for all I know we may be attacked. My advice is to go into the house, bar the door and keep quiet." Lawrence had had two men wounded in the _mêlée_ and they were as tenderly cared for as possible. The men were soon busy preparing supper, and chicken, fresh pork and sweet potatoes added to their rations, made, as they thought, a banquet fit for a king. All were in the highest spirits as they discussed the incidents of the day. "I tell you," said one, "that young Captain of ours is a good one. Not many would have discovered that ambuscade, and we would have ridden plumb into it." In this they were all agreed, and when they saw the preparations that Lawrence made to guard against a surprise at night they became convinced, more than ever, that their Captain was all right. As for the guerrillas, they felt when night came that they were safe; but Red Jerry was wild with rage. As soon as he became convinced that the pursuit was over he called a halt. If he wished, he could have been miles away by morning, and out of all danger, but he did not wish. He was burning for revenge. He detailed two of his best men to go back and find where the Yankees camped and then report as soon as possible. Runners were also sent out through the country to bring in all the men they could. By morning he believed he could rally at least a hundred men. "They have not over fifty," said Jerry, as he discussed the matter with his officers. "If we can't whip them we had better go out of business. I will have revenge or die in the attempt. We will wait until Carter and Holmes report, then lay our plans." Lawrence, like Jerry, was not satisfied with what had been done. After supper, when the men sat around discussing the results of the day, he said nothing, but sat buried in thought. "Why so glum, Captain?" asked Dan. "Has anything gone wrong?" "Yes," replied Lawrence. "We have just scorched the guerrillas instead of capturing or dispersing them, and by morning they will be miles away. I look upon our expedition as a failure." "Pardon me, Captain," spoke up Harry, "but I believe you are mistaken when you say the guerrillas will be miles away in the morning. Instead, I look for an attack tonight or in the morning." "What makes you think so?" asked Lawrence. "In the first place, from what you tell me of Red Jerry, I do not think he is a man that will run away so easily. Then through that open country he had a good opportunity to ascertain our strength. He knows as well as you that we do not number over fifty. I took care to estimate his strength and he has about eighty. By morning he will have a hundred. Instead of running away, I am confident he is not over three miles from us, laying plans as to how he can get his revenge." "Do you really think so, Harry?" asked Lawrence, rising. "I not only think so, but I am going to know so." "But how?" "By going to see. By tracking them to their lair." "How many men will you need to go with you?" asked Lawrence. "I want Jack only. Bruno, of course, will be one of the party. More would be in the way. Come on, Jack." "Aren't you going to take your horses?" cried Lawrence, seeing they were making preparation to start away on foot. "Horses are no use on this scout. I hope to sneak up on them." "Harry, I hate to see you go," said Lawrence, with feeling. "Poof! I have had many a more dangerous job than this, but if we are not back by midnight, you may know something has happened. Come on, Jack." The two boys and the dog were quickly swallowed up in the darkness. The men watched them as they went, and shook their heads. "Cap oughtn't to have let them go," said one. "Don't worry," said Dan. "The boys can take care of themselves, and they have Bruno." It was well they had Bruno, for after going a mile the dog turned up a road that crossed the one they were on. "We would have gone right on," said Harry. "It's funny how much more a dog knows about some things than a man." After following the cross-road a space they saw the dim lights of a house ahead. They also became aware there were dogs on the place. Bruno began to bristle up. "Quiet, old boy, no fuss," said Harry. Bruno obeyed and walked meekly by his side. But the dogs of the house barked so furiously that two men came out. Harry and Jack sought shelter in a clump of bushes by the roadside. It was starlight and objects could be distinguished some distance away. The dogs began leading the men directly to where Harry and Jack lay. With revolvers in their hands, the boys waited. They knew a shot might destroy the object of their scout, but saw no way out of it. Just at this moment a rabbit scurried across the road, and the dogs, with yelps of delight, took after it. "Them blame dawgs," growled one of the men, "to make all that fuss over a rabbit. But, Hicks, we 'uns might as well git our hosses an' be goin'." Just then two horsemen came galloping down the road. They halted at the sight of the two men and one cried, "Why, Sloan and Hicks, what's up? Why aren't you with Red Jerry?" "Jes' goin' to start," said Sloan. "Whar hev' yo' uns been?" "Watching the Yanks. We're on our way to report to Jerry. Hicks, the Yanks are camped on your place." "What's that? The Yanks camped on my place!" cried Hicks. "Sure. Reckon you'll be short on fodder and pork and sweet 'taters by morning." "The ole woman and children?" gasped Hicks. "Reckon they're all right, seeing their natural protector is not at home. The Yanks won't hurt them. Git your hosses and come on. We've been gone too long now. Jerry will give us the devil for not reporting before." As he was speaking horsemen were heard approaching from the other direction, and in a moment Jerry and Billy rode up. "Is that you, Stevens?" Jerry demanded angrily. "Yes," was the hesitating reply. "I have a notion to have you cashiered for dawdling along the road. You know everything depends on your report. I've been waiting an hour." Stevens was Jerry's lieutenant and he did not relish the idea of losing his office. "Captain, I came as quickly as I could," he responded meekly. "You told us to make a thorough examination, and that took time. I arrived here just a moment ago. Sloan halted me, saying his dogs were making a fuss. Then he asked us to wait a minute; saying they would get their hosses and come with us." "Well, what did you find?" "The Yanks have gone into camp on Hicks' farm. They seem to be making free with Hicks' fodder, pigs and 'taters (here Hicks was heard to groan), and it looks as if they intended to stay all night." "What do you say, Billy? Shall we attack them there?" asked Jerry. "Stevens saw how they were situated. Let's hear what he thinks." "We might whip them, but it would be a costly job," answered Stevens. "We had a taste of how they can fight this afternoon. My advice is to let them alone tonight and they will think we have run entirely away. When they are not attacked nor hear anything from us, they will move out kind of careless." "Then your idea is to attack them in the morning?" asked Jerry. "Yes, and I know a capital place. It is where this road crosses the main road. This side of the main road is covered with bushes for about two hundred yards, then come clear fields. Along the edge of the fields the ground descends this way. We can leave our horses in the field, the men hide in the brush along the road, and when they come along we can annihilate them with one volley." "What do you think of the plan, Billy?" asked Jerry. "It's all right. If it works well we ought to finish them without the loss of a man. Even if they discover us, we will have the advantage of position, and we have two men to their one. If we cannot whip them I shall lose my confidence in you as a fighter." "Well said, Billy. Tomorrow morning it is. I will never rest until I leave the body of Lawrence Middleton swinging on a tree." Then turning to his lieutenant, Jerry said, "As you know the ground, Stevens, I will leave the details to you. See the troop is on the ground by daylight. Mind you don't fail me." Thus speaking, Jerry and Billy rode back and in a few moments were followed by the other four. As soon as the sound of their horses' hoofs died away, Harry drew a long breath. "I say, Jack," he exclaimed, "this is a cinch. Got all we want without half trying. Now to camp as quick as we can." They started back on the run, but Bruno soon gave notice of danger and they hid while four men passed them. "Recruits for Jerry," said Harry. "He may have two hundred men by morning." When they came to the main road both were breathing heavily from their run. "Let's stop here a moment," panted Harry. "Here is where they propose to ambush us, and a jolly good place it is for the job. But let's hurry on. Cap can't learn of this too quick." Again they started on the run, and did not stop until they were halted by the picket guarding the road. CHAPTER XVIII LIVE--I CANNOT SHOOT YOU "Back so soon!" cried Lawrence, grasping Harry's hand, as he came up. "Thank God you are back safe!" "Never had an easier job, did we, Jack?" laughed Harry. "Even Bruno is ashamed of himself, it was so easy." "And you found out what you were after?" "Yes," and Harry told his story. Lawrence and Dan listened in silence. "What do you think, Dan?" asked Lawrence. "I reckon it's fight or run. When Jerry finds he cannot surprise us, he will attack us openly." "I don't feel like running," said Lawrence. "Well, I don't feel inclined that way myself," said Dan, resorting to his tobacco box. "Why can't we occupy that ambush ourselves?" spoke up Harry, "and let Jerry be the one to be surprised." "Didn't Jerry leave men on guard?" asked Lawrence, eagerly. "No, but he may send guards there. If we think of occupying that ground it must be done at once." The proposition was eagerly discussed, but there were obstacles in the way. Not only were there their own two wounded men, but they had picked up and were caring for six wounded guerrillas. After a short discussion it was decided to leave the camp in charge of ten men. If they were attacked they were to take refuge in a log barn, and defend it until the rest of the troop could come to their rescue. Dan, much to his chagrin, was left in charge of the camp. "It's no use kicking, Dan," said Lawrence. "I cannot risk going unless you stay, and the boys left here would rebel if you did not stay." So Dan had to remain, much as he wished a hand in the fray. The ten men to remain were chosen, and the rest of the troop told to get ready to move. "Be as quiet as possible," said Lawrence. "We have not far to go; walk your horses, don't talk, and above all things, don't allow your arms to rattle." As silent as specters of the night the troop moved away, Harry, Jack, and Bruno in advance to see if the coast was still clear. They reached the cross roads without either seeing or hearing anything of the enemy. "It's all right, Captain, so far," whispered Harry, as the head of the troop came up, "but we must get into position as soon as possible, for there is no knowing how soon some of the guerrillas may make their appearance." A hasty examination showed the position all that could be wished. The troop rode up the cross road until the bushes were cleared, and then filed into the open field. Here the men dismounted, and the horses were led back into the brush, where they could easily be concealed. The men then were placed in single line in the edge of the brush facing the open field. A slight ridge in front protected them from observation. Thus the preparations of Lawrence were exactly the reverse of what Jerry had planned. In an incredibly short time the troop was in position. "Now," said Harry, "Jack and I will hide in the brush close to where the roads cross. If guards are sent there is where they will be stationed, and I want to be close enough to hear what they say." Order was given to maintain a strict silence and to molest no one passing along either road. It was well that all the preparations had been made expeditiously, for hardly had Harry and Jack taken their position when horsemen were heard approaching down the cross road, and soon the shadowy forms of four men appeared. They halted where the roads crossed and one said, "The orders are that Brown and I stay here while Hayden, you and Singleton are to ride towards the Yankee camp until you reach the rise where you can look down the road to the camp. Don't go any nearer, for we don't want them to know we are within forty miles of them. If the Yanks show signs of moving, report immediately. Better have Singleton report every hour, anyway." "All right, Sergeant," replied Hayden. "You may be sure Singleton and I will keep our eyes open." And they rode away. The men left fell to talking. "Mighty quiet," said one. "Yes, but if everything goes right it won't be so quiet when the Yanks move. Why, if the Yanks ride into the trap, we ought to kill every last son of them at the first fire." Harry and Jack lay chuckling as they listened. In about an hour the man called Singleton came riding back. "The Yanks are there yet," he reported, "but they are keeping mighty quiet. There's a dim fire burning and we can catch the shadow of one once in a while. "That's where Jerry wants them to stay. He was afraid they might take a notion to light out during the night." Singleton rode back and again all was quiet. The Federals lay sleeping, their guns in their hands and revolvers by their sides. It would take but a word to bring them to attention. About four o'clock the trampling of horses told the guerrillas were coming. In a whisper the word was passed and in an instant every man was alert. But the guerrillas halted some distance from the main road and only three rode forward. They were Jerry, Stevens and Billy. "How is it, Sergeant?" asked Jerry as they came up. "As quiet as a churchyard. Hayden and Singleton are down the road watching if the Yanks move. I have Singleton report every hour. There he comes now." Singleton rode up. "The Yanks are beginning to stir," he reported. "They are building fires, no doubt to make coffee. It makes my mouth water to think of coffee." "You men will have coffee enough before long, but there'll be a lot of blood spilling first," said Jerry. "Sergeant, what time was it when you reached this post?" he asked suddenly. "I should say somewhere near midnight," answered the Sergeant. "Then the Yankees could have moved before you got here. Stevens, I thought I told you to have this cross-roads guarded and the Yankee camp watched as soon as we decided to attack. Slow, as usual. If this thing goes wrong, you pay for it." "You know, Captain, it was eleven o'clock before I received orders to post the guard," said Stevens uneasily. "Well, we have no time to lose now. Go back, have the force moved into the field and see that instructions are carried out to the letter. Sergeant, you call in your men and join the force." While these orders were being carried out Jerry and Billy lingered a minute looking over the field. "Couldn't be a better place for an ambuscade," said Jerry. "If the Yanks ride into it, not a man will come out alive." "Hark!" suddenly exclaimed Billy. "What is it?" asked Jerry, startled. "I thought a heard a horse stamping." "It's Hayden and Singleton coming in from guard." "No, it was over there to the left, in the bushes. I'm sure I heard it." Both gazed anxiously into the bushes, as if to pierce the secret they contained. Harry's heart stood still; was the ambuscade to be discovered at the last minute? But the wind had risen, and nothing was heard but the rustling of the leaves. "I reckon you must have been mistaken," said Jerry. "Perhaps," replied Billy, with a sigh. "Jerry, I don't know why, but I feel as if everything is not right. You have told me so much about this Lawrence Middleton that I am afraid." "Afraid of what?" "I don't know. What if he should discover this ambuscade?" "I will fight him anyway. I now have over a hundred men and he has less than fifty. It will mean some loss to us, but we will have no trouble in beating him." By this time Hayden and Singleton came up. They reported the Yankees were still in camp, but showed signs of moving. "We have no time to lose then," said Jerry. The gray dawn was just breaking in the east when the guerrillas filed into the field and formed their line. "Move forward!" ordered Jerry, "until you nearly reach the crest of the ridge, then halt and dismount, leaving the horses in charge of every fourth man. The rest of you advance through the brush until you nearly reach the road. Be sure you are well concealed. When the enemy comes along take good aim at the man directly in front of you, and at the command, fire. Let not a shot be fired until the command is given. Give no quarter. Shoot the wounded as you come to them. But if you can capture the Yankee captain alive do so. I will have my reckoning with him afterwards. And it will be a reckoning that will make the devil laugh." Every word of this was heard by Lawrence and his men, and the men fairly gnashed their teeth as they listened. It boded no good to the guerrillas that fell into their hands. The guerrillas moved forward until about seventy-five paces from the waiting Federals. The order was given them to dismount, and the men not holding the horses moved forward and formed into line. Lawrence was going to wait until they were over the ridge, but before he gave the order to advance, Lieutenant Stevens walked towards the bushes as if to reconnoiter, and a few more steps would have taken him into the midst of the Federals. "Fire!" cried Lawrence. The men sprang to their feet and poured in a crashing volley. Then with a wild cheer, without waiting for orders, they sprang forward, revolvers in hand, and sent a leaden hail into the demoralized mass. The effect was awful; men and horses went down. Never was surprise more complete. From out the struggling mass came the groans of the dying and the shrieks of the wounded and terror-stricken. Horses reared and plunged, trampling on the dead and living. Many fled on foot across the fields, others mounting in wild haste spurred their horses. But one thought filled the minds of all--to get away from that awful place. Lawrence had given orders for the men holding the horses to rush forward at the first volley, so his men were almost as quickly mounted as the guerrillas. In vain did Jerry and Billy try to stem the tide and rally the men. They were forced to join in the flight. It now became a matter of single combat. Each trooper selected his victim and pursued him until he surrendered, or was shot down fighting. Those who had fled on foot were first overtaken and then those who had the poorest mounts. Lawrence passed several, but he gave them no heed. He had but one thought, to find Jerry Alcorn. At last he saw him mounted on his magnificent gray horse. He was shouting to the men to take to the woods--to abandon their horses--to save themselves if possible. Lawrence bore down upon him. Jerry saw him coming, and with a roar like a cornered beast, turned to face him. He raised his revolver to fire, but Lawrence was first and the revolver dropped. He was shot in the arm. Defenceless, he wheeled his horse to fly. Again Lawrence fired. Jerry reeled in his saddle, but gathered himself together and urged his horse to greater speed. Close after him came Lawrence. The chase was a wild one, continued for more than a mile. Lawrence had now drawn his sword and a few bounds of his horse took him to Jerry's side. "Surrender!" he cried with uplifted sword. "Surrender or die!" Jerry turned to him, his face distorted with rage and fear. Blood was dripping from his right hand. He had dropped the reins and was struggling to draw a revolver from his right holster with his left hand. "Surrender or I strike!" cried Lawrence, but before the blow could descend he felt a sharp sting in the side and his horse plunged forward and fell. Hardly had Lawrence touched the ground when he heard a voice hiss, "Turn, so you may see who sends you to hell." As if impelled by the voice, Lawrence turned his head and looked into the blazing eyes of Billy. Her face was distorted with rage and hate. Her horse stood almost over Lawrence and her revolver was pointed at his breast. [Illustration: Her revolver was pointed at his breast.] But no sooner did her eyes meet Lawrence's than she gave a start of surprise. A change came over her face and her hand trembled. The muzzle of the revolver sank, was raised, but once more was lowered. "You--you," she whispered hoarsely. "Oh, God! How can I take your life. You tried to save my father. You pitied me. You--" A softer expression came over her face. She seemed to forget where she was and she whispered, "Then--then I was a girl, an innocent girl, but now--" her voice rose to a shriek. "Now I am a devil; but live; I cannot shoot." The sound of galloping horses was heard and shouts. Lawrence looked and saw Harry and Jack almost onto them, their revolvers levelled on Billy. "Great God! don't shoot!" he shouted; and to Billy, "Fly! Fly." She sank her spurs into her horse and bending low over his neck was away like an arrow, but no avenging bullet followed her. In a moment Harry and Jack were at Lawrence's side and helped him to his feet. "Captain, you're wounded," cried Harry. "Your side is all bloody." He tore away the coat and shirt. "Thank Heaven, it's not deep," he exclaimed, "but bleeds freely. How did it happen?" "I was about to cut down Red Jerry when I received this wound from behind. The same shot must have struck my horse in the back of the head, for he went down like a log." "And the guerrilla who shot you was the same you told us not to shoot?" "Yes. She was a woman and she spared my life. I will tell you all about it, but not now." It was noon before all the men returned from pursuing the guerrillas. Of the band not more than thirty escaped, and most of these by taking to the woods. When Lawrence gathered his little troop together he found that three had been killed and six wounded, three of them grievously. Of the guerrillas, twenty-five had been slain outright, as many badly wounded, and twenty prisoners had been taken. Some of the men were for shooting the prisoners. "Red Jerry would not have spared us," they exclaimed. Lawrence immediately put an end to such talk. "If any of the men have committed crimes that merit death," he said, "they should be convicted by a court-martial. No soldier has a right to put a defenceless man to death for revenge. Barbarity begets barbarity, while mercy appeals to the hearts of the most depraved." He then told them how his life had been spared by the dreaded wife of Red Jerry. There was no more talk of shooting the prisoners, and Lawrence noticed that not one of them was insulted or treated brutally. The Federals remained on the battlefield for three days, caring for the wounded, and Lawrence had it given out that anyone who cared might come to claim the dead or carry away the badly wounded without being molested. The news spread and soon the camp was filled with weeping women and wailing children. Even some men came when they found they could do so safely. From the number of dead and wounded claimed, Lawrence thought Jerry's band must have been made up principally from the neighborhood. At the end of three days Lawrence began his return march. A couple of farm wagons were pressed into service to convey the wounded. With the slightly wounded who were able to travel he took back with him thirty prisoners and fifty-five horses. Great was the rejoicing when Rolla was reached, and the success of the expedition became known. Lawrence received a congratulatory message from General Schofield, highly praising him. But there was one Federal officer who did not congratulate Lawrence. Captain Dunlay felt too mortified over his own failure. Red Jerry still lived. Lawrence had wounded him not only in the arm, but in the thigh. Secreted in the fastnesses of the hills, and tenderly cared for by his wife, he nursed his wounds and thirsted for revenge. Terrible were his imprecations against Lawrence and terrible would be his revenge if ever he got him in his power. It was fated that he and Lawrence should never meet again. Jerry lived to organize another band and he became even more merciless than ever, and by his side rode his wife, as merciless as he. But there was one secret she never told her husband--that was, that she had spared the life of Lawrence Middleton. CHAPTER XIX MARK HAS A RIVAL It was in September when Mark returned from his last trip. He was so thin and pale that Mr. Chittenden insisted on his taking a few weeks of absolute rest. These weeks were the happiest, as well as the most miserable, that Mark had ever spent. Happy because he was thrown continually in the company of Grace, miserable because he felt a great love springing up in his heart which must never be spoken. A thousand times he resolved to flee. It would be so easy for him to go on one of his secret missions and never return. But he kept putting off the evil day; it was so near heaven to be near her, to see her every day. He believed he would be content if he could only live as he was always. In his imagination he had invested Grace with more than human attributes, and worshipped her from afar, as he would some angelic being. Did Grace know the feeling Mark Grafton had for her? The eyes often speak more eloquently than words, and Mark's eyes told her the story of his devotion a hundred times a day. But this knowledge, instead of drawing Grace to him, piqued her. If he loved her why did he remain silent? In all the books she had read, lovers were not backward in telling of their love. But after all, she was glad he was silent, for she was doubtful of her father's approval, and there was that mystery that hung over him, a mystery she had not solved as yet. "Mark, you are deceiving us," she said boldly one day. "You are not what you pretend to be." Mark started, but soon recovered his composure. "What makes you think so, Grace?" he asked quietly. "Because you have represented yourself as a poor, friendless, private soldier. Now, I know you were raised a gentleman. You need not deny it." "Is that all? I thought--" he stopped. "Thought what?" asked Grace. "Nothing, only I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Grace. In saying I am poor and friendless I have not deceived you. I am as poor and as friendless as I have represented." "But in other things you are silent. You have never told me a word of yourself, of your early life. You only say you are an orphan. Mark, you are not what you pretend. You are holding back something, and I don't like it. Mark, what is it? You can surely trust me as you would a sister." A look of pain came over Mark's face. "Grace, don't think evil of me," he faltered. "Think of me as a friend, a friend who would willingly die for you, but never anything more than a friend." He turned away and left her confused, confounded. She saw that he was suffering, but she was angry. He had refused to confide in her. He had even hinted she might think more of him than was wise. That night as she lay in bed thinking of what he had said, tears of hot anger filled her eyes, "Would die for me," she whispered, "but would never be more than a friend. Who asked him to be more? He is nothing but a presumptuous boy and should be punished." For the next two or three days she was decidedly cool to Mark. By the first of November Mark felt he had fully recovered his health, and except for his arm he was as well as he ever would be. He told Mr. Chittenden so, and that it was not right for him to stay longer. But Mr. Chittenden asked him not to go, as he had some work he could help him in. He had orders to gather all the provisions and forage possible. A train was coming from Arkansas to get it. Then, some time in the month, a body of recruits from the northern part of the State were expected. Supplies must be gathered for them. Mark promised to stay, but the change in Grace cut him to the heart. He thought she was angry because he had refused to tell her his secret. Little did he think he had uttered words which cut more deeply. It was hard for Grace to think the cause of Mark's reticence was that he had fled for committing some criminal act, but what else could it be? She resolved more firmly than ever to discover his secret. It is not to be supposed that such a girl as Grace had lived to be nineteen years of age without admirers. There was not a young man in the Ozarks but what would have been her slave if she had given him the least encouragement, but she was such a lady, so far above them, that they were content to worship from afar. They well knew they could be no mate for her. But there was one exception, a young man called Thomas Hobson, known as Big Tom. Big Tom was a splendid specimen of the human animal, tall, broad shouldered, thick chested, and he had the strength of a giant. If the world had been looking for a perfect physical specimen of man it would have found it in Big Tom. There was also an animal beauty about him that captivated and charmed. His magnificent body was all he had to recommend him. He was a bully by nature, and used his great strength by imposing on others. He was inordinately vain and conceited, and was continually boasting of his prowess. He was thought brave, for no man in the Ozarks dared to stand up against him in a fight, but at heart he was a coward. During the first year of the war he was active in driving out and maltreating Union men. Living quite a distance from Mr. Chittenden, he had never seen Grace until the time she went to the rescue of Mr. Osborne. He was one of the hanging party. When Grace so unexpectedly appeared on the scene, her excitement and fierce wrath only heightened her beauty, and Tom gazed at her in admiration. He had been one of the most violent in demanding the death of Mr. Osborne, but now he suddenly changed sides and demanded that he be let go. Much to Grace's disgust he persisted in paying her attention, and at length proposed. Much to his surprise he was not only refused but refused with scorn and contempt. This aroused every evil passion of his nature. "You will regret this, Grace Chittenden," he cried furiously. "I 'spose you reckon you be too good for me, but I will give you to understand that there is not a gal in the Ozarks, except you, but would jump at the chance to be my wife." "Go and make one of them jump, then. I want none of you," replied Grace sarcastically, as she slammed the door in his face, leaving him swearing and cursing. When Mr. Chittenden was informed of what had occurred he sent word to Tom never to set foot on his premises again. Mr. Chittenden was too big a man for even Tom to defy. But the affair got out and Tom, when he was not present, became the butt of the county over his presumption in aspiring to the daughter of Judge Chittenden. Tom knew of the merriment it caused and his pride was so hurt that he disappeared and was not heard of for over a year. In the fall of 1862 he suddenly appeared in the Ozarks at the head of a band of guerrillas. The band numbered about fifteen, and he concluded that with this force he would show Judge Chittenden that he was not afraid of him, and that he was as big a man as he was. Therefore, he rode boldly up to the house. He was mounted on a magnificent horse, an immense plume floated from his hat, and he was decked out in all the grandeur of a bandit chief. Mr. Chittenden was surprised, but concluded that under the circumstances it was policy to treat him with courtesy. Tom had learned to be polite. He did not mention past differences, or ask to see Grace. He had much to say of his prowess in the field, and of the number of Yankees he had killed, and boasted he held a commission as captain signed by General Price. The main object of his visit seemed to be to impress on the Judge his importance. When he learned Mr. Chittenden was engaged in gathering supplies for the Confederate army he proffered his services to help, which the Judge thought best to accept. He became quite a frequent caller at the house, and as he did not force his attentions on Grace, she thought it best to do nothing to anger him, but saw as little of him as possible. "Who is this fellow hanging around here?" asked Tom one day of Mr. Chittenden. "Do you mean Mark Grafton? He is a Confederate soldier who was cruelly wounded at Pea Ridge, and found his way here. Since then he has rendered valuable services as a courier." Tom did not rest until he had learned all about Mark that he could, and then growled: "A likely story. He never saw Pea Ridge; he was shot in some brawl. He is simply hanging around here to try and work his way into the good graces of your daughter. Look out for him. I have been watching the fellow; he is a sneak." "Please keep my daughter's name out of your conversation," replied Mr. Chittenden, angrily, "or you and I will have a settlement. As for Mark, he can take care of himself, and if you know when you are well off you won't pick a quarrel with him." "What! I skeered of that chap! Why, I could crush him with one finger. But no offence, Mr. Chittenden, only you will find I am right." From that time on Tom became insanely jealous of Mark. What Tom was saying came to the ears of Mark, and a look came into his face which boded no good to Tom. One day Mark met Tom alone, and as he was about to pass him with a scowling face and no recognition, Mark hailed him with, "Hold on, Hobson, a word with you." With a growl Tom wheeled his horse and as he did so his hand went to his revolver. "Hands up! None of that!" And Tom saw Mark had him covered. He also saw a look in his eyes that made him tremble. Death lurked there. "Tom Hobson, it's time you and I had a reckoning," said Mark. "I hear you have been calling me a sneak and an impostor, but for that I care nothing. I hear you have been linking my name with that of Miss Chittenden. Now, I give you fair warning, if I ever hear of you taking the name of that young lady on your foul lips I will shoot you like a dog." "So it's all settled between yo' uns?" Tom managed to stammer. "Beg pardon, didn't know it had went that far." Looking into the muzzle of a revolver made Tom very humble. "Fool!" answered Mark. "Grace Chittenden is not for such as either you or me. Neither of us is worthy to kiss the ground on which she walks. Now ride away and don't look back. If you do you get a bullet." Tom meekly did as he was bid, but in his heart there raged the passions of a demon, and he swore Mark Grafton should die. But what did Mark mean by saying Grace was for neither of them? Tom pondered the question long. Light broke in upon him. It must mean that Mark had proposed and been refused, and being jealous of him had taken this way to scare him away. Perhaps Grace had been captivated by his fine appearance after all, and was only waiting for him to propose. Again was his vanity in the ascendency, and he resolved to propose at the first opportunity. It came quicker than he had thought for. Near Mr. Chittenden's house was a shady nook that overlooked the La Belle. It was where the little river dashed and foamed and smote the rocks that would bar its passage. Here Grace loved to sit and watch the conflict, and here she was when Tom Hobson rode by. His heart gave a great bound, for it was the first opportunity he had had of seeing and speaking to her alone. Reining in his horse, he dismounted, and making what he thought a most courtly bow, he bade her good evening. Grace arose, an angry flush on her face, and barely acknowledging his greeting, turned to go. Stepping in front of her he said, "Please don't go. I have been wanting to speak to yo' un ever since I returned. Yo' un know what I told yo' un when I went away. I'm of the same mind still, though I do be a capting now, and expect to be a kernel befo' the war is over." "Out of my way," exclaimed Grace, white with rage and trying to push past him. He caught her by the shoulder, "I reckon yo' un think that sneak of a Mark Grafton loves yo' un, but he don't. He told me so," sneered Tom. "You lie. Mark Grafton is a soldier and a gentleman and you are a coward. Out of my way." Her hand sought the bosom of her dress, but Tom did not notice. He was white with rage. "I'll hev' yo' un yet," he shouted. "All hell can't keep me from heven yo'." He attempted to take her in his arms. He drew back amazed. For the second time that afternoon he was looking into the muzzle of a revolver, and the hand that held that revolver was as firm and steady as the one that held the first. [Illustration: He was looking into the muzzle of a revolver.] "Mr. Hobson," said Grace, without a tremor in her voice, "if you do not mount your horse and ride away before I count ten I shall kill you. One, two--" But Tom did not wait for her to finish; he sprang on his horse and dashed away cursing. About an hour later, as Mark was returning home, there came the report of a rifle from a hillside and a ball tore away the crown of his hat. All he could see was a little cloud of smoke on the mountain. Putting spurs to his horse he was soon out of danger. When he reached the house he found Mr. Chittenden in a towering passion. He had just returned, and Grace was telling him of her encounter with Big Tom. "The wretch is too vile to live," he swore. "I will hunt him to earth, if it takes me a year." "I am with you," said Mark, showing his hat. "I got that only a few moments ago, so you see I have an account to settle with him, too." "Why should he shoot at you?" asked Mr. Chittenden, in astonishment. "You must ask him," answered Mark, carelessly, but as he said it he glanced at Grace. Her face was crimson, and then grew very pale. Had Big Tom told the truth? Had Mark been talking about her to him? That night it was agreed that the next day a posse should be organized and Big Tom run down, but when morning came it was found Big Tom and his gang had fled during the night. CHAPTER XX CAPTURING A TRAIN It took Lawrence some little time to reorganize his troop, and to fill the places of those who fell in the fight with Red Jerry. At last all was ready and the start was made. To reach General Blunt by the circuitous route he intended to take would mean a journey of nearly four hundred miles, much of the way through a country not occupied by Federal troops. The guerrilla bands infesting this country were small, however, and he considered that with his fifty men he would be able to cope with any force he might meet. For subsistence he would have to depend on the country through which he passed. He knew it was sparsely settled, but as his force was small, and the corn crop had ripened, he believed neither his men nor horses would suffer for food. To Lawrence the mountain scenery was a continual source of delight. It was November, and the leaves of the forest covering the mountain sides and crowning their summits had been touched by the frost, and painted in all colors of the rainbow. It was a magnificent panorama and on so tremendous a scale that all the works of man seemed as nothing in comparison. Occasionally a small band of guerrillas was seen, but at sight of the Federals they scurried into the hills and were soon lost to view. Only one band attempted to show fight and they were quickly routed with one killed and two wounded, left on the field. One of these stated that the band was commanded by a man called Big Tom, who was wounded early in the action, how badly he did not know.[16] [Footnote 16: This wound prevented Big Tom for some months from carrying out his contemplated revenge against the Chittendens.] One day Lawrence stood on a hill overlooking the valley of La Belle. He thought he had never gazed on so lovely a scene, and he wondered who it was who had made his home in that peaceful valley. That it was a home of refinement and luxury was apparent. As he was looking, to his astonishment, what seemed to be an army came pouring into the valley from the north. It was a motley army, without uniforms, without banners and many without arms. Accompanying the army was a long train composed of every kind of vehicle, from carriages to farm wagons. There was no order in the march, everyone seemed to be traveling as pleased him best. For a moment Lawrence wondered what it could mean, and then he knew. He had stumbled on the secret route through the Ozarks through which recruits for the South passed. Before Lawrence started on his raid it had been known for some time that numerous small bodies of guerrillas had been gathering, and were making their way to some secret rendezvous, from which they were to start to join Porter in Arkansas. "How many do you suppose there are?" asked Lawrence of Dan. "About four or five hundred, I should say." "Do you think we can handle them?" "Don't see any reason why we can't," drawled Dan. "Reckon half of them will die of fright when they see us." Arrangements were quickly made. They were to make a sudden dash and ride the full length of the line, ordering those who had arms to give them up. Riding into the valley the troop, whooping and yelling like mad men, suddenly dashed upon the unsuspecting recruits. If an army had fallen from the sky they could not have been more astonished. Consternation seized them, and many, leaving everything, fled for the hills, but the greater part of them surrendered, begging for mercy. Not a shot was fired. It was a bloodless victory. The prisoners were gathered together; they numbered nearly four hundred. Being deprived of all arms, they were powerless. What to do with them was the question. "The only thing we can do," said Lawrence, "is to parole them." "And they will keep their parole just as long as we are in sight and no longer," growled Dan. "Can't help it. It's the only thing we can do." The train was now thoroughly searched and many of the wagons were found to contain cloth, boots and shoes, and a goodly quantity of powder and shot. All such articles were destroyed and the wagons burnt. The prisoners looked on sullenly. Lawrence noticed there was a scarcity of provisions, and inquired what it meant. One of the prisoners told him they were suffering from hunger, but had been told they would find plenty of food here in the valley of the La Belle. "We 'uns be jes' starvin'," said the prisoner. "I will see what I can do," said Lawrence. "If there is food here you will surely get it." About this time Mr. Chittenden appeared. There had been great excitement at the house when it was known that the Yankees were in the valley and had succeeded in capturing the train. Mr. Chittenden feared that if it became known that he had gathered supplies for the South, not only would he be arrested, but his home and buildings burned. "I reckon," he said to Grace, "that I will ride down and see what force it is, and who is in command." "Don't go, father," begged Grace. "You know what you have been doing." "It is best, Grace. They may not find it out, and if they do, it won't mend matters for me to stay here." "But, father, you can take to the hills until they are gone." "What! Leave you here unprotected? Never!" "Where is Mark?" asked Grace. "I have not seen him for three or four days." "Gone off on some secret expedition. Said he might be gone several days. Grace, I believe he is trailing Big Tom. He has an idea he will return and wreak his vengeance on us." Grace turned pale. "What! Mark gone, all alone?" she asked. "Yes. Mark seems to prefer to go alone. I don't think we are in as much danger from Big Tom as he thinks, but there is no telling. Some of these guerrilla bands are nothing more or less than robbers, and they care little whom they rob. But I must go now. Don't worry. I won't be long." Mr. Chittenden was gone some two hours, and when he returned he did not seem in the best of spirits. Grace had been anxiously waiting his return. "How is it, father?" she cried. "I thought I saw smoke." "Yes, they have burned a great deal of the train," answered Mr. Chittenden, gloomily. "The worst part of it is, it is only a small scouting party that has done the mischief--not over fifty men--and they have captured four hundred prisoners without firing a gun." "That doesn't look as if one Southern man could whip ten Yankees," replied Grace, with a twinkle in her eyes. "Grace, I believe you are glad that train was captured," said her father, with more feeling than he had ever manifested toward her. "I surely am," replied Grace, undaunted. "You well know I am for the Union." "Grace, beware! Don't trespass on my love for you too much. Perhaps you will rejoice when I am arrested and dragged off to prison." "You arrested! You dragged off to prison! Father, what do you mean?" gasped Grace, now thoroughly alarmed. "It means that your dear friends, the Yankees, have found out that I have been gathering supplies for this train. The officer in command has ordered me to turn over everything I have gathered, and threatened to arrest me for being an agent of the South." "What will be done with all the food and forage you have gathered? Will it be destroyed?" asked Grace. "No; not all of it, anyway. The captured men are without food and nearly starving. They have been, or will be, paroled and turned back north. They will be given the food for their return journey to Rolla, where they have been ordered to report." "Why, father, that is grand. The very ones will get the food that you have gathered it for. The officer in command must be a gentleman. What is he like?" "He is young--not much more than a boy. He seems to know his business; has perfect control over his men. Moreover, he has the appearance of a gentleman. But you can see for yourself, Grace, for I have invited him and his Lieutenant to take supper with us tonight. And--and, Grace, I will not object to your making known your true sentiments. It may save me from a Federal prison." "Father, if they arrest you, they will have to arrest me, too. I will be the worst rebel in the State. But, father, they won't arrest you. What have you done?" "What have I done, child? Has not this house been a rendezvous for those passing to and fro between this State and Arkansas? Has not many a plot been hatched right here? Grace, if everything were known, I should not only be arrested, but this house would be burned and the valley rendered desolate. I am afraid this young Captain knows more than he lets on. But there he comes now, with a lot of wagons for the provisions." The next two hours were busy ones. A detail of prisoners, under guard, was made to load the wagons, and a herd of beef cattle was driven down. The prisoners feasted that night as they had not in many a day. In fact, many of them were not sorry that they had been made prisoners. When Lawrence and Dan went to keep their engagement to dine with Mr. Chittenden, they met with as cordial a reception as could be expected under the circumstances. Mr. Chittenden was deeply chagrined over the loss of the supplies he had gathered, but he concealed his disappointment as much as possible. The meal was all that could be desired. Tilly had surpassed herself. To cook for Yankees was to her a new experience. They were the men who were to free her race, and she looked upon them as almost divine beings. Grace presided at the head of the table, and more than one glance did Lawrence cast at the lovely girl. "You have a beautiful home here, Mr. Chittenden," said Lawrence. "I almost envy you. In the spring and summer it must be as near Arcadia as one gets in this world. The scenery is magnificent. I never saw a more beautiful sight than the mountains, covered with their flaming foliage." "Yes, I like it," replied Mr. Chittenden. "I chanced on the valley many years ago, while hunting, and resolved to make it my home. So wild and unsettled was the country then, that for some years I had to get all my supplies from St. Louis." "What a mercy it is that the ravages of war so far have left it almost untouched," answered Lawrence. "You are the first Yankees who have favored us with a visit," replied Mr. Chittenden, "and pardon me, but I trust you will be the last. But if we are to be visited again, I hope it will be by your troop, Captain, for, under the circumstances, you have been very kind. I hear fearful stories of ravages committed in other parts of the State." "Missouri certainly has had her share of the war," replied Lawrence, "but it is the guerrilla warfare that has caused it. I trust you have seen little of it here. Are there many Union men residing among these hills?" Mr. Chittenden hesitated, then replied: "We did have a few Union men in these parts, but the sentiment was so strong against them that many of them were forced to leave. I do not believe in guerrilla warfare, but am powerless to prevent it." "From the train I captured," said Lawrence, "I would say you were not a stranger to Confederate troops; in fact, I have learned that this valley is a gateway between Missouri and Arkansas, and that many of the guerrillas we drive out of the northern and central part of the State pass through here, and no doubt many pass back the same way." Mr. Chittenden winced. "I cannot prevent Confederate troops passing through here," he said, "any more than I can prevent you passing through. I admit my heart is with the South, and I do what little I can to help her; but I am sorry to say I have a traitor in my own household--my daughter here." "What! Your daughter?" cried Lawrence, in surprise, and he looked at Grace with renewed interest. "Yes, my daughter; she is heart and soul with you Yankees." Grace was covered with confusion, and started to rise and leave the table. "Please don't go, Miss Chittenden," begged Lawrence. "Let me hear from your lips that you love the flag of our common country." "I hate to differ with father," said Grace, "but I do love the flag. Born and living here as free as the birds of the air, I learned to love freedom. I think this is a wicked, wicked war, waged to perpetuate slavery and to destroy the Union. Father and I don't quarrel. He says I am a girl, and it does not matter much what I believe. That may be; but there is one Union flag still cherished in the Ozarks," and as she said it she put her hand in her bosom and drew forth the little flag she had made in St. Louis. "There is not a day," she continued, "that I don't go out and hold it aloft, that it may be kissed by the winds of heaven, and I pray the day will soon come when it will wave over a reunited country." Lawrence and Dan could hardly refrain from shouting aloud; even Mr. Chittenden was surprised at the feeling Grace showed. "There, Grace, that will do," he said, crossly. "Don't make----" Lawrence stopped him. "Mr. Chittenden," he exclaimed, "I congratulate you on having such a daughter, and you can be thankful that you have." "I do not see why," answered Mr. Chittenden; "but I am thankful that Grace has until now kept her opinions to herself. It would be rather awkward for me to have it generally known." Grace was excused, and the men, over their cigars, entered into a general discussion of the war, and how it would terminate, Mr. Chittenden holding that the independence of the South was already as good as secured. As they were about to go, Lawrence said: "Mr. Chittenden, you may think it a poor return for your hospitality, but I came here tonight with the full intention of arresting you." Mr. Chittenden could only gasp, "What for?" "Because you are a dangerous man to the cause I serve. I have learned much while I have been here. Not only are you an agent of the Confederate Government to gather supplies, but your house has been a haven for some of the worst guerrillas which infest the State. Even the infamous Porter found rest and shelter here when he fled South." Mr. Chittenden stood pale and trembling, for he knew Lawrence was speaking the truth; but he was thinking more of Grace than of himself. "My God! what will become of my daughter, if I am dragged away to a Federal prison?" he cried. "Mr. Chittenden, do not fear," answered Lawrence. "I can never arrest the father of such a girl as your daughter, and leave her unprotected. She has saved you, and for her sake be more careful in the future." "For her sake, I thank you; for myself, I have no apologies to make for what I have done," Mr. Chittenden replied, somewhat haughtily. But in his heart he was not sorry Grace had displayed that little flag. "By Jove!" exclaimed Lawrence, when he and Dan were alone. "What a girl! She is grand, and such a lady. Who would dream of finding such a girl in the Ozarks? And she is as lovely as a picture--more beautiful than many who reign as belles in St. Louis." "Look here, Captain," said Dan, solemnly, "don't be falling in love with every pretty face you see. What about that St. Louis girl you are always getting letters from--Lola--confounded childish name--I think you call her. And I've heard you rave about a certain Dorothy, with golden hair. Let the girls alone; they are no good. I never knew a fellow in love who was any good. They go around sighing and writing poetry and making confounded idiots of themselves. I agree that Miss Chittenden is a mighty good-looking girl; but how do you know she isn't fooling us--shook that little flag in our faces to save her father?" "Oh, Dan, Dan!" laughed Lawrence, "when it comes to girls, you are incorrigible. Dan, tell the truth--were you ever in love?" "If I ever was, thank God! I am over it," snapped Dan, as he took a chew of tobacco. Lawrence spent two days in the valley of the La Belle, paroling his prisoners, and loading up their wagons with provisions and forage enough to last to Rolla. Lawrence started the train back to Rolla, and then bade farewell to the lovely valley, which he left scathless; but for many days there remained before his mental vision the image of the beautiful girl who was loyal to the Union under such adverse circumstances. All unknown to Lawrence, he had been gone from the valley but a few hours when there came riding up from the South a Confederate cavalry force of one hundred and fifty men, under the command of a Major Powell. They had come to meet the recruits, and had with them a train of empty wagons to take back what was left of the provisions and forage after the recruits were supplied. When Major Powell learned what had happened, and that all the provisions and forage not given to the recruits had been destroyed, his rage knew no bounds. He first ordered fifty of his men to pursue the train and bring every man back. "Their paroles are not worth the paper they are written on," he roared. "I will not wait for you," he said to the Captain in command of the fifty, "but shall pursue this audacious Captain Middleton. I will see that not a man of his command gets out of the Ozarks alive." "That will leave you only one hundred men for the pursuit, Major," said the Captain. "That is so; but you know we brought arms for one hundred. Call for volunteers from the recruits. Tell them to take the best horses from the train, and report as soon as possible." The Captain in pursuit of the train had an easier task than he thought, for he had not gone more than five miles when he met nearly two hundred of the men returning, under the leadership of three or four men known as desperate guerrillas. Hardly had the Federals left the train, when a plot was formed to seize it. Nearly half the paroled men entered the plot; those who refused were stripped of everything and sent on their way, destitute. This reinforcement, so much sooner than expected, greatly elated Major Powell. A mountaineer explained he knew a shorter route than the one the Federals were taking, and although they had several hours' start, he could easily lead a force that could gain their front, and thus they would be hemmed in between the two forces. Major Powell quickly made his plans. A hundred men, under the command of one of his most trusted officers, were sent to try and get ahead of the Federals, while he, with a hundred more, would follow in quick pursuit. About this time Mark Grafton appeared on the scene. He, too, brought important news. Believing that Big Tom was contemplating a raid on Mr. Chittenden, and that his sudden departure was only a blind to disarm suspicion, Mark had disguised himself and followed the gang. "I unearthed the most hellish plot," said Mark. "Big Tom and his gang were to disguise themselves as Federals, raid the plantation of La Belle, kill Mr. Chittenden and me, and carry off Grace, and force her into a marriage with Big Tom. The plot was about to be carried out, when the gang unexpectedly met the force under Captain Middleton, and was routed. And we needn't fear anything from Big Tom for some time, as he is badly wounded." Mark, on his part, was greatly surprised to hear what had happened in the valley while he was gone. "I would go with you," he said to Major Powell, "but I have an important engagement I must keep. I hope you will overtake and chastise those Yankees as they deserve." "If I can overtake them, you may depend on it they will get the chastisement," responded the Major, as he rode away. Mark then related to Mr. Chittenden more fully what he had found out as to Big Tom's plans, and added: "If I were you, Mr. Chittenden, I would say nothing about this to Grace, for it might unnecessarily alarm her. She is safe, at least, until Big Tom gets well. If I did not think so, I would not rest until I had hunted the dog down. As it is, I must be absent for a week or two, but not longer." Mark waited until nightfall, and then he, too, rode away. CHAPTER XXI THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS It was the second day after Lawrence had left the valley of La Belle, and so far nothing of interest had occurred. Lawrence and Dan were riding along side by side, when suddenly a stone struck in the road just ahead of them, causing their horses to rear and plunge. The road ran close to the bluff, and no doubt it was from the top of the bluff that the stone was thrown. A careful scrutiny of the bluff revealed nothing, and they were about to ride on, when Lawrence suddenly exclaimed: "Hold on! there's a paper wrapped around that stone." Springing from his horse, he secured the paper. It proved to be a rude scrawl, telling them they were being pursued by a hundred men, and that another hundred had been sent to head them off. "What do you think of that?" asked Lawrence, handing the scrawl to Dan. Dan deciphered it, after some trouble, and then remarked: "A hoax, probably." "It's no hoax, Dan. We may as well be prepared." "But where did the two hundred men come from?" asked Dan. "Even if those fellows who were paroled turned back, they had no arms." "It's a raiding party from the South, in all probability," answered Lawrence, "and we left just in time to miss them." "Whew! Why couldn't we have stayed a few hours longer?" "What! And fought the two hundred?" "Sure; we could have licked them easily." "Well, I am not sorry we left. I am not aching for a fight against such odds; but if they overtake us, we will show them what we can do. What puzzles me is, who gave us the warning?" "Give it up," said Dan. Harry was now called, and told what had happened. "You take Jack and Bruno and guard the rear. Don't let those fellows get close to us, without our knowing it." "No danger, as long as Bruno is alive," laughed Harry. "What about the front?" asked Dan. "We may run into those fellows who have gone to head us off." "They haven't had time to head us off yet," said Lawrence, "and before they meet us, I want to teach those fellows in the rear a lesson." The horses began to show signs of weariness, and, coming to a settler's cabin, around which grew a fine field of corn, Lawrence, concluded to halt, rest and feed the horses, and allow the men to make some coffee. There were some fine pigs running around, and two of these were slaughtered. The owner of the corn and hogs made strenuous objections to this appropriation of his property. He was a tall, gaunt mountaineer, and his face showed that he was both cunning and crafty. "Are you Union or Confed?" asked Lawrence. After emptying his capacious mouth of an enormous quid of tobacco, he drawled: "I don't know. Yo' uns be the first Yanks I hev seen. I allers reckoned I was a Confed, but now that yo' uns hev tuk my cohn and hawgs, I reckon I be Union. If I be Union, I get pay for my cohn and hawgs, don't I?" Laughing, Lawrence handed him ten dollars, saying, "I'll bet you a ten against that one that you will be Confed before night. There's a band of Confederate cavalry chasing us." "Is thar? Then I won't bet," replied the fellow, grinning. "It's too risky. They might p'int a gun at me, and make me yell for Jeff Davis." "I reckon you wouldn't wait for the gun to be pointed before you yelled," said Lawrence; "but you're welcome to the ten." "Ought to be fifty," growled the fellow, as he turned and went into the house, and they saw him no more. That night Major Powell camped on his place, and made free with both his corn and hogs, but he made no objection; neither did he hurrah for Jeff Davis, for he was not there. The Federals had not gone far from the cabin when the valley narrowed down and the mountains arose steep and precipitous on each side. "It's lucky," said Dan, "that these hills are not filled with guerrillas, or they would be taking pot-shot at us. I will feel safer----" He did not finish the sentence, for there came the sharp crack of a rifle from the hillside, and a piece of the crown of Dan's hat went flying through the air. He pulled off his damaged headgear and, gazing ruefully at it exclaimed: "A blame good hat spoiled; but my head is safe." "Charge the bluff!" shouted Lawrence; but there was no need of the order. A half dozen troopers had already dismounted, and were scaling the bluff to where a small wreath of smoke was seen curling. Before they were half way up, there came the sound of another shot, but this time the whiz of no ball was heard. Soon the men reached the spot where the smoke had been seen, and their exclamations of surprise were heard. "What is it?" shouted Lawrence. "Dead man up here. No signs of any live one." "Well, look around sharp, and then come down," replied Lawrence. The men soon returned, and told a strange story. "We found," said the sergeant in charge, "whom do you think? Our friend who sold us the corn and hogs. He was lying behind a rock; his gun, loaded and cocked, was on the rock, and no doubt he was just going to take another shot at us, when some one shot him through the head from behind. He had just been shot, for the fresh blood was gushing from the wound as we came up. But we neither saw nor could we find any trace of the one who shot him. It's blame curious. I feel creepy. These mountains must be haunted." "If they are, the spirits who haunt them must be very friendly to us," said Lawrence; "but, as you say, it is a singular circumstance. I can't make it out. Why doesn't the fellow show himself, if he is our friend?" Many and various were the opinions expressed, but no satisfactory solution was arrived at. The day closed dark and gloomy; great clouds swept across the sky, and the wind roared through the forest. It became so dark, and traveling so difficult, that Lawrence decided to camp for the night, and risk the chance of being overtaken. The place chosen to camp was a natural amphitheater which ran back into the mountains. It was overhung by the giant trees growing on the mountain. Supper over, the men sat for some time around their little campfire, talking over the events of the day; but gradually the camp became quiet, and nothing was heard but the stamping of the horses and the roaring of the wind. It was nearly midnight when the soldiers were aroused, not by the guard, but by Bruno, who came bounding into camp, growling fiercely, every hair on his back erect. He was trembling violently, either from fear or excitement. "Why, what's the matter, Bruno?" cried Harry. "I never saw you act like this before." "I believe he is scared," said Lawrence. "Andrew Jackson! Bruno scared!" "I never knew him to be scared," said Harry, "but I believe he is. See how he trembles." Before an investigation could be made, the horses began to rear and plunge, and the sentinels called out they were breaking loose. "See to the horses," shouted Lawrence. The men were just in time, as several of the horses had broken their halters. As it was, they had hard work to keep them from getting away. "The horses are badly frightened. They are trembling like leaves," said the men. "It must be some wild animal," said Lawrence. "Men, stay by the horses; Dan, Harry and I will investigate." Lawrence took a burning brand from the fire, and all three, well armed, started to find the cause of the trouble. Bruno at first hung back, but when he saw Harry start, he followed; but it was noticed he kept close to his master's side. The dog kept looking to the cliff back of their encampment. A large tree grew close to the cliff, and an animal could spring into it from the cliff. Cautiously the three men advanced. "See there," said Dan, pointing up in the tree. Lawrence looked, and saw up in the tree what looked like two coals of fire. "Hold your brand where I can see the sights of my gun," whispered Dan. Lawrence did so. Dan took a quick aim and fired. There came a terrible scream, a crashing among the branches, and then a huge panther lay struggling on the ground, tearing up the earth in his death agony. Bruno seemed to have recovered from his fright, for he was about to spring on the struggling animal, when Harry cried, "Back, Bruno, back!" Still Bruno would have rushed to his fate if Lawrence had not struck him a sharp rap over the nose with the burning brand. At last the beast lay still. "That was a good shot, Dan," said Lawrence. The ball had struck the panther squarely between the eyes. "What could have induced him to visit our camp?" asked Harry. "The smell of the meat the boys roasted for supper," replied Dan. "You know, we brought along some of those pigs we had for dinner." Some of the soldiers insisted on skinning the beast and taking the skin along as a trophy. As it was, there was little more sleep in the camp, for the horses continued to be restless, and it was hard to keep them quieted. "The panther's mate may be around," said Dan. "It is well to be on the lookout." Bruno was of no more use, for he had become sulky and gone and lain down. He could not understand that the blow Lawrence gave him had saved his life. If there was another panther around, he did not show himself, and at the break of day the troop was once more on the way. Along in the afternoon, Harry came rapidly riding from the rear, saying the foremost of the pursuers had been sighted. Hardly had he made his report when the faint sound of three or four shots was heard. "Harry, you, with Dan and Bruno, now take the advance," commanded Lawrence. "That is where we will have to look now for a surprise. Dan, take command, and ride at a good pace. I, with ten men, will look to the rear, and hold back the enemy." "Why not stop and fight them?" grumbled Dan. "I don't like this idea of running." "Because I don't wish to have a battle here, if I can help it," replied Lawrence. "If we fight, especially on anything like even terms, some of the men will be sure to be killed or wounded. Think of leaving any of the boys here in the mountains, wounded! It would be better for them to be shot than left wounded, for they would be sure to be murdered by guerrillas." "Reckon you are right; but it is against my principles to run," sighed Dan. "Don't be downhearted, old fellow," laughed Lawrence. "I expect to give them a fight; but I want to choose the ground and the manner of fighting." Dan's face brightened. "That's all right, Captain," he exclaimed. "I might have known you were up to some of your tricks." Lawrence now rode back to take charge of the rear. Major Powell, knowing he had two men to Lawrence's one, eagerly pressed forward; but his enthusiasm was a little cooled when his advance was driven back with a loss of one killed and two wounded, and he began to be a little more careful. By taking advantage of every little inequality of ground, Lawrence was able to hold the enemy well in check for some miles; but at length they came to a place where the valley spread out, and flank movements were easy, and it soon became a test of speed and endurance of the horses. "This will never do," thought Lawrence. "I must find a place to stop and fight them, and that soon." Leaving the rear guard in charge of a sergeant, he rode rapidly to the front. "Horses getting winded," said Dan. "We will have to stop and fight." "At the first favorable place, Dan. Tell the boys to keep up the pace a little longer." Lawrence now urged his horse to his utmost speed. He rode two or three miles without finding a favorable place for an ambuscade, and was about to halt and choose as good ground as possible and give battle. He had no fears of the result--only that many of his men might be killed or wounded. Just as he came to this conclusion, to his delight, he saw the valley close in front of him. A great hill pushed into it, leaving only a narrow gateway. Beyond this the valley turned, and the force would be entirely concealed by the hill. It took Lawrence but a minute to form his plan of battle. Just before the gateway was reached, the road ran close to the base of the mountain, which was thickly wooded. Dan, in command of the advance, now dashed up. "Captain, we must fight. The horses are all in." "Yes, Dan, it's fight now. Dismount your men, and have the horses taken around that point, out of sight. One man can care for six horses. Conceal the rest of your force in the brush along the base of the mountain. Be quick. If I succeed in leading them into the trap, you will know what to do." Thus saying, Lawrence clapped spurs to his horse, and rode for the rear. Lawrence found the rear guard hard pressed. "Look out, Captain; they are flanking us, and you are in range," called one of the men. Just then three or four balls whizzed close to Lawrence's head. Wheeling his horse, he shouted, "Follow me!" and the rear guard went down the road as if in swift retreat. The enemy followed with wild cheers. The rapid pursuit had strung out the Confederates, and Major Powell had ridden back to hurry up the stragglers, leaving the advance in charge of his senior captain. This officer, thinking the Yankees in full retreat, and that he might gain some honor, pressed the pursuit with vigor. Straight past where Dan and his men were concealed, Lawrence rode, but he halted his little squad where the valley narrowed. If the Confederates had not been so eager in the pursuit, they might have seen the bushes tremble or caught the gleam of a gun barrel; but they only had eyes for the flying Yankees. When they saw the Federals had halted, they also halted, taking time to close up, and that was just what Lawrence wanted. Ordering his men to fire a volley, Lawrence again wheeled as if in retreat. "Forward!" shouted the Confederate captain. "Charge! Ride over them!" Suddenly, from the side of the road, there came a crashing volley. The destruction was awful; men and horses went down in heaps. "Wheel and charge!" shouted Lawrence; and down on the terror-stricken Confederates came Lawrence with his ten men. The panic became a rout. The enemy thought only of getting away. In vain Major Powell tried to stop his men; he, too, was borne back in the confusion. Quickly as possible, Dan had the horses brought up, and he and his men joined in the pursuit. For two miles it was kept up; then Lawrence ordered a halt. He saw that Major Powell had succeeded in rallying some of his men, and taken a position that could not be carried without loss. All along the road lay dead and wounded men and horses, and where the first volley was fired the road was filled with the dead and dying. It was a sight that made Lawrence's heart ache; but he could not stop even to give relief, for Harry and Jack came back with the startling news that there was a large force in front, not more than three miles away. Lawrence rallied his men, and, to his intense relief, found he had only three men slightly wounded. It was almost a bloodless victory. The question was, what to do now. While debating, one of the men suddenly exclaimed, "Look, there!" On a rock on the mountain-side, some three hundred yards away, stood the figure of an old man. A long white beard swept his breast, and he was bent with age. He stood leaning on a staff, as if weary. [Illustration: An old man leaning on a staff.] When he saw he was seen, he beckoned for some one to come to him. Two or three of the soldiers started, but he peremptorily waved them back. Lawrence then started, and the old man stood still. "Don't go, Captain," cried the men. "It may be a trap." "I will be careful," replied Lawrence. "Shoot at the first sign of treachery." A dozen carbines covered the old man, but he did not seem to notice it. When Lawrence was within about fifty yards of him, he motioned for him to stop; then, in a high, cracked voice, exclaimed: "There is danger ahead." "I know it," replied Lawrence. "A little ahead, close to that large tree, you will find a faint trail. Take it. It will lead you over the mountain into another valley, where you can go on your way in safety. Delay twenty minutes, and all will be lost. Farewell." The old man stepped from the rock and disappeared. Lawrence rushed to where he had been standing. Nothing was to be seen. It was as if the earth had swallowed him. He returned and told what had happened, and the wonderment was great. "No time to lose," exclaimed Lawrence. "I shall take his advice." In single file, the men turned into the trail. The way was steep, but not impassable, and soon the forest swallowed them up. Not until they were over the mountain, was there any opportunity of discussing the strange warning they had received. "Can it be that old man has been our guardian angel all the time?" asked Lawrence. "Impossible," said Dan. "We received the first warning when we had hardly left the valley of La Belle. We have come fast. How could that old man have come over the mountains and got ahead of us?" "And where did he go when he disappeared so suddenly?" asked one. "And who shot the guerrilla?" questioned another. "It's a secret only the mountains can tell. I have heard they were haunted," said Dan. "It's God's hand," said one of the men, a solemn, clerical-looking fellow, whom the men called Preacher. Before he was a soldier, he had been a Methodist class leader; and there was not a braver man in the company. Argue as they might, they could come to no conclusion. To them it was a mystery that was never solved. It was weeks before Lawrence fully knew of the danger from which the old man had saved him. Captain Turner, in his swift ride to get ahead of him, had fallen in with a scouting party of fifty Confederate cavalry; not only this, but his force had been augmented by guerrillas until he had fully two hundred men, well armed and mounted. Had Lawrence met this force in the narrow valley, he could not have escaped defeat. The horror and amazement of the advance guard of Turner's force may be imagined when they came upon the scene of conflict. That the battle had just been fought, was evident; the smoke of the conflict had not entirely cleared from the field. What was more surprising, not an armed man was in sight--neither Federal nor Confederate. They listened, but could hear no sound of conflict. Captain Turner came up. For a moment he gazed on the scene of carnage, and then cried: "Great God! Major Powell ran into an ambuscade, and his force has been annihilated. The dead are all our men. But where are the Yankees?" "Doubtless in pursuit of the few of the Major's force that escaped," replied an officer. "That is so," cried Turner. "Forward, men! Let our war-cry be: 'Powell and Revenge!' Give no quarter! Let every one of the cursed Yankees die." They rode nearly four miles before they came on to Major Powell and the remnant of his force. They had continued falling back until they were certain they were not pursued. Of his hundred men, the Major had succeeded in rallying about forty. The rest had been killed or wounded, or had fled. Some of them did not stop until they reached the valley of La Belle, bringing with them the story of the disaster, saying that of all of Powell's force they alone escaped. "Did you meet and exterminate the Yankees?" was the first question put to Captain Turner by Major Powell. "I have seen no Yankees," was the surprising answer. Major Powell could only gasp, "Seen no Yankees?" "No; not one." "Then the mountains must have opened and swallowed them." Full explanations were made, and the force returned to bury the dead and care for the wounded. The only possible explanation they could make for the disappearance of the Federals was that they had hid on the mountain-side and let the force of Captain Turner pass, then come down and resumed their flight. As they debated, suddenly, above them, on the mountain-side, appeared the figure of an old man, and his voice came down to them, loud and shrill: "Woe, woe, woe to them who raise their hands against the flag of their country!" "Damn him! Fire!" shouted Turner. A hundred rifles blazed. There came back to them a mocking laugh, and the old man disappeared. The mountain was scoured, but not a trace of him could be found. A superstitious fear fell upon the whole force. The old man must have been the devil, they argued, and he had helped the Yankees to escape. CHAPTER XXII MARK CONFESSES HIS LOVE It was a day or two after the appearance of the fugitives from Powell's force that Mark Grafton returned to the La Belle. He seemed tired and careworn, but reported that his trip had been entirely successful. When told of the disastrous defeat of Powell's force, he was astounded. "Had I expected such a result," he exclaimed, "I would have gone with him. Ran into an ambuscade, did he? I believe, if I had been with him, I could have prevented that, for I am used to fighting just such fellows, and am up to all their tricks." "You seem to have a good opinion of yourself," remarked Grace, somewhat sarcastically. What she said, and the tone in which she said it, cut Mark to the heart. "Your rebuke is just, Grace. No man should boast," he said, as he turned away. That night Mark lay thinking. That Grace had changed, he could plainly see. It must be because he had refused to tell her his secret. "I must go away, and never return," he sighed. "It is the only way. If I could only stay near her, to see her every day, to be her slave, I would be contented." Then the thought of Big Tom came into his mind. He knew there was real danger from that source. No one knew better than he what the guerrillas of the State were fast becoming--bands of robbers that preyed on friend and foe alike. He felt that Mr. Chittenden's being a Confederate would not save him. To go away and leave Grace exposed to such a great danger would be to him a torture. Sleep did not visit him that night, and when morning came he was no nearer a decision than he was the night before. He arose; white and haggard. The lines in his face showed what he had suffered. That night also seemed to have changed Grace. She came to him and, holding out her hand, said: "Mark, I'm sorry I spoke as I did last night. Forgive me." Then, looking at him, she cried: "Foolish boy! I believe you took to heart what I said. Mark, did it hurt you so?" "There is nothing to forgive, Grace," he replied, gently. "I passed a restless night, but it was not what you said that caused it, but the thought that I had already remained here too long; and yet it is hard to go from those who are so kind to me." "Why go at all?" asked Grace. "You belong here. Did we not bring you back from the very brink of the grave? I have heard father say he wished you would always remain. He has taken a great fancy to you." A great light came into Mark's face. He took a step toward her, as if he would clasp her in his arms. "Grace! Grace!" he cried, then stopped and turned deadly pale. "Mark, what is it? Are you sick?" asked Grace, anxiously. "No; I did turn a little faint, but I am over it now. I will think over what you said." He did think it over, and came to the conclusion that he must go; for, if he stayed, the time would come when he would have to confess his love for Grace. He trembled when he realized how near he had come to telling her. But it was not many hours before he was telling her. A man came riding into the valley from the north. He was burning with fever, and reeled from side to side in his saddle. He was lifted from his horse, and carried into the house. "I am afraid I am done for," he said, faintly, as he was gently placed on a bed. "I was told I would find a crippled Confederate soldier here, called Mark Grafton, who sometimes acts as the bearer of dispatches. Is he here now?" "He is," answered Mr. Chittenden. "I must see him--see him before it is too late. I feel the hand of Death upon me." Mark was called, and the sick man, between gasps, told his story. He said his name was Paul Dupont, and he was the bearer of important dispatches to General Hindman. "I was sick at the time they asked me to carry them, and tried to beg off, but they said the dispatches were so important they could only be trusted to a brave and trusty man, and they knew I was one. 'Carry them as far as Judge Chittenden's, on the La Belle,' they said; 'then, if you are not able to go farther, deliver them into the hands of a crippled Confederate soldier there, by the name of Mark Grafton.' I can go no farther. The hand of Death is already on me. You will find the dispatches sewed in the lining of my coat. Take them and deliver them into the hands of General Hindman." "To Hindman!" gasped Mark. "Yes--don't fail!" whispered Dupont, as he sank back on his pillow, exhausted. He closed his eyes; his breath came shorter and shorter, and he soon passed away, without speaking again. Mark stood as one confounded. A sacred trust had been committed to him--one that took him where he never wished to go--into Arkansas. No one except himself could realize the dangers that he would run. When Mr. Chittenden heard of the dead man's request, he said: "Mark, will you go? Those dispatches mean much; they may mean the redemption of the State. But the danger--Mark, I hate to see you go." Mark thought a moment, and then, drawing himself up to his full height, his face set and determined, he answered: "I will go. It is a sacred trust--it is for my country." Mr. Chittenden and Mark searched the effects of the dead man, and found the dispatches as stated. They also found he had about one hundred dollars in Federal money and two thousand dollars in Confederate money on his person. Among the papers found was a pass from General Hindman, asking all good Confederates to aid the bearer all possible. "No doubt Dupont was a trusty spy for General Hindman," said Mr. Chittenden. "Mark, you are stepping into dangerous shoes; yet, if you were my son, I should bid you go. As for the money, keep that; no doubt it was given Dupont for expenses, and you are now in his place." Mark's preparations were soon made, but the roll which he strapped behind his saddle was much larger than he generally took. When he was ready, he sought Grace, to say good-bye. She was not in the house, and knew nothing of what had taken place. He sought her in her favorite nook by the side of the La Belle, and there he found her gazing pensively into the water. Mark thought there was a look of sadness on her face. She looked up in surprise as he rode up. "Going away so soon?" she asked. Dismounting, Mark hitched his horse, and, going up to her, said: "Yes, Grace, I am going again, and on one of the most dangerous missions I ever undertook. I have come to say good-bye. If I never see you again, God bless you!" The girl turned pale. "Why go, Mark, if it is so dangerous?" "It is my duty." "Mark, don't go!" Tears were gathering in her eyes. He looked at her, his whole face eloquent with love. All the resolutions he had made were forgotten. "Grace, I must say what I have told myself a thousand times I would never say. Grace, I love you--love you better than I do my own soul, and because I so love you, it is better that I go away and never return." "I don't understand," she murmured. "You said things the other day I didn't understand, and you made me angry." "Grace, you are fit to reign a queen in some palace. I am poor and unknown. But it is not my poverty that has kept me from declaring my love. It is because I am unworthy of you--because I have deceived you in some things. Grace, I am not worthy to kiss the earth you tread on." A death-like pallor came over the face of the girl. "Mark, for the love of Heaven, tell me--tell me! Are you married, or have you committed some heinous crime?" "Married! Why, Grace, I never thought of love until I saw you. I knew not what love was. Neither am I a criminal. Things are done in war that would be criminal in times of peace." "Then why do you say you are so unworthy? Mark, it's that terrible secret you are keeping from me! Mark, tell me what it is?" She put her hands on his shoulders, looking yearningly in his face. Mark Grafton shook like a leaf. "Grace! Grace!" he cried, "don't tempt me! You know not what you ask." "Then you refuse to tell me?" She had taken her hands from his shoulders; there was an angry flush on her cheeks. "I can't, Grace! Oh, God! if I could!" "Go!" she said. "For once, you have told the truth, when you said you were not worthy of me. All the rest you have said are lies--lies. You love me, you say, better than your own soul, and yet you refuse to tell me what it is that would keep me from you. If you loved me, you would trust me, confide in me. By your actions you have shown yourself unworthy of the love of any true woman. I have loved you as a sister--nothing more--but even that love is gone now. Go! I never want to see you again," and she turned from him. A moment Mark stood; then he said, gently: "Grace, good-bye. It is best that you feel as you do, for I now know that it is only I who will suffer. I love you, Grace, and always will, but it will be a pure, a holy love. Nothing you can say or do can take from me the blessed privilege of loving you. Grace, will you not say good-bye?" No answer. Mark turned wearily, and mounted his horse. As the sound of the horse's hoofs came to her, Grace started as if from a dream. She looked. He was already riding away. She rushed toward him, with outstretched arms. "Mark! Mark! Come back!" she cried. "It was I that lied. I love you! I love you!" He did not hear, or, if he heard, did not heed, for he rode on without looking back. She watched until he had disappeared in the distance; then, pressing her hands to her heart, sank down. The wind rustled through the trees, and sent a shower of withered leaves down upon her. "Like my hopes," she murmured, "withered and dying; yet, even in death, they are beautiful!" She noticed the imprint of Mark's foot where he had stood when he declared his love. A leaf, all orange and gold, with a splash of red in the center, had fallen and half concealed the imprint. She stooped and picked it up. "He said he was not worthy to kiss the earth on which I tread," she whispered, and she pressed the leaf to her lips; then, with a shudder, she threw it from her, for she noticed her lips had touched the splash of red, which to her looked like blood. CHAPTER XXIII INTO THE LION'S MOUTH For a few miles after leaving Grace, Mark rode as if pursued by an enemy. Wild thoughts rushed through his mind; but at length he became calmer. "No, no," he soliloquized, "I cannot leave Grace to the vengeance of Hobson, and I am sure he will seek vengeance as soon as he recovers from his wound. But am I not leaving her? Well do I realize the danger I am running. It is doubtful if I ever come back. An ignominious death may await me. I have put duty above love. But, Grace, if I live, my duty, after this, will be to guard and protect you. Unseen and unknown, I will be near you. To see you from afar will be heaven." Mark soon halted by a pool of clear water, and undid the roll behind his saddle, from which he took various articles. Soon no one would have known him as the young man who had ridden away from the La Belle. He looked ten years older; the color of his hair was changed, and a fine mustache adorned his upper lip. He studied his face for a while as he leaned over the clear water. "It will do," he said. "But what if I meet Colonel Clay?" For three days after that Mark rode without an adventure, but on the fourth day he was chased by a squad of Federal cavalry. A lucky shot killed the horse of his foremost pursuer, and he escaped. Skirting the flank of the Federal army, he reached the headquarters of General Hindman at Van Buren, on the Arkansas River. Here, behind the Boston Mountains, Hindman had gathered an army estimated at from twenty to thirty thousand men. Opposed to him was General Blunt, with an army of not over seven or eight thousand men. Hindman thought that by a swift movement he could crush Blunt before he could be reinforced, and then, meeting any reinforcements which might be marching to his relief, whip them in detail, thus wresting Missouri from the grasp of the Federals. He was now only waiting dispatches from Missouri informing him of the number and position of the Federal troops in the State, and the number of recruits he could reasonably expect to join him, once in the State, and where. It was these dispatches that Mark Grafton was carrying. If captured with them, Mark well knew what his fate would be. There were other reasons, known only to himself, which made it extremely perilous for him to enter the Confederate lines. It was late in the afternoon when Mark was challenged by the outposts of the Confederate army. He stated that he was a courier from Missouri, with important dispatches for General Hindman, and demanded that he be conducted to headquarters at once. It was dark before headquarters were reached, but Mark was granted an immediate audience with the General. "What is your name?" asked the General, as Mark handed him the dispatches. "Grafton--Mark Grafton." "I was expecting dispatches, important ones, but from another source. I wonder what these can be?" He opened them and, glancing at them, exclaimed: "Why, these are the very dispatches I was looking for! I expected them to be delivered by a man named Dupont. How did you come by them?" "Dupont is dead," replied Mark, solemnly. "Dupont dead! Great God! How did he die? Was he captured?" "No." Mark told the full particulars of Dupont's death, and how in his dying moments he had committed the dispatches to him. "Poor Dupont!" sighed Hindman. "He was my most trusted spy, and he died in the discharge of his duty." Then, scrutinizing Mark closely, he said: "You have made good time in coming from Chittenden's. Have any trouble?" "Only once. I put one Yankee cavalryman out of commission." "Good! How would you like to take Dupont's place?" asked Hindman, abruptly. "General, I would make a poor spy. I could be identified too easily," and Mark touched his crippled arm. "Where did you get that?" "In one of the little partisan battles in Missouri," answered Mark, without hesitation. "I am sorry," answered Hindman. "I wished to send some dispatches back with you." "I can take them," promptly answered Mark. "And, if you wish, I can act as dispatch-bearer for you in Missouri. I am well acquainted in the State, and am known to most of the guerrilla leaders. It is through them I receive and deliver my dispatches. I am careful never to enter a Federal camp. I am at present staying at Chittenden's, and will cheerfully execute any commission you may send me. I have carried dispatches for Colonel Clay several times." "Just the thing. Consider yourself engaged," cried the General. "I recall now that I have heard Colonel Clay speak of you. I am sorry the Colonel is away on special duty." Mark was not the least bit sorry, but his looks did not show it. Clay would not have known him in his disguise, and would have denounced him as an impostor. "General, one thing more," said Mark. "Mr. Chittenden, in looking over the effects of Dupont, found several little trinkets that his family might wish to have. There was also one hundred dollars in Federal money and two thousand dollars in Confederate money on his person. Here is everything." "You can keep the Federal money. The Confederate will be of little use to you in Missouri. Here is another one hundred in Federal money, but remember this money is a sacred trust, and only to be used for expenses when on business for the Confederacy." "It will be so considered," said Mark as he took the money. "General, will it be possible for you to have your dispatches ready by morning. Mr. Chittenden wished me to get back as quickly as possible. He is in trouble." "Trouble? What trouble?" "Why, haven't you heard? The valley of the La Belle has been raided by a force of Federals, the provisions and forage he had gathered captured, and four or five hundred recruits coming from the central and northern part of the State taken prisoners and paroled." "I had not heard of it," said the General, greatly excited. "When did it happen?" "Only a few days before I left. But that is not all. Just as the Federals left, Major Powell came up from Arkansas with a train to get the provisions and forage and escort the recruits. He pursued the Federals, but fell into an ambuscade and his command was cut to pieces." "Do you know who commanded the Federals?" "Yes, a Captain Lawrence Middleton." "The devil! He had much to do with frustrating our plans last summer." "Yes, and but a few weeks ago he almost annihilated the band of Red Jerry. We are trying to lay plans to capture him." "Well, this is bad news, but we will try and turn the tables before many days. I will have my dispatches ready by morning. Make yourself comfortable until then." With a wave of the hand the General dismissed him. The next morning Mark called early for the dispatches and found the General in close conversation with a thick, heavy-set man whose face showed both courage and determination. When Mark saw him he gave a start. "I know you, my friend," he thought, "and it will be an unfortunate thing for me if you recognize me." "Ah, Grafton, is that you?" said the General. "Glad to see you. Allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Spencer. Spencer, this is the young man I was telling you about. Grafton, Spencer is now my most trusted spy, since Dupont is gone. He will ride part way with you." Mark extended his hand cordially, but there was no warmth or cordiality in the hand that Spencer gave him. Instead, he looked as if he would read the inmost thoughts of Mark's soul, but Mark met his gaze steadily and coolly, as if he did not know his life was hanging in the balance. At length Spencer said, "Glad to meet you, Grafton. Excuse me for scrutinizing you so closely, but we are in the same business, and as I may have you for a companion sometime, I like to measure my man before I tie to him." "Well, how do I measure?" asked Mark, with a smile. "I reckon you will do." "I trust so," rejoined Mark. "But you made a mistake in saying I was in the same business. I don't believe I have nerve enough to be a spy. I am simply a courier, and carry what others have gathered. It takes nerve to penetrate the enemy's camp. Nerve such as you have, Spencer." Spencer's face lit up with a smile. "You rate me too highly, Grafton," he answered. "But I certainly have been in some tight places, and I reckon you could relate some startling adventures if you would." Mark had been handed his dispatches, and was about to depart when General Frost was announced. "Hold on a minute," said Hindman. "General Frost may have some word he would like to send." "Sending a courier into Missouri?" asked Frost. "Yes, the same young man who brought those dispatches last night, that Dupont should have brought. I am sorry to say Dupont is dead." "Dead! Dupont dead! Did the Yankees get him?" "No, he died of the fever. He arrived at Chittenden's in a dying condition and gave his dispatches to Grafton to bring on." "Grafton? I think I have heard that name from Colonel Clay. Happy to meet you, Grafton. Let me hear the news from Missouri." Much against his will Mark was forced to remain and again rehearse his story. When he told of the capture of the train and the defeat of Powell, Frost became very much excited. "What Federal officer did you say was in command?" he asked. "I didn't say, but I understood it was a Captain Middleton." Frost sprang to his feet, letting out a volley of oaths. "Where were you when this happened?" he then asked. "I was absent from the valley. I was helping Mr. Chittenden in gathering supplies, and was away seeing about some that had not yet arrived." Mark was now excused, but told to wait for Spencer. General Frost had taken him aside and they were engaged in earnest conversation. Every now and then they would glance at Mark, and he was sure they were talking about him. If he had heard what they were saying he would have known he was under suspicion. "It can't be he," Frost was saying, "but every now and then there is something about him that makes me think of him. I hardly know what; certain motions, I think." "I knew him well," answered Spencer, "and so far I have not seen anything that would make me think Grafton was he. I am to ride with him nearly a day's journey, and if I see anything suspicious--well you know what will happen." All being ready the two rode away together. They had not gone far when Mark noticed that Spencer was watching every move he made. Instantly every nerve of Mark's body became alert, but to all appearances he was totally unsuspicious. To Spencer's request that he tell him something of his life, he responded that he did not have much to tell. He had been a member of a guerrilla band, was wounded and had found his way into the Ozarks, where he had been with Mr. Chittenden, who took him in when he was suffering with the fever. He had acted as courier for Colonel Clay, but had never met with many exciting adventures. "Now, Spencer," he said, "tell me something of yourself, for I know you have faced a hundred dangers where I have faced one." Spencer refused to be interviewed, and maintained a rather moody silence. At length they reached where they were to part and when they shook hands Spencer, as if by accident, drew the sleeve of his coat across Mark's face and his mustache came off. "Damn you! I know you now," shrieked Spencer as he reached for his revolver, but quick as a flash Mark snatched a revolver from his bosom and fired. Spencer's revolver went off half raised. He sank down in the saddle, then rolled from his horse, a motionless body. Mark was about to dismount to see if he was dead when he was startled by the pounding of horses' hoofs and looking up saw a squad of Federal cavalry bearing down on him. Putting spurs to his horse and bending low over his neck he escaped amid a shower of bullets. The only mark of the conflict that Mark could find was a bullet which had lodged in the back of his saddle. After riding several miles, Mark met half a dozen guerrillas who said they were on their way to join Hindman. He told them of meeting the Yankee cavalry and that they would have to look out, and asked them to take a note to General Hindman for him. To this they readily assented and this is what Mark wrote: GENERAL: I am sorry to say that just as Spencer and I were to part we ran into a squad of Yankee cavalry. Poor Spencer was killed and I only escaped by the fleetness of my horse. If Spencer had dispatches that will embarrass you, you can govern yourself accordingly, for they are now in the hands of the enemy. As for the dispatches you entrusted to me, they are safe, and if they are never delivered you will know I have suffered the fate of poor Spencer. MARK GRAFTON. After parting from the guerrillas Mark, instead of riding towards home, turned his horse westward. In due time General Hindman learned that the dispatches he had entrusted to Mark had been faithfully delivered, but that Mark had disappeared. Mr. Chittenden looked for his return to the La Belle in vain. General Hindman made anxious inquiries, for he had use for so faithful a courier as Mark had proved to be. But the weeks passed and nothing was heard, and it was thought he must have been killed, and he was numbered with the unknown dead. Mr. Chittenden mourned him as such, but Grace maintained that he still lived, and she had good cause for her belief. She had never told her father of the love passage between Mark and herself, and how she had refused to bid him good-bye when he left. The memory of that parting was a secret, she felt, only to be held in her own heart, for she was not sure she would ever see or hear from Mark again. One day a letter was placed in Grace's hands by a messenger who hurried away before she had time to thank him, much less question him. Much to her surprise and joy the letter was from Mark. "He lives! He lives!" she cried rapturously as she pressed it to her lips. Grace had forgotten all her resentment towards Mark, forgotten that the secret that lay between them was still unsolved. She only knew that she loved him. Eagerly she read the letter, which ran: GRACE: Lest you believe me dead, I write this. It was foolish in me to tell you of my love, but I had to do it. Now that you know, I am content. I ask nothing, deserve nothing, in return. Just the thought of loving you is like thinking of heaven. When I went away I rode as it were into the jaws of death, and escaped as by a miracle. Grace, it is best that I see you no more. Think of me only as one who takes joy in loving you. Only one thing will ever call me to your side, and that is if you are ever in grave danger. To defend you I would come from the ends of the earth. I think you have read Longfellow's Hiawatha, for I have seen it in your library. Do you remember that when Minnehaha lay dying she called for Hiawatha, and, although he was miles and miles away, that cry of anguish reached him. And so great is my love for you that I believe that if you should call me in a time of danger I would hear. Remember this if trouble comes, though I hope it never will. Farewell. MARK. Grace read and re-read the strange letter. Hiawatha had just been published when she was at school in St. Louis, and it had been a great favorite of hers. What could Mark mean by intimating that some great peril might be impending? She knew not. But Mark lived; he still loved her, would always love her. She placed the letter in her bosom next her heart and there it rested. Her secret was her own; why tell it? If Mark never came back, no one would ever know. But she believed he would come back, and her step grew lighter, her face brighter, her laugh merrier. In fact, she became her old self, and her father rejoiced, for he had noticed a change in her since Mark went away. CHAPTER XXIV PRAIRIE GROVE When General Sterling Price was ordered east of the Mississippi River the Confederate Government placed the Department of Arkansas under the command of General T. C. Hindman. It was Hindman who originated the idea of organizing the guerrillas of Missouri into companies and regiments, intending by a general uprising to wrest the State from the grasp of the Federals. In his report to the Confederate Government Hindman says: "I gave authority to various persons to raise companies and regiments there (in Missouri) and to operate as guerrillas." Thus Hindman confesses he was encouraging the bloody guerrilla warfare which raged throughout the State. Hindman ruled Arkansas with a rod of iron. He declared martial law throughout the State, appointed a provost marshal for every county, and proceeded to force every able-bodied man into the army. In his reports he coolly says: "For the salvation of the country, I took the responsibility to force these men into service. I now resolved for the same objects to compel them to remain." A great many of these men were Union at heart, and desertions were frequent. To stop this Hindman began the wholesale shooting of deserters. In all probability he shot as many men for deserting as the Federal authorities shot guerrillas in Missouri for breaking their paroles. So high-handed did his acts become, and so many were the complaints made against him, that the Confederate Government had to take cognizance of them. By the end of November Hindman had succeeded in gathering an army of from twenty-five to thirty thousand men. Many of them were unarmed, but he had a formidable host in comparison to the small army opposed to him. It was on December the second that Lawrence arrived at the camp of General Blunt. Since he had crossed the mountains, and escaped the force in front of him, he had encountered no serious opposition. He had met and scattered two or three small bands of guerrillas, and taken a number of prisoners, whom he had been obliged to parole. "I am more than glad to see you," exclaimed General Blunt, warmly grasping Lawrence's hand. "Schofield telegraphed me you were coming and I have been looking for you for several days. I began to fear misfortune had overtaken you." "We did have a variety of adventures," answered Lawrence. "More than we bargained for, but we are here all right now." "Tell us about it," said the General, and nothing would do but that Lawrence must give a detailed account of the trip. The General listened attentively, and when Lawrence finished he clapped him on the shoulder and cried, "Well done, my boy! Well done. You ought to be a general. But were not the warnings you received in the mountains rather mysterious?" "They were," answered Lawrence, "and I have no plausible explanation to make." Early next morning Blunt sent for Lawrence, asking him to come immediately. He found him sitting with a paper in his hand, and a puzzled expression on his face. "Hello! Captain," he cried. "I'm glad to see you, as I am a little in the mystery business myself this morning." "In the mystery business?" asked Lawrence, somewhat astonished. "Yes, don't imagine you are the only one to receive mysterious warnings. I received one myself last night." "Out with it. Don't keep me in suspense, General." "Well, last night a soldier brought me a communication, saying it was given to him by a young Indian with the urgent request that it be given to me at once." "You have Indians in your command, have you not?" "Yes, a company of scouts under the command of Colonel Wattles. The paper was of such a nature that I immediately began an investigation as to its genuineness. Colonel Wattles asked every man in his command if any one of them had delivered such a paper and each and every one denied knowledge of it. I found the soldier who gave me the paper, and he said the Indian who gave it to him disappeared in the darkness before he could ask him any questions. The paper contains the most important information, if true. Here it is. I want you to look at it, and tell me what you think of it." General Blunt handed Lawrence the communication, and no sooner had he glanced at it than he exclaimed, "Great Heavens!" "What is it?" asked Blunt, jumping up in his excitement. "Do you know who wrote it?" "I do not know who wrote it, but I know the handwriting. It is from the same person who warned General Schofield, through me, of the contemplated partisan uprising in Missouri last summer. It was the information given in that communication that enabled General Schofield to thwart the movement." "Was it the same person that warned you that you were being pursued in the Ozarks?" asked the General. "No, that warning was given by an illiterate person. This is by someone well educated. Whatever information the paper gives, act upon it at once. I will stake my life on its being correct." "Read what it says," replied the General. Lawrence read the paper through and, as he expected, it was a detailed account of the plans of General Hindman. It stated that Hindman had just received dispatches from several sources in Missouri that if he did not hurry up and invade the State the cause would be hopelessly lost, but if he could defeat Blunt and invade the State, thousands were ready to flock to his standard. Hindman had answered that he was ready to move on Blunt with twenty thousand men, and anticipated an easy victory as he (Blunt) did not have more than five or six thousand men. "He estimated my force closely," said Blunt. "There must have been spies in my camp," but read on. "Great Scott! He says Hindman will commence his movement on the fourth or fifth; and this is the third," exclaimed Lawrence. "Yes, and I have only this small division to oppose him." "Where are the other two divisions?" "Up around Springfield, seventy-five miles away, and Schofield's orders are to hold this position at all hazards." "Herron can get here," cried Lawrence. "I know his Western boys; they are greyhounds to march." "But just think, seventy-five miles in two or three days," said Blunt, "and then go into battle. But it is my only hope." It was twelve miles to the telegraph office at Fayetteville. A swift courier carried the message there and from there it went on the wings of the lightning to General Herron. It was a little after midnight on the morning of the fourth that General Herron received the message, and by three o'clock his little army was on the way--a march of seventy-five miles before them and then a battle. There was no lagging, no grumbling. "On to save Blunt" was the cry. That army was accustomed to long marches, to hardships almost incredible. Hardly ever stopping, through the nights as well as days, they marched, and on the evening of the sixth the advance of Herron's army reached Fayetteville; the rest would be up during the night. Blunt's army was still twelve miles away, and the boom of the cannon told them the conflict was on. Hindman knew that Herron was coming, and he made haste to strike before his arrival. On December fifth he instructed General Marmaduke to take his division, turn the right flank of Blunt's army, and throw his men in between Blunt and Fayetteville, thus preventing the union of Blunt and Herron. The clash came at Cain Hill. Lawrence, with his troop, was in the advance, and the rapidity of their fire so astonished Marmaduke that he thought he was fighting a much larger force than he was, and his men fell back in confusion. The movement was a failure. All through the next day Hindman's forces kept pouring through the passes of the mountains, and though the Federals resisted gallantly, they were gradually pressed back, and the evening of the sixth found the two armies confronting each other, ready to grapple in deadly conflict. Blunt had sent word to Herron that he would fight where he was, and for him to hurry forward. During the night General Hindman made an unexpected and aggressive movement, worthy of Stonewall Jackson. Reasoning that Herron's men must be completely exhausted by their long march, he resolved to leave his camp fires burning and a small force which was to make a big show, thus leading General Blunt to believe the whole army was still before him. Hindman then marched around Blunt and in the morning was squarely between him and Herron. Hindman believed he could easily whip Herron before Blunt came up, and then he would turn on Blunt and finish the job. As soon as it was light the Confederates in front of Blunt opened a noisy battle. Lawrence was serving on Blunt's staff, leaving the troop in command of Dan. The Federals pressed eagerly forward, the Confederates yielding ground readily. "General," said Lawrence, "there is something wrong. I do not believe the whole army is before us. They give ground too easily. I believe the main part of Hindman's army has slipped past us, and gone to attack Herron." "Impossible," answered Blunt. "The only road they could have taken to get past us is the Cove Creek road, some four miles away, and I sent Colonel Richardson with his regiment to guard that with strict orders to hold it, and let me know if he was attacked. I have heard nothing from him, so all must be well." But Lawrence was not satisfied; more and more he became convinced that there was only a small force in front, and he asked Blunt if he might not go and try to find Richardson, as he had not yet reported. Permission was readily granted. Lawrence had not gone two miles before he came onto Richardson. He had not occupied nor had he attempted to occupy the Cove Creek road. Instead he had halted two miles from it, and sent forward a small reconnoitering party; and the officer in charge of the party had reported that the enemy had been passing along the road in force ever since midnight. "Why didn't you occupy the road as ordered?" angrily demanded Lawrence of Richardson. "Do you think I was going to fight the whole Confederate army with my little regiment? I'm not such a fool," retorted Richardson. "Why didn't you send word to the General then that the enemy was passing along this road in force?" demanded Lawrence, still more angry. "By your own admission you became aware of the movement by midnight." "Why, I was just about to report the matter," said Richardson. "Just about to, and here it is after nine o'clock. If I had the power I would strip off your shoulder straps, and have you drummed out of the army," exclaimed Lawrence furiously. In fact, he came the nearest swearing he ever did. But there was no time to quarrel. Wheeling his horse he rode at full speed to General Blunt with the news. Calling back his men and paying no more attention to the force in front, Blunt marched to the relief of Herron, but it was nearly eleven o'clock before he got under way. Then he did not know exactly where Herron was, for no courier could get through. It was one o'clock before the roar of the cannon told him that the battle had opened, and then he found he was marching in the wrong direction, and it was nearly four o'clock before he reached the field. Hindman's movement had been a complete success. Herron had gathered his little army at Fayetteville and early in the morning started to join Blunt, whose cannon he could hear, not dreaming that it was to be he and not Blunt that was to fight the main battle. Hardly had the light of the short December day dawned when Shelby's brigade surprised and captured a train of thirty wagons, and with it nearly three hundred of the four hundred soldiers guarding it. Those not captured fled panic-stricken and for nearly five miles Shelby's men followed them, but here they ran into Herron's men and went back as fast as they had come. Herron soon came upon the entire Confederate army in line of battle along Illinois Creek, not far from an old church called Prairie Grove Church. The position was a strong one, but Herron did not hesitate a moment, but made preparations to attack. Why Hindman, with his overwhelming force, did not attack, but waited to be attacked, will never be known. Owing to the nature of the ground it took Herron some time to form his line, but at one o'clock the battle opened. For nearly three long hours it raged. Every time the Confederates essayed to charge they were met with such a storm of shot and shell that they went reeling back. Twice did Herron's men make desperate charges and captured a battery each time, but they were met with such an overwhelming force that they were forced to relinquish the guns. Herron's men were hard pressed, but grimly they held to their position, awaiting the arrival of Blunt. It was nearly four o'clock when the roar of Blunt's cannon was heard. Throwing his force on the flank of the Confederate army, they were compelled to give way and the field was won. Darkness put an end to the conflict, and the tired soldiers threw themselves on the ground to sleep, expecting to renew the conflict in the morning. But Hindman had had enough. He had failed to crush Herron, and now that Blunt and Herron were united, he only thought of safety; so muffling the wheels of his artillery he began his retreat to Van Buren, leaving his dead to be buried and hundreds of his wounded to be cared for by the victorious Federals. This ended all hopes of the Confederates invading Missouri at this time. Soon Hindman withdrew his army from Northwest Arkansas and fled to Little Rock. Again had the Army of the Northwest, now known as the Army of the Frontier, achieved a glorious victory in the face of immense odds.[17] [Footnote 17: The battle of Prairie Grove, for the number engaged, was a bloodier and more fiercely contested battle than Pea Ridge. Blunt claimed that he and Herron together had only seven thousand men on the field. That Herron, with not more than half that number, had held the enemy at bay for three hours, speaks volumes for the valor of his weary men. Hindman claims he brought only eleven thousand men to the fight. The Federal loss was about thirteen hundred; the Confederate loss was estimated at from fifteen hundred to two thousand. Hindman admitted a loss of fourteen hundred. A few of the Federal regiments engaged lost heavily. The Twentieth Wisconsin lost two hundred and seventeen; the Twenty-sixth Indiana, two hundred and one; the Nineteenth Iowa, one hundred and ninety-three; the Seventh Missouri Cavalry, one hundred and forty-two, and the Thirty-seventh Illinois, seventy-one. General John C. Black, then colonel of the Thirty-seventh Illinois, states that his regiment marched sixty-six miles in thirty-six hours to get into the fight, and so exhausted were the men that during lulls in the battle they would sink to the ground and be fast asleep in a minute, but would spring to their feet and renew the fight when the call came, with all the fury of fresh soldiers.] CHAPTER XXV CALLED TO OTHER FIELDS The victory of Prairie Grove sent a thrill throughout the west, especially to the Union men of Missouri. To the secession element of the State it was a fearful blow, and they felt that their only hope was in the success of the Southern army in other fields. Generals Blunt and Herron and the gallant soldiers of the Army of the Frontier were warmly thanked by the Federal Government for the great victory they had achieved. A few days after the battle an orderly placed a bulky letter in the hands of Lawrence. He found it to be from General Schofield. As he read it he uttered an exclamation of surprise. The letter stated that General Blair had sent an urgent request that Lawrence be at once returned to him, as he was greatly in need of a staff officer of Lawrence's acquirements. "As much as I regret to lose you," wrote Schofield, "under the circumstances I cannot object. I have just heard of your achievements in the Ozarks and desire to thank you, which I hope to do in person." The letter then went on to state that while he no longer feared an invasion of Missouri by any large force, the guerrilla warfare was by no means over, and the State was still open to raids from Arkansas; therefore he hoped that the troop would remain under the command of Lieutenant Sherman, and that the scout Harry Semans would remain with him. As Lawrence read this his brow contracted, for he hated to give up Dan and Harry. But he felt the wisdom of Schofield's suggestion and could offer no objection. Enclosed was a letter from General Blair to Lawrence, urging him to come as soon as possible, saying that the movement against Vicksburg was about to commence. "There will be stirring times down here for the next few months," he wrote, "and you will find plenty to do, and fresh fields in which to win honor." After he read the letter Lawrence handed Schofield's letter to Dan, saying, "Read it." Dan had read but a few words when he looked up with a happy smile. "Why, Captain," he exclaimed, "this is jolly. It means a wider field. I always thought I would like to be in an army commanded by Grant." "Read on, Dan," said Lawrence. "There is much bitter with the sweet in that document." Dan read on. In a moment he uttered an oath, and threw the letter down. "I won't stay," he cried. "I want to go with you. I will resign my commission. I will enlist as a private soldier so I can be near you." "I do not think that will do you much good," said Lawrence, smiling. "As a private soldier you might be sent hundreds of miles from me. Even if we were in the same army we would see little or nothing of each other. Dan, let's look at this in a reasonable way. To part with you is as great a grief to me as to you. It will be a sad parting, Dan, but it will leave you in command of the troop and, Dan, I know you will do as well, if not better, than I. Then you will have Harry and Bruno. General Schofield is right; the guerrilla warfare is not over, and it is your duty to remain here." It was hard to convince Dan, although he knew Lawrence was right. "Let's go and see Blunt," said Lawrence. The General, though he had known Lawrence but a few days, had become warmly attached to him. His gallantry and coolness in time of battle had won his admiration. "I had hoped you could remain and become chief of my scouts," he said. "I have need of just such a body of men as you command." "You forget," said Lawrence, "that General Schofield writes that the troop is to remain under the command of my lieutenant, Daniel Sherman. You will find him equal to all demands. As for scouting, Harry Semans is to remain with his dog Bruno, and they are equal to a regiment when it comes to scouting." Schofield had written that he wished Lawrence would come by way of St. Louis, as he wished to see him. This meant a horseback ride of two hundred miles to Rolla. Lawrence's preparations for the long ride were soon made, and the time to bid farewell to his command came. The members of the troop crowded around him to say good-bye and bid him Godspeed, and tears stood in the eyes of many a rough soldier as they took his hand in theirs. When it came to parting with Dan and Harry, Lawrence broke down. He tried to say something, but a great lump was in his throat and his voice died away. They could only clasp hands, their eyes looking what their tongues refused to say. Dan and Harry watched him ride away, and as he looked back, waved him a last farewell. But Lawrence's adventures in Missouri were not ended. He reached Springfield in safety and there joined a wagon train en route for Rolla, guarded by a detachment of fifty cavalry. The train was a small one, consisting of forty wagons and ten ambulances, the ambulances conveying back some disabled soldiers who had been furloughed. The escort was in charge of a Captain Jackson, a pompous, red faced man. Lawrence noticed that he was more or less under the influence of liquor all the time, and that there was little discipline among his men. A train from Rolla that came into Springfield just as this train was leaving reported that they had been threatened by a band of guerrillas under Jackman, but as their train was strongly guarded, he had not attacked. "You had better be on your guard," said the officer in command to Jackson. With an oath Jackson replied that his fifty men were a match for any force Jackman could bring against him. That he wished Jackman would attack, as he would like to give him a good licking. The first day out Lawrence saw how things were going and spoke to Jackson, telling him that he was moving carelessly, that his men were straggling and were in no shape to resist an attack if one came. Jackson drew himself proudly up and growled: "Who's in command of this train, you or I? If you are afraid you had better go back to Springfield and get a regiment to guard you through." Lawrence smothered his wrath and said nothing more. Jackson went among his men boasting loudly how he had taken the starch out of that young peacock of a captain. He had quickly shown him he couldn't order him around. Soon a lieutenant of the company came to Lawrence and said, "Captain, I heard what you said to Captain Jackson and his insulting reply. You are right. We are in no shape to resist an attack." "You are in charge of the rear guard, are you not?" asked Lawrence. "Yes." "How many men have you?" "Fifteen." "Can they all be depended on?" "Ten or twelve can." "Good! Tell them if an attack comes to stand by the train to the last. Captain Jackson has charge of the advance; how many men has he?" "Twenty. Half of them are no good. They would run at the first shot." "That leaves fifteen men to guard the center of the train," replied Lawrence. "Under whose command are they?" "Sergeant Strong. He's a good man." "Let's see him." The Sergeant was seen and found to be a keen young soldier, fully alive to the situation. "I have had hard work," he said, "to keep my men in hand owing to the example of those in front, but I am doing the best I can. One shot would stampede the whole advance." "If an attack should come in front," said Lawrence, "and the advance come back panic-stricken, don't give way; Lieutenant Hale, here, will come to your relief. If the rear is attacked, go to him. If the center is attacked he will come to you." "You can depend on that," said Hale. "Are the teamsters armed?" asked Lawrence. "Only about half of them are enlisted men. They are armed." "See that their guns are loaded and ready for instant use." The teamsters were astonished and considerably excited when the order came, but they were told that it was merely a matter of precaution, and that there was no cause for alarm. On the morning of the third day out firing was heard in front. There came a volley followed by fiendish yells and the advance came tearing back, panic-stricken. In a moment everything was in confusion. Down the train rode the guerrillas, shooting the teamsters and mules, and yelling like devils. Back came Captain Jackson, spurring his horse, his face white with fright. "Halt," cried Lawrence. But the Captain went past him like a whirlwind, his only thought of escape. Where the guerrillas had charged the head of the train the ground was open, but where Lawrence was there was a thick growth of bushes on one side of the road and a rough fence built out of logs and rails on the other. Lawrence ordered one of the teamsters who had not entirely lost his head to swing his wagon across the road, blocking it. Sergeant Strong had succeeded in rallying some ten or twelve of the soldiers, who, springing from their horses, used the mules and wagons for breastworks. Several of the advance guard had been cut off, but they jumped from their horses and, diving under the wagon, continued their flight. Lawrence did not attempt to stop them, for they had lost their arms and would have been of no use. Close on the heels of the fugitives came six or eight guerrillas. "Steady, men! Hold your fire!" shouted Lawrence. He waited until the guerrillas were within a few rods of the improvised breastworks, then ordered the men to fire. Half the saddles were emptied and the rest went scurrying back. But they were met by the main body of guerrillas and all came charging with blood curdling yells. At this opportune moment Lieutenant Hale came galloping up with the rear guard. His quick eye took in the situation and he ordered his men to dismount and take position behind the mules and wagons. "Hold your fire!" again shouted Lawrence. "Keep cool and take good aim." On came the yelling horde. When within a few yards of the blockade the foremost tried to check their horses, but those in the rear pressed on and threw the whole body into confusion. "Fire!" Lawrence's voice rang out loud and clear. In that packed mass the effect of the volley was terrible. "Give it to them," shouted Lawrence. The men loaded and fired as fast as they could, but soon there was no one to shoot at. The guerrillas who had escaped were in retreat. "Lieutenant Hale, hold the position here," said Lawrence. "Fifteen men come with me." Every man within the barricade volunteered. Quickly Lawrence counted off fifteen. "The rest stay with Lieutenant Hale and hold the barricade," he ordered. With the fifteen men Lawrence boldly charged after the fleeing enemy. They had commenced to rally, but a few well directed volleys once more put them to flight. Ten or twelve wagons were in flames, half a dozen of the teamsters lay weltering in their blood, and the poor mules lay in heaps as they had fallen. The ambulances had been in the rear of the train and so the occupants had escaped. It was found that fifteen of the teamsters and soldiers had been killed or wounded. Of the guerrillas, thirty lay dead or desperately wounded. After the fight was over Captain Jackson came creeping back. He claimed that before he retreated he had killed two of the guerrillas with his own hand and he had only gone to the rear to order up Lieutenant Hale. "Captain Jackson, you are under arrest." "Sergeant Strong, please relieve Captain Jackson of his sword," said Lawrence, coolly. "By what right do you arrest me?" roared the Captain. "I refuse to be arrested. Sergeant Strong, dare to arrest me and I will have you court-martialed." "As the representative of General Schofield I arrest you; I am on his staff," quietly answered Lawrence. "Sergeant, do your duty." The Captain delivered up his sword without a word. The name of General Schofield was potent. Lawrence now turned to Lieutenant Hale and said, "Lieutenant, you are in charge of the train. Clear up the debris of the battle. Let the men in the ambulances who are best able be put in the wagons and our wounded take their places. Let the wounded guerrillas be taken to that house over there, and be made as comfortable as possible. Their friends will care for them as soon as we are out of sight." It was noon before the train was again on the way. The burnt wagons, dead mules and new made graves were the mute witnesses left to tell of the fight. Rolla was reached without further trouble. Here Lawrence turned Captain Jackson over, charging him with disgraceful cowardice. The Captain was court-martialed and dishonorably dismissed from the service. For their bravery, Lieutenant Hale was promoted to captain and Sergeant Strong to second lieutenant. Lawrence took the cars at Rolla and was soon in St. Louis, where he reported to General Schofield. What that gentleman said brought the blushes to Lawrence's cheeks. "You do not know how I hate to give you up," said the General. "But on your account, I rejoice. This is a miserable warfare in Missouri; not much glory gained in fighting guerrillas. I will welcome the day when I am assigned to another department. I have repeatedly asked to be released, but the powers that be think I am of more service here. I know the Radicals are opposed to me, and that complaints are pouring into Washington against me. There is a large element that will not be satisfied except I devastate the whole State with fire and sword." "I know," replied Lawrence. "I had a little experience with Jennison. Jim Lane and a host of others are as bad. As you say, this is a murderous warfare in Missouri, without much glory." "There will be great things doing around Vicksburg. I envy you," said Schofield. "Ah! General, before the war is over you may have opportunities to distinguish yourself, rather than fight guerrillas." The history of General Schofield shows that these opportunities came and that in the last year of the war he won great distinction. Lawrence made a hurried visit to his friends before he departed for his new field. He found his uncle and aunt well. His uncle was as firmly convinced as ever that the South could never be conquered. Lola Laselle was overjoyed to meet him. "Every day I live I am prouder of my knight-errant than ever," she cried. "No lady of old ever had a braver or truer knight." Lawrence found Leon Laselle had nearly recovered from his wound. Randolph Hamilton was in a fair way to recover, and was longing for the day to come when he could be exchanged and again fight for the principles he held dear. When he heard of Lawrence being the chosen knight of Lola he begged to be allowed to become her knight too. "Then Lola," he said, "you will have a knight in both armies, and one of them will be sure to come back wearing the crown of victory." "It will not do," laughed Lola, "and you are a naughty boy for fighting against the old flag. I had rather my knight be defeated in a good cause than be victor in a bad one, and Randolph, the cause for which you are fighting is a bad one, very bad." Randolph sighed. Day by day Lola had become more precious to him, and as he looked at Lawrence he thought, "Why should she not prefer him to me?" When Lawrence inquired so particularly about Dorothy, how she was getting along and how she liked Europe, a faint hope came to him that after all it might be Dorothy and not Lola that attracted Lawrence; and then he sighed again, for he remembered Dorothy's hatred for Yankees. The next day Lawrence was floating down the river. When we meet him next it will be in that great campaign which ended in the capture of Vicksburg, the Gibraltar of the Mississippi River. THE END. THE YOUNG KENTUCKIANS SERIES GENERAL NELSON'S SCOUT ON GENERAL THOMAS'S STAFF BATTLING FOR ATLANTA FROM ATLANTA TO THE SEA RAIDING WITH MORGAN THE YOUNG MISSOURIANS SERIES WITH LYON IN MISSOURI THE SCOUT OF PEA RIDGE THE COURIER OF THE OZARKS 
33048	----	[Frontispiece: A DRAWING FROM LIFE BY JOHN CECIL CLAY] JAP HERRON A NOVEL WRITTEN FROM THE OUIJA BOARD WITH AN INTRODUCTION THE COMING OF JAP HERRON by Emily Grant Hutchings NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY MCMXVII COPYRIGHT 1917 BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY PRINTED IN AMERICA THE COMING OF "JAP HERRON" On the afternoon of the second Thursday in March, 1916, I responded to an invitation to the regular meeting of a small psychical research society. There was to be a lecture on cosmic relations, and the hostess for the afternoon, whom I had met twice socially, thought I might be interested, my name having appeared in connection with a recently detailed series of psychic experiments. To all those present, with the exception of the hostess, I was a total stranger. I learned, with some surprise, that these men and women had been meeting, with an occasional break of a few months, for more than five years. The record of these meetings filled several type-written volumes. When word came that the lecturer was unavoidably detained, the hostess requested Mrs. Lola V. Hays to entertain the members and guests by a demonstration of her ability to transmit spirit messages by means of a planchette and a lettered board. The apparatus was familiar to me; but the outcome of that afternoon's experience revealed a new use for the transmission board. After several messages, more or less personal, had been spelled out, the pointer of the planchette traced the words: "Samuel L. Clemens, lazy Sam." There was a long pause, and then: "Well, why don't some of you say something?" I was born in Hannibal, and my pulses quickened. I wanted to put a host of questions to the greatest humorist and the greatest philosopher of modern times; but I was an outsider, unacquainted with the usages of the club, and I remained silent while the planchette continued: "Say, folks, don't knock my memoirs too hard. They were written when Mark Twain was dead to all sense of decency. When brains are soft, the method should be anæsthesia." Not one of those present had read Mark Twain's memoirs, and the plaint fell upon barren soil. The arrival of the lecturer prevented further confession from the unseen communicant; but I was so deeply impressed that I begged my hostess to permit me to come again. For my benefit a meeting was arranged at which there was no lecturer, and I was asked to sit for the first time with Mrs. Hays. In my former psychic investigation, it had been my habit to pronounce the letters as the pointer of the planchette indicated them, and Mrs. Hays urged me to render the same service when I sat with her, because she never permitted herself to look at the board, fearing that her own mind would interfere with the transmission. Scarcely had our finger-tips touched the planchette when it darted to the letters which spelled the words: "I tried to write a romance once, and the little wife laughed at it. I still think it is good stuff and I want it written. The plot is simple. You'd best skeletonize the plot. Solly Jenks, Hiram Wall--young men. Time, before the Civil War." Then the outline of a typical Mark Twain story came in short, explosive sentences. It was entitled, "Up the Furrow to Fortune." A brief account of its coming seems vital to the more sustained work which was destined to follow it. I was not present at the next regular meeting of the society; but at its close I was summoned to the telephone and informed that Mark Twain had come again and had said that "the Hannibal girl" was the one for whom he and Mrs. Hays had been waiting. When they asked him what he meant, the planchette made reply: "Consult your record for 1911." One of the early volumes of the society's record was brought forth, and a curious fact that all the members of the society had forgotten was unearthed. About a year after his passing out, Mr. Clemens had told Mrs. Hays that he had carried with him much valuable literary material which he yearned to send back, and that he would transmit stories through her, if she could find just the right person to sit with her at the transmission board. Although she experimented with each member of the club, and with several of her friends who were sympathetic though not avowed investigators, he was not satisfied with any of them. Then she gave up the attempt and dismissed it from her mind. A twenty-minute test with me seemed to convince him that in me he had found the negative side of the mysterious human mechanism for which he had been waiting. The work of transmitting that first story was attended with the greatest difficulty. No less than three distinct styles of diction, accompanied by correspondingly distinct motion in the planchette under our fingers, were thrust into the record. At first we were at a loss to understand these intrusions. That they were intrusions there could be no doubt. In each case there was a sharp deviation from the plot of the story, as it had been given to us in the synopsis. After one of these experiences, which resulted in the introduction of a paragraph that was rather clever but not at all pertinent. Mark regained control with the impatiently traced words: "Every scribe here wants a pencil on earth." Not until the middle of summer did we achieve that sureness of touch which now enables us to recognize, intuitively, the presence of the one scribe whose thoughts we are eager to transmit. That the story of Jap Herron and the two short stories which preceded it are the actual post-mortem work of Samuel L. Clemens, known to the world as Mark Twain, we do not for one moment doubt. His individuality has been revealed to us in ways which could leave no question in our minds. The little, intimate touches which reveal personality are really of more importance than the larger and more conspicuous fact that neither Mrs. Hays nor I could have written the fiction that has come across our transmission board. Our literary output is well known, and not even the severest psychological skeptic could assert that it bears any resemblance to the literary style of "Jap Herron." Mrs. Hays has found the best market for her short stories with one of the large religious publishing houses, and in the early days Mark Twain seemed to fear that her subconscious mind might inadvertently color or distort his thought, in process of transmission. We had come to the end of our fourth session when he added this: "There will be minor errors that you will be able to take care of. I don't object. Only--don't try to correct my grammar. I know what I want to say. And, dear ladies, when I say d-a-m-n, please don't write d-a-r-n. Don't try to smooth it out. This is not a smooth story." That Mark should fear the blue pencil, at our hands, amused us greatly. The story bristles with profanity and is roughly picturesque in its diction. It deals with a section of the Ozark country with which neither of us is familiar, and in the speech of the natives there are words that we had never heard, that are included in no dictionary but are, it transpires, perfectly familiar to the primitive people in the southwestern part of the state. When the revision of the story was almost complete. Mark interrupted the dictation, one afternoon, to remark: "You are too tired. Forces must be strong for results. Somebody handed you a lemon, back there. Cut out that part about the apple at fly time. I am not carping. You have done well. The interpretation is excellent. I was afraid of femininity. Women have their ideas, but this is not a woman's story. Good-bye." There was another meeting, at which the revision of "Up the Furrow to Fortune" was completed, and then we went to work on the second story, "A Daughter of Mars." As in the case of the first one, it began with a partial synopsis. Vallon Leithe, an enthusiastic aeronaut, was resting after a long flight, when a strange air-craft fell out of the sky, lodging in the top of a great tree. The occupant of the marvelously constructed flying machine proved to be a girl from the planet Mars. Her name was Ulethe, and she had many thrilling adventures on our earth. The synopsis ended with the wholly unexpected words: "Now, girls, it is not yet clear in my mind whether we'd better send Ulethe back to Mars, kill her, marry her to Leithe, or have an expedition from Mars raise the dickens. But we will let it develop itself." The board, on which two short stories and a novel have already been transmitted, is one of the ordinary varieties, a polished surface over which the planchette glides to indicate the letters of the alphabet and the figures from 1 to 10. In the main our dictation came without any apparent need for marks of punctuation. Occasionally the words "quotation marks," or "Put that in quotes" would be interjected. Once when my intonation, as I pronounced the words for the amanuensis who was keeping our record, seemed to indicate a direct statement, the planchette whirled under our fingers and traced the crisp statement, "I meant that for a question." When I told my husband of these grippingly intimate evidences of an unseen personality, it occurred to him that a complete set of punctuation marks, carefully applied in India ink, where the pointer of the planchette could pick them out as they were required, would facilitate the transmission of sustained narrative. To him it seemed that the absence of these marks on the board must be maddening, especially to Mark Twain, whose thought could be hopelessly distorted by the omission of so trivial a thing as a comma, and whose subtle use of the colon was known to all the clan of printers. Before our next meeting the board had been duly adorned with ten of the most important marks, including the hyphen and the M-dash. The comma was at the head of the right-hand column and the apostrophe at the bottom. My husband, Mrs. Hays and I knew exactly what all these markings meanly yet we had some confusion because Mark insisted on using the comma when he wished to indicate a possessive case. The sentence was this, as I understood it: "I was not wont to disobey my father, scommand." Instantly my husband, who had become interested and had taken the place of our first amanuensis, perceived that I had made a mistake, when I pronounced the combination, "f-a-t-h-e-r, comma, s-c-o-m-m-a-n-d." "But," I defended myself, "the pointer went to the comma. I can see now that it should have been the apostrophe." As I spoke the pointer of the planchette traced the words on the board: "Edwin did a pretty piece of work, but that apostrophe is too far down. I am in danger of falling off the board every time I make a run for it." The result was that another apostrophe was placed in the middle of the board, directly under the letter S. In connection with the M-dash we had a yet more startling evidence of an outside personality, one dependent on us for his means of communication, but wholly independent of our thought and knowledge. Mark had dictated the synopsis for the second story and had enlarged upon the first situation. Then, as has since become his fixed habit, he indicated that the serious work for the evening was ended, and returned for an informal chat. Mrs. Hays and I had discussed the plot at some lengthy and after my husband had read aloud the second evening's dictation we commented on some of the obscure points, our fingers resting, the while, lightly on the planchette. Suddenly it became agitated, assumed a vigorous sweeping motion and traced very rapidly these words: "It is starting good; but will you two ladies stop speculating? I am going to take care of this story. Don't try to dictate. You are interrupting the thread of the story. There is ample time for smoothing the rough places. I am not caviling. I am well pleased." After a pause, he continued: "There is the same class of interruption--those who could write stories, but are not to write my----" At this, the planchette turned to the M-dash and slid back and forth under it several times. It then spelled the word "stories." We were utterly at a loss, until he explained: "I was using that black line for an underscore." Again and again we have had the word "good" in an adverbial construction, a usage that is not common to either Mrs. Hays or me; but Mark has told us that he liked it, in familiar conversation. We have tried to adhere with absolute fidelity to even the seeming errors which came over the board. The second installment of the story gave all of us much trouble. Incidentally it served to develop several bits of humorous conversation. When it was finished, we received this comment: "I think that is all we can do to-night. I intend to enlarge upon this chapter before going further. The forces are not strong enough to-night. We will rewrite this part Monday night." We naturally expected a rehandling of that installment, which for convenience he had designated a "chapter." To our surprise, the pointer of the planchette gave this: "I have changed my mind. We will proceed to New York. I will probably want to handle chapter second in a different way. It reads like a printed porous plaster; but that is no one's fault. Begin!" The dictation went smoothly, and there were no interruptions from the unseen rivals who had so persistently contested Mark Twain's right to the exclusive use of our "pencil." Before the next meeting I was urged to take a prominent part in another piece of psychic work, and to persuade both my husband and Mrs. Hays to join me. I said nothing to either one of them about it, intending to discuss it with them when the evening's work was over. As soon, however, as we applied our finger tips to the planchette, this astonishing communication came: "I am afraid that my pencil-holders are going to get wound up in other stuff that will make much confusion. I heard Emily talking over the telephone and making promises that are not good for our work." When I had been questioned concerning the meaning of this rebuke, and had explained its import, Mark added: "If we are going to make good there must be concentration, to that end. Get busy." We did! It was a hot July night, and the planchette flew over the board so swiftly that at times I could scarcely keep pace with it as I pronounced the letters. With other amanuenses I had been forced to pronounce the finished words, and to repeat sentences in whole or in part; but after my husband came into the work this was not necessary. As much as a score of letters might be run together, to be divided into words after the dictation was ended. Sometimes, when I had failed utterly to catch the thought, and would hesitate or ask to have the thing repeated, my husband would say to me: "Don't stop him. I know what it means." Mrs. Hays avoided looking at the board lest her own mind interfere with the transmission, and with less efficient help, the entire responsibility had been on me. When I came to realize that nothing was expected of me beyond the mere pronouncing of the letters, the three of us developed swiftly into a smoothly working machine. Yet Mark was constantly worried for fear that my heart would be alienated and that I would "go chasing after strange gods," as he once put it. When he had finished the fifth installment of the story, with a climax that surprised and puzzled us, he said: "I reckon we had better lay by for a few days till I get this thing riffled out. It has slipped its tether. I have had such things happen often. Don't get scared." We discussed the use of the word "riffle," and then Mark became serious. "I don't want to be disappointed in the Hannibal girl. I have been trying for several years to get through to the light. I don't want a false sentiment for a crew of fanatics to wreck my chance. I don't want to act nasty, but if you go into that other work I am likely to ruin your reputation. You are likely to explode into some of the mediocre piffle that is the height and depth of such would-be communications with the other world. There is nothing to hold to. So, my dear girls, if you want a future, cut it out. I don't want to command all your time, but right now it is best to avoid all complications." It is needless to say I declined the invitation. After this, whenever anything went wrong, the rebuke or complaint was invariably addressed to me. When there were humorous or pleasant things to be said, they were dispensed equally to the three of us, whom Mark Twain had come to designate as "my office force." Two bits of personal communication came within the succeeding week which seem to have a bearing on the whole mysterious experience. That second installment was undertaken and abandoned again and again. Finally he said: "I am going ahead with the main body of the story. There will be another round with that second chapter, but not until the theme is fully developed. The second chapter sticks in my throat like the cockleburr that I tried to swallow when I was five. It won't slip down or come up." We had worked patiently on the latter part of the narrative and had accomplished a big evening's work, when the dictation was interrupted by this remark: "It is going good; but I sure wish that I had Edwin's pipe." We fairly gasped with astonishment; but we had no time for comment, as the planchette continued its amazing revelation: "Smoke up, old man, for auld lang syne. In the other world they don't know Walter Raleigh's weed, and I have not found Walter yet to make complaint. I forget about it till I get Edwin's smoke. But for pity's sake, Ed, cut out that tobacco you were trying out. It made me sick. I hoped it would get you, so that you wouldn't try it again." My husband; whom neither Mrs. Hays nor I would, under any circumstances, address by the abbreviation of his name, "Ed," asked Mark what tobacco he had in mind. He replied: "That packet you were substituting, or that some one that had a grudge against you gave you." A comparison of dates revealed the fact that on the evening when that troublesome second installment was transmitted, my husband had smoked some heavy imported tobacco that had been given to him by a friend he had met that afternoon. The circumstance had passed from the minds of all of us. Indeed, it had never impressed us in the least, and it had not occurred to any of us that our unseen visitor still retained the sense of smell, or that he could distinguish between two brands of tobacco. He had given evidence of both sight and hearing, had told us frequently that he was tired, at the end of a long evening's work, and had made other incidental revelations of his environment and condition: but his reference to the pipe was more significant than any of them. Early in August, when our second story was nearing completion, the transmission began with this curious bit, which none of us understood for a long time: "Emily, I think that when we finish this story we will do a pastoral of Missouri. There appear high lights and shadows, purple and dark, and the misty pink of dawnings that make world-weary ones have surcease." Not until "Jap Herron" was more than half finished did we realize that it was the Missouri pastoral. There was one other veiled reference to that story which must not be omitted. We had planned a trip to New York, for some time in October or early November, although we had never discussed it while at the board. One evening Mark terminated his dictation abruptly, and said: "Emily, I think well of your plan." I asked what plan he referred to. "New York. I will go, too. I will try to convince them that I am not done working. I am rejuvenated and want to finish my work. When I was in New York last I had a very beautiful dream. I did not understand it then. It meant that my days were numbered, and gave me the picture of an angel bringing a book from heaven to earth, and on its cover was blazoned this: MARK TWAIN'S COMPLIMENTS. Ask them what they think about that. I was so tired--so tired that I could not rest. A cool hand seemed to soothe my weariness away and I slept, and, sleeping, dreamed." When I found that passage in the early part of our record, I wondered if "Jap Herron" might be the book sent to earth with Mark Twain's compliments. I asked him about it, one evening when our regular dictation had been finished. The reply was a slow journey of the planchette to the word, "Yes," followed by the rapidly spelled words, "But old Mark isn't done talking yet." We assumed that he had something further to say to us, and when I asked him what he wanted to talk about, he gave this tantalizing reply: "Curious? Wait and see." Then, after a pause, "I shall have other work for my office force." The explanation of this cryptic statement was not given until we had completed the final revision of the story. Before I reveal what he had in mind, I wish to state that which is to me the most convincing proof of the supernormal origin of the three stories that had been traced, letter by letter, on our transmission board. That they come through Mrs. Hays, there can be no doubt whatever. My total lack of psychic power has been abundantly demonstrated. Mrs. Hays has written much light fiction; but it is necessary for her to write a story at one sitting. If it does not come "all in one piece" it is foredoomed to failure. I know nothing of Mark Twain's habits; but in all the work we have done for him, the first draft has been rough and vigorous, and sweeping changes have been made by him while the work was undergoing revision. In the case of "Jap Herron" some of the most important changes were made without a rereading of the story, changes that involved incidents which we had forgotten, and for which I was compelled to search the original record. When I had substituted these passages for the ones they were to supplant, I made a typewritten copy of the entire story and we read it aloud to Mark. Mrs. Hays and I sat with our finger tips on the planchette so that he could interrupt; but he made only a few minor corrections. The story had been virtually rewritten twice, although a few of the chapters, as they now stand, are exactly as they were transmitted, not so much as a word having been changed. The only change made in the fourteenth chapter came near the end, where Mark had suggested a line of dashes or stars to bridge the break between Jap's leaving his mother and the announcement that his mother was dead. Forty-eight words were dictated to show what Jap actually did, in that painful interim, the three sentences being rounded out by the words, "There, I think that sounds better." Sometimes, in the course of the revision, we have been interrupted by the jerkily traced words, "Try this," or "We'll fix that better," or "I told Emily to take out those repetitions." It has happened that he used the same word four times in one paragraph, and in copying I have substituted the obvious synonym. Occasionally he did not approve of my correction and would rebuke me sharply. In the main he has expressed himself as well pleased with the labor I have spared him. On the 10th of January, 1916, Mrs. Hays came to my home for a last reading of the finished manuscript. When she read it through, I asked her to sit at the board with me. There was something about which I wanted to question Mark, and I did not wish her mind to interfere in any way with the answer. Mrs. Hays had had two curious psychic experiences in connection with our work. The first came to her when we were still at work on "A Daughter of Mars." It was in the form of a vivid dream in which Mark Twain said to her, "Don't be discouraged, Lola. All that we have done in the past is just forging the hammer for the larger strokes we are going to make." The second was similar; but the man who appeared to her was a stocky, bald-headed man in a frock coat. When she asked him who he was and what he wanted, he replied, "Mark Twain sent me to call on you." At this time, "Jap Herron" was being revised, and she supposed that this man, with the striking personality, would be introduced somewhere. However, the story was ended, and no such character had appeared. I wanted to know whether or not the dream was significant. I said: "Mark, did you ever send anybody to call on Lola?" The planchette replied: "Yes, I sent him. We will do another story. We will wait until the smoke of this one clears away. I want Emily to have a rest, and many other things will be adjusted. I would like to have my old office force. It is to be a bigger book than this one--more important. The man I sent you was Brent Roberts." We dropped our hands in amazement. Brent Roberts appears twice in the Jap Herron story. He is not half so conspicuous as Holmes, the saloon-keeper, or Hollins, the grocer. In truth, we had scarcely noticed him. I asked: "Mark, are you going to give a sequel to 'Jap Herron'?" He said: "No. Brent Roberts had a story before he elected to spend his last years in Bloomtown. Now, girls, don't speculate. I am taking care of Brent Roberts." He added that it was "up to Emily" to give his book to the world, and that he intended to explore a little of the Uncharted Country while he was waiting for his office force to resume work. Once I asked him, while he was transmitting "A Daughter of Mars," whether he had ever visited that planet. He replied: "No, this is pure fiction. I elected to return to earth. I wanted to take the taste of those memoirs out of my mouth." One other passage from the early record may profitably precede the actual story of Jap's coming. We were in the midst of the most critical revision. My husband was commanded to read the story, paragraph by paragraph. When there was no comment, the planchette remained motionless under our fingers, but there were few passages that escaped some change. Several times the changed wording conflicted with something farther along in the story, and it was necessary to go back and make another correction. The revision sheets covered a big table, and my husband found it very exasperating to make the corrections. At length Mark said: "Smoke up and cool off, old boy. Perhaps I should apologize. The last secretary I had used to wear an ice-soaked towel inside his head. The girls and old Mark together make a riffle. Well, we will slow up. In my ambition, I have been too eager. It is hard to explain how great a thing is the power to project my mentality through the clods of oblivion. I have so long sought for an opening. Be patient, please. I am not carping. I get Edwin's position. We will be easy with the new saddle, so the nag won't run away. I heard Edwin's suggestion, and it is a good one. We will go straight through the story, beginning where we left off to-night. That was what I intended to do, but that second chapter nipped me." When next we met we had no thought of any other work than the revision of the story on which we had been working at frequent intervals for about two months. We never knew whether a session at the board would begin with a bit of personal conversation or a prolonged stretch of dictation. We held ourselves passive, ready to fall in with the humor or whim of our astonishingly human though still intangible guest. The beginning of that evening's work--it was the 6th of September--was almost too great an upheaval for me. The planchette fairly raced as it spelled the words: "This story will have legitimate chapters. Nosy nopsis. Then ameisjapherron. Begin. Asevery well-bred story has a hero, and as the reseems better material in jap than in any other party to this story, we will dignify him." I wanted to stop, but my husband insisted that I make no break in the impatient dictation. He had perceived that the first string of letters spelled the words, "No synopsis. The name is Jap Herron," but I could not see his copy, and to my mind the sentences spelled chaos. A little farther along I ventured an interruption, when we had transmitted the sentence, "The folks in Happy Hollow continued to say Magnesia long after she left its fragrant depths." I had just spelled out the name, Agnesia, and I was too deeply engrossed with the labor of following the letters to even attempt to understand the meaning. I turned to my husband and said: "It probably didn't intend to stop on that letter M," whereat the planchette rebuked my stupidity thus: "Emily, they called her Magnesia." After that, I contrived to get control of my nerves, and the rest of the dictation was not so difficult. When we had received the crisp final sentence, "And stay he did," the planchette went right on with this information, "This is the first copy of the first chapter. There will be 25 or more chapters. This is enough for this time, as the office force is a little weak. But results ... very good. We will finish the other story and dip into this at the next session. There will be better speed in this, for there will be no revision until it is finished. We will work hard and fast. Emily may meet folks she knows in this tale, for she knows a town with a river and a Happy Hollow. I did not intend to start another story so soon, but other influences are so strong that they may try to dominate the board. This will not tire you so much. You must be determined not to permit intruders. If they are recognized, you will not be free of them again. I am pushed aside. Leave the board when they appear. Good-bye." The use of the name, Happy Hollow, forms a link with Hannibal; but if any of the characters in "Jap Herron" were drawn from life, they must have belonged to Mark Twain's generation and not to mine. Mark never seems to take into account the fact that he left Hannibal before I was born, and that there have been many changes in the old town. The character of Jacky Herron may have been suggested by a disreputable drunken fisherman whose experiences I have heard my father relate; but there is one little touch in that first chapter that must have come from Mark's own mind, since the underlying fact was not known to any of us until we read Walter Prichard Eaton's article on birds' nests, months later. When we transmitted that statement, "The father of the little Herrons was a kingfisher," none of us knew that the kingfisher's home nest is a filthy hole, close to the river bank. The application is too perfect to have been accidental. Before another chapter of the story was transmitted, I went to spend a morning with Mrs. Hays. At the request of her son, we consented to allay his curiosity by a visible demonstration of the workings of the mysterious board, of which he had necessarily heard much. He hoped to receive some definite communication from his father, or the sister who had died in her girlhood; but this is what he recorded: "Emily, I gave those synopses not for a guide but to prevent others from imposing their ideas and confusing you. It might be said that it made it easier for you, but that idea is wrong. It would be easier to write the story direct. You have learned that this was wise, because constant efforts have been made to break in and alter the stories. For this reason I gave you the synopses, so that you could not be deceived. Now I am going to trust you. I intended to advise you that it would be a more convincing psychic record, if you have nothing on which a subconscious mind might be said to be working. The synopsis was for your protection, and has no value to the record. At first you had such a conglomerate method of working that it was necessary. You did not recognize the difficulties that were likely to occur. You were apt to employ temporary help, so eliminate." Just what was meant by "temporary help" is not apparent; but there was no opportunity to question him further, for at that moment we were interrupted by the arrival of another luncheon guest and the board was put aside. We devoted two sessions to the revision and finishing touches of the troublesome short story, and then we plunged into the transmission of "Jap Herron" in deadly earnest. As far as possible, we sat twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays. We usually worked uninterruptedly for two hours, with no sound save that of my voice as I pronounced the letters and punctuation marks over which the pointer of the planchette paused in its swift race across the board. My husband discovered early in the work that if he permitted himself the luxury of a smile he was in danger of distracting Mrs. Hays, who always sat facing him, and thus of bringing about confusion in the record. Under Mark's specific instruction she has schooled herself to keep her mind as nearly blank as is possible for a woman who is absolutely conscious and normal, and the evidence that something humorous was being transmitted through her would be diverting, to say the least. As for my own part in the work, I seldom realized the import of the sentences I had spelled out, my whole attention being concentrated on the rapidly gliding pointer. When my husband read aloud the copy he had taken down it almost invariably came to Mrs. Hays and me as something entirely new. The story of Jap Herron, as it stands completed, does not follow the original order of the first fifteen chapters. The early part of the tale was handled in a manner so sketchy and rapid in its action that three whole chapters and seven fragments of chapters were dictated and inserted after the work was finished. In the original copy the second chapter suffered little change up to the point of George Thomas's advent, with the suggestion that he might bring in some more turnips. Following the disaster to Judge Bowers's speech, Mark took a short cut to pave the way for the next chapter. It ran thus: "But bad luck cannot camp on your trail forever. In the gladsome June-time, Ellis married Flossy Bowers, and her dowry of two thousand dollars and her following of kin set the _Herald_ on its feet." These two sentences were expanded into the more important half of the third chapter, almost five months after they had been dictated, and this without a rereading of the story. At another time, when this curious kind of revision was under way, Mark dictated the latter part of the second chapter, wherein Ellis Hinton tells Jap how he happened to be starving in Bloomtown. When he had finished the dictation, with the words, "My boy, that blue calico lady was Mrs. Kelly Jones," he continued: "Emily will know where to fit it in." This fitting in was not extremely difficult, since there was only one place in the story into which each of the inserted chapters or fragments could be made to fit; but the original copy had to be read several times before these thin places became apparent, and I got no help whatever from Mark. Once, when I implored him to tell me where a certain brief but gripping paragraph belonged, he replied, "Emily, that is your job. I don't want the Hannibal girl to fall down on it." On that second Monday night in September, when the "office force" settled itself to serious work, my husband read to us the copy we had transmitted. The chapter ended with what is now the closing paragraph of the third chapter: "The _Herald_ put on a new dress, and the hell-box was dumped full of the discarded, mutilated types that had so long given strabismus to the patient readers of the Bloomtown _Herald_." The diet of turnips and sorghum and the other humorous touches of the narrative overwhelmed us with laughter, whereat the planchette under our fingers wrote: "Sounds like Mark, eh?" I asked him if he was satisfied with the use of the word "_Herald_" twice in that last sentence. He replied: "You must excuse me. I am all in. I told you I would leave minor points to your pencil. T-i-r-e-d. Good-bye." Our first acquaintance with Wat Harlow, as he appeared in the fourth chapter, gave little promise of the character into which he was destined to be developed. To the three of us, who laughed over the episode of the vermilion handbill, he appeared to be nothing more than a third-rate country politician. In the original transcription he received only an occasional passing touch, until the death of Ellis brought him forth in a new light. We did not know then what Ellis had meant by "that reformed auctioneer," for the story of Wat's connection with the upbuilding of Bloomtown, as it is set forth in the sixth chapter, was not told until we were well along with the work of revision. One of the most interesting personal touches, to be found only in our private record, was introduced at the end of the fourth chapter. It had been a long stretch of dictation, and when the planchette stopped I asked if there was any more. The pointer gave only this, "No--30." Having had no experience with printing offices, I was mystified until my husband explained that "30 on the hook" means the end of a given piece of work. Mark once made use of the expression, "the story contains a great deal of brevity that will have to be untied later on." This untying process is nowhere more aptly illustrated than in the fourth chapter of our original copy, a brief chapter that contained the condensed material of Wat Harlow's letter to Jap, the birth of little J.W. and Isabel Granger's first kiss. There was nothing about Bill's boyhood, no record of Jap's home surroundings, none of the amusing details of the printing office wherein Jap and Bill were learning their trade. All these incidents, which seem so essential to the story, were introduced when the first draft of the story had been completed. The seventh chapter, which has to do with the babyhood of little J.W., was dictated after the revision had apparently been completed. When I asked Mark why he inserted it, the planchette made this curious reply: "I was thinking that we'd better soften the shock of the boy's death." For us, through whom the story was being transmitted, there was no softening of Ellis Hinton's death. We knew from the foregoing chapter that the country editor had gone to the mountains for his health, and that Flossy had no hope; but when we had recorded the words: "Jap closed the press upon the inky type, and gathered the great bunches of fragrant blossoms and heaped them upon the press, to be forever silent," a great wave of sadness swept over me, I knew not why. The action of the planchette was so rapid that I could not stop to think or question. It was as if the man dictating the story had an unpleasant task before him, which he wished to have done with as soon as possible. When the final words, "At rest. FLOSSY," had been spelled out, and the planchette stopped abruptly, Mrs. Hays cried: "My God, what has happened!" and I looked up to see that she was very white, and tears were slipping down her cheeks. "Ellis is dead," my husband said, very simply. He had foreseen the end, had grasped the infinite pathos of that old Washington press, decked as a funeral casket with the flowers that had been sent to usher in the new régime. When the evening's copy had been read, I asked Mark if he wished to comment on it. "Not to-night, Emily," the planchette spelled. "I am all broken up. I didn't want Ellis to die. I tried to figure a way to save him; but I couldn't make it go." When we met again, on the 2d of October, the dictation began with these words: "I want Edwin to go back to the beginning of the last chapter. I left out a sentence that is necessary. It explains why Ellis left by rail. You insert." Then he dictated the passage relating to the new railroad and the temporary station. When he had finished he said, "Go on with the story," and the next sentence began, "When Ellis went away it was to the sound of jollity." The reference to Robert Louis Stevenson was new to both of us, and we have not sought to verify the incident. That Mark wanted it included in his story was sufficient for us. That next chapter contained another accumulation of brevity which was afterward untied. The funeral, the reading of Ellis Hinton's will, Judge Bowers's candidacy, the nomination of Jap Herron as the ugliest man in Bloomtown, Bill's first spree and the local option fight, all these were sketched with the sharpness and sudden transition of pictures on a cinematograph screen. The following chapter was almost as tightly packed with incident, and in the midst of it there was a break, with an astonishing explanation. Three evenings in succession we had had trouble with the planchette. It had seemed to me that Mrs. Hays was trying to pull it from beneath my fingers. Meanwhile she had mentally accused me of digital heaviness. She uses the finger tips of her left hand while I use my right. As a rule our touch is so light that the planchette glides automatically. On these three evenings we had left the board with cramped fingers, and a general sense of dissatisfaction. Several sentences that were plainly spurious were afterward stricken from the record; but we had forgotten about the other scribes who wanted "a pencil on earth," until Mark interrupted the story to say: "I must ask you to be wary and sharp to dismiss impostors. Right now there are more than twenty hands trying to control your dictation. It is very hard for me. I am disconsolate, and powerless to help myself. If we do not watch every avenue, our work is spoiled. There has been a constant struggle for my rights. I only ask a little help, and you are all my hope. If you fail me, I am undone." This illuminating outburst served to clear the atmosphere, and the three chapters were afterward expanded into seven, much of the same diction being reproduced. It was as if Mark, knowing the difficulties on his own side of the shadow-line, had tried to get at least the outline of his story down on paper, lest he lose his hold entirely. After that evening we had almost no trouble with intruders. The story of Jones, of the Barton _Standard_, came to us like a thunder clap from a cloudless sky, for the part which old Pee-Dee Jones played in the development of Bloomtown and Barton was not related until we had begun the work of revision. In the original story of that near-fight, Mark gave us a significant cross-light on the conditions under which he lives. The marshal had appeared in the office at the crucial moment, as if he had dropped through the roof or arisen out of the floor. Several times in the earlier part of the work the characters had thus appeared without obvious means of locomotion, and I had called attention to the inconsistency, with the result that Mark had dictated a few words to show how or whence the new arrival had come. When Wilfred Jones shouted to the marshal, "I demand protection," my husband, who was reading the evening's copy aloud to us, said: "How does the marshal happen to be there? I don't see any previous mention of him." Instantly the planchette, which we always kept in readiness under our finger tips, began to move. It dictated this: "You might say, 'at that moment the town marshal, wearing his star pinned to his blue flannel shirt, strolled in.' I have been away from the need of going up-stairs and down-stairs for so long that I forget about it." "How do you get from one place to another, Mark?" I asked. "Now, Emily, curiosity! But you know we haven't any Pullman cars or elevators here. When I want to be at a place where I am free to go--why, I am there." He took occasion, when our difficulties seemed to be at an end and his grip on his "pencil" was once more firmly established, to make it very plain to me that I alone was responsible for the annoyance we had had. He put it thus: "Things will be all right if you don't give way to any more curiosity. In the beginning I told you that it would not do. Emily wants to investigate too much. It must be one or all. Edwin and I understand. It was you that mixed the type. Lola must be passive. If she tries to watch for intruders, she gets in my way. So it is up to the Hannibal girl." I do not know, even now, how I could have prevented the trouble that well-nigh wrecked our work. It is true I had taken part in another psychic demonstration, but it was in a remote part of the city and it had nothing to do with Mark Twain's "pencil." However, I took no further chance with psychic investigation. When Jap Herron was elected Mayor of Bloomtown, and the girl he loved had walked right into his astonished arms, it seemed to us that the story must be ended. We had forgotten that Jap ever had a family of his own, a mother and two sisters, and when the drunken hag reeled into the _Herald_ office we were as greatly horrified as Jap himself was. I had put my husband's carefully kept copy into type-written form, and it occurred to me to get the opinion of a master critic on the story, not as evidence of the survival of the human mind after physical death, but as pure fiction. Acting upon the impulse, and without telling either my husband or Mrs. Hays what I intended to do, I took the copy to William Marion Reedy,[1] permitting him to infer that I had created it, and asked him to tell me whether, in his judgment, the story was worth finishing. It was the beginning of the week, when the issuing of the _Mirror_ consumed all his time, and while I was waiting for his verdict we received three more chapters. In the first of these we had a new light on Isabel Granger's character, and came for the first time absolutely to love Bill Bowers. After that nothing that Bill might do would shake our faith in his ability to make good in the end. He might be weak and foolish, but we understood why Jap believed in and loved him. We were jubilant when Rosy Raymond was eliminated from the game, for we feared, whenever we permitted ourselves to speculate, that Bill would marry her, and regret the step. We assumed that the son of the much-married Judge Bowers had inherited a nature sufficiently mobile to recover from the shock of the silly girl's perfidy. While this unexpected development of the story was being revealed to us, William Marion Reedy sent me, in the envelope with the first ten chapters of "Jap Herron," a criticism that fairly made me tingle with delight. Had the work been my own, I could not have been more pleased with his unstinted praise. I wanted to go to him at once and confess the truth; but he was not in his office when I called. Two of the succeeding chapters were taken down by friends who had been let into the secret of our work and had asked permission to sit with us. It was the time of year when my husband could seldom spare an evening from his work, and Mark consented to break into his beloved office-force arrangement, for the sake of expediency. Three men and five women served us in the capacity of amanuenses while the latter third of the book was being transmitted. The first deviation from our original arrangement came in connection with the dictation of the seventeenth chapter, the chapter that ends with the death of Flossy and her son. We were three sympathetic women, and when the planchette had traced the words, "It was a smile of heavenly beauty, as the pure soul of Ellis Hinton's wife flew to join her loved ones," we three burst simultaneously into violent weeping. I have never experienced more genuine grief at the grave of a departed friend or relative than I felt when this woman, who had come to be more than human to me, was released from her envelope of mortal clay. The following day Mrs. Hays and I were invited to the home of a delightful little Scotch woman who asked us to bring the planchette board. She knew nothing of the story, and had no intimation of the personality on the other side who was sending it across, through our planchette; nevertheless she was willing to keep copy for us. The chapter she wrote down is the eighteenth in the finished story, Jap's funeral sermon and Isabel's song beside Flossy's coffin. Even now I cannot think of that scene without a swelling of the throat and a blinding rush of tears. It is needless to say we wept when the dictation was ended. When our hostess had read aloud the copy I asked our invisible companion if he had anything more to say. I avoided mentioning his name, for we did not wish his identity disclosed. The planchette traced the curious words: "You know that the air gets pretty damp for an old boy after this." I looked out of the window. It was a murky November afternoon, and I asked, "Do you feel the dampness of the material atmosphere?" Like a flash came the reply: "Emily, girl, you have been getting sob stuff." Then I yearned to get my fingers in his shock of white hair, for I knew Mark Twain was laughing at me. But I had that which gave me consolation, for I had brought with me Mr. Reedy's letter, analyzing and commenting upon the story that Mark had created. Incidentally Mrs. Reedy had asked Mrs. Hays and me to come to her home the following day to luncheon. I had told her that Mrs. Hays possessed a high degree of psychic power, and I consented to bring our board for a demonstration. I wanted to see Mr. Reedy alone and explain to him that "Jap Herron" had come to us over that insensate board, but opportunity was denied me. As soon as luncheon was over we went up to that beautiful yellow room in which the best of _Reedy's Mirror_ is created, and Mrs. Hays and I placed the board on our knees. As soon as Mr. Reedy's fountain pen was ready for action our planchette began: "Well, I should doff my plaidie and don a kirtle, for 'tis not the sands o' Dee but the wearing o' the green." There was a wide sweep of the planchette, and then, "'Tis not the shine of steel that always reflects; but it is the claymore that cuts. Both are made of steel and both will mirror sometimes the shillalah. Yet the shillalah is better than the claymore, for the man that is cut will run; but if ye slug him with the blackthorn he will have to listen. This is just a flicker of high light. Bill jumped from bed as the rattle of the latch announced the arrival of a visitor." My heart thumped wildly for a moment, then sank. I knew that the Bill referred to was Bill Bowers, and not the editor whom hundreds delight to call "Bill Reedy," and I knew, too, that it would be only a moment until he must realize that the sentences he was writing down from my dictation were part and parcel of the story whose first ten chapters he had read and praised. I dared not lift my eyes from the board, yet I wanted to stop and explain that I had not intended to deceive him--that I only wanted an unbiased opinion of Mark Twain's story. In vain I tried to stop the whirling planchette, my voice so husky that I could scarcely pronounce the letters. It went right on, with a situation that neither Mrs. Hays nor I had anticipated. We had schooled ourselves not to speculate, yet the previous afternoon we had left Jap in a fainting condition and on the verge of a long illness. The chapter we transmitted that day was the story of a gubernatorial election in a small Missouri town. Subsequently, when Mark gave us the intervening chapter, Jap's visit to the cemetery and the humorous incidents of the campaign, I asked him: "Why didn't you give this chapter last Thursday?" "I thought that election would amuse Reedy. Don't worry, Emily. He understood you. He knows the Hannibal girl is honest," was the comforting reply. When the revision of the story was under way, and several fragments had been dictated, the planchette spelled the words, "I want to add something to the Reedy chapter," and without further ado it proceeded: "The Bloomtown _Herald_ did itself proud that week." That fragment was the easiest of them all to fit into place. At its conclusion we were favored with a bit of pleasantry that seems significant. My husband gave us a lift whenever he could spare the time; but on this occasion a woman friend was sitting with us. She had written about two thousand words of copy, when the tenor of the dictation changed suddenly to the personal vein. "Old Mark has been working like a badger, and is pleased with the story. The girls and friend Ed are going as well as Twain ever did when he wielded his own pen. When Edwin lights up a fresh smoke and smiles, I know that all is well. But when Lola frowns and Edwin forgets to smoke, look out for leaks. The story has sprung and therain was hesitthininspots." The last of the sentence came so rapidly that none of us had any idea what it meant, or that it meant anything at all. Before we had separated it into the words, "the rain washes it thin in spots," I asked that that last part be repeated. Instead we got the words: "When a board is sprung, it lets in rain. It is Emily who has to hold the drip pan for the temperamental ones." "Thank you for those few kind words, Mark," I said. "But if you think enough of me to trust me with this important work, why do you single me out for all the scoldings, when Edwin and Lola sometimes deserve at least a share in your displeasure?" "Whist, Hannibal girl, we know our office force," was the humorous rejoinder. The appearance of Agnesia was one of the keen surprises of the story, and before we realized what Jap's little sister would mean to Bloomtown, Mark interrupted his dictation with the words, "Stop! Girls, the yarn is nearly all unwound. We will skip a bit that we will tie in later. But now--Bill sat doubled over the case, the stick held listlessly in his hand. Nervously he fingered the copy, not knowing what he was reading." Without a break, we received the brief final chapter, ending with the words, "Isabel wants to call him Jasper William." The planchette added, "The End." We transmitted no more that day, although we knew that our story was far from completion. The next time we met we had another surprise in the coming of Jap's elder sister. When the twenty-fifth chapter was finished, Mark said: "Girls, I think the story is done." "It's pretty short for a book," I protested. By way of reply, he gave this: "Did you ever know about my prize joke? One day I went to church, heard a missionary sermon, was carried away--to the extent of a hundred dollars. The preacher kept talking. I reduced my ante to fifty dollars. He talked on. I came down to twenty-five, to ten, to five, and after he had said all that he had in him, I stole a nickel from the basket. Reason for yourselves. Not how long but how strong. Yet I have a sneaking wish to tell you something of the early days of Ellis's work, especially about Granger and Blanke. But to-day I have writer's cramp. So let's get together soon and make the finish complete." There were two more sessions, with the dictation of a whole chapter and several fragments, at each meeting, and we met no more until I had put the whole complex record into consecutive form. We had a final review of the work, and a few minor changes in words and phrases were made. Mark expressed himself as well pleased, and as a little farewell he gave us this, which has nothing to do with Jap Herron: "There will be a great understanding some day. It will come when the earth realizes that we must leave it, to live, and when it can put itself in touch with the heavens that surround it. I have met a number of preachers over here who would like to undo many things they promulgated while they had a whack at sinners. "There are hardshell Baptists who have a happy time meeting their members, to whom they preached hell and brimstone. They have many things to explain. There is one melancholy Presbyterian who frankly stated the fact--underscore 'fact'--that there were infants in hell not an ell long. He has cleared out quite a space in hell since he woke up. He doesn't rush out to meet his congregation. It would create trouble and be embarrassing if they looked around for the suffering infants. As I said before, there is everything to learn, after the shackles of earth are thrown aside. I would like to write a story about some of these preachers, and the mistakes they made, when the doctrines of brimstone and everlasting punishment were ladled out as freely to the little maid who danced as to the harlot. It showed a mind asleep to the undiscovered country." "Can you shed any light on that undiscovered country?" I asked him. "Perhaps. But for the present there is enough of the truth of life and death in 'Jap Herron' to hold you." And with that he told us good-bye. EMILY GRANT HUTCHINGS. [1] William Marion Reedy, Editor and Publisher of _Reedy's Mirror_, a weekly journal published in St. Louis, has long been interested in psychic phenomena, as a source of exotic and unusual literature. He has also discovered and developed much purely terrestrial literary talent, having brought out some of the best poets and fiction writers of present-day America. As a critic, he is a recognized master. JAP HERRON CHAPTER I As every well-bred story has a hero, and as there seems better material in Jap than any other party to this story, we will dignify him. Mary Herron feebly asserted her rights in the children by naming them respectively, Fanny Maud, Jasper James and Agnesia. Jasper deteriorated. He became Jap, and Jap he remained, despite the fact that Fanny Maud developed into Fannye Maude and Agnesia changed her cognomen, without recourse to law, to Mabelle. The folks in Happy Hollow continued to say "Magnesia" long after she left its fragrant depths. The father of the little Herrons was a kingfisher. He spent his hours of toil on the river bank and his hours of ease in Mike's place. One Friday, good luck peered through the dingy windows of the little shanty where the Herrons starved, froze or sweltered. It was Friday, as I remarked before. Mary was washing, against difficulties. It had rained for a week. The clothes had to dry before Mary could cash her labor, and it fretted Jacky Herron sorely. His credit had lost caste with Mike, and Mike had the grip on the town. He had the only thirst parlor in Happy Hollow. So Jacky smashed the only remaining window, broke the family cup, and set forth defiantly in the rain. And in the fog and slashing rain he lost his footing, and fell into the river. As it was Friday, Mary had hopefully declared that luck would change--and it did! The town buried Jacky and moved his family into decent lodgings, because the Town Fathers did not want to contract typhoid in ministering to them. Loosed of the incubus of a father, the little family grew in grace. Jappie, as his baby sister called him, was the problem. Agnesia was pretty, and the Mayor's wife adopted her. Fanny Maud went west to live with her aunt, and Jap remained with his mother until she, after the manner of womankind, who never know when they have had luck, married another bum and began supporting him. Jap ran away. He was twelve years old, red-headed, freckled and lanky, when he trailed into Bloomtown. He loafed along the main street until he reached the printing office, and there he stopped. An aphorism of his late lamented dad occurred to him. "Ef I had a grain of gumption," said dad, during an enforced session of his family's society, "I would 'a' went to work in my daddy's printin' office, instid of runnin' away when I was ten year old. I might 'a' had money, aplenty, 'stid of bein' cumbered and helt down by you and these brats." Jap straggled irregularly inside and heard the old Washington hand press groan and grunt its weary way through the weekly edition of the _Herald_. After the last damp sheet had been detached from the press, and the papers were being folded by the weary-eyed, inky demon who had manipulated the handle, he slouched forward. "Say, Mister," he asked confidently, "do you do that every day?" indicating the press, "'cause I'm goin' to work for you." The editor, pressman and janitor looked upon him in surprise and pity. "I appreciate your ambition," he said, more in sorrow than anger, "but I have become so attuned to starving alone that I don't think I could adjust myself to the shock of breaking my fast on you." Jap was unmoved. "My dad onct thought he'd be a editor, but he got married," he said calmly. "Sensible dad," commented the editor, with more truth than he dreamed. "I suppose that he had three meals a day, and a change of socks on Sunday." "But Ma had to get 'em," argued Jap. "I want to be a editor, and I am agoin' to stay." And stay he did. CHAPTER II "Run out and get a box of sardines," ordered the boss of the Washington press. "I've got a nickel. I can't let you starve. I lived three months on them--look at me!" Jap surveyed him apprehensively. "I'd hate to be so thin," he complained, "and I don't like sardines nor any fishes. My dad fed us them every day. Allus wanted to taste doughnuts. Can I buy them?" Ellis Hinton laughed shortly, and spun the nickel across the imposing stone. Jap caught it deftly. An hour later he appeared for work, smiling cheerfully. "Why the shiner?" queried Ellis, indicating a badly swollen and rapidly discoloring eye. "Kid called me red-top," said Jap bluntly. "Love o' gracious," Ellis exclaimed, "what is the shade?" "It's red," quoth Jap, "but it ain't his business. If I am agoin' to be a editor, nobody's goin' to get familiar with me." This was Jap's philosophy, and in less than a week he had mixed with every youth of fighting age in town. The office took on metropolitan airs because of the rush of indignant parents who thronged its portals. Ellis pacified some of the mothers, outtalked part of the fathers and thrashed the remainder. After he had mussed the outer office with "Judge" Bowers, and tipped the case over with the final effort that threw him, Jap said, solemnly surveying the wreck: "If I had a dad like you, I'd 'a' been the President some day." Ellis gazed ruefully into the mess of pi, and kicked absently at the hell-box. "I'll work all night," cried Jap eagerly. "I'll clean it up." "We'll have plenty of time," said Ellis gloomily. "We have to hit the road, kid. Judge Bowers owns the place. He has promised to set us out before morning." But luck came with Jap. It was Friday again, and Bowers's wife presented him with twins, his mother-in-law arrived, and his uncle inherited a farm. There was only one way for the news to be disseminated, and he came in with his truculent son and helped clean up, so that the _Herald_ could be issued on time. More than that, he made the boys shake hands, and concluded to put Bill to work in the _Herald_ office. After he had puffed noisily out, Ellis looked whimsically at Bill. "Are you going to board yourself out of what I am able to pay you?" he asked. "Oh, I don't reckon Pappy cares about that," the boy said cheerfully. "He just wants to keep me out of mischief, and he said that lookin' at you was enough to sober a sot." Months dragged by. Bill and Jap worked more or less harmoniously. Once a day they fought; but it was fast becoming a mere function, kept up just for form. Ellis was doing better. He had set up housekeeping, since Jap came, in the back room of the little wooden structure that faced the Public Square, and housewives sent them real food once in a while. Once Ellis feared that Jap was going to quit him for the Golden Shore. It was on the occasion of Myrtilla Botts's wedding, when she baked the cakes herself, for practice, and her mother thoughtfully sent most of them to the Editor, to insure a big puff for Myrtilla. Ellis was afraid; but Jap, with the enthusiasm and inexperience of youth, took a chance. Bill was laid up with mumps, or the danger would have been lessened. As it was, it took all the doctors in town to keep Jap alive until they could uncurl him and straighten out his appendix, which appeared to be cased in wedding cake. This experience gave Jap an added distaste for the state of matrimony. "My dad allus said to keep away from marryin'," he moaned. "But how'd I know you'd ketch it from the eatin's?" The subscription list grew apace. There was a load of section ties, two bushel of turnips and six pumpkins paid in November. Bill and Jap went hunting once a week, so the larder grew beyond sardines. Jap acquired a hatred of turnips and pumpkins that was in after years almost a mania. At Christmas, Kelly Jones brought in a barrel of sorghum, "to sweeten 'em," he guffawed. Jap had grown to manhood before he wholly forgave that pleasantry. It was a hard winter. Everybody said so, and when Jap gazed at Ellis across the turnips and sorghum of those weary months, he said he believed it. "Shame on you," rebuked Ellis, gulping his turnips with haste. "Think of the wretched people who would be glad to get this food." "Do you know any of their addresses?" asked Jap abruptly. "Because I can't imagine anybody happy on turnips and sorghum. I'd be willin' to trade my wretched for theirn." Kelly said that Jap would be fat as butter if he ate plenty of molasses, and this helped at first; but when the grass came, he begged Ellis to cook it for a change. When George Thomas came in, one blustery March day, to say that if the turnips were all gone, he would bring in some more, Ellis pied Judge Bowers's speech on the duties of the Village Fathers to the alleys, when he saw the malignant look that Jap cast upon the cheery farmer. Once a week Bill and Jap drew straws to determine which one should fare forth in quest of funds, and for the first time in his brief business career, Jap was glad the depressing task had fallen to him. "Pi" was likely to bring on an acute attack of mental indigestion, and the boy had learned to dread Ellis Hinton's infrequent but illuminating flame of wrath. The catastrophe had been blotted out, the last stickful of type had been set and Bill had gone home to supper when Jap, leg-weary and discouraged, wandered into the office. Ellis looked up from the form he was adjusting. "How did you ever pick out this town?" the boy complained, turning the result of his day's collection on the table. Ellis turned from the bit of pine he was whittling, a makeshift depressingly familiar to the country editor. He scanned the meager assortment of coins with anxious eye. Jap's lower jaw dropped. "I'll have to fire you if you haven't got enough to pay for the paper." "Got enough for that," said Jap mournfully, "but not enough for meat." "Didn't Loghman owe for his ad?" Ellis demanded. "Did you ask him for it?" "Says you owe him more 'n he's willin' for you to owe," Jap ventured. Ellis sighed. "Meat's not healthy this damp weather," he suggested. "Cook something light." "It'll be darned light," said Jap. "There's one tater." "No bread?" asked Ellis. "Give that scrap to the cat," Jap returned, "Doc Hall says she's done eat all the mice in town and if we don't feed her she'll be eatin' off'n the subscribers." "Confound Doc Hall," stormed Ellis. "You take your orders from me. That bread, stewed with potato, would have made a dandy dish." He shook the form to settle it, and faced Jap. "How did I come to pick this place?" he said slowly. "Well, Jap, it was the dirtiest deal a boy ever got. I had a little money after my father died. I wanted to invest it in a newspaper, somewhere in the West, where the world was honest and young. I had served my apprenticeship in a dingy, narrow little New England office, and I thought my lifework was cut out for me. I had big dreams, Jap. I saw myself a power in my town. With straw and mud I wanted to build a town of brick and stone. Dreams, dreams, Jap, dreams. Some day you may have them, too." He let his lean form slowly down into a chair. Jap braced himself against the table as the narrative continued: "In Hartford I met Hallam, the man who started the Bloomtown _Herald_. I heard his flattering version. I inspected his subscription list and studied the columns of his paper, full of ads. I bought. The subs were deadheads, the ads--gratuitous, for my undoing. It was indeed straw and mud, and, lad, it has remained straw and mud." He leaned his head on his hand for a moment. "That was the year after you were born, Jap. I was only twenty-one. For a year I was hopeful; then I dragged like a dead dog. You will be surprised when I tell you what brought me to life again. I tell you this, boy, so that you will never despise Opportunity, though she may wear blue calico, as mine did. "It was one dark, cold day. No human face had come inside the office for a week. That was the period of my life when I learned how human a cat can be. We were starving, the cat and me, with the advantage in favor of the cat. She could eat vermin. I sat by the table, wondering the quickest way to get out of it. Yes, Jap, the first and, God help me, the only time that life was worthless. The door opened and a plump woman dressed in blue calico, a sunbonnet pushed back from her smiling face, entered." To Jap, who listened with his heart in his throat, it seemed that Ellis was quoting perhaps a page from the memoirs he had written for the benefit of his townsmen. His deep, melodious voice fell into the rhythmic cadence of a reader, as he continued: "'Howdy, Mr. Editor,' she chirped. 'I've been keenin' for a long time to come in to see you. I think you are aprintin' the finest paper I ever seen. I brought you a mess of sassage and a passel of bones from the killin'. It's so cold, they'll keep a spell. And here's a dollar for next year's paper. I don't want to miss a number. I am areadin' it over and over. Seems like you are agoin' to make a real town out of Bloomtown,' and with a friendly pat on the arm, she was gone." Ellis brushed the long hair from his brow, the strange modulation went out of his voice and the fire returned to his brown eyes as he said: "Jap, I got up from that table and fell on my knees, and right there I determined that starvation nor cold nor any other enemy should rout me. Jap, I am going to make Bloomtown a real town yet. My boy, that blue calico lady was Mrs. Kelly Jones." CHAPTER III Ellis scowled and kicked his stool absently with his heels. "Will you explain where the colons and semicolons have emigrated to?" he asked Bill, with suppressed wrath. "We was short of quads, and I whittled 'em off." Ellis glared at Bill's ingenuous face. "And what, pray, did you whittle to take their place?" "Never had no call to use 'em," muttered Bill, chewing up the item he had just disposed of. "I can say all that I can think with commas and periods." "Abraham Lincoln used colons and semicolons," said Ellis, shortly, "and I am setting his immortal speech. What am I going to do about it, my intelligent co-printer?" Bill coughed violently as the wad of paper slipped down his throat. "Try George Washington," he advised, "They didn't have so much trimmin's to their talk them days." Jap shoved a chair against the door sill and flung the door ajar to cut off the blast of hot air that swept the office. "Gee-whiz!" he complained, "I'm chokin' on the dust. However did they get 'Bloomtown' hitched on to this patch of dirt? There ain't a flower 'in a mile, 'ceptin' the half-dead sprigs the wimmin are acoaxin' against their will." "When I came here," said Ellis, "the old settlers told me that whenever I wanted information I should hunt up Kelly Jones. There he goes now. Call him in." But Kelly was coming anyway. He carried a mysterious basket and his sun-burned face was full of suppressed excitement. "Wife allowed that you and Jap must be putty nigh starved," he chuckled, shifting the quid to his other cheek. "I reckon she knowed that Jap done the cookin' Wednesdays and Thursdays." He lifted the clean white towel from the basket, disclosing a pound of yellow butter, a glass of jelly, a loaf of bread and two pies, fairly reeking aroma. "Fu'st blackberries," asserted Kelly. "I ain't had a pie myself yet, and wife forbid me to take a bite o' yourn." "God bless the wife of our countryman, Kelly Jones. May her shade never grow less," said Ellis fervently, stowing the basket away. "If Jap and Bill stick all the matter on the hooks before noon, they may have pie. Otherwise the Editor of the _Herald_ exercises his prerogative and eats both pies." "Kelly," asked Jap abruptly, "why did they call this patch of dust 'Bloomtown'? Did they ever have even peppergrass growin' along its edges?" Kelly settled himself comfortably in Ellis's chair and draped his long legs over the exchanges. Filling his mouth with Granger twist, he said: "'Twa'n't because of the blooms. Fact is, it never was 'bloom' in the fu'st place. Old man Blome owned this track of land--his name was Jerusalem Blome. Folks used to say Jerusalem Blown. Purty nice story there is about this town and Barton, why neither of 'em has got a railroad, and why Barton is bigger in money and scarcer in folks." Ellis put his stickful of type on the case resignedly. Bill and Jap deposited their weary frames on the doorstep. The hot wind blew in their faces, laden with dust. The smell of dried grass was odorous. "Looks like it mout blow up a rain," said Kelly, sniffing approvingly. "Well, Kelly," declared Ellis, "you have tied the wheels of this machine. Deliver the goods you promised. We are not interested in rain." "Humph!" ruminated Kelly, "it was this-a-way: Old man Blome bought this track about the time that Luellen Barton moved to her plantation. It mout 'a' been sooner; I ain't sure. Barton--leastways, what is Barton now--belonged to old Simpson Barton. When he went south and married a rip-snortin' widow, he brought his wife and a passel o' niggers to live at the old home place. There hadn't never been no niggers there, along of the fu'st Mis' Barton. "When war broke out the niggers run away, along of Jerusalem Blome, that got up a nigger regimint. After the war there was talk of a railroad. It would run right through the Blome farm and cross the Barton place crossways. My daddy was overseer for Mis' Barton. Simp didn't have nothin' to say about the runnin' of the place. I was a tyke, doin' errands for everybody, and I heerd a lot o' the railroad talk. Old Blome was sellin' his farm in town lots, gettin' ready for the boom--for who would 'a' thought that Mis' Barton would turn her back on such a proposition? "You see, it was this-a-way: Mis' Luellen was allus speculatin' in niggers, and a month before war broke, she had bought a load of Guinea niggers--the kind that looks like they are awearin' bustles, you know. Simp kinder smelt war, but, Lordee, Luellen wouldn't be dictated to! And she went broke, flat as a flitter. All that was left was the thousand acres of Barton land. "Railroad? No, siree! She heard about old man Blome's activity, and she had it in for Blome. She sat up and primped her lips when Pee-Dee Jones come in behalf of the railroad. That's how the Barton Joneses come to settle in this neck o' the woods. Pee-Dee Jones--no kin o' mine--had a winnin' way, and he purty nigh got Mis' Luellen's name on the paper, when he let slip that he intended buildin' a town on her land. 'Do you think that I am agoin' to have a lot of blue-bellied Yankees in my very dooryard?' she yelled. 'You are mistaken.' And so she stuck. "Afterwards she learned that Pee-Dee Jones had follered Grant. Whew! She nigh busted with rage. Mis' Luellen allus said that she could smell a Yankee a mile, and as she didn't like the smell, she cropped the railroad boom. It went five mile north of her place, and missed Bloomtown twenty mile. That's why the two towns are just livin' along. The folks that bought lots of old Blome tried to get another railroad to come their way. That was when the Wabash looked like it was headed for my farm; but I reckon that opportunities like that don't come but onct in a lifetime. "I wonder that Mis' Luellen's spook don't howl around Barton every night, for Jones bought the big house after she died, and the fambly comes back there to live whenever their luck goes wrong. Pee-Dee's boy, Brons Jones, started a paper there, about the time that Hallam started the Bloomtown _Herald_. He sold out to a poor devil that's racin' to see if he can starve quicker'n Ellis. Brons ain't been around these parts, the last few years, but he owns a lot o' Barton property that he thinks 'll make good some day." Kelly aimed a clear stream of tobacco juice at the dingy brown cuspidor, and made as if to settle himself for further narrative. "Jap, Bill, get to work," commanded Ellis. "And, Kelly, much as I appreciate you and your excellent wife, I must dispense with your society. I need these boys." As the farmer departed, grinning cheerfully, Tom Granger appeared at the door of the _Herald_ office. A conference of prominent citizens had been summoned to meet, early that afternoon, in the Granger and Harlow bank, a somewhat more pretentious building, separated from the _Herald_ office by a narrow alley; and during a lull in the morning's business Tom was serving himself in the capacity of errand boy. From his place on the front steps, he could watch for the possible advent of depositor or daylight robber, there being no rear door to the bank. "You'll be on hand, Ellis," he reminded. "Couldn't have any kind of a meeting without the _Herald_, you know. We won't keep you long." But the session was more important than the banker had anticipated. Judge Bowers had prepared a lengthy discourse, and others had opinions that needed ventilating. Once or twice, Ellis was irritated by shrieks of laughter that emanated from the office across the alley, usually in Bill's shrill treble. When the cause of the merriment had reached an exceptional climax, the Editor pounced upon his assistants, wearing the scowl of a thunder god. Jap and Bill got up, shamefacedly, as he demanded: "What do you think I am conducting this plant for? A circus for horse-play?" He kicked the cat loose from the box Jap had it hitched to. The two boys looked ruefully at their over-turned cart. "There goes the hell-box!" Bill screamed. Ellis stared at him in transfixed wrath. "Was that pi?" he demanded, looking down the hole in the floor into which most of the contents of the box had spilled. Bill darted into the back room and sneaked swiftly out through the alley door. The office saw him no more that day. With such tools as were available, Jap set to work to undo the mischief he had wrought. An hour later, he replaced the plank in the floor. The rescued type was piled in a dirty litter of refuse. Ellis leaned over it, attracted by a gleam that shone as not even new type could glitter. "It's a ring," explained Jap, furtively. "I reckon you won't be so mad now. I can soak it when we get hungry. I soaked my ma's ring, lots of times." "Why, you young reprobate!" exclaimed Ellis, "that ring is not yours, or mine. We will advertise it." He smiled in Jap's disappointed face. "It looked like a beefsteak, didn't it, boy? Well, virtue is its own reward, and maybe the owner will pay for the ad." But she did not, and yet the kick given to the inoffensive office cat had effects as far-reaching in the result to Bloomtown as did the kick of the famous Chicago cow, with this difference, that the effects were not disastrous. The brief ad in the _Herald_ brought Flossy Bowers from her home in Barton to claim a ring she had lost fifteen years before. "The office used to belong to Pap's daddy," Bill explained to Jap, as Ellis and Miss Bowers stood chatting in the front door. "When Grandpap was lawyerin', he had this for his office, and Aunt Flossy lost her ring, scrubbin' the floor. I have heard tell that he made the wimmin folks curry the horses. They say he had a big funeral. I wonder--" Bill spoke wistfully, "I wonder if I have any kinfolks on the man-side that love anybody but theirselves. Flossy didn't get to go off to school till her daddy died. She's been teaching up to Barton, since my pappy married this last time, and my stepmother don't like her, so she never comes home." Jap and Bill noted that Ellis found frequent business in Barton, and despite the inhospitable atmosphere of the substantial Bowers home, across the little park from the _Herald_ office, Flossy came oftener than usual to her girlhood town. The autumn, the winter and the spring sped by. Ellis Hinton was too happy to scold, even when there was an excess of horse-play. In the gladsome June-tide the young girls of Bloomtown stripped their mothers' gardens to weave garlands for the little church, and Judge Bowers opened his heart and his house for the wedding reception. Flossy had a dower of two thousand dollars, besides the cottage, a part of her father's patrimony, on one of the side streets, a ten-minute walk from the office. In her trunk were stowed away the yellow linens that should have served her, had a certain college friend proved faithful, and the wedding presents came near to doing the rest. This strange turn of the wheel of fortune landed Jap Herron in his first real home. Flossy could cook, and thank the kind fates, she brought something to cook with her. Flossy was a misnomer, for even in her salad days, she had never been the least bit "flossy," and when Ellis bestowed himself upon her she had well turned thirty. The Judge made Ellis a present of the office, thereby relieving him of the haunting fear that he might, at some time, demand the rent. The paper put on a new dress, and the hell-box was dumped full of the discarded, mutilated types that had so long given strabismus to the patient readers of the Bloomtown _Herald_. CHAPTER IV "To-morrow is Jap's birthday," announced Ellis, one noontide early in July. "Jap, you are a joy-spoiler. With the Fourth yet smoking in the air, we must be upset by your birthday." "Dad allus cussed that day," remarked Jap, wiping the blackberry juice from his freckled face. "Gee, I never guessed that there was such grub as this," regretfully gazing at the generous blackberry cobbler--regretfully, because his exhausted stomach refused to give another stitch. "Cussed it?" queried Ellis, who was beginning to fat up a bit. "He said that I was the first nail in the coffin of his troubles," replied Jap cheerfully. "How dreadfully inhuman," exclaimed Flossy, scraping the scraps to the chickens. "Well, Jappie," she bustled back to the dining-room where her little family lingered, "we are going to begin making your birthdays pleasant. What do you want most?" She had her mind's eye on the discarded ties of gorgeous hue, bought while Ellis was courting, and still brand new. "Ca-can I have just what I want?" stuttered Jap, excitedly. "Why, certainly, Jappie. That is, if we can afford it." "Well--well," floundered Jap, astounded at his own temerity, "I allus wanted a pair of knee pants. Ma thought that some time she could get 'em; but the folks that she washed for allus kept giving her pants of their menfolks. I had to wear 'em. Can I have knee pants?" Flossy stared dazedly after Ellis, whose vision of Jap in knee trousers was most unsettling. Before the momentous request had been granted, he was already half way down the alley. He was still convulsed with laughter when he reached the side door of the _Herald_ office. But his mental picture paled into dull commonplace, by comparison with the reality that was in store for him. Jap bought the cherished pants! Bloomtown had seen the circus, the Methodist church fire and Judge Lesley's funeral, the greatest in the history of the county; but none of these created the interest that Jap brought out when he traveled the length of Spring street, rounded the corner at Blanke's drug store and walked solemnly along Main street to the office. Ellis was looking out of the window when he appeared, and despite his effort at composure, was writhing on the floor in agony when Jap entered. Bill looked up, as the vision crossed the threshold, and he involuntarily swallowed four type he was holding in his lips while he adjusted a pied stickful of "More Anon's" communication from Pluffot. Jap was so interested in himself that these things passed him by. He sat solemnly on his stool and looked vacantly into the e-box. Poking absently among the dusty types, he said, with profound solemnity: "Bill, did you ever want anything right bad?" Bill swallowed the last type with difficulty. It was the last capital Z, and they were getting five dollars for the announcement of Zachariah Zigler's daughter, Zella Zena's graduation into matrimony, and Bill had been picking enough Z's out of the "More Anon" to spell it, when the pi happened. His mind feebly recognized the calamity. He stared at the apparition before him, too stunned by the catastrophe to apprehend Jap's appearance further. Jap pressed him for reply. "Once," he admitted gloomily. "I wanted to eat musherroons." "Did you like 'em--when you got them?" asked Jap wanly. "Naw! Tasted nasty. Never could see why folks keened after 'em." Jap sighed. "I allus wanted knee pants," he said plaintively. "But seems like I wa'n't made for that kind of luxury. I ain't a bit happy, like I thought. Seems kind of indecent to show your legs, when you never done it before." And Jap donned his long trousers again, much to the relief of Bloomtown. Ellis afterward declared that the three-and-a-half feet of spindling legs that dangled along under the buckled bands of those short trousers were the most remarkable things he had ever seen. They resembled nothing more than the legs of a spring lamb, cavorting in knee pants, in the butcher's window. When we have achieved our heart's desire, we often taste the ashes of illusion. Jap did not worry further about his appearance, but, dressed in the neat jumpers that Flossy provided, he seemed content. The memory of the episode was beginning to lose some of its sting when Dame Fortune gave a mighty turn to her wheel. He was in the alley with Bill, playing marbles, when Wat Harlow came rushing out. "Where is Ellis?" he gasped. "There's hell afloat." "Ellis and Flossy have gone to Birdtown to stay till Monday," vouchsafed Bill. "It's goin' to be big doin's at an anniversary, Sunday." "Good God!" cried Wat, "what can I do?" Jap arose and dusted himself. "Is it a dark secret?" he inquired. "Did Ellis owe you a bill? Lordee, man, you can find plenty more in your fix. Forget it." Wat continued to tear up and down the narrow alley. "I'm ruined," he groaned. "They've got an infernal lie out about me, and it's going to kill me out." Jap was interested. "Maybe I know what Ellis could do," he suggested. "I am running for the Legislature again," Wat said, pacing wildly over the marbles. "The Morgan crowd have got it out that I sold myself to the crowd that are trying to lobby a bill for a big appropriation for the State University. The county is solid against it, and they will vote me out of politics forever." "What could Ellis do?" asked Jap, sympathetically. "I thought that he could print the truth in handbills that could be sent out. It is now Friday, and Tuesday is election day. There will be no chance for help after Monday. They would have to have time to get all over the county." He sat down and wiped his forehead. "What is your defense?" asked Jap judicially. "They said that I was in the headquarters of the University gang--and I was," he said bitterly. "They said I shook hands with Barks--and I did. They said that he walked with me down the steps, with his arm around my shoulder--and he did." "Love of Mike!" exploded Bill, "What do you want to talk about it for, then?" "The University headquarters are in Bolton's furniture store," explained Wat. "My--my baby died last night, and I went there for her little coffin." He choked and walked over to the gate. After a moment he turned back. "Barks was there. When he found why I came, he walked out with me. He put his arm around my shoulder. He--he was telling me that he buried his youngest, a few weeks ago. And now, while I am tied here, and the time is so short, Ellis is gone. And I'll be ruined!" He leaned heavily on the rickety gate. Bill wiped his snub nose, openly, but Jap straightened up. The fire of battle was in his eyes. "Come inside," he cried valiantly. "Ellis is gone, but the office is here. Come on, Bill. We have great things to do." All night long the two boys labored. After the story was in type, they printed it on the Washington press. It was Bill's suggestion that brought forth a can of vermilion, to lend color to the heart story. Wat was in and out all night, but there was no "in and out" for the boys. At daybreak they flung the last handbill upon the stack of bills and sank exhausted upon them. Wat carried a mail pouch full of them to the stage that started on its daily trip to Faber, at seven o'clock, and the pathetic story saved the day for Legislator Harlow. "Boys, I will never forget it," he declared. Ellis saw one of the badly spelled, ink-smeared agonies on Saturday evening, and took the next stage for home, wrathful enough to thrash both boys. They had adorned the bill with the cut that Ellis had had made for Johnson, the tombstone cutter, a weeping angel drooping its long wings over a stately head-stone. A rooster and two prancing stallions at the bottom presaged victory for the vilified Wat. It was midnight when Ellis slammed the door open. The two boys were asleep in the midst of the litter of torn, ink-gaumed and otherwise spoiled copies of that hideous handbill. The last pull on the lever of the press had let it fly back too quickly, and it had flapped its handle loose and lay wrecked on the floor. The office had the appearance of a battleground. The ink was blood, and the press and scattered type, casualties. He stirred the boys with an angry kick. Jap sat up and peered through the ink over his eyes at his angry employer. "We fixed him solid," he declared jubilantly. "There can't nothing beat Wat now. We opened the eyes of the county." "You surely did," groaned Ellis. "When the Press Association add to their Hall of Fame, they will shroud me in the folds of that dad-blamed bit of art!" CHAPTER V Jap came running into the office, early in January, his freckled face aglow, his red hair standing wildly erect. "Golly Haggins!" he exploded, "I got a letter from Wat. He's up at the Legislator and he writes--he writes this!" He fairly lunged the letter at Ellis. Ellis read, scowling: "My dear young Friend,-- "I am at the Halls of Justice and I want to fill my promise to reward you for the noble deed you done. There is a chance for a bright boy as page, and I have spoke for it for my noble boy. Come at once. Time and tide won't wait, and there is thirty other boys camped on the trail, "Respectfully your Friend, "WAT HARLOW." "Whoopee!" yelled Bill, jumping from his stool and turning a handspring across the office. "Reckon I'd better ask Flossy to fix my things--get my clothes out?" asked Jap, beaming radiantly over the big barrel stove. He started toward the door. "Stop!" said Ellis, in a voice Jap had never heard. "You are not going." "Not going?" echoed both boys hollowly. "No!" almost shouted Ellis, his brown eyes flashing. "I might have expected this from that wooden-headed son of a lost art. Do you think that you are going to leave my office to lick the boots of that loafing gang of pie-biters? Not in a thousand years! I am going to put a tuck in that idea right now. And while I'm talking about it, you may as well know that Flossy is getting ready to teach you how to 'read and write and 'rithmetic,' as Bill says. And as for you, Bill, Flossy says that if your father hasn't enough pride to do the right thing by you, she'll give you an education, along with Jap. You begin your lessons to-morrow evening. "Jap, write to that reformed auctioneer and thank him for his favor. Tell him that you belong to the ancient and honorable order of printers. When he runs for governor, you will boom him. Till then, nothing doing in the 'Halls of Justice.'" Jap sulked all day, but he wrote the letter whose contents might have changed his career, and the following evening he and Bill began the schooling that Flossy had planned. It was a full winter for the boys, the most important of their lives. Even when spring came, with its yawns and its drowsy fever, they begged that the lessons continue. Already the effect was beginning to show in the galley proof. One morning in July, Jap had held down the office alone. Flossy was not well, and Ellis spent as much time with her as possible. Bill blustered in, a look of disgust in his brown eyes. "Ain't nothin' doin' in town, 'cept at Summers's," he exploded, luxuriating in the kind of speech that was tabooed in the presence of his elders. "Only ad I could scare up was at Summers's, and Ellis don't want that." Jap looked from the door, beyond the little village park and the hotel, to where the dingy white face of the saloon stared impudently upon the town. "I never see one of them places without scringin'," he said slowly. "My pappy almost lived in one. When we were cold, he was warm. When Ma and us children were hungry, the saloon fed him, because--because he could be so amusing and entertaining when he was half drunk. Ma said that my pappy's folks were quality, but they didn't have any time for him. "I used to creep around to the side winder to see what kind of a drunk he had. If it was a mean one, I'd run home and sneak Aggie out and hide. He had a spite agin us two, and when he had a mean drunk he used to beat us. He was skeered to fetch Fanny Maud. She had the wild-cattest temper you ever saw. He tried to pull her out of bed by her hair one night, and she jumped on him and scratched his face like a map. Ma had to drag her off, and if he hadn't run, Fanny would 'a' got him again. After that he would brag what a fine girl she was. One night Aggie and me hid in a straw stack all night." Bill looked sorrowfully upon his friend. "I thought I was the most forsakenest boy in the world," he said. "But my father never beat me, and he never touches no kind of licker. He just don't like me around. You know my mother died when I was born, and somehow he seems to blame it on me. I don't know how to figger it, for he married in a year, and when that one died it didn't take him no time to start lookin' out again. He hardly ever speaks to me, 'cept to cuss me or tell me what a nuisance I am. Allus makes me feel like a cabbage worm." "Cabbage worm?" queried Jap. "Yes, they turn green when they eat, and I feel like I am green, every bite I take. He looks at me so mean, like he thought I hadn't any right to eat. That's why I eat at Flossy's, every time she asks me. The only nice thing my pappy ever done for me was to put me in here with Ellis. Jap," he broke off suddenly, "I'm durn glad you licked me, that day. But your hair _was_ red!" Ellis had come quietly in at the rear door and had listened, half consciously, to the sacred confession. His face saddened for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and his dark eyes flashed. "I am going to make men of those boys yet," he promised himself. "Who knows----" He interrupted the spasm of painful speculation, the dark foreboding that had for days hovered over him. The heat of summer and his anxiety over Flossy were beginning to tell on his nerves. He tiptoed softly out of the back door, across the weed-grown yard and out through the alley gate. A moment later he came in at the front door, whistling blithely. The summer was intensely hot. As the dog-days waxed, Ellis grew ever more and more morose. His sharp bursts of temper were made tolerable only by the swift justice of the amend. Late in September he came down to the office one morning, pale and shaken. The boys had been sticking type for an hour when his sudden entrance startled them. "Flossy is very sick," he said with lips that quivered, "and I will have to trust you boys." Jap followed him to the door. His face was downcast. "Is it true, Ellis? Bill said that Flossy would--would----" He gulped. He could not finish. Ellis turned suddenly and sat down at the table and buried his face in the pile of exchanges. His body shook with the effort to suppress his emotion. Bill slipped down from his stool and the two awkward, ungainly youths looked at each other in embarrassed sorrow. Finally Jap laid an inky hand on Ellis's shoulder. "Tell her--tell her," he stuttered, "that Bill and me are--are a--prayin'." Ellis gave a mighty sob and rushed away, bare-headed. The two apprentices sat at their cases, the tears wetting the type in their sticks. The long day dragged by. Neither of them remembered noon, but plodded stolidly and silently through the clippings on their copy hooks. It was growing dusk when a great commotion arose. It seemed to come from the corner near Blanke's drug store. It gathered force as it neared Granger's bank, Now it had reached the mouth of the alley that separated the bank from the _Herald_ office. There was cheering and laughter. Jap's face hardened. He slung one leg to the floor. How dared any one cheer or laugh, when Flossy lay dying? In another instant Ellis burst into the room. His dark locks were rumpled, his eyes wild and bright. "Get out all the roosters--and the stallions, too!" he shouted. "Open a can of vermilion and, in long pica, double-lead it: 'It is a boy!'" Jap let the other leg fall and dragged himself around. His mouth had fallen loose on its hinges. He sat down on the floor and gaped foolishly at Ellis. "She's feeling fine," babbled Ellis, "and you and Bill are coming in the morning to see the boy." He rushed out again. Jap looked at Billy glued to the stool, holding in one paralyzed hand the inverted stick. "Gee!" said Jap. In the morning they tiptoed into Flossy's room. Very pale and weak was the energetic little woman who had taken the moulding of their destinies into her hands. She smiled gently and, as mothers have done since time was, she tenderly drew back the covers from a tiny black head and motioned for the two to look. "Our boy," she said, smiling radiantly. "I am going to name him Jasper William, and I want you to make him very proud of the men he was named for." The hot tears sprang to Jap's eyes and fell upon the little red face. The wee mite, perhaps prompted by an angel whisper from the land from whence he came, threw aloft one wrinkled hand and touched him on the cheek. Sobbing stormily, Jap hid his face in the covers as he knelt beside the bed. Then he took the little fingers in his. "If God lets me live, Flossy, I will make him proud of me." He choked and dashed outside to join Bill, who was snubbing [Transcriber's note: "snubbing" is what's in the source book. Perhaps the author meant "snuffling" or "sobbing".] audibly on the back steps. After a muffled silence he said, his eyes growing suddenly bright: "Bill, did you notice what Flossy said? She said the 'men' that he was named after. Bill, we've got to quit kiddin' and begin to grow up." CHAPTER VI Time passed, after the easy-going manner of Bloomtown. Jap was sixteen, long, ungainly and stooped from bending over the case. Bill, a little older in months, but possessed of immortal youth, was stocky and rather good looking. Four years of daily intercourse had wrought a subtle change in their relations, four years of the stern and the sweet that Ellis and Flossy Hinton had brought, for the first time, into their lives. Bill was at the table, the exchanges pushed back in a disorderly heap, as he surreptitiously figured a tough problem in bookkeeping that Flossy had given him. Jap, with furtive air, bolted the history lesson that ought to have been learned the day before. Ellis, his back to the one big window in the office, scowled over the proofs he was rattling. From time to time he peppered the air with remarks that fell like bird shot on the tough oblivion of his two assistants. At length forbearance gave way under the strain, and he said, in cold and measured tones: "When you are unable to decipher the idea I am trying to convey, I wish that you would take me into your confidence." Bill looked up, a grin on his round, shining face, a grin that was fixed to immobility by the fierceness of Ellis's glance. "I note that you have injected much native humor into perfectly legitimate prose," the stern voice continued. He read: "'Jim Blanke has a splendid assortment of Sundays.' Now please explain. You are causing the good folks of this town unnecessary worry. My copy reads, 'sundries.'" "Jap done it," vouchsafed Bill. "Who done this?" Ellis stressed the verbal blunder witheringly, as he pointed his pencil at the next item. It read: "Ross Hawkins soled twenty-five yearling calves." "It looked that way," argued Jap. "A devil of a couple you are," declared Ellis wrathfully. "Can't either of you reason? Did you ever hear of any one soling a yearling calf? Ross Hawkins is an auctioneer, not a shoemaker." The boys looked sheepishly at each other. Suddenly Bill flung himself on his stomach and howled in glee. "Lordee! What if that had 'a' got in the paper!" he gasped. "There would be two fine, large, lazy boys out of a job," Ellis said severely. He threw aside the copy and lifted the type. Jap followed the movement with anxious eye. Another explosion hung, tense and imminent, in the air. "Have you washed that type yet, Bill?" he asked, eager to placate Ellis. It was the custom for the boy nearest the door to disappear when the time for washing a form was at hand. "It was your job," protested Bill. "You promised to wash Wat Harlow's speech if I cleaned Kelly Joneses stock bill." Ellis sat down wearily. "Oh, we're agoing to do it all, this evening," cried Bill, defiantly. "You promised that we could clean out that box of cuts. You promised a long time ago." "Go to it," said Ellis, his voice relaxing, and the two boys bolted into the back room. A little later he joined them. Jap and Bill sat on the floor, blowing the dust from a lot of dirty old woodcuts. "I bought them with the job," he said, turning the pile over with his foot. He sat down on the emptied box and watched them as they examined the cuts. "What is this?" asked Jap, peering at the largest block in the lot. "That is a cut of the town, as it was when I came here," said Ellis, a shadow of reminiscence crossing his face, as he took the block in his long fingers. Bill drew himself to his knees and looked at the maze of lines and depressions curiously. The picture was as strange to him as it was to Jap. Ellis continued: "There were three business houses here, besides the blacksmith shop and the saloon. Here they are. Ezra Bowers, Bill's grandfather, with the help of his three sons, ran a general store where they sold everything from castor oil to mowing machines. Phineas Blome--an unmistakable son of old Jerusalem--sold clothing and more castor oil and mowing machines. There wasn't such a thing as a butcher shop in Bloomtown. When the natives wanted fresh meat, they ordered it brought out on the hack. In other parts of the world, that institution is sometimes called a stage; but here I learned that its right name is 'hack.' The southern terminus of the Bloomtown, Barton and Faber hack-line, that has done its best for thirty years to prevent us from being entirely marooned, was over there at the south side of Blome's Park, exactly as it is to-day. The hotel didn't have a bit more paint, the first night I slept in it, than it has now." "Flossy said that weathered shingles were fashionable," Bill grinned, taking up another cut. "Here's the Public Square--you call it Blome's Park, but I never heard anybody else call it that," he added, his voice lifting in a note of query. "That's the Square, all right, and the Town Hall, with 'leven horses hitched in front of it." "Yes, when old man Blome laid out his farm in town lots, he reserved his woods pasture for a city park. You never heard of an orthodox town that didn't begin with a Public Square, and that little rocky glade with the wet-weather spring had the only trees within ten miles of here. It wasn't fit for farming, so Blome argued that nobody would buy it with a view to raising garden truck. But your foxy Uncle Blome didn't sacrifice anything by his generosity to the town that was about to be born. He reserved the lots facing the park on three sides, and held them at an exorbitant figure--as much as five dollars a front foot, I should say. "The lots at the north and east were to be sold for high-class residences only. Those at the west were reserved for business houses. Behold the embryo Main street! Overlooking the park at the south was Blome's farm house, since metamorphosed into a tavern and barns for the stage horses. The last of the Blomes shook the dust of Bloomtown from his feet when Carter bought his interest in the hack line. Bill's grandfather had a farm adjoining Blome's land at the west; but Ezra Bowers, merchant prince and attorney-at-law," he said whimsically, "had to have a residence in the fashionable quarter, fronting the park. A little patch of the old farm is quite good enough for Mr. and Mrs. Ellis Hinton and their two sons, Jap and Jasper William." Jap caught Ellis's hand, a lump arising in his throat. Bill relieved the momentary tension by turning over another cut. A familiar face looked out at him from the grime of years. Ellis glanced at it and smiled. "It is a great thing, Jap, the birth of a town. Bloomtown was really never born. The stork dropped her when he was traveling for a friendly haven. For ten years she lay, just as she fell, without visible signs of life. About twenty families existed, somehow. They had pigs, chickens and garden truck, and to all intents they would go on existing till the last trump. "One day I went out into the country to attend a sale. Boys, I was never so well pleased with a day's work as I was with that day's jaunt. I heard the most masterly bit of eloquence that ever came from the lips of an auctioneer. The man had the crowd hypnotized. He even sold me an accordion, a thing I was born to hate. The fact that it was wind-broken and rattly never occurred to me until I woke up, after he had done. Then I went to him and said: "'You an auctioneer! You should be in the Halls of Justice, telling the people how to interpret their laws.' "The idea struck him. He came into town with me and we talked the matter over. He was easily the best known and most liked man in the county. It was then that the political bug stung our good friend, Wat Harlow. Wat moved his family to town and soon he had a decent habitation. He stimulated a rain of paint and a hail of shingle nails. He prodded the older inhabitants to an era of wooden pavements and stone crossings. Bill's grandfather objected, because he said it cut down the sale of rubber hip-boots; but Wat's eloquence was the key to fit anything that tried to lock the wheels of progress. He did more than that. He brought Jim Blanke from Leesburg to start a decent drug store. "After that he robbed Barton of Tom Granger, and together they started the first bank of Bloomtown. Granger's wife and baby, with Wat's wife, were the civilization. Mrs. Granger was almost an invalid, even then, but she gathered the women together and formed an aid society. She begged and cajoled Bowers out of enough money to build a little church on the lot that Blome had donated. I joined the church, for the moral example. I don't remember what denomination it was supposed to be. We had services once a month; but Mrs. Granger was the real power in the town. She introduced boiled shirts and neckties. Tom bought the big patch of ground, north of the park, and set out those elm trees before his foundation was in. Then Jim Blanke got Otto Kraus to come here and start a private school. Otto played the little cabinet organ in church, and taught all the children music, after school hours. Thus was Bloomtown born. Wat Harlow made the blood circulate in her moribund veins." Jap looked into Ellis's face, his freckled cheeks glowing. "That's not what Wat Harlow said," he declared breathlessly. "What did he say?" asked Ellis sharply. "Why--why," gulped Jap, "he said that Bloomtown was dead as a herring, and too no-account to be buried, till Ellis Hinton came and jerked her out of the mud and started her to breathe." Ellis got up and dusted his trousers. "As I said before, Wat was an eloquent auctioneer. Talk is his trade, and he keeps in practice. Dilute his enthusiasm one-half, Jap. And now, get to work, washing up." As he left the office he encountered a group of tittering girls, in front of the bank. They scattered when they perceived that Ellis and not Bill had come forth. Bill was the lion of the town. Already the girls had begun to come after papa's paper, on publishing day, which upset the machinery of the office, never too dependable. One Thursday when the air was full of snow, the little office registered its capacity crowd. Ellis was at home with a heavy cold, and Jap and Bill were getting out the paper. The ink congealed on the rollers and needed constant warming to lubricate the items reposing on the bosom of the Washington press. This warming was Bill's job, and Jap was exasperated to fighting pitch by the dilatory method of Bill's peregrinations around the circle of rosy-faced girls, hanging admiringly on his efforts. "Chase those girls out," he growled. "No use for them to hang around. We won't get this paper out in a week if they stick around after you." "Old Crabby!" sniffed one of the girls. "You're just mad because nobody wants to hang after you." "Jap is particular," chaffed Bill, half apologetically. Since they had assumed the responsibility for the right uplift of Flossy's boy, there had been growing a new, shy pride in themselves. "Better wait and come back in the morning," he suggested. The girls filed slowly out. As they passed the table, where Jap was piling the papers to fold, Isabel Granger, doubtless inspired by the demon of mischief, leaned forward suddenly and kissed him full on the mouth. Then she fled, shrieking with glee. Jap stood as if stricken to stone. Bill looked at him in fright. There was no color in his freckled face. His gray eyes were staring, as if some wonderful vision had blasted his sight. "Gee, Jap," said Bill uneasily, "are you sick?" Jap aroused himself and turned toward the press. "No," he said slowly, "but I don't like for folks to be familiar like that. If I wanted to be a fool like you----" He stopped and stared a moment from the window. "The next time she kisses me," he said shortly, "she will mean it." CHAPTER VII What a wonderful thing is a baby! Babies were not new to either Bill or Jap. In Bill's memory lingered the shrill duet of his twin half-sisters, a continuous performance that had lasted more than a year. And Jap had never fully corrected a lurch to the left side, due to carrying his sister, Agnesia, when he was little more than a baby himself. Yet the little visitor from the Land of Yesterday was a never failing miracle to them. His cry filled them with fear for his well-being, and his laugh intoxicated them with its glee. "Wait till he can talk," smiled Flossy, "Then you will see how wise he is." In her heart she was beginning to combat the fear that he would never talk. Other children of his age were already chattering like magpies. "Ma said that I said 'papa' when I was eight months old," declared Jap. "But I don't know why I should 'a' said that." Bill grinned fatuously as the baby pulled at his hair. "Bill won't get his hair cut," said Jap. "He knows that J. W. would hang after me, if it wasn't for his curly hair." The little fellow, who for obvious reasons could be neither Jasper nor William, had learned to respond with amiable toleration to the soothing abbreviation, "J. W." Kicking his stubby legs gleefully, he tangled his fingers more mercilessly in Bill's brown locks. Flossy loosed the fingers gently, as she cooed: "Naughty, naughty! Mamma said baby mustn't." Flinging his fingers aloft in protest, he gurgled: "Ja--Bi!" Flossy's eyes shone with sudden joy. It was her son's first attempt at articulate speech. The boys lunged forward with one impulse. "He said 'Jappie,'" Jap cried, his chest swelling with the importance of it. Bill glared. "Why, Jap!" Pain and indignation were in his tone. "He tried to say 'Bill.'" Flossy smiled on them both. It was a wonderful little kingdom, of which she had assumed the place of absolute monarch, a monarch so gentle and so just that her sway was never questioned. "Ellis puts in half his time trying to teach baby to say the two names all in one mouthful, so that you boys won't fight about his first word," she vouchsafed. "It would have to be either Jap or Bill, because you never tell him anything but your names." When they waved their caps in farewell, they were still discussing the mooted question vehemently. Was it "Jappie," or a combination of Jap and Bill? To both of them the question was vital. Jap had the better of the argument, when Bill blurted: "Anyhow, he's my cousin, and he ain't no relation of yours." Then he remembered that significant remark of Ellis's: "A little patch of the old farm is quite good enough for Mr. and Mrs. Ellis Hinton and their two sons, Jap and Jasper William," and he was silent the rest of the way back to the office. Little J. W. was three years old before he could speak distinctly. The child was born with other afflictions than the serious impediment to his speech, and the four who hung with anguished love on his every gesture were never free from a certain unnamed anxiety. He loved Bill, but he worshipped Jap. Both were his willing slaves. One rainy, dismal night in early fall, when Bill's step-mother lay seriously ill, Flossy left her baby to the care of the small but usually capable maid who assisted her with the work of the cottage, while she and Ellis went to the home of Judge Bowers to relieve the trained nurse who had come up from the city. At the supper table, Ellis had remarked that Jap and Bill would be working late that night, in order to get out a job that had come in when all the resources of the office were needed for the weekly edition of the _Herald_. He had added that he would go over and help them, if his presence could be spared from the sick-room. The remark must have lodged in the baby's mind, for he slipped out of bed, while the maid was employed in the kitchen, and toddled through the cold rain almost all the way to Main street. Jim Blanke found him lying exhausted in the road, a little way from the drug store, the rain beating pitilessly on his unconscious head and his scantily clad body. After a night of anxious care, the little fellow relapsed into a state of coma, and lay for hours, white and still, save for the rasping of his breath. The office was closed. Both boys, frantic with fear, stood with Ellis as the child lay in his mother's arms, the four dreading that each hoarse breath would be his last. Flossy sat erect in the wide rocking chair, her brave eyes watching every sigh that tore the little bosom. Dr. Hall, whose dictum was life and death, was silent. And this silence was the last straw for Jap. He crept nearer. In fear, he turned from the face of the beloved sufferer. Ellis caught the look in the boy's anguished eyes, and a spasm crossed his tightly compressed lips. The physician rallied himself from the torpor of despair that had laid hold on him. "Try to arouse him," he commanded. "Try again." The resources of his experience and his prescription blank had long since been exhausted. Flossy bent over her child and called softly: "Baby, dearest, mamma loves you. Won't you speak?" Ellis leaned forward. His face blanched. The rasping had ceased! Jap caught the look of horror, and dragged himself up to look into the baby's face. "He isn't dead! He's all right!" he shrieked, not knowing that he spoke. "He's still breathing. I can hear him." His hands grasped the cold body and lifted it, unconscious of the thing he was doing. "Oh, J. W.! Oh, J. W.!" he screamed, "don't go away from us!" He pressed the child to his breast convulsively, and the miracle happened. The solemn black eyes opened and a husky voice said, "Jappie." After the excitement was over, and the exhausted mother slept beside her sleeping child. Bill said humbly: "He did say 'Jap' first." "But he tried to say 'Bill,' too," Jap said loyally. The next morning, when the office had resumed its normal routine, a routine that was destined to be only partially interrupted by the death of Bill's second stepmother, a few days later, Ellis called Jap into the little back room where, in the dismal days before Flossy's coming, they had performed all the functions of housekeeping. He closed the door, as he laid his hand on Jap's shoulders. "You saved J. W.'s life," he said solemnly. "Doc Hall said that you stopped him, on the threshold, when you gave that dreadful cry." The baby did not rally, and Ellis worried about this incessantly. One day, some weeks after another mound had been added to the group in Judge Bowers's family lot, and Bill had gone with his father to appraise the merits of a prospective housekeeper from Birdtown, Ellis looked up from the proof he was correcting. Jap noted the anxiety in his face, and the gray eyes, that could so often render speech unnecessary, put the question. Ellis sighed. "He's not getting along the way he ought to," he mused. "Doc Hall prescribed a tonic for him a month ago; but it doesn't seem to take hold. He has no constitution to begin with. His father, exhausted by privation and ill-health, has handicapped him in the start. "Jap," he said, as he arose and laid one arm confidingly around the boy's shoulder, "you must remember that, in the years to come. I didn't give the baby a fair chance. He may need all the help he can get to carry him through. If you should live longer than I, you must be his father and big brother, both." Jap's gray eyes opened in astonishment. The idea that there could ever be a time when Ellis would not be there had never entered his mind. He looked into the dark, thin face with its pallor and its unnaturally bright eyes, and a joyous smile took the place of the momentary shock. "Doc Hall said that you had grit enough to outlive any disease that ever lurked in the brush of Bloomtown," he declared eagerly. "Doc Hall is an optimist," Ellis laughed hollowly. "I'm not so much concerned for myself as for the boy and his mother. You know what J. W. means to her." "Bill and I have already talked it over," Jap returned. "We're going to be big brothers to J. W. We're going to take turns at taking him for long rides on Judge Bowers's old horse, Jeremiah. Doc Hall said that long, jolty rides would set him up, rosy and fat, in a little while. Bill told me this morning that he had J. W. weighed again, on Hollins's scales, and he has gained three pounds." Ellis Hinton's face cleared. There was a new elasticity in his step as he crossed the room and laid the copy down on the case. Unconsciously he began to whistle, as he clicked the type in the stick. CHAPTER VIII Flossy came into the office, leading the boy by the hand, and called Ellis aside. Old Jeremiah had done wonders for the little fellow; but on Flossy Hinton's face there was a look that boded ill to some one. "I sent for Brother William to meet me here," she said crisply. "I want you to back up all that I say." Before Ellis had breathed twice, she was out looking up the street, and in less time than you could think it out, she was back, towing the Judge, who puffed explosively. Ellis and the three boys had retreated to the rear office. "There is not a bit of use to argue, William," she said, her lips in a hard, straight line. "Ellis has done more than any one else in town could do. When I heard that you had subscribed five thousand dollars to the new church, I concluded that your charity was a little far fetched. Now I want you to subscribe five thousand dollars to the institution that is making a man of your son. I want five thousand dollars for the printing office. It is too small, and the press is out of date. We need all that goes into an up-to-date printing office." Her brother looked upon her tolerantly. "Keep it up, Floss. It never fazed you to ask favors, and you ain't run down yet." "It's a shame," she stormed. "Just look at this little shed! Why, even a cross-road blacksmith shop is better." He looked around appraisingly. "I reckon it'll house all Ellis's business," he commented. "Ellis," she flashed, "tell William about the railroad." Ellis came from the inside office. He generally withdrew from the conferences between Flossy and her brother. "Wat Harlow told me that two of the big railroad systems have entered into a joint arrangement to shorten their mileage, on through trains to the West. He's got it all fixed for the new track to pass through Bloomtown. It will give us all the benefit of two railroads." "You see," said Flossy triumphantly, "the town will boom. People will move in, and a first-class newspaper will be the greatest asset." "I think that the town will take a big start," assured Ellis. "The boys will have all they can do with job work, and the office is small for our present needs." "Pap, you should watch us carving letters when we get short," interposed Bill. "Last week Jap had to carve three A's for Allen's handbill. There are only three of 'em in that case, and Allen wanted to use six. His name is Pawhattan Abram Allen, and he wanted the whole blamed thing spelled out in caps. I told Jap it was lucky Allen's folks didn't name him Aaron, on top of all the rest." "That's good practice for you boys," the Judge snorted. "I'm mighty glad you learned something for all the money I spent on you." He glanced at his sister witheringly; but Flossy had her eyes fixed on her husband. "I wish," Ellis stirred himself to say, "that the town would boom enough to take all these frame shacks off of Main street, so that the place wouldn't look like a settlement of campers." "A good fire would help," commented Bill boldly. Judge Bowers looked over his glasses at his son. "Well, when the railroad comes, and the rest of the shacks are moved out, I will write you a check for five thousand dollars," he snorted, turning his rotund form out of the door. Flossy picked up the boy and flounced out, in speechless indignation. By argument and cajolery she had succeeded in getting six months apiece for Bill and Jap at the School of Journalism, and at twenty the boys were far more expert than Ellis was when he began the publication of the _Herald_. She had set her heart on the new printing office, and her eyes were abrim with tears as she stumbled home. The week wore on until printing day. It was a day of unimagined exasperations. Everything went wrong. Ellis's usually smooth temper bent under the stormy comments of the boys, and in the late afternoon he developed a violent headache and went home. Things continued to pile up until it was evident that the boys would have to print the paper after dark. It was ten o'clock when they finished. Jap followed Bill to the pavement, pausing to lock the door and slip the key in his pocket. The town was asleep. Not a soul was to be seen on Main street. Bill, who usually took the short cut across the Public Square to his fathers house, turned with Jap and walked along Main street to the farther end of the block. At Blanke's drug store, he turned into Spring street. He was saying, in a tone of mixed penitence and anxiety: "I wish we hadn't riled Ellis so, to-day. I don't like those headaches he's having so often, and the way his face gets red every afternoon. If he ever sneaked out and took a drink--But I know he never does." "Oh, Ellis is all right, now that little J. W. is getting strong," Jap insisted. They had gone some distance in the direction of Flossy's cottage, when Bill looked across an expanse of vacant lots to where a dim light burned in the loft of Bolton's barn. "They're running a poker game," said Bill wisely. Almost before the words were gone, a wild shriek rent the air. A flash of light from the barn loft, a scrambling of feet, and a succession of dark objects catapulted the ooze of the barnyard, and it was all ablaze. A stiff breeze was blowing from the southwest. Bill ran to the mill to set the fire whistle, and Jap scrambled through a window of the Methodist church and began to fling the chimes abroad, so that he who slept might know that there was a fire in town. There had been no rain for weeks, and the frame structures were ripe for burning. In less than half an hour the row of stores on Main street, in the block below the _Herald_ office, began to smoke. From Hollins's grocery store a brand was carried by the wind and lodged among the dry shingles of Summers's saloon. The excitement was augmented, a few minutes later, by a series of pyrotechnic explosions. Bucket brigades were formed, the firemen mostly in undress uniform. Jap and Bill were in their glory. Jap was mounted on top of the Town Hall, directing operations. Right down the row rushed the flames, eating up the town. As if in parting salutation, the fiery monster leaped across a vacant lot, thick set with dried weeds, and clutched with heat-red claws at the _Herald_ office. "This way, men!" yelled Jap. "You have to get the press and enough type out to tell about the fire." Ellis was staring hopelessly at the flame that was licking at the rear of the office. The water was exhausted from the town well, and there was no hope of saving the plant. But youth is omniscient, and the townsmen followed the wildly yelling apprentices and hastened to demolish the office and drag away the debris, some of it already blazing. From the salvage rescued from Price's hardware store, and heaped in a disorderly pile in the Public Square, Jap handed out the latest thing in fire fighting apparatus. The flimsy structure, that had been Ellis Hinton's stronghold for almost twenty years, gave way to an assault with axes, and the contents, pretty well scattered, were left standing. It was nothing that Granger and Harlow's bank went down with little left to show its location save the fire-proof vault, and that only a shift in the wind prevented the flames from crossing to the fashionable residence section east of Main street. In the morning the _Herald_ force began business in the ruins of its time-worn shelter, and set up gory accounts of the fire, on brown manila paper with vermilion and black ink. A crowd assembled to watch the exciting spectacle. "What's the use of a railroad now?" bleated Judge Bowers. "There ain't no town to run it through." "Why ain't there?" asked Jap sharply. "Why, all the folks are talking of pulling up stakes and moving to Barton." "Well, if that is the kind of backbone they have been backing this town with," snapped the youth, his red hair standing erect, "you help them move, and the _Herald_ will show them up for quitters--and fill the town with real men." And being full of wrath, he proceeded to incorporate this thought in the half column he was setting up. The paper was eagerly snapped up by the crowd. "Who wrote this?" fairly howled Tom Granger. "I want to hold his grimy hand and help him shout for a bigger and better town." Ellis shoved Jap forward. "Here is the fire-eater," he announced. Jap flushed through the dirt on his face. "It's true," he said, half shyly. "There's no good in a quitter. The best thing is to smoke them out and get live men to take their places." "Bravely said," shouted Granger. "The bank will rebuild with brick. Who else builds on Main street?" Before the end of the following week the town was humming with industry. Every hack brought its contingent of insurance adjusters, and merchants elbowed contractors in the little telegraph office, in endeavors to get supplies. On Thursday a curious crowd stood watching Ellis and the boys run the blistered but still faithful Washington press in the boiling sun. "Goin' to get winter after a while, Jap," shouted one of the bystanders. "You'll have to wear ear muffs to get out your paper." Jap grinned and swung the lever around methodically. "What are you going to do, Ellis?" asked the honorable member from the "Halls of Justice," who had hurried to his little home town in her hour of trouble. "There ain't a vacant shack in town. It seems a darned shame that you'll have to give up, after starving with the town till it gets its toes set in gravel at last. Now that the railroad is running this way like a scared wolf, the town needs a paper worse than ever." "Who said they was going to quit?" demanded Judge Bowers pugnaciously. "They ain't! Ellis is goin' to have a two-story brick, with a printin' press that runs itself. This here town ain't no quitter." He glared fiercely at Harlow. Jap lingered with Ellis until the last of the day's work was finished. As he started for home he came upon an animated group, in the shade of the half-burned drug store. Behind a pile of wreckage, Bill was holding court. Jap stopped short. Bill was telling a lurid tale of superhuman strength and dare-devil bravery, of which Jap Herron was the hero, a tale that grew with every telling. A wave of embarrassment swept over Jap. As he turned hastily away, he felt a soft clutch on his arm. He looked back. Two sparkling black eyes were looking up into his. "I think that you are the bravest boy in the world," whispered Isabel Granger, "and--and I am glad I kissed you that time." Jap stared at her, stunned by a new emotion. In another moment she was gone, flying across the street in the direction of her home. "Anybody but Jap would 'a took her up on that," insinuated Bill, who had heard Isabel's last words. Jap turned a murderous look upon him. The crowd of girls tittered as they dispersed. When supper was over Jap returned to the spot, and long after dark he sat upon the pile of wreckage, thinking long, long thoughts. CHAPTER IX The scraping of saw, the clang of hammer and the smell of fresh paint classed Bloomtown as "Boomtown." The railroad had already peered into the northern environs of the town, cutting diagonally across Main street, some half-dozen blocks from the plot of ground that had been rechristened Court House Square. A substantial municipal building took the place of the dingy old Town Hall, and the barns of the now almost defunct Bloomtown, Barton and Faber hack line had been cleared away to make room for a decent hotel. In the angle between the railroad tracks and Main street a small temporary station sheltered travelers. The half-moribund village had burst its swaddling bands and begun to expand. Everybody was wearing grins as a radiant garment. As the summer traveled toward July, the headaches that had been so frequent the past winter merged into a feeling of utter exhaustion, and Ellis came down to the office but few days of each week. Flossy stopped Jap at the gate one noon hour. "Ellis has something to tell you, Jappie, and I want you to be very composed. Don't let yourself go." Her voice was full of pleading. She turned quickly as Ellis appeared in the doorway. He walked out to meet them. "Let us sit out under the trellis while Flossy finishes fixing dinner," he said, leading the way. "Jap, your birthday comes to-morrow, and I am going to ask you to accept a sacred trust that is a burden. You are twenty-one and, as they say, 'your own man.' I want to ask you to be _my man_. Jap, I am going away, how far God only knows. The doctor says that my lungs are all wrong, and life in the mountains may save me. My boy--for you have been my boy since you walked through my door, nine years ago--I want you to take charge of the office, and shoulder the support of Flossy and the little one if--if----" He caught the horror-stricken boy's hand. "Jap, I will never come back. I know it. I have talked with my soul and it is well. Will you do it, Jap?" Jap pressed Ellis's feverish hand between his strong young palms. He could not speak. His eyes were dry and his lips twitched. "There," cautioned Ellis, "no heavy face before Flossy. God bless her! she thinks that I will be well before the new office is done, and is making more splendid plans for the big opening! She is---- Jap, you dunce, grin about something!" Flossy and the boy came dancing down the sun-flecked path and Jap swung the slender little fellow to his shoulder and began a mock race from Ellis. As soon as dinner was over, a dinner that stuck in his throat for hours, he told Flossy that two men were rushing Bill to desperation for their handbills. He hurried out by way of the alley. Flossy ran after him. "You forgot your hat, Jap," she cried breathlessly. He took the hat and started off silently. "Wait a minute, Jap." Her voice was insistent. "You didn't put on a grave face with Ellis, did you? Oh, Jap"--the cry was from her heart--"he will never live to see the new office! He will never know of the realization of his dreams, the big town, the trains whirling through, and he looking down from his lofty window with a smile of superior joy. Oh, Jap, how often have we heard him tell about it! He doesn't know. He is full of hope. Only just before you came he was joking about the Star Spangled Banner he was going to wind around his brow when he dedicated the _Herald_ office. Jap, be true to his faith, for he will never open the door of that office. He will never help to get out the first paper." She strangled and turned away. Then in brisk tones she added: "Now, Jap, hurry along. Here comes Ellis to scold." And in the marvelous manner that is God-given to loving women, she forced a smile to her lips as she gave the youth a playful shove and ran to meet her husband. A few days later they left. The town took a holiday, and with laughter and merrymaking it celebrated Ellis Hinton's first vacation. A water tank was in process of construction, at the upper end of a half-mile stretch of double track, and at the lower end of the siding, close to Main street, the imposing brick railroad station stood in potential grandeur, its bricks still separated by straw and its ample foundation giving promise of stability as it reposed in sacks of cement and piles of crushed stone. Something of this was incorporated in Ellis's farewell speech as he addressed his townspeople. When the train began to move his black head was still visible, as he returned quip for joke. And Flossy was flitting from her lifelong friends as if no trouble clouded her brow. Little J. W. was the feature of the going, and under the pretense of caring for his wants, their sleeper compartment had been piled with fruit and flowers by loving friends who had gone on to the nearest town to meet the train, so that the surprise should be the more complete. Then, to the sound of the village band, Ellis left what he had always called "my town." Jap did not go to the station, and when Bill found the door of their improvised office locked, he turned silently away. His heart was full, too. The Widow Raymond had offered them a room for a printing office. The press occupied the room. Jap and Bill set the type in the woodshed and carried the galleys in. During the nine years of their association Bill had been the unsteady member of the team, consuming more effort in devising ways and means of escaping work than the work would have cost, and toiling with feverish penitence when he realized that he had wrought a hardship to Jap or Ellis. But now, inspired by the dimpled face of Rosy Raymond, he worked as he had never worked in his life. Odd things began to happen. Bill insisted on doing all the proof-reading, a task he had hitherto detested. A bit of verse occasionally crept into the columns of the _Herald_. Jap did not detect this verse for several weeks. When he did, he descended upon Bill. "Where in Heck did you filch that doggerel?" "Who said it was doggerel?" demanded Bill. "Lord love you," cried Jap, "what could any sane being call it? What did you get for publishing it--advertising rates?" "You're a fool!" snapped Bill. "You think that you're a criterion. I will have you know that lots of folks have complimented it." Jap took up the offending sheet. "'Thine eyes are blue, thine lips are red, thine locks are gold,'" he groaned. He looked at Bill. Just then the door opened and Rosy stepped into the room. A great light shone on Jap's understanding. Her eyes were blue, her lips certainly red, and a fervid imagination could call her hair gold. He sighed pathetically. "Bill, don't you think you could write it out and relieve the pressure on your heart, without endangering our prestige?" Bill kicked at the mongrel dog that had its habitat under the press, and marched out indignantly. "I'll be glad if I get him out of here single," mused Jap. "He has these spells as regular as the seasons change. Heretofore his prospects have never entitled him to consideration. This time it may be different." Bill had been systematically chased from every front gate in town, behind which rosy-cheeked girls abode; but the disquieting conviction swooped down upon Jap that Barkis, in the shape of the Widow Raymond, might be more than "willin'" to hitch Bill to her sixteen-year-old daughter. And if Bill had not contracted a new variety of measles at the most opportune time, Jap's forebodings might have been realized. Bill had the "catching" habit. No contagion in town ever escaped him, and this time he was so ill that he had to go to the country to recuperate. The new stores opened, one by one, with much celebration. Owing to several unaccountable financial complications, the last of all the important buildings on Main street to be finished was the _Herald_ office. A cylinder press, second-handed, to be sure, but none the less an object of admiration, was installed, and fonts of clean, new type stood ready for work. There was a great, sunny front office on the main floor, and the ample space behind it had been divided into composing room, press room and private office. On the second floor was a small job press, and here, at Jap's suggestion, the old Washington press was stored. The rooms were decorated with flags, and bunting was strung across the front of the office. Judge Bowers had personally attended to this. "You're going to have a dandy paper," Tom Granger beamed, as he accompanied Jap on the final tour of inspection. "We'll all have to stop business to watch this cylinder press spill out the news." Wat Harlow had run down from the Capital to congratulate the staff. At his suggestion the merchants had ordered flowers from the city, and great vases of roses and carnations, and decorative pieces in symbolic design, stood around in fragrant profusion. Every room of the office was filled with them. The forms were ready for the printing of that first paper, and only awaited the conclusion of Wat's speech, to be placed upon the press, so that Bloomtown should receive the salutatory _Herald_. Jap turned to the assemblage, waiting in eager curiosity to see the cylinder revolve. "The paper will be printed on Ellis's press," he said briefly. "I don't want to be ungrateful for your kindness, but will you leave Bill and me alone to get out our first edition?" They filed out slowly, awed by the grief in the voice of Ellis's boy. With the old types, on the old Washington hand press, they printed the first _Herald_ of the new régime. With the exception of the greeting on the front page, every word was reprinted from the predictions written by Ellis in the years agone, and the greeting, in long pica on the first page, was his telegram to them and his townsmen received that morning. When the last paper was printed by the two sad-faced boys on their day of jubilee, and the pile had been folded and carried downstairs, Jap closed the press upon the inky type, and gathered the great bunches of fragrant blossoms and heaped them upon the press, to be forever silent. With a groan of anguish, he threw himself against them. Bill slipped his arm through Jap's, and together they celebrated the day that was Ellis's. And in the night the telegram came: "At rest. FLOSSY." CHAPTER X When Ellis went away it was to the sound of jollity. He came back to a town shrouded in mourning. Every store was closed, and symbols of grief adorned most of them. Wat Harlow, with a delicacy Ellis would scarcely have expected of him, had ordered purple ribbon and white flowers to tie with the crape. Silent and grief-stricken, the town stood waiting the arrival of the train. When it came, the coffin was lifted by loving hands and carried the ten long blocks to the church. No cold hearse rattled his precious body, but, even as the body of Robert Louis Stevenson was held by human touch until the last office was done, so was Ellis Hinton, the country printer, carried to his last repose by the hands of his friends. Not until Jap looked for a long, anguished moment upon the flower-massed grave did he realize that he was alone, that he was drifting, that he had no anchor. Something of this he expressed to Flossy, between dry sobs, when they had left Ellis alone in the secluded little cemetery. Her eyes burned with a strange, maternal light as she comforted the boy whose grief was of the fibre of her own. "Ellis knew that you would feel that way," she said gently, "and because of that, he made a will that is to be read to-night. Wat Harlow has it. Until it is read, I want you not to trouble." That evening, with all the important men of the town assembled in the big front room of the _Herald_ office, Wat Harlow read brokenly the last "reading notice" of Bloomtown's sleeping hero. It was written in the familiar scrawl that everybody knew, with scarcely a waver in its lines to tell that a dying hand had penned it: "I am going a long journey, but not so far that I cannot vision your growth. It was the labor of love to plan for this time. In the gracious wisdom of God it was not intended that I should enjoy it with you; but as Moses looked into his promised land, so through the eyes of the _Herald_ I have seen mine. And God, in His wonderful way, has sent you another optimist to do the royal work of upbuilding a town. "My town, my people, I leave to you the greatest gift I have to offer. I give you my boy, Jap. He is worthy. Hold up his hands, in memory of "ELLIS HINTON." As Harlow folded the paper, with hands that trembled, he was not conscious of the fact that hot tears were streaming down his cheeks. There was an instant of tense silence. Then Tom Granger walked over to the boy who lay, face downward across the table, arms outspread in abandon of grief. He took one limp hand in his, and a voiceless message went from heart to heart. Jap aroused himself. One by one the men of Bloomtown filed by. No word was spoken, but each man pledged himself to Ellis Hinton as he took the hand of Ellis's boy in a firm clasp. When the others had gone, Wat Harlow remained. For a moment he stood silent beside the table. Then with a cry of utter heartbreak, he sank to his knees and permitted the bereaved boy to give vent to his long-repressed agony in a saving flood of tears. When they left the office together, there had been welded a friendship that was stronger than years of any other understanding could have given. Flossy went back to the cottage, and, like the brave helpmeet of such a man as Ellis Hinton must have been, did not sadden the days with her grief. Sometimes, in the little arbor, with J. W. playing at her feet, she sang softly over her sewing: "Beautiful isle of Somewhere, Isle of the true, where we live anew, Beautiful isle of Somewhere." It was her advice that caused the boys to fit up a bedroom and living-room on the second floor of the office. It was her idea that separated Bill from the unsteady air of his home. The Judge, heeding the scriptural injunction implied in the immortal words of Moses, "It is not good that man should be alone," had taken unto himself a fourth wife, and Bill had so many rows with his latest stepmother that there was no opposition to the change. Tom Granger observed that it had been so many matrimonial moons since Bill had a mother that he did not know whether he had any real kinfolks at all. It was certain that he knew little of the real meaning of the word "home." Flossy boarded them, and her cottage was their haven of refuge during many a long evening. It was sad comfort, and yet it was the surest comfort, to have her live over again those last days in the mountains, when Ellis's thoughts bridged space and visualized the rebuilding of Bloomtown. Perhaps Flossy sensed the fact that these evenings were bone and sinew to Jap's manhood. The boy, never careless, was changing to a man of purpose, such as would be the product of Ellis Hinton's training. The stray, born of the union of purposeless, useless Jacky Herron, and Mary, peevish and fretful, changeable and inconstant, had been born again into the likeness of the man who bad been almost a demigod to him. The town was growing, as Ellis had prophesied, and was creeping in three directions across the prairie. It incorporated and began to settle into regular lines. Spring street showed but few gaps in the line of cottages that ran almost all the way from the rear of Blanke's drug store to Flossy's home, and another line of modest cottages looked at them from the other side of the street. A new and fashionable residence place was laid out, in the extreme south end of town, as far from the grime and soot of the railroad as possible; but the substantial old families still clung to their ancestral halls in the vicinity of Court House Square. One day in early spring Bill burst into the office, his reporter's pad flapping wildly. His brown eyes danced. "Big doings!" he shouted. "Pap's going to run for mayor, and he wants the _Herald_ to voice the cry of the town for his services." "Who said so?" queried Jap, sticking away at the last legislative report. "Nobody but him--as far as I can find out," Bill returned, grinning knowingly. "It seems that they had a mess of turnip greens, from cellar sprouts, and they gave him cramps. He was dozing under paregoric when the idea hit him. It grew like the turnip sprouts, fast but pale. He wants us to water the sprouts and give 'em air, so that they'll get color in them." "How much did he send in for the color?" asked Jap, climbing down interestedly. The Associate Editor flashed a two-dollar bill. "I told Pap that if any opposition sprouted, he'd have to raise the ante," he remarked. "He squealed loud enough when I squeezed him for this, but I convinced him that we had about done away with charity practice. Told him the _Herald_ was out of the amateur class, and after this election the ante 'd be five bones." "Well," conceded Jap, "as he is Flossy's brother, we'll have to spread it on thick for the low price of introduction. Look up that woodcut of Sames, the Chautauqua lecturer. If you'll chisel off the beard, we can use it for the Judge. I think that we will kill that story you cribbed from the St. Louis _Republic_, about the President's morning canter with his family physician, and run the Judge along the first column. By the way, Bill, it would be a good idea to trace his career from joyous boyhood to the dignity of the judicial office. What judge was he? Since I have known him, he has never 'worked at the bench.'" Bill grinned wickedly. "He was judge of live stock at the county fair!" "Fallen is Caesar!" Jap exploded. "What can we say about him?" "Nothin' for certain, as Kelly Jones says," Bill lamented. "I never tried fiction," Jap averred, "but for the honor of the first aspirant to the office of Mayor of Bloomtown, and the greater glory of our Associate Editor, I am going to plunge." And plunge he did. When the town read the eulogium that Jap spread upon the front page of the _Herald_ it gasped as from a sudden cold plunge, sat up, rubbed its eyes, and concluded that it had somehow failed to understand or appreciate its foremost son. Hollins, the leading grocer, and Bolton, the furniture dealer, had felt the itch for office; and Marquis, the attorney, had stood in his doorway for a week awaiting the delegation that would press upon him the nomination; but all these aspirants faded like poppies in the wake of the reaper. Nobody could be found to buck a sure thing, such as Judge Bowers, backed by the power of the press. The week after election, the _Herald_ sported fifty small flags through its columns, and quoted Wat Harlow's speech in which he declared that Judge William Hiram Bowers was "the noblest Roman of them all." For which Bill accounted to Jap by the astute observation that Rome was a long way off. The Judge hardly caught Wat's meaning, and came into the office to protest. "I am afeard that folks 'll think we have Catholic blood in the family," he complained, shaking the paper nervously. "Mystery is the blood of progress, Pap," assured Bill gravely. "If you will notice, the men that get there always have a skeleton rattling a limb now and then." "Mis' Bowers don't like it," he objected. "I had to quit the Methodists and be immersed in the Baptists afore she'd have me, and now she's fairly tearin' up the wind over this talk about me bein' a Roman. You gotta correct it!" "We have given you a hundred dollars' worth of advertising for a measly two-dollar bill," declared Jap emphatically. "The columns of the _Herald_ are free to news. Advertising at our regular rates. Bill will give you particulars." "Dollar an inch for display," crisped Bill; "ten cents a line for readers." He seated himself, pencil in band, as he added, "payable in advance." "Make a flat rate of ten dollars, as it is the Judge," advised Jap judicially. The Mayor-elect decided to let it alone; but Jap mentioned the fact, in the next issue of the _Herald_, that Judge Bowers had alleged that he was born in New England, of Puritan stock, and had no Italian sympathies--which lucid statement abundantly satisfied Judge and Mrs. Bowers, but set the town to wondering what the Judge was hiding in the dim annals of his past. CHAPTER XI "I worked a bunch of passes out of the agent for that Indian medicine show," announced Bill, washing his hands. "Want to take her, Jap?" and he jerked his head in the direction of the front door, where Isabel Granger was passing. "No; I'm going out to Flossy's a while. I want to talk some things over with her." There was no further discussion, for at that moment Rosy Raymond floated by, and Bill started out in eager pursuit. Ever since the election, Jap had been obsessed by a disquieting foreboding. One of Mayor Bowers's first official acts was to authorize the opening of a second saloon on Main street, and he was rapidly pushing the work of erecting two new business houses which, rumor declared, were to house other thirst palaces. Hitherto the natives and the surrounding territory had been amply supplied by Holmes; but Bloomtown was growing beyond the reach of one saloon. Holmes had come across with a double-sized license, under promise of the Mayor that he should continue to have a monopoly of the trade. And when the good people of the various churches waited upon Judge Bowers to protest against what they were disposed to call the "introduction of Satan into their town," he called their attention to the need for municipal revenue. If one saloon was a help, two saloons would double that help. The town had already begun to show signs of genuine progress. It had to build a calaboose to take care of the saloon's patrons, and the regular fines for plain drunks almost paid the cost of the court that collected them. Once Jap thought he detected a sinister reason for Bill's flushed cheeks and unsteady gait as he passed hastily through the office on his way to the sleeping room above. The next morning Bill declared that he had been a fool, and had paid for his folly with a severe headache, and Jap, with the delicacy that was Jap's, let the subject drop. It was becoming fashionable for the young fellows of the town to assume a tough swagger. Those who had formerly resorted to barn lofts and musty cellars paraded their sophistication on Main street, and Bill would rather be dead than out of style. Jap wanted to talk it over with Flossy, but he had never found the key to open such poignant confidence. What right had he to burden Flossy with fresh anxiety? In his loneliness, he yearned for Ellis as he had never yearned before. He was sitting on the little front porch, tossing J. W. on the tough old trotting horse afforded by his two ill-padded knees, and vaguely wondering how he could introduce the subject of Bloomtown's swift decay, without wounding Judge Bowers's sister and Bill's aunt, when they heard a great tumult in the vicinity of the medicine show. After a while Bill came up the walk with Rosy. "What was the racket about?" Jap asked incuriously. Rosy giggled. "They wanted to nominate the ugliest man in town, and there was a fight," she said. "Shut up!" growled Bill. "Haven't you got any sense?" "Sam Waldron nominated Jap," she sputtered, between giggles. A hot flush swept over Jap. Always keenly sensitive, he had never armored himself against the playful brutalities of his friends. The shame of being made a subject of ridicule cut deeply. "Rosy is a fool!" snapped Bill. "What was the fuss about?" asked Flossy, prompted by a conviction that further revelation would be good for Jap. "Why, Isabel Granger slapped his face, and Bill jumped in and punched him in the ribs, and the crowd wanted to take him down to the pond and duck him." Flossy's hand sought Jap's, and she laughed softly. "That was worth while, boy. How Ellis would have written it up!" Jap smiled, but the sting was still there. When it was evident that Bill and Rosy expected to spend the evening, he arose with a tired, "Well, I'll be going," and walked around the cottage to the alley gate. He was afraid of meeting some one on Spring street, and he made excuse to his own consciousness that the alley had always been the rational highway between the cottage and the office. He put his hand in his pocket for his key, as he emerged on Main street. As he approached the door, he saw that some one was sitting on the steps. She sprang up and laid trembling hands on his arm. "Oh, Jap, you won't mind! You won't let it hurt you? Everybody knows that you are the best-looking man in town. At least I--think so!" Before he could grasp her arm, the girl was gone. That night Jap lay awake long hours, thinking, thinking. With the morning, reason returned. He had assumed responsibility for Flossy and the boy. He must not think again. And indeed the next few days gave him little time for thought. Wat Harlow slipped into the office late one afternoon. He wore a furtive look and an appearance of guilt. There was about him a suggestion of gum shoes. Something must be amiss. "I want to see you alone, Jap," he confessed. Jap led the way to the little private office. Harlow was pulling nervously at the stubby mustache that hid his short upper lip. "In trouble, Wat?" asked Jap anxiously. "No--not exactly. You see, it's this way----" He coughed apologetically. "The wife had a dream, a funny dream, the other night. She's had curious dreams ever since we took that long trip, to New York and all over, last year, and there may be nothing to it, but----" He lit a fresh cigar, and went at it again. "She says that she saw me going into the Capitol at Washington just as if I belonged there. And she got a notion---- Jap, you know how notionate women are. She thinks--well, she thinks that I might be called to run for the House of Representatives." "Oh, I see," said Jap, illuminated. "It would sound good for the _Herald_ to mention that you are in line?" "Not rough-like, Jap! Just a little tickle in the ribs, to see what they'd say." "Oh, I'll fix that," declared Jap, laughing. And the _Herald_ flung the hat in the ring for "Harlow, the one honest man." Jap smiled sadly as he read his copy over. He had a habit of wondering what Ellis would have said. He wondered, too, what attitude the editor of the Barton _Standard_ would take. The _Standard_ had recently changed hands, and since Bloomtown had pulled a saloon, a sunbonnet factory and two business houses out of Barton, a rapid-fire editorial war had been in progress. By some curious dispensation of Providence, Jones of the _Standard_ and Herron of the _Herald_ had never met. Jap was not hunting trouble, but the same spirit that prompted him to thrash his tormentors, the day of his advent in Ellis Hinton's town, caused him to wield a fire-tipped pen against the _Standard_. That opposition to Wat's candidacy would develop, before the nomination, was to be expected; but opposition on the part of the Barton _Standard_ would be a purely personal matter, the _Standard_ having its own party fights to foster. But that was all Jap feared. It was even worse than he could have imagined, for Jones dug up a bloody ghost to walk at every political meeting. Not only were all Wat Harlow's sins of omission and commission paraded in the _Standard_, but he was proclaimed as the implacable foe of higher education. In vain did his home paper print his record, of beneficent bills introduced, of committee work on behalf of the district schools, and his great speech setting forth the need of a new normal school building. Jones had one trump card left in his hand, and the day before the convention he played it. It was a handbill, yellow with age and ragged around the edges, but still showing a badly spelled, abominably punctuated story in vermilion ink, with a weeping angel at the top and a rooster and two prancing stallions at the bottom. It proved Wat Harlow the undying foe of the State University. Despite all the _Herald's_ valiant work, that nightmare was Harlow's undoing. The nomination went to a rising politician at the opposite side of the congressional district. A great change had come over the sentiment, of the state, since the day when the University had been the favorite tool of the political grafters. Every village had its band of rooters for the Alma Mater, and when the nominating convention came to a close it was apparent that Wat Harlow was hardly an "also ran." Defeat was galling enough; but the _Standard's_ expressions of glee were unbearable. Jap's red hair stood on end, "like quills upon the fretful porcupine," as he stood at his case and threw the type into the stick, hot from the wrath in his soul. The paper was printed, as usual, on Thursday; but Friday brought a change in the even tenor of Bloomtown's way. Jones, of the _Standard_, was a passenger on the eastbound train that left Barton a little after noon. His destination was Bloomtown. "I am looking for a cross-eyed, slit-eared pup by the name of Herron," was the greeting he flung into the _Herald's_ sanctum. The door to the composing room was open. Jap looked up wearily. "Would you mind sitting down and keeping quiet till I finish setting up this address to the bag of wind that edits the Barton _Standard_?" he said impersonally. Jones, of the _Standard_, sat down and gaped at the long, lank figure on the stool. A moment he went limp and terrified; then he rallied his courage. "Do you unwind all at once?" he asked, as Jap disentangled his legs from the stool. "I take back what I said about a pup. You're a full-grown dog, all right. I wasn't looking for a brick-top, either. No wonder you have a weakness for vermilion." "Better come outside of town," Jap interrupted. "I've been intending to go over to Barton to have a look at you, but it's better thus. I have been stealing space from my readers long enough. They pay for more important things than my private opinion of you. I made up my mind to stop the argument by giving you a hell of a licking, and I've only waited because I didn't care to risk my reputation in a neighboring town. Here it will be different. In the midst of my friends, I hope to fix you so that you'll never try to throw filth on any one again." Jones arose hastily. "I want no row," he said uneasily. "I just want an understanding." "You have the right idea," cried Jap. "You are going to get lots of understanding before you leave Bloomtown." At that moment the town marshal strolled in, wearing his star pinned on his blue flannel shirt. "I demand protection," Jones shouted. "This man has threatened me." "What's the row, Jap?" asked the monitor of peace tolerantly. "This is Mr. Wilfred Jones, of the Barton _Standard_," was all that Jap said. But the effect was electrical. The man of peace was transformed into an engine of vengeance. "Going to beat him up?" he yelled. "Go to it, and I'm here, if you need help." Jap took off his coat, deliberately. He unclasped his cuffs and was in the act of unbuttoning his collar, when the local freight whistled for the crossing below town. With a mighty leap the man from Barton cleared the space between his chair and the door. The strolling populace of Main street was scattered like leaves before a sudden gust of wind. There was an abortive cry of "Stop, thief!" and a bewildered pursuit by several tipsy bums who had been loafing in front of Bingham's saloon, but the appearance of the marshal, wearing a broad grin of satisfaction, dispelled apprehension. "That was Jones, travelin' light," he explained. The next issue of the _Standard_ failed to mention the editorial visit to Bloomtown; but the scurrilous articles ceased and there was quiet again. "Did Ellis ever have a fight--that kind of a fight--with anybody?" Jap asked Flossy, when Bill had finished his second-hand recital of the show that "he wouldn't have missed for his farm in Texas." In Bill's heart there arose a mighty resentment against Rosy Raymond, who had enticed him from the office just before Jones arrived. "Ellis did a good deal of fighting before he got me to fight his battles for him," she said, a whimsical smile in her gentle eyes. "You ought to know, Jap. I never would have had Ellis if he hadn't whipped Brother William." "But that wasn't a matter of personal grudge," Jap argued. It had seemed to him that somehow he had degraded himself when he went down to Jones's ethical level. "I wanted to use my fists because Jones ridiculed me. When Ellis licked the Judge, it wasn't a personal matter. He did it for me." "And you did this for--for the honor of Bloomtown," cried Bill, with enthusiasm. CHAPTER XII "Something's broke loose," announced Bill, slamming the door violently. "Pap's bought an automobile." Which illuminative remark indicated that Judge Bowers's mind had expanded to let in a fresh vagary. Jap looked up inquiringly. "I reckon it's all on account of Billy Wamkiss," Bill explained. "Billy who? There never was no such animal," and Jap scowled at the stick in his hand. Conditions in Bloomtown were, as Jim Blanke expressed it, all to the bad. While the political fight was at white heat the Mayor had contrived to have his own way. He was going to "make the town" which Ellis Hinton had failed to make. There would be revenue enough to provide metropolitan improvements, and already there was a metropolitan, perhaps even a Monte Carlo-tan, air to the recently awakened village, as every train disgorged its Saturday evening crowd of gamblers from the city where the lid had gone on with ruthless completeness. Mrs. Granger had arisen from a sick-bed to call together the women of all the churches to make protest at the licensing of another pool-room, with bar and poker attachment, not two blocks from her home, a stroke that had met its counter stroke when the saloon element threatened to boycott Granger's bank and open a rival financial institution in one of the store-rooms of the recently erected hotel that faced the Court House Square, half a block away. Another crowd, the men with store-rooms and cottages to rent, promised to carry all their banking business to Barton, if Granger didn't "sit on his wife good and proper." "Never was no such animal?" Bill repeated. "Wake up, Jap. Don't you know who Billy Wamkiss is?" "Never heard of the guy," Jap insisted. "He's that greasy, wall-eyed temperance lecturer that's been stringing the town for a week." "Humph!" Jap snorted. "Time for you to wake up, Bill. You brought in the ad yourself, and you wrote the account of the first lecture. The columns of the _Herald_ will bear me out that the reverend gentleman's name is Silas Parsons." "Yes, that's his reverend name," Bill snorted. "When he's the advance agent of a rotgut whiskey house over in Kentucky that supplies fancy packages to all the dry territory around here, he's plain Billy Wamkiss." "Oh, that's his game!" Jap sat up, his gray eyes wide with astonishment. "How did you get next to it?" "Your good friend, Wilfred Jones, put me wise. He didn't mean to, but he let it slip out when he wasn't watching. I ran into him over in Barton this morning and he was roasting Bloomtown as usual. Said we were a bunch of Rubes, to fall for a raw proposition like Billy Wamkiss, dressed up as a temperance lecturer. And then he went on to say that my daddy would get richer'n he already is, from his rake-off on the moisture that'll be injected into the town after she goes dry. He said he met Wamkiss in Chicago three years ago, and he's been doing a rattling business all over the country--deliver lectures on the evils of the Demon Rum that'd bring tears to the eyes of a potato; dry up the territory, with the help of the churches; and then fill up the town with drug stores. That's his program, and it's going to work here, thanks to my amiable and honorable father." Jap was silent. He had no words with which to express his emotions. Bill went out on the street, his reporter's pad under his arm. In half an hour he returned. "It's worse--I mean more incriminating--than I thought, Jap," he said, as he drew his partner into the private office and shut the door. "Did you attend that meeting at the Baptist Church?" Jap asked anxiously. "Yes, and I had to dig out before it was over. I wanted to explode, and blow up the whole bunch of idiots and crooks. Pap and Wamkiss, alias Parsons, have formed some kind of a Templar lodge, and my daddy's got himself elected secretary. They're going to dry up Bloomtown. Fancy it! They did a lot of crooked work over at the Court House, so as to make it look as if all the licenses would expire at the same time. Holmes is the only one that's likely to squeal, because he's paid his second fee, and the others have only a few months to run. They'll make it up to Holmes, I reckon, rather'n have him give the snap away. Of course, Jap, I haven't got the goods for any of this. I just put two and two together while I was listening to the speeches, especially my father's speech." "Bill"--Jap laid his hand on Bill's arm--"you made the mistake of your career when you picked that owl for a daddy. He has made more trouble than three towns could stand up against. First, he throws the place wide open and takes all the stray saloons and gambling dens to his bosom; and just when we have a reputation for being the toughest town on the road and doing a land-office business in sin, he is--he is fool enough to try to pull off a stunt like this. What becomes of his plea for municipal revenue when he turns saloons into drug stores?" "Well, the lid's going on," Bill returned. "The preachers and the ladies are strong for it, and the right honorable Mayor announced that he was the Poo Bah that was going to put up the shutters." "Better order a granite," Jap muttered, as he returned to the composing room. And his prediction was well founded, for the town had become so used to its "morning's morning" that it fairly ravened for the blood of Mayor Bowers. The _Herald_ office became a forum for indignant orators, while the Mayor strutted proudly up and down Main street, with the black-coated Parsons, feeling that the eyes of the world were glued on him. "Parsons! Bah!" spluttered Kelly Jones, who had driven four miles with his empty jug. "Ef the town has got any git-up, it'll ride him and that old jackass of a mayor on a rail." "Judge Bowers is the honored father of our Associate Editor," informed Jap gravely. As Bill looked up he thumped the galley he was carrying against the case and pied the whole column. After he had said what he thought about the catastrophe, Kelly grinned appreciatively. "Them's my sentiments, Bill. Ef you love your pappy, you'd better let him go, along of Parsons, 'cause there's goin' to be doings around Bloomtown that'll hurt his pride. Parsons! They say out our way that his right name's Wamkiss." The turgid tide of popular sentiment caused Mayor Bowers some uneasiness; but before anything could happen five new drug stores were opened for business and things moved placidly along again. Barton began to refer to "our neighbor, Bumtown," and it was reported that two blind tigers prowled in the environs of the railroad station. "Bill," said Jap one morning, "this won't do. We'll have to raise hell in this town. This is Ellis's town, and we're not going to let a dod-blinged mugwump like your asinine daddy ruin it. Bill, if you have got any speech to make, get ready. If you can't stand for my program, name your price, for the _Herald_ is going to everlastingly lambaste William Bowers, Senior." "Pull the throttle and run 'er wild," Bill retorted, as he ducked down behind the press and dragged forth a box from the corner. "I'm going to get out that last lot of cuts that Ellis made," he continued. "Kelly Jones knows sense. If I remember right, Ellis had twenty-five cuts of jacks for the stock bill. We will stick every blamed one of 'em in next week's issue, and label 'em Mayor Bowers. He has killed the town with his ideas. What can we do with him but hang him?" When the _Herald_ appeared the following Thursday afternoon, the town quit business to read the war cry of Ellis's boy. It was a flaming sword, hurled at the Board of Aldermen. Bowers, foaming with wrath, stormed into the office. "You take all that back," he yelled, "or I'll put you out of this here building. I've told you times enough this office belongs to me. I never turned it over to Ellis." Jap stuck type, deadly calm on the surface of his being. Bill shifted uneasily, his hands clinched, his ruddy face glowing. "You hear me?" bawled the irate Mayor. Jap turned to consult his copy. Before the act could be imagined Bowers had struck him over the head with the revolver he dragged from his pocket. Jap fell, crumpling to the floor, the blood spurting across the type. For an instant there was horrified silence. Then, with a howl like that of a wild beast, Bill threw himself upon his father. But for the intervention of Tom Granger, who had followed the Mayor because he scented trouble, there would have been a quick finish to the pompous career of Bill Bowers's progenitor, for Bill had wrested the pistol from his father's hand and was pressing it against the temple of the worst scared coward Bloomtown had ever seen. There was a sharp tussle between the broad-shouldered banker and the frenzied youth. Several men rushed in from the street. "Let me go!" shouted Bill, "for if he's killed Jap he's got to die." They were carrying Jap out of the composing room, limp and bleeding. "Let him alone, Bill," Tom counselled wisely. "Let your father alone, for if Jap is dead, we'll lynch him." Jap was pretty weak when they brought the Mayor's resignation up from the calaboose for him to read. A representative delegation stood around his bed. "Let the Judge out, for Bill's sake," Jap said. "We'd better keep him locked up for his own sake," declared Tom Granger. "For in Bill's present frame of mind he's likely to make an orphan of himself." Flossy came in from the little sitting-room and leaned over the bed. "I am going to see Brother William," she said quietly. "I am going to take Brent Roberts with me. William will give you boys a quitclaim bill to this property, for this dastardly deed." She was an impersonation of righteous wrath as she swept into the jail, followed by Bloomtown's leading attorney. Judge Bowers had said more than once that Flossy had a willing tongue, but its full willingness was never conceived until she descended upon him that eventful day. An arrangement, made by Ellis just before his departure, gave the contents of the office to the boys, on regular payments to Flossy. The ground on which the new building stood had been deeded to Ellis and Flossy on their wedding day; but the building, presumed to be a gift to Ellis, had been reclaimed by Bowers; it was held, however, as Bill's share in the firm. As yet no occasion had arisen that demanded the settling of the question of ownership. Whenever the Judge had an attack of bile he came into the office to remind Bill and Jap that the building was still his. For one heated hour Flossy detailed the past, present and future of her cowering brother. When she left him he was a wiser, and probably a sadder, man, for she had deprived him of his weapon. There was a big bonfire on the circus grounds, and a celebration in Court House Square that night. The next day there was a great vacuum in the City Hall, for the Board of Aldermen resigned unanimously. A special election was called, and before Jap was strong enough to sit at his case he had been elected Mayor of Bloomtown. He looked sadly from the window of his bedroom, after the joyous crowd of serenaders that had come to congratulate him. Bill had followed in their wake, to escort Rosy home. It was late. The clock in the Presbyterian church spire chimed twelve, as he stood alone. He took his hat from the rack and went cautiously downstairs. On the pavement he paused a moment to steady himself. His head still reeled after any unwonted exertion. Then he walked slowly up Main street, across the railroad tracks, and out to the quiet village whose inhabitants slept 'neath marble and sod. Standing beside the grave of his first friend, he said: "Ellis, make the town proud of your boy. Help me to be your right hand. If I can only fulfill your plan, I am willing that no other ambition be fulfilled." A lonely night bird called softly. The willow branches waved in the breeze. Thick darkness hung over the City of the Dead. Suddenly the moon peered through the clouds, flooding the night with beauty, and Jap read from the stone the last message of Ellis: "I go, but not as one unsatisfied. In God's plan, my work will live." CHAPTER XIII "Now that you've got it, Jap," asked Tom Granger, "what are you going to do with it?" Jap looked silently from the door. "He put in about eight hours of thinking about that himself," Bill averred. "News is that ten saloons are loaded on freight cars, waiting word from Jap." "You'll have to strike a happy medium," suggested Tom. "I know that you are the boy to deliver the goods." "Ellis wasn't against saloons," commented Bill, "so Jap won't have that to chew over. Ellis wasn't either for or against 'em." "No," Tom said seriously, "Ellis was dead set against hypocrisy. He hated a liar and a grafter worse than a murderer. He knew that the way to make people want a thing was to tell 'em they couldn't have it." Jap's face was grave. A panorama of wretched pictures moved slowly before his wandering gaze, pictures that began and ended in Mike's place, in the half-forgotten village of Happy Hollow. He aroused himself with a start. "I'm going to put it up to the new Board to allow as many saloons as want to, to come in," he said shortly. Tom Granger let go a shrill whistle. "At the license asked," continued Jap calmly. "The license will be three thousand dollars a year, and strict enforcement of all laws. At the first break, the lid will fall." "Jumping cats!" howled Tom. "Where will you get the saloon that'll pay that?" Jap smiled wearily. "I am not hunting a saloon for Bloomtown," he said, and turned toward the door in time to bump into Isabel Granger, her arms full of bundles. She blushed and dimpled prettily. "I am looking for my papa," she cried, pinching Tom's cheek with her one free hand. "I want you to carry these packages for me." "Run along, pet. I'm busy." "You look it," she reproved. "I simply can't carry all these things. My arm is almost broken now, and the dressmaker has to have them." "Jap will tote them for you," chuckled Tom, watching the blood rush over Jap's sensitive face. To his surprise, Jap took the bundles and walked out with Isabel. He looked after them approvingly. "Now there goes the likeliest boy in the state," he declared. "It's plumb funny the way he's got of getting right next to your marrow bones. I wish I had a boy like him." "No great matter," drawled Bill, with tantalizing indefiniteness. Tom looked up at him quizzically, as he picked absently at the pile of exchanges. Something in the young man's tone piqued him. "If Jap wasn't so all-fired conscientious," Bill blurted, "you'd have a son, in quick order." "Lord!" exploded Tom. "Dunderhead that I am!" He slapped his thigh, and a great, joyous laugh set his shoulders to heaving. "Bill, you're a genius for spying out mysteries. How did you get on to it?" "Mysteries!" shouted Bill. "Why, everybody in Bloomtown, including Isabel, knows that Jap is fairly sapheaded about her." "Well, what's hampering him?" inquired Tom. "Why don't he confide in me?" "Confide your hat!" remarked Bill crisply. "Isabel will die of old age before Jap asks her. You see, he is such a durn fool that he thinks he isn't good enough for her. When the Lord made Jap Herron He made a man, I tell you!" "Who said He didn't?" stormed Tom. "I can't know what is in the boy's mind, can I? What do you want me to do, kidnap him and get his consent? Bill, you're a fool. You needn't tell me that Jap Herron is such a mealy-mouth." "All I know is that he won't ask Isabel," Bill said gloomily. "I'd like to get married myself, but as long as Jap stays single, I stick too." And thinking of Rosy's blue eyes, he sighed heavily. "It beats me, the way young folks do. It was different when I went courting," Tom muttered, turning to go. At the door he met Kelly Jones, who had come in to inquire what Jap intended to do about the "licker" business. He was too busy with his fall plowing to be running over to Barton for his jug of good cheer, and he didn't like the brand he could get at Bingham's drug store, on Doc Connor's prescription. While he was still holding forth, Jap came in, with half-a-dozen constituents, all busy with the same problem. Bill took up his notebook and wandered out. At Blanke's drug store he met Isabel. She motioned for him to come back in the store. "What do you want to know, Iz?" he asked with the familiarity born of long years of propinquity. "Reckon you want to ask what everybody else wants to know--when is Jap going to get a saloon?" "You are too smart, Bill Bowers," she retorted, with annoyance. She had had a subject of more personal nature on the tip of her tongue. "I think that Jap will be able to answer his own questions without any help from you." "It is to be hoped that he will make a better stagger at answering than he does at asking," remarked Bill shortly. "Now, Bill Bowers, just what do you mean?" she demanded, her black eyes flashing angrily. "What's the use?" said Bill, in disgust. "Rosy says that she's going to Kansas this fall, and I just will have to let her go because I can't ask her to stay." "Pity about you," she snapped. "Thought you said Jap couldn't ask." "I did," assented Bill, "for if he had gumption enough to get married, or even go courting, I might get by. But as long as he sticks alone I'm going to stick, too." Isabel's face flamed. She stooped to pick up a hit of paper. "What do you want to tell me about it for?" she complained. "My goodness, I'm not to blame." "You are," stormed Bill. "Jap knows that he is not your equal, and he never will marry." "Who said that Jap Herron was not more than the equal of any man on earth?" she blazed. "If Jap will ask me, I'll marry him to-morrow." She whirled away in her wrath, and ran into the arms of Jap Herron, standing half paralyzed with the wonder of it. Bill, who had been watching the unconscious Jap approaching for several minutes, discreetly withdrew. "Gee!" he said, "but they ought not to be kissing in such a public place." There were a dozen customers in the store, but neither Jap nor Isabel knew it. And it is to the credit of Bloomtown that they all looked the other way, as they hurriedly transacted their business and departed. Blanke declared afterward that he filled fifteen prescriptions with epsom salts in his abstraction, and accidentally cured Doc Horton's best paying patient. Moss, the paper hanger, went out with his rolls of paper, and hung the border on the walls, instead of the siding. The mistakes reported were legion; but the town was all courting Isabel with Jap, at heart. Bill rambled into the bank and suggested that Tom go over to Blanke's and lead Jap and Isabel out, as Blanke might want to close the store. Half an hour later Tom came from the drug store, with an arm locked with each of the glowing pair. Straight across Main street they marched, and down the shady walk that flanked the little park until they were opposite the front gate of the Granger home. Then they went in to break the news to Isabel's invalid mother. Flossy heard about it, almost before Jap had awakened to his own joy, and he never knew of the hour she spent in passionate grief. In some vague way it seemed to tear open the old wound. Without knowing why, she resented the fact that Isabel's brunette beauty had won Jap. She told herself that it was not a fitting match for him. Flossy, in her maternal soul, had looked to heights undreamed of by the retiring boy. She had planned a future for him that would be sadly hampered by marriage with a village belle. But only smiles met him when he brought Isabel to her, his plain features glorified by joy in her possession. Somehow the story of Jap Herron, the youthful Mayor of Bloomtown, his advent in its environs, and the story of his romance with the banker's daughter, crept into the country press, was carried over into the city papers and flung broadcast, so that friend and foe might seek him out. One dreary fall day, when the rain was beating sullenly down on the sodden leaves, a haggard, dirty woman straggled into the office. "I'm lookin' for Jasper Herron," she mumbled. "They told me I'd find him in here." Jap looked at her in horror. His heart sank. "I am his poor old mother, that he run away from and left to starve," she said viciously. And Jap, just on the threshold of his greatest happiness, was turned aside by this grizzly, drunken phantom from the past. CHAPTER XIV Little J. W. crawled out from under Bill's case, his brown eyes wide with surprise at this vagrant who called Jap "son." "Run like sin," counselled Bill, in a whisper, "and bring your mother. She will know what to do." While the boy went to do his bidding, Bill slipped out of the rear door of the office and was waiting in front of the bank when Flossy came hurrying along. "Oh, Bill, what has Jap said?" she asked breathlessly. From J. W.'s lisping description--he always lisped when he was excited--she had come to fear the worst. "Nothing," said Bill bluntly. "He's sitting at his case, sticking type as if he was hired by the minute." "And she--that awful woman?" "Gee!" Bill spat the word. "You don't know anything yet. Wait till you lamp her over." "That bad, Bill?" "Worse," muttered Bill. And when Flossy came inside and looked into the little inner office where the woman sprawled, half asleep and muttering incoherently, the fumes of liquor and the presence of filth all too evident, her stomach rebelled and she retreated swiftly. Softly she slipped into the composing room through the wide-open door. Timidly she approached Jap and touched his arm. He looked at her with eyes utterly hopeless. "Oh, Jap, what can I do!" "You cannot do anything," his voice flat and emotionless. "No one can. Could you take her in? No! She is impossible, and yet--she is my mother. Perhaps if I had stayed with her it would have been different, so I must make up for it." Flossy looked into his set face in affright. "I am going away--with her." Jap's tones were calm. "You can see, Flossy, that it is the only way. I cannot be Mayor of Ellis's town with such a disgrace to shame me. I must give up Isabel and--and the _Herald_." Flossy clung to his arm. "Listen to me, Jap Herron," she cried shrilly. "You shall not do it! You shall not let this horrible old woman drag you down in the dirt." Jap smiled sadly. "What could I do, Flossy? She must be cared for. She has been all over town. Everybody has seen her. They know the truth, that my mother is--what she is." Suddenly he threw himself forward on the case and began to sob, such hard, racking sobs as might tear his very breast. Flossy threw her arms around him and cried aloud. Bill stood in the little private office, looking down upon the snoring woman with a murderous glare. He turned as Tom Granger came noiselessly from the outer office and stood beside him. Grief was in Granger's face. "I heard what Jap said just now," he whispered, "and he is right. It would be impossible for him to stay with her in the town. She has ruined Jap." "You're a gol-dinged fool," shouted Bill, dragging him across the big office and out of the front door. "Pretty sort of friend you are, anyway. I'll fight you, or a half-dozen like you, if you murmur a word like that to Jap." He whirled as his father ambled up the street, his round face wearing a grin. "What is that greasy smirk for?" demanded Bill. "If you have any business in the _Herald_ office, spit it out." "I knowed it would come out sooner or later," spluttered Bowers, shifting his position to avoid a pool in the pavement, left by the recent rain. "With half an eye, anybody could see the mongrel streak in----" He stopped as his son advanced swiftly toward him. "What kind of a streak?" he threatened. "I dare you to say that again, and hitch anybody's name to it." "Why, William," expostulated his father, "you shorely ain't goin' to have Jap and his mammy hitched up to the _Herald_? Barton 'll ride Bloomtown proper." "It will give Jones a whack at the _Herald_," suggested Granger mildly. "And it will be his last whack!" foamed Bill. "For I'll finish him and his filthy paper before I go to the pen for burning down the _Herald_ office. The day that Jap Herron leaves the _Herald_, there will be the hell-firedest bonfire that Bloomtown ever saw!" His eyes were blazing. "Get away from here," he cried fiercely, "you--you milksop friends!" He stopped as Isabel, her eyes swollen from crying, crossed the street. She had come across the corner of the park, and her face was white and drawn. Bill stepped up into the doorway and awaited her. "I want to speak to Jap," she said, as he barred the passage. "What do you want with him?" Bill demanded truculently. "Because he is packing all the load now that he can stand, and you ain't going to add another chip to it. Give me your old engagement ring, and I'll pitch it in the hell-box. I reckon that's what you came for." She pushed him aside, her eyes blazing with wrath. "Get out of my way, Bill Bowers. You never did have any sense. Let me by!" She flung herself past him and ran into the composing room. At sight of Flossy, she paused. Flossy raised her head from Jap's shoulder and looked defiantly at the girl, but only for a second. She knew, in that glance. Softly she crept out as Isabel, with a heart-shaking cry, ran to Jap and threw herself against him. "Take me in your arms, Jap," she cried stormily, "for I love you." Jap stared up, dully, for an instant. Then, forgetting all but love, he opened his arms and clasped her to his heart. Bill rushed outside after Flossy. "I never knew that she was the real goods," he said remorsefully, wiping his eyes. "Get a wagon from the grocer," Flossy said, decisive again. "I am going to take her home with me." "Meaning that?" Bill flipped his thumb toward Jap's mother. "Send her up to the house, and I will have a doctor, and some one to bathe her and clean her up. Maybe after she is clean and sober, she won't be so dreadful." When Jap came out of his stupor enough to try to put Isabel away, he discovered what Flossy had done. With Isabel clinging to him, he walked with downcast head through the streets that lay between the _Herald_ office and Flossy's cottage. His mother was in bed, clean and yet disgusting in her drunken sleep. He forgot Isabel, silent by his side, as he stood looking down upon the blotched and sunken face, thinking what thoughts God only knew. He seemed years older as he walked out again, after the doctor had told him that nothing could be determined until she had slept the liquor off. Slowly and silently he and Isabel walked past the row of neat cottages until they reached Main street. On the corner Jap paused. "You must go home, Isabel," he said brokenly. "Sweetheart, I understand, and I know that you are the bravest girl in the world. But you must leave me now." "I will not," she declared. "I want you to take me right down to the office and send for a license. I am going to marry you, and show this town what I think of you!" "But I cannot let you," Jap said simply. "I know--you don't." "Then," said Isabel defiantly, "I will go back to Flossy's and take care of your mother until you are ready to talk sense." Jap looked at her helplessly. They were in front of Blanke's drug store. Jim Blanke stepped outside and grasped Jap's hand. Isabel looked proudly up at him, her arm drawn tightly through Jap's. As they passed down the street, citizens sprang up, apparently from nowhere, and clasped Jap's hand in a fraternal grip. Isabel peered into his silent face. The tears were streaming unheeded down his cheeks. Her father frowned as they appeared at the door of the bank. "Papa," she called resolutely, "you coming with us?" He stood gnawing at his lips, his face overcast. An instant he battled with his pride and his love for the boy. Then, with his old heartiness, he clapped Jap on the shoulder. "Straighten your shoulders, lad. We're all your friends!" And the storm cloud lightened. All that night Jap paced the floor of the office, while Bill, too sympathetic for sleep, tossed in the room above and swore at fate. It was noon the next day when little J. W. came in to say that Mrs. Herron was awake and wanted to see her son. She was half sitting among the pillows when Jap entered. Flossy had drawn the muslin curtains, to soften the garish light as it fell on her seamed and shame-scarred face. She peered up at him from blood-shot, sunken eyes. "You look like your pappy's folks, Jasper," she croaked. "And they tell me you air a fine, likely boy, and follerin' in the trade of your gran'pap. I wisht that I had a known where you was, long ago. I have had a hard life, Jasper. Your step-pa beat me, and that's more'n your pappy ever done. He died of the trimmins, three year ago, and I have been wanderin' every since, huntin' my childurn. But Aggie's a bigbug now, and she drove me off. And Fanny's goin' to a fine music school, and sent me word that she'd have me put in a sanitary if I bothered her. She saw a piece about you in the paper, and sent it to me. So I tramped thirty mile to come." Her face was pathetic in its misery. She sank back in the pillows and closed her eyes. Jap leaned down and drew the covers tenderly over her arms. She opened her eyes, at the touch, and looked up at him sadly. "Thanky, Jasper," she mumbled, "You be-ant mad?" He patted her cheek softly, and the sunken eyes lighted with a smile of weary contentment. Then the lids fluttered, like the last effort of a spent candle, and she slept. Like one in the maze of a vague, uncertain dream, Jap went back to the office. Unconsciously he took the familiar way, through the alley. Automatically he climbed to his stool and began setting up the editorial that had been interrupted by his mother's coming the previous day. At sunset Bill touched his shoulder softly. Jap raised his head from his hands. "Your--your mother never woke up after you left her, Jap," he said huskily. CHAPTER XV Bill looked up as a long, lank form glided surreptitiously into the office. "Been a long time since you drifted our way," he commented, as the form resolved itself into the six-foot length of Kelly Jones. "Might' nigh three month," averred Kelly grimly. "I've been tradin' over at Barton. Couldn't stand for Jap's damfoolishness. Had to buy my licker there, and just traded there. It's twelve mile from my farm to Barton, and four mile to Bloomtown. Spring's comin' on, and work to do. I hate to take that trip every time the wife needs a spool o' thread. Did you get my letter, sayin' to stop the paper?" "Stopped it, didn't we?" queried Bill crisply, scattering the type from the financial report of Bloomtown into the case. "Yes," assented Kelly, "you did. What'd you do it for?" "Not forcing the _Herald_ on anybody," announced Bill glibly. "Got past that. We used to hold 'em up and feed the _Herald_ to them, but we don't have to do it now." "I hear tell that Jap made Tim Simpson night marshal. Why, he run a blind tiger beyond the water tank," exclaimed Kelly. "I reckon Jap didn't know that." "Just because he did know it, he made Tim night marshal," declared Bill, flinging the last type into the box and descending from the stool. "Just you stroll down the tracks in either direction, and see if you can find a whisker or a tawny hair from the tip of any tiger's tail lying loose along the way. Jap knows several things, Kelly, my boy, and he is fighting fire with fire. Tim Simpson understands the operations of the kind of menagerie that usually flourishes in a dry town, and Jap put him on his honor. He's so conscientious that he goes over to Barton to get full. He won't drink it here. He's got pride in making Bloomtown the whitest town in the state. But explain the return of the prodigal. How come your feet in our dust again?" "Well," said Kelly shamefacedly, "the wife said that I was a durn fool. I stopped the _Herald_ and subscribed for the _Standard_--and a pretty standard it is! While Jap Herron was cleanin' up, it was slingin' muck at him. The wife read it, and one day she goes up to Barton and starts an argument with Jones. I reckon she had the last word. If she didn't, it was the fu'st time. She come home so rip-snortin' mad that she threatened to lick me if I didn't tackle Jones. Well, to keep peace in the family, I run in to see him the next time I went to Barton. Well, Jones put it up to me, if Jap was doin' much for Bloomtown in havin' unlicensed drug stores, instid of regular saloons." "Sure sign that you don't know the news," said Bill, unfolding a copy of the _Herald_. "Since last Saturday night there has been only one drug store in Bloomtown. That's Blanke's, and Jim Blanke wouldn't sell liquor on anybody's prescription but Doc Hall's, and Doc Hall would let you die of snake-bite, if nothing but whiskey would cure you. Any other drug stores that may open up in this town 'll have to pattern after Blanke's or out they go." Kelly took the paper up and scanned its columns. He snorted. "Well, I do declare! I see that might' nigh all the doctors have packed up and are threatenin' to leave town. Well, there wa'n't enough doctorin' to keep twenty of 'em in cash nohow." "You ought to have heard Jap's speech when they were putting a plea for local option," said Bill. "My pap has carried a sore ear against Jap's reign ever since he was elected to fill out that unexpired term, and he stirred up a lot of bellyaches among the guzzlers. It was a sickening mess, because the whole town knows that my daddy can't stand even the smell of liquor. It wouldn't be so bad--so hypocritical, if he really liked it and was used to it. As I was telling you, he and the old booze gang had been burning the midnight dip to plan a crimp for Mayor Herron, when that local option idea struck him. Well, Jap got up and made a speech, calling their attention to the bonds we voted, and the sound financial condition back of those bonds; the granitoid pavement on Main street, the electric light plant that's going up, and the water works, and sewers that are under way--all managed since the town went dry. Then he nominated Tom Granger for mayor, and what do you reckon they did?" "Seein' as how he ain't mayor," said Kelly, with a twinkle, "I allow they done nothin'." "Why," said Bill, his brown eyes kindling, "they arose as one man and yelled, 'We want Jap Herron!' and that settled it." The farmer stood in the middle of the office, his arms gesticulating and his head bobbing with animation, as Jap hurried in. He gazed at the back of Kelly's familiar slicker incredulously. "What!" he hailed joyously, "our old friend of the sorghum barrel! Where have you been hibernating? Surely a cure for sore eyes," and Jap seized his shoulder and whirled him around so that he could grasp his hand. "Chipmunking in Barton," prompted Bill. "This sadly misguided farmer has been lost but now is found." "The Missus sent a package to Miss Flossy. You and Bill 'll eat it, I reckon," and he produced a parcel from his pocket. "She said if Ellis was here, he'd appreciate it. It's sausage that she made herself. And--and she sent a dollar for the paper. She wants the _Herald_." "And what about Kelly?" Jap asked, a wave of memory sweeping over him. "Just you write it down that Kelly Jones is a yaller pup," said Kelly morosely. "Never!" declared Jap heartily. "Misled, perhaps, but with a heart of gold." Kelly groped for his handkerchief. "I've got on the water wagon, Jap," he sniffled. "I reckon I kin get along without the stuff. Sary hid my jug, and I done 'thout it for a week, and I felt fine. I am goin' to make a stagger at it, if I do fall down." Jap pushed him into a chair. "Why, you old rascal," he cried, "you have backbone enough to do anything you will to do. Move into town and help us turn the wheels." Kelly wiped his nose on the tail of his slicker as he started for the door. "Don't happen to need any basses, do you?" he grinned. Jap flung an empty ink bottle after him. When quiet had returned to the office, he said, as he hung his hat on the nail: "Isabel wants to learn to stick type." "Funny," said Bill shortly, "so does Rosy, and they hate each other like Pap hates beer. Pretty mix-up we'll have on our hands." "That's all nonsense, Bill. Rosy can't help liking Isabel." Bill scanned the copy on his hook, his eyes narrowing. "Appears like she can," he muttered. "Now, Bill, this won't do," argued Jap earnestly. "We can't afford to have dissension in such a vital matter. You must talk to Rosy." "You can have the job," waived Bill, picking up a type. "Isabel said that Rosy was shallow and only skin-deep, and Rosy heard about it. Isabel Granger is not so much----" He stopped abruptly as Jap's hand went up in pained alarm. "Look here, Bill, are we going to let the chatter of women come between us? There is something deeper holding us together than the friendship of a day. Give me your hand, Bill, and tell me that it is Ellis's work and not these trifles that you care for. We have a work to do, you and I." Bill threw the stick upon the case and grasped Jap's outstretched hand. Tears glistened in his eyes. "Better than all the loves in the world, I love you, Jap," he stormed. Jerking his hat from the nail, he strode out to walk off the emotionalism he decried. That afternoon he strove manfully to show Isabel how to put type in the stick upside down, and to save her feelings he stealthily corrected her faulty work, suppressing a grin at Jap's pride in her first attempt. Bill shook his head sadly as they strolled out together, Jap's eyes drinking in the girl's slender beauty. "Petticoat government 'll get old Jap tripped up," he complained to the office cat. "And then where'll I be? When Jap marries I'll play second fiddle. Come seven, come 'leven!" and he snapped his fingers in the air. CHAPTER XVI The sun was streaming through the east windows. Jap looked anxiously up and down the street. Bill had not been home all night. This was a state of affairs alarming to Jap. He walked back to the table and turned the exchanges over restlessly. "I wonder if the boy could have persuaded that butterfly to elope with him, as he threatened he would, when her mother cut up so rough," he worried. Tim Simpson came in and peered around furtively. "Bill is drunk as a lord," he announced in a stage whisper. "I've got him in the back room of the calaboose, to sober up without the news leakin'." Jap paled. "Bill drunk?" he faltered. "Who got him into it? Is he asleep, Tim?" "Lord, no! If he was, I would 'a' left him out when he come to, and said no word to you about it. But I'm plum scared about him. He's chargin' up and down like a Barnum lion. I reckon as how you'd better mosey down there and try to ca'm him." As Jap walked rapidly down the alley beside the night marshal, he asked: "Did you try to talk to him?" "Yes," said Simpson ruefully. "He kicked me out and was chasin' after me when I slammed the door on him. He's blind crazy loaded. I fu'st seen him after number nine pulled in, so I think he come on her. He was mutterin' and shakin' his fist when he hove in sight. I got him and steered him into the jug without much trouble, and it was only a hour ago that he started this ragin' and ravin'." As they entered the jail, sounds of tramping feet and mutterings reached their ears. Bill's swollen, blotched face and reddened eyes appeared behind the grating. "Let me out of here!" he shouted. "You'll get a broken head for this, you old mule." He shook the grating furiously. "Bill," said Jap slowly, "do you want to come with me, or do you want me to stay here with you till you've had a bath and a good sleep?" Bill laughed discordantly. "A sleep! A sleep!" he cried. "Yes, a long, long sleep. As soon as you take me out of this hell-hole, I'll take a sleep that'll last." Jap opened the door and stepped inside. "Don't come any nearer," warned Bill. "I'm too filthy, Jap. But let me stay as I am till it's over." He sat down on the cot and stared crazily into the corridor. Jap sat down beside him and drew his arm around his shoulder, with the tenderness of a woman. "Tell me about it, Bill, boy," he counselled gently. "Tim, you may leave us." Bill sat a long time, staring sullenly at the floor. "Well, this is a hell of a display for me to bring to Bloomtown," he declared at last. "I should have ended it in Jones's town. If I hadn't been so dumb with rotgut that I didn't know what I was doing, I would be furnishing some excitement for the Bartonites this morning. The finest place in the world to die in--it isn't fit to live in." Jap shook him briskly. "Straighten up, Bill, and tell me what kind of a mess you have been in." Bill laughed wildly. After a moment he dragged a letter from his pocket. Jap read: "When you read this, I will be the wife of Wilfred Jones, the Editor of the Barton _Standard_. Maybe you will be pleased? I prefer to marry a real editor, not the half of Jap Herron." The letter was signed, "Rosalie," but the affectation carried none of the elements of a disguise. To Jap it was the crowning insult. Crushing the silly note in his hand, he threw it from him. Standing up, he drew Bill to his feet. "We are going home," he said curtly. "When you are sober I will tell you how disappointed I am in my brother." The news that Bill had been jilted spread over Bloomtown like fire in a stubble-field, and deep resentment greeted the announcement that Jones of the _Standard_ had scored another notch against the _Herald_. Bill, sullen and defiant, had battled it out in the room above the office. All the vagaries of a sick mind were his. Murder, suicide, mysterious disappearance, chased each other across the field of his vision, and ever the specter of suicide returned to grin at him. For a day and a night Jap sat beside his bed, talking, soothing, comforting. Finally he made this compact: "To show you that I love you better than myself, Bill, I am going to promise that I will not marry until you are cured of this blow. Not a word, Bill! Happiness would turn to ashes if I accepted it at your cost. How far I am to blame in your trouble, I can only guess. I am not going to preach philosophy. I am only going to plead my love for you." He took the revolver from the drawer and laid it on the table beside Bill. "If you are the boy I think you are, you will be sticking type when I come back from Flossy's. If you are a coward, I will not grieve to find you have taken the soul that God gave you and flung it at His feet." Not trusting himself to look back, he hurried down the stairs. His heart was heavy with dread as he locked the office and walked blindly to the cottage where all his problems had been carried. He could not talk to Flossy, but, sitting beside her on the little front porch, he fought the mad impulse to run back to the office. He strained his ears for the sound that he was praying not to hear. Two hours he sat there, fighting with his fears, the longest hours of his life. Flossy sat as silent. No one knew Jap as Flossy did. Smoothing his tumbled hair and stroking his tightly clenched hands were her only expressions. Futile indeed would words be now. The tragedy that hovered over them both must work itself out. A whistle shrilled from the road. Jap sprang up with a strangled cry, as Wat Harlow came through the gate. His face was stern. "Bill allowed that this is where I'd find you, chatting your valuable time away," he chaffed. Then the mask of his countenance broke into a grin. "Is Bill in the office?" Jap's lips were so stiff he could scarcely articulate. "Sure he is," said Harlow cheerfully. "He wants you to ramble down there." "There's a hen on, Jap," he confided, after they had taken leave of Flossy. "We'll try to hatch something this time. I'm going to get in the game again. You know the old saying: 'You mustn't keep a good dog chained up.'" "Well?" queried Jap, his thoughts springing space and picturing what Bill might be doing. Wat was discreetly silent until they had passed through town and were inside the office. Bill, pale and haggard, looked up from his desk. He extended the paper he was writing on. Jap took it without a word. "WAT HARLOW FOR GOVERNOR!" "How's that for a head?" he demanded. "If we're going into this thing, we might as well go with both feet." He looked into Jap's face. Their eyes met. With one voice they cried: "Ellis!" "'When Harlow runs for governor,'" Jap quoted tremulously, "'you will boom him. Till then, nothing doing in the Halls of Justice.' Bill, Ellis was a prophet. He even knew that he wouldn't be in the game. Wat, we'll put you across this time." "Yes, and it'll be a nasty fight," Wat returned, as Bill leaned over and picked nervously at the ears of the office cat. "We've got Bronson Jones to buck up against, in all political probability. He's almost sure of the nomination." "Just who is Bronson Jones?" Jap asked. "Seems to me I ought to place him. He's been in the papers down in the southwestern part of the state a good deal." "He's the smooth proposition that came back here a couple of years ago and bought back his old newspaper for his son and has managed up to the present time to keep his own name discreetly out of that same paper," vouchsafed Harlow. "He won't let it leak out till the psychological moment. He's the daddy of the split-hoofed imp of Satan that runs the Barton _Standard_!" CHAPTER XVII Jap threw his pencil impatiently on the desk. "I can't get my thoughts running clear this morning," he said abruptly. "Every time I try to write, the pale face of little J. W. comes between me and the page." "They're back from the city," Bill said uneasily. "I saw them coming from the train. I fully meant to tell you, Jap." "I hope the specialist has quieted Flossy's fears." Jap ran his fingers through his loose red locks. "The boy is growing too fast. Why, look at the way he has shot up in the last year. Ellis told me that he ran up like a bean pole, the way I did, and just as thin. J. W. is exactly like him." "And Ellis died at forty----" "Don't, Bill," Jap choked. "I can't bear it." He walked to the door and gazed out into the hazy silver autumn air. "This weather is like wine," he declared. "It will set the boy up, fine as a fiddle. You must remember, Bill, that Ellis impoverished his system by the life of hardship he was forced to endure while the town was growing. The things he used to tell were humorous enough, the droll way he had of telling them. But they break our hearts when we think of them now, and know that it was that privation that killed him. It was bad enough here when I was a youngster, and that was luxury to what he had had. J. W. has not had such a handicap. Of course he was a delicate baby, but he certainly outgrew all that." Bill was discreetly silent. He knew that Jap was only arguing with his fears. In the early summer, J. W. had been acutely ill, and as the heat progressed, he languished with headache and fever. In the end, Dr. Hall had counselled taking him to a noted specialist in the city. "Better take a run up to Flossy's," Bill suggested. "You'll be better satisfied." Jap took a copy of the _Herald_ from the table and went out. All the way along Spring street he strove with his anxiety. Flossy met him on the porch. One glance was enough for Jap. He sat down, helpless, on the lower step. "J. W. is tired out and asleep," said Flossy softly. "Come with me, Jap, down to the arbor. You remember the day that Ellis told you the truth about himself?" Jap followed her beneath the grape trellis, stumbling clumsily. When they reached the arbor, with its bench and rustic table, she faced him, slender to attenuation. "Jap," she said brokenly, "J. W. has tuberculosis in the worst form. His entire body is filled with it. He contracted it while we were with Ellis--and we never knew, never suspected----" Her voice broke. "Not even a miracle can prolong his life longer than spring. The doctors insisted on examining me, too. They say I have it, in incipiency, and my only chance of escape is to leave my boy to the care of others. Under the right conditions they say I have a fighting chance." "You are sure that you have every advice?" Jap's voice was so hoarse that she looked up at him in alarm. "Yes, Jap, but I knew it before. Months ago, even before he was so sick in the summer, I had a dream, and this was my dream: Ellis, with that beautiful smile that every one loved, was waiting out there at the gate, and I was hurrying to get the boy ready to go with him. I knew, when I awoke, that he was ready to wait our boy's coming. Oh, Jap, do you think that smile was for me, too?" The look of agony in Jap's sensitive face was more than she could bear. She clutched his arm. "Oh, Jap, pray--help me to pray that he was waiting for me, too. The time has been so long. I want to be with my boy to the last. You understand, Jap. I don't believe that words are needed." He put his arms around her. He could not speak, but his head bent above hers and the hot tears dropped upon her brown hair, now streaked with gray. "I have done the work he wanted me to do," she sobbed. "He wanted me to be a mother until you were on the plane he had planned. Like the butterfly whose day is done, Jap, I would go. I am so tired, and--boy, I have never ceased to long for Ellis. The world could not supply another soul like his." "Flossy," Jap said in smothered tones, "I know. I have walked the floor for hours, missing him until I was almost frantic. But, little Mother, what is left to me if you go? Without you, I am drifting again." "I would fear that, if I had never seen into the deeps of Isabel's nature. And to think that I once decried--but I didn't understand, Jap. When your mother came, there was a revelation. I don't fear for your future now. And when I knew this, I suddenly felt tired and old. I pray not to survive my boy." The following morning brought the first fall rain. And then, for endless weeks, the leaden sky drooped over the world. Dreary depression and the penetrating chill of approaching winter filled the air. Only the unwonted pressure of work kept the boys from brooding over the inevitable that would come with the spring-time. To relieve Flossy of all unnecessary burdens, Jap and Bill went to the hotel for their meals, but every evening one or the other went to sit with her. At length there came a time, late in November, when the office work was more than both of them could handle, and for several days the visits were interrupted. "Flossy is sick," announced Bill, hanging his dripping raincoat behind the door. "I saw Pap just now, and he told me. He and his wife were there all night. He says that J. W. has been so bad off for a week, has had such bad spells at night, that Flossy has hardly slept, and yesterday she broke down and sent for Pap. He took Doc Hall along, and they are afraid she has pneumonia." Jap threw his paper aside. "Why didn't we know that J. W. was worse?" he demanded. "I sent some one to inquire every morning while we had the big rush on, and Flossy said that they were all right. I thought that she was going to take him to the mountains." "I guess that she didn't know how sick he was," commented Bill. "Pap was to haul the trunks to-morrow, as Flossy told us. She wanted to start on Sunday so that you and I could go as far as Cliffton with her. She knew we were working overtime to get things cleaned up." Jap put on his raincoat, for it was pouring a deluge. "I will not be back if Flossy needs me," he said. For three days and nights he hovered over the two sick-beds, while the wind soughed mournfully around the cottage, and the rain dripped, dripped, dripped, like tears against the wall outside. Neighbors and friends volunteered their services. Bill and Isabel came as often as was possible; but when all the others had gone, Jap kept his solemn vigil alone. On the afternoon of the fourth day, there was a sudden turn for the worse. Dr. Hall was hastily summoned. And then, all at once, without any seeming warning, it happened. The last gasping breath faded from the body of Ellis's child, and as Jap leaned over to close the wide, staring eyes, he could hear the rasping breaths that rent Flossy's bosom, as she lay unconscious in the next room. "With God's help we may pull her through," whispered Isabel, twining her arms around his neck. He turned stony eyes of grief upon her. "If God helps, He will let her go with J. W. to meet Ellis," he said in a voice strained to breaking. He drew the girl from the chamber of death, and sat down beside Flossy's bed. He caught one fluttering, fever-burned hand in his, and the restless muttering ceased. Then the eyes opened. They seemed to be looking not at Jap but above him. "Ellis!" she cried, and slept. "When she awakes, she will be better or----" Dr. Hall broke off, and went over to the window. "It's the crisis," he finished huskily. Flossy, in her quiet, optimistic bravery, had made her place in the hearts of her townspeople. Isabel knelt beside her, watching Jap's face, with its unnatural calm, fearfully. She dared not speak. Bill stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, his cap twirling uncertainly in his hand. His eyes shifted uneasily from the thin, white face on the pillow to the frozen features of Jap. A clock ticked loudly. The thick gloom broke. A tiny linnet that Jap had given Flossy fluttered to the swing in its cage and burst, all at once, into song, and a vagrant sunbeam darted through the western clouds. Flossy opened her eyes. "Jap," she gasped painfully, "is this the thing called Death, this uplift of joy?" The doctor raised her in his arms and gave her a few sips of medicine. She was easier. She motioned Jap to bend closer. "Is he gone?" she asked clearly. "Is my boy with his father?" Jap kissed her forehead gently. "He is with Ellis," he whispered. "Then I thank You, great Giver of all Good," she cried happily, "for I can go now." She summoned Bill with her eyes. "I want you to make the boy very proud of the men he was named for," she smiled. It was a smile of heavenly beauty, as the pure soul of Ellis Hinton's wife flew to join her loved ones. CHAPTER XVIII Bill and Isabel led Jap from the room as the doctor drew the sheet over Flossy's face. Together the three left the cottage. In dazed silence they walked past the row of modest homes until the business street was reached. Across Main street they went, in stony silence, the girl clinging to an arm of each of her escorts. In front of the elm-shaded residence of Tom Granger, now stark and bare in its late autumn undress, they paused. Isabel, unheedful of the passing crowd, threw her arms around Jap's neck and kissed him passionately. A moment he held her in his arms, his tearless eyes burning. And in her awakened woman's heart, she knew that he was looking through her, beholding the trio of adored ones whose influence had made his heart a fitting habitation for her own. And in that consciousness Isabel Granger experienced no twinge of jealousy. Silently she walked up the brick-paved path to the stately old house, as Jap and Bill turned back toward Main street. When they reached the office, they locked the door behind them. With the mechanical action of automata, they climbed to their stools and threw the belated issue of the _Herald_ into type. "Bill, can you do it?" Jap asked at length. "I'll do my best," Bill said huskily. And his tears wet the type as he set up a brief obituary notice. The morning of the funeral broke clear and sunny, as fall days come. The air was clear and sounds echoed for long distances. It was a joyous new day, and yet a threnody swept through its music. Something of this Jap and Bill felt as they hurried to the house of Death. Judge Bowers met them at the door. His face was red and overcast. He shifted uneasily. "I sent for you, because we have to fix things decently for Flossy." "Decently?" echoed Bill. "Why, yes. Ma and me got the caskets and all that. Everything's 'tended to, but the service. You know Flossy was a free-thinker, and never belonged to no church." "Well, what of it?" Bill said shortly. "We have got to get somebody to preach a sermon," asserted the Judge, his flaccid face showing real concern. "I don't see how we are going to manage it. It looks queer to ask anybody to preach over a non-professor." "Why do it then?" Bill's tone was enigmatic, as he followed Jap into the little parlor where the effects of the Judge's work were apparent. Side by side stood the caskets, each one holding a jewel more precious than any diadem. Jap sat down between them, dumb to the greetings of the friends who came for a last look at the two set faces, and there he sat until the afternoon. The room was half filled with people when the Judge aroused him by a sharp grip on his arm. "Come on, Jap," he whispered huskily, "they have come for them." "Who?" asked Jap, tonelessly. "The hearses," said the Judge, his flabby cheeks trembling. Jap walked outside and climbed into the carriage with Bill, and together they went to the church where Ellis had met his townsmen for the last time. It was the handsome new church whose claim on her brother's generosity had called forth from Flossy such righteous resentment. Mechanically the two young men followed the usher to the pew that had been set apart for them. Vaguely Jap smiled at Isabel as she passed him, clinging to the arm of her father. As in a dream, he followed her slender form as she took her accustomed place at the organ. Clutching the arm of the seat, he sat there, deaf, dumb and blind, until the wailing notes of the organ appraised him that the service was beginning. He turned his head as a heavy, rolling sound reached him, and looked upon the most heart-shaking sight in the history of the town: two coffins traveling up the aisles to meet at the altar. Sick and faint, he turned his head away. Bill's arm crept around him, while Bill sobbed aloud. Frozen to silence, Jap stared at the boxes containing all that linked him to his past. Stony-eyed, he gazed at the masses of flowers, casually admiring the gorgeous chrysanthemums and the pink glory of the carnations. He even read, with calm curiosity, the card of sympathy hanging from one of the floral offerings on Flossy's casket. Then he sank into blunt indifference until he was aroused by Bill's start. He looked up dully. The minister was praying--and his prayer was for forgiveness for Flossy. "She was a wanderer from grace," the ominous voice droned, "but Thou who didst forgive the thief on the cross wilt grant her mercy." Bill clasped his hands fiercely over Jap's arm. His breath hissed through his set teeth. Jap sat upright, his gray eyes searching the face of the man of God, as he drawled through a flock of platitudes, promising in the end that on the last great day Flossy and her son would be called by the trump to arise, purified and forgiven. Wiping his forehead complacently, he sat down. Jap Herron arose to his feet and walked to the coffin of the only mother he had ever known. Facing the assembly, he said in low, clear tones: "Friends of mine, friends of Flossy and her boy, and friends of Ellis Hinton, you have listened to this minister. Now you must listen to me. I knew Flossy. Some of you knew her, but none as I did. She had no religion, he says. Flossy Hinton's life was a religion. What is religion? Love, faith and works. Dare any of you claim that she had not all of these? If such soul as hers needs help to carry it through the ramparts of heaven, then God help all of you. "She will not sleep until a trumpet calls her! No! Alive and vital and everlasting, her soul is with us now. Did Ellis Hinton sleep? He has never been away. He has dwelt right here, in the hearts of all who loved him. Friends, dry your eyes if you grieve for the sins of Flossy." Raising his hand above the casket, as if in benediction, and looking into the face beneath the glass, he said brokenly: "A saint she lived among us. In heaven she could be no more." The descending sun shot a ray of white light across the church, as it sank below the opaque designs in the gorgeous memorial window that flanked the choir. A moment later it would be crimson, then purple, then amber; but for an instant it filtered through pure, untinted glass. Creeping stealthily, the white ray reached the space in front of the altar and rested a moment on the still face within the casket. To Jap it seemed that the lips that had always smiled for him relaxed into a smile of transcendent beauty. Entranced he looked, forgetting all else. Then the strength of his young manhood crumbled. The hinges of his knees gave way, and he sank to the floor. Bill sprang to his side and carried him to a seat. Isabel, half distracted, started from her place at the organ. As she passed, the white face in the coffin met her eyes. She stopped. A tide of feeling swept her back, back from Jap, whose limp form called her. The song that Flossy had loved came singing to her lips. Inspired in that moment, she stood beside the coffin and sang, as never before, the words that had comforted Flossy in her years of loneliness: "Somewhere the stars are shining, Somewhere the song birds dwell. Cease then thy sad repining! God lives, and all is well." Her face was glorified. She sang to that silent one, and to the world that had been hers. In a dream she sang on, as the mother and her boy were taken from her sight, sang on while the people silently departed. "Somewhere, somewhere," she sang, "Beautiful isle of Somewhere, Isle of the true, where we live anew, Beautiful isle of Somewhere." Her voice broke as uncontrollable sobs rent her slender body, and she sank against the shoulder of her father and followed Bill from the church. Half-a-dozen kindly hands were carrying Jap outside. The long line of carriages had already started on its way to the little plot of ground where two fern-lined graves awaited the loved ones of Ellis Hinton. The horses of the remaining carriage pawed the ground restlessly in the sharp November air. "Better take him to his room in a hurry," Dr. Hall commanded. "The boy has been through too much. I was afraid of this." "You can't take him to that dreary office," Isabel pleaded. "Papa, tell Dr. Hall what to do." And, as always, she had her way. In the sunny south room above the library, with the shadows of the stark elms doing grotesque dances on the window panes, with Isabel and her mother hovering in tender solicitude over him, Jap Herron tossed for weeks in the delirium of fever, calling always for Flossy. CHAPTER XIX "Mr. Bowers wants to talk to you," Isabel said, smoothing Jap's limp hair from his haggard face. "He has been here every day for a week, and Mamma wouldn't hear to his bothering you, especially as you had concluded that you must talk to Bill about the office." "Let him come," said Jap wearily. The Judge tramped heavily into the bedroom. "I want to talk to you about Flossy's affairs," he declared, dropping into a chair and blowing his nose. Jap's face flushed, then paled. He lifted one thin hand to his eyes and leaned back in the pillows. "I sent for Bill to meet me here and have Brent Roberts read Flossy's will." "Why?" Jap's voice rasped with pain. "You have been sick nigh a month," said the Judge, "and there's a power o' things that oughter be seen to, and Brent refused to read Flossy's will till you could hear it. I want to settle the bills." Isabel slipped her arm around Jap's shoulder and glared at the Judge. "You ought to be ashamed," she cried. "Jap is not strong enough to be bothered with business." Jap put her aside gently and sat up. "The Judge is right, sweetheart," he said. "I will not be tired with doing anything for--for her." He covered his face with his hands. Bill entered softly. His brows lowered at sight of his father. "What did you want with me and Roberts?" he queried shortly. "It is all right, Bill," Jap said brokenly. "It will hurt whenever it comes, so let's get it done." After the will was read Jap lay silent, the tears slipping down his cheeks, for Flossy's will gave all that she possessed to her son, Jap Herron. It was made the day after she knew that her own child was doomed to an early death. They filed slowly from the room, even the Judge awed by the face of the boy. The New Year had turned the corner when Jap was moved to the office. Little by little he grew back into harness. They did not talk of Flossy in those early days. It was not possible. One chill spring day, when the grass was greening, and the first blossoms were opening among the hyacinths on Ellis's grave, Jap walked with Bill to the cemetery. He bent above the dried wreaths with their faded ribbons, sodden and dinged by the winter's snows. "Throw them away, Bill," he choked. "They are the tawdry tokens of mourning. I am trying to forget that mourning." Bill gathered the dry bundles and carried them away. Coming back, he stood looking mournfully upon the muddy sod. Jap raised his eyes suddenly, and they gazed for a long minute into each other's hearts. Bill threw his hands over his eyes and cried aloud. "Don't, Bill!" Jap's hand clutched him tightly. "For God's sake, help me to be a man!" And forgetting the sodden grass, they knelt beside the grave and sobbed together in an abandon of grief. Boys they were, despite their years, and Flossy had been more to them than the mother whom youth is prone to take for granted. When the tempest of sorrow and desolation had spent itself they arose. "It is done," said Jap, looking up into the sky where the stars were beginning to twinkle palely. "It had to be done. Now I can realize that they laid Flossy beneath the earth. But, please God, I can forget it. Now I know that she has left the beautiful shell behind. But, Bill," he touched the mound with his fingers, "Flossy has never been here, never for an instant." "She is in heaven," said Bill reverently. Jap laid his arm around Bill's shoulders. "You don't believe that, Bill. You know better. Flossy is right with us, as Ellis has always been. Just as he has inspired us to develop his paper and his town, so she will stay with us, to create good and optimism and faith in ourselves. Bill, when those two wonderful people came into our lives, they came to stay. Do you think Ellis and Flossy would get any joy out of strumming on a harp and taking their own selfish ease? No, Bill, that's all a mistake. They're working right with us, and it's up to you and me to so wholly reflect them that we will be to this town what they have been to us. In any crisis in our lives, let us not forget that Ellis and Flossy Hinton are not dead. We may have need to remember it, Bill." The next morning he climbed on his stool and took the stick in his hand. Bill stopped at the door of the composing room, something in Jap's attitude arresting him. "What are you going to do, Jap?" "Get busy," declared Jap. "We have given out enough plate. The _Herald_ is going back on the job." Bill felt a lump rise in his throat as he paused to finger the copy on his hook. "We have to get the drums beating," said Jap. "We have to elect Wat Harlow governor, and, believe the Barton _Standard_, we have some rough road to travel." And the battle was on! Alone, the Bloomtown _Herald_ tackled the job of making a governor. Watson Harlow had been a familiar figure in state politics for more than twenty years, but as gubernatorial timber no one had ever regarded him seriously. His opponent, on the other hand, was a fresh figure in the state, with all the novelty of the unknown quantity about him. It was an off year for the dominant party, both locally and nationally, and the fight promised to be a complicated one. Week by week the battle raged between the types. Little by little the country press began to get in the fight. Not content with the picturesque drumming of his own machine, Jap interested the city press in the history of Wat Harlow, the "Lone Pine, of Integrity Absolute." This descriptive title was proclaimed in and out of season during the months of battle, both before and after the nomination of Harlow and Jones. Jap invented a stinger for Bronson Jones. In his past history, it was alleged, he had much that were better concealed than revealed. Not the least of his offenses was that he had assisted his father, a certain P. D. Jones, in stealing red-hot cook-stoves from the ruins of the Chicago fire. Jap so declared, and he offered to prove that Jones had sold these same stoves to their former owners, when they became cold. In one instance, the victim was a widow who had lost everything, even her former mate, in the fire. And Jones carried the title, "The Widow's Friend," for years. All this was fun for the city dailies, and cartoons of the "Lone Pine" being fed to the "Cook-Stove" alternated with those of the pine falling upon the "Widow's Friend" as he was about to sell a stove to the above-mentioned widow. The color came back to Jap's cheeks, and the battle light flamed in his gray eyes. His one relaxation was the tranquil hour with Isabel. Harlow, like an uneasy ghost, haunted the _Herald_ office when he was not out storming the hustings. The Barton _Standard_ continued to pry into Wat's past, while the _Herald_ continued to lift the lid from the chest of Bronson's secret garments. Unfortunately, the _Standard_ had played its big trump card in the congressional campaign. The vermilion handbill was once more dragged to light, but it worked like a boomerang, for several of Wat's own party workers had been caught red-handed in the act of attempting to operate a shameless graft game, in the name of the university. And Jap utilized the story to show that Wat was a man above party, a man in whose mind integrity was indeed absolute. Argument grew red hot, every place but Bloomtown. There, there was no one to argue with. Bloomtown was one man for Harlow. Jones undertook to deliver one speech there, and that bright hour nearly became his last. After the good-natured raillery of the opening address, Jones plunged into the vitriolic explosion he had delivered at the various places he had spoken. For exactly ten minutes it lasted. By that time, Kelly Jones had reached Hollins's grocery store and gathered enough eggs to start a protest against the defamation of Wat Harlow's character. And the protest was proclaimed unanimous! It was stated that there were no eggs on Bloomtown's breakfast table next morning, and no Sunday cakes. "But," said the _Herald_, "if Bronson Jones wants any more hen-fruit, the housewives of Bloomtown will cheerfully sacrifice themselves in his behalf." And so the months sped away until the grass had mossed the graves in the cemetery with lush beauty, and the three mounds were merged into one by the riotous growth of sweet alyssum, Flossy's best loved blossom. The summer waned. The autumn hasted, and chill winds whispered around the Lone Pine as the last sortie was made. Then Bloomtown pressed her hands to her throbbing breast and got ready for--Victory? CHAPTER XX Bill jumped from bed as the rattle of the latch announced the arrival of a visitor. Without waiting for the formality of more than a bathrobe, Rosy Raymond's last birthday gift to him, he bolted down the stairs and across the office. He flung the door open and disclosed the hazy features of Kelly Jones, peering at him through the November fog. "What, ho! Kelly, what brings you to our door in the glooming?" Kelly shook the rain from his slicker and came inside. "Wife called me at three o'clock," he announced. "Had my breakfast and rid like hell to git to town early. I want to cast the fu'st vote for Wat for governor." Bill yawned. "You could have ridden more leisurely, and saved us a couple of hours' sleep," he complained. "There are at least a thousand voters of Bloomtown with that same laudable intention. Tom Granger has been missing since seven o'clock last night. It is believed that he is locked in the booth so that his vote will skin the rest." Kelly looked ruefully back into the rain. "I reckon that I will come in and set a while, that bein' the report." "Any man found voting for Jones is to be lynched at sunset," declared Bill, pushing a chair forward. "Reckon this'll be a big day for the Democrats," commented Kelly, stretching his feet across the table comfortably. "'Tain't nothin' to keep 'em home, so they'll kill time, votin'. That's why I allus cussed my daddy for raisin' me a Democrat. Bein' as I am one, I've got to stick by and see the durn fools shuckin' corn while the Republicans are haulin' their grand-daddies in town to vote the Republicans in." Bill retired to don a few garments and Jap tumbled from bed, for this was a big day in Bloomtown. Before six o'clock the roads were lined with vehicles, as for an Independence holiday. The county was coming in to help the town vote for her favorite son. About noon Harlow came creeping up the alley and slipped in at the back door. He wore a slicker that he had borrowed from some constituent who was short. It hung sorrowfully about his knees. Bill remembered that in spike-tail coat and white necktie Wat Harlow looked enough like a governor to pass for one, but just now he resembled nothing so much as a draggled rooster. The stove in the little private office hissed and sputtered as he shook the rain from the coat. "I thought that the only place that victory would be complete would be the _Herald_ office," he said, relaxing into a chair. "And if we are beat, I could meet it better here." He took a paper in his shaking hands and tried to read. The rain poured in torrents, but Bloomtown cast her record vote--and not one scurrilous vote against him dropped into the ballot box. At sunset a wild yell proclaimed that Bloomtown had done her duty. It was now up to the rest of the state whether Wat Harlow, proclaimed from border to border as an honest man, would be its next governor. On his record as opposed to State University graft, he had once been elected to the legislature when the running was close. On that same record, as opposed to higher education, he was defeated for United States Congressman, and on that same record he was running for governor of his state. The _Herald_ office lighted up. All the big men of Bloomtown smoked the air blue, waiting for the returns. First good, then crushingly bad, they varied. By the tone of the operator's yell, the waiters guessed each bulletin. If he came silent, they all coughed and waited for some one to take the fatal slip of paper. The dawn was graying when they dispersed, with the issue still in doubt. It was late afternoon before they knew that Harlow was elected. Bill grinned joyously, for the first time since Rosy Raymond carried her heart to Barton and left it there. "How many roosters have we?" he asked impishly, as he walked over to the telephone. "Why?" queried Jap. "I am going to 'phone Jones that we want to borrow all that he don't need," said Bill, taking the receiver from the hook. "We done it!" yelled Kelly Jones, slapping his slouch hat against the door. "And I'm goin' over to Barton and git on the hell-firedest drunk that that jay town ever seen. Whoopee!" And off he set at a run to catch the local freight. About half of Bloomtown seemed inspired with the same spirit, and the freight pulled out amid wild yells of joy. Several of the most agile among the jubilant ones draped the box cars with strips of faded, soggy bunting, and Harlow's picture adorned the cow-catcher. The yelling, that had been discontinued for economic reasons, was resumed in raucous chorus as the train rolled into Barton to celebrate Harlow's victory in Jones's town. The Bloomtown _Herald_ did itself proud that week. A mammoth picture of the Lone Pine stood forth on the front page. Around it fluttered one hundred flags. Every page sported roosters and flags in each available space, between local readers and editorial paragraphs. It was a thing of beauty and a joy forever--at least to Wat Harlow. One other cut found place at the bottom of the editorial page. Bill did not forget to boomerang Wilfred Jones by reprinting the weeping angel. For a week there were bonfires every night, and a number of Bloomtown's citizens sought to lighten Barton's woes by buying fire-water there. Wat swelled until he looked more like a corpulent oak than a lone pine. "My house is yours," he cried, alternately wringing Jap and Bill by their weary hands. He had come across once more from his headquarters in the Court House to make sure his appreciation was understood. Jap smiled wanly as the village band followed him with its intermittent serenade. Bloomtown had long since outgrown the village class; but not a drum nor a horn had encroached upon the old traditions of that band. Mike Hawkins was far too conservative to permit innovation, and as there was no provision for retiring the bandmaster on half pay, the problem of dividing nothing in half having as yet been unsolved, Mike continued to hold the job. All day the band had been vibrating between the Court House and the _Herald_ office, having delivered ten serenades at each side of Main street, for it was understood that the _Herald_ shared the victory with Harlow. As the Governor-elect retreated to the other side of the street, the band at his heels, Bill groaned aloud. "I wish that that bunch of musicians had had more confidence that Wat was going to get it," he sighed, "so that they could have learned one tune good." Kelly Jones was capering down the street. Kelly had absorbed enough of Barton booze to make him believe he owned the half of Bloomtown that did not belong to Wat Harlow. He had been having what Bill described as "one large, full time." As he came in sight, Bill's brow darkened. "I've been afraid that Kelly would burst and catch fire," he said morosely, "and now, by jolly, I wish he would. It's funny how much your good friends will get in your way when they pair off with John Barleycorn. Kelly is certainly one ding-buster when he is lit up." Jap leaned from the door to watch the procession that had formed for the purpose of escorting Wat Harlow to the station. "Kelly's time is wrinkling," he laughed. "Here comes Mrs. Kelly Jones, with worriment on her brow." Bill ran his inky fingers through his hair. Something was troubling him. "Jap," he said as he walked toward the door of the composing room, "that skunk of a Jones----" "Who? Kelly?" "Oh, no." Bill wheeled, and his face was deadly earnest. "Kelly's not a skunk, even when he has soaked up all the rotgut in Barton. But I had Kelly Jones in the back of my head, just the same, when I mentioned the honorable Editor of the Barton _Standard_. It's getting under my skin, Jap, the way he has of tempting these Bloomtown fools over to his filthy village to get the booze we won't let 'em have at home, and then holding them up to ridicule when they make asses of themselves." "It's one of the angles of this problem that I haven't figured out yet," Jap said earnestly. "Do you think it would do any good to go gunning for Jones?" "I've thought of that possibility several times," and Bill's tone was not entirely humorous. Jap shoved his stool to the case. As he climbed upon it, he sighed uneasily. It had been sixteen months since Wilfred Jones turned the neat trick that left Bill disconsolate, and still the venom lingered in the bereft boy's heart. To Jap, with his standard of womanhood established by Flossy and Isabel, the thing was monstrous, inconceivable. And yet it was a fact to be faced. "We'll have to get busy, Bill," he said. "We've got enough job work on the hooks to keep us up till midnight for a week. We haven't done a thing the last month but elect Wat Harlow." "I hope to grab he won't run for another office till I have six sons to help me," Bill snorted. Jap heaved a sudden sigh of relief. "Looking out again, Bill?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the vacant photograph frame above Bill's case. CHAPTER XXI It was the day after Thanksgiving. Bill was twirling the chambers of his revolver around. His face was grim. Jap halted in the door of their bedroom. "Going gunning for Jones?" he asked lightly. Bill turned, and the black look on his face startled Jap. "I am," he said deliberately, "and I will come back to jail or in my coffin." Jap caught the revolver from his hand. "Bill," he said sharply, "wake up!" Bill threw a letter to him, and continued his hasty toilet. Jap read: "Dear Will,-- "Come to me. I am almost crazy. Wilfred accused me of giving you information against his father that beat him in the election, and he struck me in the mouth. He said he only married me to spite you, and he hates me. I will meet you at the section house, where the train slows up for the switch, at six o'clock. I want you to take me away, I don't care where. I don't love anybody but you, and I can't live with Wilfred another night. I don't care whether anybody ever speaks to me again, if you will take me and love me. "Your distracted ROSALIE." Jap stared at the note as if it had been a snake-tressed Medusa that turned him to stone. He stood rigid and paralyzed as Bill said, deadly calm: "I am going to Barton, and I am going to shoot that dog." "And after that?" Jap's voice was toneless. "After that!" Bill broke out fiercely. "After that, what more?" Jap drew Bill around to face him. Rivers of fire seemed suddenly to course through his body, and an unprecedented rage burned up within him. "You are not going to Barton, and you are not going to meet that foolish light-o'-love at the section house," he said sternly. "Who will stop me? Not you, Jap, for even if an angel from heaven tried to bar my way, I would brush it aside. I wanted to kill him when he stole her away and----" Jap shook him angrily. "No one stole her, Bill. Have you forgotten the insolent, flippant letter she wrote you?" Bill shook Jap's hand from his shoulder. "It's no use, Jap. I am going to kill him!" Jap set his teeth and his gray eyes blazed as he gripped Bill's arms and shoved him into a chair. "I will have you locked up, you foolish hot-head," he exclaimed, "and give Wilfred Jones a few hours to consider his attitude toward his wife. She _is_ his wife, Bill, and all your heroics won't gloss that fact from sight. Do you want to hang, because you were a damned fool? I can consider a romantic close to your career, but not as an intruder in another man's home--no matter how great your feeling of injustice. Rosy was not a child when she married Wilfred Jones." "But he struck her," gulped Bill. "I have known times," declared Jap vehemently, "when, if I had been of the fibre of Wilfred Jones, I would have felt satisfaction in thrashing Rosy Raymond. Not having been Jones, I had to content myself with kicking the furniture around. I don't want to rile you, Bill, but I rather think there are two sides to this story, and I want to hear both sides. If it is proven that Jones has mistreated Rosy brutally, I will hold him while you give him the licking he deserves. More than that, I will help Rosy to get a divorce. Isn't that fair enough, Bill? What is revenge upon a dead body, especially if you expiate that revenge on the gallows? Tell me, who profits? For the woman, disgrace. For you---- Humph! the only one who comes out of it honorably is the dead man, Jones." Bill glowered at him. "You had no mother, Bill, because she died when she gave you to the world. I had no mother, because Providence gave me where I was a burden. But God gave both of us a mother. Bill, before you go any farther with this adventure--misadventure--I want you to kneel with me before Flossy's picture and ask for her approval and her blessing. Because, Bill, brother, she knows. And what do you suppose will be her counsel? What would Flossy want you to do?" He took the photograph from the table and held it out to Bill. The brown eyes remained downcast. The hands opened and closed spasmodically. Jap lowered the picture so that Bill's eyes could not choose but meet the loved face. A great, gulping sob shook him, and he dashed into the other room and slammed the door. Jap's tense features relaxed into a smile. He knew that Flossy had won. "Will you let me go to Barton instead of you?" he asked through the closed door. There was no reply, and he turned the knob. Bill was staring stolidly from the window. "I won't carry healing oil if the case doesn't call for it," he insisted. "You will believe me, boy?" "It's your job," Bill said, in smothered, tear-drenched tones. "I can just make the 5:20," said Jap, as he caught up his hat and overcoat from the foot of the bed where he had flung them. Then he hurried to the station, with Rosy's foolish letter in his pocket. Without looking to right or left he boarded the train that would have carried Bill to his love tryst. Already the evening shadows were beginning to settle, and it was almost dark when the local train ran into the siding to permit the east-bound special to pass. He stood on the steps of the rear coach as the wheels crunched with the stopping of the train. Then he dropped quietly to the ground. The special, that was wont to throw dust in the eyes of both Bloomtown and Barton, came thundering by, and the friendly local took up its westward journey. Jap hurried over to the cloaked figure that crouched in the shadow of the little section house. Rosy crept out quickly, but retreated with a cry of alarm when she saw that Jap, and not Bill, was coming to meet her. He caught her by the arm and drew her into the light of an electric bulb that glowed above the section boss's door. Scanning her silly face for a moment, he said sharply: "So you lied to Bill! There is no mark of a blow on your face." "He--he did push me," she sobbed. "And I don't love him, anyway. It was your fault that I ran away with Wilfred." "My fault?" echoed Jap. "Yes," she said, and her tone rasped with cruel spite. "What girl wants to have her sweetheart only half hers? Jap Herron only had to twist his thumb, and Bill would run like a foolish girl. I wanted a whole man or none." "Seems that you got one," commented Jap, "and don't appreciate him. Now, Rosy, if you think you are going to ruin three lives by starting this kind of a play, I am going to undeceive you. I am going to take you home and look into this affair." "I won't go!" she screamed. "He would kill me." "What did you do?" demanded Jap, holding her tightly. "I wrote him a note that I had run away with Bill," she confessed sullenly. For the first time Jap became conscious of the suitcase at her feet. His grip on her arm tightened until she cried with pain. "You idiotic little fool," he ground between his teeth. "Where is your husband?" "He went to the city this morning. He said he'd come home on the local if he got through his business in time. Otherwise he wouldn't come till the midnight train. I thought Bill could get a rig and drive to Faber. I thought he could take me away somehow before Wilfred got the news." "News? Great God!" cried Jap. "And such as you could win the golden heart of Bill Bowers! Come with me. If your husband takes the late train, there is still time to destroy that note. If he is already at home----" "He'd go to the office first, anyway," Rosy cried. "But I don't want to go home." "You're going home, no matter what the consequences," Jap told her. "And if you ever attempt to communicate with Bill again, I will have you put in an asylum. You are not capable of going through life sensibly." He walked her rapidly up the railroad track and through the streets that lay between the business part of Barton and her own pretty home. On the corner opposite the house he stopped, while she ran across the street in terror and rushed up the steps. She had told him that if all was yet well, she would appear at the window. As he stood there, his eyes glued on the great square of glass, some one touched him on the arm. He turned. It was Wilfred Jones. "Well, Daddy-long-legs," he said brusquely. "You think you turned a pretty trick. Well, it was a fair fight, and I'm all over it." Jap shook his hand mechanically, his eyes seeking the window from which Rosy was peering. "Tell Bill that bygones must be bygones," Jones continued, "for we want to get the two papers together on the main issue. The old man will come in on the senatorship on the strength of his race for governor. And I want to tell you a secret that makes me very happy--and will make Bill feel different. The doctor has just told me that these queer spells and moods that Rosalie has been having lately mean--Jap, do you understand? I will be a father before summer!" Jap wrung Jones's hand, a whirl of fancies going through his head. As he sought for suitable words of congratulation, a boy ran up. "I been chasin' all over town ahuntin' for you, Mr. Herron," he said breathlessly. "I got a telegram for you." Trembling with dread, Jap tore it open and read: "_Come home at once. Your sister Agnosia is here._--BILL." CHAPTER XXII The streets were deserted as Jap came from the station. In his state of mind, he did not reflect on the oddity of this circumstance. But had he reflected, the condition of traffic congestion at the corner near Blanke's drug store and the further congestion in front of the bank would have enlightened him. All the business men of Bloomtown, who had rushed to the _Herald_ office with important advertisements or news items, were reluctantly giving place to those who had discovered a sudden want of letter-heads. The telegraph office at Bloomtown was no secret repository, and in less than ten minutes after Bill had telegraphed Jap to hurry home the whole street knew that the beautiful vision that arrived on the 6:20 was Jap Herron's sister, Agnesia. And forthwith traffic filed that way. The vision arose as Jap entered the front door, and waited until he came into the private office. It was apparent that Bill had played host, to the limit of his meager resources. Agnesia's hat and fur-trimmed coat lay on the table of exchanges. "Well, Jappie," she laughed in silvery tones, "how long you are!" He took her little ringed hands in his and looked at her silently. Agnesia was the beauty of the family. Her golden curls fluffed bewitchingly about her face and her wide blue eyes smiled affectionately. "You are grown, too, Aggie. I have been thinking of you as a very little----" "Mercy!" she broke in. "Please, Jappie, don't drag that awful name to light. When I went to the new home, they mercifully killed Agnesia. I have been Mabelle Hastings so long that I had almost forgotten Aggie Herron. I gave that hideous name to your friend," she flung a gold-flashed smile at Bill, "because you had no sister Mabelle in the old days. Our folks made a bad selection of names for their progeny. And why Jasper? Why didn't they put the James first? It sounds so much more human." "Not a bit of it!" declared Bill. "What is there about James? This town had to have its Jap Herron. No substitute would have made good." She slipped a glance through her long lashes at Bill. "I called him 'Jappie,'" she confided. "I was a lisping baby and couldn't say 'Jasper.' Dear old Jappie, how he slaved for me! And I was a tyrant, demanding service every minute of the day." Jap's face clouded. "Aggie is a bigbug now," came surging into his memory, as a wizened face obtruded itself between the laughing eyes of his sister and his own. The girl noted the swift change. She took his handy her voice quivering with appeal. "I know what you are thinking about," she said. "But I could not help it, Jappie. We don't have to keep up the pretense before Mr. Bowers. He knows the worst, I take it. Jappie, you may not remember, but when Mrs. Hastings adopted me, my mother had reported that she would either turn me out or give me to the county. Afterward my foster-mother took me away from Happy Hollow when she saw that our mother was bringing disgrace on all of us. She sacrificed her home and moved far enough away so that no smirch could come to me. You don't know, brother, and I would never want you to know the dreadful things she did. I had not heard from her since she married that drunken brute, until she came to the house one hot day. When she found no one at home, she laid down on the porch and went to sleep, drunk and unspeakably filthy. She was there when we returned with a party of friends. Can you imagine it, Jappie?" Jap nodded his head slowly. "Mrs. Hastings had her taken out of town, and told her if she came there again she would have her put in an asylum for drunkards. After that she threatened to descend upon Fanny Maud. Fanny could not afford to have her career spoiled. Perhaps we were cruel. I read the scorching letter you wrote to Fanny after her--after mother's death. But Fanny was not angry with you, and--and she was willing to have me come to you now. Next spring she will graduate in vocal music from the highest university in the country, and then she goes to Paris to study under the artists there. Jappie, she has made a large part of it, herself, teaching and singing in the church choir, and studying whenever she had enough money ahead. At last Uncle Francis died and left her a snug little sum, and she went to New York, where they say her voice is a wonder. We should be proud of her. She wants you to come with me in June to hear her sing when she graduates." Jap stared at the floor. She laid her hand coaxingly on his shoulder. "Of course Jap will go!" Bill's brown eyes were glowing. Jap looked across at him in astonishment and wonder. His brain reeled. The day had been too full. "And you?" the girl queried, smiling into those dancing brown eyes. "We can't both go at once," he blurted. "The paper has to come out on time." She arose and wandered through the rooms that occupied the lower floor of the building, stepping from a hasty and uncomprehending glance at the press room and the composing room to dwell with critical eye on the big, bare office. "You need a little fixing up," she commented. "You should have a nice rug and shades, and a roll-top desk and swivel chair." "So we should," lamented Bill, looking around with an air of disapproval. "But not having anybody to tell us----" He stopped short, embarrassed. "I guess that I will have to keep house for Jappie, and boss the office too. That is, if you want me, Jappie," she appealed. "Mrs. Hastings died last March, and I have been with Fanny ever since. My foster-mother left me well provided for. I won't be a burden, Jappie," she cried. "We have all made good. We must rejoice together." Bill was half way across the office in his excitement. "You can take Flossy's house," he burst out. "It's ready any time, because Pap had it completely overhauled after the tenants moved out. It's the only ready-furnished house in Bloomtown and----" His voice lowered and there was a note of wistfulness in it. "Jap, Flossy would be so happy!" Jap surveyed his erstwhile desperate friend with a gleam of merriment. As yet, Bill did not know but that his sacrificing partner was a fugitive from the law. He had not even remembered to ask about the well-being of Wilfred Jones and his wife. "Perhaps Aggie--Mabelle," he hastily corrected, "is just joking. She would hardly like to bury herself in this little town after New York. There would be so little to compensate." "Oh, I don't fear that I will regret New York," said Mabelle, letting her blue eyes dwell on Bill's ingenuous countenance for a throbbing moment. "Really, Jappie, there's nothing to regret." Bill's heart turned over twice. His face was appealing. He met Jap's dancing eyes defiantly. "Well," said Jap, "you might get the keys and show the cottage to Ag--Mabelle, and see how much enthusiasm it provokes. Perhaps it would make a better first impression by electric light. Here, put an extra bulb in your pocket, if one happens to be missing," and he drew out the table drawer, where many things lay hidden. Bill was helping Mabelle on with her coat, his well-set body charged with electricity that was strangely illuminating to Jap. As the two left the office, a few minutes later, a teasing voice called after them: "Remember, Bill, that you took on a pile of orders this evening, and we were loaded to the guards with job work already." CHAPTER XXIII Jap looked up as a shadow fell across the door of the composing room. "Well," he queried quizzically, "what about it?" "Well," Bill repeated, drawing the girl into the room after him, "Mabelle thinks that the cottage needs a bathroom and about a wagon load of plumbing, besides paint and paper. Otherwise, it's all right." Mabelle slipped past him and approached the case. Standing on tiptoe beside the high stool, she laid a hand coaxingly on the strong, angular shoulder. "Now, Jappie, boy, iron out that worry-frown. I am going to do the fixing up myself. It shan't cost you a cent." "No!" Jap exploded. "Now, dear boy, forget your pride. I have lots and lots of money, and this is to be my home." "The firm is not insolvent," suggested Bill. "It isn't a matter for the firm," Jap said gravely. "The cottage belongs to me, and we can't allow our finances to get mixed. I'm willing to have you put in all the repairs that I can afford." His mind reverted to Flossy, happy and clean without a bathroom. "Let me take a mortgage on the property for whatever the work costs," Mabelle pleaded, her lips puckering irresistibly. Jap descended from the stool and caught her in his arms. Somehow she had, all at once, become his baby sister again. The episode of the straw stack loomed before him. She had puckered her lips just like that when she fled to him for protection. With little coquettish touches, she slipped one arm around his neck, while she smoothed his red locks gently. Bill, looking on, was overcome by an unaccountable restlessness. "What a pity Isabel isn't home!" he blurted. And Bill never knew why he had recourse to Isabel at that moment. The observation bore the desired fruit. Mabelle freed herself from her brother's embrace, with the pained exclamation: "Isabel not at home! Oh, Jappie, I have just been waiting for you to tell me about her. Ever since we read in the paper--and the one little reference to her in your letter to Fanny----" She stopped, her blue eyes filling with tears. "They went away just after the election was over," Bill explained. "Iz wouldn't leave Jap while the thing was in doubt, not even for her mother." "I don't think that's quite square," Jap interposed. "Mrs. Granger didn't want to go at all, and only consented when Dr. Hall told her how ill Isabel was. The rest of us knew that Mrs. Granger couldn't live through another winter here; but he had to make Isabel's poor health the pretext when he sent them to Florida for the cold weather." "Is she--is she seriously sick?" Mabelle asked tremulously. "The mother, I mean." "It's a desperate hope, a kind of last resort," Bill vouchsafed. "I heard Doc Hall talking to Tom Granger in the bank, the morning before they left. He said he didn't want to scare him, but he wanted to prepare him for the worst, I thought." "I'm sure if Isabel were at home, she'd insist on your coming right to her," Jap said slowly. "Bill and I have been bunking together up there," he jerked his thumb in the direction of the ceiling. "We have a bedroom and a little combination living-room, dressing-room and library. The library's Bill's part. We take our meals at the hotel, down in the next block. The hotel isn't bad for a town of this size." "Oh, I've already met the hotel," Mabelle laughed. "Bill--Mr. Bowers took me there to dinner this evening while we were waiting for you to come home." "Aw, chuck that 'Mr. Bowers,'" Bill interrupted. "I'm plain Bill to everybody in this town, and I guess Jap's sister can call me that." "The hotel, as I was saying," Jap resumed, "will have to take care of you for the present till you can get a bathroom attachment for the cottage. It'll probably be lonely for you, just at first." "I'll see to it that Mabelle meets all the best people in town," Bill offered. The temporary housing problem settled, they returned to the discussion of repairs necessary and repairs superfluous. After two hours of parley, Jap consented to let his energetic sister work her will on Flossy's cottage. It was after midnight when the girl had been established in her room at the hotel, and Jap and Bill tumbled into bed. The shank of that night had wrought miracles for unsuspecting Bloomtown. A vision of blue eyes, red lips and golden tresses kept floating through Bill's dreams, a vision that bore not the least resemblance to Rosy Raymond. Meanwhile Jap stalked through one dream controversy after another with plumbers, painters and the other defilers of Flossy's home. By noon on Monday Mabelle had Bloomtown by the ears, and by the end of the week it was all up with Bill. Jap had to hire a boy to help get out the _Herald_. It consumed all of Bill's time threatening and cajoling merchants into the prompt delivery of supplies, and seeing to it that the workmen were on the job when Mabelle arrived at the cottage in the morning. Bloomtown carpenters, paper hangers and plumbers usually took their own sweet time. They had a great awakening when Mabelle employed them. With Bill to pour oil on the troubled waters, strikes were narrowly averted. One morning, soon after the radiant one arrived, Kelly Jones wandered into the office, where a lively dispute with the boss plumber was under way. In ten minutes, Kelly had fallen a victim to the little tyrant. "'Tain't no use talkin' about her gittin' along without a cellar," he confided to Jap. "I'll dig it myself, and that'll save all this row about how the pipes is got to run. I ain't got nothin' much to do, now the corn's all in. And it's lucky we ain't had a hard freeze. The ground's fine for diggin'," and the following morning he was on the job. For two months Bloomtown was demoralized. A cellar made possible a furnace, and the elimination of stoves called for a fireplace in the living-room, a fireplace framed in by soft blue and yellow tiles. One by one Mabelle added her receipted bills to the packet of documents that would go into the making of that mortgage on Jap's property. One by one the housewives of Bloomtown demanded of their paralyzed husbands bathrooms, cellars, furnaces, tiled fireplaces. At last the agony was over. A load of furniture had arrived from the city, and Bill, as usual, left his stickful of type and hastened to superintend the transfer of it from the freight depot to the cottage. The evening shadows were lengthening in the office when he returned. Jap had gone up-stairs to get out a rush order on the job press, and there was a little commotion on the stairway just before Bill presented himself, his brown eyes full of trouble. Jap looked at him, and his heart sank. Had it come to this? Mabelle, in spite of her scanty years, was older than Bill. She must have known. The whole town knew. "For goodness' sake, Bill, don't pi this galley," he shouted, bending over the imposing stone. "Look where you're going. I wish that Mabelle would wake to the fact that you have a half-hearted interest in this office. She thinks you have nothing to do but keep tagging on her errands." The office cat rubbed her sleek side against Bill's leg. "Get out and let me alone!" he screamed, jumping with nervous irritation. "Don't do that, Bill," Jap said firmly. "What's the matter with you, anyway? You are as pernickety as a setting hen, as Kelly said yesterday. When even Kelly begins to notice your aberrations it's time for you to get a wake-up. Are you sick? Have things gone wrong?" Bill walked over to the window and ran his thumb down the pane of glass absently. "Jap, have you that mortgage handy--all that business that Mabelle gave you?" Jap went to the safe and took out the packet of papers. "Why?" he asked, as he glanced through the long list of items. "Has my sister thought of anything else she absolutely needs? In another week, I'll owe her more than the cottage is worth." Bill took the documents gingerly. His mobile face flamed. "I--I--want to take up the deeds," he stammered. Jap whirled to face him. "You see," stuttered Bill, "I--that is, we--Mabelle and I, we----" Jap sprang forward, lithe as a panther, and caught Bill by the arm. Drawing him to the light, he looked full in the embarrassed face. "Where is she?" he shouted. "Where is that sister of mine? Where is she hiding?" The girl came from the dark hall, her eyes defiant, her head set with charming insolence on one side. Jap struggled with his self-possession an instant. Then a great, gurgling laugh shook his shoulders as he gathered the pair into his long arms. "Golly Haggins!" the expletive of his boyhood leaped to his lips, "I'm glad the agony is over. Now perhaps we will be able to get the _Herald_ to our subscribers on time." CHAPTER XXIV "Tom Granger got a telegram," announced Bill, coming into the office one morning early in April. "He wants to see you at once, Jap." Jap's face blanched. He looked dumbly at Bill. "No, it's not her," Bill hastened to say. "It's her mother." Jap stumbled awkwardly up the walk to the Granger home. The letters from Isabel had been far from reassuring, and only the previous day Dr. Hall had sounded a warning that the care of the invalid was too much for the girl, taxed as she was in both mind and body. Into Jap's consciousness there crept the thought that she had never fully recovered from those terrible weeks when she hovered over him. Tom Granger met him at the door. His eyes were red with weeping. He drew Jap into the parlor and gave him two telegrams. "This came at midnight," he said brokenly. Jap read: "Mother sinking. Come. ISABEL." "And this just arrived," Granger choked, as the fatal words met Jap's eye: "Mother dying. Come. Bring Jap. ISABEL." "The train leaves in half an hour. I don't have to ask you anything, my boy." Jap turned and hastened away. He did not weaken Granger's feeble strength with words of sympathy. It was the afternoon of the second day when the two stood with Isabel at the foot of the bed. Alice Granger lifted her heavy lids, and a gleam of recognition shone in her eyes. Swiftly those two, the husband and the child, drew near, eager for any word that might pass the stiffening lips. Jap stood looking sorrowfully down on her as they knelt at her side. "Jap," she whispered, "you, too," and her feeble fingers drew him. With a choked sob he knelt beside Isabel. The mother fumbled with the covers until her hand, icy cold, touched his. Instantly his firm, strong hand closed over it. She smiled and murmured: "Tom. Isabel." They leaned over her in a panic of fear. "Isabel's hand," she breathed, and placed the two hands together. "Tom, there is time," she whispered; "I want----" She sank helpless. "I know what you would say," cried Granger, the tears streaming down his face. "You want him to be our son before--before you say good-bye." A flash of joy illumined her thin face. She sighed contentedly. A minister was hastily summoned, and a half hour later Isabel sobbed her grief in the arms of her husband, as they stood awaiting the coming of the Death Angel. "It made such a difference in her feeling toward you, your illness at our house," Tom said, looking down upon her closed eyes and fluttering lips. "She never understood you, and in her quiet way she was always reserving judgment, when I used to talk so much about you. A mother finds it hard to think any man is the right one for her only child, and she was so dependent on Isabel. She hadn't any doubts, after she saw you in that dreadful fever, with all your soul laid bare to us. She knew Isabel would be safe, and after that she stopped worrying." A grim hand caught at Jap's throat, as Tom sank on his knees and buried his face in the pillow to smother his sobs. Into his memory there came the words of Flossy: "When your mother came, there was a revelation. I don't fear for your future now. And when I knew this, Jap, I suddenly felt tired and old." Flossy had clung to life until he had found the woman who could take her place. Then, all at once, she let go. And now Alice Granger, an invalid for twenty-three years, had relaxed her feeble hold on life when she knew that her child was in safe and gentle hands. Must Death forever draw its grim fingers between him and his happiness? He looked at his bride, fragile as a spring flower, and a great fear rushed over him. Dumb, he stood there, stroking Isabel's hair with futile caresses. At last the glazing eyes opened, and Alice Granger said faintly: "Tom, not alone." "Not alone?" he cried in anguish. "Always alone without you, Alice." She only smiled--and then she fell asleep. It was a strange wedding journey. Between the half-crazed father and the exhausted wife, Jap was taxed to the uttermost. Isabel, for once helpless, lay white and silent in the compartment, too weak to do more than cling to her one tower of strength, while Tom Granger rent Jap's sympathetic heart with his unreasoning grief. At length nature demanded her own; from sheer exhaustion they slept. Jap left them alone and stood out on the platform between the coaches. "Is my life always to hold grief?" he queried of his soul. A throb of fear tore at his consciousness. Isabel's death-white face arose before him. "No!" he cried fiercely, "there is a God. He will not take all from me." He went back into the car and, kneeling beside his sleeping wife, prayed madly to his God for mercy. The grasses were green along the tracks, and the blue violets lifted their rain-washed faces as the familiar stations loomed in sight near the journey's end. At the last station below Bloomtown, Bill and Dr. Hall entered the sleeper. "We have everything arranged," Dr. Hall said to Jap, while Bill fought with his tears. "Isabel Granger has gone through too much to stand the harrowing experience of a funeral. The carriages are waiting, and it has all been attended to at the cemetery. We'll just have a short service out there, and I want you to keep her in the carriage with you. Bill and I did things with a high hand, but it had to be so. I wouldn't risk having the girl look into her mother's grave. She couldn't stand it." The platform was crowded with friends, and Tom Granger was responding to sympathetic greetings with tears he did not try to hold. Jap half carried Isabel to the nearest carriage, and Dr. Hall took his place with them. Bill had hurried to meet Mabelle, who tactfully drew Tom Granger into the second carriage, in which the minister sat waiting. In a dream the well known landmarks of Bloomtown passed before Jap's eyes. There was the quick jolt that marked the crossing of the railroad tracks, and then the cool green of the cemetery came into view. While the brief service was read, Jap held Isabel tight to his aching breast. His eyes wandered away beyond the yellow mound of earth, and in the hazy distance he saw his City of Hope. The young grass smiled above the mounds that held the empty shells of those he had loved, the first in all the world who had loved him. On Flossy's straight white shaft he read "I Hope." That was all. After the slow cortège had moved its way back to town, Mabelle left the carriage and approached her brother. Bill, with his face frankly tear-stained, was beside her. The coachman had descended from his box, and was opening the door. "Let me take her--let me take your sweetheart to our cottage," she pleaded. Leaning past him, she took one of Isabel's black-gloved hands. "Dear, I am Jappie's sister. I want to have you with me until you are better." Tom Granger sat up and leaned out of the carriage, so that all could hear him. "Jap is coming home with us," he said. "He is my son. He was married to Isabel just before her mother left us." And it was thus that after well-nigh three years of waiting Bloomtown celebrated the long-expected happiness of her best loved son. CHAPTER XXV Isabel had a long, lingering illness. It was plainly impossible for Jap and Mabelle to go to New York to see Fanny Maud make her debut. Mabelle had been a ministering angel, so faithful in her care of the invalid that an unreasoning jealousy blotted the grin of contentment from Bill's face as he uncomplainingly took the brunt of work at the office. Jap was too abstracted to notice the Associate Editor's woe. One day, when rosy June was just bursting its buds, he glanced hurriedly through the columns of the _Herald_, still damp from the press. He started, and looked keenly at Bill. Second column, first page, under a double head that reduced the day's political sensation to minor importance, he read: "OUR NEIGHBOR REJOICES; TWINS COME TO THE EDITOR OF THE BARTON STANDARD." "Whew!" he whistled. Bill looked up. The red flew to his cheeks. "Both boys," he commented, folding papers rapidly. "Be in line for pages, when old Brons lands in the Halls of Justice." Jap hurried home to tell the news. Isabel, still pale and weak, was lying in the hammock on the screened porch. She laughed, her old merry laugh, when Jap told her of Rosy Raymond's achievement. Mabelle tossed her yellow curls. "Well, I don't think she was worrying Bill," she snapped. "There is no heavier blow to romance than twins," Jap said. "Maybe she will call them Jap and Bill," crisped Mabelle, and stopped short when her brother walked abruptly to the other end of the porch. "I hope that it won't fluster you to know that Bill and I are going to be married before Fanny Maud leaves for Europe," she flung at him. "I want that haughty sister of mine to know that I am marrying a real man." Jap came swiftly back. "Have you taken Bill into your confidence, Sis?" he asked, patting Isabel's shoulder gently, as he smiled his whimsical smile at Mabelle. "You're naughty to tease her so," his wife chided. "Bill and I are going to New York on our wedding trip, just as soon as Isabel can spare me. I want Fanny Maud to see----" She stopped, then took the bit in her teeth. "Jappie, you never knew why I ran away from New York last Thanksgiving. Of course I told Bill all about it long ago. Fanny and I certainly don't agree when it comes to men. I can't imagine she will approve of Bill, after the one she picked for me." Further confidence was cut short by the appearance of Bill, turning the corner. She arose and ran to meet him. "Poor Bill," Jap laughed, as the two came arm in arm up the shady lawn. Before her designs upon Bill could be executed, a strange thing happened. Fanny Maud and a company of musicians made a summer concert tour. It was only a little run from the city, and such an aggregation of artists as Bloomtown's wildest dreams had never visioned descended upon the town. The hotel was taxed to its uttermost capacity, with six song birds, an orchestra, three lap dogs, and an Impresario whose manner implied that he had designs other than professional on the leading soprano. Her stay was short, and left an impression of perfume, fluffy ruffles, French and haste. Her manager consented to have her sing for Jap and Isabel. Bloomtown stood out in the road, listening, agape. Perhaps Kelly Jones had been to Barton that summer night, for he declared that cats were climbing out of Tom Granger's chimneys, screeching for help, and a man kept scaring them worse by howling at them. When Fanny Maud reached the famous high note she was justly proud of, Kelly clapped his hands to his stomach and yelled for mercy. "That's clawsick music," abjured Bill, who was sitting on the lawn with Mabelle. Kelly looked at them with sorrow. "I was skeered that she had busted her throat, and all the sound was comin' out to onct," he complained. The last night of the brief but exciting visit Bill and Mabelle were quietly married. Quietly--yes and no. Mike Hawking rallied the band and all the tinware in town to celebrate. Mabelle was indignant at first, but soon began to enjoy the fun, and created the happiest impression on the older generation of Bloomtown by insisting on marching arm in arm with Kelly Jones at the head of the procession. After Bill had given his solemn oath never to repeat the offense the "chivaree" broke up, with wild yells of congratulation. They took up residence in Mabelle's cottage. By consensus of opinion it was Mabelle's cottage. The town in fact so thoroughly recognized Mabelle, in the possessive case, that Jap cautioned Bill against the contingency of being referred to as "Mabelle's husband." Bill was proud of his wife, and when fortune brought him lucre, from the long-forgotten bit of Texas land that suddenly showed oil, he began to improve the whole street by putting out trees. As Jap feelingly declared, Mabelle had even improved the dirt under the doorstep of the cottage, and Bill was fairly pushed out on the street for improving to do. Under her fostering care, Bill had learned to make violent demands on the Town Board. And they, the aldermen of Bloomtown, bent on pursuing the even tenor of their way at any hazard, had to adjust themselves to a new ebullition from Bill every Tuesday night. But Bill and Mabelle were not doomed to see their enthusiasm go up in vapor. It bore, instead, the most substantial fruit. The barren, treeless town was beginning to grow shade for the aldermen to rest under in their old age. Kelly Jones said that if Jap had brought Mabelle with him, instead of waiting fourteen years to import her, the town would be larger than St. Louis. As it was, Bloomtown might yet run that city a swift race. Mabelle set the fashions; told the School Board how to run the schools; the preachers how to make their churches popular; the mothers how to train their children. And the Town Fathers all carried their hats in their hands when she breezed down the street. Jap and Isabel watched and smiled, serene in the happiness that was theirs. "How wonderful it is, Jap, dear," said Isabel, standing in the sunset glow, on that Easter Sunday, after the year had flown. The last red gleam touched the tip of the monument to Ellis Hinton, that had been erected by Bloomtown and dedicated that morning. Together they had gone to the cemetery, when the crowd would not be there, Isabel's arms full of garlands for the low green tents of their loved ones. "It seemed that Flossy must be smiling at you as you stood there, saying the marvelous things that must have come to you direct from the lips of your spirit father. Ellis Hinton spoke through you when you told the story of our town." Jap drew her tenderly to the fostering shadow of the monument and pressed her to his heart. Her face was glorified as she looked up into his. "Oh, Jap, what if Ellis had never lived!" Jap drew her close. Many hours had he wrought with his fear, but now the roses had come again to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. He looked over the City of Peace, and his own eyes were full with joy. "But, thank God, Ellis did live." And arm in arm they walked back to Ellis Hinton's real town. As they crossed the railroad tracks, Kelly Jones came ambling down from the station, where a large contingent from the vicinity of the steel highway between Barton and Bloomtown waited for the evening "Accommodation." "Gimmeny!" he exclaimed, clapping Jap on the shoulder, "I sure was proud of Ellis's boy to-day. Ellis says to me, the day he went away, says he, 'Watch my boy, Kelly. He is goin' to put the electricity in Bloomtown's backbone,' and, by jolly, you done it! I reckon you felt proud," he went on, turning to Isabel, "when Wat Harlow called Jap the man that made Bloomtown a real town, and the crowd yelled, 'Yes.' Well, ma'am, for a minute I shook and grunted. And then the wife said, 'Wait a bit,' so I waited. And when Jap got up and told the folks that not Jap Herron but a greater man than he ever hoped to be, had cradled and nussed Bloomtown and learnt her to walk, I might' nigh split my guzzle yellin' for joy. Did you hear me yellin', 'Hurrah for Ellis's boy!' And did you hear the crowd say it after me?" As Isabel took his hardened hand in hers, her eyes overflowed. "Jap is Ellis," she said gently, "to you and to his town. I know it, and I am glad." CHAPTER XXVI Bill sat doubled over the case, the stick held listlessly in his hand. Nervously he fingered the copy, not knowing what he was reading. From time to time he slid down from the stool and lounged across the big office to the street door. Vacantly he returned the greetings of his townsmen, as he gazed past them, across the corner of the little park that lay, brown and gold, in the glory of Indian Summer, across the intervening street where Tom Granger's sedate old house looked out on the leaf-strewn lawn. He could see Tom Granger, pacing up and down the walk. He could see Jap, sitting under the great elm, his face hidden in his hands. "Poor old Jap," Bill muttered, brushing aside a tear, as he returned once more to his case, "life has slammed him so many tough licks that he is always cringing, afraid of another lick." The morning wore on. Bill gave up the effort at type-setting and tried to apply himself to the exchanges, so that he could the better watch the front of that house. He was near the door, trying to read, when, all at once, Tom stopped pacing. Jap sprang up and bounded across the lawn and into the front door. A white-capped nurse ran through the wide hall, and in a little while Mabelle put her head out of an upper window and peered over at the office. Bill pushed his chair back and tramped heavily to the pavement. Then he tramped back again. "Certainly there are enough of them to let somebody come here with news," he growled. "They don't seem to know that there are telephones--or that I would care." Half an hour dragged. Then, all alone, his face shining with holy joy, Jap hurried to the office. For a moment neither could speak. Hand in hand, heart beating with heart, they stood looking into each other's eyes. Then Jap said huskily: "Do you remember what Ellis said, that day when his greatest joy came?" Bill flung his arms around Jap and hugged him lustily. "Get out all the roosters?" he cried, tears gushing from his brown eyes. "And," said Jap slowly, "Isabel wants to call him Jasper William." THE END 
46001	----	A Parody _on_ Iolanthe BY _D. DALZIEL_ EDITOR of the Chicago NEWS. LETTER. The whole Illustrated _by_ H. W. McVickar. [Illustration] _Published_ by D. DALZIEL The Halch Lithographic Co. New York. MDCCCLXXXIII [Illustration] A PARODY on IOLANTHE (_Respectfully dedicated to the Conductors of the Chicago & Alton Railroad._) (BY D. DALZIEL, EDITOR OF THE CHICAGO NEWS-LETTER.) SCENE.--_A fairy glade on the Chicago & Alton Railway, at Holy Cross, Illinois. The country bears evidence of the utmost prosperity. It is early in June, yet the fields for miles in every direction are waving with already ripened grain that is going to take first prize at the next National Exhibition. The ensuing scene occurs in the brief interval allowed for purposes of safety between the trains on this road. Chorus of fairies, discovered dancing over the wheat stocks._ (_Enter_ ROCKY MOUNTAIN FAIRIES, _led by_ LEILA, CEILA, _and_ FLETO.) CHORUS. Tripping always, tripping ever, By each glen, each rock, each river, We must twirl and we must twine Round about the Alton line. SOLO. LEILA-- If you ask us how we ride, See our cars and step inside: Cars of most convenient size, Cars enchanting tourists' eyes, Pullman Palace sleeping cars, Free from dust, from noise, from jars; Cars with soft reclining chairs, Where we nestle free from cares; Cars no cynic can place fault on, Chicago, Kansas City, Alton. Spite of distance, time, or weather, See three cities link'd together. CEILA--That is extremely true and very pretty. Moreover, it is a very noble employment, this acting in behalf of the foremost railway of the world. Still, we are not altogether happy. Since our queen banished Iolanthe, our life has not been a transcendent one. LEILA--Ah, Iolanthe was a whole team, and, like the Alton Road, she was the only one in the crowd who carried a proper train. But according to the laws of Fairydom, she committed an unpardonable sin. The fairy who marries a mortal must die. CEILA--But Iolanthe is not dead. (_Enter_ FAIRY QUEEN.) QUEEN--No, because your queen, who loved her as much as a member of the State legislature loves a railway pass, commuted her sentence to travel for life on other lines, and sooner than do it she confined herself in a pond. LEILA--And she is now working out her sentence in Iowa. QUEEN--Yes. I gave her the choice of States. I am sure I never intended that she should go and live under a culvert beneath the bank of an Iowa railway. LEILA--It must be damp there, and her chest was always delicate. QUEEN--Yes. An Iowa railway is hardly the place to send a delicate chest. Even an iron-bound trunk has no show on any other line than the Chicago & Alton. I do not understand why she went there. ALL--How terrible; but, O Queen, forgive her. QUEEN--I've half a mind to. LEILA--Make it half and half, and wholly do it. QUEEN--Well, it shall be as you wish. Arise, Iolanthe. (IOLANTHE _arises_.) IOLANTHE--Must I again reflect my grievous fault on---- [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] QUEEN--Oh, no; we bring you back to bliss and Alton. And now tell me: with all the world to choose from, why on earth did you go to live at the bottom of that Iowa culvert? IOLANTHE--To be near my son Strephon. QUEEN--Your son! I didn't know you had a son. I hardly think you'd oughter, Iolanthe. IOLANTHE--He was born shortly after I left my husband at your royal command. LEILA--What is he? IOLANTHE--He is an Arcadian brakesman. He is one of those extremely pure young persons who have passed a competitive examination of intelligence before they can become _anything_ on the Alton Road. Ah, here he is. (_Enter_ STREPHON.) STREPHON-- Good morrow, good mother; I'm to be married to-morrow. IOLANTHE--Then the Counselor has at last given his consent to your marriage with his beautiful ward Phyllis. STREPHON--Alas! no. He is obdurate. He wants nothing less than a General Passenger Agent. QUEEN--But how to get round this difficulty with the Counselor. Should you like to be a General Passenger Agent? STREPHON--That would hardly do. You see I am half human, half fairy. My body is of the Alton Fairy kind, but my legs are of another line, and would be likely to take me on the wrong track. QUEEN--Well, your fairyhood doesn't seem to have interfered with your digestion. STREPHON--It is the curse of my existence. What's the use of being half a fairy? My body can go through the air-brake pipe, but if my legs ever get between the couplers, I'm a goner. There is one advantage: by making myself invisible down to the waist, I have collected damages from one railway company several times, because they couldn't find the rest of me after an accident. My legs, I suppose, will die some day, and then what will be the use of my bust? I can't satisfy Phyllis with half a husband. QUEEN--Don't let your legs distract you. They shall be our peculiar care. The Alton does nothing by halves. So farewell, attractive stranger. [_Exit all._ (_Enter the entire corps of officers of all the railways west of Chicago, except the C. & A. They are accompanied by a band, in which the instruments are exclusively and appropriately made of brass. The blowers in this band are the employés of the railway officers._) OFFICERS-- Loudly let the trumpet bray. Tan-tan-ta-ra, tan-tan-ta-ra! Proudly bang the sounding brasses, tzing, boom! As upon its lordly way this unique procession passes. Tan-tan-ta-ra, tan-tan-ta-ra! etc., Tzing, boom, tzing, boom! etc. Bow, bow, ye lower trav'ling masses. Bow, bow, ye folks who ask for passes; Blow the trumpets, bang the brasses. Tan-tan-ta-ra! Tzing, boom! etc., etc. (_At conclusion, enter_ COUNSELOR.) COUNSELOR-- The law is the true embodiment Of everything that's excellent; It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, for cash, expound the law; A constitutional lawyer I, For a great railway society; A very agreeable post for me, While my railway planks down its fee; A solid occupation for A money-making counselor. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] CHORUS OF OFFICERS. COUNSELOR-- And though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can't be denied, I feel its inconvenient side; For she has lots of Alton stock, As good as gold, and firm as a rock. But there'd be the deuce to pay, O Lord, If I patch'd up a match with my wealthy ward, Which rather gets up my dander, for I'm such a susceptible counselor. So if a director would marry my ward, He must come to me for my accord; In the Alton office I'll sit all day, To hear what agreeable men may say. But Phyllis declares she's not for he, She's not for thou, and she's not for thee, She wont have you, and she wont have ye, Because her mind is made up for A Chicago & Alton director. (_Enter_ LORD BEESEEKEW.) LORD B.--And now let us proceed to the business of the day. Few of us have done any business for many days. COUNSELOR--True. Let us proceed more rapidly than your trains. Phyllis, my ward, has so powerfully affected you that you have let all your railways go to eternal smash, and you have asked me to give her to whichever one of you I may select. It would be idle for me to deny that I, too, have been wonderfully attracted to this young woman. My affection for her is rapidly undermining my constitution, just as it has undermined the constitutions of all your railways. But we shall hear what she has to say herself, for here she comes. (_Enter_ PHYLLIS.) RECITATIVE. My well lov'd lord and guardian dear, You summoned me, and I am here. CHORUS OF GENERAL PASSENGER AGENTS. Oh, rapture! how beautiful, How gentle, how dutiful! (_Gen. Pass. Agents make a dumb appeal to_ PHYLLIS.) SONG. PHYLLIS-- I'm very much pain'd to refuse; My guardian you can't lay the fault on. The only young man I would choose Must be from the Chicago & Alton. That road so eclipses the rest, Its men are so handsome and hearty, That I know where to turn for the best, When I want a particular party. (_Enter_ STREPHON, _the brakeman_; PHYLLIS _rushes to him._) It must not, cannot be, Your suits my heart has riven; Yon jolly brakeman see, To him my heart is given. ALL THE G. P. A.'S--Jerusalem! COUNSELOR-- And who has dared to brave our high displeasure, And thus defy our definite command? STREPHON-- 'Tis I, young Strephon; mine, this rosy treasure; Against all lines I claim my darling's hand. (_Exit all the G. P. A.'s in disgust, and with as much dignity as if they belonged to the Alton Road._ STREPHON _and_ COUNSELOR _remain._) COUNSELOR--Now, sir, how dare you fall in love with my ward? STREPHON--Love knows no guardianship. We follow our inclinations. As I whirl along the Alton Road, all nature speaks of her love, and says "Take her." I read it on the face of the Sphinx Rock. William's Cañon thunders it forth, the Snowy Range melts in sympathy with our love, the Twin Lakes are one in wishing us joy, the Bowlder Falls leap with joy at our prospective union, and from Alton to Santa Fé every bird and bush and tree choruses our bliss; and can you say nay? [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] COUNSELOR-- Duty before pleasure. I always keep my duty before my eyes. When I went to the Alton, a very young man, Said I to myself, said I, I'll work on a new and original plan, Said I to myself, said I. I'll never assume that a road is O. K., That it's perfect, in fact, like the C. and the A., Till I've tried it my own and particular way, Said I to myself, said I. I'll never throw dust in a passenger's eyes, Said I to myself, said I, Recommending a road with buncombe and lies, Said I to myself, said I, Or pretend that some other roads of which we read Can equal the Alton for comfort and speed, Or supply all the luxuries travelers need, Said I to myself, said I. Ere I boast of the road, I will travel it through, Said I to myself, said I, And see that its officers do what they can do, Said I to myself, said I. So I went on the road from the first to the last, I travel'd with pleasure so safe and so fast, That I said, such a road can ne'er be surpass'd, Said I to myself, said I. On all other roads by which men may go, Said I to myself, said I, They're none of them safe, and they're all of them slow, Said I to myself, said I. The Chicago and Alton must still be A 1, For business, for pleasure, for health, or for fun, Or it never could have such a character won, Said I to myself, said I. (_This being rather a difficult song to sing, the_ COUNSELOR, _in reply to the deafening encore which he receives, will hand to each person in the audience a copy of the Langtry Map, a book of the Patience Parody, a copy of the Chicago News-Letter, and a folder of the Alton Road. Exit_ COUNSELOR, _with a skip._) STREPHON--It's too bad to be taken from Phyllis just when she was my own. (_Enter_ IOLANTHE.) IOLANTHE--What, my son in tears upon his wedding-day! STREPHON--The Counselor, who is Phyllis's guardian, separates us forever. IOLANTHE--Oh, if he only knew----No matter. The Queen of our road and its fairies shall protect you. See, here they come. (_Enter_ FAIRIES.) (STREPHON _embraces_ IOLANTHE, _sobbing. Enter_ PHYLLIS. _She sees_ STREPHON _embrace his mother, and starts violently._) SONG. STREPHON--The little girl I love has caught me talking to another. ALL--Oh, fie! Strephon is a rogue. STREPHON--But then, upon my honor, that other is my mother. CHORUS. Taradiddle, taradiddle, fol lol de lay. STREPHON-- She wont believe my statement, and declares we must be parted, Although I'm just as true as an Alton train when started; And if she gets another hub, a brakeman, broken-hearted, I shall be, taradiddle dee, taradiddle dee. QUEEN-- You cruel and heartless counselor to part them from each other; You've done him an injustice, for this lady _is_ his mother. COUNSELOR-- That yarn requires obesity its thinness well to cover; I didn't see her face, but he acted like her lover. And how could she, at seventeen, be an Alton brakeman's mother? [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] CHORUS. To say she is his mother is a fib as big as many. Oh fie! Strephon is a rogue; He'll next declare the Alton's not the best of any. Taradiddle, taradiddle dee. COUNSELOR-- I wouldn't say of either what would be thought injurious; But to find a mother younger than her son is very curious, Just as 't would be upon our road to drop an aught that's spurious. Fol de ridle, fol de ridle, fol lol lay. (_Tremulo music._) QUEEN--When next your convention does assemble, you may tremble. Our wrath when railroad heads offend us is tremendous. They must who underrate our calling "cut rates appalling." Take down our sentence as we speak it, and he shall wreak it. Henceforth, Strephon, cast away your brakeman suit and brakeman pay; another racket you shall play. Of the beauteous Alton Line, favorite Western road of mine, you a G. P. A. shall be. Gentlemen, what do you think of he? ALL--It should be him-- QUEEN-- I haven't time To think of my grammar; it's very good rhyme. And now take down my word and pleasure. Henceforth, your equal he shall be. Into your councils he shall come, in your debates he shall rule. Henceforth, it is the Alton Road you must imitate. ALL--Have mercy! QUEEN--From this time forth, you will have to run your trains on the same standard of excellence which marks the Alton. (_Hands every one of them a time-table of the C. & A._) ALL--Spare us! QUEEN--You will be forced to employ none but civil officials. ALL--Have mercy! QUEEN--The comfort of your passengers must be your primary consideration. (_Very solemnly._) _You will also be forced to run your trains according to your advertised time-table._ ALL--(_Shriek_)--Oh, spare us! spare us! QUEEN--And now depart. When next your council meets, Strephon will be one of you. (_Slow music. G. P. A.'s bow to_ STREPHON. _Business, etc. Curtain._) ACT II. SCENE--_Interior of the Chicago & Alton Railway at Chicago. Luxurious surroundings on all sides. Ticket office opens down to the inlaid mosaic floor. Handsome divans for passengers engaged in the purchase of tickets. At the gate, waiting for passengers as they go through in swarms, is_ WILLIS, _a handsome man, like all the other servants of this road, and also, like them, he is clothed in an expensive and becoming uniform._ WILLIS--(_Sings._) I often think it's comical, How nature always does incline To place the best of all its boys That's born into this world of mine In the road that only such employs-- The great Chicago & Alton Line. (_Enter_ FAIRIES _and_ G. P. A.'s.) LEILA--(_Who has been attracted by the officers_)--Charming persons, are they not? CEILA--They do very well, considering whom they work for. In Alton uniforms they would look very well. LORD BEESEEKEW--Well, we have done our best to imitate Alton, but it seems to be a failure. Why not stop this disgusting protégé of yours? CEILA--(_Crying_)--We can't stop him. The road has made too much headway. It is harder to kill than a Presidential boom in Indiana. (_Aside._) How beautiful they all are! (_Enter_ QUEEN, _who has overheard last remark._) [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] QUEEN--O you shameful flirts, always running after those railway men. Don't you know it's death to marry a mortal? CEILA--If it were, you'd have to execute all of us; but who wouldn't fall in love with a railroad man? LEILA--Especially a Chicago & Alton man, and we are not all as tough as you are. QUEEN--Am I tough? Look at that daisy! (_Pointing to_ WILLIS.) Who are you, sir? WILLIS--Ticket-taker Willis of the Chicago & Alton Railroad. QUEEN--You're a fine fellow, sir. WILLIS--Yes, mum, I belong to the Alton. QUEEN--(_Starts_)--The Alton! Ah! I, too, am not insensible to the charms of manly beauty. Look at that man! He is a fair specimen of the Alton employés--a perfect picture. WILLIS--Yes, mum, I am generally admired, although I do not compare favorably with my fellow-employés. The standard of beauty is very high on this road. (_Modestly retires._) QUEEN--The road has taste--(_To the_ FAIRIES.) Now here is a man belonging to the first road in the Union, whose physical beauty eclipses Apollo's. If I yielded to a natural impulse, I should at once be mashed by that man. But I mortify this inclination; I wrestle with it,--I subdue it, ha! ha! This is how I suppress my inclinations. SONG. O foolish fay, Think you, because his jacket gay My bosom thaws, I'd disobey Our fairy laws? Because I fly The road above, you think that I This man could love. (_Aside._) Type of Chicago & Alton, This heart of mine Is truly thine. 'Tis it I lay the fault on. (_Exit_ FAIRIES, _sorrowfully following_ FAIRY QUEEN.) (_Enter_ PHYLLIS.) PHYLLIS--I can't think why I am not in better spirits. I am engaged to one General Freight Agent and one General Passenger Agent, and could have the whole railway association if I only said the word. As for Strephon, I hate him. No girl would care for a young man who was considerably older than his mother--though nowadays there are a good many such floating about. (_Enter_ LORD BEESEEKEW.) LORD B.--Phyllis, my own! PHYLLIS--How dare you! But perhaps you are the Freight Agent--or the General Passenger Agent. LORD B.--I am--the latter. PHYLLIS--How did you secure the distinction? LORD B.--To be frank, because everybody was rushing for positions on the Alton, and they left the post uncovered. I have held the place a long time. PHYLLIS--Because nobody else would have it? LORD B.--Not so much that as because now the Alton has run our business down so, there is no money to pay salaries with, and I am willing to wait for mine. The stockholders appreciate my kindness. (_Enter_ LORD SEE EYEAR.) LORD S.--Dearest Phyllis! (_Embraces her._) PHYLLIS--The Freight Agent! Well, have you settled? Have you settled which of you it is to be? LORD S.--It isn't quite settled. We tossed for it, but we did it in a saloon where the dice always threw sixes. We got hold of the proprietor's private set. Suppose we leave the choice to you? PHYLLIS--How can it possibly concern me? You are both railway officials. You both get everything but your salaries, and I don't see where I am to choose. If one of you will throw up your share in your so-called railway, and admit the Alton to be, what it is, the first line in the world, I might perhaps take time to consider. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] LORD B.--We are too jealous to admit that, although we know it. The only resort now is for one of us to give way to the other. Perhaps, on the whole, she would be happier with me. LORD S.--The chances are in your favor. The one difficulty which remains is, that if you rob me of the girl I love I must kill you. I shall give you a pass over my railroad. LORD B.--(_Shrieks with fright_)--Not that! Not that! (_Bursts into tears._) LORD S.--I think you are right,--the sacrifice is too great. The sacred ties of friendship will not permit the wanton cruelties suggested, between men who love each other as we do. (_They embrace._) (_Enter_ COUNSELOR, _very sorrowful._) COUNSELOR--(_Recitative._) Love unrequited robs me of my rest, Although the Alton Line is still victorious; But in a song to tell my woes is best, If you, kind friends, will join me in the chorius. SONG. When on some snide road, with a terrible load, and an engine not up to an Alton one, You lie ill at ease, in a berth filled with fleas, all ready to make an assault on one, With your mind in a pother on this, that, and t' other, Because, in your doubt and perplexity, You travel'd this way, while happy as play Goes the Chicago & Alton just next t' ye. Then the counterpane tickles--you feel like mixed pickles, Your pillow as hard as a bullet, And your sheet is so small it wont cover at all, No matter 'tis which way you pull it; Then you rave, and you swear, and tear out your hair, With none but yourself to lay fault on, And swear by the Heaven, if once you're forgiven, To abjure all lines but the Alton. LORD B.--I am much distresst to find you so sad. COUNSELOR--I am; I acknowledge it. It is my double capacity which does it. I am her guardian and her suitor. In my latter capacity I am overawed by my duty in my other capacity. It unnerves me. LORD S.--It is hard. Just think of having two capacities. Let us be truly thankful that we have no capacity at all. But take courage; nothing that I ever heard of daunted a Chicago & Alton Railroad official. COUNSELOR--That is true, and I will be resigned. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ PHYLLIS. PHYLLIS--Strephon! STREPHON--Phyllis! But I forgot. I suppose I should, madam----let me see,--what name have you decided upon? PHYLLIS--I haven't quite made up my mind. You see, _I_ haven't any mother to advise me. STREPHON--No! I have. PHYLLIS--Yes, a very _young_ mother. STREPHON--Not very--a couple of centuries or so. PHYLLIS--She wears well. STREPHON--Of course she does. She was born and reared on the C. & A. line. Besides, she's a fairy. PHYLLIS--I beg your pardon--a what? STREPHON--A fairy. I've no longer a reason to conceal the truth. PHYLLIS--That would account for a good many things. Fairies nowadays are rather indiscreet. I suppose you are a fairy, too. STREPHON--I'm half a fairy and half a mortal. PHYLLIS--Not very substantial. But why didn't you tell me? STREPHON--I thought I might get myself disliked. There's no use loving half a man. PHYLLIS--Better that than to love a whole man, as they go nowadays. Forgive me. [Illustration] [Illustration] STREPHON--Think of the difficulties. My grandmother looks quite as young as my mother. So do all my aunts. PHYLLIS--Then, if I catch you kissing the chambermaid, I shall know she's only a relative in disguise. STREPHON--In that case, I will forgive you. PHYLLIS--Then we will be married at once. I will attend to the fairies afterward. But how about your mother? IOLANTHE--(_Entering._)--The old lady is here, and blesses you, my children,--or words to that effect. STREPHON--But how about her guardian? IOLANTHE--There is but one thing to do. I have been married to him for some years now. He is Strephon's father. STREPHON--At last! I am a wise child. IOLANTHE--And being his wife, I will assume my domestic duties. Have you a club handy? COUNSELOR--(_Enters jubilant_)--It's settled! Victory! victory! I put the case plainly to myself, although I must confess that when I addressed so important a personage as the legal adviser of the Chicago & Alton Railroad, I did so with many feelings of doubt in my mind. However, I took courage and pleaded my cause well. I said to myself, with the respect with which I always address myself, you are the legal adviser of the greatest railroad in the country, and, as such, you should not hesitate to exercise your _droits de seigneur_ and take the girl from all competitors. I was bound to admit the force of my own argument, and so won my case. I shall marry the girl without delay. There is nothing to stand in the way. IOLANTHE--(_Comes down._)--Excepting a mere trifle. COUNSELOR--And that is--but who are you? (_Starts._) Ah! Thou livest, Iolanthe? IOLANTHE--Never say die is the motto of the Alton Line. (_She falls into his arms._) QUEEN--(_Iolanthe kneels to her._)-- Once more thy vows are broken, The Fates thy doom has spoken. (_Enter_ EVERYBODY.) LEILA--Hold! If Iolanthe must die, so must we all, for we are equally guilty. QUEEN--Equally guilty! (_All kneel._) LORD S.--Pardon them. They could not help it. The ancient traditions surrounding railway officials were too much for them, and they married us. QUEEN--The traditions of our tribe must be imperative. They who marry mortals must die. There is no going back on the statutes. COUNSELOR--Hold! I haven't been helping the public to obey the law all these years for nothing. Let me give your statute a whirl. (_Looks it over._) Easy enough. Make it read that every fairy who marries outside the Alton Road shall die. QUEEN--Good idea. (_Does it._) And now where's Willis? WILLIS--Tickets, please. QUEEN--Yes, for the matrimonial line. How would you like to be a fairy ticket-taker? WILLIS--On the Chicago & Alton? QUEEN--That is the statute. WILLIS--It is one of the oldest traditions of this road that none of its employés can possibly be ill-bred, particularly to a lady. I am yours. QUEEN--And now the only way to save our tribe from annihilation is for all you gentlemen to obey the law. Remember that any fairy who marries other than a Chicago & Alton man must die. (_All shudder._) STREPHON--And I, being in the Alton Road, will immediately employ you all and absorb all your lines. It was bound to come to that sooner or later. COUNSELOR--The old wife is better than no wife, so here we all go to fairyland. (_The Alton uniform instantly covers them all, and their haggard, care-worn expressions are replaced by the happy, seraphic looks of men who habitually work for the C. & A. R. R._) [Illustration] [Illustration: Finis] [Illustration: _Jas. S. Kirk & Comp'y Soap Masters & Perfumiers North Side--Chicago_ =Jas. S. Kirk & Compy's Toilet Soaps= Highly Perfumed with natural odors--In boxes artistically designed--Packets elaborately enveloped. =Jas. S. Kirk & Compy's Concentrated Essences for the handkerchief= Flower odors--Rare degree of strength--And lasting. =Jas. S. Kirk & Compy's Zenithia Cologne= A delightful bouquet pronounced by connoisseurs to be the perfection of colognes.] "The Home Journal of The West." THE SATURDAY EVENING HERALD, CHICAGO, 89 CLARK STREET, GRAND OPERA HOUSE BLOCK. The HERALD is now in its ninth year, and has achieved a reputation as a Literary, Critical and Social authority. It publishes more critical matter, society reports and pure literature than any other weekly in the West. The special departments of this most successful family and society journal are as follows: 1. =Literature, Book Reviews, Essays, Poems, Stories, Sketches.= 2. =Social Reports and Gossip, Fashion Articles=, and Discussions of Home Topics. 3. =Musical and Dramatic News, Criticism and Correspondence.= 4. =Correspondence from the principal Eastern and European cities.= 5. =Watering Place Reports and Notes of Travel.= 6. =Amateur Rowing, Yachting and Athletic= Reports in their season. 7. =Editorial Discussions of Noteworthy Events and Important Topics, Observations and Scientific Papers.= Those who may not have seen the HERALD recently are invited to obtain a specimen copy and find how much more newsy and entertaining it is than ever before. [hand] All the leading Merchants and Railroads in Chicago indorse the SATURDAY EVENING HERALD, by constantly making use of its advertising columns. It is read by more people who have the means and the inclination to travel than any other weekly paper published in the West. [hand] It has received more complimentary notices from the press of Chicago than any other weekly paper ever issued in the city, and, throughout the city and vicinity, is regarded as _=a Social and Critical Authority=_. Subscription, only $2.00 per annum. LYMAN B. GLOVER. Address THE SATURDAY EVENING HERALD CO., JOHN M. DANDY. CHICAGO. E. R. PAIGE. [Illustration: CAMPING, BOATING, TENTS] FOR ANY AND ALL USES. DEALERS IN FISH NETS, SEINES AND TWINES AND ALL FISHING MATERIALS. GEO. B. CARPENTER & CO. (Successors to GILBERT HUBBARD & CO.) 202 TO 208 SOUTH WATER STREET, CHICAGO. CHAS. D. COLSON, IMPORTER, MANUFACTURER AND DEALER IN FIRE BRICKS Furnace Tiles, Cupola Linings, LOCOMOTIVE FIRE BOX TILES, Smoke Jacks and Chimney Pipes for Railroad Round Houses, _CULVERT PIPE, Etc._, _CONNELLSVILLE COKE_, _ALBANY MOULDING SAND_, _PLUMBAGO CRUCIBLES_, _FOUNDRY FACINGS & SUPPLIES_ Enameled Bricks in All Shapes and Colors, Hydraulic Cement. PROMPT SHIPMENT. PRICES AND QUALITY GUARANTEED. SEND FOR CIRCULAR AND CATALOGUES. 184 and 186 Washington St., CHICAGO, ILL. D. L. WELLS, Pres't. E. MARINER, Vice Pres't. H. L. NORTON, Sec'y and Treas. F. E. WALKER, Engineer. C.F. SCOVILLE, Manager. BRIDGE AND CAR WORKS OF THE WELLS & FRENCH CO. OFFICE: Hawley Building, cor. Madison & Dearborn Sts., CHICAGO, ILL. FREDRICK SCHNEIDER, MANUFACTURER AND DEALER IN Stained, Enameled, Embossed, Cut, Ground, Colored and Beveled GLASS For Door Panels, Transoms, Prescription Cases, Druggists' Signs, Railroad Cars, Steamboats, Offices, PUBLIC BUILDINGS, CHURCHES, ETC. ESTIMATES FURNISHED FOR CHURCH WORK OF ALL DESCRIPTIONS 80 and 82 MARKET STREET, Between Washington and Madison, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. CLIFTON HOUSE CHICAGO. RATES, $2.50 AND $3.00 PER DAY. WOODCOCK & LORING, PROPRIETORS. THE J. M. W. JONES Stationery and Printing Co. _COR. DEARBORN & MONROE STS., CHICAGO_, MANUFACTURERS OF The Stromberg Improved Coupon Ticket, AND CONSECUTIVELY NUMBERED RAILROAD TICKETS Blank Books and Railroad Blanks of Every Description Made to Order. LITHOGRAPHED DRAFTS, CHECKS, BONDS, ETC. DEALERS IN LIGHT RAILROAD SUPPLIES. Coupon and Local Ticket Cases. Dating Stamps, Rubber Stamps, Conductors' Punches, Car Seal Punches, =L=, =B C=, =2 C= and =1/2= Punches. BRASS BAGGAGE CHECKS, EYELETTING MACHINES, SEAL PRESSES, WAY-BILL COPYING PRESSES, HAT BADGES, FOLDER BOXES, TARIFF PORTFOLIOS, AND PASSENGER AND TICKET SUPPLIES IN GENERAL. The J. M. W. Jones Stationery AND Printing Co. 167, 169 AND 171 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO. W. H. SALISBURY. G. F. CLINE. SALISBURY & CLINE, DEALERS IN Rubber and Leather Belting, Hose AND ALL KINDS OF RUBBER GOODS MANUFACTURERS' AGENTS FOR GOODYEAR I. R. GLOVE CO. BOSTON BELTING CO. BOSTON WOVEN HOSE CO. JAS. DAVIS & CO. 109 MADISON STREET, CHICAGO. CARPETS, FURNITURE, CURTAIN GOODS, FINE AND MEDIUM GRADES AT POPULAR PRICES, And Satisfaction Guaranteed to every Purchaser. _A Large Choice Stock to Select from._ CHICAGO CARPET CO. Wabash Ave. and Monroe St. W. S. & J. B. WILKINSON, Manufacturers of Fine Morocco, Satin and Plush Cases AND TRAYS FOR THE JEWELRY TRADE, 6 CALHOUN PLACE, _REAR OF 116 DEARBORN STREET_, CHICAGO, ILL. WM. E. STRONG, President. GEO. C. HEMPSTEAD, Treasurer. THE PESHTIGO COMPANY, MANUFACTURERS OF Lumber, Lath and Shingles. OFFICE AND YARD: North Water St., North Pier, East of Rush Street Bridge, CHICAGO. NATIONAL TUBE WORKS CO. MANUFACTURERS OF Lap-welded Pipe, Charcoal Iron Boiler Tubes, Semi-Steel Locomotive Tubes, Kalamein Boiler Tubes, MACK'S INJECTORS for LOCOMOTIVES LIFTING AND NON-LIFTING, Special Light Wrought Iron Pipe Fitted with Converse Lock Joint for Water, Gas and Compressed Air, CASING, DRIVE PIPE, ETC., ETC. All Sizes, up to 16 inch, inclusive. NATIONAL TUBE WORKS CO. Cor. of CLINTON and FULTON STS., CHICAGO. THE BEST! THE Great Eastern Mutual Life Association OF CHICAGO, ILL. Office: Rooms 25 and 26 Nixon Building, 175 La Salle Street. OFFICERS: {J. H. BAKER, President. {CHAS. A. BRUNER, Secretary. {C. R. DOLLARHIDE, Gen'l Agent. {G. H. UNVERZAGT, Gen'l Man. and Treas. PLAN OF THE ASSOCIATION. The General Plan of the Association is of the same order of the many existing Co-operative Benevolent Societies in which an insurer pays an "Admission Premium" to the agent of the Association. Subsequently, in case of death, an assessment is made upon said insurer as well as upon the others, and when it is collected it is paid over to the beneficiary of the deceased, the money actually not being in the hands of the Association, as a rule, 30 days. HOW TO SECURE MEMBERSHIP, AND COSTS. Any person, male or female, between the ages of 15 and 70, can secure $6,000 Insurance, or less, in this Association. COST.--Each $1,000 insurance costs the insurer $10.00 as a membership fee. Thereafter, $2.00 semi-annually expense fee and assessment for claims as per table. -------------++---------------------------------------------------+ TABLE OF || COMPARATIVE ASSESSMENT TABLE. | ASSESSMENT ||Comparative Assessment Table for a party | RATE. || aged 68 years. | -------+-----++---------+-----------------------------------------+ AGES | PAY || | Would pay upon a loss of | 15-40 | 10 ||A member | (See columns below.) | 40-60 | 15 ||having a +------+------+------+------+------+------+ 60-65 | 20 ||Policy of|$1,000|$2,000|$3,000|$4,000|$5,000|$6,000| 65-70 | 25 ||---------+------+------+------+------+------+------+ -------+-----+| $1,000 |$ .25 | $ .50|$ .75 |$1.00 |$1.25 |$1.50 | || $2,000 | .50 | 1.00| 1.50 | 2.00 | 2.50 | 3.00 | Cents/$1,000|| $3,000 | .75 | 1.50| 2.25 | 3.00 | 3.75 | 4.50 | death loss || $4,000 | 1.00 | 2.00| 3.00 | 4.00 | 5.00 | 6.00 | for every || $5,000 | 1.25 | 2.50| 3.75 | 5.00 | 6.25 | 7.50 | $1,000 || $6,000 | 1.50 | 3.00| 4.50 | 6.00 | 7.50 | 9.00 | indemnity |+---------+------+------+------+------+------+------+ a person has||Other associations would, in every instance, charge| ||the highest rates, as given in the lower line | -------------++---------------------------------------------------+ REMARKS. | The rate being 25 cts. at this age, of course for a lower rate | a corresponding difference will occur. | ------------------------------------------------------------------+ _THE ORIGINAL AND ONLY LOW ASSESSMENT ASSOCIATION IN THE UNITED STATES, WITH ITS PLAN COPYRIGHTED. ITS PATRONS PAY AS THEY GO, AND GET WHAT THEY PAY FOR._ ITS PRINCIPLES ARE: A Mutual Performance of Honest Obligations, and Equality to All. _RELIABLE PATRONAGE AND SOLICITORS WANTED. ADDRESS THE SECRETARY._ W. C. WHITTEMORE, Steel Rails, Iron Rails (OLD AND NEW), CAR AXLES, DRAW BARS, LINKS AND PINS, RAILROAD SPIKES, SPLICE BARS, TRACK BOLTS, PRATT WASHERS, CAR WHEELS, NUTS AND WASHERS, BAR, TANK AND SHEET IRON. Office, 68 Washington St., Chicago. [Illustration] First Premium AWARDED TO Empire Car Roofing Co., FOR BEST APPLICATION OF Metal Car Roofs. Office: 264 S. Water St., CHICAGO. _R. B. CROUCH_, Gen'l Manager. [Illustration] J. W. MIDDLETON, BLANK BOOKS, Printing, Stationery 55 State Street, Chicago. REFERS TO {All Railroads leading out of Chicago. {Banks throughout the West. THE CONGDON BRAKE SHOE CO. [Illustration] Room 19, Commercial Bank Building, COR. DEARBORN AND MONROE STS. GEO. M. SARGENT, Sec'y. WORKS, Cor. 59th and Wallace Sts. WM. D. ROWLEY, Manager. _Record of Test on Chair Car 102, Chicago & Alton R. R. Co._ "The wear of your four Congdon Shoes on a mileage of 7,824 miles was 15 pounds. Four common shoes show wear of 51 pounds." The above shows a saving of over 70 per cent. in favor of Congdon Shoes, or, number of miles run to each pound of Congdon Shoe worn off, 521.6, and number of miles run to each pound of common worn off, 153.4. SPRAGUE, SMITH & CO., POLISHED PLATE GLASS, FRENCH AND AMERICAN WINDOW GLASS, French and German Mirror Plates; Colored, Cut and Enameled Glass OF ALL KINDS. Manufacturers of Pier and Mantel Mirrors, 205 RANDOLPH ST., CHICAGO. RATES: $2.00 and $2.50 PER DAY. THE Commercial Hotel, N. W. CORNER LAKE AND DEARBORN STS., Chicago. C. W. DABB & CO., CHAS. W. DABB, Proprietors. Manager. (Formerly of the Palmer House.) F. M. ATKINSON, President. C. H. FERRY, Treasurer. CHICAGO TYRE and SPRING WORKS, SOLE MANUFACTURERS IN THE WEST OF Cast Steel Car Springs AND LOCOMOTIVE AND CAR WHEEL TYRES. We manufacture Springs for Passenger, Freight, Baggage and Express Cars of every description, and Locomotive and Tender Springs to specification. We use only the BEST OBTAINABLE CAST STEEL, of uniform quality, thoroughly =TEST= every Spring before shipment, and fully =GUARANTEE= the same for the purpose intended. Capacity, twenty-five tons daily. We roll tyres, both crucible and Siemen's Martin, from blooms especially made for us in England. They are rolled true to specification, and we give the most satisfactory assurances as to wear and mileage. Present capacity, twenty Locomotive Tyres daily. We fill all orders promptly. _WORKS, MELROSE, ILL. CHICAGO OFFICE, 94 WASHINGTON ST._ CHICAGO AND NEW YORK The two cities above named are the great commercial centres of the United States, the former containing in the vicinity of 650,000 inhabitants, and the latter about 1,500,000. The number of people actually in Chicago at any one time would doubtless range far above these figures, as its floating or transient population is enormous, running up into figures that can hardly be credited. The traffic passing between these two cities daily is very large, when one considers that they are within a fraction of 1,000 miles apart. Boston also has a large traffic with Chicago, and, to give an idea of the accommodations necessary to provide for the passenger business alone between the three cities, we may state that the Michigan Central Railroad, which is the principal thoroughfare between the cities named, runs five express trains daily--three on Sundays--made up of fine new day coaches, smoking cars, drawing-room cars, palatial sleeping cars. The Michigan Central Railroad has always held a foremost place among the lines between Chicago and the Atlantic seaboard, and the latest addition to their accommodations, in the shape of four new Dining Cars, will greatly strengthen its position. These new cars are incomparable for beauty of design and selectness of adornments, all the elegancies of art having been exhausted to produce the most desirable effect. That the end has been gained goes without saying, and they stand to-day as far in advance of other Dining Cars as the first Dining Cars were in advance of the lunch counters at wayside stations. The _cuisine_ is quite on a par with the finish of the cars, and all that may minister to the nourishment of the body or tickle the palate of the most discriminating epicures will be found therein. Other great features of the Michigan Central Railroad are that its through trains for New York and Boston run out of Chicago along the Michigan Lake front, within a stone's throw of the city's costliest mansions, through South Park and the magic city of Pullman, affording an extensive survey of this marvel of a marvelous age, and later passing over the new Cantilever Bridge in full view of Niagara Falls. It is for this latter reason known to all travelers as "The Niagara Falls Route." GEO. KELLER, 21 ILLINOIS ST., CHICAGO, ILL. MANUFACTURER OF RAILROAD Bulletin Boards AND FRAMES OF EVERY DESCRIPTION FOR ADVERTISING PURPOSES. SAMPLES WILL BE FURNISHED ON APPLICATION. E. W. BLATCHFORD & CO. CHICAGO, ILL. MANUFACTURERS AND DEALERS IN Lead Pipe. Solder. Sheet Lead. Antimony. Bar Lead. Spelter. Block Tin Pipe. Block Tin. LINSEED OIL. A TRIP TO NIAGARA FALLS. "Come, Adele; come. Nellie; hurry up. Deacon Fitney will be here directly and the train starts directly." The voice was that of Mr. Trevellyan, a thoroughly well-known and highly respected stock broker of the City of Chicago. Mr. Trevellyan was a hardworking man, and his various affairs did not give him much opportunity of absenting himself from his business. But to-day had been laid out as a holiday for the babies, and Papa Trevellyan had made up his mind to take part in it. After a good deal of family discussion [these things generally involve more or less of that sort of thing] it was finally decided to make a trip to Niagara Falls and back. So a party was made up which was to consist of Mr. and Mrs. Trevellyan, the two children and a good-hearted Deacon Fitney, who was well acquainted with the way to "do" the Falls properly. The day was, as I have just said, a bright one, even for the month of June, and both Adele and Nellie, in anticipation of a pleasant time, were not long in putting on their things and repairing to the parlor. It was well they hurried. There was papa, valise in hand, ready to start; mamma, too; and nothing seemed to be wanting but the presence of Deacon Fitney, who had gone off to secure the railway tickets, and who promised to return at once with a carriage and accompany the whole party to the train. The Deacon was not long in coming back. He was a good man in his way, was the Deacon. He had only one fault--he was unreasonably fond of Buttons! He adorned his apparel with more buttons than even the law requires, and he wore a nice gold-headed button on his neatly-tied satin scarf. Nobody could ever find out what prompted this peculiarity, but then nobody seemed to care very much. However, as I said before, the Deacon came back very quickly and helped get things in the carriage. "By the way, Deacon," said Mr. Trevellyan, "what time do we start and which way do we go? You know I have left everything of that kind to you." "Four-fifteen," said the Deacon, in a cheerful sort of way, "and by the Michigan Central Railroad. It is the only way to go. But never mind about the advantages to be gained by going over this remarkable route. I will tell you all about it when we get on the train." And so they bundled into the carriage, and within a few minutes the entire party was seated in one of the magnificent palace cars which are attached to the Michigan Central Limited Express. "All aboard!" shouted the conductor. "We're off," smiled the Deacon. The big clock in the depot struck the quarter after four, and the magnificent train, composed of five sleepers, three coaches, a palace dining car and a couple of baggage cars, slowly pulled out of the station. Adele and Nellie glued their noses to the window, and their delight as they whizzed through the beautiful suburbs of South Chicago seemed unbounded. With Lake Michigan, tranquil and glittering with the rays of a summer sun, on one side, and a succession of lovely suburban residences on the other, the sight was a most lovely one. A few minutes later the train was flying through green fields and beautiful woods. "Here, children," suddenly cried the Deacon from the other side of the car, "come quick and see the magic city of Pullman." In a minute Adele was on one of the Deacon's knees and Nellie on the other, and the train passed rapidly by the most wonderful evidence of modern enterprise. "Three years ago," said the Deacon, in answer to an enquiring look of admiration in the children's eyes, "the ground on which stands this most beautiful city, which is without doubt the model city of the world, was nothing but a swamp. See what it is now. Some day, when we get back home, I will bring you here and let you learn more closely what the creator of the beautiful place which bears the name of Pullman has done for his country." A minute later the train flew past Kensington, and then fairly started on its iron way for its first stopping place, Michigan City, better known as the City of Sand. Then came Niles, with it wonderful bridge and its fairy valley. Then Kalamazoo, the biggest village in the world and the flower bed of creation. Then Marshall, Battle Creek and, Jackson, the latter place the centre of railway industry of the beautiful State of Michigan. Then Ann Arbor, where is situated the University of the State of Michigan, and then, last but not least, Detroit. By this time, of course, the babies had been tucked in bed. The Deacon had taken them into the dining car and feasted them with all the inexhaustible luxuries for which these cars on the Michigan Central R. R. are so famous. Then, the colored porter having made up their beds, they were soon fast asleep and dreaming of the treat in store for the morrow. The Deacon, however, was determined at least that his grown-up friends should lose none of the beauties of the trip, and so he insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Trevellyan should remain up until they had crossed the famous Detroit River. The night was a beautiful one, and they were amply rewarded by witnessing one of the most thoroughly picturesque pieces of scenery in the world. The entire train was placed on one of the immense ferry steamers, and the landing shortly afterwards made at Windsor, a picturesque and quaint little town on the Canadian side of the river. At this point commences the Canada Southern Division of the Michigan Central Railroad, famous alike for the magnificence of its equipment and smoothness of track. Here our friends, so to speak, turned in, and it was only a few minutes before every one on board was fast asleep. The next thing was the morning sun and Niagara Falls. The run had been made from Chicago in the remarkable time of fifteen hours. "Oh, how good of you, Deacon Fitney," said little Adele a short while later, as, standing on the platform at Falls View Station, she gazed with rapture at the Falls in all their splendor. "How good of you to bring us to such a nice place, and by such a delightful road." And little Adele had reason to so express herself, for, standing where she was, at Falls View Station, she was able to command the most awe-inspiring and lovely view of the Falls to be obtained anywhere. "I am glad you like it," said the Deacon, with a smile; "but you must not credit me with too much goodness, for I could hardly have brought you by any other way. The Michigan Central road is the only direct road running to the Falls, and you could hardly expect that I could take you there by any line which is not entirely the best." Mr. and Mrs. Trevellyan heartily joined Adele in her expressions of thanks to the Deacon, and more than endorsed every word he had said in praise of the wonderful Michigan Central Limited Express. The conductor then called "all aboard," and the train again started on its way, and very shortly crossed the Niagara River over the magnificent steel Cantilever bridge which the Michigan Central people have just erected at this point. "This is the great Cantilever bridge you have heard so much about," said the Deacon to little May. "It is the greatest scientific engineering effort of the age, and it is well worth visiting Niagara, if only to see it. With Niagara Falls and the Cantilever bridge the Michigan Central people are able to show their passengers the greatest work of nature and of man to be found in the country." From the bridge the train glided along to Niagara Falls station, on the American side. Here our little party alighted, and, after driving about the village, they soon found themselves in the comfortable parlors of the Clifton House, enjoying one of Mr. George Colburn's justly famous repasts. Then they spent the day at the Falls--a day of merry sunshine and happiness. The Falls never looked grander, and nature never smiled with more sweetness. The time passed only too quickly, and when the children stepped on the cars once more to return to Chicago, it was with a twinge of regret which was only offset by the knowledge that they had another delightful trip in store for them on the Michigan Central road. Now Adele has the following time table hung up among her pictures on the wall in her bed room. She says it serves to remind her of one of the happiest days of her life. Above it, in a baby's handwriting, she has scrawled: "THE ONLY WAY TO GO EAST FROM CHICAGO IS BY THE MICHIGAN CENTRAL R. R." TRAIN No. 10.--FAST NEW YORK EXPRESS,--Leaves Chicago _every day_ at 4:30 P. M., and consists of one First-Class Smoking Car, one First-Class Day Coach, one DINING CAR and THREE PALACE SLEEPING CARS, running on the following time: Leaves Chicago............4:15 PM Sun. Mon. Tues. Wed. Thur. Fri. Sat. " Jackson............9:57 PM " " " " " " " Arrives Detroit...........12:05 AM Mon. Tues. Wed. Thur. Fri. Sat. Sun. " St. Thomas..............3:25 " " " " " " " " " Toronto, via CVRy.......9:40 " " " " " " " [A] " Niagara Falls...........6:55 " " " " " " " " " Buffalo.................7:50 " " " " " " " " " Rochester, via NYC.....11:10 " " " " " " " " " Syracuse, via NYC.......1:30 PM " " " " " " " " Utica, via NYC..........3:12 " " " " " " " " " Albany, via NYC.........5:50 " " " " " " " " " Troy, via NYC...........6:55 " " " " " " " " " New York, via NYC......10:00 " " " " " " " " " Hornellsville,via Erie 12:00 " " " " " " " " " Elmira, via Erie........1:40 " " " " " " " " " Binghamton, via Erie....3:19 " " " " " " " " " New York, via Erie.....10:25 " " " " " " " " " Philadelphia, via LV...10:30 " " " " " " " [A] " Boston, via B&A.........6:25 AM Tues. Wed. Thur. Fri. Sat. Sun.[B] [A] Does not arrive on Sunday. [B] Does not arrive on Monday. ====================================================================== This train, leaving Chicago one hour later than heretofore, makes a much surer connection with Western lines. The Smoking Car, Day Coach and one Sleeping Car run through to Buffalo via M. C.; one Sleeping Car runs through to Toronto via M. C. and Credit Valley Railways; one Sleeping Car runs through to New York via M. C. and N. Y. C. The Dining Car serves dinner out of Chicago at 5 o'clock; train arrives in Buffalo in good season for breakfast. This train has attached at Detroit a Through Sleeping Car from St. Louis to New York, via W., St. L. & P., M. C. and N. Y. C., that makes quicker through time than any other line; and also a Sleeping Car from Detroit to Syracuse that is placed in Detroit depot about 9 P. M. Passengers can enter their berths any time after that hour. Connects with Grand Trunk trains in Detroit. Connection with Pullman Car for New York and Philadelphia, via Erie, leaving Buffalo at 9:15 A. M., and also with Buffalo, New York and Philadelphia, leaving at 8:20 A. M. Connects at Albany with through sleeper for Boston, via B. & A., leaving at 8:40 P. M. No second-class passengers are carried on this train. NOTE.--NO EXTRA CHARGE IS MADE ON MICHIGAN CENTRAL FAST EXPRESS. Adele's advice is very excellent. She says the Michigan Central is the best road in the United States, and she knows what she is talking about. [Illustration] Ansonia Clock Co. MANUFACTURERS [Illustration] Office Regulators, Nickel Novelties, RAILROAD MANTEL TIME KEEPERS, CLOCKS, STREET AND BRONZE TOWN CLOCKS Ornaments OFFICES: 64 WASHINGTON STREET, CHICAGO The United States Rolling Stock Company Offers for Lease to Railroads, Freight Lines, Mining Companies and others Locomotive Engines, Refrigerator Cars, Box, Stock, Gondola, Dump and Flat Cars, And is prepared to build for Lease and on Contract for cash, or under the CAR TRUST SYSTEM, such Rolling Stock as may be required. WORKS: HEGEWISCH, ILL. Capacity, Twenty Cars per Day. URBAN, OHIO. Capacity, Ten Cars per Day. General Offices, 35 Broadway, New York. Chicago Offices, Calumet Building, 189 La Salle Street. A. HEGEWISCH, President, C. BENN, Treasurer, THOS. F. B. PARKER, Secretary, W. H. CHADDOCK, General Agent, J. H. HOCART, Ass't Treasurer, J. C. FORTINER, Sup't of Acc'ts, NEW YORK. CHICAGO. JOHN L. STAGG, Sup't of Shops. MARSHALL FIELD & Co. WHOLESALE, RETAIL, Madison and Market Sts. State and Washington Sts. CHICAGO. _Dry Goods, Cloaks, Costumes, Shawls,_ _Furs, Woolens, Notions,_ _Men's, Women's and Children's_ _Furnishing Goods, Carpetings,_ _Curtain Materials,_ _Tapestries, Furniture Coverings,_ _And goods for_ _"Home Art Decorations."_ _Largest and Most Complete Lines._ _We are Sole Agents for United States for the_ _Celebrated "ALEXANDRE" Kid Gloves_ THE BEST KID GLOVE MADE. _And we make a Specialty of producing private designs in_ _Carpets, Rugs & Upholstering Goods,_ _To correspond with architectural features of rooms, and of_ _Furnishing Churches, Theatres,_ _Hotels and Homes._ CHICAGO VISITORS CORDIALLY INVITED TO CALL. THE MERIDEN SILVER PLATE CO. NO. 64 WASHINGTON STREET, CHICAGO, ILL. MANUFACTURERS OF THE FINEST QUALITY QUADRUPLE PLATED WARE SPECIAL AND RICH DESIGNS IN Hotel and Dining Car SERVICE. ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUES AND PRICE LISTS Mailed on application. [Illustration: =No. 771. PEPPER.= Hammered and Applied. $3.00.] [Illustration: =No. 789. Pepper.= Made in Silver, Old Silver and Gold Finish. Silver,-----$2.00 Old Silver,----2.50 Gilt,----2.50] Factories: MERIDEN, CONN. New York Office: 30 EAST 14th STREET. [Illustration: =No. 1676. CAKE BASKET.= $21.00. Decorations in Natural Colors. Example of High Art Work in Electroplate. ] [Illustration: Race Brothers Oyster House 114 Madison Street Chicago.] ESTABLISHED 1870. The largest, most complete, and only Strictly First-Class Gentlemen's and Ladies' Oyster House west of New York City. _STEAKS and CHOPS added to Bill of Fare after January first._ _A. BELFORD (of Belford, Clarke & Co.), President._ _C. SLEMIN, Jr. (of Belford, Clarke & Co.), Sec. and Treas._ _M. A. DONOHUE (of Donohue & Henneberry)._ R. NEVERS, Jr., Superintendent. The Central Lithographing and Engraving Co. 315 to 321 Wabash Avenue, CHICAGO. Lithographing, WOOD ENGRAVING, Printing, Binding and Electrotyping. ENTIRE NEW OFFICE. EVERY BRANCH OF THE BUSINESS UNDER ONE ROOF. Anything, from a Visiting Card to the Finest Chromo Work. Railroad and Show Printing A SPECIALTY. SEND FOR ESTIMATES. Fine Art Work A Specialty. [Illustration] The Lakeside press. R. R. Donnelley & Sons, (LATE DONNELLEY GASBETTE & LOYD.) [Illustration] Printers. 140-146 Monroe St. CHICAGO TELEPHONE No. 610. TAKE ELEVATOR. [Illustration] They would invite the special attention of Railroad Corporations, Manufacturers, Merchants, and Publishers to their Fine Illustrated Work, pronounced unequalled by the press of Europe and America. THE BEST EQUIPPED RAILROAD IN THE WORLD. Without exaggerating, and keeping close within the narrow limits of fact, it may be asserted without fear of truthful contradiction, that the CHICAGO & NORTH-WESTERN RAILWAY Is not only the best and most perfectly equipped railroad in the world, but it is also the most important as to the territory it traverses, the numerous business centres and pleasure resorts that it reaches, and the facilities it offers for pleasant, speedy, safe and comfortable transit for all classes of passengers. It caters alike to the needs, tastes and abilities of the millionaire merchant prince; to the farmer, with his plain and simple wants; and to the economical and necessitous; and gives to each the full value of all he pays for. Its luxuriantly finished and furnished palace sleeping cars and its more than luxurious drawing-room coaches are marvels of beauty and comfort. Its coaches are new and of the most perfect models that have been adopted by any company, and they are always kept sweet, clean and pure. Its dining cars are superb, and the meals and service provided in them are equal to that given by any first-class hotel in the country. WHERE IS IT? Starting from Chicago and having various main lines running west, northwest and north, it covers about all that is desirable in Northern Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, the Upper Michigan Peninsula, Minnesota and Central and Southeastern Dakota and Northeastern Nebraska. It is eminently _the_ railroad of the Northwest, and from its commanding location it controls the traffic of all of the territory it traverses. WHAT IS IT? Over 5,000 miles of the best built and best maintained railroad there is in the country. It is equal in every respect to any road in the world, and is believed to be better than any of its competitors. Its lines are built of heavy steel rail; its bridges are of steel, iron and stone, and all its appointments are as good as money can buy. COLORADO & CALIFORNIA. This Company's line between Chicago and Council Bluffs (Omaha) _is shorter_ than any other between these points, and was the pioneer in forming connection with the Trans-Continental Union and Central Pacific Railroads. Nearly all experienced overland travelers seek this line, because it is known to be the best, shortest, most comfortable, and in every way the most desirable. To seek other more circuitous and inferior routes is accepted as an evidence of inexperience or want of information. If you are destined to or from Colorado, Nebraska, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, California, Oregon, Washington Territory, China, Japan, the Sandwich Islands, New Zealand or Australia, you should, in making the trip between Chicago and Council Bluffs (Omaha), in either direction, see that your tickets read over this great road. ST. PAUL, MINNEAPOLIS & WINNIPEG. This road, "St. Paul Line," is the short and desirable route between Chicago and Madison, St. Paul and Minneapolis; Helena, Montana; Portland, Oregon, and points on the Northwest Pacific coast, and the best to travel over if you are destined to or from Chicago and any point north or northwest of St. Paul. Winona and Mankato, Minn.; Frankfort, Huron, Pierre, Aberdeen, Columbia and Watertown, Dakota; Milwaukee, Fond du Lac, Oshkosh, Watertown and Sheboygan, Wis.; Freeport, Elgin, Dixon and Fulton, Ill.; Clinton, Cedar Rapids, Des Moines, Webster City, Algona, Tama and Council Bluffs, Iowa, are a few of its hundreds of prominent local stations. It reaches most of the pleasant summer resorts of Wisconsin and Minnesota, and is the road to take for the health and scenic resorts of the Rocky Mountains, the National Yellowstone Park, and nearly all of the notable Western and Northwest resorts that are accessible by rail. It connects in Union Depots with the Union Pacific Railway at Council Bluffs, and at St. Paul with the Northern Pacific St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba, and with all roads diverging from that point. You can procure tickets over this route from nearly every coupon ticket agent in the country. When buying your tickets read them carefully and be sure that at least one coupon reads over the CHICAGO & NORTH-WESTERN RY. Ask your nearest coupon ticket agent for one of its large maps; they are FREE, and will show you all of this Company's lines as they are. Its London (England) offices are 124 High Holborn, 449 Strand, 3 Adelaide street and 139 Cheapside. Its Manchester (England) office, 1 and 3 Princess street. Its Paris office, 35 Boulevard des Capucines. Its New York office, 409 Broadway. Its Boston office, 5 State street. Its Chicago offices, 60 and 62 Clark street, Palmer House, in Grand Pacific Hotel and at its Passenger Station on the corner Wells and Kinzie streets. Its St. Paul office, corner Third and Jackson streets. Its Minneapolis office, 13 Nicollet House. Its Council Bluffs offices are at the Transfer Depot, C. & N.-W. Ry. Depot on Broadway and at the corner of Broadway and Pearl streets. Its Omaha offices, 1324 Farnham, corner Fourteenth street, and at U. P. Depot. Its Denver office, 8 Windsor Hotel Block. Its San Francisco office, No. 2 New Montgomery street, in Palace Hotel. Waltham Watches WITH TWENTY-FOUR HOUR DIVISION DIALS [Illustration] RECOGNIZING THE NECESSITY OF HAVING WATCHES THAT CONFORM TO THE New System of Indicating Time ADOPTED BY SOME OF THE RAILROADS, OF COUNTING THE HOURS FROM ONE TO TWENTY-FOUR CONSECUTIVELY, THE AMERICAN WATCH COMPANY Of Waltham, Mass., Are now prepared to furnish Watches as indicated by the above Cut. THESE DIALS CAN ALSO BE SUBSTITUTED FOR THOSE NOW IN USE AT A VERY SMALL EXPENSE. FOR SALE BY ALL JEWELERS. [Illustration] THE PALMER, CHICAGO. WILLIS HOWE, Managing Partner. AMERICAN AND EUROPEAN PLAN. ENTIRELY FIRE-PROOF. 750 ROOMS. _GRIFFIN & WELLS FOUNDRY CO._ RAILROAD CAR, ENGINE AND STREET CAR WHEELS. ANNUAL CAPACITY, 50,000 WHEELS. [Illustration] Rates secured and Shipments made to all parts of the West and South. Contracts made for Yearly or other Supply. Mileage or Time Guarantee given. All Orders and Correspondence will receive prompt attention. References furnished. OFFICE AND WORKS: PAULINA ST., SOUTH OF BLUE ISLAND AVE. CHICAGO. THOS. F. GRIFFIN & SONS, MANUFACTURERS OF CAR WHEELS AND CASTINGS OFFICE AND WORKS: COR. OF FOREST AVE. AND N.Y.C. & H.R.R.R. BUFFALO, N. Y. GRIFFIN CAR WHEEL CO. RAILROAD CAR WHEELS AND CASTINGS. Annual Capacity, 100,000 Wheels. 10,000 Tons Castings. [Illustration] Rates secured and Shipments made to all parts of the United States. Special attention given to Car and Engine Wheels for Railroad Use. Mileage Guaranteed. Contracts made for Yearly or other Supply. Correspondence solicited. OFFICE AND WORKS: COR. FOUNDRY ST. AND MICHIGAN CENTRAL R. R. DETROIT, MICH. THE Griffin Wheel MANUFACTURED BY GRIFFIN CAR WHEEL CO. DETROIT, MICH. GRIFFIN & WELLS FOUNDRY CO. CHICAGO, ILL. _THOS. F. GRIFFIN & SON_, BUFFALO, N. Y. COMBINED DAILY CAPACITY, 800 Wheels per Day and 60 Tons Castings EXTRA HEAVY WHEELS FOR ENGINE AND PASSENGER SERVICE. All Mileage Guaranteed. THE Lake Shore & Michigan Southern RAILWAY AND ITS CONNECTIONS FORMS THE GREAT THOROUGHFARE BETWEEN THE EAST and WEST And Experienced Travelers will tell you it is the BEST Route "by a large majority." THIS LINE IS A DOUBLE TRACK RAILWAY _AND THE ONLY ROUTE RUNNING SOLID TRAINS_ Between CHICAGO and BUFFALO, through Union Depots, for all connections. Its equipment is first-class in every respect--such as perfect Road-Bed, Iron and Stone Bridges, Westinghouse Automatic Safety Brakes, Miller Platform Coupler and Buffer, Magnificent Parlor Coaches for Day Travel, Elegant Day Coaches, and the Palace Sleeping Coaches. Well, words are inadequate to express their Durability and Splendor. They are simply Superb. These Coaches are run daily, through, between CHICAGO, NEW YORK and BOSTON, without change. ONE GREAT FEATURE IN THIS LINE IS, THAT IT IS THE ONLY ROUTE BETWEEN CHICAGO and the EAST THAT IS TOTALLY DEVOID OF TRANSFERS BY FERRY BOATS. And the traveling public should certainly appreciate this great advantage over all other lines, as transfers by ferries are very tedious and annoying to the traveler who is anxious to reach the objective point without delay. Further comments are unnecessary. All Agents sell Tickets via this popular line, and when passengers ask for them over the "LAKE SHORE," they smile and say, "You are on the right track," and they know. =C. B. FOSTER=, Western Passenger Agent, Chicago, Ill. =W. P. JOHNSON=, Gen. Passenger Agent, Chicago, Ill. =P. P. WRIGHT=, Gen. Superintendent, Cleveland, Ohio. WEST SHORE ROUTE New York, West Shore & Buffalo R'y THE NEW SHORT LINE To All Points between the EAST AND WEST _THE BEST CONSTRUCTED LINE ON THE AMERICAN CONTINENT._ NEW PULLMAN BUFFET SLEEPING AND PARLOR CARS DOUBLE TRACK, STEEL RAILS, and BEAUTIFUL SCENERY THROUGH THE Mohawk Valley and Picturesque Hudson, MAKING THE SHORTEST LINE BETWEEN CHICAGO, NEW YORK AND BOSTON VIA BUFFALO and NIAGARA FALLS. Passengers going to PHILADELPHIA, BALTIMORE and WASHINGTON will SAVE TRANSFERS by taking this Popular Route. Tickets via New York, West Shore & Buffalo Railway are for sale at all Principal Ticket Offices throughout the country, and in Chicago at the following places, where Sleeping-car Berths can be secured: 103 South Clark Street, 47 Monroe Street, Palmer House, Grand Pacific Hotel, Grand Union Passenger Station, Polk Street, and at General Office, 75 South Clark Street. HENRY MONETT, Gen'l Passenger Agent, NEW YORK. C. E. LAMBERT, Gen'l West'n Passenger Agent, 75 Clark St., CHICAGO. ERIE RY. [Illustration: View of Niagara Falls from Suspension Bridge.] [Illustration: Starucca Valley, on the Erie.] THE Scenic Route OF AMERICA A continual Panorama of Magnificent Scenery from the Lakes to the Seaboard. The Elegant Pullman Service via the ERIE RAILWAY And its Connections is unsurpassed by any Route to or from the EAST. _IF ON A BUSINESS TRIP, TAKE THE ERIE_, _IF ON A PLEASURE TRIP, TAKE THE ERIE_, _UNDER ALL CIRCUMSTANCES, TAKE THE ERIE_, And you will travel over a Railway unequalled in facilities for Comfort and Safety. JNO. N. ABBOTT, Gen'l Pass. Agent, NEW YORK. W. H. HURLBURT, Gen'l Western Pass. Agent, CHICAGO. _JONES & LAUGHLINS, Limited_, MANUFACTURERS IRON, STEEL, NAILS Cold Rolled Iron and Steel, SPIKES, BOLTS, CHAINS, Railway Supplies HEAVY HARDWARE, Lake and Canal Streets, CHICAGO. LEHIGH VALLEY COAL COMPANY, Miners and Shippers of WYOMING AND LEHIGH COALS _R. M. CHERRIE, General Western Agent_, 90 and 92 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO. _NEW YORK, BOSTON, CHICAGO,_ _3 Cliff Street. 127 Oliver Street. 210 Lake Street._ Hussey, Howe & Co., Limited, CAST STEEL, PITTSBURGH, PA. _C. C. HUSSEY, Penn Avenue JAMES W. BROWN,_ _Chairman. and 17th Street. Sec'y and Treas'r._ LORD & THOMAS, We prepare Advertisements, and contract to insert them in any number of newspapers desired. Our facilities in our line are unequaled. The large amount of business we control enables us to secure from the Best Mediums the Lowest Rates obtainable, for the benefit of our patrons. [Illustration: ADVERTISE JUDICIOUSLY TRADE MARK.] NEWSPAPER ADVERTISING, CHICAGO, ILL. Steam Heating and Ventilating. Low Pressure Steam Warming And Ventilating APPARATUS. Simplified and adapted to warming _DWELLINGS_, _CHURCHES_, _BANKS_ and _PUBLIC BUILDINGS._ Send for descriptive pamphlet. [Illustration] BAKER'S PATENT Hot Water CAR WARMER. Adopted by nearly all Railroads as the STANDARD HEATER. Prices Greatly Reduced. BAKER, SMITH & CO., 81 and 83 Jackson Street, Chicago. THE SCENIC LINE OF THE WORLD. Denver & Rio Grande R'y THE MID-CONTINENTAL ROUTE TO Salt Lake and the Golden Gate. _THIS LINE PENETRATES THE MOST PICTURESQUE PARTS OF COLORADO, NEW MEXICO AND UTAH, AND IS THE FAVORITE ROUTE FOR BUSINESS OR PLEASURE._ =IN COLORADO= the traveler beholds scenery excelling in variety, beauty and grandeur that of Switzerland. He traverses canons fifteen miles in length, with perpendicular walls more than half a mile in height. He crosses the Rocky Range at an elevation of over 11,000 feet, and from this lofty pass gazes upward 3,000 feet to the summits of the snow-crowded peaks. _En route_ to the Pacific Coast he passes through innumerable places of interest, among which are the Royal Gorge, Grand Canon of the Arkansas, Poncho Pass, Marshall Pass, the valleys of the Uncompahgre, Gunnison and Grand, Black Canon, Castle Gate, Wasatch Summit and Salt Lake City. =IN NEW MEXICO= he finds ruins more ancient than those of the Parthenon or Colosseum--the crumbling habitations of the pre-historic Cliff-Dwellers; he beholds the quaint architecture of the Spanish-Mexicans or the pueblos of the descendants of the Montezumas. =IN UTAH= he can bathe in the Great Salt Lake, and inspect the wonders of the City of the Saints. THESE MARVELS OF NATURE AND ART CAN BE REACHED IN Pullman Palace Buffet Cars VIA THE DENVER & RIO GRANDE R'Y, THE ONLY LINE Passing through Colorado Springs, Pueblo, Salida, Gunnison, Grand Junction and Salt Lake City. When I go to the coast I'll lay out my plan, Said I to myself, said I, To have all the pleasure and ease that I can, Said I to myself, said I. There's one way to do it, as all will agree, And that is to go via D. & R. G.-- Up over the mountains and down to the sea, Said I to myself, said I. D.C. DODGE, General Manager, F.C. NIMS, Gen. Pass. and Ticket Agent, DENVER, COLORADO H. S. PICKANDS,} PICKANDS, MATHER & CO. }-Chicago Cleveland. W. L. BROWN, } PICKANDS, BROWN & CO., Manufacturers, Importers and Dealers in PIG IRON AND IRON ORE 95 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO. THE CHICAGO RAWHIDE MFG. CO. MANUFACTURERS OF RAWHIDE BELTING, LACE LEATHER ROPE, LARIATS Fly Nets, Picker Leather, Whips, Washers, Hame Straps, Hame Strings, and Halters, and other Rawhide Goods of all kinds, by Krueger's Patent. 75 and 77 EAST OHIO STREET, CHICAGO [Illustration] It is only by using the best of Belting, _i.e._, such as will wear longest, slip least, transmit the greatest amount of power and work with the greatest steadiness, that machinery can be utilized to its full capacity, and can be relied on as to durability. The belt that will transmit the most power with least strain on the machinery is the _cheapest and the best_. Such are the goods manufactured and sold on guarantee by this Company, and used by the Chicago & Alton Railway and other railroads. [Illustration: NATIONAL EXPOSITION OF RAILWAY APPLIANCES CHICAGO 1883 AWARDED TO THE Chicago Rawhide M'F'G CO. For Rawhide Belting, Lace Leather and Rope.] A. B. SPURLING, President. W. H. PREBLE, Secretary and Treasurer. A. C. KRUEGER, Superintendent. [Illustration: KNISELY AND MILLER] 68 to 74 W. MONROE STREET, CHICAGO, Slate, Tin and Iron ROOFERS MANUFACTURERS OF CORRUGATED IRON FOR ROOFING, GALVANIZED IRON CORNICES, ETC. The Hayes Patent SKYLIGHTS (UNDER LICENSE), _KNISELY'S PATENT IRON LATH_ LIGHTNING RODS. Special attention given to first-class work, and to shipping work knocked down, to be put together and up by local mechanics. Send for Illustrated Catalogue and Prices. INCORPORATED 1864. Steel Plate and Lithography. Railway Annuals a Specialty. WESTERN BANK NOTE COMPANY, CHICAGO. _Bonds, Certificates_, _Drafts, Checks_, _Merchants' Stationery_, C. C. CHENEY, President. _Bankers' Supplies._ C. A. CHAPMAN, Treasurer. _The Only Hotel Fronting on the beautiful Lake and Park. Five Minutes from all Railroad Depots, Places of Business and Amusement._ THE BEST LOCATED HOTEL In the World. [Illustration] POPULAR PRICES: $3 and $3.50 per Day. LELAND HOTEL AMERICAN PLAN. WARREN F. LELAND, Proprietor. COR. MICHIGAN AVE. BOULEVARD AND JACKSON ST. THE LARGEST AND MOST COMPLETE JOB AND BOOK PRINTING HOUSE IN AMERICA. RAND, MCNALLY & CO. _148-154 MONROE ST., CHICAGO, ILL._ FINE COLOR PRINTING ENGRAVERS, ELECTROTYPERS PRINTERS LITHOGRAPHERS, BOOK BINDERS MAP ENGRAVERS AND PUBLISHERS _Rand, McNally's Indexed Atlas of the World._ _Rand, McNally & Co.'s Business Atlas and Shippers' Guide of the United States._ _Rand, McNally & Co.'s Celebrated Indexed Pocket Maps of all the States and Territories in the United States._ _Rand, McNally's Encyclopædia of Agriculture._ _Rand, McNally & Co.'s Bankers' Directory._ A Great American Railway. _The Chicago and Atlantic Railway runs solid Pullman trains, the finest ever built, daily between Chicago and New York, etc., by way of the Erie Railway, and through its valuable connections reaches every important point in the entire country. The construction and equipment of the road are of the most perfect description, all that modern skill can compass having been called into requisition to ensure safety, comfort, speed and reliable connections, without having to change cars. This popular line, being almost literally straight, forms the shortest, quickest and most direct route to Lake Chautauqua, the highest navigated water on the globe. In equipment the Chicago and Atlantic Railway is excelled by none and equaled by few roads in the world. Their superb sleeping, drawing-room and thoroughfare coaches are simply models of elegance and comfort and are lighted with the brilliant Pintsch gaslight. Clean bedding, thick hair mattresses, thorough ventilation and absolute safety, with polite conductors and porters accompanying each car to provide for the wants of passengers, are valuable facts not to be overlooked. Each train has its smoking cars, which among other novelties contain a buffet, where the traveler may lunch at his leisure. Indeed, the company have provided every luxury, convenience and solid comfort for the traveling public, hence their road is liberally patronized._ J. C. WILLIAMS, S. W. SNOW, Gen'l Superintendent, Gen'l Passenger Agent, CHICAGO. NO CHANGE OF CARS OF ANY CLASS {CHICAGO AND KANSAS CITY. AND {CHICAGO AND ST. LOUIS. Two Trains a Day Each Way between {ST. LOUIS AND KANSAS CITY. [Illustration] Chicago & Alton R. R. THE PIONEER PALACE RECLINING CHAIR CAR ROUTE _The Pioneer Palace Dining Car Route_ The Pioneer Pullman Palace Sleeping Car Route TWO TRAINS DAILY, SUNDAYS INCLUDED, Between CHICAGO and KANSAS CITY, and between ST. LOUIS and KANSAS CITY NIGHT EXPRESS DAILY, SUNDAYS INCLUDED. [hand] DAY EXPRESS DAILY, Sundays excepted, between CHICAGO and ST. LOUIS. 3 GREAT CITIES OF THE WEST [Illustration] LINKED TOGETHER BY THE CHICAGO & ALTON R. R. NO CHANGE OF CARS OF ANY CLASS BETWEEN CHICAGO CHICAGO ST. LOUIS AND AND AND KANSAS CITY. ST. LOUIS. KANSAS CITY. Union Depots in Chicago, East St. Louis, St. Louis and Kansas City. NO OTHER LINE RUNS PALACE DINING CARS Between CHICAGO and KANSAS CITY, CHICAGO and ST. LOUIS, and ST. LOUIS and KANSAS CITY. Meals, equal to those served in any first-class hotel, only 75 cents. The only line running a sufficient number of Elegant and Comfortable PALACE RECLINING CHAIR CARS Free of Extra Charge, in all its Through Trains, Day and Night, Without Change, to accommodate all its patrons. PULLMAN PALACE SLEEPING CARS The Finest, Best and Safest in use anywhere. The BEST and QUICKEST ROUTE from CHICAGO, TO AND FROM MEMPHIS, MOBILE, NEW ORLEANS AND ALL POINTS SOUTH VIA ST. LOUIS. The SHORT LINE to and from MISSOURI, ARKANSAS, TEXAS, KANSAS, COLORADO, NEW MEXICO, MEXICO, ARIZONA, NEBRASKA, CALIFORNIA, OREGON, WASHINGTON TERRITORY, Etc. THE GREAT EXCURSION ROUTE BETWEEN THE NORTH AND SOUTH AND TO AND FROM KANSAS LANDS, AND COLORADO, NEW MEXICO AND CALIFORNIA HEALTH AND PLEASURE RESORTS AND THE MINING DISTRICTS OF THE GREAT WEST. For Tickets and Information apply at any Coupon Ticket Office in the United States and Canada, or to JAMES CHARLTON, General Passenger and Ticket Agent, 210 Dearborn street, near corner Adams street, Chicago. J. C. McMULLIN, Vice-President, Chicago. C. H. CHAPPEL, General Manager, Chicago. THE GREAT THROUGH CAR LINE _BETWEEN THE MISSOURI RIVER AND THE PACIFIC_. Pullman Palace Sleeping Cars FROM KANSAS CITY TO SAN FRANCISCO WITHOUT CHANGE OVER THE SANTA FE ROUTE The Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe R. R. offers the public a choice of THREE ROUTES TO THE PACIFIC COAST =No. I.= is the ALBUQUERQUE SHORT LINE, which carries Pullman Palace Sleeping Cars from Kansas City to San Francisco without change. The tourist by this line may visit en route the famous Hot Springs at Las Vegas, the ancient City of Santa Fe, the older Pueblo of the Zunis, the uninhabited abodes of the Cliff-Dwellers, the petrified forests, that most wonderful of all nature's works, THE GRAND CANON OF THE RIO COLORADO and the rare beauties of the far famed YOSEMITE VALLEY. =No. II.= is the old and popular Southern Route, over the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe and Southern Pacific Railroads, by way of Deming and Los Angeles, a favorite route to Southern California. =No. III.= is the Northern Route, over the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe, Denver & Rio Grande and Central Pacific Railroads. On this route through passengers are given side trips to Denver and Leadville free of charge for transportation, so that these two mountain cities are placed, with Salt Lake City, on the trans-continental line of travel. TWO LINES TO MEXICO The CHIHUAHUA ROUTE is the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe to El Paso and the Mexican Central to the interior of Mexico. This line will be opened early in the spring through to the City of Mexico. The GUAYMAS ROUTE extends from Kansas City to Guaymas, on the Gulf of California, in the Republic of Mexico. W. F. WHITE, _General Passenger and Ticket Agent, TOPEKA, KANSAS_. ESTABLISHED 1844. By "Chicago Evening Journal." Destroyed by Fire Oct. 9, 1871. RE-ESTABLISHED 1872 By JNO. B. JEFFERY. Destroyed by Fire Dec. 1, 1883. Re-Established and Incorporated 1885. JNO. B. JEFFERY, Prest. and Treas. THE JNO. B. JEFFERY PRINTING COMPANY OF CHICAGO, _LARGEST AND MOST COMPLETE_ Job Printing, Publishing, Lithographing, Engraving AND _SHOW PRINTING ESTABLISHMENT IN THE WEST_. PUBLISHERS OF THE ONLY Theatrical Guide and Directory, AND PROMOTERS OF SHOW AND AMUSEMENT INTERESTS OF AMERICA. JNO. B. JEFFERY, President and Treasurer. FORT WAYNE AND Pennsylvania Line 51 MILES THE SHORTEST To New York City. ONLY DIRECT LINE TO PHILADELPHIA BEST LINE TO BALTIMORE AND WASHINGTON. RUNS THE _Only Chicago and New York_ LIMITED EXPRESS PULLMAN CARS ON ALL TRAINS. Transcriber's Notes: Words surrounded by _ are italicized. Words surrounded by = are bold. Variable spellings have been kept. 
18931	----	* * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation matches the original document. | | | | This e-text contains characters with less common diacritics, | | non-ascii diacritical marks represented as follows: | | [vc] = c with a caron above | | [VC] = C with a caron above | | [VS] = S with a caron above | | [)e] = e with an accent breve above | | [=o] = o with a macron above | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of this | | document. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION BUREAU OF AMERICAN ETHNOLOGY BULLETIN 76 ARCHEOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS I. CAVE EXPLORATIONS IN THE OZARK REGION OF CENTRAL MISSOURI II. CAVE EXPLORATIONS IN OTHER STATES III. EXPLORATIONS ALONG THE MISSOURI RIVER BLUFFS IN KANSAS AND NEBRASKA IV. ABORIGINAL HOUSE MOUNDS V. ARCHEOLOGICAL WORK IN HAWAII BY GERARD FOWKE WASHINGTON GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE 1922 LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, BUREAU OF AMERICAN ETHNOLOGY, _Washington, D.C., February 17, 1920._ SIR: I have the honor to transmit the accompanying manuscript, entitled "Archeological Investigations," by Gerard Fowke, and to recommend its publication, subject to your approval, as a bulletin of this bureau. Very respectfully, J. WALTER FEWKES, _Chief._ DR. CHARLES D. WALCOTT, _Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution._ CONTENTS I. Cave Explorations in the Ozark Region of Central Missouri Page Introduction 13 The Upper Current River 18 Shannon County 18 Bat Cave 18 Blue Spring, or Fishing Cave 18 Welch's Cave 18 Big Creek Cave 18 Texas County 19 Smith Caves 19 Saltpeter Cave 19 Dent County 20 Mammoth Cave 20 Guthoerl Cave 20 Short Bend Cave 20 Money Cave 21 Saltpeter Cave 21 Watson, Twin, or Onyx Caves 22 House mounds 22 Phelps County 22 Bates Cave 22 Another "Bates Cave" 23 Renaud Cave 23 Marsh Caves 23 Wild-hog Cave 23 Shelters 24 Phelps Cave 24 "Key Rocks" 24 Jones Cave 24 Yancy Mills Cave 24 Lane Mound 24 Cairns on Lost Hill, at mouth of Gourd Creek 24 Exploration of the Gourd Creek Cave 28 Onyx Cave 34 Goat Bluff Cave 35 Cairns at Sugar Tree Camp 40 Tick Creek Cave 41 Cave in Pool Hollow 41 House mounds near Rolla 41 House mounds near Dillon 42 House mounds near St. James 42 Pulaski County 42 McWilliams Cave 42 Davis Caves 42 Berry Cave 43 Maxey Cave 43 Yoark Cave 43 Graves at Laughlin's 44 Kerr Cave 44 Sell Cave 45 Phillips Cave 51 Bell's Cave 51 Camp-ground Cave 51 Bucher Cave 51 Graves near McKennan's 52 Roubidoux Cave 52 Richland Cave 52 Rollins Caves 52 Mix Cave 53 Double Cave 54 Railroad Cave 55 Bat, or Page, Cave 55 Tunnel Cave 56 Brooks Cave 56 Riddle Cave 56 Lane's Cave 56 Dry Creek Cave 56 House mounds 56 Riden's Cave 57 Saltpeter Cave 57 Miller's Cave 57 Ramsey's Cave 81 Graham Cave 83 Pillman's, or Spring Creek, Cave 83 Woodland Hollow Cave 84 Walled graves at Devil's Elbow 84 Cairns on Helm's farm 87 Ash Cave 89 Clemmens Creek Cave 89 Camden County 89 Along the Niangua River 89 A fossil cave 91 Miller County 91 Wright Cave 92 Wilson Cave 94 Bagnell Cave 94 Bode Cave 94 Luckenhoff Cave 94 Jurggenmeyer Cave 94 Daerhoff Cave 95 Cave near mouth of Tavern Creek 95 Bat Cave 95 Grave at mouth of Saline Creek 95 Stark's Cave 96 House mounds 96 Cairns 96 Maries County 96 Indian Ford Cave 96 Lackaye's Bluff Cave 97 Hurricane Bluff Cave 97 Stratman Cave 98 Osage County 98 River Cave 98 Rock-shelter 98 Steuffer Cave 99 Cairns 99 House mounds 99 "Indian Fort" 99 Cole County 100 Natural Bridge Cave 100 Morgan County 100 Speers Cave 100 House mounds 100 II. CAVE EXPLORATIONS IN OTHER STATES Introduction 101 Indiana 102 Lawrence County 102 Martin County 102 Orange County 106 Crawford County 107 Harrison County 111 Illinois 111 Monroe County 111 Kentucky 112 Hardin County 112 Hart County 112 Edmonson County 115 Warren County 118 Barren County 119 Monroe County 120 Logan County 122 Todd County 122 Tennessee 123 Montgomery County 123 Sullivan County 124 Bledsoe County 128 Sequatchie County 130 Grundy County 131 Franklin County 131 Marion County 132 Hamilton County 133 Alabama 133 Lauderdale County 133 Colbert County 134 Jackson County 135 Dekalb County 137 Marshall County 139 III. EXPLORATIONS ALONG THE MISSOURI RIVER BLUFFS IN KANSAS AND NEBRASKA Vicinity of White Cloud, Kansas 151 Iowa Point 152 Near the mouth of the Nemaha River 152 Vicinity of Troy, Kansas 153 Mouth of Mosquito Creek 153 Rulo, Nebraska 154 Near Howe, Nebraska 155 Peru, Nebraska 156 Papillion, Nebraska 156 Vicinity of Omaha, Nebraska 156 Long's Hill 157 IV. ABORIGINAL HORSE MOUNDS New Madrid County 166 St. François County 166 V. ARCHAEOLOGICAL WORK IN HAWAII Introduction 178 Molokai Island 179 The Rain Heiau 180 The sacrifice stones 181 Hawaii Island 182 Kilauea 183 Waimea 183 Quarry on Mauna Kea 183 Kawaihae 183 East Point district 184 Napoopoo 184 Honaunau 184 Keauhou 185 Mookini 185 Laupahoehoe 187 Maui Island 188 Kaupo, or Mokulau 188 Wailuku 188 Waihee 189 Burial places 190 In the Iao Valley 191 Kauai Island 191 Lihue 192 Wailua 192 Dune burials 193 Waimea 194 Conclusions 194 Index 197 ILLUSTRATIONS PLATES 1. a, Cave on Big Piney River, Pulaski County, Mo. b, Cave on Big Piney River, Texas County, Mo. 12 2. a, Bluff at Mouth of Spring Creek, Pulaski County, Mo. b, Pillman's, or Spring Creek, Cave, Pulaski County, Mo. 12 3. Map of area examined 18 4. Bone and antler implements from Gourd Creek Cave, Phelps County, Mo. 34 5. Shell and flint objects from Gourd Creek Cave 34 6. Skull from Goat Bluff Cave, Phelps County, Mo. 38 7. Skull from Goat Bluff Cave 38 8. Skull from Goat Bluff Cave 38 9. Skull of child from Goat Bluff Cave 38 10. Flints from Goat Bluff Cave 38 11. Bone and antler implements from Goat Bluff Cave 38 12. Bone and antler implements from Goat Bluff Cave 38 13. a, Cairn 6 miles north of Arlington, Mo. b, Walled grave 6 miles north of Arlington, Mo. 38 14. Cairns on Roubidoux Creek, 6 miles from Waynesville, Mo. 46 15. Flints from Sell Cave, near Waynesville, Mo. 46 16. Objects from Sell Cave. a, Pestles or grinding stones; b, celt, pottery disks, paint stones, and skiver 46 17. Three skulls from Pulaski County, Mo. a, b, Skull from Sell Cave; c, d, skull from Bell's Cave, near Waynesville; e, f, skull from Miller's Cave 46 18. Teeth from Sell Cave and other caves, showing manner and amount of wear 48 19. Teeth from Sell Cave and other caves, showing manner and amount of wear 48 20. a, b, Skull from Miller's Cave, Pulaski County, Mo.; c, part of skull of child from Miller's Cave 68 21. Skull of young woman from Miller's Cave 68 22. Skull of child from Miller's Cave 72 23. Diseased tibia of adult and diseased bones of child from Miller's Cave 72 24. Skull of child from Miller's Cave 72 25. Cache of flints from ash bed in Miller's Cave 72 26. Flints from Miller's Cave 76 27. Flints from Miller's Cave 76 28. Flints from Miller's Cave 76 29. Axes and pestles from Miller's Cave 76 30. Bone implements from Miller's Cave 78 31. Bone implements from Miller's Cave 78 32. Bone implements from Miller's Cave 78 33. Bone implements from Miller's Cave 78 34. Bone and antler implements from Miller's Cave 78 35. Antler implements from Miller's Cave 78 36. Skivers, showing stages of manufacture, from Miller's Cave 78 37. Shell spoons, pottery disks, and broken spoon made of a deer's skull, from Miller's Cave 78 38. a, Heiaus A and B, on Molokai Island, looking west; b, Heiau A, on Molokai Island, looking north; c, Heiaus A and B, on Molokai Island, looking south 180 39. a, Heiau A, on Molokai Island, looking south; b, platform in Heiau A, looking southeast; c, paved way in Heiau A, looking southwest 180 40. a, Paved way in Heiau A, looking north; b, fireplace in Heiau A 180 41. a, Heiau B, on Molokai Island, looking northwest; b, Heiau B, showing stone-paved interior, looking northeast 180 42. a, The "Rain Heiau," Molokai Island, looking west; b, The "Rain Heiau," looking south 180 43. a, The "Rain Heiau," looking north; b, The "Rain Heiau," looking southwest 180 44. a, The "Sacrifice Stones," on Molokai Island, looking southwest; b, The "Sacrifice Stones," looking west 180 45. a, The "Sacrifice Stones," looking northwest; b, the "Sacrifice Stones," looking south 180 TEXT FIGURES 1. Outline of Cairn (1), at Lost Hill, Phelps County, Mo. 26 2. Outline of Cairn (2), at Lost Hill, Phelps County, Mo. 26 3. Pipe from Cairn (2) 27 4. Outline of Cairn (3), Lost Hill 28 5. Fragment of glass bottle from Goat Bluff Cave 37 6. Pot from Goat Bluff Cave 39 7. Grooved ax from Goat Bluff Cave 40 8. Perforated object of antler from Sell Cave 48 9. Rubbing or polishing stone from Sell Cave 48 10. Flints from Sell Cave 49 11. Incised figure in sandstone near Miller's Cave 61 12. Incised figures in sandstone near Miller's Cave 61 13. Plan of Miller's Cave 62 14. Clay pipe from Miller's Cave 69 15. Perforated bone object from Miller's Cave 79 16. Adz or gouge of chert from Miller's Cave 79 17. Clay pipe from Miller's Cave 80 18. Columella bead from Cairn (4), Devil's Elbow 87 19. Columella bead from Cairn (5), Devil's Elbow 87 20. Plan of Fossil Cave 92 21. Section of Fossil Cave 92 22. Perforator and knife from Wright Cave 93 23. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 18 feet 144 24. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 20 feet 144 25. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 22 feet 144 26. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 26 feet 145 27. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 28 feet 145 28. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 30 feet 145 29. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 35½ feet 146 30. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 47½ feet 146 31. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 60 feet 146 32. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 70 feet 147 33. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 90 feet 147 34. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 93 feet 148 35. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 175 feet 149 36. Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 180 feet 149 37. Plan of House Mound in St. François County, Mo. 168 * * * * * [Illustration: PLATE 1 a, Cave on Big Piney River, three miles east of Big Piney, Pulaski County. Mo. (Courtesy of Dr. P.J. Heuer, St. Louis)] [Illustration: PLATE 1 b, Cave on Big Piney River, in Texas County, Mo. (Courtesy of Dr. P.J. Heuer, St. Louis)] [Illustration: PLATE 2 a, Bluff at mouth of Spring Creek, Pulaski County, Mo. (Courtesy of Dr. P.J. Heuer, St. Louis)] [Illustration: PLATE 2 b, Pillman's, or Spring Creek, Cave, Pulaski County, Mo. (Courtesy of Dr. P.J. Heuer, St. Louis)] ARCHEOLOGICAL INVESTIGATIONS I. EXPLORATIONS IN THE OZARK REGION OF CENTRAL MISSOURI BY GERARD FOWKE INTRODUCTION The geological structure of that portion of southern Missouri which lies to the westward of the Archean rocks near the Mississippi River is peculiarly suitable for the development of caverns. The Ozark uplift produced far-reaching undulations, and there seem to have been no violent disturbances which would result in extensive faults, considerable displacements, or a pronounced inclination of the strata. Jointing and pressure cleavage, however, gave rise to innumerable crevices in the limestone, through which percolating surface water found its way into all parts of the formations. By its solvent power this water gradually enlarged the crevices into passages which, multiplying and uniting, drained constantly increasing areas until they formed subterranean streams with a perpetual flow. Thus began caverns; and these grew in depth, width, and height as the rock was eroded and dissolved. Tributary crevices were subject to the same action; and there was finally created by each of these water systems a network of cavities whose ramifications sometimes extend throughout several townships. In time, sections of the roof, here and there, became so thin from the combined erosion taking place both above and below as to be unable to sustain their own weight; the overlying strata fell into the cave, and the volume of water flowing through it was augmented by drainage which had previously been disposed of on the surface. All this had to seek an outlet somewhere, except in those rare instances where it maintains its downward course until, below the level of any open stream it can reach, it encounters an impervious stratum and must lose itself in the deep rocks. Usually, however, it emerges in the face of a bluff or on the side of a hill; and the opening becomes "the mouth of a cave." Occasionally, in such situations, the water continues to flow out; but usually it finds a way to reach a lower level, and so the cave in time becomes dry except for such water as seeps through from the earth immediately above. Sometimes, too, the point of discharge is at or perhaps somewhat below the level of a stream into which it passes; in the Ozarks are numerous very large springs or fountains which by inverted siphon or artesian action are forced up from subterranean streams lying at a greater depth. Few large caverns have the floor entirely dry, even when they are well above the bottom of the valley. Deposits in the front portion may be dry, perhaps dusty on the surface; but toward the interior moisture usually accumulates until they are muddy or until the water stands in pools or puddles. When this is the case there is sometimes a little stream making its way to the front through a channel which it has cut; or seepage may dampen, possibly saturate, the lowermost portions of the otherwise dry earth. These details are controlled principally by the direction and degree of slopes and by side openings which allow more or less of the water to escape at some part of its journey. When a cavern is fairly lighted and has a dry floor, whether of rock or earth, it forms an excellent abode for a small community unable or not disposed to construct shelters more comfortable or convenient; and there is abundant evidence that many caves in the Ozarks were utilized as habitations by the aborigines. It must be remembered, however, that in the centuries which have elapsed since hunters or permanent occupants first entered this region, many superficial changes have taken place, not only about the entrances but within the caverns as well. Very probably these alterations have converted caves once occupied into places which at present are quite unfit for such purposes. Talus has accumulated in front of the openings or partially filled the front chambers; it may well be the case that this conceals much refuse. Caves which, from similar deposits, are now difficult to enter and dark to the doorway, may have been open and convenient. Furthermore, caves with wet or muddy bottoms may owe such condition to causes which have recently come into operation; or if they always contained more or less water, the primitive dwellers could in many cases have overcome such disadvantages by digging drains which have since become choked and obliterated. Very small cavities, such as deep rock-shelters; or caverns with a great thickness of earth on the floors, now showing no trace of remains; or those with entrances so small that it is necessary to crawl through--any of these, if cleared out to the bottoms, might disclose material dating back to very early times. It might seem that the air in a cave constantly occupied would grow stale and close; while smoke from the fires would in time become annoying. But Indians used for fuel only dry wood and bark, the smoke from which would be a negligible factor. The varying pressure of the atmosphere outside creates a current of air in or out which is usually imperceptible but which penetrates to the deepest recesses and insures ventilation. In view of the very primitive conditions under which cave dwellers lived, as denoted by the artificial objects which they left, and the low mentality indicated by the skulls, Mr. W.H. Holmes suggests that a careful and extended study of these abodes may disclose a culture lower than that prevailing among out-door dwellers in the same localities. As no effort would be required to secure warmth and shelter, and as food was abundant and easily procured, the people may never have advanced from savagery, or may have retrograded. None of these possibilities are taken into account when reporting upon the caves described in the following pages; the information offered is based entirely upon the present appearance of the places mentioned. To attempt more would be merely offering guesses. If "Cave Man"--using this term to designate the predecessor of any race or tribe known to history--ever existed in the Mississippi Valley he would not find in any part of it natural features better adapted for his requirements than in the Ozark hills. But, so far, not the slightest trace of his presence has been revealed. Products of human industry have been reported as occurring at great depths under other conditions, even at the bottom of the loess; though in all such cases there is some uncertainty as to the correctness of the observations. No similar reports have been made in regard to any cave yet explored. On the contrary, whatever may be the depth of the deposit containing them, the artificial objects exhumed are uniform in character from top to bottom; the specimens found on the clay or solid rock floor are of the same class as those barely covered by the surface earth. Moreover, when they cease to appear they cease absolutely; the rock was swept bare, or the clay was deposited, by the stream to which the cave owes its existence, and each is a part of the original formation. In these circumstances habitation would be out of the question. By careful search in the caves and rock-shelters of which the Indian known to history availed himself, extensive and interesting museum collections can be made. To find an earlier man it will be necessary to investigate caverns which he found suitable for occupancy and in which the accumulation of detritus, from whatever source, has been sufficient to cover his remains so deeply that they can not be confused with those of a later period; and it may be necessary, also, to discover with them bones of extinct animals. Should such a place exist, it is extremely probable that there will be no outward indication of the fact. No examination of a cavern is complete or is to be deemed satisfactory unless a depth is reached where the geological deposits are undeniably of such age as to antedate the possible appearance of man upon the scene. This is not assured until the excavation has reached the original floor, which may be either the bed-rock or the clay left by the eroding stream when its volume had become so diminished from any cause that it was no longer able to keep its channel cleared out. Unless a cave is almost perfectly dry--and few of them are--the bottom can not be reached until all standing or soil water has been drained off. Notwithstanding the most explicit directions, a stranger without a guide is frequently unable to find a cave unless its position is plainly visible from some well-defined spot. The winding valleys and the multitude of ravines sometimes bewilder even those living among them. A few definitions of terms, or explanations of statements in the report, may prevent misunderstanding. "Refuse," "signs," "indications," "evidence," referring to habitation or occupancy, mean mussel shells; animal bones; burned or worked stones; broken pottery; wrought objects of bone or shell; flint implements, chips, or spalls; ashes; charcoal; in short, the material ordinarily found on the site of an Indian village, some or all of which are to be seen where the caverns have been used for shelter. "Daylight" or "in daylight" is the greatest distance within the entrance to a cavern at which common print may be easily read or the nature of small objects lying on the floor determined with certainty. "Drip rock," "cave rock," or "cave formation" are general terms including stalactite or stalagmite; also deposits of similar origin coating the walls. Not all of these may be present in the same cavern. "Roof dust" is a substance, literally "lime sand," produced by the superficial disintegration of the roof or walls. This process is greatly accelerated where lichen or rock moss has gained a root hold on the stone. Roof dust in a dry cavern is the equivalent of stalagmite in a wet one. "Cave earth" is the loose, loamy material usually found in the front chambers of large caverns. It is made up of roof dust, sand, and silt washed from the interior, outside dust and vegetable matter blown in by the wind, with minute amounts of clay or soil carried in by animals. "Gravel" in a cavern is seldom noticeably water-worn, but is the angular débris resulting from the continued fragmentation of chert nodules released by erosion of the limestone. A "rock shelter," or "shelter cave," is a room or recess formed by atmospheric erosion in the face, usually at the base, of a cliff. The depth from front to back, under the projecting or overhanging unremoved bedrock above, is generally much less than the length as measured along the face of the bluff. They are nearly always dry, more or less protected from storms, and when of suitable size and in a favorable location were much used as camping places. They are rather rare in limestone formations but frequent in massive sandstone. "House mounds" are small, low piles of earth, similar in all respects to those so numerous in southeastern Missouri and southward. Although they are usually described as "standing in regular rows," they are in fact irregularly placed, though seldom as much as 100 feet apart in the same group. Measurements of caverns explored were made with a tape line; others were estimated by stepping, or in the case of elevations, by sighting, consequently are only approximate, but the figures given will in no case exceed the actual distance. Specimens reported from caves not excavated were found on the floor, sometimes in situations where no addition of cave earth had taken place since the objects were left there; at other times where they were brought from below by burrowing animals; and, again, where they are exposed in the bed or banks of a drainage channel. In no cave so far examined has any evidence been found to show that the aborigines occupied any part of it beyond such point as was adequately illuminated from the entrance. No doubt they may, at times, have retreated beyond the reach of daylight and been compelled to dispel the darkness by means of fires; but such instances were rare and of short duration. Statements are sometimes made that specimens, usually flint implements, have been found far, possibly several hundred yards, within the cavern. Such objects do not predicate habitation at that distance; primitive explorers may have lost them. It has been pointed out, too, by Mr. De Lancey Gill, that a wounded animal, taking refuge in a cave and instinctively seeking its dark recesses, may carry in an arrow or spear whose point remains when the shaft has decayed. In the case of a large mammal, such as a bear or a panther, a number of arrow or spear heads might be carried in and be found close together long after the death of the victim. Cairns or stone-covered graves are of common occurrence; but with a single exception the rocks in all those visited or reported are more or less displaced. This is due to hunters digging out small wild animals making a den in them; to treasure seekers who believe that "money" is concealed in them; and most of all to persons who are curious to know "what there is in there." The record of the investigations will be given by counties, beginning at the south and proceeding northward. Descriptions and notes of the sites mentioned will follow as closely as possible the same arrangement. A number following the name of a cave refers to its position as denoted by a corresponding number on the map (pl. 3). THE UPPER CURRENT RIVER A number of well-known caverns, some of them quite extensive, exist along the head streams forming the Current River. As originally planned, the work included a thorough survey of this region, but owing to various causes it was only partially examined. Several large caves were reported as being along the river and its tributaries farther down than these researches were carried. Notable is one opposite the mouth of Sinkin Creek, which was described as dry and very large within; but it was also stated that it can only be entered through a sink hole with the aid of a ladder or pole 30 feet long. Such a cave is not likely to have been used for shelter. Others, as they were described, seemed equally unfitted for this purpose. The only exception to this general rule is one in Spring Valley south of the Current and east of Sinkin. Such as were visited will be described in their geographical order. * * * SHANNON COUNTY BAT CAVE (1) This cavern is 6 miles above the mouth of Sinkin. It is near the top of a cliff, fully 300 feet above the river. The entrance is 30 feet wide and 10 feet high; within is a level earth-covered floor. Being very difficult of access, it was probably never inhabited. BLUE SPRING, OR FISHING CAVE (1) This is situated on the Terrell land, 4 miles below Akers post office. The entrance, 10 feet high and 20 feet wide, is almost at low-water level; the river at flood height rises fully 20 feet above its top. Fifty feet within is a spring or well, 20 feet across, whose bottom is beyond the reach of a line 60 feet long. It is said that eyeless fish of 3 pounds weight have been caught in this "Blue Spring." WELCH'S CAVE This is 4 miles below Cedar Grove. It can be entered only in a boat, and the entire floor is deeply covered with soft mud. BIG CREEK CAVE There is a cave at the mouth of Big Creek which is often used as a temporary camping place by hunters and fishermen. The water enters it whenever there is a freshet in either the creek or the river; so it could never have served as a place of permanent abode. [Illustration: PLATE 3: MAP OF AREA EXAMINED (Numbers refer to corresponding numbers in text)] * * * TEXAS COUNTY SMITH CAVES (2) On James I. Smith's land, on Big Creek, a mile above Niles, are three caves. One is merely a round opening 5 feet in width and height, soon narrowing to a crevice; it would not be mentioned except that in it was a sandstone slab such as mortars are made of. This bore no marks of use; but it had been carried in for some purpose--possibly by white men. The second cave, 50 feet from the first, has an entrance 20 feet wide and 4 to 5 feet high. Dry earth extends back for 40 feet; then come clay and fallen rocks, sloping downward toward the rear. The roof maintains its level as far as followed. No trace of occupation could be found. The third cave, 150 yards from the second, has an entrance 35 feet wide and 20 feet high. Dry cave earth appears for 20 feet, at which distance it merges with mud containing large rocks. The cavern extends for 50 feet in daylight; water from the interior spreads over the whole floor to the inner margin of dry earth, where it collects in a little stream which passes out along the foot of one wall. The earth deposit seems to be thin. The only objects that could be found in the cave or about the entrance were a small sandstone slab, unmarked; a small piece of deer bone; and one fragment of shell-tempered pottery. Not a flake of flint was seen. These caves are not worth working. * * * * * A fourth of a mile from the cave last mentioned is a rock grave on a ledge which projects at about 40 feet (vertically) below the top of the hill. As near as can be judged, in its present torn-up condition, the cairn was originally about 10 by 20 feet in dimensions; so there were probably two graves covered by the ordinary conical heaps of stone, the depression between them being filled up to form a single cairn. SALTPETER CAVE (3) Five miles west of Montauk, on Ashley Creek, is a cave noted for having two entrances which are separated by a triangular mass of rock, part of the original formation. This partition measures 30 feet across at the face of the bluff and terminates within 20 feet. The principal opening is 90 feet wide and 15 feet high. Dry cave earth extends back 90 feet, at which distance water constantly falls from the roof and flows along the foot of one wall through the minor entrance. The latter is 30 feet wide, 10 feet high, and its bottom is 10 feet lower than that of the main opening. The volume of water passing out varies with the seasons, but is sufficient at times to cover the entire floor of the side chamber and keep it swept free of earth and small gravel. In the front portion of the main cavern the dry earth is 5 feet deep in its thickest part; but as it has all been leached for obtaining the saltpeter or niter diffused through it, none of it is in the original position. Some earth has also been brought from farther back, leached, and added to the pile in front; and much of this has been hauled out for fertilizer. Near the main entrance is a large mass of breccia made up of small angular limestone fragments cemented throughout with stalagmite material; it projects several feet above the present level of the earth floor, so the character of the cavern must have changed greatly since this deposit was formed. The only artificial object found was a fragment, about an inch across, of dark, sand-tempered pottery. Owing to the extensive changes resulting from collecting the saltpeter, the cavern would not repay investigation. * * * DENT COUNTY MAMMOTH CAVE The statement has been made that a large dry cavern, known as the "Mammoth Cave," is in a bluff facing Current River, opposite the mouth of Ashley Creek. It could not be located; and residents in the vicinity assert that not only is there no cave near this site, but there is none known as "Mammoth" anywhere in the region. Some of them, however, had a vague idea that a cavern bearing the same name exists "away down toward Eminence; it may be on Jack's Fork." GUTHOERL CAVE There is a cave on the farm of Peter Guthoerl, 6 miles east of Salem. It is small, with very little level space in front of it, and water from the interior runs or seeps out of it, keeping the floor muddy throughout the year. SHORT BEND CAVE (4) Short Bend post office is 12 miles northeast of Salem. Half a mile east of it, in a bluff on the opposite side of the Meramec River, is a cave with an entrance 25 feet wide and about the same in height; the roof forming a fairly symmetrical Gothic arch. Were it not for the pile of talus in front, water from the river would pour into the cavern in extreme floods; these subside very rapidly, however, and have never percolated through the barrier. It is said that persons digging in a desultory way have unearthed bones which were assumed to be those of Indians because they were "red." No description of them could be obtained, and they may not have been human bones at all. The floor is level and dry for about 80 feet back from the entrance, but no refuse of any kind appeared, except in the pile of talus outside, which showed a small quantity of flint chips such as would be left by hunting parties in repairing their weapons. MONEY CAVE This is a fourth of a mile down the river from Short Bend Cave. It takes its name from the customary tradition that Indians concealed a large treasure here; the legend being authenticated by an "Indian chief" who told a white man that his people had buried much gold in a cave in this bluff, built a fire over the money, then filled the mouth of the cave with earth and rock. Some of the persons who opened many small holes in searching for the hidden wealth claim to have found ashes in this cave, behind the barrier, which is only ordinary talus. The floor is of tough clay, fallen rocks, and stalagmite, all of which, as well as the walls and ledges, were industriously dug and hammered for months by the treasure seekers. A cave with an entrance 15 feet wide, the same in height, and having a depth of 45 feet in daylight, lies between Money Cave and Short Bend Cave. In very wet seasons water runs through it from the interior; and high water backs into it from the Meramec River. SALTPETER CAVE This is three-fourths of a mile north of Short Bend post office, on the opposite side of the river. The arched entrance is 25 feet wide and 20 feet high. Fifteen feet from the front the cave divides into two branches about equal in size; they have never been explored to the end. One branch continues straight back for about 100 feet, then turns abruptly to the right for 50 or 60 feet, at which distance it resumes its original direction. The other branch turns directly to the right and is in daylight for 50 feet. Much of the cave earth has been hauled away for fertilizer, or leached for obtaining saltpeter, so that only a small quantity remains in front. Farther back, in both chambers, the dry earth where not disturbed is 8 to 10 feet thick. The cavern is easily accessible, close to the river, and otherwise well adapted for habitation; but careful search failed to reveal any indication that it had ever been thus used. WATSON, TWIN, OR ONYX CAVES The two caverns thus variously designated are on the Meramec River, 14 miles north of Salem. They are parallel to a depth of about 100 feet, being separated by only 10 or 12 feet of solid wall. The floors of both slope downward from front to rear, but not so rapidly as the roof, so that at this distance the caves apparently come to an end. But that they continue back into the hill is manifest from the appearance of the roofs. In some manner the rear portion of each has become entirely filled with earth. Probably they unite somewhere beyond this point. Either of these caves is of ample size to make an excellent shelter for a large number of people; but they are difficult of access, and no evidence whatever could be discovered indicating occupancy. In fact, this part of the Meramec Valley does not seem to have ever been permanently inhabited. Residents say that relics, even flint implements, are seldom found in the bottom lands; and this fact was commented on by persons who have learned how common such things are in other localities. Small, rough hematite axes, however, occur in considerable quantities throughout the region. The ore outcrops at various places and solid nodules or fragments are plentiful. Chert knives or spearheads are found scattered promiscuously; and, rarely, an object made of other stone may be picked up. Very few specimens of any description are symmetrical or carefully finished. HOUSE MOUNDS (5) On the Dent County infirmary farm, in Spring Creek Valley, a mile and a half south of Salem, is a group of house mounds, about 50 in number. They have not been much disturbed by cultivation; the creek and a drainage ditch have cut through several of them, but, as usual, there is nothing in the construction to show their purpose. Two similar groups are on the Short Bend road, not far from Salem; another group on Peter Guthoerl's farm 6 miles east of Salem; and a fourth group, partly within the corporate limits of Salem, on the road to Rolla. * * * PHELPS COUNTY BATES CAVE On the farm of J.W. Riden, 6 miles southeast of Big Piney post office, is Bates Cave, of which every visitor to the region is speedily informed. It is entered with difficulty by sliding feet first down the inner slope of a pile of débris which fills the entrance almost to the roof. Once beyond this, there is ample space. On the hillside, above the mouth, is a vertical shaft, like a well, due to the widening of a crevice; access to the interior of the cave may also be had through this by means of a long rope. Under present conditions, it would not be used except as a temporary shelter or hiding place; for which purposes bushwhackers availed themselves of its advantages during the Civil War. This cavern is renowned far beyond its merits on account of its famous "ballroom," where dances and picnics are held; artificial lights being placed on the walls. Possibly the manner in which it must be entered has something to do with its popularity. ANOTHER "BATES CAVE" Within a few rods of the cave above described is another, with an entrance 60 feet wide and 10 feet high. Cave earth, which is 5 feet thick above the bottom of a small stream coming from the interior, extends back to large rocks covering the floor; beyond these are rocks, wet clay, and gravel. The cave earth seems to run for some distance under the receding walls. A milk house has been constructed in it, so that excavations are not permitted. RENAUD CAVE Four miles east of Edgar Springs, facing Little Piney, is Renaud (R[)e]n´n[=o]) Cave, on the farm of Charles E. Widener. The entrance is 50 feet wide and 10 feet high. Dry cave earth extends back for 65 feet, then comes fallen rock for 100 feet or more. A little stream runs close to the north wall. Cave earth is 5 feet deep on the bedrock at the entrance and rises toward the interior. There is much refuse within and also on the slope in front of the entrance. MARSH CAVES A shelter cave on Henry Marsh's farm, facing Little Piney, 2 miles south of Yancy Mills, has a front 35 feet wide, 15 feet high, and runs back 60 feet. There is a wet-weather stream bed through the center. Bedrock shows at the entrance, rising toward the rear for a few feet, then becoming covered with cave earth, which probably has a maximum thickness of 2 feet. There is considerable refuse scattered about, but it is doubtful whether the shallow deposit would repay investigation. WILD-HOG CAVE A fourth of a mile from the above cave is one known as "Wild-hog Cave," because in pioneer days these animals gathered here for shelter and protection. It is a small, tunnel-like affair, with a solid rock floor, and extends farther into the hill than anyone has ever dared to venture. SHELTERS Two small rock shelters near the Wild-hog Cave may have been resorted to as temporary camping places. PHELPS CAVE A cave on the farm of James Phelps, 2 miles south of Yancy Mills, is described as small, with a narrow entrance. "KEY ROCKS" Near Yancy Mills there is something known as "the Key Rocks." It can not be found by a stranger and no guide was available at the time the place was sought. It is described as a small, deep, circular hole in solid rock, in which were many stone covers or lids, one above another, gradually diminishing in size and "cut to fit down on each other." It is probably due to stream erosion. JONES CAVE On Little Piney, half a mile south from Yancy Mills, is a large cave on the Jones farm. It is said to have a large entrance and much earth on the floor. As the owner uses it for a warehouse in which to store fruits and vegetables and utilizes the stream flowing through it for preserving milk and butter, no examination could be made. YANCY MILLS CAVE There is a small, shallow cave near the top of the bluff, half a mile north of Yancy Mills. It contains no evidence of occupation, except that walls and ceiling are blackened with smoke, due, probably, to modern refugees or hunters. LANE MOUND (7) It was reported, too late to visit the site, that on George Lane's farm, on Little Piney, a mile north of Yancy Mills, is a mound "8 feet high, built of earth," and surrounded with the usual evidences of a village site, scattered over the level bottom on which it stands. CAIRNS ON LOST HILL, AT MOUTH OF GOURD CREEK (8) Gourd Creek flows into the east side of Little Piney River 12 miles southwest of Rolla. It is less than 4 miles long, and but for three or four large springs near its source, which keep its volume fairly uniform, would be dry most of the year. Parallel with it, a short distance to the southward, is a ravine several miles in length, known as Coal Pit Hollow. This originally discharged its drainage into Little Piney about half a mile above the mouth of Gourd Creek. A ravine tributary to the latter, near its mouth, has worked back until it has captured the flow of Coal Pit. The lower end of the stream bed thus abandoned now forms a gap or depression with a slight incline from the center in both directions. The crest of the deserted portion is about 50 to 60 feet above the present level of Little Piney. The hill inclosed by this quadrilateral drainage is about a fourth of a mile in length along its top, has a direction almost north and south, with a nearly uniform slope along the summit, the southern point being somewhat higher than that at the north, and terminates abruptly at each end. The sides descend at once from the center line of the ridge, like a roof with a slightly rounded comb. On account of its isolated position the eminence is locally known as "Lost Hill." It is not to be confused, however, with several similar formations in this region, to which the same term is applied and which may owe their existence to a like cause, or may be due to cut-offs by streams. On the top of this particular Lost Hill are six cairns, five of them near the northern end, the sixth just where the ridge breaks off to the south. The margins are uncertain owing to the upper stones being scattered by hunters as well as by credulous individuals who are firmly fixed in the belief that all such "rock piles" contain gold hidden by Indians. So far as can now be determined the five at the northern end were 16 to 18 feet across as left by the builders, the southernmost one being somewhat smaller. All are in uncleared land, and crevices between the stones are filled with a tangled mass of roots from the trees and bushes growing on and around them. The relative positions are about thus, measurements being made on the earth between the scattered stones: (1) 10 feet, (2) 10 feet, (3) 50 feet, (4) 10 feet, (5) 1,000 feet, (6). The distance from (5) to (6) is estimated by stepping and may vary considerably either way from the measure given. Cairns (1), (2), and (3) were thoroughly excavated. CAIRN (1) This, the farthest north, was about 16 by 17 feet within the original limits. When the outer loose rocks were removed there was disclosed a wall of flat stones on the natural surface, so laid as to form an inclosure apparently intended to be practically square. It measured, across the center, from outside to outside, about 14 feet from north to south by 12 feet from east to west. The north and south walls were straight, the others outwardly curved. The approximate outline is shown in figure 1. In most parts the wall was only one stone high; in a few places there was another rock laid up. Over and within this wall had been piled loose stones, ranging in size from small pebbles to fragments of 150 pounds in weight, to form a heap whose original height was about 2 feet. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--Outline of Cairn (1), at Lost Hill, Phelps County, Mo.] When all these were cleared away the space within the wall was found to measure 9 feet in each direction. Three feet from the middle of the west wall was a fragment of a child's skull lying on the undisturbed angular gravel which forms the natural surface on this ridge except where a small amount of recently decayed humus may be held by rocks and roots. Halfway between the center and the north wall was the top of an adult skull, with three fragments of long bones. These, which were much gnawed by rodents, were in black earth, evidently the former home of some burrowing animal. A foot north of the infant's skull were small remnants of an adult's skull, probably belonging with the piece first found. There were also some scraps of animal bones, much gnawed. CAIRN (2) This measured from 16 to 18 feet across to the outer edge of the loose stones, and about 30 inches high. Under the top rocks was a rough wall similar to that in Cairn (1), but all the sides were nearly straight. The outline is given in figure 2. The outside measurements, across the center, were 15 feet each way. There were more stones in this wall than in the first; mostly there were two, and in some places three, superposed. [Illustration: FIG. 2.--Outline of Cairn (2), at Lost Hill, Phelps County, Mo.] Extending from north to south across the middle of the vault was a row of large slabs standing on edge with their tops leaning toward the east. Their inclination varied from nearly horizontal to nearly vertical; so it would appear that they were not placed thus intentionally but had settled irregularly. Probably they had formed the covering of a pen or vault, of poles or timbers, in which a body had been placed. Close to these inclined slabs, near the north wall of the vault, was the effigy pipe shown in figure 3. It is made of a fine-grained sandstone and seems intended to represent a buzzard with an exaggerated tail, though the beak is more like that of a crow. This specimen lay between two flat rocks which were separated by a little earth and gravel, but there were no traces of bone with it or near it. [Illustration: FIG. 3.--Pipe from Cairn (2).] At a slightly lower level than the pipe were several flat stones standing at various angles. When these were removed there were found fragmentary remains of at least three adults, lying in confusion, as if only the folded dismembered skeletons had been placed here. They lay on a floor of slabs which, in turn, rested upon undisturbed gravel. The facts observed are difficult to interpret, as the original order was so broken up; but it would seem that as a preliminary to the burial of bodies or skeletons, the superficial earth had been scraped away and a rough stone floor laid, on which the bundled or folded remains were placed and at least partially covered with earth and gravel. Other flat rocks were then laid over them, either directly on the earth or more probably supported by poles placed across, whose decay had allowed them to fall into the confusion in which they were found. A small flint knife was among the remains. The pipe, being at a little distance from these bones, would suggest another interment; but as no trace of such remained it may have been placed as an afterthought or a separate deposit. From these skeletons row after row of the slanting rocks continued to the inner side of the eastern wall. Two feet east of the pipe was a skull on its right side, the back against a small flat rock. It was crushed flat, and only a small part of it remained. Possibly it had turned after burial, as fragments of other bones were found here and there toward the south from it, indicating an extended burial. The teeth were hard, solid, and much worn. The bones found were more or less gnawed, and among them were scraps, probably of food animals, burned into charcoal. No bones found could be saved, as they were very soft. CAIRN (3) This was similar in construction to (1) and (2), as is shown in figure 4. The wall, along the outside, measured 14 feet on the south, 13 feet on the north, 15 feet on the west, and 14 feet on the east. The inclosed space was 10 feet across each way. Some one had dug out much of the south end; the northern end was undisturbed. [Illustration: FIG. 4.--Outline of Cairn (3), Lost Hill.] The prior excavation had barely missed, near the west wall, a few fragments of an adult skull and three teeth. About even with the middle point of the west wall, 2 feet from it, was evidence of the burial of an adult--pieces of bone and skull, and some teeth. North of these, near the northwest corner, were fragments of two adult skulls, with one of which were some beads made of shells of water snails; 18 of these were recovered, all more or less decayed. Between these two skulls were parts of a child's skull, the teeth not yet through the bone. Inclined flat stones in the eastern half of the grave, the tops leaning eastward, denoted other burials; but nothing was found under them, although small flat stones laid on the original surface indicated the bottom of a grave. Evidently several burials, of which all traces have disappeared, were made in this vault. Owing to the practical identity of these three graves, the poor returns, and the difficulty of working in a tangled mass of tough roots without displacing the stones so greatly that their proper position became a perplexing question, the remaining three were not excavated. EXPLORATION OF THE GOURD CREEK CAVE (8) Near the mouth of Gourd Creek, on the north side, is a cave which has acquired much local reputation from its size and also from the evidence it affords of a long-continued occupation by the aborigines. It is easily reached from the road which passes in front; wagons can be driven into it and there is ample space for them to turn and pass out. Formerly it was much resorted to as a pleasant place for social gatherings; but in recent years it has been used as a barn and storehouse. The owner, Mr. Valentine Allen, gave cheerful permission for all the excavation that was desired, subject only to the proviso that the floor be put back in condition suitable for the purposes for which he needed it. And it is only fair to state that he was not at all difficult to satisfy in this respect. A stream coming from the interior had a flow at the close of the long drought in 1918 sufficient to fill a 2-inch pipe with a rapid fall; in wet seasons the water spreads from wall to wall until it comes to within 100 feet of the mouth. Back in the cave, where the slope is greater, it has sufficient volume and force to carry away all pebbles smaller than coarse gravel and the material that finds lodgment among the stones. The cave is easily traversed for almost 600 feet; beyond this are narrow crevices and tortuous passages, where explorers must frequently crawl or clamber. One adventurous party proceeded until they reached an opening on the other side of the hill; but this was so choked by fallen rock and débris from the hillside as to be impassable. In storms a strong breeze passes through the main entrance, in or out in accordance with the direction of the wind. Owing to the irregular outline of the cliffs, the width of the entrance can not be accurately given. From side to side, well under the front of the ceiling the distance is 110 feet. Two hundred feet toward the interior it contracts to 50 feet. At the entrance the walls are vertical to a height of 25 feet; a short curve at the top on either side, due to the breaking away of the ledges, connects them with the roof, which is somewhat higher. Being a single massive stratum, the top is practically horizontal, but the floor constantly rises from the front with a slight and fairly uniform grade. The front chamber is straight and well lighted for 300 feet, where it turns abruptly westward; from this point the floor is solid rock which the water keeps comparatively free from any loose matter except heavy blocks from the walls or top. Beginning at the entrance is a deposit whose farthest extension reaches 100 feet into the cavern. It is composed to a small extent of sand and clay carried by the stream, and of earth blown or washed in from the outside; but, as investigation proved, it is mainly ashes from prehistoric fires. The surface of this deposit, especially toward the inner end, is very uneven, being higher near the walls than through the central portion. This is due to two causes: In very wet seasons water has carried away much of it, and a large amount has been hauled out by the owner to scatter over his fields as a fertilizer. He reports that in the course of this work he found quantities of pottery fragments, broken bones, flints, and "two or three" human skeletons, with fragments of others. This is the basis for the assertion, frequently heard, that "many" or "very many" burials had been made here. The only human remains which he saved are the complete skull of an adult, remarkably preserved and apparently that of a white woman; a rather large lower jaw, of a man; a few long bones; and parts of skulls and jaws of three or four children. From comments made and questions asked by visitors while the investigation was in progress, it seems that bones and teeth of deer and other animals are mistaken for those of people. No human bones were uncovered in this work, except as noted below. There is a firm belief in the community that somewhere in this cave is concealed $100,000 in gold, seven "pony loads" in all, which was put here by an old squaw, sole survivor of a massacre by which her tribe was exterminated. Much of the irregularity of surface noted in the deposits is due to the efforts of persons trying to find this money. Before starting the work it was necessary to deepen the little stream, which had cut its way through the accumulation much nearer to the western than to the eastern wall of the cavern, in order to allow the water to run out of the lower end of the deposit. Thorough drainage of the whole mass was impossible, as water continually seeped in from the gravel bed farther up, a condition which could not be remedied. Bedrock was reached at a depth of 3 feet below the channel. The lower 2 feet of this distance was through a black, mucky substance which was so tough and sticky that removing it was like digging through a bog. Following the bedrock as a floor, the western side of the deposit was first examined. It had a width of 35 feet at the mouth of the cave, gradually narrowing inward for a distance of 75 feet, where it terminated at the level of the water. Its greatest elevation, at the side of the entrance, was about 10 feet; but this does not mean that its thickness was so much at any point, as the rock sloped upward quite as rapidly as the surface. So many stones were scattered through it, fallen from the sides and roof, or rolled in from the outside where they had broken loose from the cliff, that not more than one-fourth of the area could be excavated. These rocks varied in size from cobblestones to blocks weighing 3 or 4 tons. They were at all levels, some lying on the rock floor, others only slightly imbedded in the earth. Yet the superficial accumulation extended under all of them except such as were in direct contact with the bedrock, proving that the cave was occupied throughout the period in which such downfalls occurred. An additional evidence of age is the fact that the usual débris, such as bones, flints, pottery, ashes, etc., lay in immediate contact with the bedrock where this has weathered to a chalky consistency from 2 to 4 inches in depth since these objects were left there. Owing to the uneven surface of both the bedrock and the deposits on it, the thickness of the latter varied from 1 to 3 feet--not including the muck, which last, however, disappeared at the level where the rock rose above the water line. But, whatever the depth, more than half the overlying material was pure ashes; either resting undisturbed on the fire beds, or piled in irregular masses, where they had been thrown to get them out of the way. The largest ash bed was near the wall; it measured from 4 to 7 feet across, with a very uneven outline, as if many fires had been made there at different times. The objects discovered included flint knives, spearheads, arrowheads (mostly broken), with many spalls and chips; potsherds (only very small pieces were found); animal bones; mussel shells; bone perforators; chert nodules, more or less flaked; two stone beads or buttons; a small fragment of a pipe; but no mortars, hammers, pestles, cooking-stones, or hatchets, such as are usually found on the sites of Indian villages. None of the pottery was decorated, but most of it was cord-marked, though some of it was so smoothed and polished as almost to appear glazed. It varied through a wide range of color, thickness, and general appearance, and was noticeably deficient in quantity. In fact, the west side of the cave had less the appearance of a permanently occupied site than of a camping place which was used as a temporary resort by traveling or hunting parties; but at the same time the depth and amount of ashes showed that it had afforded shelter through a long period. The excavation on this side included all the space bounded by the ditch, the wall, the mass of rocks piled at the entrance, and the water-soaked earth toward the interior. The muck, and the large blocks scattered around, prevented a complete clearing out; but the part thoroughly examined had an area of about 600 square feet, perhaps a little more. No human bones were found, in spite of reports of their discovery and reburial by treasure hunters in the past; and there was wide disagreement on the part of visitors, who were also present when the bones were found, as to the number of such interments. All finally conceded that there was only one adult skull, though there was much argument as to the number of children's remains discovered, the person who was blessed with the largest memory insisting there were 13 "all in a pile." There was also some discussion as to whether the remains were actually found near the west wall or had been carried over there and reinterred after being exhumed on the east side. These particulars are given merely to show how little reliance is to be placed upon the statements of perfectly truthful persons who do not observe closely, whose memory plays them tricks, who are not especially interested in the matter under discussion, or whose recollections naturally become jumbled after several years have elapsed. Work was next begun on the east side, at the edge of the drainage trench. Bedrock was reached as before, under 2 feet of muck, and was weathered until quite soft and of a yellowish hue, for 3 or 4 inches below its surface. An effort was made to keep on the rock as a floor, removing all the muck; but this was so water soaked, so tenacious, and so filled with chert and limestone gravel that it could not be managed with either pick or shovel. A little of the gravel had no doubt fallen from the roof; but nearly all of this mingled material had washed down from the interior, as it was entirely similar, except for its dark color, to that forming the floor farther in. Consequently it was necessary to limit the explorations to that part of the deposit which lay above the wet black mass. Numerous attempts were made to ascertain the thickness of the latter; but water, gravel, and slush oozed or slid into the hole as fast as they could be removed, and it was impossible to reach the bottom. The eastward dip of the rock floor, as noted on the western side of the cave, no doubt continues entirely across. If such be the case, then the original drainage line was against the foot of the eastern wall. Later, because the channel was obstructed by talus, the stream was forced more and more to the west, saturating, up to the level of its final outlet, the earth and ashes which had accumulated. It may be, however, that either this line of drainage, or the mass of talus in front of the cave, is of comparatively recent origin. Such accumulations as those described would be impossible under present conditions. At any rate, this deposit of muck, then dry, started from the floor of the cave with the earliest occupation; for artificial objects of the same character that occurred in the dry deposit above were found in it to a depth of 3 or 4 inches. They may continue to the bedrock, but on account of the standing water no satisfactory observations could be made below the level indicated. Lying above the muck and, as intimated, practically continuous with it, was an accumulation of ashes with which here and there some earth was mingled, though the latter made only a small proportion of the entire mass, and was sometimes entirely lacking from top to bottom. They were principally in strata or irregular layers, lying undisturbed where fires had been made; but there were also many scattered piles, usually small, where they had been thrown to get them out of the way. The excavation on the eastern side began with a trench 25 feet wide. When this had been carried about the same distance toward the wall, rocks and earth rolled and washed in from the outside were encountered on the right, the side toward the mouth of the cavern. These reached from the bottom to the surface, and were continuous with the bank of talus. As results had been meager along here, the sides of the trench were turned to the northward and northwestward. The entire trench was 43 feet long and varied in width from 30 feet in the central parts to 18 feet at the extreme northern end. The left face reached, in its entire length, nearly to the drain; on the right side the eastern wall of the cavern was uncovered for 15 feet. It embraced nearly all the area not previously dug by others, except a triangular space at the east side of the entrance, filled with large stones, as just stated. Near the middle of the excavated area was a heap of large fallen rocks, fully a carload in all; some of them imbedded in the muck, others barely penetrating the surface of the latest deposits. Ashes lay under and between all of them, proving this side also had been inhabited before the first of them had become loose, and that occupancy was practically continuous until the last one had fallen. The inmates, recognizing the danger, may have knocked these down. The greatest depth of ashes found in any part of the excavation was 7 feet; but it may have been greater previous to any disturbance; nor does this include such as may be present in the muck. There were unbroken layers as much as 8 inches thick covering spaces 5 to 10 feet across; many smaller, intact patches; and numerous masses, from a peck to a bushel in volume, removed from fire beds elsewhere. Charcoal among them showed that bark and dead wood, principally oak, was the main reliance for fuel. The wrought objects found were flints, mostly broken or of rough finish; very many small fragments of pottery; mortars made of sandstone slabs; hammerstones or pestles; bone perforators; mussel shells, some pierced for suspension or for attachment of a handle, some with outer surfaces and edges dressed for use as spoons; hematite ore, in the rough or rubbed to procure paint. There was a great abundance of bones from animals used for food, mostly deer, though elk, bear, many smaller mammals, turtles, tortoises, turkeys, and other birds were well represented. Singularly enough, when the plentiful supply of fish in all the streams of this region is considered, none of their bones or scales were found, although the ashes would have preserved them perfectly. Nor were there many burned rocks, in view of the amount of pottery and the number of bones which showed that they had been boiled. Perhaps such stones had crumbled or were thrown outside when near disintegration. There is a consensus of belief, or at least of statement, in the neighborhood that many human skeletons have been dug out close to the east wall. In the only part reached during this work--which took in about all that had not been searched by others--rocks lay along the wall, so large and so numerous that no graves could have been dug behind or between them. By careful and persistent questioning it was established that skeletons had been found in two places and a detached jaw in another. A human skull, which was very soft and fell to pieces when uncovered, was found on, and slightly pressed into, the muck at a point 15 feet from the wall; there were no other bones about it, though a rough stone hammer, whose presence was probably accidental, lay close by. A single human molar was lying among some ashes. These were the only human remains found during the work, except two adult femurs of different individuals, and fragments of a skull and some other bones from a child and from an infant, all of which lay close to the wall where they had been thrown and slightly covered by parties previously working here. As the depth of the wet material on the rock floor of the eastern side of this cavern is unknown, interesting results might be obtained by a careful examination of it; but this can not be made until a ditch is dug through it of sufficient depth to drain it thoroughly. Slight investigation outside the entrance showed a large amount of broken bones, pottery, and flint; and this dump may contain even more material than was found in an equal volume in the cavern. But in addition to the rocks of all sizes broken off from the cliff, there were also many which had rolled down from the hillside above; and all these were so interlaced with roots as to make digging very difficult and unsatisfactory. Consequently further exploration at this site was deemed undesirable. Pointed bone and antler implements from Gourd Creek Cave are shown in plate 4. A shell knife, a bead from a fragment of sea shell, and types of flint arrowheads appear in plate 5. * * * * * There is a village site on Gourd Creek bottom, at the foot of Lost Hill, and a little below the cave. Three small earth mounds are plowed nearly level. * * * * * A small village site is located on the east bank of Little Piney, half a mile below Gourd Creek. * * * * * In the bluff facing Little Piney, a mile below Gourd Creek, on the opposite side, is a small, shallow cave with a low roof. Water cracks on the floor show that it is sometimes flooded. No signs of use are apparent. * * * * * On the hill over the cave just mentioned is a cairn, now destroyed. [Illustration: PLATE 4 BONE AND ANTLER IMPLEMENTS FROM GOURD CREEK CAVE, PHELPS COUNTY, MO.] [Illustration: PLATE 5 SHELL AND FLINT OBJECTS FROM GOURD CREEK CAVE] ONYX CAVE (9) Five miles southwest of Arlington, near the Boiling Spring in the Gasconade, is Onyx Cave, so named because much workable stalagmite occurs in it. It has a number of branches, some of which have been explored for several hundred yards without coming to the end. The entrance is 90 feet in width. A pile of talus at the front, lying partly inside the cavern, reaches nearly to the roof; it has a height of 26 to 28 feet above the level of the wet, muddy floor. Drainage is through a small aperture in the north wall, whose outlet is not known. Apparently the bedrock lies at a considerable depth; it is not visible at any point in the steep ravine leading from the mouth of the cave to the river. Formerly a large quantity of ashes covered much of the inner slope of the talus, where it is protected from the weather; but most of them have been hauled away to scatter over the fields. They extend to a greater depth than any digging was ever carried. The cavern has long been a refuge for stock, and this, with the trampling of many visitors, has mingled all the superficial deposits, so that, while ashes may be seen mixed with the débris, no ash beds are now to be found. There must be a very pronounced cavernous condition in this vicinity. At a number of places, even extending to a distance of 2 miles from Onyx Cave, the passage of a wagon produces a rumbling sound, indicative of a cavity at no great depth. There are also many sink holes, some closed, forming ponds, others with free openings. They are so numerous that no one of them drains any considerable area. The largest of these sinks measures from top to top of its slopes about three-fourths of a mile long and half a mile wide. Around much of its margin are vertical cliffs; there are few places where descent is practicable. It is 300 feet deep, perhaps more; for when the Gasconade, more than a mile away, is at flood stage the water from it, backing through an underground passage, breaks in at two different points not at the same elevation, and covers the nearly level floor of the depression, about 15 acres in area, to a depth or 15 to 20 feet. Another sink, near this, is conical in form, a fourth of a mile across and more than 200 feet deep. GOAT BLUFF CAVE (10) Goat Bluff Cave, 4 miles west of Arlington, on the left bank of the Gasconade, is at the foot of a vertical cliff 50 feet high, the slope above rising about as much higher to the crest of the ridge. A few yards to the west is a slight ravine through which, with a little effort, the top of the hill may be reached. In front, the declivity, while steep as earth will lie, furnishes fairly easy passage to and from the river which lies 200 feet below. The entrance to the cave is an arch 30 feet high and 75 feet wide, facing a little east of south. The width holds nearly the same for 90 feet, whence it rapidly contracts to 20 feet; the roof meanwhile descending to 10 feet above the floor. The extreme rear of this chamber is nearly filled with large blocks of stone. At the front part the floor is several feet higher along the west wall than at the east; this condition being due to the combined action of accumulation from the ravine above mentioned and erosion by a little rivulet which emerges from a crevice 30 feet within the entrance and flows at the foot of the east wall. Beyond this the floor is practically level across the inclosed space, with a slight and uniform ascent toward the rear. No evidence of rock bottom appears at any point. A preliminary cut at the outer margin of the cave showed two distinct, sharply separated strata. The lower is a red or yellow clay containing much angular gravel such as usually results from disintegration of limestone in which chert is abundant. Above this is a deposit of very loose fine material. Toward the rear the upper deposit had been disturbed by "curiosity seekers," who reported finding much evidence of prehistoric occupation, such as ashes, charcoal, fragments of pottery, and worked flint, as well as several skeletons, the latter "in a sitting position." The last part of this statement is a mistake. The bodies were closely flexed and placed on the side; the bones settled to the bottom of the grave, while the skull, if intact, is reached first by excavators and the conclusion drawn at once that it is "on top of the other bones." This error of observation is quite common among relic hunters, and is not unknown among student investigators. In order to dispose of material removed in excavating, it was necessary to start a trench from the slope outside the mouth of the cave. As it progressed the substratum of clay became wetter and more difficult to dig. At 40 feet from the beginning, where the trench was 11 feet deep, the seeping water accumulated until it covered the bottom of the trench, so that no greater depth could be reached. A crowbar forced downward for 18 inches, as far as it could be driven, did not reach solid bottom. Not the slightest trace of human agency was found anywhere below the top of the clay, and from this point excavations were confined to the upper stratum, to which alone the following description is applicable. This deposit was composed partly of fine loose earth, probably carried in by the wind and on the feet of persons and animals; partly of roof dust; and partly of ashes. A considerable portion of it was roughly stratified in layers of varying extent and thickness, though much of it was irregular, and it was mingled throughout with campsite débris. Occasional layers of roof dust several feet across in any direction and of varying thickness, from a faint streak to 6 inches, so closely resembled ashes that many persons could not be convinced of its true character. Its occurrence in this manner indicates that during considerable periods the cave was unoccupied, or at most used only as a temporary refuge. The intermittent character of occupancy is also shown by the distinct segregation of numerous successive layers of kitchen refuse. About 10 feet within the point where a vertical line from the front edge of the roof would meet the floor the skeleton of a very young infant was found above and in contact with two thick angular blocks of limestone weighing 300 to 400 pounds. These rested on the red clay and had fallen from the roof. The thickness of earth above the bones was about 3 feet. Ten feet farther in, on the clay floor, under almost exactly 5 feet of undisturbed material, were five flat stones. Three were of sandstone, the largest about 25 pounds in weight, such as can be found in place only on top of the hill. They were carefully arranged for use as a fire bed; on and around them were potsherds, flint chips, animal and bird bones, and a bone awl. This was the greatest depth at which artificial objects were found; and their position shows them to be as ancient as anything discovered. [Illustration: FIG. 5.--Fragment of glass bottle from Goat Bluff Cave.] At 25 feet in an interesting find was made. Eighteen inches below the surface of the floor, in a mass of mingled charcoal, ashes, mussel shells, flint chips, and other aboriginal refuse, was a small piece of glass, apparently part of a bottle, shown in figure 5. Above it and extending for several feet on every side was an unbroken stratum of root dust from 2 to 4 inches thick. Above this, in turn were several thin, undisturbed layers of camp refuse, about 6 inches in all, and then 6 inches of the loose, incoherent surface earth. This discovery is susceptible of two interpretations. One is that between the date when Indians could procure articles from the whites and the date at which they abandoned this fireplace there was time for the accumulation of the given thickness of disintegrated material from the roof, the cave, or at least this part of it, not being used meanwhile for a habitation; then for the accumulation of several distinct layers of camp refuse; and finally for the depositing of the cave earth over it all. This hypothesis is unreasonable. While the rate of formation of either roof dust or stalagmite is extremely variable, so that it is not safe to predicate a definite antiquity for objects found beneath even a considerable thickness of either, at the same time the small area involved precludes the idea that a number of occupants sufficient to account for the volume of débris could have lived here unless we allow a much longer period than would necessarily elapse within the dates indicated. The other, quite plausible, interpretation is that the glass was dragged to the spot by a ground hog or other animal whose runway had become obliterated by settling of the loose material through which it was made. The only purpose of elaborating this subject is to guard investigators against attaching too much importance to an article found under such or similar conditions, whether it be a "palaeolithic type," or an "object undoubtedly of European origin." Thirty-five feet in, under three flat slabs whose upper surface was a little more than 3 feet below the floor, was an adult skeleton, on the back, knees flexed to the chest. The body had been laid in a cavity dug in the clay to a depth of 6 inches. The bones were well preserved and fresh looking, but light and fragile. Forty feet in, 3½ feet down, was a flat stone under which were two skulls. One, shown in plate 6, was perfect, with a full set of sound teeth; from the other, seen in plate 7, the lower jaw was missing. No other bones were found except two cervical vertebræ, belonging to the smaller skull. Undisturbed stratified ashes and roof dust were 30 inches thick above the stone. To this point the trench was not dug to a greater width than 15 feet; it was now gradually extended to a width of 40 feet to include most of the central portion. Sixty feet in, in the upper part of the clay, like all the human bones discovered, was a skull with the scapulæ, a few ribs, and one arm bone. The lower jaw was missing, and two phalanges were inside the skull. With the scapulæ was one of a much smaller person. Eighteen inches from these bones, and 6 inches higher, was part of a lower jaw. At 50 to 60 feet in, on the clay stratum, lay a slab 10 to 12 feet across and of varying thickness up to 18 inches or more. It fell from the roof so long ago that the latter is worn and smoothed above it in much the same way as at other parts. At the east edge of this slab was a skull so soft and crushed that it could be taken out only in small fragments; the teeth were very slightly worn, though of large size. A few traces of other bones were found; not enough to identify. At the north edge of the slab were two skulls, one of which is shown in plate 8; the other, which belonged to a young person, is given in plate 9. The limb bones, scapulæ, and hip bones, with a few others, were in a small pile at one side; but neither lower jaw, no ribs, and only a few vertebræ were found. [Illustration: PLATE 6 SKULL FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE, PHELPS COUNTY, MO. a, Front; b, profile] [Illustration: PLATE 7 SKULL FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE a, Front; b, profile] [Illustration: PLATE 8 SKULL FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE a, Front; b, profile] [Illustration: PLATE 9 SKULL OF CHILD FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE a, Front; b, profile] [Illustration: PLATE 10 FLINTS FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 11 BONE AND ANTLER IMPLEMENTS FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 12 BONE AND ANTLER IMPLEMENTS FROM GOAT BLUFF CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 13 a, Cairn six miles north of Arlington, Mo. b, Walled grave six miles north of Arlington, Mo.] About 65 feet in, near the west side, an inverted pot which shows no marks of use was found in a mass of ashes filling a cavity the size of a half bushel, which had been dug in the upper deposit. Scattered here and there among the ashes were also some mussel shells and broken deer bones; but the presence of these was probably not intentional, as the whole arrangement seemed to have the nature of a votive offering. This was the only perfect vessel found in the entire course of the explorations. It is of the ordinary "cocoanut form," and is represented in figure 6. Seventy feet in was a skeleton, on the left side; the bones were soft and came out in small fragments. This was fully 6 feet below the present surface, but some of this earth was piled up from earlier excavations. [Illustration: FIG. 6.--Pot from Goat Bluff Cave.] Beyond this point the ground had been dug over to such an extent that further examination seemed useless, and the work was concluded. Throughout the deposit of black earth, ashes, and roof dust were scattered irregularly arrowheads and knives of flint, some types of which are seen in plate 10; mussel shells; fragments of bones from food animals; bone perforators, some of which are shown in plates 11 and 12; potsherds; hammers; pestles; two or three mortars; a grooved stone ax of granitic rock, presented in figure 7; and an abundance of flint chips. There is a small cave near the top of the bluff facing the Gasconade, a short distance above the mouth of Little Piney. Within a few yards of the entrance earth and rock carried in from a sink on top of the hill fill the cavity to the roof. Water runs through after every hard rain. * * * * * Three small cairns, built of small stones, stood on the point of the bluff at the junction of Little Piney and the Gasconade. All are destroyed. * * * * * On the edge of a high cliff over the Gasconade, 2 miles north of Arlington, are three cairns, destroyed. * * * * * In Bryant's Bluff, facing the Gasconade 3 miles below Jerome, are two rock shelters, neither of them more than 20 feet across in any direction. In both are shells, bones, and pottery; a rough stone hammer was found in one. Exposure of bedrock on the outside shows that the earth deposit in either is not over 2 or 3 feet deep. * * * * * On top of Bryant's Bluff are four cairns, all of them torn up. The extreme limit of the scattered stone is about 20 feet; so the cairns were probably 12 to 15 feet in diameter. * * * * * At the mouth of Turkey-pen Slough, 4 miles north of Arlington, is a terrace with steep banks on two sides, next to the river and to the slough. On this stood a village. Three house sites are plainly marked by the refuse around, and there may be others; vegetation is very dense. Mussel shells and burned stones are abundant, and many flint implements have been picked up. [Illustration: FIG. 7.--Grooved ax from Goat Bluff Cave.] CAIRNS AT SUGAR TREE CAMP (11) Six miles north of Arlington is a clubhouse known as Sugar Tree Camp. A short distance from the building is a high vertical cliff rising almost directly from the Gasconade. The top of this cliff, near the front, is of solid rock, almost bare of timber or brush, and in a row along it close to the edge are seven cairns, all now so defaced that any attempt at investigation is useless. The smallest, at one end of the row, is of the common circular form, about 12 feet in diameter. Three others seem to be of the same type; but their appearance may be due to their destruction. One is shown in plate 13, a. The other three are walled vaults. The largest, at the other end of the row, was built up like a foundation wall of sandstone slabs. It is rectangular in form, measuring on the outside 16 by 28 feet. All the walls are more or less destroyed; the small portion of one remaining is shown in plate 13, b. Two "walled-up graves" reported on the first ridge north of Sugar Tree Camp, and one reported on the first ridge south, never existed. There is a small cairn on a high peak half a mile east of the camp. TICK CREEK CAVE In a ravine which joins Tick Creek about 2 miles from where the latter flows into the Gasconade, and about 12 miles north of Arlington, is a large cave known as the Saltpeter Cave. The opening is wide and high, but the mouth and floor are much obstructed by large fallen rocks and the bottom is constantly wet from wall to wall with running and seeping water. There is another entrance to this cavern around a corner of the bluff and much higher up on its face. This opening is small and the sloping passage from it to the cavern is almost closed in places by drip formation. It was never inhabited. CAVE IN POOL HOLLOW (12) A mile east of Newburg a ravine now known as Pool Hollow, but formerly called "Strawhorn's" [Strawhan's] Hollow, opens into the right (north) side of Little Piney. Two miles from the river is a cave at the head of a little cove. The entrance, facing directly south and visible from half a mile down the ravine, is 12 feet high and 75 feet across. The rear wall, where the cave makes a turn at 150 feet from the mouth, is plainly visible from the outside. At 60 feet within water reaches from wall to wall, and a constant stream flows along the left side. The talus at the mouth is of tough clay with many rocks scattered through it, and much of it has settled back into the cave. Water drips from many places in the roof, so that no part of the floor is ever entirely dry. Some broken flints and chips were picked up about the mouth and in front of the cave, but nothing else could be found. In dry weather there might be spots which would afford a resting place for campers, but no continuous occupancy was possible. HOUSE MOUNDS NEAR ROLLA (13) Nearly 2 miles northeast of Rolla is the beginning of a little valley which for a short distance is parallel with the Frisco Railway and close to the right of way; it then turns to the southward. Along this "draw" are numerous mounds, starting well toward its upper end and following its course for nearly a mile. They lie along either side, and reach into the tributary widenings. Most of them are on the flats; but they are also scattered along the hillsides, those farthest from the water having an elevation of about 50 feet above it. They vary from 30 to 60 feet in diameter and from 1 to 3 feet high. In all, they are scattered over an area of at least 100 acres. HOUSE MOUNDS NEAR DILLON Half a mile west of Dillon a ravine heads at the Frisco track, goes south a short distance, then turns southeastward. Near the track begins a group of mounds which reach for fully a mile along both sides of the little stream. There are more than 100, most of them small, though at least one is 60 feet across and 3 feet high. HOUSE MOUNDS NEAR ST. JAMES (14) At the northern border of St. James is a small shallow valley with a northern and eastern trend, practically parallel with the Frisco Railway, and for 3 miles or more not over a fourth of a mile from it at any point. Starting near the Soldiers' Home is a group of mounds which extend for fully 2½ miles down both sides of the valley. Some are partly cut away by the stream, others are on the narrow flat bottoms subject to overflow with every hard rain, still others are built on the slopes to an elevation of 40 feet. They are somewhat larger than the average, a diameter of about 60 feet and a height of 3 feet being not uncommon. * * * PULASKI COUNTY MCWILLIAMS CAVE (15) A cave on the McWilliams farm, near Jack Hinshaw's, at the upper end of the Big Eddy, near the south line of Pulaski County, has an entrance 8 feet high and 15 feet wide. There is a good light for 150 feet, at which distance the cavern turns. It is an excellent location for an Indian home, having a floor of dry earth, and a small amount of refuse was found; but the earth has been thoroughly dug over in the search for missing residents, some human bones rooted out by hogs having given rise to a belief that these may have been murdered and concealed here. DAVIS CAVES (15) Facing Roubidoux Creek, on the farm of J.W. Davis, 3 miles north of Cookville, are three caves. The largest is 40 or 50 feet above the foot of the bluff. It has an entrance 30 feet wide, the roof being 8 feet high. It is well lighted to a depth of 120 feet, where it curves. No refuse was observed, but the situation is favorable for habitation. Another cave, near this, has an entrance 30 feet wide and 10 feet high; it is well lighted for 40 feet back. The third cave of this series is a rock shelter a short distance south of the second, and higher up in the bluff. All these appear to deserve an examination. BERRY CAVE A cave on George Berry's land, in a ravine opening into the east side of Roubidoux Creek, 3 miles from Hanna post office, has a small entrance which is nearly closed by "drip rock," the roof, walls, and floor being thickly incrusted. These deposits, which it is said are even more abundant farther in, seem to be rather rapidly increasing in volume. MAXEY CAVE (16) What is known as Maxey's Cave is 7 miles south of Waynesville, on the west side of Roubidoux Creek. It is by far the largest open cave in this region, the entrance being 40 feet high and 100 feet wide. It extends across the head of a ravine, and if the loose earth at the sides were cleared away it would be found still wider. The entire floor is covered with a mass of rocks of every size up to several tons, except at one side of the entrance where there is a small amount of loose earth. The front chamber is 300 feet long to where the cavern forks; in one of these forks daylight extends for 100 feet farther, or 400 feet from the mouth. Marks on the walls show that the entire floor is sometimes covered 2 or 3 feet deep with running water. A survey made some years ago disclosed a mass of earth and rock "a long ways back in the hill;" definite figures could not be obtained. Beyond this point it was impossible to proceed. By running corresponding angles and lines on the surface outside the surveyors came to a very large sink hole, into which flowed the drainage of several farms. This explains the flood marks. Clearly the roof of the cave had fallen in at this point. YOARK CAVE Yoark Cave, a fourth of a mile east from Maxey's in a bluff facing south on the left bank of Roubidoux Creek, has an entrance 40 feet wide, 30 feet high, and is in daylight for 150 feet. Cave earth extends for 100 feet from the entrance, and apparently continues from this point under the gravel and clay which have washed from the interior. It is on the land of A.L. Foote, having been in his family continuously since it was secured by Government patent. The name is derived from "Grandma Martha Yoark," who was among the earliest white settlers in the region. Her home was on the opposite side of the creek, in a pioneer log cabin, the last vestige of which, except the stones of the chimney, disappeared before the Civil War. In the front portion many large rocks are lying on the surface of the clay floor and others are imbedded in it; probably still others are entirely covered. Farther back the clay is mixed with gravel washed from the interior. This deposit is never entirely dry and in rainy seasons is quite muddy. The difficulty of removing or digging under the rocks, added to the certainty that water would be encountered before the bottom is reached, render useless any effort at complete excavation. The amount of refuse on the surface, however, is a good indication that such researches as would be possible in the upper layers, among the rocks, would disclose a large quantity of aboriginal remains of comparatively modern date. GRAVES AT LAUGHLIN'S (17) On the Laughlin goat ranch, 6 miles southeast of Waynesville, a high narrow ridge level along the top and sloping abruptly on each side extends northward from the hills on the right side of Roubidoux Creek and terminates in a vertical cliff. Bedrock projects on the top and on both sides, and vegetation is so scanty that the crest is almost a "bald." On the summit of this ridge are seven cairns, the first one only a few feet from the edge of the cliff, the last one about 300 feet back, near where the ground begins to ascend toward the plateau. They are small, none more than 3 feet high, and all have a depression in the top where the stones have been thrown out from the center toward the outside by relic seekers and rabbit hunters. In three of them flat stones remaining in place at parts of the margin indicate that an irregular square inclosure was constructed around the bodies, as in those examined at Gourd Creek. Possibly this feature existed in all of them at the time of their construction, but there was no evidence that any of them had been walled up like those at Sugar Tree Camp or the Devil's Elbow. Views of their present conditions are shown in plate 14. KERR CAVE (17) Near the site of Kerr's Mill, on Roubidoux Creek, 5 miles south-east of Waynesville, is a cave at the foot of a bluff, the entrance 60 feet above the bottom of the hill. Viewed from the outside it has the appearance of a rock shelter 40 feet wide and 45 feet deep. Above most of it the stratum forming the roof is 15 feet high; near the front the successive overlying strata project in a hollow curve until at the face of the bluff the drop from the ledge to the talus immediately beneath it is fully 50 feet. At one side, near the rear, is a passage 5 or 6 feet wide, not visible from the front, extending back into the hill. Although the cave is usually dry, clean gravel in this passage shows that sufficient water flows through at times to prevent earth from accumulating; further evidence of which fact is found in the mud cracks of the floor and the ferns growing amid the rocks, large and small, which cover it. The place could never have been occupied except for temporary shelter, and there is no evidence that even this use was made of it. SELL CAVE (18) Half a mile directly south of Waynesville, on the farm of Dr. W.J. Sell, is a cave located in the northern end of a ridge entirely detached from the surrounding hills. The entrance, facing northeast, is halfway up the point of the ridge, overlooking a fertile bottom along Roubidoux Creek. From the top of the ledge over the entrance the hill has an easy upgrade for a fourth of a mile to the summit, which is at an elevation of 250 feet above the creek. On top of the hill is the site of an Indian village where some mortars, grinding stones, and numerous flints have been found. The roof of the cave has partially fallen in at the entrance, forming a re-entrant curve 30 feet across and extending 11 feet inward; the large blocks from this, and from the stratum described later, were lying on and in the talus at the present front but did not extend to the red clay beneath. Some of the blocks could be reduced with a heavy sledge hammer to an extent that made it possible to roll them out of the way; but 24 of them had to be broken up with dynamite. The talus at its thickest part has a depth of 6 feet; it extends down the hill on the outside and has washed back into the cave, gradually decreasing in quantity, to a distance of 50 feet. The roof, at the front, is 5 feet above the talus; the thickness of the ledge forming it is only 8 feet, the slope of the hill starting from this line. Owing to the restricted width of the ridge, on top, the entire area draining over the ledge measures only 70 feet in width above the entrance, and narrows irregularly to a breadth of 30 feet at an outcrop 120 feet up the hill, or with an approximate space of 6,000 square feet. On this small tract more than half the rock is bare, with scanty patches of soil and humus in the crevices and on flat places. At the present time the water which flows over the ledge during hard rains is scarcely turbid; consequently a period of several centuries was required for the débris to accumulate. Fourteen feet back from the farthest-receding part of the curve of the roof at the front is the edge of a stratum 3 feet thick; the bottom of this was 3 feet above the talus immediately beneath it. This stratum is continuous, with a perceptible dip to the interior, as far as it can be seen. The width of the cave at the mouth is 44 feet; 30 feet within it widens to 51 feet. A small amount of water making its way from the interior over the level floor collects in a little basin scooped out to receive it, and sinks into the floor near the inner foot of the talus 55 feet from the entrance. At this point the width of the cave is 36 feet; the height to the roof is 4½ feet. As the floor beyond here is soft mud, the cavern was not followed farther. Owing to the limited space between the floor and the roof it was necessary to remove the excavated earth to the outside. The water which flows from the hill and falls upon the talus during rains also had to be provided against. A trench 4 feet wide at the bottom, with sufficient slant to the sides to prevent them from falling in, was started 25 feet out from the entrance, on a level which gave it a depth of 6½ feet at the highest point of the talus, thus carrying it a few inches into the clay which was the original floor of the cave. This depth also brought it well below the level of the little pool inside. When its greatest depth was reached the excavation was at once widened to 25 feet, thus reaching well toward the cliff on either side. Growing trees and large rocks made a greater width here impracticable. In the talus were flint implements, none small enough for arrowheads, some well finished, others roughly made, a few being shown in plate 15; three sandstone mortars and fragments of four others; probably 100 cobblestones used as hammers and pestles, some of them pitted on the sides, a few showing marks of much use (pl. 16, A); a small, very solid piece of hematite worn round by use as a hammer; a small, imperfect tomahawk made of quartzite (pl. 16, B, a); many mussel shells, some used as knives and scrapers; animal bones, some of them worked into implements, including a perfect skiver (pl. 16, B, b); several pieces of hematite and limonite used as paint stones (pl. 16, B, c); many fragments of pottery, some of them worked into disks and perforated (pl. 16, B, d); occasionally small deposits of charcoal, ashes, and burned earth. The meager amount of artificial material, and its random distribution, as if one piece was lost here, another thrown there, throughout the talus from the present surface to the underlying clay would appear good evidence that the cave was never used as a place of permanent abode, but merely provided temporary refuge at intervals extending over a prolonged period. [Illustration: PLATE 14 CAIRNS ON ROUBIDOUX CREEK, SIX MILES FROM WAYNESVILLE, MO.] [Illustration: PLATE 15 FLINTS FROM SELL CAVE, NEAR WAYNESVILLE, MO.] [Illustration: PLATE 16 A, Pestles or grinding stones B, Celt, pottery disks, paint stones, and skiver OBJECTS FROM SELL CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 17 Skull from Sell cave. a, Front; b, profile Skull from Bell's cave, near Waynesville. c, Front; d, profile Skull from Miller's cave. e, Front; f, profile THREE SKULLS FROM PULASKI COUNTY, MO.] None of the pottery was decorated in any way, though most of it was cord-marked; no piece was found which had a handle or a foot. Nearly half a bushel of pieces was found, fragments of many different vessels, with a range in thickness from one-eighth to three-fourths of an inch. If all this talus were examined, much material might be found, but the result would not justify the labor. Fifteen feet west from the east corner of the cave, 8 feet within the edge of the roof, 3½ feet under the surface of the débris, which was a foot lower here than at the highest point, was a bundled or bunched skeleton; only small fragments of arm and leg bones, most of the lower jaw, a little of the upper jaw, and traces of skull were remaining. The bones were small but solid. They were packed tightly in the dark, wax-like clay, but there were no indications of a grave; the earth in contact with them could not be distinguished from that lying around them. The body had been crowded into the smallest possible space, with the head against a large stone. All the teeth were well preserved, some of them not at all worn. Small fragments of deer bones were found among the remains; these, also, were very soft and decayed. In fact, all bones found, whether human or other, in this wet, tough, heavy earth were nearly destroyed, and such portions as remained had but little more consistency than the mud in which they were imbedded. Much care was necessary in order to get them out. Sixteen feet from the entrance, 13 feet from the east wall, 4½ feet down, 18 inches above bottom, were part of a large femur and a few fragments of other bones too small and crushed to identify. Seven feet southwest of this femur, 14 inches lower, was a closely folded skeleton, the skull nearly north, the other bones toward the east wall. Some mussel shells, fragments of deer bones, and two flint knives were near the head. The body had been placed in a shallow hole dug in the talus as it existed at that time, some earth thrown over it, and small rocks piled on. The covering rocks were under 3 feet of detritus, washed in since they were placed there. Near the knees was a piece of antler, neatly perforated, with rounded ends, giving it the shape of a reniform bannerstone (fig. 8). This may have been an ornament, an arrow-shaft straightener, or the holder for a drill or a fire-stick. Near it was a polishing stone deeply worn on both sides (fig. 9). Twenty-two feet within the reentrant curve at the front, 20 feet from the west wall, at the bottom of the talus, was a skeleton, the skull in small fragments, which, however, were held in place by the tough clay. The teeth were worn below the enamel in places; two well-worked flint knives and one rough one (fig. 10) were near it. The bones looked as if they had been thrown in, occupying only a small space; but probably a folded body had been laid in on the left side. At 24 feet from the entrance, 17 feet from the west wall, in a hole dug to 20 inches below the present surface of the talus, were broken and spongy bones of an adult. Pelvis, feet, and leg bones were in confusion; the tibiæ were reversed in position, but it may be that the body was laid on the back with the knees flexed and that the bones had fallen as they were found. This is probable, as each patella was where it belonged, and the body lay extended toward the southeast, as shown by the position of the skull. The humerus was about 12 inches long; all the bones were in small pieces. There were many mussel shells among and above the remains, over which earth and small rocks had been piled. [Illustration: FIG. 8.--Perforated object of antler from Sell Cave.] Two feet south of this skeleton and a few inches lower were the crushed and decayed bones of an old person with the head lying toward the east. The one tooth found (a molar) was worn entirely below the enamel except for a small space at the front; the dentine was polished until it resembled a piece of agate. Mr. De Lancey Gill first remarked the fact that wear of this character denotes that the individual did not gnaw bones, crack nuts, or indeed bite hard on any substance. If he had done so this thin shred of enamel would have broken off. Two large rocks which lay on the head and body seem to have been thus placed before the grave was filled with earth. [Illustration: FIG. 9.--Rubbing or polishing stone from Sell Cave.] Near these bones were fragments indicating three other interments; the humerus of the last was perforated. Other arm bones found showed the same olecranal perforation. Twenty-one feet from the entrance, 19 feet from the east wall, was a skeleton, closely folded, on left side, head toward rear of cave. The teeth were worn flat. The bones were crushed by rocks laid on or above the body at the time of burial, as was the case with all the skeletons found in this part of the cave; probably timbers had been interposed. [Illustration: PLATE 18 TEETH FROM SELL CAVE AND OTHER CAVES, SHOWING MANNER AND AMOUNT OF WEAR] [Illustration: PLATE 19 TEETH FROM SELL CAVE AND OTHER CAVES, SHOWING MANNER AND AMOUNT OF WEAR] Near the surface, 18 feet from the entrance, 14 feet from the east wall, were the right half of a skull and of a lower jaw; a few small, scattered pieces of skull were found near them. The teeth were much worn, some of them were decayed, and two had the roots swollen and distorted by ulceration. South of the skull were fragments of feet and leg bones, probably belonging with it. This interment was of much later date than the others. Thirty-two feet from the front, 16 feet from the east wall, 2½ feet below the surface, and a foot above the bottom of the talus, was a folded skeleton, on left side, head toward the interior of the cave, face directly upward. So much of the skull as could be recovered is shown in plate 17, a, b. The teeth were much worn, the bones broken, soft and spongy, falling away with the clay as it was removed from about them. The femur was about 17½ inches long. [Illustration: FIG. 10.--Flints from Sell Cave.] Wear of teeth among aboriginal people does not of necessity denote a great age for the individual. Grit from ashes and fine sand from mortars and pestles will cut away the enamel to a much greater extent than would result from the use of ordinary food. The condition of the teeth mentioned, as well as of some from other localities, is shown in plates 18 and 19. From the inner end of the ditch, or runway, at the entrance the excavation was carried back for 40 feet in a direct line; or making allowance for passing around a massive rock which was in a position where it could not be blasted, for 43 feet; the depth of the talus here was 3 feet. On the east side the talus was removed to the wall, a distance of 28 feet from the edge of the trench, and the wall rock exposed for 22 feet, to the rear bank of the excavation. * * * * * All work, so far, had been carried on at a level a few inches below the bottom of the talus, which rested directly upon the floor of clay washed out from the interior of the cave. Beginning next at the outer end of the trench, the entire space included in the first excavation was deepened by a little more than 6 feet, giving a new floor about 13 feet lower than the highest part of the talus. All the material thus removed showed that it was laid down by flowing water, sometimes so quiet as to deposit clay of impalpable fineness, sometimes with a velocity sufficient to carry stones weighing 3 or 4 pounds. The material varied--red clay, now jointed, was the topmost layer; below it, in patches and layers, were dark earth, resembling soil; clay of different shades of yellow, brown, red, and gray, sometimes almost blue; some of it uniform, some of it mingled, one or any or all of the different sorts in small compass; deposits of one sort filling sharply defined channels or potholes cut in some other sort; occasionally there was a slight admixture of sand. All included limestone pebbles, which were plentiful in some deposits but entirely absent from others, were weathered to a chalky consistency, the larger ones to a depth of perhaps half an inch, the smaller ones throughout. Scarcely any chert was included, although it is abundant on the hill; the few pieces seen were very small. It took five weeks of steady work, with two men, to clear out the second level. In all this clay there was not the slightest trace of bone or other indication that living beings of any kind had existed either in the cave or in any place from which the clay had come. At 24 feet from the eastern side of the trench, projections on the face of the east wall denoted that bed rock was not far away. A hole 8 feet across, at the rear of the excavation, reached sand with a slight admixture of clay a few inches under the level at which the work was being conducted; and 4 feet down, or 17 feet from the top of the talus, the rock was found. It was rough and furrowed, like a solid stratum that has been long exposed to atmospheric weathering. Further exploration was useless. The sand results from disintegration of the Roubidoux sandstone belonging next above the limestone in which the cave was formed. None of this remains on the hill; it has all been carried away by erosion. There is not now any sink hole or crevice above the level of the cavern through which the sand could have made its way. Such an opening must have existed at one time, on the slope at one side or the other, or farther back where the hill is now cut off. In either case, erosion has carried away its walls and filled up the channel leading from it, and thus obliterated its site. To accomplish this would require a long time; enough to produce a considerable alteration in the topography, and so to predicate for the bottom deposits in the cave an antiquity far beyond the possible appearance of man in the region. PHILLIPS CAVE The Phillips Cave faces Roubidoux Creek near the Big Spring, a mile south of Waynesville. Access to the interior is possible only by crawling some distance on wet clay. Other caves in the same line of bluffs are either very small or almost inaccessible. No refuse appears about any of them. BELL'S CAVE (18) In the upper part of the bluff bordering Roubidoux Creek just west of Waynesville, on the farm of Robert A. Bell, are numerous caves, most of them quite small. One, much larger than any of the others, has an entrance 27 feet wide and 12 feet high. The floor is of earth mingled with small rocks, and rises gradually toward the rear until at 70 feet it almost reaches the roof, although the open space enlarges farther in. The width of the cave varies from 19 to 32 feet. Several large rocks have fallen from the roof and walls at a comparatively recent date, as they lie directly upon the earth or are only slightly imbedded in it. Shells and flint flakes occur in small amount, but the cave is so difficult of access that it was probably but little used. Some human bones, rooted out by hogs, were scattered over the floor; only a few remained, the hogs having chewed up most of them. Part of a femur belonged to a person about 18 or 20 years of age. A skull and part of a lower jaw, lying several feet apart but belonging to the same individual, were secured; they are shown in plate 17, c, d. Few of the teeth remained, though all had been in place at the time of interment. CAMP-GROUND CAVE This is three-fourths of a mile west from Waynesville. It is small, with a muddy bottom, and could never have been occupied. BUCHER CAVE Bucher Cave is 2 miles northeast of Waynesville. It has a small, low entrance, nearly closed by a pile of chert gravel mixed with some clay, which has been carried by surface water from the slope above. GRAVES NEAR MCKENNAN'S On a low spur, projecting about halfway up a high hill opposite McKennan's house, 2½ miles northeast of Waynesville, are two of the ordinary stone graves or cairns, both small. One has been torn apart; the other is intact. They are mentioned only because in the one which has not been disturbed the stones are sunken at the center, affording good evidence that timbers were placed over the corpse before the stones were piled up. ROUBIDOUX CAVE (19) In a vertical bluff overlooking the junction of Roubidoux Creek and the Gasconade River is a cavern with a high, wide entrance giving access to a large chamber which has several smaller but well-lighted rooms opening into it. There was formerly a considerable depth of earth on the rock bottom, but most of it has been taken out for fertilizer. What is left is dry near the entrance, but wet farther in. Although it would make an ideal Indian home, being easy of access and within a few rods of the two streams, there could be found no indications of such habitation; and owing to the small amount of earth remaining, the presence of many large rocks, and the close proximity of a large club house on the public highway immediately in front, no excavation is possible. A cairn on the point of the cliff over this cave has been completely demolished. RICHLAND CAVE (20) There is a large cave at the head of a ravine a fourth of a mile below the bridge over the Gasconade River, on the Richland and Hanna road, 7½ miles from Richland. The entrance is 70 feet wide and 40 feet high; daylight extends to a point 200 feet within, where the cave divides into two parts, both of which turn abruptly. Cave earth near the entrance on one side is scanty in quantity, damp and moldy; but beyond this it is dry, unevenly surfaced, and appears to have been somewhat disturbed. There is considerable refuse on and in the dry earth as far back as the inner end of the front chamber, and were it not for the many rocks, too large to be removed, which cover nearly the entire floor and would make excavation very difficult and incomplete, the deposits would probably repay investigation. ROLLINS CAVES (19) On the farm of Sam T. Rollins, 2½ miles northwest of Waynesville, are two large caves. The first, in a bluff facing the Gasconade, half a mile above the mouth of Roubidoux Creek, is 50 feet above the bottom of the hill. The entrance, toward the northeast, is 45 feet wide and 36 feet high. The sides are parallel for 45 feet; at that point the east wall abruptly recedes for 12 feet and then continues in a curving line for 120 feet farther, to an outlet in the side of a shallow ravine trending toward the west. This opening, 13 feet wide, is filled nearly to the top with débris which slopes steeply for 40 feet into the cave. The west wall, at 45 feet, makes an outward curve to a branch which leads northwest for 25 feet and has an opening on the side of the hill 25 feet wide and 20 feet high; the talus at the front is 12 feet high and slopes steeply into the cave. Beyond this branch the west wall extends in a straight line to the small outlet at the ravine. The floor of the cave has a gentle incline from the bottom of the débris in the rear to the main entrance. No refuse could be found in the cave or around any of the three entrances; and the place would not be suitable for a shelter in winter as the wind, no matter from what direction, blows directly through it. The second cave is near the foot of the hill, half a mile up the river from the first. A gentle slope in front leads to the bottom land along the stream. The entrance, toward the northwest, is 60 feet wide and 10 feet high. At 65 feet within is standing water; marks in a channel along the west wall show that at times there is an outflow with a depth of a foot or more. At the front is a great amount of talus partly fallen from the ledge forming the roof, partly washed down from the hillside; the outer slope is 20 feet high, the inner slope has a slight incline to the standing water. The entire deposit within the cave and in front of it is of tough, sticky clay. Many large rocks lie on the surface or slightly imbedded, and large trees grow on the talus. No indications of occupancy could be discovered. MIX CAVE (21) On the Mix farm, half a mile below the Gasconade bridge on the Waynesville and Crocker road, on the left (west) side, at the head of a ravine, is a cave with an entrance 75 feet wide and 20 feet high. Cave earth, apparently not more than 3 feet thick at any point, although it gradually rises to a level 6 feet higher than the floor at the mouth, extends back 80 feet; beyond this is water-soaked clay and gravel reaching 60 feet farther to a turn in the cave, making a distance of about 140 feet in daylight. There is a shallow channel 12 feet wide along the east wall from the gravel to the entrance; evidence that at times a volume of water of that width flows out of the cave. The cave earth is damp for several feet from the line of its contact with the clay, a certain indication that its lower portion is saturated. Much refuse, including several mortars, is distributed over the floor, and it is especially apparent in the bed of the little stream; but fully half the surface is covered with rocks too large to be removed, and these, together with the water, will effectually prevent satisfactory excavation. One of the mortars has a grinding cavity on one face 12 by 20 inches and 3 inches deep at the middle; on the other face, which has been pecked, apparently with a flint tool, to make it level and even, is also a cavity, but it is small and shallow, showing that this side of the stone was but little used. DOUBLE CAVE (21) On Walter Miller's farm, 1½ miles below the Crocker and Waynesville bridge, on the left side of the river, is the "Double Cave," so called for the reason that it has two entrances. The one farthest down the river is more nearly in line with the general trend of the cavern. Its opening is 35 feet wide and 20 feet high. At 40 feet in from the mouth, on the left or up-river side, the two parts of the cavern unite, a triangular partition of the original limestone strata separating them up to the point of junction. Across the apex of the triangle the main cave is 50 feet wide; there is no vertical wall on the right (east) side along this portion, the roof sloping down gradually until it meets the earth floor; it may extend farther, making the cave that much wider at the bedrock bottom. The cave earth at its highest point is fully 10 feet higher than at the entrance; but this may not mean that it is 10 feet deeper, for there are indications that the rock floor also rises from the entrance toward the interior. Digging in the front part of the main cave--that is, in the portion behind the lower entrance--would be impracticable owing to the huge rocks, some of them lying on the floor, others deeply imbedded in the earth; consequently part of them, at least, fell while the cave was inhabited. From the junction of the two branches the cave earth extends back 60 feet to clay and gravel washed down from the interior; there is ample light at this point, and for some distance beyond. In part, this gravel seems to overlie the loose earth; it is still depositing, and the manner in which the various materials intermingle and overlap at their meeting place indicates that the cave earth to some extent underlies the gravel and clay. This feature is worth investigating, as it might have a bearing upon the relative age of the cave deposits. The entrance to the branch cave is 20 feet higher in the face of the bluff than that of the main cave, and consequently much above any water flowing from the interior; it is 20 feet wide by 15 feet high. Measured along the east wall, it is 40 feet from this entrance to the apex of the triangle separating the two parts of the cavern. The greatest width of the united caves, 70 feet, is just beyond this point. The earth floor in the branch, a fine-grained yellow earth apparently deposited by quiet or gently flowing water, is 3 feet higher than it is at the highest point farther back in the cave, and is 4 feet or more higher than the bedrock at the front. No direct communication is possible, in front, from one entrance to the other. The only means of transference is by passing through the caverns around the triangular partition, or by going down to the talus from one opening and then up to the other; though only a few feet of descent is necessary. There is an easy passage to and from the Gasconade, which flows at the foot of the bluff; and a good path in either direction to the top of the hill. Very little refuse occurs, and the site is not worth examining. RAILROAD CAVE On railway property, north of the Gasconade River on the east of the Waynesville and Crocker road, is a noted cave which "runs clear through the hill," and can be entered from either end. From the descriptions given it certainly could never have been utilized as a dwelling place. BAT, OR PAGE, CAVE Bat Cave, so named because it formerly harbored immense numbers of bats, is on Robert Page's land, 4½ miles from Crocker, near the Waynesville road. The entrance is 40 feet wide and 30 feet high. Cave earth extends for more than 200 feet in plain daylight; at this depth the cave separates into two branches, one directly over the other. The lower division continues into the hill on a level; the upper rises at a slight angle; neither is high enough to permit a man to stand erect. The greatest width, a few rods from the front, is 55 feet. A drainage channel near one wall shows a considerable outflow in wet weather. In the low, vertical bank of this drain, gravel and small rocks are mingled with the earth in such quantity as to comprise more than half the mass. But this is probably due to the fact that a large quantity of earth, mostly, of course, from the upper part of the deposits, has been taken away for fertilizer. Neither in the bank of the little channel nor about the pits left by this digging is any refuse to be seen, and there is none about the entrance. So, in spite of its suitability for residential purposes and its favorable situation, it does not seem ever to have been utilized. TUNNEL CAVE (22) A fourth of a mile from the Bat Cave is a natural tunnel or underground passage which has its beginning in a deep sink hole half a mile away on the farther side of the hill. Into this depression pours all the water that comes through a ravine more than 4 miles long, receiving several tributaries on the way; thus draining several hundred acres of steep hillsides from which storm water runs off almost as quickly as from a roof. From the sink hole it passes into the upper end of the tunnel, an opening 10 feet high and 20 feet wide. Trash and drift around this inlet show that the water rises above its top. The lower opening of the tunnel is a beautiful, regular arch, 100 feet wide and 50 feet high. For some distance in, the interior is so choked with huge rocks, which reach almost to the roof near one side at the front, that it resembles a great quarry. Gravel, sand, and driftwood, including a large log 15 feet long, are piled on these rocks to a height of 20 feet. BROOKS CAVE Brooks Cave, 11 miles southeast of Waynesville, has an entrance through a sink hole in a level field. It is small and dark for some distance back, and was never occupied. Openings of this character are never the original mouths of caverns; they are due to the roof falling in at a point where it has become thin by wearing away from below. RIDDLE CAVE Riddle Cave is on John W. Schord's farm, near Wildwood. The entrance is through a sink, similar to that at Brooks Cave, and is due to the same causes. It could never have been occupied. LANE'S CAVE Somewhat more than a mile north of Big Piney post office is a cave known as Lane's Cave. Near it is a smaller cave; also a rock shelter. They are all small, high up in the cliff, hard to reach, and unsuitable for living in. DRY CREEK CAVE A cave on Dry Creek, north of Lane's Cave, is small and almost inaccessible. Never used. HOUSE MOUNDS (23) There is a group of house mounds, about 100 in number, close to the site of the "Ranch House," which formerly stood near "The Falls" 4 miles southwest from Big Piney. Two other groups, north of this one, carry the mounds for about 4 miles along a little valley, which extends north and south about midway between Big Piney and Bloodland. Most of the mounds, in all the groups, are on the slight slopes bordering either side of the little stream--which sometimes ceases to flow--but a few of them are on the narrow strip of level land along the banks. There is another group south of Bloodland. They were not learned of in time to visit them. RIDEN'S CAVE A mile southeast of the steel bridge across Big Piney, on the Edenville road, is Riden's Cave, in a small ravine opening into another ravine. The entrance is 25 feet wide and 8 feet high, and the front chamber extends 30 feet to an abrupt turn. There are large rocks on the floor near the mouth and some cave earth and a small amount of refuse at the front. Apparently it was never occupied except as a temporary camp. SALTPETER CAVE Near Miller's Spring, 2½ miles northeast of Big Piney, in a high bluff, is a large cave whose name is derived from the quantity of saltpeter collected from it in the early settlement of the country. Earth for leaching was removed to such an extent that bedrock is now exposed near the entrance and at several places within. In addition many large rocks cumber the floor, consequently excavations would not yield satisfactory results, although refuse still to be seen in the cave and in front of it shows that it was a place of aboriginal habitation. MILLER'S CAVE (24) Three miles northeast of Big Piney is a cavern which from its position, formation, and surroundings is particularly adapted to the requirements of primitive people in search of a permanent shelter. It is situated in a bluff rising from the left bank of Big Piney River, 200 feet above the level of that stream and half that distance below the summit of the hill of which the bluff forms the front. It lies in three different tracts of land, but the greater portion is on the farm of Daniel S. Miller, who lives a little more than half a mile away. For three generations it has been widely known as "Miller's Cave." It opens toward the southeast, the river at this point flowing north of east, and thus secures protection from the cold winds of winter, receives the greatest amount of light through the day, and has the advantage of sunshine at the season when this is most needed. Big Piney, like all streams in the Ozark region, is extremely crooked and its bed is a continuous succession of riffles and pools, or eddies as they are locally known. In front of the cave is one of these pools nearly a mile long and at lowest stages fully 15 feet deep in places; even now it yields an abundance of fish, turtles, frogs, and mussels, all of which are important items in the aboriginal dietary. A fourth of a mile above the cave Big Piney makes an abrupt turn, coming to this point from the southeast. Here it receives the outflow from a large spring located at the foot of the hill, a fourth of a mile to the southward, which boils up in a pool 40 feet across and at its lowest stage discharges several thousand gallons every hour. Its volume responds quickly to a heavy rainfall and to the succeeding period of fair weather, although its level never passes above or below certain fixed points. A singular feature of this spring, one which has given it a wide reputation, is its rhythmic ebb and flow. With absolute regularity, regardless of atmospheric conditions, it swells for six hours, then subsides for an equal period, stages of high and low water occurring at the same hours every day. The extreme range of level is about a foot. Intermittent springs are not uncommon; but the regularity of this one is remarkable, particularly so as its action is not affected by changes in the volume. A dam was built below this spring by the father of Mr. Miller to furnish power for a mill; when the mill was not running the noise of the falling water, reenforced by the echoes from the hills around, could be heard a long distance and gave it the title of Roaring Spring. The Indians had a name for it which was interpreted by the whites as "Blowing Spring;" but as there are no unusual currents of air in the vicinity it is probable the proper translation would be "Breathing Spring," on account of its recurrent motion. The branch from this spring, following a course along the foot of the hill, is wide and shallow, though swift, and is nearly filled with a dense growth of long, moss-like vegetation which was greedily devoured by deer, herds of them being frequently seen in the water by early settlers. From the mouth of the cave several hundred acres of fertile alluvial land can be seen along both banks of the river. In the bottom land lying nearest to the spring branch--which is itself entitled to be called a creek--and extending southward to Miller's residence, partly on an upper terrace, but mostly on the low land, was a village site on which were formerly many small mounds which from the description were undoubtedly house mounds. Mortars occur in numbers, while fragments of pottery and flint, as well as many unbroken implements, were formerly abundant to a depth of several inches. On the opposite side from the cavern, in the angle formed by the abrupt turn of the river, is another village site. A ditch, with an interior embankment about 6 feet high, formerly extended in a curved line across the point. This fortification was about 600 feet long, coming to the river bank at either end. In the part thus protected were many low, small mounds placed close together but quite irregularly. These were probably house mounds. No trace of any of this artificial work is now apparent except that a difference in color may be seen here and there when the soil is freshly turned, all the earthworks having been plowed and dragged level as interfering with cultivation. A great amount of broken pottery, flint implements, and fragments of animal bones has been uncovered here. In fact, the field is known locally as "the place where the Indians made their pottery." This site seems to have been occupied within historic times; after an unusual freshet some years ago, many "round musket-balls, such as belonged to the old-fashioned muzzle loaders"--"hundreds," or "two gallons," of them is the usual version--were picked up where the loose soil had washed off. There is a local tradition, long antedating the discovery of the bullets, that a "battle" was fought here between the French and the Indians. On the hill over the cave are three cairns, but they have been so searched through that scarcely a stone remains in its proper place. There is also the site of a flint-working industry, a space 40 or 50 feet across being strewn with spalls, flakes, and chips. When, in addition to the sustenance provided by deer and other large game, there is taken into consideration the great numbers of wild fowls which frequented the rugged hills and numerous streams; the multitude of small mammals which found security in the myriad cavities and crevices in the cliffs; the abundant food supply in the river; and the further fact that so many mortars and pestles meant the utilization of nuts and the cultivation of corn and no doubt of other foodstuffs as well; it is apparent that the problem of mere subsistence was one with which the natives had but little need to concern themselves. That full recognition was accorded to these advantages is amply attested by the great quantity of flints found everywhere in the vicinity, the numerous workshops on the hills and in the bottoms where the ground is thickly strewn with débris in every stage from the intact nodule or block to the finished implement, and the amount of refuse not only in this cavern, but in the Saltpeter Cave in the same bluff and in the Freeman or Ramsey Cave 3 miles down the river on the opposite side. Miller's Cave, however, possesses an additional advantage, one probably not to be found elsewhere. This is the absolute security of its inmates from the attack of an enemy. The mouth of the cave is in the face of a perpendicular bluff, the wall on either side so smooth that not even a squirrel can obtain a foothold. The upper stratum of the precipice projects to such an extent that a rope or a ladder let down from above would fall several feet beyond the outer edge of the floor. Below, there is a vertical drop of 30 feet to the top of the rough talus which is as steep as rocks and earth will lie. If an assailant, by approaching from either side, should reach the foot of this bluff he would offer a fair target for stones rolled or hurled down by defenders who are safely out of reach of missiles from any direction. The only means of entrance is a small opening in the west wall, communicating with another cave. This is so restricted in size as to permit the passage of only one person at a time, and he must assume a crawling or crouching posture. This opening, which for distinction will be called the doorway, has its top, sides, and bottom coated with stalagmite formation; so it may once have been somewhat larger than at present. The limited amount of the deposit over the natural rock at either end of the orifice is evidence, however, that it could never have been high enough for a man to walk through without stooping, or wide enough for two persons to pass each other; consequently one man armed with a club or other weapon could easily guard it against any number who might attempt to enter. The cavern from which this opening leads, and which will be called the outer cave, is close to and nearly parallel with the face of the bluff, and its course is therefore approximately east and west, forming nearly a right angle with the main cavern. It has a slight curve, so that the doorway is not visible to one who is approaching from the outside until he is within a few yards of it. The outer cave has its beginning at a point where the bluff bends toward the north; that is, where there is a shallow reentrant curve, formed by the face of the cliff breaking away at this part and rolling down the hill; a considerable portion of this cave itself has been thus destroyed, as shown by another entrance into the bluff beyond. Much talus has accumulated in this cave, over which there is at present a fairly easy though winding and zigzag path to the entrance from the top of the hill, and a rough and difficult way from the bottom. It is a natural presumption that dwellers in the cavern had well-constructed though necessarily devious pathways of easy grade to both the top and the bottom of the hill; but owing to the loose nature of the débris on the outside slopes all trace of these, when abandoned or no longer kept in repair, would soon be obliterated by surface wash, landslides, and the roots of trees. By the side of the upper trail, at the bottom of the sandstone ledge capping the hill, are many large blocks which have split off from this stratum. On the flat surface of two of these are about 25 figures, pecked into the stone apparently with a pointed flint implement. One of them measuring 6½ by 30 inches, shown in figure 11, bears some resemblance to a flying bird. All the others are of uniform design, an oval or elliptical figure with a straight line or bar passing through an opening in one end. These vary from 4 to 18 inches in length; two of them are shown in figure 12. Owing to the rough weathering of the stones accurate tracings were not possible, but the illustrations give a fairly correct idea of the inscriptions as they originally appeared. [Illustration: FIG. 11.--Incised figure in sandstone near Miller's Cave.] [Illustration: FIG. 12.--Incised figures in sandstone near Miller's Cave.] The front part of the outer cave is partially filled with large rocks, gravel, and clay, which have fallen or been washed in. A window-like opening on the right, or south, side admits additional light. Near the inner end the cave divides, one branch going to the southeast and opening in the face of the bluff, the other turning north and terminating abruptly near the doorway, which is worn through its rear wall. A rough diagram (fig. 13) with some measurements is appended to show this cavern's peculiar structure. Feet. Width at mouth (A) 17 From mouth to "window" (B) 21 Width of window (B), which has a very irregular outline 3 From window to where cave divides (C) 39 From corner of divide (c) to opposite corner (H) 13 From corner (H) to rear wall 11 Greatest width, from (B) to (F) 22 Width from (C) to (G) 10 From north wall near (G) to face of bluff (D) 28 Height at mouth from talus to roof 8 Height from floor to roof between (C) and (G) 13 Lowest point in the cave (near C), below entrance (A) 7 Mouth, at (D), lower than floor at (C) 4 A small amount of refuse on the floor suggested use of the outer cave for residence or shelter; but excavations at several points uncovered bedrock, with very irregular surface, at depths of 6 inches to 2 feet, the earth containing very little refuse and no ashes. On the talus at the entrance, and also at the bottom of the bluff in which the caves open, is much refuse which the inmates threw out as rubbish. [Illustration: FIG. 13.--Plan of Miller's Cave.] The front chamber of the main cavern is quite regular in form, going straight back like a vault for 80 feet, then turning abruptly westward with a width of 47 feet, the west wall making almost a right angle at the corner. The east wall abuts squarely against the rear; a narrow crevice leads eastward from their junction, but as this was filled with water and mud no exploration in it was attempted. The floor of the front chamber, from wall to wall, and from near the front to within 27 feet of the rear, was entirely of ashes, no earth being visible until the extremity of these at either end was reached. The floor of the western extension is covered with fine earth, washed in, which gradually increases in volume until it fills the cave to within a foot of the roof. It was not examined beyond this point. Measurements show these dimensions: Width of cave at mouth feet 64 Least width of cave, 24 feet from mouth do 45 Greatest width of cave, from doorway to branch in cave in eastern wall feet 74 Shortest distance from line of least width to line of greatest width, as given above feet 18 From mouth of cave to doorway do 51 Height of doorway inches 42 Width of doorway do 33 Length of floor of doorway do 56 § From mouth of cave to top of slope of ashes at rear feet 84 From top to bottom of slope of ashes at rear do 16 From foot of ash slope to rear wall do 27 Extent of ashes in turn of cave along foot of wall beyond corner of west wall feet 22 Width of these ashes, from foot of wall to the pool of water do 22 Width of cave from corner of west wall to east wall do 56 From corner of west wall to rear of cave do 47 Height of extreme front from floor at edge of bluff to most projecting ledge above feet 35 Height from shelf or ledge near front of east wall to general level of roof feet 14 Height from ashes to roof at middle of cave do 10 § This measure also represents the thinnest portion of the wall separating the main cave from the outer cave. The walls were, as is usual in caverns, somewhat irregular, there being a narrow bench or shelf along each side near the front, while projections and indentations alternated from front to rear. There were numerous small holes and crevices, enlargements of seams and joints by percolating water at an early stage in the cave's history. These furnish homes for various wild animals, and nearly all of them contain bones, sticks, and trash taken in by ground hogs and wood rats which seem to find much pleasure in carrying such things from place to place. The work of excavation began at the extreme front of the cave, where the original bottom, a mixture of sand, clay, and chert gravel, had been exposed through removal of the ashes by winds and driving rain. Almost immediately rocks, large and small, fallen from walls and roof, were encountered and interfered greatly with the digging. In the upper foot of the clay were streaks of sand and ashes, among which a mussel shell and a flint chip were found; and the top of the clay was quite uneven, appearing as if carried and thrown here, as perhaps some of it was early in the occupancy of the cave, with the object of making a more even or level floor farther back. But this admixture was only superficial; below it, the material had all the appearance of a running water deposit. A ledge extended along the east wall for 40 feet, with a width of 12 to 14 feet; at the inner end it was about 4 feet below the general level of the floor. At 8 feet below its top a second ledge projected from it, sloping toward the center, slightly for 8 feet then more rapidly for 10 feet farther, where it merged into the bedrock. Then came level, nearly smooth rock for 18 feet, to the foot of the slope of the west wall, 14 feet out from that side of the cave. This was probably the original drainage channel. By the gradual erosion of new channels through the limestone and the consequent abandonment of old ones, subterranean drainage is continually altering its direction and force. In this way caverns may be left entirely dry, with bare floors; or may, especially if they receive the drainage of sink holes, be partially or even entirely filled with débris thus carried in. Like others, Miller's Cave has undergone such changes. It was begun by clear water; enlarged by erosion and by breaking down of walls and roof; presently clay, sand, and gravel were carried in; finally the water no longer flowed through the front, but found its way out in some other direction. In time the deposits became sufficiently dry to afford a good site for camps and for permanent occupation. There is no way of ascertaining the rate at which these changes took place; it may have required many centuries to make an appreciable difference in appearance; or, on the other hand, the transition from one stage to the next may have been rapid. Along the foot of the ledge from the east wall the clay was only a few inches deep; farther out on the ledge, and on the projection extending from it, were layers of red sand. Occasionally a small patch of it appeared along the western side. Probably it was washed in among the last of the natural deposits. There was considerable chert gravel mixed with the clay, making excavation as difficult and laborious as digging up an old, much-traveled macadamized highway. The surface of the ashes sloped upward rather rapidly for a distance of 29 feet from the front. Kitchen refuse, found in them from the start, contained many mussel shells; bones, including those of bear, deer, panther, turkey, and other large fowls, tortoise, turtle, fish, and various small mammals and birds; potsherds; broken flints, with the débris of chipping work; mortars, pestles, hammers, and mullers. Near the west wall, 14 feet from the mouth, imbedded in the ashes and a foot below their surface, was a well-preserved cranium, shown in plate 17, e, f. There were no other bones, not even the lower jaw; it seems to have been thrown here and covered with the dumped ashes. At 18 feet from the mouth the rocks became larger and so numerous as to be almost in contact, projecting above the ashes and imbedded in the clay down to bedrock; they extended for 22 feet farther in and to within 14 feet of the west wall. The clay attained its highest level at the beginning of this pile of rocks, having an elevation of 9 feet above bedrock; it became lower toward the interior, with its surface everywhere rough and irregular. The rocks were too large to be either moved or broken up, and owing to the condition of the roof an attempt to reduce them by blasting would have been attended with great danger, so they were perforce left in place and as much as possible of the clay between and under them dug away. Beyond those near the front, others, not reaching the top, were found one after another buried in the clay; owing to their constantly increasing number, and to the inward slope of the east wall, the limits of the excavation gradually narrowed, hampering the movements of the workmen, and it was necessary to handle the earth two or even three times to get it out of the way. There was growing risk, too, of the projecting rocks splitting off or breaking out of the clay matrix. As some of them weighed several tons, the danger became too imminent, and efforts to continue along the bedrock had to cease. Two other attempts were made to get to the bottom; one at 40 feet from the mouth just beyond the large rocks on the surface, and one at 15 feet farther in. The last one started on an area 8 by 15 feet, which would have been ample if the sides could have been carried down even approximately straight. Neither of these efforts met with success, for the same reason that led to the abandonment of the first one. From here to the end, examinations were confined to the deposit of ashes. The surface, except as it had been disturbed by relic hunters, was practically level from wall to wall, but the depth varied with the undulating top of the clay beneath. Where it was deepest, in the central portion about 50 to 75 feet from the mouth, the deposit had a thickness of 6 feet. From this it diminished to about 3 feet on the sides, with an occasional thinner patch on a narrow shelf formed by a ledge or a crevice. The average thickness was close to 4½ feet, so the amount was not far from 800 cubic yards. This was composed entirely of ashes from small fires for cooking, heating, and lighting purposes, increased to a very limited extent by kitchen waste, and by discarded or mislaid wrought objects. It represented the combustion of many hundreds, perhaps of thousands, of cords of wood, all of which had to be carried in from the hilltop or slopes and passed through the constricted doorway. This labor would be a sufficient guarantee of economical use; we may be sure that no fuel was wasted. If proof were needed of such a self-evident proposition, it would be found in the almost complete absence of charcoal; here and there, but seldom, a small mass of it showed that a burning chunk, covered up, had smoldered until the inflammable portion was consumed. Bunches or handfuls of coarse grass or small weeds had undergone the same process. Perhaps these had been used as kindling. In all the deeper parts the ashes had been dumped promiscuously, from fires made at other points; no camping fires seem to have been made along the middle of the cave until the depressions in the clay had been at least partially filled. The ashes in the upper 4 feet of the ash beds where these were deepest, and in nearly all the shallower portions, were stratified and usually level, though at the front and rear the strata followed the natural incline of the slopes. The first impression was that the ashes had been carefully spread out, or dragged, to make their surface even; but it was discovered, when shoveling some of them for the second time, that ashes may assume this appearance no matter how carelessly thrown. The ashes at the top, to a depth of 3 or 4 inches, were as fine as flour, and when shoveled back hung in clouds for hours at a time, to the great discomfort of the excavators, whose eyes, throats, and nasal passages were in a state of constant irritation. The stratified or laminated, hard-packed condition below the loose surface means, perhaps, that they were occasionally sprinkled and trampled by the occupants to prevent this trouble. Possibly they were covered with mats, skins, weeds, or leaves, in the parts where the inmates congregated. The loose, incoherent condition of the lower portions, which "shoveled like snow," may denote that only a few persons dwelt here at first, who found ample room on the higher ground near the doorway. However, all such attempts at explanations are not much better than mere guesswork, and we must be content with accepting the facts as we find them. Where the ashes were white and packed hard, whether on the site of a fire or in thin layers where thrown, they contained very little extraneous material; whereas in the darker, more mixed material broken bones, potsherds, shells, and other refuse were abundant, while there was scarcely a cubic foot anywhere in which was not found a piece of flint or bone, sometimes several such objects, which had been intentionally altered from their natural condition. Near the center of the cave was a curving pile, 6 by 2 feet, and several inches thick, of mussel shells of every size from less than an inch to above 5 inches in length; more than half of them were over 3 inches. None of them showed any marks of fire; some had both valves in position, as if they had never been opened, and a few of the larger of these had been filled with small shells and closed again. A few were broken, but most of them were entire. About 1,400 valves were in this pile, meaning that at least one-half of that number of mollusks were consumed. The first interment was found at 46 feet from the front, 14 feet from the east wall. The folded skeleton of a very old person lay on the right side, head east, in loose ashes, on a large flat rock whose top was 30 inches below the surface. This rock had not been placed here, but had fallen from the ceiling; probably its existence was not known until it was uncovered in digging the grave. The skull still retained its shape, in part, being held in place by the ashes, but fell in pieces when this support was removed. A portion of it was gone; two fragments were found, several feet away, not near each other, one of which fits in the skull, and the other probably belongs with it also. The frontal bone is nearly half an inch thick; the sutures partially obliterated; the teeth worn down to the necks, some of them nearly to the bone; the forehead is low and receding. A restoration is seen in plate 20, a, b. In addition to the missing portions of the skull, most of the ribs, half of the lower jaw, and nearly all the dorsal vertebræ were absent, probably having been dragged away by ground hogs. The bones are all light and fragile. Lying above the skull, in contact with it but supported by the ashes on both sides, was half of a large mortar hollowed on both sides. Above the skeleton, and extending for several feet on every side, was an undisturbed stratum of closely packed ashes, 17 inches thick at the middle, which broke off under the pick in large clods; these, of course, had accumulated after the body was interred. The spongy condition of these bones, in spite of the preservative action of the ashes, is evidence of the fact frequently noted, that with advancing age some change takes place which renders them less resistant to destructive influences. Bones of children only a few weeks old near this skeleton held their structure perfectly and were easily secured. Ten feet east from the pile of mussel shells, at a slightly lower level, was nearly half a gallon of snail shells which had been boiled, probably in soup. With them were a few pieces of bones. Scattered irregularly through the ashes were many cavities which somewhat resembled the "postholes" so common beneath the mounds in Ohio. Some were barely an inch in diameter and a foot deep; from this size they varied indefinitely to the largest, which was a little more than 3 feet deep, reaching from about a foot below the undisturbed layers just under the loose surface ashes to within about a foot of the bottom. "About" is used advisedly, because at this point neither the top nor the bottom of undisturbed material could be determined with certainty. The lower 2 feet of this cavity was uniformly 7 inches across; above this it slightly expanded, funnel-like, to a diameter of 8 inches at the top. The sides of this, as of all of them, large or small, were as smooth and hard as if made with a posthole digger or a boring tool. Strata of ashes, not changing their level or appearance in the least, were continuous around the margin. But the holes were not always straight; some of them changed direction as if due to a crooked post or stick. Nearly all of them were rounded, even hemispherical at top or bottom, or both, like the bottom of a pot. They were not molds, for nothing could have been taken out of them without changing or destroying its form. If they had contained any solid substance like a post it must have stood unchanged until the layers of ashes surrounded and covered it, and then must have so completely disappeared as to leave no trace of its existence. They were not formed by driving any object down, because in that case the bottom would not have been so regularly rounded and the ashes around the sides would have been more or less displaced. They were not due to burrowing animals. In fact, if there be imagined a nearly cylindrical mass of ice, straight or slightly crooked, with rounded ends, placed upright and retaining its position unmelted until completely buried, the appearance of these cavities will best be understood. Some of them were filled to the top with fine loose ashes which occasionally contained fragments of bone, shell, and pottery; sometimes they were nearly empty, with traces of decayed wood at the bottom, mingled with a little ashes and charcoal. In one was found a long, perfect bone perforator, shown at a in plate 30; in another near the corner of the west wall was found the pipe shown in figure 14. About 45 feet from the front near the east wall were four of them of different diameters and depths but all in a straight line within a space 2 feet long; these were in front of a crevice under an overhanging ledge where a man could not stand upright. Wigwams may have been erected in the cave, or at least skins stretched to prevent drafts or to confine the heat of fires in winter and perhaps to insure some degree of privacy if this were desired; but there are no present indications of such shelters unless these holes were to secure them; otherwise their purpose or object is still unsolved. They would probably not contain posts for hanging things on when the walls afforded so many small crevices and holes into which poles better adapted for such purposes could be thrust. [Illustration: PLATE 20 a, b, Skull from Miller's Cave, Pulaski County, Mo. (a, front; b, profile). c, Part of skull of child from Miller's cave (front view)] [Illustration: PLATE 21 SKULL OF YOUNG WOMAN FROM MILLER'S CAVE a, Front; b, profile; c, back] Other holes or depressions, shallow, saucer-shaped, or dish-shaped, some dug in the underlying clay, others at any level almost to the top of the ashes, were fire pits or cooking places, containing charcoal and ashes. Two such depressions were lined with a coating of gumbo half an inch thick, which, however, was not mixed with sand or shell. Pots may have been shaped in these. Occasionally a small mass of gumbo, never so much as a peck, sometimes as small as a pint measure, would be found loose in the ashes, seemingly thrown there at random. Two pieces were squeezed into a rough ball; one was patted or rolled into a flattened sphere with a rounded depression on one side. These were no doubt intended as material for making vessels, as was a roughly cylindrical mass of red clay and pounded shell as large as a quart cup--the "biscuit" of modern potters. About the middle of the cave a saucer-shaped depression, 4 feet across and 10 inches deep at the center, had been dug in the red clay; ashes had been deposited to a depth of 2 feet over this space before the excavation of the hole was begun, and streaks of red clay lay at about this level all around the pit. Many rocks, large and small, apparently thrown in, were in this basin and above it. No fire had been made in it; nothing buried; and the upper layers of ashes extended across it unbroken. It forms another of the unsolved problems. [Illustration: FIG. 14.--Clay pipe from Miller's Cave.] In the den of a burrowing animal smaller than a ground hog was the frontal bone and upper portion of the face of a child of 8 or 10 years; 12 teeth are cut and others can be seen. It is shown in plate 20, c. Part of a cervical vertebra lay at the top of the skull, and there were fragments of a few other bones. The ulna of a child, broken off at the wrist, was near the doorway in a mass of refuse in a ground-hog burrow. For several feet in every direction around here the ashes were traversed by the tunnels and dens of these animals, some of them extending down into the clay. Twenty-five feet east of the doorway, a foot below the highest layer of unbroken ashes, was the top and back of a thin skull. Sixty feet from the front, 15 feet from the east wall, at a depth of 14 inches, was a partial skeleton, lying on the back. The right arm, folded, lay by the side; the left forearm across the pelvis. All bones from the atlas to the sacrum, except some bones of the hands and wrists and the left ulna, lay in such position as to show they had been interred with the flesh on, or at least while the cartilages held them together; but no trace of the skull--which had lain toward the west--or of any part of the legs or feet was present. Fragments of coarse cloth were adhering to the pelvis. The bones, which were almost like punk, were those of a young person, the caps of the long bones being separate from the shafts; but they were of good size, the humerus being 13 inches long. The left ulna (at least a left ulna) lay above where the face should have been, but some inches away, with one end near the surface. It is quite probable that ground hogs are responsible for the condition of this skeleton, and that some of the bones found scattered in the ashes belonged to it. About a foot under the bones, but not connected with the burial in any way, were three large pieces of a large pot. Four feet east of this, a foot lower, was the skeleton of a baby, the humerus only 3½ inches long. The bones rolled out with some loose ashes, and not all of them could be recovered. Thirteen feet from the east wall, 16 feet from top of rear slope of the ashes, 4 feet below the surface was part of a skeleton. The bones lay on a damp, close-packed bed of ashes 6 inches thick. They were closely folded, the femurs and lower leg bones being in contact; the skull, scapulæ, right humerus, sacrum, and some of the vertebræ were missing. Such bones as remained were in their proper positions, except that the sternum lay in the pelvis and the elbows at the knees. All of them were in a space only 18 by 22 inches, measuring to the outermost points. The situation of such bones as remained indicated that part of a skeleton had been buried after the flesh had decayed, or had been removed, but while the joints were still united, and covered with loose ashes, whose settling had caused some sagging of the stratified ashes, a foot in thickness, which lay above them, there being no evidence that they had been disturbed since they were placed here. All were as light as cork and, except the left tibia, which was 15½ inches long, fell to pieces when taken up. Eight feet east from the last skeleton was one of a very young infant, on left side, head toward the front of the cave. It was 2½ feet below the surface, partly under a jutting portion of a large rock whose top was above the ashes. It lay on small angular rocks, with similar rocks over it. Two feet west of this was the ulna of a child 10 years old. Sixteen feet from the east wall, 10 feet from top of rear slope, 2 feet under surface was another infant's skeleton, lying on the back, head toward the mouth of the cave. The femur was only 4½ inches long. Fifteen feet from east wall, 8 feet from top of rear slope of ashes, a little more than a foot below the surface, was the closely folded skeleton of a woman between 20 and 25 years of age. It lay on the right side, with the head east. The bones were in perfect condition, even the coccyx being intact. All the teeth were present, solid, and symmetrically set. Unbroken strata of ashes a foot thick above this skeleton sagged somewhat owing to settling of loose ashes thrown around and over the body at time of burial. The skull is shown, front, profile, and back, in plate 21. A few inches below these bones, with ashes intervening, were piled some bones of a child of about 8 years. The caps of the joints were not adherent, and some of the teeth had not come through the bone. The skull, which was intact, lay on left side, vertex north, ribs, arm bones, and feet bones lay on the top, at the back, and at the vertex, in contact with the skull and with one another. As there was no evidence that they had ever been disturbed by animals, it would appear that only the bones mentioned had been deposited; even the lower jaw was absent. They lay in a mass of kitchen refuse, shells, burned bones, charcoal, and ashes, the upper layers of which were curved as if the bones had been laid on a level area of this mixed material and the rest of it piled over them. Their position, and the small number of them, indicates that the flesh had been used as food. The skull is shown in plate 22. Between this partial skeleton and the complete one above it, apparently thrown in with the refuse which covered and surrounded both, were fragments of two large pelvic bones which did not belong to either of them. Directly below these burials, 3 feet under the surface, was part of an infant's skeleton, with five shell disk beads among the bones; the only instance in which ornaments were found with human bones. The skull and some other bones were present, but most of the remains had disappeared into the runway of a burrower. At several places in the central parts of the cavern, at almost any level between the top and the bottom of the ashes, were human bones, singly or a few together, some of them apparently remains of interments, others carried to the points where found. Most of these scattered bones were of children or infants; but now and then larger ones were found, notably two large adult tibiæ which were a foot apart. While a few of them may have been thrown in with the ashes, most of this confusion resulted from the activity of rodents, though some of it was due to desultory former investigations. At one point was the perfect lower jaw of a child 8 or 10 years old; with it were a scapula and some vertebræ which may have belonged to it, also some ribs, vertebræ, and arm bones of an infant. Two or three of them bore marks of fire, especially an ulna of a child which was completely charred. Four feet from east wall, 4 feet below surface, at the beginning of the slope to the rear, was the skeleton of a child less than 2 years old. It lay on left side, head east, legs bent, one arm folded with hand by head, the other along the body; just such a position as would be assumed by a sleeping infant. Some of the teeth were cut. All the bones were in place, though soft and brittle; above them was an unbroken stratum of ashes. Four feet west of this, 2 feet higher, was the skeleton of a still younger child. Sixteen feet from east wall, at the beginning of slope to rear, near the bottom of the ashes, was an adult's skeleton, extended on back, head west. Three rocks, weighing from 75 to 300 pounds, were placed over the body. Most of the bones had disappeared from decay; the middle third of one tibia was much enlarged by disease, as shown in plate 23. Eleven feet east of this, 4 feet below surface, was an adult skeleton, folded, on right side, head toward rear of the cave. The bones were spongy and soft. Portions of the feet and legs, most of the pelvis, the left arm, and some of the vertebræ were present, but there was no trace of right arm, skull, or shoulders. A slab weighing 100 pounds or more was set on edge just where the head should have been. One tibia, the only bone with both ends remaining, measured 14½ inches. Near the wall, just beyond the break of the slope, was the entire skeleton of a dog so old that its teeth were rounded and smooth. It had been killed by a spear thrust entirely through its body, from the right side, both scapulæ being penetrated; the holes are three-fourths of an inch in diameter. The skull of a fox was found near this, higher in the ashes. Fifteen feet from east wall, halfway down the slope, 18 inches under surface, was the skeleton of an infant only a few days old. No trace of pelvis or right leg remained, though all the other bones were well preserved. Twenty-four feet from east wall, at beginning of rear slope, was the complete skeleton of a young child, extended, on back, head toward rear of cave. The bones showed evidence of disease, as may be seen in plate 23. The skull is shown in plate 24. Nineteen feet from east wall, 13 feet from foot of slope, was a hole 4½ inches to 5 inches in diameter, 21 inches deep, extending into the loose dark earth underlying the ashes. The bottom of the hole was muddy, being at about the level of the standing water, and contained charred and decayed remains of oak wood. Ashes, in layers having the same slope as the surface, extended over it, proving the post (?) to have been burned some time before the cave was abandoned. [Illustration: PLATE 22 SKULL OF CHILD FROM MILLER'S CAVE a, Front; b, profile] [Illustration: PLATE 23 DISEASED TIBIA OF ADULT AND DISEASED BONES OF CHILD FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 24 SKULL OF CHILD FROM MILLER'S CAVE a, Front; b, profile] [Illustration: PLATE 25 CACHE OF FLINTS FROM ASH BED IN MILLER'S CAVE] West of the doorway a ledge, projecting from 4 to 6 feet, extended to the west corner. It was covered 2 feet deep, or less, with ashes containing the usual refuse. Large rocks lay on this, or had fallen over it to the clay lying against its lower part, or into the ashes on the clay. Near the west wall were four holes in an almost straight north-and-south line. The first (1), was 29 feet north of the doorway, 18 inches deep and 7 inches in diameter. In it was the clay pipe shown in figure 14. Number (2), 5 feet from (1), was 24 by 9 inches; No. (3) 2 feet from (2), was 26 by 7 inches; No. (4), 4½ feet from (3), was 30 by 5 inches. Fourteen inches northwest of No. (1) was another hole, 15 by 3 inches. The description on a previous page as to character, appearance, and contents applies to all these holes; the ashes extended above all of them in continuous layers. A little to the west of No. (1) was a small pile of crumbling fragments of sandstone and limestone used in boiling food. Near No. (4), a foot under the surface, on the slope, 15 feet from the water, was a small pile of charcoal on which lay a human scapula, some vertebræ, fragments of ribs, most of a humerus, and most of a femur of a person not fully matured; they were of good size but the cap fell away from the humerus when it was moved. Some of them were without marks of fire, others were charred, while a few pieces were burned to cinder. As the mass was surrounded by clean ashes, it could not be determined whether the charcoal had been burned where found, or had been carried here. Whichever it was, the bones had been thrown on the pile. Thirteen feet just north from the corner of the west wall was a hole 19 by 7 inches which differed from the others in that the bottom instead of being rounded was irregular, and deeper at one side; the top, however, showed the usual hemispherical contour. Two feet from corner of west wall, almost under a point projecting from it, 4 feet below surface, was a cranium from which the upper jaw, one orbit, and part of the right parietal were missing; with it were a lower jaw, a clavicle, a sternum, the bones of the left arm, and some phalanges, all in good condition, except the ulna, which was broken. No other bones were present. The skull lay on right side, face toward the wall; the arm bones were on it, and the other bones by it. With and around them were some deer bones. The entire lot had the appearance of being thrown together here at one time, and it would seem that the flesh of all of them had been eaten. Fourteen feet north from the corner, halfway down to the water, in the wet earth at the bottom, were human bones evidently placed here entire, but so decayed and broken that nothing could be ascertained except that it seemed a closely folded body or skeleton had been deposited. The teeth were worn down to the gums. The refuse behind the corner of the west wall was cleared away as far as the conditions would permit. The amount of water at the rear of the cave varies with the rainfall; sometimes it almost disappears, again it may be fully 2 feet deep; but at all times the earth and ashes near it are saturated above its lowest level. Consequently, on account of the mud, excavations could not be carried fully to the end in either direction. As scarcely anything was found in the last few feet, this omission was not important. The entire distance worked over, from the front margin to the line where no further advance could be made, at 14 feet from the water, was 91 feet. No spot that could be reached throughout this length was left undug. The small openings in the west wall presented no features worthy of special mention; but those in the east wall yielded interesting results. First of these was a small cave 39 feet from the main entrance. At the front its width was 11 feet; 6 feet within it narrowed to 4 feet. A hole on the north side ended at a crevice that led to a chamber higher up, from which, in turn, another crevice extended. All this space, even beyond the point to which a man could worm his way, was filled with fine earth and ashes containing much refuse. Worked objects were found at the greatest distance which could be reached. A few feet within the entrance this minor cave divided into three parts. A crevice trending northward is too small to follow. The two others extend in a general easterly direction. The central branch, the left of the two, also closes within a few feet. Neither of these contained anything but natural earth. In the one to the right, 7 feet from the entrance, was a pocket on the south side, 18 inches wide, 30 inches high, and 4 feet deep; it was filled with ashes containing bone and shell, but no worked object except a flake scraper. At intervals, within the next few feet, were two mortars, a much used pestle, some bone awls, and flints, all of them in places where it was scarcely possible for a man to sit erect, as the tunnel-like cavity, circumscribed by solid rock, was nowhere as much as 4 feet in diameter. At its narrowest part it measured only 3 feet high and 18 inches wide. At 20 feet the cave opens into a well-like enlargement, 5 by 6 feet, and 5 feet high. Bone and shell in small amounts were found here, and among them the skiver shown at d in plate 36. From this well-like cavity three branches start; one continuing in a direct line east, one to the north, and one to the south. The east (middle) branch is only 24 inches high and 17 inches wide, with solid rock all around. It contained ashes, with a little refuse, as far as a man could reach. The branch to the north is entered through an opening 3 feet high and 31 inches wide in a thin wall of the original rock, just within which it widens to nearly 7 feet, holding the same height of 3 feet. Within this doorway, on the red earth bottom, were a small mortar and a grinding stone worn by much use; both were stained with red paint. A foot farther in was part of a skiver; and 2 feet beyond this was a large knife of white chert almost as clear and compact as chalcedony, shown at a in plate 27. Ashes continued in the north tunnel for 26 feet from the entrance, beyond which no further progress was possible. Before this point was reached, the refuse which had been continually decreasing in amount no longer appeared. The tunnel leading from the well toward the south is 19 inches high, 3 feet 9 inches wide. At 3 feet it branches; one fork, 2 feet high and 17 inches wide, turns eastward and curves to join the east branch from the well. The other branch continues south, but soon closes; in it were found a small piece of an adult's skull and the hip bone of a young child. The floors in all the branches of the small cave were covered from 3 to 12 inches deep with a reddish mixture of sand and clay, on which were ashes filling the space above almost to the roof. In a few places refuse was found in this silt, of the same general character as that in the ashes, but in very small amount. This is not significant; such remains were dragged down by animals, which range everywhere. The two deposits are quite separated and distinct. The clay and sand on the rock bottom came from disintegrated rock on top of the ground outside, or at any rate from some level higher than that where they are found now; but how ashes, shells, broken bone, and especially how worked objects came to be in places too contracted for a man to creep, and where they could be neither carried nor pushed, is not to be explained except on the hypothesis of a chamber above, whence they may have worked or may have been thrown down; but at no place, either in the cave or in the outside surface, could there be found any evidence of such communication. Fifty-five feet from the mouth of the cave, in the east wall, is a crevice into whose lower portion extended the red clay of the cavern floor. It branched into various tortuous divisions, all of which were filled with ashes containing a large proportion of refuse. It appeared at first that all this had settled in, or been thrown in, from the main cavern; but one branch, having a very irregular outline, was in such situation and trended upward at such an angle that it could not have been filled from below. As in similar cases previously noted, however, no other opening to it was to be found. The smallest workman cleared it out to as great a distance as he could crawl and use a trowel, but did not succeed in reaching the end of the deposits. At the bottom of the crevice were ground-hog burrows extending between loose rocks, under ledges, and into the red clay. All these were followed as far as they could be, and found to contain quantities of refuse. There was also a considerable amount of fine dark earth in the burrows, showing they have another outlet somewhere. Occasionally a mass thrown out by a shovel or a trowel contained more refuse than ashes. There was nearly everything which was found elsewhere in the cave, and almost every shovelful contained something worth preserving. Near the rear of the cave erosion of the lower part of the eastern wall formed a rudely triangular recess or cavity 30 feet long by 7 feet deep at the widest part. The upper margin of this was below the surface of the ashes, so that its existence was not suspected until these had been removed from in front of it. The roof was 5 feet above the rock bottom, the entire space being filled with loose material. The upper 2 feet of this was clean ashes in which were great quantities of refuse, so much that it had all the appearance of a general dumping ground. Below this depth, patches of fine dark earth were mingled with the ashes and refuse. The latter continually decreased in quantity, until at a foot above the bottom they ceased altogether, the lower portion of the deposit consisting of nothing but earth. The pure ashes were slightly damp; and the moisture increased with the depth until at a foot above the bottom the earth was saturated and could no longer be removed with tools. The refuse in the ashes consisted of animal bones, entire or in fragments; broken flints and pottery; mussel and snail shells; and numerous wrought objects. These continued, though in smaller amount, where the ashes were mingled with earth, though bones and shells were soft owing to the moisture, and could be removed only in fragments. Among them were the flint shown at a in plate 28, and the hematite ax, at a, plate 29. The latter was at the lowest level to which the ashes extended; perhaps its weight caused it to settle below the place at which it originally lay. Near the middle of this chamber, 2 feet from the rear wall, lying at the bottom of the mixed ashes and earth, were 12 entire and 3 broken leaf-shaped blades; they were not closely piled, or arranged in any order, but seem to have been hastily or carelessly laid or thrown on a small space. Another was found a foot away. They are shown in plate 25. [Illustration: PLATE 26 FLINTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 27 FLINTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 28 FLINTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 29 AXES AND PESTLES FROM MILLER'S CAVE] Here and there among the refuse were found the upper jaw, with left orbit, of a young person; a fragment of an occiput, perhaps belonging with the above though not lying near it; fragments of the skull of a young child; half of an ulna of a child probably 12 years old; a small fragment of the lower jaw of an adult with one molar remaining in it, which has been burned until black. These fragments were all in such position and condition as to show they were not carried in by animals; were not disinterred from graves and placed here; were not in any way accidentally present; but had been gathered up with the refuse and thrown in as a part of it. The broken or burned condition of these, as well as of other human bones found at random among the ashes of the main cave, are presumptive evidence that dwellers here sometimes devoured the flesh of human beings; and the fact that a majority of such bones are those of children indicates that it was not eaten through a belief that the valor and skill of an enemy could be thus absorbed by the victor, but that it was used as food, like the flesh of any other animal. Such conclusion may not be justified; but the facts are not readily accounted for otherwise, except on the equally repulsive hypothesis that the inmates of the cave were brutally indifferent to the bodies or skeletal remains of their fellows. Omitting this question from consideration, however, there is still ample evidence that the inhabitants of Miller's Cave were in a low state of savagery, or, if the phrase be preferred, in a very primitive stage of culture. There was a remarkable paucity of articles used as ornaments or for personal decoration, and the few that were found were simple and crude, being only rubbed stones or rough pieces of bones which were possibly intended for beads or pendants. The pottery, while strong and serviceable, was plain in form and devoid of any ornamentation or design except that a few pieces showed impressions such as would be made by scratching or pressing with the end of a small stick or bone. Nearly all of it was cord-marked, though some was smooth, one red piece appearing almost glazed. It varied much in thickness, hardness, and color. Most of it was dark gray, some red, occasionally a piece yellowish or nearly white; due to the different clays of which it was made. So far as observed it was tempered with shell. The shards were small, as if when a pot was broken the fragments were still further demolished. The curvature showed there was a wide range in size, from about a pint to 2 gallons or more. Their mortars were natural blocks or slabs of sandstone, such as may be picked up by thousands in the immediate neighborhood, and showed no alteration of form beyond ordinary wear except that the rough faces of a few were pecked, apparently with a pointed flint tool, to make them less irregular. Some were flat and smooth from use with a muller or grinding stone; most of them were worked or hollowed on only one face; a few showed depressions on both sides; one had a few hemispherical indentations near the margin, like those observed in cup-stones. Only one pestle was dressed into any of the forms which we are accustomed to associate with the name, and this was a truncated cone with rounded top, shown at b in plate 29. All the others were cobblestones from ravines or the river shore. A few had undergone no change in form; most of them were battered on the perimeter; a few had pitted sides; some had been used as pestles, mullers, or grinding stones until the surface was more or less smooth. All such stones are classed as "pestles," for convenience; they could have also been used as hammers, bone crushers, and in various other ways. In all, 73 mortars were found; counting only those stones which bore marks of use as such. The largest one was at the bottom of the ashes, near the doorway. There were more than 100 pestles which bore evidence of much use; and probably as many more on which there was little or no sign of wear. As the cavern was not of sufficient size to provide living quarters for many families at any one time--10 or 12 at the most--the large number of these utensils may imply that the inmates would not use an object which had previously belonged to some one else. Among the flint implements there was a wide range in the character of stone, the shape, and the degree of finish, although the variation in size was quite limited. Very few of them may be classed as either large or small. The longest, shown at a in plate 28, measured 5½ inches; few were more than 4 or less than 2 inches. Tapering stems predominated. The principal forms are shown in plates 26-28. Only three arrowheads were found; but this was to be expected, as arrows would be used only out of doors. One of these of clear, fine-grained pink and white chert, shown at b in plate 28, so far surpasses in delicate finish any other specimen secured that it is probably exotic. The large number of cores, blocks, spalls, and flakes shows that many implements were made and repaired here. But, while a few specimens showed that their fabricators were masters of the chipping art, most of them were roughly finished. Some which are so little altered from the original form of the rough flake or spall that they would be classed as "rejects" if found about a flint workshop have a smoothness or "hand polish" which denotes much service. There is the possibility, of course, that hunting or traveling parties from some other part of the country may have availed themselves of the shelter, either when it was temporarily unoccupied, or as guests of those living in it; and that these, also, may have left some small articles when they departed. However this may have been, all the objects from the top to the bottom of the deposits, in dry ashes or in sticky mud, in crevices or branch caverns, on the red clay, the barren muck, or the bedrock--all, if we may except the few flints of superior workmanship--are identical in general character: That is to say, any object from any part of the deposited material had its practical duplicate at various other points on different levels. Only three grooved axes and three pestles were found. They are shown in plate 29, along with a cobblestone used as a pestle. [Illustration: PLATE 30 BONE IMPLEMENTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 31 BONE IMPLEMENTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 32 BONE IMPLEMENTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 33 BONE IMPLEMENTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 34 BONE AND ANTLER IMPLEMENTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 35 ANTLER IMPLEMENTS FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 36 SKIVERS, SHOWING STAGES OF MANUFACTURE, FROM MILLER'S CAVE] [Illustration: PLATE 37 SHELL SPOONS, POTTERY DISKS, AND BROKEN SPOON MADE OF A DEER'S SKULL, FROM MILLER'S CAVE] The cave was especially rich in objects wrought from bone and antler. A few of these are shown in plates 30-36 and figure 15. [Illustration: FIG. 15.--Perforated bone object from Miller's Cave.] Plate 36 illustrates four stages in the manufacture of skivers. It shows that instead of being always rubbed down from its natural form the bone was sometimes split by blows of a stone hammer until complete, subsequent smoothing probably resulting from use, as shown by the implement at c. When skivers were broken, the ends were dressed down for other uses; as observed in the upper row of plate 32. Shell spoons, knives, and scrapers were abundant. Some are shown in plate 37, along with perforated pottery disks and the bowl of a spoon made from the frontal bone of a deer. Figure 16 represents the only adz or gouge form implement found. It is made of gray chert, the edge highly polished. In figure 17 is shown a broken clay pipe, identical in form and material with that in figure 14. [Illustration: FIG. 16.--Adz or gouge of chert from Miller's Cave.] The red clay which had formed the floor of the excavated area from the mouth of the cavern to well past the central portion suddenly dipped to the north and to the east shortly before reaching the corner of the west wall. Attempts to follow it downward were frustrated by black earth, which when dug with pick or shovel assumed the consistency of "hog-wallow mud." For a space of 4 or 5 feet inside the doorway, whose floor was about 3 feet higher than the average surface level in the cave, the ashes were not more than a foot thick, the clay rising to this extent. It spread out fan shape, with a continuous slope for several yards in every direction, thus making an easy grade for entrance and exit. There are three ways in which this condition could have been brought about. First, the aborigines may have constructed a graded way; though it is not at all likely they would have piled the clay so far to each side. Secondly, it may have washed through the doorway from the outer cave when the main outlet of the latter in the face of the bluff toward D (fig. 13) was obstructed in some way. This is improbable. Thirdly, it may be due to material deposited in the eddy or swirl created by the corner of the west wall whenever a large volume of drainage water flowed from the westward in the main cave and was sharply deflected toward the south when it struck the east wall. This is no doubt the correct explanation. Whether or not these floods had any part in piling up the clay at the doorway, beyond doubt it was to them that the clay, gravel, and sand resting upon the floor of the main cave owe their origin. To them is likewise due the dark earth overlying the clay at the rear and covering the floor of the recess in the east wall. Clearly, there was at one time in the cave's history a current at intervals, which carried mud and small rocks from the interior of the cave, or from the outside surface through sink holes, and left at least a part of it where the velocity of the stream was checked. Later, much of this water found other drainage channels, and the coarser matter could no longer be carried into the cave; but at times of unusually heavy precipitation enough of the torrent followed the old course to bring in the dark earth. The last is due to top soil containing a large amount of humus from decaying vegetation. Finally, no more water came this way except as seepage, which is the condition at present. [Illustration: FIG. 17.--Clay pipe from Miller's Cave.] The pool at the rear may be entirely empty in dry seasons; and after heavy rains may contain a depth of 2 feet. This water now has a greasy looking scum and a sour, unpleasant odor. The cave was inhabited before the water had entirely ceased to flow through it; this is proven by the alternation of refuse and silt in the recess under the east wall. Kitchen waste would be thrown here, and when the water rose sediment would cover it. There was then dry ground near the doorway; and the water in the pool, having an outlet toward the east, through the crevice, was fit for use, except, perhaps, when turbid. On the rear slope, 18 feet from the water, the excavation was carried to the level of the bottom of the pool. The lower 2 feet was mud, and at the bottom water oozed in. Scattered through this muddy earth was much charcoal in small fragments; and for a short distance it also occurred for a few inches below the surface of the red clay. This charcoal was carried in by the water at the same time as the earth with which it was associated, and must be due to fires on the hill outside. At any rate, it did not come from any fires made within the cavern. No refuse or worked objects of any kind were found in this black earth, except in the recess in the east wall, as described, and in the upper portion immediately under the ashes. Such as existed outside the recess may have become mixed in the same way; that is, by being thrown on the top as it existed at the moment and being later covered by the water; or it may have worked in from the ashes above. Nor was there much refuse in the ashes on the rear slope, although these were quite regularly stratified. To entirely remove the rocks and clay and expose in a satisfactory manner the bedrock floor would require months of labor, the use of mechanical appliances, and complete drainage to the rear wall through the mouth of the cave. Without attempting to make a detailed list, there may be given a summary of the objects shipped to the National Museum: 12 skulls, most of them more or less broken. 10 partial skeletons, including those of children. 8 fragments of skulls from different individuals not included in the above. 74 objects of shell. 711 worked flint objects; knives, scrapers, cores, etc. 10 grooved axes, tomahawks, and flint hammers. 10 mortars. 40 pestles, stone hammers, rubbing stones, etc. 413 wrought objects of bone and stag horn. 2 clay pipes. 1 box of pottery fragments. A number of small objects, not classified. There were left in the cavern several hundred broken flints; more than 60 mortars; probably 200 stones used as pestles, hammers, etc., and several large wagonloads of shell, bone, and broken pottery. There is no way in which the age of the deposits in either the Miller or the Sells Cave can be determined. The accumulation of ashes in the one and of talus at the front of the other would certainly imply the lapse of several centuries, perhaps a thousand years of continuous occupation. Intermittent habitation would lengthen this period. RAMSEY'S CAVE Ramsey's Cave, better known as Freeman's Cave, is in a bluff on the right bank of Big Piney River, 3 miles below Miller's Cave. It is about 150 feet above the level of the stream and the same below the summit of the hill behind it. Within a hundred yards to east and west are shallow ravines by which access is fairly easy to a ledge nearly on the same level as the cave; this is wide enough for one person to traverse, but in most places too narrow for two abreast. The talus in front is rough and steep but a crooked path with no difficult grades can be made to the water. Chambers on each side near the entrance, which are accessible only by means of a ladder, provide excellent living quarters and command approach from any direction, even along the foot of the cliff on either side. The entrance, which faces southwest, is a symmetrical arch 75 feet wide and 20 feet high. Bedrock shows just in front, covered with loose material washed over the cliff. The floor ascends and the roof descends toward the rear, until at 70 feet they approach within 6 feet of each other; beyond this the cave is choked with fallen rocks and with earth and gravel probably from a sink hole some distance back on top of the hill. Refuse shows about the entrance and for 40 feet toward the rear, where earth from the interior has worked down over it. The surface is strewn with rocks, large and small, so that excavations are possible only in small areas. Several holes were dug at intervals between the front and the rear; a considerable amount of ashes was found over the middle portion, thrown from still farther back. Very little was found in them. The rock bottom slopes upward slightly and was covered in some places with clay and gravel, on which lay the ashes and other refuse; these were nowhere more than 3 feet deep, and usually much thinner. The place was so difficult to work in and the returns were so scanty that systematic investigation did not seem warranted, and the work was not extended. The only objects secured were a bone perforator, part of another one, a snail shell, apparently a bead, a very small piece of sandstone used as a grinder or polisher for bones, a fragment of worked mussel shell, and nine rough flints. There were also a few small fragments of pottery. A man living near the cave reported that a few years ago he was digging in a narrow space between the east wall and a large fallen rock. He came upon the feet of two skeletons and took out the lower leg bones. Being assured by a friend that these were not bones of Indians because they were not "red," and so must be remains of white people, he replaced them and threw the earth back on them. He was certain the spot had never since been disturbed; but in this he was mistaken, for investigation revealed a pile of human bones lying in confusion, in which the frames of two individuals, as he had said, were mingled; but no trace of the skull or jaw of either. Evidently some one had come afterwards in search of the skulls. The femur of the larger individual was just 19 inches long; the other frame was much smaller; but all other bones were in such fragmentary condition they could not be measured. There is a rock shelter a short distance down the river from the Ramsey Cave and in the same ledge. It is 45 feet long, 15 feet deep, and 8 feet high in front, the roof coming down to the floor at the rear. There is nothing to show that it was ever used, even as a camping place. * * * * * A fourth of a mile above this cave is another from which flows a never-failing spring. There is a pile of ashes near the front, containing some refuse, but these mark only the site of an occasional camp, as the place could not be occupied in wet weather. GRAHAM CAVE On Graham's land, high up in a bluff facing Big Piney, opposite the mouth of Spring Creek, is a small cave difficult to reach and not suitable for occupancy. PILLMAN'S OR SPRING CREEK, CAVE (25) At the mouth of Spring Creek, on land of John Pillman, near the top of the bluff, is a cave with an entrance 30 feet wide and 30 feet high. A steep rock ledge at the front offers an impassable obstacle to any stock except goats. The front chamber is well lighted for a distance of 80 feet, where it makes a turn. Bedrock is exposed near the entrance and rises toward the rear, showing here and there through the covering of earth, which is not more than 2 feet deep anywhere. Water cracks appear even in the highest spots, proving the floor to be saturated at times. There is considerable refuse inside the cave, but none in front, and it is reported that human skeletons have been found in it. If so they must have been on a ledge or in a crevice. Plate 2, a, shows the hill, from the west; plate 2, b, the entrance to the cave. Two large cairns stood on top of the bluff above the cave. So far as can be determined in their dilapidated condition, there seems to have been a row of stones inclosing a definite area, but it is impossible to ascertain with certainty whether this was the case. On a lower ridge, to the north, are three similar but smaller cairns. These are constructed entirely of sandstone slabs, and there was plainly some sort of system used in placing them; but, as in the case of the first, it can not now be determined whether there was a continuous wall, and, if so, whether it was more than one stone high. * * * * * A village site is reported in the river bottom on David Thomas's farm on the Big Piney, near Moab. There were cairns, now totally destroyed, at two places on the ridge over which passes the road from Devil's Elbow to Spring Creek. WOODLAND HOLLOW CAVE A minor ravine, known as Woodland Hollow, opens into a small unnamed creek a mile above its junction with Big Piney River at the Devil's Elbow. In the west slope of this ravine is a large cave, named from its location. Through the middle part the floor is muddy; along the wall on the left, dry cave earth, with a width of 20 to 30 feet, extends for 70 feet from the entrance, its surface 4 feet above the level of the wet floor. A smaller amount of dry earth lies along the opposite wall. The sides of the cavern recede at the bottom, the dry earth passing under them. No estimate can be made as to the total depth of the deposits. At the mouth of a ground-hog burrow were two bone perforators, potsherds, fragments of bones, and pieces of worked flint, including two knives, which had been thrown out by the animal. Two mortar stones were found on the margin of the dry earth. The cave belongs to Philip Becker, of St. Louis, who peremptorily refused to allow any examination whatever to be made; the only case in the whole region where cheerful permission was not given for any amount of excavation desired. Three cairns, all demolished, stood on the Stuart property, half a mile from Woodland Cave. * * * * * There is a cairn on top of Lost Hill, half a mile south of Blue, or Shanghai, Spring on Big Piney. WALLED GRAVES AT DEVIL'S ELBOW (26) Three miles above the point at which it passes out of the hills into the bottom lands on its way to the Gasconade, the Big Piney River doubles on itself with an abrupt curve, which raftsmen have named "The Devil's Elbow." For more than a mile above and below this bend the stream flows in opposite directions in nearly parallel east and west channels around the foot of a spur from the high land to the west. Into the Elbow, on its outer curve, three ravines from the east and southeast open within a fourth of a mile. They form the boundaries of two very narrow ridges or "hog-backs," which terminate in precipitous slopes near the river. For some distance back from the points the limestone bedrock crops out, a slight accumulation of earth in the crevices supporting a scanty covering of weeds but being insufficient to permit the growth of trees or bushes; hence the term "balds" by which they are locally known. The ridges have a gradual and nearly uniform slope toward the summit of the hill, which lies half a mile to the eastward. The sandstone capping the hill appears within a few hundred feet and is covered with an abundant growth. On the upland are many large trees. The ridge farthest south, on the farm of Joseph Ross, has five stone graves along the crest, numbered here in their order from the bluff. Number (1) is a few rods below the sandstone outcrop, and is constructed partly of weathered limestone blocks such as are now lying around it and partly of sandstone slabs carried from farther up the hill. All the other cairns, although (2) and (3) stand on the limestone bedrock, are built entirely of sandstone fragments ranging from the size of a brick or smaller to pieces weighing over 200 pounds. At first sight the cairns appeared to be only piles of stones thrown together; but more careful inspection showed that each burial place was outlined by a wall, laid up with as much regularity as was practicable with the material at hand, and inclosing a space approximately square. Measuring from face to face of their walls, the spaces between these cairns were as follows: (1) to (2), 21 feet; (2) to (3), 19 feet; (3) to (4), 36 feet; (4) to (5), 34 feet. Not one of these walls was intact at the time of examination; hunters had torn away portions of all of them in pursuit of small animals which had sought refuge among the stones; and such parts as were not thus injured were more or less displaced by roots of trees penetrating in every direction the soil which had accumulated in the open spaces. So far as could be judged in their chaotic condition, the first step in their construction was to lay a row of slabs around the area required; then another row upon this; and the work was continued in this manner until the desired height was reached. As a rule, the stones were so laid as to break joints and to interlock at the corners, for greater stability; but in a few places this was not done. If a stone, once laid up, did not fit as it should, the builders apparently did not take the trouble to replace it with another better suited to the requirements. Seemingly, care was taken to build in such a manner that each outer face should be vertical, and in a straight line from corner to corner; but the inner side was left rough and irregular according to the shape and size of the blocks, no attempt being made to even it up. If timbers of any kind had been laid across the top, resting on the walls, there remained no indication of the fact. However, the bodies may have been protected at the time of interment by small vaults or pens constructed of poles, whose decay would allow the stones to settle, and of which no traces would now be left. The space inclosed by the walls was filled with loose stones lying in such disorder as to suggest that they had been carelessly or hastily thrown in to fill the interior and round up the top; but some of this confusion may have resulted from the same causes by which the walls were defaced. It does not appear that any stones had been piled against the outside of the walls to assist in retaining them in place; such as were found in this position were either thrown there by the present inhabitants or had fallen from the top. Two of the cairns, the second and the third in order, were so torn up and overgrown that no investigation of them was attempted; the three others were fully examined. CAIRN (1) In the first, that nearest the terminus of the ridge, all stones lying against the outside of the structure were thrown aside, bringing the outer face into plain view. The inclosure thus revealed resembled the rude foundation of a small building. Measuring from corner to corner the north wall was 14 feet long, the south wall 16 feet, the east wall 14 feet, the west wall 13 feet. The walls were as straight and the corners as square as they could well be made with surface rocks not trimmed or dressed from their natural rough condition. The space within was next freed of stones; the topmost were 3 feet above the outside level, though no doubt higher when first piled. The inside measurements were: North wall 10 feet, south wall 10 feet, east wall 9 feet, west wall 9 feet; all measurements being approximate, as no definite boundaries could be determined. The south wall was practically destroyed; the others were not much injured, but no longer plumb, as they undoubtedly were when constructed. The east wall was in best condition; the outer face was nearly vertical; the top of the highest stone remaining in it was 28 inches above the bottom of the lowest. The general appearance of the wall indicates that it was somewhat higher. After the stones were thrown out there remained a deposit of loose material, composed to some extent of very scanty soil and of humus from decayed weeds and leaves, but principally of disintegrated sandstone which had settled or washed in. Its thickness above bedrock was about 16 inches. All this was carefully examined. Near the center, a few inches above the natural bedrock, were some fragments of human bones which seemed to belong to two adults. Another adult body, or skeleton, bundled or closely folded, had been placed against the south wall, which had partially fallen in on it. Pieces of long bones, including heads of two femurs, the ends of the bones at an elbow, phalanges, and a fragment of rib were found in a space less than a foot across. Nothing more of them remained and nothing else was found. CAIRN (4) The fourth grave in order was worked out in the same manner as the first. On the outer face the north wall measured 14 feet, the south wall 15½ feet, the east wall 16 feet, the west wall 14 feet. The interior lengths were: North wall 12 feet, south wall 11½ feet, east wall 12 feet, west wall 11 feet. Near the center were a few fragments of bone, with a columella bead 4 inches long, perforated lengthwise. It is shown in figure 18. To the east of these, also to the south, were other fragments, indicating, in all, at least three interments. [Illustration: FIG. 18.--Columella bead from Cairn (4), Devil's Elbow.] CAIRN (5) In grave No. 5 the walls on the north and the south were entirely torn out except some stones in the bottom row of each; the upper portions of the east and the west walls were also gone. For this reason the rocks lying outside the structure were not removed. The north wall, outside, was 15 feet long; the south wall, 14 feet; the east wall, 16 feet; the west wall, 14½ feet. The corresponding inner measurements were, north wall, 10 feet; south wall, 10 feet; east wall, 12 feet; west wall, 12 feet. But as the position of the corners was uncertain these figures are no doubt somewhat in error in either direction. The central portion had never been disturbed, the stones lying as they were put originally, except for a possible settling due to their weight; the top of the rounded heap was about 4 feet high. This justified the hope that something might be discovered beneath them. But although the entire space within, up to the fairly defined inner faces of the walls, was thoroughly cleaned out down into the untouched gravelly subsoil, no trace of a bone or other indication of a burial was found. The only artificial object was a section 3¼ inches long of a columella perforated lengthwise, apparently lost by the wearer, as it lay on the natural surface. This is shown in figure 19. [Illustration: FIG. 19.--Columella bead from Cairn (5), Devil's Elbow.] CAIRNS ON HELM'S FARM To the north of the Ross farm, on the ridge which is owned by Daniel Helm, are three stone graves made of shapeless limestone blocks such as cover the surface around them. One of these is about 300 yards from the bluff, on a knoll capped with the sandstone; the others are at the break of the ridge. All have been opened, two of them practically demolished. Those on the end of the ridge are only 14 feet apart, measuring from their adjacent margins, and were about 16 and 20 feet in diameter as built, both being somewhat widened now owing to the stones having been thrown outward from the central parts by hunters. Each was probably 3 feet high. The smaller, being least defaced and nearly free from timber, was entirely removed, except a small portion along one margin, and the earth beneath it examined down to the bedrock. There was no sign of a wall; but one that would stand could not be made with stones rounded by weathering. Remains of at least three bodies were found. One was laid in a crevice; only a few fragments of the long bones were left. With scraps of bone from another body were four teeth worn almost to the roots. They were not close together, but this was due to small burrowing animals which had scattered them. Of the third body, a few pieces of arm and leg bones remained. By itself, loose in the earth, was a single molar, not in the least worn, and with a very small root. So far as appearances go, it seems the bodies were laid on outcropping rock, or in crevices, and stones piled on them without any attempt at order or arrangement. The graves on the Helm farm are merely piles of stone, such as are found in various States. Those on the Ross place are of the same type as the cairns on Lost Hill at the mouth of Gourd Creek in Phelps County, but of a more advanced form. In both places flat stones were laid to inclose the burials. At Lost Hill, however, there was seldom more than a single layer, while at the Devil's Elbow a regular wall was built, seven superposed slabs being observed at one point with a certainty that others had been placed above these. They are not of the same class as the walled graves found in earth mounds along the Missouri River. In the latter, the inner face of the wall was as smooth and regular as it could be made, the outside being rough and upheld by stones and earth piled against them; while in those on Big Piney care was taken with the outer face which, it seems, was intended to be left exposed to view, while the inside was rough and hidden by stones thrown in. But no inference must be drawn from the different methods of filling or covering the vaults after they were completed. Along the Missouri, earth was abundant right at hand, but stones had, as a rule, to be carried some distance; while on the bluffs of the Gasconade and its tributaries the reverse was the case. Petroglyphs, 75 feet above the level of the river bottom, are reported to be cut in a bluff facing the Gasconade River on the east side, 2 miles below the mouth of Big Piney. * * * * * A rock shelter not more than 15 feet wide and 10 feet deep is near the top of the bluff overlooking the Gasconade, almost opposite the mouth of Big Piney. It contains a quantity of ashes, but as it was frequently resorted to by bushwhackers during the Civil War, and is still much used by trappers and hunters who camp in it, these are probably not due to Indians. ASH CAVE So near to the county line that there is some uncertainty as to whether it lies in Pulaski or Phelps County is Ash Cave in a bluff over Baker's Lake, an artificial pond, 4 miles west of Arlington. The cave is small, and notwithstanding its name it contains no ashes or other remains of occupancy. The great number of large rocks on the floor makes examination impossible. CLEMMENS CREEK CAVE (27) At the head of a ravine opening into Clemmens Creek, about 4 miles south of Dixon, near the Piquet orchards, is a cavern with an entrance 55 feet wide and 40 feet high. The depth is 110 feet to loose rocks and clay, partly from the sides and roof, partly washed in through side caves and crevices. There is a small amount of cave earth along one wall, but it is damp, moldy, and covered with a growth of minute green fungus. Most of the floor, however, is of clay strewn with loose rocks and swept over by water at times. There is no refuse, and the cave was never fit for habitation. CAMDEN COUNTY ALONG THE NIANGUA RIVER (28) It is widely known that many caverns exist along the Niangua River and its tributaries, in Camden County, especially in the vicinity of Hahatonka, or, as it is locally termed, "Tonky." This is one of the show places of Missouri. The name includes a post office; a store; a school; an immense spring coming out at the foot of a cliff; the creek formed by this spring; a lake of several hundred acres, made by damming the creek; a picturesque ruined mill with the usual accessories of such a building; numerous caves; and a magnificent, but unfinished, residence crowning one of the hills. This has already called for an expenditure of half a million dollars; and at least double that sum, additional, will be required to complete it in accordance with the original plans. Whether it be due to the national appreciation of architectural beauty or the national appreciation of ability to do things in a large way, the palace seems to impress most visitors more than the remarkable combination of natural features. The principal caves in the vicinity have distinctive names, as "Onyx" (there being two thus called), "Robbers'," "River" (this because there is a stream in it which can be crossed only in a boat), "Bridal," etc. Others are named for the owners of the land, or from some peculiarity, as "Dry," "Bunch," "Morgan," "Arnholdt." Many are not deemed of sufficient importance to have specific titles. All those named were visited, as well as a number of the others. A detailed description is not necessary. Not one of these caverns has ever been occupied unless as a temporary shelter. Some are flooded at intervals, either from the outside or by interior drainage; some have very restricted entrances and are dark at the front; some have rock floors or muddy bottoms; some can be entered only by clambering over talus to an opening at the bottom, or near the bottom, of a sink hole. Some shallow cavities, which under different conditions would be available as rock shelters, are in places difficult of access, remote from water, or otherwise unsuitable. Some of these caverns have wonderful deposits on ceilings, walls, and floors, rivaling in beauty and ornate patterns those of the most famous caves of the country; and if they were easily accessible or could be conveniently explored, would attract hosts of visitors. One in particular, the "Bridal Cave," so called from a mass of stalactite material fully 10 feet from side to side at the top, which hangs in delicate translucent loops and folds and convolutions, equals Luray or Wyandotte for beauty, though not for extent. * * * * * It was reported that two walled graves stand on a "bald" on the farm of Will Robert Eidson, on the divide between the Niangua and the Little Niangua Rivers, about 4 miles north of Roach post office. They were described as "rocks laid up in a regular wall about 4 feet high, and about 30 steps square, and filled up inside with rocks." A visit to the site disclosed two ordinary cairns, made by throwing weathered limestone boulders into a rounded heap. Both piles have been scattered, and as they now exist one is about 25 feet, the other about 30 feet across. Such exaggerated, misleading descriptions are common, and result in much fruitless investigation. Several caves are reported in the vicinity of Toronto, in Camden and Miller Counties; especially the Cokely Cave, 4 miles from Brumley on the Linn Creek road. From the descriptions given by informants, none of them appear to be suitable for habitation. Many cairns exist on the ridges in this region, especially on high points overlooking valleys. All of them were built up with chert or limestone blocks, and all are more or less torn up. So far as could be learned there is no sign of a wall in any of them. In the present state of knowledge, Camden County offers no inducement for archeological research. A FOSSIL CAVE (29) The geological deposits in this region comprise three principal formations which are named in the State report as the Jefferson City limestone, the Roubidoux sandstone, and the Gasconade limestone. It is in the last (which is the lowest) that caverns are found. In various places erosion, either internal or superficial, or both, has formed crevices or sink holes through which the disintegrated sandstone finds its way into caverns below, where it accumulates and hardens until more resistant than when in its original condition. Further erosion has in several places carried away the limestone from around these intrusive masses, allowing them to project above the present surface. Sometimes, where the sand piled up, they resemble haystacks; but usually they are of indefinite form, having spread out on the floor of the cavern, as such material will do in a shallow stream. An interesting example of this action is the "Standing Rock," 4 miles west of Linn Creek, the county seat. Here was formerly a large cave with an eastward trend until near the mouth, when it turned sharply southward, the opening being in the direction of a little stream. The lower end of this cave became solidly filled with sand, and the water found an outlet farther back. All the limestone which formed the roof and walls of the middle portion of the cave is gone, a narrow ravine marking its course. The sandstone obstruction held its place, and now extends directly across the ridge between the two ravines. Its surface is an exact cast of the interior of the cave which it filled, and nodules of chert, remaining when the limestone dissolved, are still imbedded in its surface. The line of demarkation between the limestone matrix, where this still exists in part, and the siliceous filling is as distinct as that between the stone and brick in a building. The loose cave earth shows plainly under the sandstone near the former mouth of the cavern. Plan and section are shown in figures 20 and 21. * * * MILLER COUNTY WRIGHT CAVE (30) A mile and a half west of Brumley, near Glaize Creek, is Wright, or Brumley, Cave. The entrance is 15 feet high and 40 feet wide. At 20 feet from the mouth the width contracts to 20 feet. The depth is 120 feet in daylight to a stalagmite floor. Dry cave earth extends for 35 feet from the entrance, at which distance it reaches tough, sticky clay; this continues to the stalagmite. Above the clay are growing stalactites. [Illustration: FIG. 20.--Plan of Fossil Cave.] In front of the entrance were a few flint chips, but no indications of pottery or shell. A small implement, shown in figure 22, was found which is of interest because it was worked to a sharp point at one end of a narrow drill, while the other end widened into a squared form with a straight base which was dulled and polished from use as a cutting tool; the entire surface was polished from long service. An object of this kind would be highly suitable for mending moccasins and leggins. Finding this and nothing else strengthens the probability that this cave was used as a temporary camping place, but was never permanently occupied. [Illustration: FIG. 21.--Section of Fossil Cave.] WILSON CAVE (31) Facing Barren Fork of Tavern Creek, on the farm of John R. Bond, 8 miles northwest of Iberia and 12 miles southeast of Tuscumbia, is a cave celebrated by reason of a provision in the will of a former eccentric owner. There is a small cave which has an opening in the bluff, a few feet to one side of the larger cave. This can be reached only by means of ladders 60 feet long. Jack Wilson came from Ireland and settled on Tavern (or Cavern) Creek in 1822. For a number of years he lived in this cave, with his family. He died in 1855, leaving instructions that his body was to be packed in salt and placed in the small cave, "with a ten-gallon cask of good whisky," the entrance then to be sealed up. In order to carry out his last wishes, and at the same time to give him a "Christian burial," his wife had all his internal organs removed and interred in a cemetery; his body was filled with salt, and placed in a coffin, which, according to his wishes, was deposited in the cave, with the whisky. On the seventh anniversary of his death the whole community was to assemble to "eat, drink, and be merry." For many years residents in the vicinity had used the cave as a place for festive gatherings; but this occasion was to be on a scale beyond anything previously attempted. If necessary, Scriptural methods were to be employed; that is, messengers were to be sent out in all directions, urging every one to come. The floor was to be enlarged, and a platform erected on it. When all were assembled, the whisky and the coffin were to be brought from their resting place and set on the platform. Then certain famous fiddlers were to ascend the platform and play, while the guests danced. When the whisky was exhausted, and the fiddlers in the same condition, the picnic was over and the assembly would disperse. The coffin was then to be replaced in the little cave, which was to be again sealed up, not to be reopened until the Day of Judgment. [Illustration: FIG. 22.--Perforator and knife from Wright Cave.] The preliminaries were carried out according to program, but when the time for the celebration came round the people were more concerned with the Civil War, and especially in the activities of the bushwhackers who infested that part of the country, than they were in picnics; and Wilson's resurrection was brought about by persons whose identity was never discovered. They got into his tomb in some manner, drank all the whisky, broke open the coffin, and threw Wilson's bones to the outside, where they were scattered down the slope. Horrified relatives gathered them up, replaced them in the cave, sealed it again, and Wilson is still there awaiting his final summons. The entrance is 20 feet high and 45 feet wide. Dry cave earth extends for 135 feet; from this point it continues, partially filled with fallen rock and stalagmite, 40 feet farther, or 175 feet in all, in plain daylight, at which distance the cave makes a turn; and the cave earth was followed in this to complete darkness without coming to its termination. Beginning 100 feet from the entrance and extending for 35 feet, a narrow row of loose rocks fallen from the outcrop of stratum along the center of the roof lies on the surface. The cavern here measures 35 feet in width. There is a wet weather stream along one wall, but the amount of water passing out is never large. Solid bedrock, with patches of cave earth on it, is exposed, in slightly rising strata, for 10 feet from the little bluff at the mouth; within this it is hidden by the earth which gradually rises to a height of 6 feet; but some of this rise may be due to increased elevation of the rock floor. The entire cave can be easily cleared out to the stalagmite; and it would be advisable to remove at least portions of this in order to ascertain what may lie beneath it. Refuse appears in considerable quantity in the bottom of the little stream bed and under the receding walls; and likewise a small amount outside the entrance. But the bedrock crops out frequently in narrow ledges between the mouth of the cavern and the foot of the hill, so very little débris of any kind lies on the slope outside. Some alteration of the surface of the earth floor has taken place in consequence of the construction of platforms; but aside from this it has remained practically undisturbed. BAGNELL CAVE (32) A large cavern is near the top of the "Bagnell Hill" on the Bagnell and Linn Creek road, on the right (south) side of the Osage River, and about 3 miles from the town of Bagnell. On account of the "millions" of bats which shelter in it, the name of Bat Cave is applied to this as it is to many other caves in the region. The entrance is so small that the cavern can be entered only by crawling in; and as no traces of Indian remains have ever been observed in it, or around the front, no examination was deemed necessary. BODE CAVE (33) Half a mile south of St. Elizabeth is the Ben Bode Cave. The roof has fallen in near the front, leaving the original exterior standing as a natural bridge a few feet wide. The present entrance to the cavern is 40 feet behind the bridge. It has a wet, rocky floor, and much water flows through it after a rain. LUCKENHOFF CAVE On John Luckenhoff's farm, three-fourths of a mile south of St. Elizabeth, facing Tavern Creek, is a small cave with a rocky floor. The entrance is nearly blocked with a mass of stalagmite, behind which the cave is dark. JURGGENMEYER CAVE It was reported that in a "cave" on the farm of Conrad Jurggenmeyer, 2½ miles east of St. Elizabeth, a human skull was discovered. The statement may be true; but instead of a cave there is only a tunnel a few rods in length. Beyond the upper arch is an open ravine. DAERHOFF CAVE On Ben Daerhoff's farm, 4 miles north of St. Elizabeth, is a cavern facing a narrow valley through which a small stream flows to Tavern Creek a mile and a half away. The entrance is 8 feet high and 55 feet wide. It is well lighted to a depth of 120 feet, where it makes a turn. Dry earth extends back for 55 feet; from there on it is muddy. A small stream flows along one wall, from the wet portion of the floor to the entrance; with a little ditching this could be made to drain off all the water, forming a dry bottom to the rear wall. No refuse of any kind could be found, and the owner says he has never observed any either in the cave or in front of it. CAVE NEAR MOUTH OF TAVERN CREEK In the bluff facing Tavern Creek, half a mile above its junction with the Osage, is a cave with an entrance 10 feet high and the same in width. It has a depth of 45 feet in daylight. The floor is of clay and angular gravel, and so wet that puddles are found near the entrance. BAT CAVE (34) This is in a bluff facing the Osage, a mile south of the Rock Island Railway bridge. It is not accessible except by means of a ladder or stairway fully 60 feet long. The roof overhangs the entrance, and the floor projects over a shallow rock shelter which reaches for a few rods along the foot of the bluff. A small amount of water seeps from the entrance. Persons who explored the cavern years ago--there is no way to reach it at present--say it divides into three large chambers, mostly dry, and with floors of solid rock or of earth containing much rock. GRAVE AT MOUTH OF SALINE CREEK (35) Four miles below Tuscumbia, on the left bank of the Osage, is the mouth of Saline Creek which comes in from the north. On the lower (east) side of their junction, on the farm of Charles Tillman, is a low spur projecting toward the creek. On this is a pile of stones, all that remains of a vault or box grave which formerly existed there. Mr. Tillman says it was originally 35 or 40 feet across, a mound or rounded heap of stones, those about the top being larger than those nearer the base. Needing rock for various purposes, he procured them from this pile, beginning at the top to remove them and proceeding outward. In the course of this work he found that a wall had been built up to a height of about 4 feet, forming a practically square inclosure. The space within was filled and the structure entirely covered with rocks of various sizes. He removed the stones as he reached them, and consequently did not notice whether the outer face of the wall was straighter or smoother than the inner face, or whether there was any particular difference. In all, he took away not less than 40 wagon loads of stones. On the level top of the hill from which the spur extends is a village site, where mortars, pestles, quantities of flints, and much broken pottery have been found; but no shell. STARK'S CAVE (36) Six miles south of Eldon, on a farm now owned by George Irvin, is a cave which is continuous with a small ravine leading up to it. The entrance is 45 feet wide and 16 feet high; a small stream flows from it, along the foot of the left (northern) wall. This skirts a thin deposit of damp earth, which lies along the southern wall, gradually narrowing as it extends inward, until at 50 feet it runs out at the edge of a shallow pool reaching nearly across the cave. The bottom, except for the earth mentioned, is rocky. The cave was never fit for occupancy. HOUSE MOUNDS In an old "History of Miller County" mention is made of a large group of small mounds on a certain man's farm, without giving the locality. It is believed by old residents that this man "lived at one time 2 or 3 miles west of Ullman." If they existed, they were no doubt house mounds. CAIRNS Several graves, in a group, were formerly on John Tillman's land, 6 miles south of Eugene. The stones have been entirely removed. When the ground was plowed bullets were found under the sites of the cairns. * * * MARIES COUNTY INDIAN FORD CAVE (37) This is a fourth of a mile up the river from the bridge crossing the Gasconade, 2½ miles east of Vienna. It is near the top of the hill at the head of a shallow ravine. The entrance, 35 feet wide, can be reached conveniently only near one wall, as a pile of talus immediately in front completely closes the opening; behind it the roof is 7 feet above the floor. If this accumulated material, which has increased somewhat in height within the memory of men now living, were removed to the level of the floor, the main chamber would be amply lighted to its end, a distance of 150 feet. There is a gradual downward incline from front to rear, the floor sloping more rapidly than the roof. After hard rains some water runs into the cavern from the inner slope of the talus; otherwise the floor is perfectly dry for 65 feet, then becomes wet, and near the rear wall there is standing water. It is apparent that a former drainage outlet in this direction is now choked with sediment, brought down perhaps through a branch opening. At 25 feet within the entrance the cavern is 25 feet wide; at 65 feet the distance across is 35 feet, with both walls sloping away like a low-pitched roof and loose earth filling the space under them. At the rear wall the width between the two branches into which the cave divides is 40 to 50 feet. The floor here is clay, with numerous little puddles. Some pottery, bone, and much shell, but no flint chips, are scattered on the floor and for 50 or 60 feet down the slope outside. The cavern would make an excellent habitation and is well worth excavating. LACKAYE'S BLUFF CAVE (38) This is on the farm of Harrison Hutchinson, who lives 10 miles southeast of Freeburg, on the road to Paydown. It is near the top of a bluff facing the Gasconade. Talus has accumulated in the front part of the cavern until it rises within 2 feet of the roof; farther back the cavity is of sufficient height for a man to stand erect, although nowhere more than 10 feet wide. Owing to the talus the interior is in almost total darkness. Were this accumulation removed the roof at the entrance would be 8 or 9 feet above the floor. The cavern may have been occupied, but there are no indications of such fact, although the recent natural deposits may conceal some remains. HURRICANE BLUFF CAVE Half a mile below Lackaye Bluff, opposite the lower end of an island in the Gasconade, is a rock shelter 85 feet in length, 15 feet high in front, 6 feet high at the rear, and 15 feet deep along the middle portion, wedging out at either end. A large pile of talus in front forms a natural windbreak, and the depression is a favorite camping place with present-day hunters and fishermen. A small quantity of flint chips and many shells can be seen around the wall and for some distance down the slope in front. The site may repay investigation, though there is no great depth of earth. * * * * * It is reported that paintings of a deer or elk and other objects are to be seen on the face of a bluff near Paydown. STRATMAN CAVE (39) On the farm of Henry L. Stratman, 2½ miles above the Rock Island Railway bridge across the Gasconade River, is a cave near the top of a bluff facing the Gasconade. The entrance is 33 feet wide and 35 feet high. Forty feet back the walls approach each other, forming a doorway or short passage 5 feet wide. Beyond this is a room 18 feet deep and 9 feet across, with a rock ledge or shelf on each side several feet wide and elevated from a foot to 2 feet above the earth floor. This room is well lighted. The earth at the rear is 10 feet higher than at the main entrance. Behind this, in turn, nearly shut off by a large column of stalagmite, is a third room, 8 feet wide, whose earth floor rises rapidly. Were the stalagmite removed, there would be ample light for 20 or 30 feet farther, or about 90 feet in all. Refuse, mostly shell, shows for 100 feet down the hill. There is some shell in the cave, along the walls; but most of the floor is a comparatively recent accumulation of roof dust and small fragments of rock, and is quite dry as far as light penetrates. The entrance is much more easily reached from the top of the hill than from the foot of the bluff. The trend and appearance of the reentrant side walls connecting the present entrance with the straight face of the cliff indicates that the earth in the cavern has a depth of 30 feet or more. Should this prove to be the case, here would be a most excellent place to search for evidence of occupation which, whether continuous or not, might bridge the time from the modern Indian to the earliest inhabitant. Certainly no other cave in Missouri offers such facilities or inducements for careful and thorough investigation with a view to determining the existence of an early "cave man" in this country. * * * OSAGE COUNTY RIVER CAVE (40) This is at the foot of a bluff facing the Gasconade, 2½ miles below Gascondy. It has a solid rock bottom, rising steeply for a few feet within the entrance, and a constantly flowing stream covers half the space between the walls. ROCK SHELTER There is an excellent rock shelter, 50 feet long, over which the cliff projects for 15 feet, in front and to one side of the entrance of River Cave. On this is a slight depth of earth in which were found some broken bones and shells. The site is an excellent one for camping parties, but has no evidence of other than temporary use. STEUFFER CAVE Four miles east of Freeburg, in a ravine, is a cavern popularly known as Beer Cave, being formerly used as a storage room for beer made in a brewery built just in front of it. The entrance is 8 feet wide and 12 feet high. The front chamber, having practically the same dimensions, extends directly back for 50 feet, then makes a turn. The floor is a mixture of clay and angular gravel, with a continuous downward slope from front to rear. Water cracks show that it is sometimes flooded. The place was never fit for living in. CAIRNS At the Gasconade River bridge, on the Rich Fountain road, two creeks on the west side, Brush and Swan, separated only by a narrow ridge which terminates abruptly at either end, come in a fourth of a mile apart. Both rise in the same lake, 6 miles from the river, and flow through parallel valleys, thus draining an abandoned ox-bow curve of the stream. On the extreme eastern point of this ridge are two cairns. A fourth of a mile from these are two others; and farther back still more of them. All are now destroyed. They were the usual conical heaps of stone, 18 to 20 feet across. HOUSE MOUNDS (41) A group of house mounds extends for half a mile eastward from Rich Fountain, along the valley of Brush Creek. They are fully 100 in number, and it is said there were formerly many more which are now leveled by cultivation. The ground is low, in some places swampy, so that water or mud surrounds many of them after a heavy rain. "INDIAN FORT" (42) This structure, also called the "Indian Lookout," is located on a bluff facing the Osage, half a mile below the "Painted Rock," and near the buildings of the Painted Rock Country Club, of Jefferson City. Except for a slight projection or offset at one side, which contains an opening or doorway, it was practically identical in appearance with the vault graves along the Missouri River bluffs, described in Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 37; or else with those on Big Piney River in Pulaski County. It is formed of sandstone slabs, once laid up in a wall but now scattered in confusion as if fallen or thrown down. Apparently it measured about 32 to 35 feet outside and 12 or 13 feet inside. * * * COLE COUNTY NATURAL BRIDGE CAVE This is at the top of a bluff facing the Osage, one-half mile below the Rock Island bridge. It is only 10 feet wide and the same in height, and extends back 20 feet to a narrow passage which is almost closed by stalagmite. The site is difficult to reach, but disclosed a few fragments of pottery and some shell. The earth of the floor ascends rather steeply to the rear and contains many large rocks. It was only a camping place. * * * MORGAN COUNTY SPEERS CAVE On the Brown property, 7 miles southeast of Stover, is a reported cave, which proved to be a natural tunnel 400 feet long. The drainage from several farms passes through it from ravines above. The lower entrance is 40 feet wide and 50 feet high, the upper entrance 20 feet wide and 10 feet high. Natural bridges and tunnels of varying lengths and widths are rather common in this part of the Osage Valley. HOUSE MOUNDS (43) Southeast of Stover, beginning at the edge of the town, is a group of house mounds extending over an area having a very irregular outline, but fully half a mile across in any direction. They vary from 20 to 35 feet in diameter and are scattered promiscuously at intervals of 25 to 150 feet. The surface on which they are built reaches over a succession of small knolls and ridges with slopes of 4 or 5 degrees. Most of them are along the sides of a wide, shallow valley draining northward, and of two or three small tributary depressions coming into it from either side, though a number are also to be found beyond the slight watershed which separates this drainage area from that to the southward. They exist in woods, meadows, and cultivated ground, so that some of them retain their original form, others are flattened and widened, while still others are barely traceable. Probably some have been entirely effaced by plow and harrow. II. CAVE EXPLORATIONS IN OTHER STATES INTRODUCTION Certain conditions are to be taken into account in deciding whether a cave afforded a desirable permanent shelter to primitive man. It should be accessible; the floor should be dry, at least fairly level, and sufficiently free from large rocks to allow the inmates to move about freely; the entrance should be large enough to permit free passage and to light the interior to a distance that would insure protection from the elements. Temporary shelters or camping places might be deficient in some of these particulars and still be resorted to frequently; but if there were opportunity for choice, a man with intelligence to select a cave in which to live continually would, it is fair to assume, look for one possessing such features. If such conditions, once established, were free from the mutations of time, the explorer would have but little difficulty in deciding upon a suitable site for his labors. But limestone, more than any other solid rock, is subject to constant erosion, crumbling, and falling; while the soil and loose fragments resulting from such action move downward year by year over the slopes and into any cavities where they can find their way. In the course of centuries the entire aspect of a cave may be so altered as to bear no resemblance whatever to its original appearance. Consequently a careful study must be made of the immediate surroundings, in order to determine what topographical changes may have occurred since the earliest time within which it is probable that man may have existed in that locality. Should the floor, at present, be of solid rock; or covered with only a slight layer of earth; or have a stream flowing over it; or show by marks upon the walls that it is subject to inundation either from adjacent streams or by surface water which finds its way in through sink holes; or be in such situation as to make it apparent that the original bottom was thus flooded in comparatively modern times, even though such may not now be the case--in any such event excavation would be labor wasted. On the other hand, all the necessary requirements for a convenient residence may now be present, and yet result from causes which have begun to operate within the historic period. In other words, there are very few cases in which the present appearance of a cave is to be deemed a certain or even an approximate indication of its actual state a few thousand years ago. There is only one way to determine whether extended excavations may possibly result in satisfactory returns, and that is to sink shafts or run trenches in the superficial deposits. * * * INDIANA The cave region of this State extends from Owen and Morgan Counties to the Ohio River. The caverns and sink holes gradually increase in number and size toward the south, until they culminate in Wyandotte Cave, second only to Mammoth Cave of Kentucky in extent, and in the so-called "valleys" of Harrison County which are in reality nothing but sink holes several square miles in extent. Some of the caverns are described in detail by W.S. Blatchley, the State geologist, in the Twenty-first Annual Report of the Survey (1896). Very few of those mentioned by him are at all suitable for permanent occupancy, though several would afford excellent shelter except in the rainy season, at which time most of them have the floors muddy or perhaps covered with water for weeks in succession. Such as were visited in these explorations will now be taken up in their order. LAWRENCE COUNTY ROCK LEDGE QUARRY.--Early in 1903 periodicals mentioned an interesting discovery made at this place. According to the report, workmen in excavating a cut for a railway found an old cave entirely filled with stalagmite matter. In this, 10 feet below the former top of the cave--the cut did not extend to the bottom of the stalagmite--were discovered some bones which were pronounced by "several physicians" to be those of a human being. Among them was a "jaw tooth" (molar) and part of a skull. Correspondence failing to elicit any satisfactory information, a visit was made to the site. The cave could not be traced in either direction from the railway cut; but it had plainly served as an outlet for several large sink holes on the hill above it. Nothing could be learned here regarding the matter except that the objects had been found and were then in the museum of the State University at Bloomington. This place was next visited and the specimens inspected. There were many fragments still imbedded in the matrix, which was travertine rather than stalagmite. No exact determination of them had been made, but only casual inspection was needed to see that none of them could be human. The "jaw tooth" was from a peccary, the "human skull" was the carapace of a tortoise. SHILOAH CAVE.--It was reported that, although the entrance to this cavern, 7 miles northwest of Bedford, was in a sink hole, the floor was level and accessible. The opening is almost at the bottom of the sink, whose slope is quite steep. After every rain the water runs in; and while the floor is level, as stated, it has a constant stream of water flowing over it and is in absolute darkness. DONNEHUE'S CAVE.--Although water flows continuously from the entrance, the amount of discharge was said to be small and the cave floor level and covered with earth, while the cave itself was large and well lighted. The approach, however, is quite difficult; the earth is nowhere more than 2 or 3 feet thick, and after a heavy rain the stream extends from wall to wall. Between Bedford and Donnehue's cave is one, unnamed, at the head of a ravine which was once an extension of the cavern. The opening is of fair size but the floor is of rock and the outflow of water is steady. Just outside the corporate limits of Bedford, to the south, is an opening in the cliff at the head of a deep ravine, more in the nature of a rock house than of a cave. It would make an excellent shelter for a few persons, being accessible, protected from winds, and close to water. While it may have been so used formerly, the deposit of earth and stone on the floor is very scanty and anything beneath could well be quite modern. Two caves were reported 2 miles south of Bedford. One is a small opening from which a stream issues, flows across a meadow, and enters the other cave, which is much larger. They are parts of one passage, the roof between these openings having broken down, and the stream is the same which finds its outlet at Donnehue's cave. Several other caves in the vicinity of Bedford were visited. They are all small and of no importance from an archeological standpoint. DONNELSON'S CAVE.--"The mouth of the cave is found at the head of a deep gorge worn through the limestone by a good-sized stream which flows from the cave and down the gorge to the broader valley beyond. Many centuries ago the cave extended the full length of the gorge, and the waters of the stream flowed directly from its mouth into the valley. The roof of the underground channel finally became so thin that it collapsed, the gorge was then started, and as the centuries went by grew in length, the cave becoming ever shorter by the continued falling of the roof. "Three passages open directly into the mouth of the cave. The right hand passage has the level of its floor about 5 feet above that of the entrance, while the opening on the left is 12 feet above the level of the stream and very difficult to enter without a ladder. The middle passage extends straight back from the common vestibule or main entry. The latter is 25 feet long, 21 feet high, and 18 feet wide, but at its farther end is reduced to the narrow middle passage between great masses of limestone. The water in this passage is waist deep and explorations must be made by wading or in a light canoe. One hundred feet within is a magnificent cascade, where the stream rushes and leaps down a narrow passage with such violence that the noise is plainly heard at the entrance. "The right-hand passage for the first 100 feet is about 10 feet high by 15 wide, with a clay bottom and a roof on a level with that of the vestibule. It then expands into a large room, 230 feet long and 40 feet wide, which lies east and west at right angles to the entering passage. This narrows at the west end to 20 feet, and at one point the outer air flows in through a small opening in the roof. From near the small end of the room a narrow passage starts off to the southward and can be traveled for 200 feet, when it becomes too small for further advance. Along this passage a small stream flows, disappearing through a hole in the floor near the entrance to the larger room. Other than this, both right and left passages leaving the main entry are dry. "The passage at the left of the main entrance to the cave is about 150 feet long by 20 broad, and contains no points of especial interest." [W.S. Blatchley.] It may be added to the above description that a heavy rain causes a rapid rise of several feet in the stream through the middle passage. The cavern is situated 3½ miles east of Mitchell. It has been fitted up by the State University as an experiment station for the study of underground fauna and flora. The branch to the right is never entirely dry. Throughout the year water trickles or seeps over the stones and keeps the mud soft and sloppy, while after extremely heavy rains the water may be 2 or 3 inches deep for a short time--enough to keep all the earth washed from the floor for 50 or 60 feet from the entrance. The northern or left branch presented a smooth, solid floor of rock at the beginning. The roof is about 13 feet above the floor, being a flat stratum broken by a joint-seam along which there is a slight fault. A ledge of friable sandstone 3½ feet thick lies next below the roof. The disintegration of this gave a dry covering to the clayey earth which covered the floor almost to the extreme edge of the rock overhanging the stream and gradually rose toward the rear, where it entirely filled the space from floor to roof. The distance between the side walls is 8 feet at the mouth. They diverge slightly, and at 65 feet are about 12 feet apart. Here they separate more sharply, forming a chamber 30 feet in diameter, measuring on every side to the contact of the earth and the roof. At the extreme rear a slight wash or depression in the earth revealed the top of a vertical solid wall, thus marking the limit of the cave in that direction. It seems, however, to extend farther to the east and the west than it can now be followed; in fact, the indications are that at one time a considerable cross-cavern extended along this line. The work of clearing out this branch began at the entrance. The superincumbent earth was removed by a trench whose boundary was the solid rock on each side until the cave widened to more than 8 feet between the walls; then a width of 7 to 9 feet was excavated midway between the sides, the entire trench having a length of 92 feet, or reaching nearly to the vertical wall at the rear. For about 60 feet the earth was removed to the rock floor. At this distance the floor dipped. The bottom of the trench continued to follow the same level it had held to this point, in the belief that the dip in the floor was due to a crevice or slight erosion channel and would soon disappear, bringing the rock to its normal position. This was not the case; several holes were dug, the deepest one 3 feet, into the mingled clay and rock, without finding any evidence of a solid bottom. The conclusion seemed certain that the passage leading from the entrance of the cave to the large room at its farther end was only a tributary or branch of a cross-cave extending in an east and west direction, as intimated above. Prof. Eigenmann, of the State university, reached the same conclusion through surveys not connected with this work. Under the circumstances further digging seemed useless; for if this should be a cross-cave the bottom would probably, almost certainly, be on a level with the stream now flowing through the central passage, while if it should prove to be only a cellar-like deepening, it would not be utilized for a habitation. At 30 feet from the entrance the accumulated earth had a thickness of 6 feet; from there it rose gradually to the roof at the end. At 37 feet, in a pocket of coarse sand on the rock floor, such as settles in a gentle current, were four fragments of bone. There is not enough of them to identify with certainty, but they seem to belong to a deer, a turkey, and some bird about the size of a quail. At 66 feet in, a foot lower than the surface of the bedrock (being 5 or 6 feet beyond the above-mentioned dip), were small fragments or particles of charcoal, or what had every appearance of such. They were in earth that showed the lamination or stratification due to successive water deposits, and had been introduced in the same manner. The entire earth deposit below the sand capping showed this lamination, sometimes horizontal, sometimes curved, proving a long period of deposition. Further evidence of age is found in the travertine, 7 inches thick, that occurs on top of the earth at the back of the cave. In the absence of all other evidence the specks of charcoal can not be accepted as proof of human life in the vicinity at the time these deposits were forming. While the work was in progress three students from the university came through the central cave in a small boat, having entered through a sink hole 3 miles away in an air line. At some point of their course they lost their lanterns and made the remainder of the journey in absolute darkness, feeling their way along the walls, dragging or carrying the craft over shallows, and at one place lying flat in the bottom and propelling the boat by applying hands and feet to the roof, which was less than a foot above the water. MARTIN COUNTY Various caves are reported in the vicinity of Shoals. Those whose location was clearly given are merely "rock houses" or recesses in the Carboniferous conglomerate bluffs bordering the east fork of White River. Some of them would make fairly good shelters, but all which can now be examined are at so low a level that the river gets into them or very close to them in flood periods. Consequently there is no probability that ancient remains are to be found in them. Some of the shelters higher up on the cliffs may have been utilized, but the bottom of these is now covered with huge blocks, some weighing a hundred tons. It is true that such rock houses, in all parts of the country, were regular resorts for modern Indians, and they probably furnished shelter to the earliest inhabitants of this region, no matter how remote the period of occupation. But owing to their open front and the exposed situation of most of them, it is quite possible that the wind may remove the fine material falling from roof and sides almost as fast as it is deposited. At any rate the débris on the floors is seldom more than 3 or 4 feet deep, and articles very plainly of no great age are frequently found at all levels in it. In a few places along the river bluffs limestone crops out beneath the sandstone, and springs occasionally appear along the line of junction, eroding small cavities, but these are subject to overflow, and none of them has an opening large enough to enter without crawling. ORANGE COUNTY VICINITY OF PAOLI.--From this town six caves were visited, all that could be located by diligent inquiry. None of them has any particular designation except "Mill Cave," which is so named because the stream issuing from it furnishes power for a flour mill. The water covers the floor at all seasons. One, though quite small, could have been occupied at a former period, but the roof and front fell in some years ago, entirely closing it. A third has a small entrance on a hillside. A steep and rough descent was followed beyond reach of daylight without coming to a level bottom. The other three are very small with rock bottoms. FRENCH LICK SPRINGS.--Two or three miles from this place is "Star Cavern," which is advertised as being of great size and beauty. The immediate surroundings are quite romantic and deserve the praise accorded the spot by visitors. The cave itself, however, more resembles an artificial tunnel than a natural result of erosion. The floor is clean rock with a little brook flowing over it. Two other caves not far from Star Cave are dry, but with solid rock floors, so they were not visited. ORANGEVILLE.--Near this place are the so-called Gulfs of Lost River. The stream sinks a few miles east of Orleans, emerges at the "Gulfs" from one side of a very large sink hole with precipitous margin, and immediately goes out of sight again in a deep pool or chasm. It reappears a mile or so away at the foot of a cliff where, after heavy rains, it boils up like a gigantic fountain. Numerous small caves or sink holes exist in the neighborhood, three of which were reported as being dry, lighted, having good entrances, and well suited for habitancy. One of them is at the bottom of a sink hole on a hill. The descent is steep and rocky for 20 feet (it was not followed farther) and no doubt so continues to the level of the river which flows almost directly under it. The two others are in the principal "Gulf." They are open and of good size, but mud high on the walls shows they are filled with water in wet seasons. CRAWFORD COUNTY MARENGO CAVE.--This is growing famous as it becomes better known. Blatchley says that in it "are probably crowded more beautiful formations of crystalline limestone than in any other known cave of similar size in the United States." Visitors who have been in both say it surpasses Luray Cavern in the magnificence of its sheets and columns of deposited material. As it was not opened until 1883, and the bottom can be reached only by a stairway 60 feet high, it was of course unknown to the aborigines. A small cave near Marengo has an opening on a hillside, and can be directly entered from the outside; but it is at times a passageway for a strong current of water 3 feet deep and extending the full width of the cavity. MILLTOWN.--A mile north of the town is a large cave which would furnish an abode for scores of people. The entrance is in a slight depression on the level upland west of Blue River. The descent is down an easy slope of fallen rock and earth about 30 feet deep to a rock floor. Beyond the foot of the slope there is a slight thickness of earth, so that explorations could reveal nothing that had a certainty of antiquity. There is presented here a fine example of the manner in which caves of this character become exposed to the upper world. At first, there was an underground channel draining the adjacent country over a territory of varying extent, sometimes many square miles. At some point the roof fell in more rapidly than in other parts, until at last it became so thin as to give way entirely. If the débris was not sufficient in amount to extend above that part of the roof which remained intact on either side, so that it would be gradually carried away, the cave would remain open in both directions, as is the case at the "Gulfs" just described and at other caves statements of which appear in subsequent pages. Usually the débris quite chokes up one side and all the superficial drainage is turned into the other, which is thus kept open. In time, the slope around the depression becomes tolerably uniform except close to the entrance, and there is no outward indication that the cave ever extended farther than the spot where the new entrance is located. So the cave, as it is now open to examination, is only a portion of the original passage, and as the explorer pursues his way, he may be going toward either the former mouth or the source. In the former case, he comes out of a large opening, or what was formerly such, on some slope in the neighborhood, or descends until his way is obstructed by water. In the latter, he may find his way shut off by diminishing passages, or he may descend to lower levels through newer drainage channels cut by the streams which have been reversed and forced to carve other outlets for themselves. This change occurred in the Milltown Cave a very long time ago. Standing on the débris, several feet within the entrance and beneath a part of the roof now perfectly dry and showing no marks of percolating water, is a stalagmite 31 inches in diameter, which has weathered to a depth of 3 to 4 inches from atmospheric influences alone. WYANDOTTE CAVE.--So much has been printed concerning this celebrated cavern that no mention need be made of its interior features. The place seems excellently adapted as a habitation for primitive people. It is situated on a hill at whose foot is the bank of Blue River. Five miles away, as the road runs, is the Ohio. The backwater sometimes reaches up the tributary for more than 10 miles. The flint-bearing stratum of the Harrison County aboriginal quarries outcrops a short distance away and appears at several points within the cave. The country is extremely rugged, and good springs occur frequently. Game was formerly abundant in the hills, and Blue River still rewards the angler with various species of fish, many of them of large size. A former race, presumably the modern Indian, did much work within the cave. Tons of travertine or stalagmite, the so-called alabaster, have been quarried from some of the deposits, while a large number of flint nodules has been dug out of the cave-earth where they fell from the disintegrating limestone. Some of this labor was carried on more than a mile from daylight. The mouth of the cave was formerly almost closed by a mass of talus. About 10 feet has been removed from the top of this, so that one may now walk in without difficulty. On the inner side of the portion remaining there is a slope for 96 feet, to a vertical depth of a little more than 27 feet. The next 100 feet gives a descent of about 3 feet; then another steep slope begins. The first point at which bedrock floor is found within the cave is 120 feet lower than the point of entry. It is supposed that the drainage to which the cave owes its origin was outward; if this was the case the floor must be more than 120 feet below the roof at the doorway. While this may be true, it is not indicated by the condition of the visible strata. For about 50 feet outward the side walls are nearly parallel and nowhere more than 30 feet apart. Then they terminate at an angle in the outcrop of the ledge along the hillside. The appearance and condition of the upper strata, together with this narrow separation of the side walls outside the cave, produce the impression that at a period not very remote the roof of the cavern reached to the outcropping ledge in which the walls end. Even though the rock floor should be at the great depth supposed there is a possibility that an earth floor could be found below the detritus which has accumulated since the roof fell in or has worn away. To test the matter a shaft was begun at a point 16 feet in front of the doorway. This was as near as such work could be done without interfering with the advent of visitors, and allowed a margin of 30 feet toward the outer slope. The shaft, 6 feet in diameter, soon passed into a compact mass of red clay filled with rocks of various sizes. At 14 feet down this was broken by an irregular stratum averaging a foot in thickness, of coarse sand or fine gravel with a slight admixture of clay, such as would form in a running stream. Its slope was inward or toward the cave. As there are sandstone ledges on the hillside above, this sand may have come from them, but, if so, it is singular that none appeared elsewhere. At 18 feet down was a mass of travertine measuring nearly 3 feet across and from 6 to 12 inches thick. It had formed around the lower part of a stalagmite 18 inches long, and the bottom of the whole formation rested horizontally on clay. This gave the excavators hope that an earth floor had been reached, as the stalagmite was vertical and resembled in all respects stalagmites in the cave. But it was soon found to be a foreign inclusion, and the same confused mixture of clay and stone continued below as above. Various fragments of stalactites and stalagmites were found as part of the detritus. These, especially the vertical one, seem to confirm the supposition that the roof reached out this far at a period which is quite recent as compared with the age of the cave. To a depth of 25 or 26 feet the task of excavating was as tedious and difficult as digging up a much-traveled, rocky road, the earth being dry enough to scour the shovels. Then the earth grew moist and within 2 feet was muddy. Cavities appeared, into some of which a switch could be thrust 3 or 4 feet. Where such a cavity extended under a large stone, stalactites were in process of formation. Soon the earth began to work into a soft mud under the feet of the workmen, and at 32 feet particles and small clods were noticed falling from the sides of the shaft. A foot lower this breaking away became more decided. It may have been due merely to the loose condition of the wet earth allowing unsupported portions to fall from the freshly exposed surface, but there was also the risk that the softer earth was sliding under the weight of that above. The workmen, two of whom were experienced well and cistern diggers, declared the risk too great and demanded to be brought to the surface. The depth reached by this shaft was at least 5 feet lower than at any point inside, within 200 feet of the mouth of the cave. The material, with the exception of the sand layer, was almost identical from top to bottom, there being no apparent difference other than increase of moisture in the lower part. The only explanation suggesting itself at present is that the chasm is filled with large loose rocks up to a point near the bottom of the shaft; that débris from the hillside above has covered these more rapidly than it could settle in the crevices and cavities among them; and that water which makes its way downward finds some obstruction to its free passage out at the bottom of the chasm. The only safe plan of excavation seems to require the removal of all the earth between the side walls to a depth below the mud. If the rock bottom, or any solid bottom, is at a depth of 120 feet, there is small chance that man lived in this region at a time when it was easily accessible. SALTPETER CAVE.--This is about 600 yards northwest of Wyandotte Cave. "The entrance, in a side of a ravine, is 5 feet high and 19 feet wide. Once within, a gigantic room expands, 220 feet long, 75 feet wide, and 10 to 30 feet in height, with smooth flat ceiling and earthen floor, the latter descending and with its edges much encumbered with fallen rock." [W.S. Blatchley.] From the description given, this would seem an ideal site for research. Unfortunately, the bottom of the ravine is not more than 5 feet lower than the top of the talus at the entrance. This slight elevation is the only barrier which keeps the surface water from flowing in, and while the ravine seldom has any water in it, there would be enough after a moderate rain to drown out the diggers who were working below its level if the bank were removed. LITTLE WYANDOTTE.--This, like three caves on Blue River above Wyandotte, four in the vicinity of Leavenworth, and one on the opposite side of the river in Meade County, Ky., has a small entrance in solid rock, with a steep and narrow passage to the foot of a slope which does not expand into a room of any size until at some distance beyond daylight. HARRISON COUNTY The only cave of any note in Harrison County is at the King quarries, 5 miles east of Corydon. It has two outlets, one at the foot of a little cliff, through which a fine spring has an exit; the other in the face of the cliff, about 10 feet higher and a little to one side. The latter discharges more or less water after every rain. The drainage of several large sink holes is through the two openings. The owner says mud has accumulated to a depth of 3 feet on the floor within his remembrance, due to cultivation around the sink holes, which causes the soil to waste. * * * ILLINOIS MONROE COUNTY MAMMOTH CAVE.--The so-called "Mammoth Cave of Illinois" is near Burksville, in Monroe County. An opportunity was afforded to visit it while engaged in the cave work. It is very extensive, according to the owner's description, being "7 or 8 miles long." The mouth is at the bottom of a sink hole, and the cave is now reached by a narrow stairway 40 feet high. Formerly it was necessary to clamber down the walls, stepping from ledge to ledge with a foot and a hand on either side. Then a ladder was made, said to have been 50 feet long; and, with more frequent visitors, the stairway followed. The crevice is very short, a mere crack, apparently made by water working its way down from the bottom of the sink. All the drainage within the rim goes into the cave, and it accumulates in the rainy season until the floor is covered. A farmer living near says he has seen the water from the cave rise until it covered the bottom of the sink hole. As similar depressions are numerous in the vicinity, probably the combined inflow is greater than the cave can carry away. The floor has been leveled and a close pavement of large slabs laid over the muddy portions. No one has ever heard of human remains being found anywhere in the cave. * * * KENTUCKY Crossing the Ohio River from the southern Indiana cave region, the counties of Kentucky lying in the belt of lower Carboniferous limestone were next visited. No cave that seemed worth examining could be heard of above the extreme southern portion of Hardin County. The sections examined will be taken in their geographical order from north to south. HARDIN COUNTY HUTCHINS OR BRADLEY CAVE.--This is in the bluff bordering on the left bank of Nolin River, 2 miles west of Upton. It was reported that human remains had been found in it. The present owners, who have known the cave for a long time, never heard of any such finds. The entrance is low and narrow, so that access to the cave is to be had only by creeping several yards. The cavern then expands into a very large chamber, separated into three by curtains or partitions of stalactites and stalagmites. Very little of floor, roof, or walls is to be seen, being almost entirely covered by secondary deposits. Some of these are remarkable for size and beauty. There is no probability that the cave was ever inhabited. SALTPETER CAVE.--This is 3 miles southwest of Upton. It has a large entrance and an earth floor, but the dirt has all been worked over for making saltpeter, so there is nothing to search for. HART COUNTY LAIRD'S CAVE.--About 2 miles north of Northtown is a large, roomy cave, with a good entrance, but water drips from all parts of the ceiling, and the floor is muddy and rocky. The drainage from 3 or 4 acres of hillside flows over the arch of the entrance and logs 6 inches in diameter are carried into it by the surface floods. LOCK'S CAVE.--This is a mile east of Rowlett's Station, near the top of a ridge, and lying nearly parallel with its crest. It affords another instance of a cave which has come to light only after a portion of its roof has fallen in. The detritus entirely conceals the opening at one end. The other end is entered by going down the fallen rocks over a slope of 15 or 20 feet, which leads to a bottom strewn with rocks. In such cases there can be nothing under the loose material, because the cave had no entrance until this had fallen in. GARVIN CAVE.--This cavern, which is 3 miles southeast of Munfordville, has an opening at the bottom of a sink hole, requiring a rope or ladder for descent. HARLOW CAVE.--This is 3½ miles southeast of Munfordville. It is a very large cave, apparently, as the slope down the débris is more than 40 feet high, to a rocky shelf, beyond which the descent was followed some yards without finding any indications that a level bottom was near. It is another illustration of the fallen roof. WYNNE'S CAVE.--Three miles south of Rowlett's Station is a large sink hole. Stones thrown into the vertical shaft at the bottom can be heard striking the sides for three or four seconds before coming to rest. WASH. ROWLETT CAVE.--On "the old Lewis Martin place," 1½ miles west of Rowlett's Station, a section of roof, 20 or 25 feet across, has dropped into a deep cavity. The sides are still insecure. The descent to a spring under what appears to be the original roof is somewhat more than 40 feet. The ceiling is not more than 6 feet high. STEFFY'S CAVE.--Four miles southwest of Munfordville between 200 and 300 feet in length of the roof of a high and wide cave has fallen in. Ice remains in this cave until May or later every year. JOEL BUCKNER'S CAVE.--About 10 miles northeast of Munfordville is a large cave with the entrance on a hillside. The roof has evidently extended several rods farther out than at present. The front part of the cavern is wide and high, but is now nearly filled with débris. The roof slopes at about the same angle as loose material within, there being not more than 3 feet of space between the two at any place nearer than 30 feet from the present mouth. Rocks thrown back showed the same uniformity of slope to continue at least several yards and the depth there to be about 20 feet below the top of the detritus at the mouth. This cave was suitable as a habitation before the material now choking the mouth had accumulated, provided water was obtainable. The nearest spring now is more than a mile away. An exploration would require, as a preliminary, the removal of several hundred cubic yards of compacted rocks and clay. HARRY BUCKNER CAVE.--Half a mile north of the cavern last named is another with a very narrow entrance. The floor, which slopes downward, is solid rock in part, and the place is not adapted for occupancy. CUB RUN CAVE.--Cub Run is a little settlement 12 miles west of Munfordville, near the Edmonson County line and about equidistant from Green River and Nolin River. Two miles in a direct line south of the village is a cave or rock shelter which has much local notoriety from the fact that three skeletons were found in it. They were imbedded in mixed ashes and earth and accompanied with several pestles, bone perforators, three flint knives, a small celt, and part of a clay pipe stem. One of the skeletons was that of a child not more than 8 or 10 years old. It has been pronounced the frame of a white child on account of the shape of the skull, but is more probably Indian, as the three were found together. Two of the bodies had been laid side by side; the other was near their feet at a right angle to them. In the back of the child's head is an incision somewhat over an inch long. The skull is slightly fractured downward from one end of this cut, and the corner or angle thus formed in the bone is pressed outward. A flint implement found almost in contact with the skull fits closely into the aperture and may have produced it, as the form of the wound could have been thus caused. The cavity or chamber of this cavern is about 100 feet across in each direction. There is a small opening near the back which has been examined to a distance of 75 or 80 feet, being there obstructed by large blocks of sandstone similar to those which fill the space from floor to ceiling along the back end of the shelter. There is another very large block just at the entrance, in which are one shallow and two deep circular depressions which were probably mortars. Bones of deer, bear, and other animals have been found within a foot or two of the surface both outside and inside of the cave. Contrary to what is usual in sandstone cavities of this sort, the outside earth slopes upward from the entrance and after heavy rains considerable water flows into the cave. This makes the earth on the floor quite sticky at times, although it is mainly sand, containing very little clay. The skeletons were found at a depth of about 16 inches, close to the side wall. A small trench dug where they were unearthed showed, in succession, a layer of ashes 4 or 5 inches thick and not more than 3 feet across, a foot below the surface of the floor; a few inches of earth; a layer of ashes an inch thick, at two feet; below this, yellowish undisturbed sand, apparently fallen from the sandstone roof, and continuing to the rock floor, which was about 32 inches below the top. Another trench was dug about midway across the cave and the same distance from the front as the skeletons were found. This was on or close to the line of heaviest drainage into the cave and the earth was so wet as to be very sticky. A few little patches of what appeared to be ashes but which had not resulted from fires made on the spot, three or four broken mussel shells, and a chip of flint were found in the first 18 or 20 inches. More than this amount of earth could easily have washed in since they were left here by modern Indians. Below this level the earth contained not the slightest object of human origin, to the rock floor which was found at a depth of 6 feet. On the rock was nearly pure sand, probably the result of disintegration; some clay lay on this; then the mixed loam, sand, and clay composing the outside soil. It would appear that this cave was utilized as a place of shelter at irregular intervals by Indians in tolerably recent times; that at least one of those found, perhaps all three, had died or been killed during a somewhat protracted sojourn; and that only a slight covering of earth, if any at all, had been placed over them. Two similar caves are within 8 or 10 miles, but were not visited. EDMONSON COUNTY MAMMOTH CAVE.--For miles from the entrance saltpeter workers have dug down to a level where the amount of loose rock rendered further excavation too expensive. In many places walls of stone are piled against the sides of the cavern. They were among the earth that was removed and have been so piled to get them out of the way. As far back as "Chief City," 3 miles from the mouth of the cave, the floor is littered with fragments of canes (reeds) and saplings, which, from the appearance of the ends, were broken, twisted, or bruised off with blunt tools like stone hatchets. Most of those remaining are lying on massive loose rocks now forming the floor, though the ends of some are seen projecting from beneath stones much larger than two men can lift. It is possible the latter have recently slid or slipped from higher up the slopes, but the indications are that they have dropped from the roof since the time of these early explorers. If this be the case, it points to a considerable antiquity for the remains, because no such downfalls are known to have occurred since the cave was first explored by white men. So much work has been done about the entrance of late years for improving the approaches that excavation would be useless, even if allowed, unless carried to a depth of more than 20 feet. Such work would greatly interfere with the plans of the management. WHITE'S CAVE.--This is about three-fourths of a mile from Mammoth Cave. The entrance, quite small, is near the crest of a ridge, and the floor descends abruptly. Only a narrow chamber exists within reach of daylight, and the cave is wet all the time a short distance back. COLOSSAL CAVE.--It is said to be 4 miles from Mammoth Cave, but is really only a little more than 2 miles. The present entrance is entirely artificial, the descent to the floor being about 120 feet. The original entrance was in a crevice which explorers descended by means of ropes. It is said that another entrance is known to one man who, however, has to crawl a long distance. SALT CAVE.--This is 4 miles from Mammoth Cave, though belonging to the same company. The entrance is at the bottom of a conical sink hole draining about an acre. Not much water runs into the cave from this cause, as the surface slopes outward from the margin except on one side, where a ridge leads to the hills. A spring which comes out near the top of the sink falls over a ledge at the bottom into the entrance to the cave. It is said that this water soaks into the ground within a few rods and that just beyond are large, dry rooms, well adapted for habitation, which formerly contained many evidences of aboriginal occupation. Exploration is impossible now, as the entrance was effectually closed some years ago by throwing in logs, brush, rocks, and earth, in order to protect the formations from relic hunters. The water from the spring falls directly on and flows into this, and can not now be turned aside. Even if it could, all excavated material would have to be carried up a steep slope and deposited in the field surrounding the sink hole. DIXON'S CAVE.--It is supposed, with good reason, that this was at one time connected with Mammoth Cave. It can be easily entered, through a large crevice, where the surface rock has fallen in. Approach to the bottom is down a steep and rugged slope of about 60 feet vertically. Within, no earth is visible, it having been entirely removed by saltpeter miners, who left the rocks piled in great rows from side to side across the cavern. MAMMAL CAVE.--This is so named because a tusk was formerly exhibited at the hotel which was reported to have come from here. It was afterwards learned that the specimen was imported from another State. The cave is small and damp, not suitable for living or even for stopping in. PROCTOR'S CAVE.--This is 6 miles from Mammoth Cave. The present entrance is artificial and so far as could be learned the cave is a recent discovery. HAUNTED CAVE.--The name is given to commemorate the fact that human bones were found in it. Physicians, it is said, pronounced them bones of a white person. The cave, which is on Green River, some miles below Mammoth Cave, was not visited, as the entrance is described as a crevice through which a man has difficulty in squeezing his way, while the interior is nowhere more than 8 feet wide. The cave soon connects with another narrow vertical crevice which reaches the surface at the top of a ridge. BRIGGS'S CAVE.--About 6 miles west of Cave City, and 4 miles west of north from Glasgow Junction, is a cave on land of Ike Briggs, which was described as fit for habitation. Its entrance is in a small sink hole, on a hillside. The approach is easy, and entry not difficult; but the cave receives the drainage of several acres and the floor is always muddy. POYNER'S CAVE.--This is a mile east of Briggs's. While a large cave, the entrance is at the foot of a sink hole an acre in area. It is necessary to stoop for some distance on entering, and the bottom here is rough and wet. Farther in it is dry and roomy--so much so, that people in the neighborhood use one chamber as a "ballroom." This part is some distance beyond daylight. As in all caves which are entered from a sink, it would be very difficult to dispose of any excavated earth, as it would have to be carried up the steep slope to the outside. SHORT CAVE.--Chaumont is a station on the road to Mammoth Cave, 3 miles from the Glasgow Junction. The cavern, which is so named from its limited extent as compared with Mammoth, is a mile from the station. The entrance, reached by a winding way along the ridges, is on one side of an irregular depression comprising 3 or 4 acres. At present there is a heavy bank of earth, several feet high, across the entrance, nearly closing it to the top, except at the middle where a wagon road has been cut through to allow fertilizers for mushroom beds to be hauled in. This earth, so it is stated, was not there when the cave was discovered, but has been carried from the interior partly by saltpeter workers, and partly by the present owner in order to cover up some rocks and to make the floor smooth and level. In front of the cave and of the earth piled at the entrance is a level space of 25 or 30 feet to a deep sink hole. Some water and mud, in time of wet weather, runs into the front part of the cave but its effect is not noticeable for more than 30 or 40 feet. Beyond this is a reach of more than 200 feet of perfectly dry level floor. It was not so smooth before some grading was done for the mushroom beds, but was at no time rugged or difficult to travel over. At 300 feet from the entrance is a slope about 20 feet high, at the foot of which begins another floor so dry as to be dusty in places. Whether this apparent thickness of 20 feet is of earth, or earth and stone mixed, or is indicative of a dip in the rock floor, is not known, as no excavation has ever been made except for the plant beds. There is a slight descent, not more than 3 or 4 feet, from the entrance to the point where the flood water seems to reach. This is seemingly due altogether to the wash. The width of the cave is about 50 feet, and notwithstanding the partial closure of the entrance there is sufficient light as far back as 200 feet to enable one to read ordinary print. So there is ample room within reach of daylight for several hundred people to gather without inconvenience. The owner, Capt. J.B. Briggs, who lives in Russellville, has granted permission to make any excavations desired, provided the floor be left in good shape when done. It is evident that any satisfactory examination will demand a large expenditure. If only a preliminary trench were made, the necessary slope would require a considerable width at top, while if anything should be disclosed that called for extensive research, the earth must be wheeled or otherwise removed to the sink hole in front, and the whole floor brought to a nearly uniform level. So far as appearances go, this cavern is better adapted for occupancy than any other which has been examined. The depth of earth shows it to have been open for a long period. If nothing can be found here, denoting extreme antiquity of man, it would seem useless to make further search in central or western Kentucky. BEAR CREEK.--A very large rock house is on the right bank of Bear Creek, 3 miles above its mouth. It would afford good shelter to a large number of people, except in rainy seasons when they were most in need of it. After heavy storms the creek covers the entire floor. Other rock-shelters exist along Green River above and below Bear Creek. They are not worth investigating. Some are flooded; others difficult of access; still others become muddy after rains; while in none of them is there any great depth of earth. WARREN COUNTY CRUMP'S CAVE.--A mile north of Smith's Grove is a large sink hole, from one side of which extends a cave nearly a mile long. There is abundant room and a good light near the front, and it is reported that quantities of ashes were formerly to be seen on the earth a short distance in. A considerable outside area drains into the cave, and the floor at the present time is everywhere so wet as to be quite muddy. Much water also falls from the roof. A hydraulic ram, not far from the entrance, formerly forced water from one of these falls to the farm residence. A descent of 6 feet, over large rocks and wet earth, brings one to the nearly level floor, 40 feet from the mouth. The amount of flood water running into the cave is indicated by a gully 4 feet deep and the same in width, while trash and driftwood litter the floor from wall to wall for more than a hundred yards. THOMAS CAVE.--This is a mile north of Bowling Green. The roof of a cavern has fallen in and forms a high mound of rocky débris, down which a path winds on each side, giving access toward either end of the cavern. There is scarcely a possibility that it was ever occupied. MILL CAVE.--Three miles south of Bowling Green a stream emerges from the foot of a slope, flows a hundred yards through a canyon-like open channel, and disappears under a cliff. This is another instance of an open cave due to a falling roof. The open end is large and forms an excellent shelter for cattle. On either side of the stream, under the cliff, is a shelf or projecting ledge, covered with loose stones. Neither is 2 feet higher than the water level in a wet season. BARREN COUNTY PAYNE CAVE.--This, also known as Saltpeter Cave, is near Temple Hill, 9 miles southeast of Glasgow. The bluff in which it is situated is a conglomerate limestone, rising from the waters of Skagg's Creek. The cave has three different entrances, 100 feet or more apart, and each entrance is broken into three or four by columns or masses of stone that have resisted erosion. None of the entrances is large, or opens into spacious chambers within daylight. Flood marks are visible in all, and it is said that after prolonged or heavy spring rains the water covers the floors. BEN SMITH'S CAVE.--This was discovered while digging out a fox den. It is a tunnel-like cavity, not more than 6 feet high or wide, and not suitable for habitation. It lies a mile and a half south of Temple Hill. FORD'S CAVE.--This is between Freedom and Mount Hermon, about 14 miles southeast of Glasgow. Originally the entrance was about 8 feet high and 20 feet wide, and opened into a well-lighted chamber probably 40 feet wide and 60 feet long. The floor was of earth and level, with ample space between it and the roof, as shown by marks on the walls, for people to move about readily in any part of the room. The entrance is now artificially closed by earth and stone, except for a space 4 feet square in which a door is hung. Old men in the neighborhood claim they can remember when the floor was 20 feet lower than at present; a manifest impossibility, for that measure would bring it several feet lower than the bed of Mill Creek just in front of the cave. They also claim that blocks of conglomerate and travertine 5 to 10 feet in each dimension have formed from "drip" within their recollection; which, if true, would prove these persons to be almost contemporaneous with the cave men. The more probable statement is also made by them that in early days saltpeter workers dug up and leached all the earth in the cave, filling the entrance and the narrow space before it with the leached earth from the front part of the cave and throwing that from farther back into the cavities and pits left by the prior workings. Inside the cave, near the entrance, is a never-failing spring whose waters flow through a short, narrow crevice at one side. While easily accessible, the water does not reach any of the earth floor. This would have been an excellent site for aboriginal residence, but there is now no undisturbed earth within daylight nor for some distance beyond, and no one can remember that anything of an artificial nature was ever exhumed. THE ESMITH CAVES.--Two caves situated on Peters Creek near Dry Fork post office, 14 miles southeast of Glasgow, were reported to be admirably suited for shelter purposes. The smaller is not more than a foot high, from floor to roof, and is filled with flood water after every heavy rain. The larger is above flood line, but the entrance is not over 2 feet high, and the "cave" is scarcely sufficient for a sheep shelter. If the floor were cleared off to a depth of 4 feet from its present level, it would be covered whenever the creek reached high-water mark. BONE CAVE.--Five miles east of Glasgow human bones were found in a cavern. Particulars could not be obtained. The cave is on a hillside and is entered through a narrow crevice by straddling the walls or going down a ladder. Rocks and trash form a mound in this, the top being 15 feet below the outside surface. On either side of this mound one can make his way continuously downward to darkness, and a rock thrown ahead can be heard going on down some distance over loose stones. If human bones were ever found in here, either they were thrown in or some person fell in and was unable to escape. SLICK ROCK CAVE.--This is near the post office of Slick Rock, 7 miles east of Glasgow. The entrance is in a narrow crevice at the brow of a low hill. The descent is steep and rugged to beyond daylight. LOVE'S CAVE.--This is located on Dr. Love's farm, 3 miles north of Slick Rock. It is now used for storing apples and potatoes. The entrance is through a large sink hole, formed by the falling in of the roof of a cave which was at least 50 feet wide at this point. As is usual, the débris has blocked the cave in one direction. Descent is regular, though steep, along the slope into the other end of the cave. The floor is wet and muddy the entire year on account of the drip from roof and overhanging rock at the mouth. The vertical distance from top of the débris to the level floor is about 30 feet, and from the top to the outer surface about 20 feet more. Any attempt at excavation would be difficult and costly, and conditions are such as to make it probably fruitless. MONROE COUNTY Four caves in this county were represented as being worth investigation. All are north of Tompkinsville, the county seat. (1) A rock house in the conglomerate sandstone on the land of Dr. E.E. Palmer, 7 miles north of Tompkinsville, shows smoke stains on the ceiling, and some flint chips among the gravel and earth in front where they have been exposed by water dripping over the face of the cliff. There is, however, only 2 to 4 feet of space between the earth floor and the roof, across the cave from side to side, a distance of 20 feet, and from the front to a point 10 feet back. From this rear portion the earth slopes downward, parallel with the roof of the cave, to the wall behind. The amount of descent could not be accurately ascertained owing to the cramped space, but seems to be 5 or 6 feet. At about that level on the outside a ledge was found on both sides of the entrance and appears to continue across. If so, the earth covers the part immediately in front of the cave. Neither tools nor men could be found to do any trenching, but it is not probable the shelter was ever high enough for a man to stand erect in, because most, or all, of the floor earth must have come from the ceiling. (2) A mile north of Dr. Palmer's is the McCreary Cave. The entrance is from 60 to 70 feet across and the cavern reaches back fully a hundred feet without any diminution of breadth. Two branches then start under the hill. Each has been explored more than a mile. From each branch flows a considerable brook. They unite near the entrance, sink into the floor, and reappear as a strong spring 30 feet lower in the ravine leading from the cave. The earth is not more than 3 feet deep near the front. It becomes greater in amount farther back, but is wet everywhere below the level of the running water, consequently no excavation was practicable. Flood marks show that the whole floor, except in places a strip along the side walls, is completely submerged at times. On one side a rock ledge or shelf above reach of the water is covered with dry loose earth from 1 to 3 feet deep. This has been dug up in nearly every part by treasure seekers, but nothing of human workmanship has ever been found. (3) The Belcher Cave is 7 miles northwest of Tompkinsville. It is also called Mill Cave, because a gristmill near the foot of the hill below it is run by the outflowing stream. The entrance is wide and high; the front chamber or vault is fully a hundred feet across each way. But the bedrock is exposed in places and the earth is not more than 2 feet thick anywhere. Water from the brook percolating through this keeps the lower portion saturated. (4) On John Black Tuley's land, on Meshach Creek, 6 miles northeast of Tompkinsville, two human skeletons were found in a small opening, which has since been known as the Bone Cave. It is a room not over 10 feet across at any part, in a limestone conglomerate, and may be of quite recent origin. Being inconvenient of access, it is not in a position for residence purposes. The skeletons, which were less than 2 feet below the surface, were probably those of Indian hunters. The material in which the little cave is formed will crumble easily in cold weather, being rather wet from the soil water soaking through the hill above it. There are other caves in this county, but from the descriptions they do not seem at all suited even for temporary camping needs. LOGAN COUNTY Very little limestone appears in Logan County, the surface rock being mostly conglomerate. A reconnoissance was made here, however, from Russellville to Diamond Springs, to investigate "a broad valley" which was reported to extend in a general north and south direction from the Ohio, near Brandenburg, toward the Cumberland. It was also claimed that beds of drift gravel exist at a considerable elevation above the little creek now flowing through the valley and that rock shelters are numerous at various levels. As there is an abandoned drainage system, different from the present, somewhere in this part of Kentucky, which has never been traced, the place seemed worth a visit. The result was disappointing. The valley is due entirely to causes now at work. The gravel beds result from weathering of lower Coal Measure conglomerates. The rock shelters are shallow, or with a thin covering of earth on the floor, or subject to overflow. None was found that offered any incentive for examination. TODD COUNTY On the farm of Mr. Robert Glover, 3½ miles southwest of Trenton, is a cave known generally as "Bell's Cave," from a former owner. This forms the outlet of a large sink hole, all the rainfall of 6 or 8 acres draining out through it. The entrance is wide and deep, with an easy descent to the level floor. It was for a long time a shelter for Indians, for there is a layer of ashes more than 6 feet in depth, 50 or 60 feet long, and about 15 or 20 feet wide. These represent the probable original dimensions, but the top has been leveled for a dancing floor, and the drainage water has cut away a large part of it, depositing the material farther back in the cave. Six feet of vertical face is exposed at one place by the water, but the ashes extend still deeper. It is said that bone needles, animal bones, antlers, mussel shells ("different from any in the creek now"), burnt rock, and much broken pottery were found in leveling the top. A very fine polished flint celt 12 inches or more in length is also reported. One human skeleton has been found, either at the edge of the ash bed or a few feet away from the edge. The floor is covered, where the earth is washed off, with flint nodules and fragments, and the slopes outside have considerable on the surface. The gullies washed along the slope are paved with nodules like a macadamized road, and in a few places the streams have cut into them so as to show a foot or more at the lower part of the bank so filled and packed with nodules that a knife blade could not be thrust in more than 2 or 3 inches. But there is no evidence of aboriginal quarrying. Probably the Indians dug nodules out of the gullies, for chips are found above and on each side of the mouth of the cave. To the west, on top of the hill in which the sink hole occurs, and beginning at its edge, is an aboriginal cemetery. There are two small mounds and numerous graves. Scores of the latter have been opened. They are all alike; flat stones form bottom, ends, sides, and top. Many have only one skeleton; others more. The greatest number yet found in one was six. Few are more than a foot deep or much over 5 feet long. About one in ten contains relics of some sort--in two or three entire pots, beads, arrowheads, and gorgets occurred. I opened three; two contained one body each. The face of one was down, but all the other bones of this and all the bones in the second grave were so decayed that no statement of their position can be made. In the third grave, which was 2½ feet deep--the deepest yet found--were three bodies. Two lay with faces north; the other, behind these, with face south. The grave was 24 inches wide and less than 6 feet long. Most skeletons (it is reported) were doubled up; often the graves were not over 3 feet long and 10 to 16 inches wide. In some the bones denoted skeleton burial. One skull had been perforated by a ball; at least there was a round hole on each side exactly such as would have been produced by a bullet. Another large cemetery is on the farm of Mr. G.S. Wood, next north of Glover's. Mr. Wood has opened 50 or more graves and found some relics. Flint arrows, spears, knives, drills, hoes, spades, and celts, not to mention unfinished pieces, have been found by the thousand on the surface within a mile radius of these cemeteries. It would seem useless to make any further examination of the level limestone region of central or southern Kentucky. Nearly all the minor drainage is underground, and most of the caves have inlets through sink holes or in small crevices. The water supply is scanty except along streams, and in such situations the caves are usually, for various reasons, of such character as to preclude a continuous occupation, or one extending to a very ancient date. Search is more likely to be rewarded in the mountains where an ample water supply is always at hand. * * * TENNESSEE MONTGOMERY COUNTY DUNBAR'S CAVE.--Three miles east of Clarksville a large cave has been fitted up as a summer resort. The earth has been leveled around the entrance, both inside and outside, floors laid for picnics and other gatherings, booths, refreshment stands, and places of amusement erected and the surrounding grounds somewhat improved. On account of all this, the place has become quite noted. At present there is from 15 to 20 feet of loose stones and earth on the solid rock floor, and a strong stream makes its way beneath them. It could never have been occupied in prehistoric times until the débris had practically reached the stage at which it was found by the whites. INDIAN MOUND CAVE.--A report was received to the effect that the mouth of a cave on the Stewart County line, about 18 miles west of Clarksville, had been closed by a rock wall, and earth piled against the outside of the wall; also, that tool marks are quite distinct in a chamber which is plainly of artificial origin. The rock wall is the stratified rock, in place; the earth in front has washed down from the hillside; the tool marks are water channelings; and other remarkable things mentioned in the report are equally natural. The entrance is a narrow crevice. SULLIVAN COUNTY LINVILLE CAVE.--This is 4 miles almost directly west of Bluff City. Apparently it is of great extent, for large sink holes connected with it are scattered over an area of several hundred acres. There are three principal openings. The largest is near the top of a knoll or low hill, and is due to the falling in of the roof. The sunken part has an area of about 30 by 60 feet. Usually, in such cases, the débris entirely fills one end of the cavity thus made, obscuring that part of the cavern, the other end being kept open by surface drainage. In this case, owing to the dip of the strata--some 8 or 10 degrees--and to a change in direction of the cavern at this point, both ends may be entered from the fallen rocks and earth. At one side the descent is precipitous and winding, over and among large fallen rocks. No level place is reached in daylight. At the other side the descent follows the natural dip of the strata and no level space can be found from which the entrance is visible. This part, also, is filled with rocks, large and small, from the roof and sides, and was never habitable. Fifty yards from the main entrance is another much smaller cave, on the slope of the knoll. It is at the bottom of a crevice 10 feet deep. The floor is level, but only a few square yards in extent, the sloping roof reaching it within 10 feet. As there is considerable drainage into the cavity from the hillside, it is probable that this floor, at least the upper portion, is of recent origin, and that the earth extends downward indefinitely toward the subterranean stream. West of the knoll on which these openings are found is a valley 2 or 3 miles long. Timber shuts off the view toward its head. This is drained by a constant stream which after winding from side to side of the little vale flows under the knoll. The hole where it disappears is small, but as no rock floor is visible it may lead into a large cavern, and there is no doubt that all the sink holes in the vicinity as well as the two openings above described eventually have the same outlet. Excavations would be difficult and useless. THOMAS CAVE.--In the face of a steep hillside, near the south (left) bank of the Holston, 3 miles east of Bluff City, is a room with a nearly level floor 10 by 18 feet in the longest measurements. A narrow passage, high enough for a man to walk in, branches off to the right but soon begins to diminish in size and at 100 feet becomes too small to crawl through. The débris in front of the cave is piled to a height of 16 feet above the present floor, and the highest floods of the river reach to about the same level on the outside. The rapid disappearance of the surface water which finds its way in indicates an underground passage to the river, so that a solid floor would not probably be reached above the ordinary water level. ARKLOW CAVE.--This is a mile and a half southeast of Bluff City. It was reported to have a level earth floor, not more than 4 feet below the accumulation outside. While this was formerly the case, cultivation of the hills around now causes a great amount of surface water to flow over the little bluff into which the cave opens, and this has carried nearly all of the loose earth away through some underground channel. The descent for upward of 30 feet is steep and rugged; it was not traced farther. MORRELL CAVE.--On the south side of the Holston River, 2½ miles east of Bluff City, lies the farm of E.S. Worley. Except for a narrow strip of river bottom land, the surface is broken and rocky, the highest point being some 400 feet above the stream. Beginning near the brow of the river hill the central portion of the farm is in a depression whose very irregular rim or watershed surrounds an area of more than 100 acres. All the water that falls within this space drains into a sink hole the bottom of which is but little above flood stage of the Holston. On the south side of this sink is a vertical bluff 120 feet high, from whose foot emerges a stream that after a winding course of 50 or 60 yards disappears in a small opening on the east side of the sink hole, and finally comes to the surface at the foot of the hill, near the river. Its volume is sufficient, even in time of severest drought, to turn the undershot wheel of a large mill. The course of the stream above the point where it is first visible is through a cave which has been traced to the foot of the Holston Mountains, 3 miles away, and there are many unexplored branches. Chambers are known with a cross measure of 100 feet or more, and some of them have a height nearly as great. Stalactites and stalagmites, some of them possessing unusual size and beauty, are abundant. The sink hole is due to the falling in of the roof of the cave, which could no doubt be followed to the river if it were free from obstructions in this direction. North of west from the mouth of the cave is another opening, partly in the same strata but 40 feet higher, the dip of the rock being 10 or 12 degrees to the southeast. This was so blocked with talus which had fallen from the cliff and washed down the side of the sink hole that it was necessary to creep nearly 40 feet from the entrance, down a moderate slope, before coming to a point where it was possible to stand upright. From here progress to the junction of the two caves, about half a mile from the entrance, is easy except where fallen rocks interfere somewhat. Early in the Civil War a large amount of saltpeter was manufactured here. A dam was constructed just within the mouth of the main cave, and in the pool thus formed boats were used to transport the material from the interior. The workmen not required for handling the craft usually preferred to walk through the upper cave to the place where the earth was procured. The combination of natural features at this place is unusually favorable to aboriginal habitation. The main cave is excluded from consideration by reason of the stream filling it from wall to wall after very heavy rains. The upper cave, however, showed, beyond the débris choking the entrance, a level floor, cumbered, it is true, by fallen rocks, but apparently quite suitable for a dwelling place were these removed. Although opening toward the north, its position so far below the summits of the surrounding hills protects it from winter winds. The creek assures an ample supply of clear cold water. Mountains, refuge for game, are in sight in various directions, while the Holston River is less than a quarter of a mile away. In order to remove the débris a point 3 feet below the lowest spot on the floor was selected on the slope outside. From here a trench was carried in on a level, the additional depth being taken to facilitate clearing away all material that had accumulated inside the cavern in comparatively recent time, and thus lighten the task of deeper excavations should these be required. The trench needed to be only wide enough at the bottom to allow room for running a wheelbarrow, but owing to the great amount of broken rock, loosely held together by a small quantity of earth, the sides continually gave way, so that by the time it was safe to pass through the trench was 25 feet wide at the top and 24 feet deep at the mouth of the cave. The rocks were of every size from small pebbles to blocks weighing more than a ton each. Nothing whatever of artificial character, not even a flint chip or fragment of charcoal, was unearthed until at a point 4 feet inside the farthest projecting stratum of the roof. Here was found a prehistoric stone wall whose outer side and top had been entirely concealed by débris. On the inner side the upper portion was visible, owing to the fact that the owner had gathered a quantity of loose stones to construct a wall farther down the slope. Previous to this the ancient wall was entirely covered by the detritus, and even after this partial exposure its true nature was not suspected. It was about 6 feet high, built up of rocks of various sizes and shapes loosely fitted together, earth from the outside surface being used to level up in places where the stones would not bind properly. The largest rock in the top layer weighed about 800 pounds. The horizontal distance between the top of the wall as it was when cleared off and the corresponding portion of the cave roof was 4 feet; to the roof directly above it, about 2 feet. Apparently it had at one time entirely closed the entrance; at the western end where it abutted against the solid rock the upper portion was firmly consolidated by travertine. Directly above it, nearly 2 feet higher, a slab and some small irregular fragments were securely attached to the side and roof by the same agency. A crevice in the bedrock just at the end of the artificial wall contained several wagonloads of small rocks which had been thrown into it. These also were united into a solid mass by the travertine, all of which had been deposited by water flowing through the crevice. It does not follow that the wall was ever higher toward the opposite end than at this time. In the centuries that have elapsed since it was put up, the roof at the front of the cave, being rather thin-bedded, may have disintegrated. It was not possible to uncover the wall in shape for illustrating; portions of it continually crumbled as the looser material piled against it was removed. From the wall inward the foreign material piled against the west side of the cave was composed almost entirely of small rocks, with scarcely any earth, and so compactly bound with travertine and stalagmite as to resist all attempts to remove it by ordinary means. On the east side--the left as the cave is entered--there was a great variation in the size of the stones; they were intermixed with much loose dry earth, and there was scarcely any "drip-formation" in the mass. The removal of all this disclosed a projection of solid rock forming a shelf from 8 to 12 feet wide, whose top was about 2 feet higher than the bottom of our trench. About 20 feet from the ancient wall the trench reached the original bottom of the cave as the latter was left by the stream to which its origin was due. This was the tough red or yellow clay, filled with water-worn stones such as appear in all gullies or ravines in this region. It contained a small quantity of stalagmitic material here and there and gradually rose until at 20 feet farther, or 40 feet from the old wall, it terminated against solid bedrock, reaching across the cave, the entire width of which at this point was 26 feet. The shelf on the left belonged to the same stratum. This brought the work to the terminus that had been the aim from the first, namely, the lowest level of the floor, which was thus shown to be only a foot above the solid rock instead of at least 10 or 12 feet as the general appearance of the entrance and its surroundings had indicated. It was completely cleaned off as far as this was possible, but within 3 feet of the end of the trench began a mass several feet in thickness of fragmentary rocks of every size up to 20 tons or more which had fallen from the roof and were bound together by stalagmite. Altogether, more than 300 cubic yards of material were removed. The workmen had been carefully instructed as to what the search was for, and kept a close lookout, as evidenced by the very small objects they were continually offering for inspection. It is safe to say that not a spadeful of earth missed scrutiny; but, aside from the artificial wall, the only traces of human presence were three valves of mussels, a turkey bone rudely pointed for use as a perforator, and three or four bones which seem to have been subjected to fire. Not a chip of flint or other stone showing work, no ashes or charcoal, not a piece of pottery, were discovered. If aboriginal burials were made in the cave--and the wall is almost definite proof of such fact--they are either on the floor under stalagmite or in crevices now concealed by fallen rocks. Numerous small fragments of animal bones were found scattered singly at all depths in the material removed. Nearly every one showed marks of the teeth of rodents. According to Prof. F.A. Lucas, of the National Museum, they all belong to modern species except one tooth, which is that of the cave tapir, and (possibly) the jaw of an otter. BLEDSOE COUNTY COLLEGE CAVE.--About three-fourths of a mile west from the old Sequatchie College is a cave which was described as the largest in the county, and as the only one in which people might ever have lived. The opening is about 5 feet wide and 4 feet high; and from it comes a stream sufficient to run a mill. No other caves could be located in this county or in the Sequatchie Valley north of it. SEQUATCHIE COUNTY LAKEY'S CAVE.--In the foothills of the Cumberland Plateau, about 5 miles southeast of Dunlap, the county seat, is the largest cave in the county. A great quantity of earth and rock has accumulated in front of the entrance, washed from the mountain side over an area of several acres. Formerly most of the surface drainage carrying this down flowed into the cave, thus keeping a passageway open through which a man could crawl. Ditches have recently been cut to turn away the water, the entrance walled up, a solid door hung, and the cave is now used for a storeroom. It was never habitable. A mile north of the above-mentioned cave, toward Dunlap, is a cave with a very large entrance: a sort of rock-house or half dome. The floor is covered with huge rocks and a constant stream flows out. It is said that a party once entered Lakey's Cave and emerged at this one. There is no dry place in it. PICKETT'S CAVE.--Seven miles southwest of Dunlap is a cave, described as having an ample entrance, with much room inside, perfectly dry, and opening in a cliff 20 or 30 feet above a large, never-failing spring. The description is correct as to location, but not as to size. The opening is about 4 feet across each way, with a slight covering of earth on the floor. The cave winds like a flattened corkscrew. At no place near enough to the mouth for a glimmer of light to penetrate is the roof more than 5 feet above the floor or the side walls more than 5 feet apart. There are two recesses in the cliff on the opposite side of the little creek formed by the spring. They are 40 to 50 feet above the water, each with an irregular floor of 20 by 30 feet under shelter of the rock. No solid rock is visible in front of them, but a projecting ledge, which seems continuous, appears on either side about 6 feet below the present average level of the floor; and this is probably the depth of accumulation at the front. It may be less toward the rear. The cavities are in a stratum which is somewhat shelly and crumbles easily. HIXSON'S CAVE.--Six miles northeast of Dunlap is a cave said to be large, accessible, dry, and well suited for occupancy. It is on the side of Walden's ridge, 400 feet or more above the base, a mile from water, and with an opening in the solid rock that can not be entered except on hands and knees. By the time one can straighten up he is in absolute darkness. LAND COMPANY'S CAVE.--This is 7 miles northeast of Dunlap. To enter, one must crawl between the rock front and the detritus, descending 10 or 12 feet. The floor is fairly level, where it can be found, but is nearly hidden from sight by rocks of all sizes, over and between which it is necessary to scramble almost from the starting point. HENSON'S CAVE.--This cave, 9 or 10 miles northeast from Dunlap, and perhaps in Bledsoe County, is somewhere on Raccoon Mountains, near the head of a valley up which a mountain road winds along in the bed of a stream. It is said to have a dry dirt floor, with an entrance through which one must crawl. After driving until the horses were tired out and being assured at several scattered cabins that it was "jest a leetle mite furder up thar," search for it was abandoned. GRUNDY COUNTY HUBLIN'S OR BAT CAVE.--Numerous caves and rock-shelters are reported in the region about Beersheba Springs. The shelters seem to be shallow with comparatively little earth on the floor. Of the caves, the description given of all but the one named was such as to show them not worth visiting. It is about 10 miles northwest of the springs. Its course is approximately parallel with the mountain ridge, passing under two low foothills or spurs separated by a ravine. When the stream flowing through the latter had cut its channel down to the top of the cave it poured into the hole it had worn. Frost and the natural erosion have made an opening more than 60 feet long. Both parts of the cave remain open, being too large at this point to become choked by the small amount of material which the brook had left as a roof. In some places, so far as it was examined, the ceiling is 50 feet or more above the rocks covering the floor; and one end, that into which the ravine drains, has a continuous and rather steep descent, along the natural dip, as far as it could be followed. Where the exploration ended logs, drift, brush, etc., piled 10 or 12 feet high against huge rocks that had tumbled down, proved a current strong enough to wash away any deposits that may ever have existed; consequently the only earth in this end was that brought by floods. The other end of the cave is large, with an entrance of such size that small print could easily be read 100 feet from the front if the broad fence across it were removed. This fence was made to close the cave against changes of temperature and also against marauders, it having been used until lately as a storage room for fruit, potatoes, etc. During the Civil War it was worked for saltpeter. All the earth, down to the rock floor, was removed, even in crevices only wide enough for a man to squeeze through. An incline was built so that horses could be brought into the cave, and no earth now remains within reach of daylight. The rock floor is almost as clean as if swept. Their exhaustive digging extended for about 200 yards from the entrance. The "face" of the earth is here about 15 feet high; for some reason, which could not be learned, the miners continued their work from here by means of a tunnel 4 or 5 feet high and wide, leaving a floor of earth, and a covering of the same nearly 6 feet thick. This tunnel was not followed. Near the entrance a crevice barely wide enough for a man to walk in and in some places only 4 feet high turns off toward the left and holds practically the same size for about 100 yards. Here it becomes larger and higher. Earth has been carried out of this and its narrow branches wherever there is room to use a shovel. In a large chamber 200 yards from the front, at the end of the crevice, much digging was done; the "face" left is 13 or 14 feet high. As far as the diggers went, there is nothing left to explore. Beyond that it is not probable any remains can be found, as it is totally dark long before any remaining earth is reached. FRANKLIN COUNTY Several caves were reported in the vicinity of Sewanee and Monteagle. They are objects of curiosity to students and summer residents who frequently visit and make tours through them. They have thus acquired a fame much beyond what is justified by their real interest. They seem to be wet, or with contracted entrances and front chambers, or difficult of access, and, so far as could be judged by the descriptions given, none of them is worth examining. MARION COUNTY ACCOUNT'S CAVES.--There are two of these, both with high and large openings, on the right bank of the Tennessee, 2 miles above Shellmound or Nickajack. One is in the face of the bluff, the entrance 50 feet above the river bottom land. Huge rocks lie in front and over nearly all the floor. Surface water flows in at the entrance and after winding its crooked way among the rocks sinks at a point 25 or 30 feet below the top of the débris in front of the entrance. This indicates an open way to the river, so the bottom of the cave is probably down nearly or quite to the water level. The second cave is 100 yards above the first. A little stream, whose head is in a valley, nearly a mile away, flows around the foot of the bluff and into the mouth of the cave. When the Tennessee rises to flood height the backwater comes into the bed of this stream through the cave before submerging the low ridge between it and the river. CALDWELL'S CAVE.--This is on the right bank of the Sequatchie River, a mile above its junction with the Tennessee. It is said that formerly a man could walk into it easily for 20 or 30 feet and then crawl 50 or 60 feet farther. This is probably an error of memory. By stooping one can now go in about 10 feet from the edge of the roof, and with a pole feel where the floor and roof come together, nowhere more than 10 or 12 feet beyond. It is said, also, that this accumulation results from throwing in earth to prevent foxes from having a den in the cave. A small hole might thus be closed, but it is too much to believe that the people now living around here would carry in many hundred cubic yards of earth for any such purpose. Human bones are reported unearthed near the surface; at least bones of some sort were found which the discoverers supposed were human. The entrance to the cave is more than 25 feet in width, and about 25 feet above the flood plain of the Sequatchie, or only 15 feet above extreme high water. It is in the only exposure of rock for nearly half a mile along the bluff. On either side of the opening the walls are solid, down to the alluvial earth, but in front of the cavity only detritus can be seen from top to bottom. For this reason it is improbable that any solid bottom could be found above the level of the river. Much of the stone weathers out in small fragments, and the process of disintegration is going on continually, as shown by the fresh appearance of the sheltered fragments. How rapid or how regular it may have been in former time is impossible to guess, so that excavation, to be of any value, would have to begin at the bottom of the slope, with the knowledge that the original floor of the cave may be still lower. NICKAJACK CAVE.--This is the largest and most widely known cave in Tennessee. It is half a mile from and within plain sight of the railway station of Shellmound, 20 miles west of Chattanooga. The entrance is fully 100 feet wide and 40 feet high; a short distance within the cave enlarges, a little farther it contracts somewhat. Daylight penetrates, in spite of curves and immense piles of débris, for more than 500 feet. It has been a resort from time out of mind; first, for Indians and pioneers, then for refugees, now for various social gatherings. All the earth in sight has been worked for saltpeter, leached, and thrown aside. A vastly greater quantity than now remains has been washed out of the cave by Nickajack Creek, which always has some flowing water and in wet weather rises 5 or 6 feet. Long bridges are required where the highway and railroad cross it. It takes its name from the Nickajack Indians, who once dwelt here. The field in front is strewn with flint chips and other indications of aboriginal settlement. There is nothing in the cave to dig for. The saltpeter miners moved all the earth they could reach, while the immense rocks and the creek make any further excavations impossible. HAMILTON COUNTY There are many caves in the vicinity of Chattanooga, but all that were visited possess some feature which makes examination appear useless. Most of them have small, inconvenient entrances; others are subject to overflow or have running water in them. None could be heard of in which conditions were better. * * * ALABAMA LAUDERDALE COUNTY SMITHSONIA.--There is a noted cave at Smithsonia, near Cheatham's Ferry, 15 miles west of Florence. It was reported as suitable for a dwelling, but at the entrance the roof is not more than 4 feet high, and a stream a foot deep reaches to the wall on either side. KEY'S CAVE.--On the Buck Key farm, 6 miles west of Florence, is a cave which may have afforded shelter to the earliest man in the region. There are two entrances or antechambers, separated by a solid rock partition a few yards thick. One is partially filled with huge solid blocks, some of them several hundred cubic feet in size; the other has in it and in front of it a mass of earth and loose rock whose crest is fully 20 feet above the highest part of the inside floor a few feet back from the front margin of the roof. From here an additional descent of 10 feet leads to the floor behind the first-mentioned entrance, and there is about the same descent to a nearly level floor in the cave a short distance beyond. The way is partially blocked by large rocks which, it is said, have fallen within a few years. For this reason persons in the neighborhood are afraid to venture in. There is a rumor that the corpse of a woman, coated with stalagmite, can be seen in this cave; also several bodies (sex apparently indeterminate) lying like spokes in a wheel, with heads at the center. No one could be persuaded to go in and point out the place where they lie. From its position, high in a bluff but easy to reach, not more than one-fourth of a mile from the Tennessee River and the same distance from a clear creek, with a strip of bottom land between it and the streams, this cave seems worthy of exploration. At least a month of work by several laborers would be required to clean away the fallen material so that excavations would be practicable. COLYER'S CAVE.--This is about 5 miles west of Florence. It faces a ravine that leads into the creek discharging near Key's Cave. Human bones were found in it many years ago. The entrance is a round hole, through which one must creep a few yards, then by means of a pole or ladder descend 6 feet. From here the cave is nearly level, with several branches. In some places the floor is solid rock; in other parts it is covered with a thin layer of earth. The "human bones" consisted of one skeleton, lying on a rock floor, fully a fourth of a mile from the mouth of the cave. COFFEE CAVE.--This cave, 4 miles west of Florence, is said to be "like the Colyer cave, but smaller in every way." It was not visited. SHOAL CREEK.--A cave is reported on Shoal Creek "3 or 4 miles above its mouth." No one could be found who knew its location more definitely or was able to give a clear description of it. BLUEWATER CAVE.--Bluewater Creek comes in several miles above Lock No. 6 of the Mussel Shoals Canal. A cave is reported to be near its mouth, but the only caves anywhere in that vicinity, so far as anyone living or working there knows, are a small hole a mile below on the canal, into which a man can crawl, and one some 3 miles up the creek, reached by climbing down a sink hole in a field. The opening to the latter results from fallen rock. COLBERT COUNTY NEWSOM SPRINGS.--Numerous caves, most of them small, are reported in the county. The best known is at Newsom Springs, 8 miles south of Barton, on the Southern Railway. It is locally known as the "three-story cave." The lower "story" is a cave from which water always flows. The second "story" is directly above the first. The two have no connection, unless far back in the hill. The floor of the upper cave is mostly rock. It is now fitted up by some people in the neighborhood as a camping place, where they spend a part of each summer. The third "story" is an excavation for a cellar under a house recently erected. MURRELL'S CAVE.--Tradition has it that this cave was one of the hiding places of a famous desperado and horse thief whose gang operated over all this country in early days. The only entry is by means of a ladder in a narrow crevice 20 feet deep. The place may have been a refuge, but never a residence. It is one-fourth of a mile from Bear Creek, not far above the mouth. Two other holes or crevices within a few hundred yards, difficult to crawl through, reach small caves. Possibly all these are connected. BAT CAVE.--One-fourth of a mile from Murrell's Cave is a small cavern, the roof not more than 4 feet above the floor. It has been inhabited from time immemorial by myriads of bats. Several tons of guano have been taken out for fertilizing purposes, but no evidence has been discovered that it was ever a habitation for humans. PRIDE'S CAVE.--In the river bluff a mile from Pride Station is a cave in which a fisherman has made his home for several years. There is a rather thin deposit of earth on the floor which may have recently accumulated. CHEATHAM'S FERRY.--Near the landing some boys, while hunting a few years ago, discovered a stone wall across the mouth of a small cave. Tearing it away, they found within some human bones, flints, pipes, including one "with a lot of stem holes," and fragments of pottery. All these were on top of the earth or only a few inches below it. Various excavators or relic hunters have failed to find anything more. The cavity is quite small and difficult to reach, and is undoubtedly a burial place for modern Indians. On both sides of the river here are immense shell heaps. The shell is mingled with earth near the top, but below 2 or 3 feet the mass is of clean shell to a depth, as exposed by the river, of at least 10 feet. The bottom of the deposit is not visible, being concealed by mud piled against it in high water. The old ferryman says it is 20 feet deep. Although the shell piles are built up higher than the bottom lands to the rear or on either side, they are submerged several feet in great freshets. It is impossible to explain this fact otherwise than by the assumption that the bed of the river has been elevated in recent times, although there are no other indications apparent that such is the case. SHEFFIELDS.--In the river bluff 2 miles above the Sheffield end of the railway bridge is a crevice or joint which has been widened to 10 feet at the outlet by water percolating from the top of the bluff. When discovered, a rock wall was piled across it near the entrance. Behind this human bones were found with "pieces of pottery and other things." They were close to the surface. Subsequent explorations have revealed nothing below them. It is plainly a burial cave for Indians. The river now reaches at flood tide to within 10 feet of the floor. The earth covering the bones may have washed over them, as there is some evidence farther back in the crevice that surface material is still carried in from the rear, in very small amounts, during rainy seasons. ROCK SHELTERS.--Several very large rock houses exist on the southern slope of the hill or "mountain" lying a mile to 2 miles south of Pride, 7 miles west of Tuscumbia. Water drips from the roofs, keeping the floors wet all the year and collecting in pools to which stock resorts when the little creeks or brooks in the ravines become dry. It is useless to search in this part of Alabama for caves presenting indications that they may have been habitable, or the reverse, in ages past. The native rock is a cherty or flinty limestone, crumbling easily, and readily susceptible to changes from atmospheric influences, and especially so to the action of water. New subterranean channels are continually developing, with consequent changes in the interior of any cavern near them. JACKSON COUNTY ISBOLL CAVES.--It was reported that habitable caves with spacious rooms occur on the Isboll farms, near Limrock. They have entrances and front chambers of ample size to move about in, though not more than 15 feet wide. There are broader expansions back some distance beyond daylight. In both caves rocks up to 15 or 20 tons in weight strew the floor, until only narrow passageways exist between them. In addition, water flows from them in rainy seasons, being frequently 2 feet or more in depth. BLOWING CAVE.--This takes its name from an outward current of cold air which is so strong as to distinctly modify the temperature of the atmosphere at least 100 yards from the entrance. The opening and the front chamber are nearly 40 feet across, but the distance from the roof to the muddy floor strewn with large rocks is not more than 5 feet at any point. A creek flows across the cave 200 or 300 yards from the mouth, and there is evidence in the way of drift and mud to prove the statement by the owner that after very heavy rains the overflow comes out the front of the cave in such amount as to fill it to the ceiling, and with a velocity that will roll stones larger than a man can lift. CULVER'S CAVE.--This is somewhere on the side of a mountain about 4 miles from the station of Limrock. Owing to destruction of forests and subsequent growth of brush, the guide was unable to locate it. He described it as a room in which a man could walk about and reached by going in through an opening like a sink hole, which, however, is only about 5 feet deep. The locality, a rugged, barren hillside, near the head of a cove, is not one in which it is probable a cave would be used for any purpose. HARRISON'S CAVE.--This is 2½ miles west of Limrock. It has a large, high opening, an easy approach, and is quite accessible, being at the foot of a mountain with level bottom land in front. A stream flows directly across it some 30 feet from the entrance, emerging at the foot of one wall and disappearing under the other. The earth bank on each side of the stream is about 5 feet high, indicating at least that depth of deposit on the rock floor; as the latter is not visible the amount may be much greater. This earth is soft and wet. In rainy weather water from the interior flows along the floor into the little stream. Sometimes this can not dispose of the surplus, and the overflow rises until it makes its exit through the mouth of the cave. When this happens all the earth within is covered from 2 to 5 feet deep. SALTPETER CAVE.--This lies 4 miles south of the railway, between Limrock and Larkinsville. It is described as being dry, with a large, high entrance, and "plenty of room inside right at the front." But it was thoroughly worked during the war by saltpeter miners who took out all the dirt they could easily reach, going back "200 or 300 yards." For this reason it was not visited. DEKALB COUNTY FORT PAYNE CAVE.--A mile south of Fort Payne is a cave in Lookout Mountain, which, a "boom" company some years ago converted into a summer resort. The detritus in front of the entrance was leveled off, steps constructed to the top, and a heavy stone wall built across the mouth, leaving an entrance a little less than 7 feet in width which was closed by gates. Inside the barrier the floor, now made tolerably level, extends about 30 feet toward the rear, to the natural rock wall, and is 50 feet from side to side, with a roof from 6 to 15 feet high. In the wall at the rear are two small openings through which explorers can pass to large chambers farther within. To the right of the front chamber is a branch cave which is high and wide at the beginning but soon becomes impassable from the accumulated rocks and earth rising to the roof. The left side of the front chamber is continued in another branch going directly back into the mountain. The roof and floor have an equal slope downward to a point some rods from the beginning, the clear space between them being not more than 4 feet. Beyond here the roof is high and there are some large expansions. A creek flows from the rear of the cave to a point estimated as 200 yards from the doorway, where it sinks into the earth. The noise of its fall is distinct throughout the front part of the cavern. There is considerable drip, and though dry stalactites and stalagmites occur in some places, over most of the front chamber their formation is still in progress. Outside of the doorway the solid rock walls show on each side, nowhere less than 25 feet apart. At a depth of 30 feet water flows from the rock and earth between these side walls, but there is no sign of solid bottom, so the depth of the cave is probably more than 30 feet below the present floor. Under existing conditions the cave would form an excellent shelter, being accessible, roomy, and with an abundant supply of fresh water. The drip from the ceiling could be avoided. But it does not follow that such was the case in the remote past. It is apparent that at one time the creek had its outlet through the mouth and down the gorge in front, the right branch of the cave being then open. From some cause, probably the formation of a sink hole above, water from the surface or near the surface found a way through this branch, carrying mud and rocks sufficient to fill the front chamber to its present floor, diverting the flow of the stream, and finally filling the cave through which it came. While the creek was flowing, occupation would be impossible, or at least inconvenient. When the mud began to settle in, the front portion would be shut off. This condition would hold until the stream found its new outlet and the branch cave had become entirely filled; and when these processes were completed the floor of the cave would be practically at its present level. Under the circumstances exploration would probably, almost certainly, be fruitless. The company which owns the cave would also wish it restored to something like its present state. ELLIS CAVE.--On the estate of Dr. Ellis, 19 miles north of Fort Payne and 3 miles from Sulphur Springs, are two caves known locally as Big-mouth and Little-mouth. The smaller is closed by a locked gate. The larger has a rather imposing appearance from the outside. From a ledge of rock, in place, in front of it, one looks down a steep slope in which rocks up to 40 or 50 tons weight are imbedded. At a vertical depth of 30 feet is a level space not more than 8 or 10 square yards in area. From this a narrow crevice goes to the right. Within a few yards it reaches a hole which can be descended only by means of a rope or ladder. Persons have, however, gone several hundred yards in it. On the left of the level space and bounded on each side by solid rock walls is a pit 10 feet deep, caused by inflowing storm waters which have created this depression in seeking a small outlet, also toward the left. The height from the bottom of this sink to the roof of the cave is nearly 50 feet. Crossing this pit on a foot log, which rests on loose rock and earth at its farther end, a crevice varying from 6 to 10 feet wide goes inward for 50 feet. Earth covers the loose rock at the level of the foot log almost at once, and this earth has a steep ascent toward the rear. The crevice widens beyond the distance mentioned, though irregularly, being in some places 25 feet from side to side. So far as progress is concerned, the cave terminates 150 feet from the doorway in a blank wall. It may be that if the earth were out of the way further progress would be possible. Considerable digging has been done for saltpeter, but except near the front it has been only superficial. The top of the earth at the extreme rear of the cave is almost or quite as high as the roof at the front, which means that, if the bottom should be level, the thickness of this accumulated deposit is not less than 35 feet. As the dip is toward the rear and quite sharp, about 10 or 12 degrees, the earth here may well be much thicker than indicated. Excavation would be tedious and costly, as it would be impossible to dispose of the dirt except by blasting a deep trench through the rock in front to make room for wheeling it out. KILLIAN CAVES.--There are two of these, both on the west slope of Lookout Mountain. One is near Brandon, 6 miles south of Fort Payne. The entrance is a large sink hole on the side of the mountain, descent into which is difficult owing to the steepness and large rocks. At the bottom the water which flows in over the muddy floor from the slope above--several acres in extent--rushes into a hole choked with loose stones and disappears. The second cave is about 3 miles northeast of Collinsville. Débris from the mountain has formed a wall across the entrance, which is naturally wide and high and opening out on a little flat in front. Some digging has been done for saltpeter at the front part of the cave, reaching about 30 feet back from the inner foot of the accumulation. In the pit thus formed water stands after every rain until it soaks away. Where it ends the "face" is about 5 feet high. On top, farther in, there is much travertine or stalagmite; in some places it extends entirely across the floor. In other places the floor is bare. There is constant drip, and in one room there is a little gully, where surface water in wet weather, entering from a small branch cave on one side, has cut an exit through the earth at the foot of the wall on the other side. The hole in which it disappears extends beyond the rays of a lamp, and a stone thrown in goes down a slope several feet in length. Very little working is needed to reduce any of the earth to soft, slippery mud, hence no excavation was possible. MARSHALL COUNTY FEARIN CAVE.--This is in a bluff on the right bank of the Tennessee River, 10 miles below Guntersville. It has three divisions. Shortly after passing the spacious entrance a branch turns to the right. In a few feet a wall is reached which can be scaled only with a ladder. Climbing this, a large chamber is reached, totally dark, and the home of innumerable bats whose "guano" covers the floor and fills the air with a stifling odor. This branch comes to light again more than a mile away on the side of the mountain. Returning to the lower chamber and going back about 100 feet from the main entrance, a wall similar to the first is reached, above which is another large cave. Bats never inhabit this, and the floor is of loose dry earth. But no ray of daylight penetrates it, and as a great amount of saltpeter was made here during the War of 1812 scarcely any of the earth retains its original position. During the Civil War the floor of the lower or main cave was also dug up for making saltpeter and much of the leached earth piled in front of the cave. This acts as a dam against encroachment of the river except in the highest floods. There seems, however, to be a passage between the cavern and a spring under the river bank, for water appears on the floor as soon as it reaches the same height outside and the two surfaces maintain a constant level until the freshet subsides. On account of these facts no excavations were made. HARDIN'S CAVE.--Nine miles below Guntersville, on the right bank of the Tennessee, is a ferry known as Honey Landing. It is at the lower end of a steep bluff which forms the river front of a high hill or mountain, as such elevations are called here. A few feet above high-water mark a narrow ledge or shelf projects, which can be reached only from a point on the side of the hill just above the ferry. About 100 yards from here the ledge reaches a cave, which has a high and wide entrance, with ample space for several families to live on a fairly level, well lighted floor. If the cave were dry, it would be an ideal primitive home. But water continually seeps down the hill above and falls over the roof at the entrance, while a gully through the cave and several minor washes, as well as the mud spread over the floor, show that a large amount of water flows through the cave in wet seasons and covers all the floor except an area some 15 feet in diameter. This is dry on top, but would be muddy at a depth of 3 or 4 feet, the level of the bottom of the gully, so no exploration was attempted. WELBURN'S CAVE.--Six miles northeast of Guntersville is a cave in which many human bones have been found. It is only a burial place and could never have been used as a dwelling. The entrance, barely large enough to crawl into, is at one side of the bottom of a large sink hole due to the falling in of a cave roof. It receives all the rainfall of more than an acre and is nearly choked with mud and driftwood. It may have been somewhat larger at one time, as there is a tradition that a deer was chased through the cave, coming out at Bailey's Cave, a mile away. Within a few rods the water sinks into the earth, and the floor of the cave, rising beyond this point, is dry. It was on this dry earth, not in it, that the skeletons were found. The floor is uneven, at some places permitting a man to stand, and at others rising to within 3 feet of the roof. Explorations can not be made, as there is no method of disposing of the removed earth. BAILEY'S CAVE.--This cave is 7 miles northeast of Guntersville. The entrance is high and wide and there is a large, well-lighted area within; but the cave is flooded every time Town Creek gets out of its banks. Bailey's Cave is the other end of Welburn's Cave, as persons have gone through the hill from one to the other. BARNARD CAVE.--This cave, which is also called Alford's and is still more commonly known as Saltpeter Cave, is on the left bank of the Tennessee 10 miles below Guntersville and opposite the Fearin property. The entrance is at the foot of a bluff overlooking a strip of bottom land a fourth of a mile wide, but the opening is above any flood that has occurred since the country was settled. At the foot of the slope is a bayou filled with Tupelo gums. Between this and the river the ground can be cultivated. The cave is so straight and the walls so smooth as to look like an artificial tunnel. The entrance is in plain view from a point 380 feet back, and the change of direction, even at that distance, is very slight. The saltpeter miners started at the entrance and removed all the earth lying from 3 to 6 feet higher than the present floor, which is nearly level. They carried their work along the surface of a stratum of gravel, sand, and clay, which is so compact as to be difficult to remove with a pick, and seems to belong to the stream which carved out the cavern. The "face" where they quit work is 5 feet high, and the earth is quite dry, breaking down in angular fragments and separating from the walls so freely as to leave no residue on them. Its original depth at any point, however, may be very easily ascertained by noting the different tints or shading of the wall rock, the lower part, which was protected by earth, being distinctly lighter in color than that above, which was exposed to atmospheric weathering and, for a time, to the smoky torches and candles of the workmen. The distinct lamination of the saltpeter earth, as shown in the "face," proves it to have been laid down slowly and intermittently in still water. It could not be determined whether this was due to the river in flood periods, or to a gentle stream from the interior whose volume varied in accordance with weather conditions. There is also a small channel along the top of the earth, filled with gravel and sand, as if the overflow of a stream far back in the mountain had been diverted in this direction after the laminated deposits had become dry and settled. The walls are 10 feet apart near the entrance, but are not more than 8 feet elsewhere and in some places the width narrows to less than 3 feet. They also have an inward slope at the bottom, so the cave is either shallow or else so narrow at no great depth as to be uninhabitable. This fact, and the character of the material deposited by the ancient drainage stream, make it hopeless to expect result from exploration. MCDERMENT'S CAVES.--There are two caves 100 yards apart, in Brown's Valley, 11 miles southwest from Guntersville. The larger has a descent of 21 feet from the front to the general level of the first floor. All this part is well lighted. The drainage from several acres of the mountain side above pours over the roof at the entrance and runs down the inner slope. It has worn a gully, and the first level it reaches is quite muddy. Leaves and trash 3 or 4 inches deep are piled on and against the loose stones toward the side where the water seeks an outlet. It has worn a crooked channel along this side of the chamber, and falls into a hole which at a depth of 10 or 11 feet below the floor makes a turn and passes from sight. So it is certain that soft wet clay extends more than 30 feet below the level of the entrance. The drier deposits of this room have been extensively worked for saltpeter, and a much greater quantity of earth would have been removed but for the fact that masses of stalagmite, too thick to break off with a sledge hammer, and scores of columns, some of them 6 or 8 feet in diameter and many tons in weight, cover a considerable part of it. The first room is succeeded by several others, all of which are dry and of large size, but in total darkness, and the floors in all have been more or less disturbed in the search for niter. The general direction of the bottom is downward. The last floor is probably 50 or 60 feet lower than the entrance, and is reached by a slope on which it is difficult to retain a footing. In nearly every part the earth is covered by stalagmite, much of it so heavy that the miners could not remove it, but were compelled to dig under it as far as they could reach; and in no place is a rock floor to be seen. The thickness of stalagmite on the floor, and the great size of the columns, is proof of their antiquity, while the depth of earth beneath must have been thousands of years in accumulating before the deposits began to cover them. Excavations here, while quite desirable, would be very expensive. Much stalagmite would have to be blasted; upward of a thousand yards of earth moved, and all of it taken out of the cave, because there is no room for it inside. As a man can not push a wheelbarrow up such an incline, a trench must be cut through to the exterior slope; and as solid rock lies not more than 5 feet below the surface at any point, blasting would be necessary the rest of the way. The task is equal to opening a stone quarry. The second cave on McDerment's place has a good opening. A trench 4 feet wide and 6 feet deep where the rock is thickest has been blasted out to make a level approach to the entrance. Masses of stalagmite on each side, sloping like solid rock from the walls, leave barely room for a man to walk for the first 30 feet. Here the walls recede somewhat, and a pit nearly 15 feet deep yawns before the explorer. After continuing for some distance with this depth, there is another drop of 10 feet which holds until the end of the cave is reached. This entire depression is due to the removal of earth for making saltpeter. It is evident that a vast amount of material has been carried out. As in the first cave, excavation would be very difficult and expensive. All rock and earth would have to be carried up a steep grade, or a deep cut made to wheel it out. As the light is very dim at the first widening of the walls, it is not probable the space farther back would be occupied unless as a refuge. Both caves were eroded by water running _into_ the hill, and the end of each is abrupt, the roof being higher and the walls farther apart than at any point nearer the entrance. The original outlets are now filled with earth, and apparently have been so for ages. FORT DEPOSIT CAVE.--Six miles below Guntersville the highway to Huntsville crosses the Tennessee River at Fort Deposit Ferry and passes out through a narrow valley between two bluffs. Less than 100 yards above the landing, on the north, or right, bank, is a large cave from which the spot takes its name; there being a tradition that it was used by General Jackson as a storage room for supplies during the Creek Indian war. On either side the bluff is vertical to the water's edge, making the cave now inaccessible except by boat. In front of the entrance the rock is worn in ledges which can be easily ascended. The opening or mouth of the cave is oval in form, about 18 feet high and 15 feet wide. The sides are uneven, there being a projecting shelf on each side near the floor. At 40 feet from the opening these disappear, owing to the narrowing of the cavern. There is a gradual ascent of the floor toward the rear, the rise being about 2 feet in the first 60 and more rapid from that point onward. A thin deposit of dried mud on each side, where it escapes the feet of visitors, shows that the river enters the cave at times, but not to a depth that carries it back more than 25 feet. The present ferryman says the flood of 1867 is the only one which has reached so far within that period. After clearing away the earth, roots, and rocks at the front, a straight vertical face at a distance of 18 feet from the entrance measured 9½ feet at top and 5 feet at the bottom between the solid rock wall on each side, and was 4 feet 4 inches high. The floor was not of solid rock entirely across, there being a crevice less than 4 feet wide which was not cleaned out, because no one could have lived in it. About the middle of this bank (vertically) streaks of red earth, burned elsewhere, extended 3½ feet out from the right wall; there was very little ashes and no charcoal mixed with it. Above this red the earth was dark like garden soil and contained a few shells and fragments of pottery, with a little charcoal and ashes; it had all been disturbed and apparently resulted from scraping the débris away from camp fires. Below this, the line of demarcation being very distinct, the earth was yellow and sandy, like river bottom land, and contained no foreign matter except roots of trees growing outside. Figure 23 shows a section on this line; the crevice is omitted from this and the subsequent illustrations. At 20 feet in, a foot below the top of the dark earth, was some charred corn. The yellow earth became irregular, thinner, and higher against the side walls than at the center. (See fig. 24.) At 22 feet the yellow earth had nearly run out, there being only a small amount against either wall, while the darker earth reached down into the crevice that opened in the narrow strip of rock floor. In the lower portion were mingled a few shells, pebbles, and specks of charcoal, as if it had been thrown there. Across the upper portion of the deposit extended fire beds, burned earth, ashes, shells, broken pottery, and occasionally a fragment of bone. (See fig. 25.) [Illustration: FIG. 23.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 18 feet.] At 24 feet it was found that what had been taken for a solid floor in the last section represented was only a large flat rock which had fallen into the crevice and wedged tightly. When this was passed the yellow earth reappeared, at a slightly lower level. [Illustration: FIG. 24.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 20 feet.] [Illustration: FIG. 25.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 22 feet.] At 26 feet the yellow earth became mixed with red. It was excavated to a depth of 5 feet in the endeavor to discover the reason for this. As there was not the slightest trace of ashes or charcoal, the red admixture must be a natural result of staining by iron in some form and not due to heat. Above the yellow was the usual stratum of dark earth, containing culinary débris. In the central portion of this was a mass, sufficient to fill a wheelbarrow, of angular, unburnt fragments of limestone from 3 to 15 pounds in weight. On the surface of the dark earth were some ten or twelve fire beds, reaching from wall to wall, the edges overlapping and interlacing in so confusing a manner that the exact number could not be made out. (See fig. 26.) At this stage it appeared that the crevice, or at least its upper part, had been filled by river floods and a slight ridge of sand thrown across the mouth of the cave. The Indians, it seems, occupied both this ridge and the lower area behind it, throwing débris to the rear to fill up the depression instead of carrying it all to the outside. It is equally possible, however, that this waste was brought from points farther back and thrown here to fill and level the floor. These heavy fire beds came to an end at about 28 feet on the right and 29 feet on the left. A section at 28 feet is given in figure 27. At their inner margin, among the ordinary refuse characteristic of such deposits, were many fragments of human bones, including ulnas of two individuals, one much larger than the other. They plainly indicated cannibalism, as they were broken when thrown here. Besides the ulnas, there are pieces of ribs, scapula, tibia, and feet. [Illustration: FIG. 26.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 26 feet.] At 29 feet the underlying yellow earth became comparatively level across its upper surface, again closely resembling a river deposit. The darker earth above it contained a greater amount than heretofore of ashes, bones in small pieces, potsherds, mussel, snail, and periwinkle shells, and the like. More charred corn was found along here. [Illustration: FIG. 27.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 28 feet.] At 30 feet the yellow earth began to rise, and at 32 feet it was very little more than 3 feet lower than the top of the highest ashes. A section at this point is shown in figure 28. At 35 feet the strata became quite regular and uniform from wall to wall. The dark earth, next above the yellow, measured 3 feet in thickness at the center, and while showing by its admixture of ashes, etc., that it had been thrown here, had evidently formed the floor for a considerable time. The upper foot was burned red or dark from long-continued fires, the ashes above it being from 6 to 8 inches thick, and forming the present floor of the cave at this place. The dark earth contained much less of refuse than nearer the entrance; such shells and ashes as appeared were promiscuously distributed and not in little piles or masses as before. A section at 35½ feet appears in figure 29. It may be remarked here that this is the only sketch in which the upper line coincides with the surface of the deposits. In the others a thin covering, less than 6 inches at any point, of disintegrated material from walls and roof covers the ashes left by aboriginal fires. This is omitted from the drawings. [Illustration: FIG. 28.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 30 feet.] At 38 feet the yellow earth had risen until it was within 3 feet of the top of the entire overlying deposit. The latter contained little of the dark earth, being mostly composed of ashes and burned earth, some of which resulted from fires made on the spot, but the greater part being thrown from other points. The rise of the yellow earth, consequently, is more rapid than the rise of the material covering it. [Illustration: FIG. 29.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 35½ feet.] At 40 feet there was a dip in the yellow earth, extending for 4 or 5 feet and descending 2 feet at the deepest point. This may be due to drainage at a lower level. At 47½ feet a pocket of the dark earth extended a few inches into the underlying yellow earth. A hole seems to have been dug into the latter. There was no more of foreign material in this hole than elsewhere in the dark earth above and around it. It is shown in figure 30. [Illustration: FIG. 30.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 47½ feet.] The amount of shells, pottery, etc., had been decreasing for several feet before this point was reached; indeed, from 40 feet onward there was very little of it--enough, however, to show that all the dark earth had been disturbed and thoroughly mixed. The fire beds, too, while holding their depth of about a foot, contained more earth between the successive layers of ashes, showing as great age, probably, as those nearer the entrance, but less continuous occupation. This condition prevailed to about 60 feet from the entrance, at which point the yellow earth, now mixed with sand and gravel, was only 3 feet below the surface of the floor. The appearance of this line is sketched in figure 31. [Illustration: FIG. 31.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 60 feet.] At 62 feet there was a dip in the yellow earth, extending to 67 feet and 2 feet deep at its lowest point; it then rose to the usual level. At 70 feet ashes appeared in greater quantities; at 73 feet the dark earth was only a foot thick, the ashes and burned earth being 2 feet thick and apparently all dumped, as there was no definite arrangement of the various parts. (See fig. 32.) A small perforated disk and a double-pointed bone needle were found here. The fire beds now began to thin out rapidly, the dark earth also diminishing in quantity, until at 80 feet, from which point the entrance was no longer visible owing to curvature of the walls, there was only 5 or 6 inches of them in all, resting directly on the yellow earth, which contained much more clay than farther toward the front. The walls began to diverge here, forming a room whose greatest width was 11 feet 6 inches at 95 feet. At 100 feet a reverse curve brought the cavern on a course parallel to that which it had held up to 60 feet. [Illustration: FIG. 32.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 70 feet.] At 90 feet there was evidence of fire at one side, the ashes and burned earth being 5 inches thick at the wall, and thinning out to a feather edge within 4 feet. This was the last fireplace discovered which may not with certainty be attributed to white men. The yellow earth, presenting no evidence of having been disturbed since originally deposited, reached from the superficial layer of loose dry earth to the bottom of the trench, a depth of 4 feet 8 inches. Below this point the walls were less than 4 feet apart, and the space filled with gravel, as shown in figure 33. This gravel had exactly the appearance of that in gullies on the hills outside, and plainly dates back to the period at which the cave was formed. The stream which aided in the erosion, or which flowed through from some sink hole or other outside opening, carried this gravel into the crevice. Consequently, even if the space between the walls had been ample for dwelling purposes, an attempt to live here when the gravel was being carried in would result in the intending settler having his effects washed out into the river. [Illustration: FIG. 33.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 90 feet.] At 93 feet the side walls confining the yellow clay narrowed to a little less than 5 feet apart. The upper portion of the one to the left has been eroded into a recess or cavity, forming the chamber above mentioned. The earth on the rock floor in this recess is nowhere more than a foot deep. A section is presented in figure 34. At 100 feet the room came to an end. The space between the walls was 7½ feet at the floor level and 4 feet at a depth of 4 feet. At 105 feet the nearly vertical walls were only 5 feet apart on the floor; at 112 feet the space increased to 7 feet. A section showed about a foot of loose earth mixed with ashes; 3 feet of yellow clayey earth, rather compact; then gravel and sand. The latter was dug into for a foot, at which level the walls were converging and it was useless to go any deeper. Enough was done, however, to verify the supposition that this stratum was due to the action of running water seeking its outlet at the mouth of the cave. At 103 feet, at the bottom of the yellow clay and on top of the gravel, was a chalcedony pebble about 2½ inches in diameter. The material is foreign to this locality. It had plainly been used as a hammer stone, and is the only object of human origin found anywhere below the dark earth. There was not the slightest evidence of any disturbance of the clay in which it rested. [Illustration: FIG. 34.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 93 feet.] At 120 feet the side walls were only 5 feet apart. At 125 feet they again diverged slightly, and a recess on the left forms a chamber 12 feet across. At 150 feet they had drawn in to 8 feet at the widest interval. A section showed loose dry earth, some of it cemented by drip from the roof until about as hard as lump chalk; then compact clayey earth, also with travertine in small lumps; below this the gravel and sand. The latter, at this point, seems to have been deposited in the last stages of the formation of the cave. Occasionally, along here, a small patch appeared that seemed to be ashes; but none of it was more than 6 inches below the top of the ground, and the substance may not have been ashes at all, but the fine white limestone dust that wears off from the stone. There was nothing in the trench, at any depth, after the chalcedony pebble, that could possibly be due to human intervention, except these small patches of ashes, if ashes they are. At 165 feet from the entrance the cave made its fourth turn and expanded into a chamber about 15 feet wide. Along the sides of this and in the various crevices opening from it were great quantities of clean ashes, plainly enough thrown there from fires made in the central part. The gravel came to within 3 to 5 feet of the top, being quite irregular. On the gravel was dry clay, seamed and fissured in all directions so that it fell out under the pick in clods like angular pebbles from an inch to 3 or 4 inches across. This was clearly the result of muddy water settling in a hole and thoroughly evaporating. There was also some travertine in small lumps here and there through the clay, and above it was a mass fully 2 feet thick at one side of the trench but running out before it reached the other side. It was porous, almost spongy, and seemed to be the lime dust from the roof and sides cemented by dripping water. Above all this, so far as the trench extended toward the sides of the cave, was an inch to 4 inches of loose, dry, dark earth, which on the left dipped down to the clay, thus replacing the travertine. [Illustration: FIG. 35.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 175 feet.] [Illustration: FIG. 36.--Cross section of Fort Deposit Cave at 180 feet.] At 175 feet the gravel had leveled down and was more or less mixed with clay and sand. Above this was another "mudhole deposit" of clay which had thoroughly dried out and become checked and cracked in all directions. On the right this was covered with travertine slightly mixed with earth and clay; on the left, above it and also at one place within it, was a coarse gritty earth fallen from the roof but not converted into a compact travertine. The section appears in figure 35. At 180 feet the trench was carried to a depth of 6 feet. This exposed a fine clay and sand, or silt, like that deposited in the eddies of streams. Above this was another deposit of "mudhole" material which had thoroughly dried out, checked and cracked in all directions so that it formed angular masses of various sizes, and had then become wet again so that it was now soft and sticky. To the left of this, on the silt also, was a small amount of the gravel. It had the appearance common to a bank of such material on the side of a little stream which has undermined and carried away part of it. Clearly, these three formations were of an age that witnessed the erosion of the cave. Next above them was a stratum of loose dark earth similar to that noticed in the front part of the cavern; but here were found no traces whatever of man's presence. Into the right side of this stratum projected the wedge-like edge of a mass of travertine, which was not traced to a termination. Over all lay a deposit 3 or 4 inches thick of dark, nearly black earth, mixed with ashes. This is quite modern. The section appears in figure 36. During the Civil War the cave was continuously resorted to by deserters, refugees, moonshiners, fugitives, and "food for powder, dodging the conscript." All these sought shelter in this chamber and behind it, in order that their fires might not be visible from the river. The piles of ashes in the crevices and corners were thrown there by these hiders-out, to get them out of the way. Similar but smaller piles of ashes are to be seen all along as far as the spring, 200 yards from the entrance. The presence of pottery of a type common to this region in fields and shell heaps, and of maize, denotes that all the fire beds, etc., are the results of habitation by the modern Indian. Where these ceased nothing else was found. In or below the yellow earth, clay, or gravel, nothing can be found; for until these were laid down and the stream of the cave had sought another outlet, there was no dry place in which to live. It may be worth recording that a dead mulberry tree stood about 20 feet in front of the entrance to the cave. Under it was a narrow crevice filled with earth, but all around it was bare rock. A root, larger than the tree, grew into the cave and followed along one side wall as if fastened there for a distance of some 60 feet. Here the earth floor of the cave came high enough to cover it. This root was exposed for 160 feet in the trench, or 180 feet from the tree; at this point it was 3 inches in diameter and turned aside into a crevice. As the root could not have grown in the open air, it furnished proof that much deposited material has been carried out of the front portion of the cavern and away from the ledge since this tree was a sprout. III. EXPLORATIONS ALONG THE MISSOURI RIVER BLUFFS IN KANSAS AND NEBRASKA VICINITY OF WHITE CLOUD, KANSAS About 4 miles southeast of White Cloud, Kansas, is the "Taylor Mound," from which Mark E. Zimmerman and William Park took 56 skeletons, or portions of skeletons, in a space not more than 6 by 20 feet. This was clearly an intrusive communal burial of skeletons carried from some other point and interred in the mound which owed its origin to persons who had piled it up at some previous time. The bones, which were not arranged in any order, were 30 inches beneath the present surface of the mound, but this does not mean they were no deeper originally, as the mound has been plowed for many years and is in a situation where it will easily wear down when cultivated. A few feet away, at a depth of 7 feet, other bones, or fragments of bones, were found in a mass of burned clay. A cremation had taken place at some point away from the mound, and the resultant burned earth, with so much of the bone matter as was not destroyed by the fire, was carried here and buried. The depth in this instance is not significant; the earth is loose and very easily dug; besides, the grave pit was near the margin of the mound and earth had washed down over it from above. Some stones, carried from neighboring ravines, have been exposed by the wear due to erosion from natural causes and from cultivation. The main portion of the structure is still intact, and it is probable that no deposits belonging to it at the time of its construction have been unearthed. A systematic exploration, showing the original construction as well as the alterations resulting from later burials, is much to be desired. While this is the largest mound in the vicinity, and is claimed to be the largest mound in Kansas, it is not different except in size from many others within a few miles. All of them are made of the same earth as that which lies around them--a light, sandy loess which is easily removed with a shovel, requiring no picking or other loosening. In fact, it is almost as easy to dig as loose sand would be. Sometimes there are flat limestones in or around the graves; similar slabs are found not far away in the ravines. Not far from this mound is a large lodge site, one of the so-called "buffalo wallows" as they are commonly known. These are the ruins of aboriginal houses. The general construction is the same, the only practical difference being that some are square in outline, others round. This difference is not always apparent prior to the excavation. In the making, a pit was dug, square or round as desired, and the earth thrown out on every side. Posts were then set around the margin of the excavation, and the house built in the same manner as those with which we are familiar from accounts of early travelers. Many of them have been examined by Zimmerman and Park, who found masses of hard-burned earth in which are cavities and depressions due to the burning of straw, grass, twigs, and poles, used in the construction of the houses. This results from the destruction of the houses by fire. Sometimes the floor has a layer of this burned material which is evidently due to the falling in of the roof. Most of these are on the hilltops, but some of them are on narrow ridges leading from the high land to the creek or river bottoms. In the latter event there is always a village site on the low ground bordering the stream. The relics gathered up on these village sites are in no wise different from those found when the lodge sites are excavated; and also are of the same character as those picked up on what are no doubt modern village sites in the vicinity. This fact militates against the idea that the lodge sites are extremely ancient. IOWA POINT On a low hill, cut off on every side by steep ravines, is a small mound containing a cist grave. The bottom of this, which was dug slightly below the natural surface, was covered with a pavement of limestone slabs. The grave was roughly oval or triangular in outline, measuring about 7 by 9 feet. Around it was a wall of similar stones, set in contact and sloping outward at an angle of about 40 degrees from the vertical. There was nothing whatever in this grave. At the edge of the mound was a box grave 5½ by 2½ by 2½ feet, the longer axis on a radial line. It was made of small flat stones built up like a wall, the only grave of which I could learn that had any resemblance to the vault graves farther down the Missouri. In the grave were two skulls and some other bones, all bunched in the northern end. NEAR THE MOUTH OF THE NEMAHA RIVER Lewis and Clark, in their journal, mention that when camped near the mouth of the Nemaha, one or both of them went to an Indian village about 2 miles up the stream. He, or they, climbed a low ridge near the river and stood on a mound which commanded a fine view of the surrounding country. There is a dispute as to the site of this mound; but the journal plainly says it was on the lower (east) side of a little creek which comes in here. Two miles farther up is a larger mound on higher ground which is generally supposed to be the one meant by the explorer; but this is on the other side of the creek and at some distance from the Pawnee village which was located near the mouth of the creek, on the lower side. The ground where this village stood is covered over a space of several acres with the ordinary débris of an Indian settlement; and it is significant that all the relics found are so similar to those which are called "ancient" when found in the lodge sites, that no one could determine from inspection which kind came from which place. Unless it may exist in the markings in the pottery, no distinction can be made between these specimens and similar ones from other localities. The Pawnees lived here until 1837, when the Iowas and Otoes made a sortie upon the unsuspecting inhabitants and killed all of them they could overcome. Two women of the Iowa tribe who were living on the reservation in 1914 remember seeing dead bodies lying around wherever the invaders could find and kill a resident. A short distance below the explorers carved their names on a rock which projected into the stream. Accounts as to this spot differ; it is generally stated that in making a road around here, the rock containing the names was blasted away; but a man in the neighborhood who claims to know the exact spot says the blasting did not extend quite so far and that the names are covered by a mass of earth and rock which slid from the bluff many years ago. If this be true, a thrill awaits the man who finds the names some centuries from now, when the river has washed away all this accumulated material. * * * VICINITY OF TROY, KANSAS Near the mouth of Wolf River is a village site on which Dr. R.S. Dinsmore, of Troy, has counted 125 tipi sites. Relics are very abundant here, especially the small chert "thumb-scrapers," which outnumber all other specimens. MOUTH OF MOSQUITO CREEK Four miles east of Troy, on a ridge so steep that its top is inaccessible from either side, and so narrow that a wagon would make a track on each slope, is a little mound worn down until its true nature would not be suspected. Dr. Dinsmore was on this ridge one day and noticed a flat limestone rock. Knowing that it had no place in the loess, he began digging to ascertain the reason for it being there. At a depth of a few inches he found bones, and soon unearthed a number of skulls, with only his hands or a stick. Coming back later with tools, he found, in all, 56 skulls. Afterwards he found others, and persons in the neighborhood have exhumed many more. The deposit represents a communal burial, from a village which probably stood on the level creek bottom not far away. A few skeletons showed an attempt at orderly arrangement. These were probably of individuals who had not been dead long at the time of the general burial. Most of the bones, however, skulls and others, were piled in the smallest possible area, as if gathered up in sacks or baskets from previous burials and carried here for reinterment. The soil is so loose as to be easily dug with the hands, like sand; but at the same time so fine and close packed as to shed water almost like a roof. Owing to the steep slope at every point, except toward the summit of the ridge, there must be some erosion, and consequently the age of the burials can not be great. Yet, the same conditions prevail in other places where a great antiquity is claimed for the remains. Frost necessarily disintegrates the soil to some extent; the wind or rain carries away the loosened portions; and this process is continuous. The shape of the mound shows that when the burials were made the ridge was essentially identical in form with its present aspect. The bones also are comparatively fresh in appearance, and it may be considered certain that they can not date back many generations. On the top of a hill rising from the opposite side of Mosquito Creek Dr. Dinsmore found a low mound, which, like that just described, would not have been suspected as such but for a stone projecting from the surface. Under this stone, with 8 inches of earth intervening, was a skull so completely mineralized that it appears to be carved from a block of limestone. No other portions of the body to which it belonged remained, though traces in the surrounding earth showed that at least the larger bones and perhaps the entire skeleton had been deposited. Bones in other parts of the mound were in their natural condition; that is, they were not altered from their ordinary appearance, although only in fragments. It is remarkable that this entire cranium should thus change while all the other bones, even the jaw, had disappeared. The description of this find is from Dr. Dinsmore, who has the skull in his office. Possibly he may be in error in stating that traces were found of other bones belonging with it. These may have belonged to another individual. The soil is ordinary sandy loess, containing lime but not in such quantity as to account for this alteration. Perhaps the skull may be from an older burial somewhere, the petrifaction having taken place before it was buried here. * * * RULO, NEBRASKA Particular attention was paid to conditions a mile north of Rulo, where it is reported that human skeletons were found in the Kansan drift. It was not the intention of the discoverer to have it understood that these remains were in undisturbed drift, but such is the impression that has gained credence. At the settlement of the country by whites the road constructed across a ravine here, on the section line nearest the river about three-eighths of a mile away, followed the natural contour and the crossing was made without difficulty. Since then a deep washout has worked its way to some distance above this point, making a long bridge necessary. From the head of the washout to the Missouri River the banks are vertical, or nearly so, on each side of the little stream. It was in the bank on the south side that the bones were found. It is stated they were 7 feet under the surface; if so there must have been a mound above them, for the lowest excavation does not reach over 5 feet below the present level of the ground, and at that extends slightly below the bottom of the grave. Within 40 years the Missouri River, which is now more than a mile away toward the Missouri shore, flowed at the foot of a slight bluff terminating the slope from the high land toward the west; there was formerly a steamboat landing on the upper side of the ravine. On the lower side is a triangular area of about an acre, bounded by the bluff, the river bank, and the ravine. This was an excellent location for an Indian village or camp. A narrow level strip extends from the mouth of the ravine to a point near the bridge, some distance above where the remains were found. It is quite clear that the skeletons were the remains of individuals who had died at the camp on the river's bank and had been carried here for burial. This may have occurred within the last hundred years or in fact at any time while the Indians were still living in this vicinity. The flood level of the Missouri is not more than 15 feet lower than the level space along the sides of the ravine. The little intermittent stream has cut down this depth through a deposit which is composed of river sediment, wash from the hills on each side, and material carried from higher levels by the brook itself in rainy seasons. At only one point is there a real glacial deposit, and this does not extend for more than 50 feet horizontally, and does not reach to the top of the bank. It is at some distance from the graves, and may be due to a lobe of the ice or to an iceberg. However formed or deposited here it has no relation whatever to the skeletons. In a sense, the material in which they were buried is "Kansan drift"; but it is drift which has been redistributed and has come into its present position within a few centuries at the most. * * * NEAR HOWE, NEBRASKA Mr. Sam P. Hughes, who lives near Howe, has done considerable excavating in that vicinity. He is an intelligent man and an ardent student, but his ideas in regard to the age of his discoveries need much revision downward. His chief work has been done north of Howe at a place 9 miles from the nearest point on the Missouri River. Here is a small level area at the end of a ridge sloping away in every direction except at the narrow isthmus connecting it with the fields beyond, which are at a level only slightly higher. Thus there is no chance for any accumulation from the adjacent surface. On this ridge are a few lodge sites which Hughes has excavated. In every respect they are similar to lodge sites reported from other localities in this region. The walls, the depression, the floor, the fireplace, are all the same. The depressions are filled with earth to a depth of 18 to 22 inches above the level of the old floor; and Hughes reports that wherever he has dug on this ridge he has found flint chips, charcoal, fragments of pottery, and scraps of bone to about the same depth. Next below the soil is the Kansan glacial drift; but the assertion that objects found at this depth are of the same age as the drift is not necessarily or even presumably correct. * * * PERU, NEBRASKA On various hills in the vicinity of Peru are lodge sites, some of them circular, some rectangular, some with straight sides and rounded corners. Most of them have been dug in at random; in every case after a certain depth of accumulated earth and trash is passed through, there is a layer of clay which formed the roof, and beneath this the hard earth floor with fireplace usually in the center but sometimes a little toward one side. * * * PAPILLION, NEBRASKA At the time of my visit, Dr. Frederick H. Sterns, of the Peabody Museum, was working near here. He described himself as "the man who is extremely anxious to find a glacial or other very ancient man, but so far has not succeeded in getting track of him." Dr. Sterns did not claim a period antedating the Indian for anything he had then unearthed--meaning the known Indian tribes. * * * VICINITY OF OMAHA, NEBRASKA To the southward of Omaha are many lodge sites of varying depths and diameters. The deepest one reported had a depth of 9 feet below the surrounding surface, and at the bottom of this was a pit (or "cache," as they are locally known) with an additional depth of 4 feet, or 13 feet of excavation in all. This was near the so-called "cannibal house," where 14 human frontal bones were found under conditions which indicate they had belonged to individuals who were eaten by other inmates of the lodge. A short distance from these sites, across a ravine, is a bare, narrow ridge, very steep on each side, so that erosion would readily act. On the sloping summit of this are three small mounds which cover communal burials. From one of these, the one farthest from the summit of the hill, more than 80 skulls were taken and boys in the neighborhood have since taken many more. They are all of the ordinary Indian type, and can not have been buried more than a few generations ago; but this fact has not prevented an age of "twenty thousand years" being assigned to them. There is absolutely no reason for fixing this or any other date. There is nothing whatever to indicate the age, but 200 years would probably not be far from the mark, because erosion has been slight since the mounds were piled up. LONG'S HILL This ridge has attained some notoriety as the site of Gilder's discovery of the "Nebraska Man." The claim is made that human bones were found at a depth of 14 feet in absolutely undisturbed loess. The hill is a narrow ridge, facing the river on one side and a deep ravine on the other. It is somewhat winding in its course and is connected with the more level land in the rear at about half a mile from its end. A wagon road up the point, from the river bottom to the hilltop, shows undisturbed loess the entire distance. There is no possibility of accumulation by wash or in any other manner except decaying vegetation on any part of this ridge. Along the crest are several small mounds. Some of these, as shown by excavation, cover graves, and the presumption is that all of them mark burial places. It is needless to make any résumé of Gilder's report, as it is so well known, further than to say that he found burials and fragmentary human bones at various levels from 2½ to 14 feet. At 4½ feet were burned bones lying upon burned earth and mingled with it. This layer, burned hard as a brick, served to prevent water from penetrating the earth immediately below; and it is in this earth that the deepest remains were found. There are three ways, and only three, in which they could get there: 1. They were washed in when the loess was deposited, as claimed by the discoverers and by some of the Nebraska geologists. In support of this view is the assertion that the bones were water-worn. On this point I can not venture any opinion, as I have not seen them. But I have found bones in mounds and in other situations where such wear was impossible and yet having the smoothed and rounded appearance characteristic of such action by water or the elements. In support of this theory, too, is the positive statement of Nebraska geologists who have had ample opportunity to become familiar with loess in all its phases; and they claim the deposit is the original and has not been disturbed. It is necessary for these advocates, however, to tell where such fragments of bones could have come from and how they could have been washed to the place where found, when all these bluffs were covered with water, as they had to be at that time. 2. The bones could have been carried by rodents into their burrows or runways, as Hrdlicka suggests. In this case the material in contact with the bones would have to be somewhat different in appearance and consistency from that which lay a few inches, or perhaps only an inch, away. The Nebraska men say this was not the case. 3. There may have been an excavation or pit similar to that in which the Hurons buried their dead. But as no such burial pits have been discovered in this part of the country, this supposition must be excluded. A corollary to the last is that a deep but small pit similar to the so-called "caches" in the lodge sites may have been dug here and the bones thrown in. There is no indication whatever of a lodge site or any other form of habitation at this point, but I have found such pits in the vicinity of Indian houses, though not just on their site. The deepest one I have ever found was 10½ feet and less than 6 feet in diameter. There would be no difficulty in digging into this loose material as far as an excavator cared to go, until he had reached a depth at which he could no longer get the loosened earth to the surface of the ground. As mentioned above, a pit south of Omaha had a depth of 13 feet, or only 1 foot less than is claimed for this--or rather for the greatest depth at which it is claimed fragments of bone were found. The objection made to this theory is that the earth thrown out of the hole was unmixed, presenting throughout the appearance and consistency of loess as it occurs where exposed in ravines or on slopes in the vicinity. It is contended that if any previous excavation had been made here and filled up afterwards the mixed earth would be easily distinguished from that which was not removed, and that the line of demarcation would be easily discernible. As a rule, this is true; but when dry loose earth of homogeneous consistency is thrown out of a pit and then thrown in again without becoming mixed with any other it is sometimes impossible to distinguish it at a later excavation. This is especially true of earth free from vegetable matter, as ordinary sand; or composed largely of vegetable mold, as the soil in overflow lands which have built up mainly from floods carrying uniform soil sediment. The line of demarcation between the dug and the undug earth in such conditions may become indistinguishable except when a vertical face is made which shall show a clear section of both in contact. It is now too late to learn anything about the matter from the site itself. So many persons have been digging that it would be impossible to know when the limit is reached between the original excavation--assuming it to have been made--when the bodies were interred, and that resulting from the modern researches. The question of age hinges upon the appearance of the earth in which the bones were found; and the only way in which we can now learn anything about it is to trench across the hill at some of the other burial places, in the hope of finding bones at a similar level, and determining from the conditions in which these are found how they came there. It is beyond question that any soil, humus, or other discolored matter thrown into an excavation with ordinary soil or subsoil will be apparent for an indefinite time afterwards. But on some of these high points and ridges there is even now not a trace of soil. Frost and wind have worn bare spots where nothing grows or has grown for a long time. As this region was a prairie devoid of even brush when the whites settled here, it is evident that such slight protection as grass or weeds afford would not be sufficient to hold the earth in place in winter, and when the ground is once swept bare such humble forms of growth may not get a foothold in future. Anyone who has studied surface geology knows these facts. So at present the whole question of the age of these bones resolves itself into a statement of one party that they were found in undisturbed loess, as reported; and of the inability of another party to show that there may have been an error of observation or a mistaken interpretation. There need be no such doubt in regard to the age of the mounds or the lodge sites. It would not take many centuries for mounds upon these sharp, exposed ridges to be entirely washed away, in spite of the fact that the fine loess is almost impermeable. Rain may not reduce them to an appreciable extent, but frost and wind will gradually wear them down. As to the lodge sites, their similarity to modern Indian houses is so pronounced that we are fully justified in attributing them to the same degree of culture as that of the Indians of a century ago. The only point of difference is that the latter dwellings have not such deep excavations, but the incursion of war-like tribes, or the restlessness that impels a primitive community to be frequently on the move, seems a simpler explanation of the difference than to suppose that identical types are separated by a great period of time. Three points must be taken into consideration in fixing a definite age for these remains: 1. The relics found in and around the lodge sites, except for the markings on some of the pottery, are in no wise different from those picked up on the sites of villages which were occupied when Lewis and Clark came through here. 2. Fairly solid bones of animals, and occasionally of humans, are found in the bottoms of the lodge sites, even where these are damp most of the year. In the pits, where such remains are preserved by ashes, this would not mean much; but where they are found in clayey earth it is evident that "thousands of years" is a meaningless term to apply to them. 3. Persons who claim these "thousands of years" for pretty much everything they find in the ground must explain why it is that while the bones and implements of these assumed "ancients" are found in such quantities and in such good preservation, those of later Indians should have entirely disappeared. The only tenable theory of age is the amount of accumulation in the depressions of the lodge sites. Above the clay which formed the roof, and is next to the floor now, is a depth of material sometimes (it is said) as much as 20 or even 22 inches of mingled silt, decayed vegetation, and soil from the surrounding wall. It is used as an argument of age that as these sites are on hilltops where there can be no inwash, this depth must indicate a very remote period for their construction. But a large amount of the earth thrown out into the surrounding ring or wall will find its way back into the depression. The water will stand in them a good part of the year, and the soil remain damp even in prolonged drought; vegetation is thus more luxuriant than on the outside, and its decay will fill up rather rapidly. In addition, much sand blows from the prairies as well as from the bottom lands, and whatever finds its way into the pit will stay there; it will not blow away again as it would in open ground. The weeds, also, will catch and retain much of this dust which would pass over a dry surface. Consequently the allowance of an inch in a century, which is the most that advocates of great age will allow for accumulation, is much too small. The topography of the region was essentially the same when these remains were constructed as it is now. The hills and valleys were as they now exist; the erosion has been very slight as compared with what has taken place since the loess was brought above the water, to which it owes its origin. This statement is fully proven by the position of the mounds and lodge sites. Any estimate of age must be only a guess at the best, but it is a safe guess that no earthwork, mound, lodge site, or human bone along this part of the Missouri River has been here as long as 10 centuries. IV. ABORIGINAL HOUSE MOUNDS The small, low, flattened mounds of the lower Mississippi Valley are a problem to archeologists. They have been studied principally near the Mississippi River, in Arkansas and Missouri, and for many years it was thought that in the latter State they are confined entirely to the southeastern portion. Recently they have been found much farther to the north and the west than they were supposed to exist. A group, rather limited as to number and to the area covered, is at the head of a narrow valley trending northward from Granite Mountain in Iron County. "Near Iron Mountain, in St. François County, more than 500 of these small mounds, arranged in parallel rows following the direction of the watercourses, were counted within a radius of 3 miles."[1] The next group known north of this is on the right bank of Plattin Creek in Jefferson County, about 12 miles from the Mississippi. "A group of some 50 similar mounds is situated on the right bank of the Meramec, about 6 miles above its mouth, in Jefferson County."[2] The most northern group so far observed is near Ferguson in St. Louis County, Missouri, where 46 are located on a narrow ridge which has the same general elevation as the table-land. The ridge extends around the head of a ravine, and the mounds are placed along its crest or on the gentle slopes near the top. There are 10 or 12 at the southern edge of Ferguson, on an overflow bottom bordering a small creek. Toward the west from the swamp region a small group is in a broad valley near Alton in Oregon County, which borders on Arkansas. They are scattered along a gentle slope which has a little stream at the foot. In Dent County four groups are known. One is on the infirmary farm south of the town of Salem. Most of these are but slightly changed from their natural condition. Another group is 6 miles east of Salem. These also are largely intact. A third is on the road from Salem to Short Bend. The fourth is at the edge of Salem, on the Rolla road. "On the high plateau of Dallas County, north of the Niangua ... within an area smaller than 10 square miles, 860 were counted."[3] Three groups are well marked in Phelps County. A mile east of Rolla they begin at the line of the Frisco Railway and extend southward in a shallow valley or "draw." Some are on the overflow flat bordering the little stream, but most of them are on the slopes to either side. South of Dillon they extend for a mile in a slight depression. Beginning at the Soldier's Home in St. James, the largest number yet found out of the swamp region lie for 2½ miles on both sides of a small creek running eastward north of the Frisco Railway. These reach from low land subject to overflow to an elevation of fully 50 feet up the hillsides. Several groups occur in Pulaski County. Four miles southwest of Big Piney post office, near the site of what is known as "The Ranch House," is a little wet-weather stream along both banks of which are probably a hundred of these structures. Farther up this stream are two other groups, the three including a distance of about 4 miles in length between their outer limits. West of these and south of Bloodland is a fourth group belonging with these. In the level bottom between Big Piney River and the branch flowing from the Miller Spring 2 miles from Big Piney post office a number of these mounds formerly existed; and on the opposite side of the Big Piney, in an extensive bottom, were many of them. All these have now disappeared under cultivation. On the outer bend of the Devil's Elbow, on Big Piney 3 miles above its mouth, some of these mounds stood. They are described as being from 2 to 3 feet high; the number was not stated, but there is not room for many in the narrow strip where they were located. In the extreme western part of Morgan County, at Stover, is a group scattered over an area at least half a mile across in any direction. The distance between the mounds varies from 25 to 150 feet. They are mostly on gentle slopes, though some are on the crest of the ridges. Many of these are well preserved, some of them having never been under cultivation. In Osage County there are more than a hundred at the eastern edge of Rich Fountain. They are in low flat ground which is muddy or even boggy in wet weather. It will be noticed that all those from Alton westward and north-westward are in line with the route from southeastern Missouri to the plains of Kansas and Nebraska. Practically, however, the northern limit of this type, in great numbers, is in St. François County, near Farmington. From here they extend almost continuously into Louisiana and Texas. In nearly every part of southern Missouri east of the Iron Mountain Railway they occur in closely connected groups, reaching sometimes for miles except where the continuity is broken by a slough or other unfavorable condition. They are found everywhere--on high, well-drained levels; on sloping ground, sometimes so steep that it may well be called a hillside; in low "crawfish land"; in swamps where, in the driest weather, even after a prolonged drought, they can be reached only by wading through water or muck. The last, however, may have been more easily accessible when built, their present condition being due to the general subsidence of this region during the earthquake period of 1811. The existing sloughs and sluggish bayous are the widenings and extensions of streams which at the time these mounds were constructed were no doubt bordered by banks above ordinary overflow and readily reached by canoes. Manifestly the country was well populated, and therefore presumably practically timberless; consequently the flood water would rapidly pass away and the streams not be choked by drift and other débris as is the case at present. Various theories, most of them advanced by persons who are but slightly, if at all, familiar with the country, have been propounded to account for mounds of this character. Their vast number has led some writers to believe that they can not be artificial but must be due to natural phenomena; as, for instance, that these, as indeed all mounds, were piled up by floods, Noachic, glacial, or local; or that they result from the industry and energy of burrowing animals, such as foxes, badgers, ground hogs, rabbits, prairie dogs, gophers, chipmunks, or even ants; the character of the assumed flood or the species of the supposed burrower depending to some extent upon locality, but principally upon the theorizer's insufficient knowledge of animal industry or of the action of torrential waters. Others are convinced they are formed by the piling up of earth around a bush, clump of grass, stone, or other object acting as a nucleus about which wind-borne material may accumulate--overlooking the fact that clay, gravel, or gumbo soil can not be carried by wind, and that lighter soil or sand will form elongated instead of circular masses. Another supposition is that they are due to stream erosion; flood waters washing away the soil between them and thus leaving the earth composing the mound in its original position. The same objection applies to this as to the wind-blown theory, namely, that we can not imagine water acting with such mathematical regularity and intelligent discrimination, especially upon slopes which lie at all sorts of angles with the trend of the current. Persons who recognize their human origin have suggested that they were erected as stands for hunters, from which they could detect game at a greater distance, or could take better aim as the animal passed; or perhaps as camping places while waiting; but in many places more than half the area of the ground over several acres is occupied by such piles of earth, promiscuously distributed. This implies more hunters than animals. For a long time it was supposed that they were burial mounds, like so many such structures found over the country; but this idea has been dispelled by the failure to discover in them any evidences of such purpose; no human bones nor any of the artificial objects commonly placed with the dead have ever been found in them unless under such conditions as to show their presence was accidental. Two very plausible theories have found general acceptance: That they were the sites of dwellings, placed on them to be out of the mud in wet weather; and that they were in the nature of garden beds, thus elevated for growing any food products which needed a comparatively dry soil, or might be injured by temporary accumulation of water from excessive rainfall. But they were not "residence mounds" or "house sites" in the sense that they furnished a base or foundation for structures which were used as dwellings; for there has never been found on their surface or in the earth immediately around them any of the débris invariably accompanying Indian huts or houses, such as fireplaces, ash beds, burned rocks, broken implements, or fragments of bones and pottery. These considerations also interfere with a full acceptance of the hypothesis that they are remains of houses built of wood and covered with earth. It is true that such evidence is very frequently found in other localities; but to establish the fact that they were residence sites, refuse of this kind should be found wherever the mounds occur. J.B. Thoburn arrived at this conclusion from the resemblance of some of them in their outlines to the grass-covered houses of the Pawnees; and it is believed that this tribe in its migration from the south followed approximately the route along which these small elevations are found. When the Pawnees--assuming they were the builders--passed on westward they could not procure timbers of sufficient strength to hold up the earth, so they used light frames and covered them with grass. Bushnell arrived earlier at the same conclusion. He says, concerning a few mounds of this character in Forest Park, St. Louis: "In the case of the seven mounds on the elevated grounds, the finding of potsherds, pieces of chipped chert, and the indication of fire, all on what appeared to have been the original surface, would point strongly to their having been the remains or ruins of earth-covered lodges." He gives citations from early explorers in support of this theory, and adds, "But in other mounds these indications did not occur."[4] Such an explanation finds support in the vast number of these structures. In building, the aborigines naturally chose the sort of timber which was soft and light, consequently easy to cut and to handle, such as willow or cottonwood. This soon decays. But no matter what variety of wood was utilized, not many years would be required, under the conditions supposed, to weaken its fiber until it could no longer uphold the weight of earth on the roof, and a new house must be erected. Several such renewals would be needed in the course of a century; so that the ruins of an ordinary village might create the impression that a large settlement had existed on its site. The explanation of "agricultural use" is probably correct in some instances, for frequently the mounds are made of earth gathered up around their base, and so not only would be of value in a wet season, but would afford a much greater depth of fertile soil for sustenance of plants. In some localities modern farmers find that on such mounds crops are much better than on the low spaces between them. On the other hand, a majority of the small mounds in the lower counties of southeastern Missouri are composed either of the hard, reddish, sandy clay which forms the subsoil of the land above overflow; or of the tough, waxy, black "gumbo" of the swampy or flat lowlands. In either case they are almost invariably sterile, so that in a cultivated field the position of a mound is easily determined even from a considerable distance by the feebler growth on its surface. Moreover, in many places, hundreds of them occurring within an area of a few square miles are built on clay lowlands where crawfish abound, within a few rods of sandy, well-drained ridges whose soil is never muddy more than a few hours after the hardest rain, and produces as fine corn and wheat as can be raised in any part of the State. In short, no matter what suggestion has been offered as to their purpose or uses, objections to it can be brought and sustained. It is not improbable that, in the end, it will be found the difficulty lies in trying to place in a hard and fast category a variety of structures which are similar in appearance but which were intended for various uses. With more comprehensive study, it may be that a classification is possible which will interpret what is now obscure. Instead of uniformity, there was probably great diversity of motives, ideas, and beliefs which led to the building of these as well as of other mounds; and when the key is once obtained the explanation which will account for one may be very different from that which as clearly accounts for another. A few of these mounds have been explored by the writer, but no discoveries were made upon which can be based a definite statement as to their probable purpose. * * * NEW MADRID COUNTY On the farm of A.B. Hunter, 7 miles north of New Madrid, more than 60 of these mounds, irregularly placed, extend for half a mile along the west bank of St. John's Bayou, the extreme width of the group being about 200 yards. The largest mound, standing on the edge of the terrace, was 6 feet high and 75 feet across. On the original surface, over a small area at the central part, were decayed fragments of human bones; so this was probably erected as a tumulus. The others were much smaller; from a foot to 3 feet high, and 30 to 50 feet in diameter. Six of these, varying in size from the largest to the smallest, were thoroughly excavated within the original margin and down to the undisturbed earth beneath them. No artificial object was found in any of them except here and there a fragment of pottery or a small amount of ashes or a piece of charcoal, not intentionally deposited but gathered up and carried in with the earth in the course of construction. There were no distinct fire-beds or ash piles at the bottom, or in any part of the mound; nor were there any holes in which posts may have stood. * * * ST. FRANÇOIS COUNTY Nearly 2 miles south of Farmington, on Quesnel's land, are about 30 very small, low mounds, none more than 18 inches high or 25 feet across. They are on the general level, some of them on a gentle slope, of the first upland above the St. François River and a mile from that stream at its nearest point. Half a mile to the south of these is a group of similar mounds on the farm of Isaac Hopkins, on a gently sloping hillside, and from 30 to 40 feet above the level of the overflow bottom land. One of these has been gradually worn away by the encroachment of a gully until more than half of it has disappeared. While the curvature of its surface is very apparent, and the remnant of its margin sufficiently distinct to show its regularity of outline, careful inspection of the face formed by the erosion fails to reveal any trace of stratification, or line of demarcation between the bottom of the mound and the original surface. There is precisely the same uniformity of change from the grass roots to the underlying gravelly soil that exists in the exposed bank at any point to either side of the mound. Mr. Hopkins, desirous of knowing what might be in the mound, or why it was built, has noted the appearance of the earth from the time the gully reached its margin. At no time has its appearance differed in the least from what it presents now. On the river bottom portion of Mr. Hopkins's farm, and on the adjoining Goings and Townshend farms to the southward, are many mounds lying along both sides of the Belmont division of the Iron Mountain Railway. Fully 100 were observed within a distance of a mile; and they are said to continue both up and down the river. They are all above flood stage, except in time of extreme high water. They range from a foot to 3 feet high, and from 20 to 40 feet across; but some of them have been lowered and broadened by cultivation. They are of the same earth as the ground around them. Mr. Hopkins says crops are much better on the mounds than on the area between them. This is no doubt due to the greater amount of productive soil in the one case, and to the excess of moisture in the other; the railway embankment impeding drainage in the lower part. Oak trees 4 feet in diameter grew on the mounds before they were cleared off. Two of these mounds were completely removed, down into the subsoil. The first was 18 inches high and 35 by 40 feet across; the variation in breadth resulting from continual cultivation in one direction. It contained nothing whatever of artificial character, not even a scrap of pottery. There were no post holes, no indications of a fire bed, no trace of a distinction between the mound and the soil below it. In fact, except for the greater thickness of the superficial dark earth there was no difference between the appearance of the face of the excavation and that of a hole dug at random in the field. The second mound was somewhat larger than the first, being 2 feet high and 40 feet across, and at a little higher level toward the edge of the field. It was the largest which could be excavated of this group. As in the first mound opened, there was no worked object, if a small flint flake be excepted; no ashes; no fire bed; no trace of demarcation between the mound and the original surface of the ground, though in each mound the excavation over the entire area was carried down into the gravelly, hard-packed subsoil. Its artificial origin is clearly proven, however, by four holes dug into the earth beneath it before its construction. Nine feet a little north of the center, which was assumed to be the highest point of the mound, was a hole (A) 12 by 14 inches and 14 inches deep, with a flat bottom, the sides as regular as could be expected in hard soil dug out in primitive manner. Nine feet west of the center was a hole (B) a foot across, 10 inches deep, with a solid though somewhat irregular bottom. Near the center was a conical hole (C) a foot deep and the same across the top. Four feet from it, west of north, was another (D) of about the same size and shape. The measures given are of course only approximate, as the sides of all the holes were somewhat uneven, but they are practically correct. The depth was measured from the top of the gravelly subsoil. Fourteen feet east of south from the center was an irregular hole (E) about 2 feet deep to the bottom of the loose dirt in it. This had not been dug, but was due to the decay of a tree which grew here before the mound was made. At the top of the dirt filling this hole was a piece of decayed bark, apparently oak, which had grown in the air; and farther down fragments of root bark. Eight feet east of the center was a hole (F), similar to the last, 10 inches deep and averaging 2 feet across. This, also, resulted from the decay of a stump. A plan of the holes is given in figure 37. The dotted lines are merely to show direction and distance. [Illustration: FIG. 37.--Plan of House Mound in St. François County, Mo.] This mound offers confirmation of the belief that such structures, or some of them at least, mark the sites of dwellings. With the two trees, E and F, the posts, A and B, would form the corners of an irregular quadrangle; the two posts, C and D, would support the inner ends of roof timbers. While no trace of posts or roof timbers remained, it is difficult to imagine for what other purpose these holes would be dug; and in this heavy, wet earth all traces of wood must in time disappear. Conversely, the total absence of a fireplace, potsherds or other remains, and of any sign of a floor, would serve to dispel the assumption that this spot was ever inhabited even for a short time. The evidence is as strong one way as it is the other. In short, the limited observations above recorded leave the question of origin and purpose just where it was. * * * * * Some years ago one of the mounds at Ferguson, St. Louis County, was opened. No remains of any sort were discovered, according to the report of the excavators; but on the original surface, at the center of the mound, was a fire bed in and about which were ashes, charcoal, and fragments of rude pottery. No excavations have ever been made in the mounds near Granite Mountain; but a tortuous little stream has undercut several of them, thus making vertical sections as in the case of the mound at Hunter's, near Farmington. In some mounds only a small portion near the margin has been removed; in others the erosion has progressed to such an extent that observations were possible at varying distances, to and beyond the center. In every instance a monotonous uniformity of appearance prevails from the top of the mound into the underlying gravel. At no level is there a sign of a floor, fire bed, or other evidence of human work; and no difference can be detected between the earth upon which the mound rests and that on either side. Yet the mounds are indubitably artificial. Exactly the same remarks apply to several mounds on the County Farm, near Salem. A little creek and a drainage ditch have cut away varying portions of them, and they merge insensibly into the soil and gravel on either side. * * * * * In further support of the theory that these mounds are the remains of earth-covered houses, a few extracts relating to the area under discussion will be given from Dr. Cyrus Thomas in the Twelfth Annual Report of the Bureau of Ethnology: Near "Beckwith's Fort," in Mississippi County, Missouri, are (p. 189)-- Low, flattish, circular mounds * * * [which] appear to belong to two classes, those used for dwelling sites and those used for burial purposes, the former being the higher and the color of the surface layer darker than that of the other class. This darker color of the surface layer is probably due to the fact that immediately below it are found fire-beds with burnt earth, charcoal, ashes, and the bones of animals, (mostly split). There are seldom any human skeletons or entire vessels of pottery in the mounds of this class though the earth is filled with fragments of broken vessels. In describing mound excavations in Crittenden County, Arkansas, the explorer states (p. 227): As an almost universal rule, after removing a foot or two of top soil, a layer of burnt clay in a broken or fragmentary condition would be found, sometimes with impressions of grass or twigs, which easily crumbled but was often hard and stamped apparently with an implement made of split reeds of comparatively large size. This layer was in places a foot thick and frequently burned to a brick red or even to clinkers. Below this, at a depth of 3 to 5 feet from the surface, were more or less ashes, and often 6 inches of charred grass, immediately covering skeletons. The latter were found lying in all directions, some with the face up, others with it down, and others on the side. With these were vessels of clay, in some cases one, sometimes more. The positions of the skeletons in this mound would indicate that while the inmates of the house were asleep the roof fell and killed them. It was customary among some southern Indians to bury the dead under the floors of the houses; but the text clearly shows that these skeletons were lying on the floor. It would be supposed from most reports, not only in the volume quoted, but from various other sources as well, that only the walls of these houses were plastered with mud, the roof being of thatch alone. It seems to be overlooked that the tops of the houses would have even more need of such protection than the sides. The marks indicating that the clay was "stamped apparently with an implement made of split reeds" are only the impressions of the reeds or saplings by which the clay was supported; the "brick like" or "clinker like" condition of the clay being due, of course, to the destruction of the house by fire. Adair, in his History of the Southern Indians, says they daub their houses with tough mortar mixed with dry grass; that they build winter or hot houses after the manner of Dutch ovens, covered with clay. Again: They are lathed with cane and plastered with mud from bottom to top, within and without, with a good covering of straw. This seems to mean that the entire building was plastered with mud, and then covered with grass to shed the rainfall. In a mound in Arkansas County, Arkansas (Twelfth Ann. Rept. Bur. Ethn., p. 231)-- About 2 feet under the surface was a thick layer of burnt clay, which probably formed the roof. In tracing out the circumference a hard clay floor was found beneath, and between the two several inches of ashes, but no skeletons. There were a great many pieces of broken dishes so situated as to lead one to believe they were on top of the house at the time it was burned. The fact that no skeletons or utensils were discovered on the floor finds its most reasonable explanation in the supposition that the inmates, finding their abode to be unsafe, moved out and took their possessions with them. This would account, also, for the absence of such remains in similar mounds farther north. The abundance of pottery fragments found in this case, and in many others, may mean only that these were worked in as a part of the clay roofing. They would be of some service in holding the clay in place in wet weather. It is quite probable that the continuous, though fragmentary, layer of burned clay on the floor so often noted is due in part at least to the material forming the roof. The walls would be more apt to fall outward than inward, and would be more liable to crumble than to fall as an intact mass. In fact, this is clearly shown by the statement (p. 229) that in certain house sites in St. Francis County, Arkansas, The edges are all higher and have a thicker layer of this [burned] material than the inner areas. Further, in describing explorations of certain "hut rings" at "Beckwith's Fort" in Mississippi County, Missouri (p. 187), the report states that they are from 30 to 50 feet in diameter, measuring to the tops of their rims, which are raised slightly above the natural level. The depth of the depression at the center is from 2 to 3 feet. Near the center, somewhat covered with earth, are usually found the baked earth, charcoal, and ashes of ancient fires, and around these and beneath the rims [that is, the surrounding ring or embankment] split bones and fresh-water shells. Often mingled with this refuse material are rude stone implements and fragments of pottery. Note is made of the similarity in the size, form, and general appearance of these depressions and earthen rings to those of the earth lodges of the abandoned Mandan towns along the Missouri River. It appears, too, that certain sites were occupied for long periods, new houses being constructed when necessary. In describing mounds in Poinsett County, Arkansas, the same writer says (p. 205) that The positions and relations of these beds * * * make it evident that upon the site of one burned dwelling another was usually constructed, not infrequently a third, and sometimes even a fourth, the remains of each being underlaid and usually overlaid in part by very dark, adhesive clay or muck. * * * The peculiar black color of these beds is chiefly in consequence of the large proportion of charcoal with which they are mixed, some of it doubtless the fine particles of burned grass and reed matting with which the cabins appear to have been thatched. These layers of "very dark" material undoubtedly are remains of mud from the adjacent swamps, which was mixed with or plastered over the grass roofs. It is difficult to understand how they could have become mixed after the burning. As showing the extent to which this prolonged occupancy was carried, we are informed (p. 254) that in Coahoma County, Mississippi, a mound was-- oval and rounded on top, 210 feet long, 150 broad at the base, and 16 feet high. This mound and several smaller ones near it are so nearly masses of fire beds, burnt clay, fragments of stone and pottery, together with more or less charcoal and ashes, as to indicate clearly that they are the sites of ancient dwellings thus elevated by accumulation of material during long continued occupancy. In still other portions of the country besides those already mentioned are evidences of similar houses whose sites are now marked by mounds. In southern Ohio, especially, records of excavations contain numerous references to post holes under mounds both large and small. In the case of the former, so far as we may judge from the reports, the houses were destroyed before the mounds were built, and it does not appear that they were ever covered with earth. In the small, low, flat mounds, under which such holes existed, no thought was taken that these may mark the position of posts used to support a roof; all mounds were explored with the idea that they were for burial purposes, consequently no attention was paid to these features. The Mandan houses, as described by Lewis and Clark, Catlin, and others, when fallen into ruins would leave exactly such mounds or hut rings as those found in Missouri and Arkansas. It is now generally conceded that the wall or embankment at Aztalan, Wisconsin, concerning which so many wild theories have been promulgated, was simply a series of such house sites connected by a low ridge. The evidences of mysterious sacrificial altars seem to be due only to the destruction of such houses by fire. In Wisconsin, also, and in Minnesota, are many small mounds apparently of this character which are due to an extinct tribe known to the Sioux and Chippewas as "The Ground House Indians." In 1887 I became acquainted, at Munising, Michigan, with Mr. William Cameron. He was of the Scotch clan of Camerons, a nephew of a former Governor of Canada. Educated for a profession, he made a visit to relatives in Canada in early manhood, and the attractions of the wilderness proved so great that he never returned to his home. At the time I met him he was 84 years of age, in full possession of his mental faculties. For more than 60 years he had traversed the Lake region, his fur trading and trapping expeditions having carried him over all the country from Montreal to the mouth of the Mackenzie River. Much of his life had been spent among the Indians, especially the Sioux and Chippewas. He learned from them all they could tell him of their tribal history and former methods of living. The Chippewas told him that when they first came into the country they found the Sioux in possession, but finally, obtaining arms from the French, they drove the Sioux westward. The "old men" of the Sioux corroborated this tradition and told Cameron that as they went westward they came to a race of people who lived in mounds which they piled up. These people were large and strong, but cowardly. "If they had been as brave as they were big," said the Sioux, "between them and the Chippewas we would have been destroyed; but they were great cowards and we easily drove them away." Mr. B.G. Armstrong, of Ashland, Wisconsin, told me that he had taken great pains to investigate this tradition. From all that he could gather by much inquiry among the Indians and from his own observations, he was satisfied of its correctness. These people, whom the Sioux called Ground House Indians, built houses of logs and posts, over and around which they piled earth until it formed a conical mass several feet thick above the roof. Their territory extended from Lake Eau Claire, about 30 miles south of Lake Superior, to the Wisconsin River near Wausau or Stevens Point; down the Wisconsin a short distance; thence west into Minnesota, but how far he could not say; then around north of Yellow Lake back to the Eau Claire region. The Sioux exterminated the tribe, the last survivors being an old man and a woman who had married a Sioux. They were taken to the present site of Superior, near Duluth, and "died about 200 years ago"--that is, in the last quarter of the seventeenth century. Gordon, an intelligent Indian living at the town of the same name, a short distance south of Superior, was familiar with this tradition, as were other Indians with whom I talked, and who accepted it as a well-known fact. Gordon related that he had heard "the old men" say these Indians erected their houses of wood and piled several feet of dirt over them; and they buried their dead in little mounds out in front of their houses and a few hundred feet away. He told of a mound that was opened near Yellow Lake in which the position and condition of the skeletons, two or three of children being among them, showed "as plainly as anything could" that they had been sitting or lounging around the fire, when the roof fell in and crushed them. There is a "Ground House River" in eastern Minnesota, which probably derives its name from this people. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Bushnell, D.I., jr., Archeology of the Ozark region of Missouri. Amer. Anthrop., n.s. vol. 6, no. 2, p. 298.] [Footnote 2: Bushnell, D.I., jr., Archeology of the Ozark region of Missouri. Amer. Anthrop., n.s. vol. 6, no. 2, p. 298.] [Footnote 3: Ibid., p. 297.] [Footnote 4: Papers Peabody Museum, vol. III, no. 1, p. 16.] V. ARCHEOLOGICAL WORK IN HAWAII INTRODUCTION The ethnologist or archeologist desiring to conduct explorations on the Hawaiian Islands will find it necessary to begin his labors at the Bishop Museum in Honolulu. This museum contains an extensive collection of articles, classified, arranged, and labeled, illustrating every phase of native life as it has existed since the islands have been known to white men, as well as many of the implements and objects pertaining to agriculture, fisheries, and domestic occupations of earlier times. Models or casts of houses, and of individuals engaged in various lines of industry, give the visitor a clear idea as to the routine of ordinary daily life. A careful study of all these things enlightens him in regard to what he may expect to find and to the meaning of such discoveries as he may make. The extensive library which belongs to the museum contains every publication relating not alone to the islands but to all the archipelagoes of the southern Pacific that it is possible to procure; and among the most valuable of the volumes are the reports and memoirs of the museum itself, in which are set forth the observations and deductions of numerous investigators who, either in behalf of the museum or under its auspices, have endeavored to find a solution for the many problems involved. Equally valuable to the student are the information, interpretations, and instruction freely placed at his disposal by those connected with the museum, especially by Dr. Brigham, the former director, whose long and busy life has been devoted almost entirely to a study of the Polynesian groups; by Professor Gregory, the present director, who with tireless energy is the impelling force behind various lines of scientific research; by Mr. Stokes, curator of the ethnological department, who for more than a score of years has been surveying, photographing, and collecting in every part of the islands; by Mr. Thomas G. Thrum, of Honolulu, who has completed, in manuscript, a volume containing a list and description of more than 500 heiaus on the islands; and by various other men who, in private life, have devoted much time and close attention to whatever may pertain to native life and customs. * * * MOLOKAI ISLAND Following the advice of those whose knowledge gave them authority to speak decisively, the initial base of research was the island of Molokai, which presents the best conditions for study. It lies off the usual lines of travel, offers no inducement to tourists who wish to have the benefit of good roads and comfortable hotels, and consequently is seldom visited except by those who are called on business or who go as the guests of the few residents there. Mr. George Cooke, one of the owners of a large cattle and sheep ranch on the island, and greatly interested in its aboriginal history, gave most generous aid in a reconnoissance of such parts as he had time to visit. He placed his beautiful summer residence at the disposal of Prof. Gregory and the writer, and conducted the explorers to nearly all the places of interest which could be approached by automobile. Mr. James Munro, manager of the ranch, also rendered valuable assistance. Owing to his long residence here he has become thoroughly familiar with every noteworthy feature, and pointed out many remains which, without his guidance, would have been missed altogether. Fully acquainted with the life of the Hawaiian people, he made clear the origin and purpose of many things that, lacking his intelligent explanation, would have been without significance. Although there are now comparatively few Hawaiians on Molokai, it is evident that the island at one time supported a dense population. Along the southern, or leeward, coast are numerous fish ponds formed by building a stone wall across an inlet or, more frequently, by constructing it with the ends on shore and carrying it around a section of the open sea. The walls are strong enough to resist the waves, well above the level of high tide, and surround spaces of various areas up to 70 acres. These ponds were stocked with numerous kinds of fish which, thus protected from their natural enemies, increased rapidly and formed an unfailing food supply. The antiquity of these ponds is denoted by the amount of silt partially filling them, brought down from the mountains by erosion of the soil. They are still used to some extent by Hawaiians as well as by other residents. Inland, low walls of stone or earth, or both, surround hundreds of old taro patches, one variety of these plants requiring an abundant supply of water during its growth. The poi made from taro was the principal vegetable food of the inhabitants. Sweet potatoes were also a leading article of diet. The fields in which they were grown may still be identified here and there by the little ridges heaped up. All these, with the addition of migratory birds and fowls which at certain seasons swarmed on the different islands, supplemented by various nuts and fruits growing spontaneously, provided a varied and ample food supply. Mammals, except the pig, dog, and rat (really a large mouse), which came in with the early natives, were unknown prior to the advent of the whites. There were no land reptiles and few indigenous noxious insects; although mosquitoes, not to mention certain domestic pests, abound in a few places, and there are some scorpions and centipedes; but these, like measles, smallpox, tuberculosis, and worse diseases, are adjuncts of an enforced civilization. The mongoose, brought in to destroy rats, and the myna bird, to devour insects, are themselves now beginning to be detrimental. Along the coasts, on the headlands and lower hills, and to a less extent farther inland, are village sites, foundations of temples and houses, garden patches inclosed by stone walls, and long rows of stones, some of which are borders of roads or trails, others being for purposes which are undetermined. Among these, taro beds and sweet potato patches may still be traced. The most remarkable among the remains are the great temple site on Senator Cooke's ranch, toward the east end of the island, and the "paved trail" 10 miles down the coast from Kaunakakai, the principal village and harbor. The former is rectangular in outline, built on irregular ground, of stones large and small, to form a level platform on which a thousand persons could assemble without being hampered for lack of room. The outer faces of the walls vary from 3 to 20 feet in height; and except at the lowest parts there are terraces or steps all around, about 5 feet in height and of differing width. Surrounding this platform, extending for half a mile up the little valley of which it marks the entrance, on the slopes to either side, and on the nearly level area reaching down to the sea in front, are all the indications of a populous settlement. It is said that the ruins were formerly much more numerous and extensive, the larger part of them being swept out of existence by a great rush of water from the mountains "a long time ago." The "paved trail" is a causeway of large stones. Some parts of it are obliterated by slides and encroaching ravines; other parts preserve the original condition and appearance. The width is not quite uniform, as the stones are of different sizes, but it departs very little either way from 6 feet. So far as can be judged in its present overgrown state, it extends in a straight line for about 2 miles, from the beach to a point on the hill at an altitude of fully 1,000 feet. To what it led, or why it was built, are questions awaiting an answer. All of these places are now abandoned except a few villages along the coast. The people are not here to occupy them, and even if they were the conditions have become so changed that residence about them is no longer feasible. At the temple site, for example, the extent of the old taro beds predicates an abundance of water; at present, the one family living near by must carry it in a dry season from the well or spring of a neighbor. There is no steady water supply within miles of the "paved trail." Clearly, extensive changes have taken place in recent times in climate and perhaps in topography. Fifty years ago forests of large trees grew over hundreds of square miles on the southern slopes of Molokai where at the present time there is only grass, or where algaroba trees, similar to the mesquite of the southwestern United States, are now spreading. This deforestation is still going on; dead or dying trees fringe the timber still standing. The cause of this progressive barrenness has not, so far, been, fully ascertained; there is undoubtedly a connection between it and the diminished water supply, though which is cause and which is effect, or whether both are due in common to some atmospheric phenomenon, is unknown. One result, however, is apparent. The roots of the forest trees do not extend deep into the earth, but spread out over the surface like those of pine trees. Thus much of the rainfall was prevented from escaping rapidly and such as was not absorbed by the roots made its way into the ground beneath the upper soil, whence it percolated downward to feed the springs. Now the greater part of the water runs off and is lost. For this reason large areas once well populated are no longer habitable. Molokai, like other islands of the group, contains no stone except of volcanic or coral formation. There is no chert or similar material from which chipped implements can be made; nor, as would naturally be expected, is there any obsidian suitable for such manufacture. It may occasionally be seen on the sites of villages, but always in small angular fragments seldom more than half an inch in any dimension, always coarse-grained, even porous, and never of a quality which can be flaked into definite forms. No doubt its only use was as an abrasive, after being pounded fine. Rarely, quartz or chalcedony is found; it resembles the deposit around hot springs or in fissures, and, like the obsidian, is in fragments too small to be utilized except as a grinding or polishing material for smoothing wrought objects. Manufactured stone specimens are confined principally to three general classes: Adzes, for working in wood; pestles, for pounding the taro root; and discoids, for games. The last are exactly similar to the chunkey stones so abundant in the States, except that none of them have concave or hollowed faces, and they are used in the same way. There were three forms of the game: To hurl or roll a disk farther than an opponent; to strike a pole or other mark set up; and to test the inherent magical powers of the stones by rolling them in such a way that they would collide, the object in this case being to see which one might prove victorious by breaking the other or forcing it out of its course. A suitable arena for the contest was prepared by carefully leveling and smoothing a straight, narrow strip of ground to any length desired, a slight wall being thrown up along each margin. Pottery was unknown, there being no clay suitable for making it. Calabashes or gourds and wooden trays served as receptacles, though stone dishes or bowls are sometimes found. Along the coast occur sinkers, either plummet-shaped or half-ovoid like an egg divided lengthwise. This form has a groove around the longer diameter, crossing the flat face, and was tied to a white shell as a sinker in catching squids or cuttlefish, a hook being attached to the line. Coral was much used as files or rasps. There are a few objects whose purpose is problematical; and some highly polished black disks which, laid flat and covered with a film of water, make excellent mirrors; but aside from what is here mentioned, not much worked stone is found. Wood, bone, and shell served as the raw material for nearly all other needs. Graves, or what are supposed to be graves, marked by cairns 3 or 4 feet high, or perhaps by only one or two layers of stones, are found, though rare. Many so-called caves--which are merely "tunnels," "bubbles," or "blow-holes" in the lava--were utilized as burial vaults. The natives vigorously protested against an attempt to excavate any of these, claiming that their ancestors or members of their families are buried in them and must not be disturbed. In the dunes human skeletons are frequently exposed by the shifting of the sands by the high wind. The natives seem to have little regard for these. Perhaps they are of the "common people," while cairns cover the chiefs or priests. There is a tradition that in "the old times" most of the dead were cast into the ocean as an offering to the Shark God. There are no mounds or other structures of earth; everything was built of stone. All structures began at the surface of the ground. No evidence has been found of an occupation earlier than that of the present Hawaiian people. At no point examined in ravines or cliffs was there the slightest hint of human life at a period antedating that beginning with the race discovered by Captain Cook. Consequently no extended excavations were attempted. The results of some examinations made in three different places will be presented. About 10 miles in an air line from Kaunakakai and the same distance from Mr. Cooke's home, on a mountain known as Mauna Loa, is a narrow, sharp ridge extending nearly south and terminating abruptly at the junction of two deep ravines. On the end of this are two house sites, or heiaus, which had never been disturbed. They are as nearly rectangular as the irregular stones of which they are built will permit. The larger (A) has its south wall at the edge of the low cliff, with its sides nearly on the cardinal lines. Omitting inches from the measurements, its outer dimensions are: North wall 38 feet, south wall 32 feet, east wall 33 feet, west wall 32 feet. The corresponding inside measurements are 21 feet, 19 feet, 21 feet, and 22 feet. Thirteen feet north from the north wall is a stone pile 13 feet north and south by 10 feet east and west, 18 inches high. Ten feet west of this is a single layer of stones covering an area 7 feet east and west by 4 feet north and south. At 9 feet out from the middle of the west wall is a platform 7 by 7 feet, its west edge on large stones in place. At the west end of the north wall are three large flat stones, one of them forming the corner, the two others west of this, the three being up-edged and in a continuous line. Within the inclosure, at the southern end, is a closely laid pavement formed of a single stratum of loose stones, laid on the earth, and covering a space 20 feet east and west by 10 feet north and south. Along the inside of the wall, at the northeast corner, is a similar pavement 12 feet north and south by 4 feet 6 inches east and west, and a foot high. Both of these pavements were probably intended for seats and beds. On the larger pavement, 5 feet from the south wall, 9 feet from the east corner, was a boulder, its diameters 11, 12, and 15 inches, whose largest surface lay uppermost and was hollowed out to form, a deep saucer-shaped depression like a mortar; but as there was nothing to grind, it was probably to crack or pound nuts in. At the middle of the southeast quarter of the inclosure was a pile of stones 3½ feet across and 1 foot high; there was nothing under them. Seven feet from the north wall, 10 feet from the east wall, was a fireplace formed of two slabs on the east and west sides and a flattened boulder on the south side, all upedged, the north side being left open. Its bottom was undisturbed earth, a foot lower than the level of the platforms. It would seem, though this is uncertain, that the platforms or pavements were on the original surface level, the unpaved space being cleared out to the level of the bottom of the fireplace, and that this space had been filled with earth blown in by the winds after the spot was abandoned. From outside to outside the upedged stones measured 26 by 28 inches; the space inside 18 by 20 inches. On the west edge was a large grinding stone, the amount of wear on its surface indicating much use. A pavement 4 feet wide reached from the open side of the fireplace to the north wall. In the cavity was about half a bushel of small stones, most of them burned. When meat was to be baked, a fire was made in the pit and as many of the stones as required were heated; they were placed in the body cavity, in the mouth, and in slits cut in the skin of the animal, which was then deposited in the pit, closely covered, and left until thoroughly cooked. Similar ovens or barbecue holes, and the same method of cooking, are still in use among the natives in their villages. Views of this house site and of the fireplace, taken from various directions, are shown in plates 38-40. Nearly north of the house site (A), at a distance of 91 feet, is the similar structure (B). The ground on which this is built is 6 feet lower than at (A). Its measurements are 23 by 24 feet outside, 13 by 18 feet inside, longest north and south. The entire interior is paved. For a space of 8 feet from the north end the pavement is a foot higher than in the south end. Beginning at the foot of the south wall, on the outer side, and extending for 29 feet toward (A), there is a closely laid stone pavement 10 feet wide at the wall and gradually diminishing to a width of 5 feet; its termination is nearly square, the slight curve being apparently not intentional. The west edge of this pavement is in a straight line, the east edge being curved. Partial views are given in plate 41. Neither (A) nor (B) has any opening for a doorway, nor is there any apparent method of easy entrance, though a slight platform on the north side of (A) may have supported steps of wood. These walls, as in all other heavy structures observed, were made by carefully laying up two rows of large stones at a little distance apart and filling the space between them with stones of any convenient size, thrown in at random. Timbers set in them formed the skeleton structure of a house which was completed of poles and smaller growth, the sides and roof being thatched. The weight of the stones held the main timbers against the force of the wind even in severe storms. The surface over hundreds of acres around these ruins is covered with house sites, long straight rows of stones, and garden lots surrounded by stone walls. Shop refuse, mostly chips and spalls from adz making, sea shells broken to extract the mollusks, coral for abrading, adzes in all stages of finish, and many "olimaikis" (chunkey stones) are found. A mile away is a chunkey yard or bowling alley about 600 feet long on the crest of a ridge which overlooks the ocean on both sides of the island. THE RAIN HEIAU A mile from the Cooke residence is a peculiar structure, said to be the only one of its kind in the entire Hawaiian group. Native tradition has it that "a long time ago" a rain wizard who was angered by the people of this district sent such rains that everything was on the point of being washed out to sea. Another wizard told the people to make a heiau (temple, or sacred building) with many small compartments which were to be left uncovered in order that the raindrops, each of which was as large as a man's head, could be caught and held in them, and burned. The rain would cease when the first wizard learned that he was being circumvented. [Illustration: PLATE 38 a, Heiaus A and B, on Molokai Island, looking west b, Heiau A, on Molokai Island, looking north c, Heiaus A and B, on Molokai Island, looking south] [Illustration: PLATE 39 a, Heiau A, on Molokai Island, looking south b, Platform in Heiau A, looking southeast c, Paved way in Heiau A, looking southwest] [Illustration: PLATE 40 a, Paved way in Heiau A, looking north b, Fireplace in Heiau A] [Illustration: PLATE 41 a, Heiau B, on Molokai Island, looking northwest b, Heiau B, showing stone-paved interior, looking northeast] [Illustration: PLATE 42 a, The "Rain Heiau," Molokai Island, looking west b, The "Rain Heiau," looking south] [Illustration: PLATE 43 a, The "Rain Heiau," looking north b, The "Rain Heiau," looking southwest] [Illustration: PLATE 44 a, The "Sacrifice Stones" on Molokai Island; looking southwest b, The "Sacrifice Stones," looking west] [Illustration: PLATE 45 a, The "Sacrifice Stones," looking northwest b, The "Sacrifice Stones," looking south] As it now remains, this heiau consists of flat stones placed on edge to make an inclosure 30½ by 20½ feet across the center, the length of the walls being 27½ feet on the north, 31½ feet on the south, 19 feet on the east, and 23½ feet on the west. At the middle is a minor inclosure, similarly formed, 5 feet 8 inches by 3 feet 8 inches, longest north and south. This is a kind of "altar" or "praying place." From it a narrow passage, 12 to 18 inches wide, extends to the middle of each side. In each of the four divisions thus formed other stones were placed to form box-like spaces of diverse shapes and dimensions from 9 by 15 to 20 by 28 and 15 by 45 inches. All the stones were set on the surface, braced against one another; no excavation was made to hold them. They have been somewhat displaced so that the exact number of the boxes can not now be ascertained, but there are somewhere between 110 and 120 of them. Partial views are shown in plates 42 and 43. THE SACRIFICE STONES On the south side of a ravine with steep slopes and bowlder-strewn bottom, half a mile from the "Rain Heiau," is a pile of stones, most of them the natural outcrop, but some of them intentionally placed. The entire mass measures about 27 feet across each way. The highest stone is a weather-worn slab, with the upper surface somewhat convex, 6 feet 9 inches long, 2 feet 3 inches wide on the bottom, 1 foot 3 inches wide on top, 1 foot 4 inches thick. It lies nearly east and west, the upper end on the ground, the lower end on a large bowlder, beyond which it projects for 28 inches. Beneath this, with a space of 8 inches between them, is another stone, 5 feet long, 2 feet 4 inches wide, and 10 inches thick. Its upper surface is concave, the entire margin being higher than the central portion. It lies north and south, the southern end being supported by three small superposed slabs. These two are supposed to be sacrificial stones, on which victims were extended at full length, face downward. In this position they were easily slain by being decapitated or the neck or head being broken with a club or a stone. That they were utilized for some definite purpose is evident from the fact that the projecting ends of both have been broken off square, the spalls splitting back along the under-surface. Views are given in plates 44 and 45. On the opposite slope of the ravine from the sacrifice stones are two old dancing platforms, made by digging the earth down on the hillside to form a level area, the lower margin of which is supported by a high wall of heavy stones. Near the platforms, on the steep slope, is a space of a fourth of an acre surrounded by a stone wall; and a row of stones marks and preserves a trail or path from them to the bottom of the ravine, terminating at what seems to be a small reservoir surrounded by stones and earth, with a dam above and to one side of it to shut out storm water. One hundred and fifty yards up the ravine from the dance platforms are two large artificial depressions in weathered bowlders. They have the appearance of mortars or nut-crushing holes, but are supposed to be for catching water during rains, as it is known that the natives made these miniature reservoirs or catch basins, the water being dipped out into vessels as it accumulated. * * * HAWAII ISLAND There are reports of former heiaus, house sites, etc., in and around Hilo, and there are numerous so-called "caves," many of which were used by the earlier natives as receptacles for their dead. The term "cave" is not to be taken in its usual meaning of a cavity due to erosion by water, or the small recesses due to wind scouring. In the Hawaiian Islands it means a tube or tunnel; a hollow space due to gas expansion; or a hole formed by gas or steam expansion or explosion in the lava while it is still soft or flowing; and which is now accessible where the top has fallen in or where it has reached the face of a cliff. These still exist practically as they were at the time of their formation. Of remains upon the surface, the clearing-up processes necessary for cultivation, and the improvements in and around the towns and villages, have either entirely destroyed them or so defaced them that they are now only shapeless ruins. Most or all of the near-by caves are in lava flows of comparatively recent origin and no reports of interments in them could be definitely verified. Human bones were found in three caves near Olaa, 10 miles from Hilo, but no objects of any sort were with them. The condition of the bones showed they had not been long deposited; in fact, with one skeleton were hobnailed leather shoes, with the bones of the feet still in them. Three skeletons were discovered in a small cave near the dock in making an excavation for a railway cut. An old man living in the vicinity protested vigorously against any disturbance of them, saying they had been his friends and he had helped bury them. In deference to his sentiment the line of the track was deflected so as not to disturb the spot. Nearly all of the bones mentioned above were soft and decayed, owing to the water which had percolated through the roof and dripped on them. KILAUEA It seemed probable that burials, or places where religious rites had been performed, might be found in the vicinity of the volcano. A number of caves were visited, but no evidence could be found to indicate that bodies were ever deposited in them, and persons living in that region had never heard of anything of the sort being found. A few of the caves were dry, but most of them were wet or have become obstructed by falling in of the sides or roof. Ledges and terraces within the ancient crater may contain graves, but lava flows and ash deposits have obliterated all traces of such if they ever existed. WAIMEA From 2 to 4 miles west of Waimea, on both sides of the road to Kawaihae, are numerous stone walls, house sites, garden inclosures, taro terraces, and other forms, of uncertain use and purpose. The remains extend over many hundreds of acres. It is said that up to about 1840 this was an important town, containing at one period about 17,000 inhabitants. QUARRY ON MAUNA KEA Waimea is the point from which to start for the quarries where the ancients obtained the hard black stone for making adzes. A great amount of work was done there, and refuse is abundant. It is 48 miles from Waimea to the quarries, part of the way by cattle trail through rough country, and they are at an elevation of more than 10,000 feet, considerably above the winter snow line. An examination was not attempted, as a visit to them involved securing a camping outfit and hiring guides and helpers at exorbitant wages. KAWAIHAE The "Great Temple" built by King Kamehameha I is on a bluff 100 feet high, separated from the beach by a low level space 100 yards wide. This flat contains many stone structures, but their number, design, and character can not be ascertained on account of the almost impenetrable growth of algaroba. One of them is a rectangle about 50 by 150 feet, the walls high and thick; probably it is an older temple. There is some modern work here, because in one place a wall is cemented, perhaps by ranchmen. The "Great Temple" measures 80 by 200 feet on the outside, 50 by 150 feet inside, longest north and south. The two ends and the side toward the land are nearly intact and from 10 to 20 feet high according to the surface of the ground. At the north end, inside, is a platform 80 feet north and south by 45 feet east and west, the four walls carefully and regularly laid up, the space within them filled with large stones, and the surface leveled with beach pebbles. It ends 4 feet within the wall next the sea, the top of this wall being on a level with the bottom of the platform. At the south end is another platform 40 feet east and west by 20 feet north and south, abutting against the east and south walls. A step or terrace 6 feet wide extends the full length of its north side. It has a less finished appearance than the platform at the north end. The central space, between the two, is paved with large stones which apparently pass under both platforms and extend from the foot of the east wall nearly to the west wall, a slight ditch separating it from the latter. The west wall stands below the top of the slope, and its outer face is from 10 to 20 feet high, in three platforms each 8 feet wide. On the slope below are several structures a few feet square formed by two parallel rows of stones with a cross wall at the lower ends, the cellar-like space thus inclosed being filled with pebbles to a level with the top of the walls. From the northeast and northwest corners long walls extend northwest and southwest toward the beach. Their outer ends are lost in the thicket. EAST POINT DISTRICT From Kapoho southward to Kalapana and beyond many remains are reported, but residents say they are of rather modern date, some of them having been occupied since white people came into the country to live. Lava flows of recent date have covered a few. NAPOOPOO The large heiau at which Captain Cook made his landing, and where he allowed himself to be worshipped as a god, is about in its original condition, having been repaired in recent years. When Captain Cook attempted to seize the King as a prisoner, the natives naturally rallied to the King's defense. A stone or other missile struck Cook on the head. Early in the last century an old Hawaiian who as a small boy witnessed the affray told Rev. Mr. Paris (as related by his daughter) that if Cook had been the god he pretended to be, the blow would not have hurt him; but when he fell with a loud groan the people knew he was only a man like themselves and, enraged at the deception practiced on them, quickly made an end of him. HONAUNAU The wall of the City of Refuge is nearly intact, as is that of the large heiau. Another heiau was destroyed by a tidal wave. The place is now a public park. Stokes, of the Bishop Museum, has done much work here and at Napoopoo. The result of his labors will be published. KEAUHOU The "Slide," made here in the time of King Kamehameha I, consists of two stone walls from 50 to 75 feet apart, the space between them being filled with stones to provide a level surface from side to side and to equalize the slope from top to bottom. It begins a mile from the foot of the hill, and its terminus was on a level area near the coast. The lower end is now so displaced and overgrown for a fourth of a mile that it can no longer be traced; the remainder of it is practically intact. The slope is not uniform, being somewhat determined by the natural surface, so that it is steeper in some parts than in others. Near the upper end some short stretches are quite steep, presenting from below the appearance of terraces. In places, flat stones are laid pavement fashion from side to side, or rows of stones which seem to be the tops of walls extend across. These were probably to prevent crawling of the smaller material used as a leveler. The slide, according to an old Hawaiian, was covered with one variety of grass, on which was laid another variety; but he could not say whether the two layers had their stems parallel or crosswise. Kukui-nut oil was used plentifully to act as a binder and to give a slick surface. The "sliders," as well as he could remember the description of them, were like sleds with runners; not flat boards like a toboggan. Small depressions here and there, either basin-shaped or well-shaped, have led to excavations in the hope of finding something; but they are due only to falling-in of tubes, tunnels, or bubbles in the lava. A somewhat similar but very much smaller slide is said to be on the coast 40 miles south of this one. At present it can be reached only from the shore, making a canoe voyage necessary. Two ruined and overgrown heiaus are near the water line a mile from the slide. Both are built on bare lava, and at very high tides waves dash over them. Possibly the shore has sunk since they were built. Near by, on the flat lava, covered by every tide, are rock carvings rudely resembling the outlines of human figures. They must be of rather recent origin, as the stone is constantly subject to wear by the shingle. Stokes has copied them. MOOKINI At the extreme northwest corner of the island of Hawaii is a heiau in excellent preservation, there being but few fallen stones. The ground around is entirely free of growth except for grass and a few weeds, which may explain its appearance of newness; it has a very modern aspect, though it seems to antedate the discovery. It measures 120 by 275 feet, longest east and west. The east wall is 11 feet high with a narrow terrace from end to end about midway the height. The north wall is 18 feet high. The south wall, which is in a somewhat irregular line, is 5 to 6 feet high. On the outside of the south wall, which forms one side of each, are two inclosures. One, near the east corner, measures 65 feet east and west and 15 feet wide, with its west wall at the edge of an opening which gives access to the interior of the heiau. The wall of this inclosure is 4 feet high. The other inclosure measures 21 feet east and west by 28 feet north and south, the west end flush with the west end of the temple. Its wall is 3 feet high. The main west wall is 12 feet high. A platform 2 to 4 feet wide, probably a seat or bench, extends along the inside of the south wall. An interior wall 4 feet high, not straight but approximately parallel with the north wall, with a space 10 to 15 feet wide separating them, has one end against the east wall, the other end coming near enough to the west wall to leave only a narrow passageway. The entire space inside is paved with large stones; on these, as a floor, are several walls whose purpose is not clear; they run in various directions. Near the west end are some small inclosures, also a raised platform in which are 13 "wells," said to be intended to "hold the blood of those offered up as a sacrifice." Possibly the bodies or bones of victims were placed in them, though it is more probable that they held posts or idols. On the outside, 20 feet from the west wall, is a "sacrifice stone," 6 by 8 feet, averaging 15 inches thick. It is somewhat dished, with a natural depression 12 inches deep. The heiau is about 200 yards from the ocean. Walls, like fallen fences, extend diagonally from the corners at the west end; the northern one terminates 200 yards away on an outcrop of lava; the southern one has about the same length and ends 50 feet from a similar wall that reaches in a rude semicircle, convex uphill, for 300 yards to the top of a cliff over the ocean. On the opposite side of a small cove within the farther end of this wall is a stone which is known to the natives as the "Shark" or the "Shark God." It is 8½ feet long, 32 inches across at the widest part, averages 14 inches thick, and has somewhat the shape of a coffin with narrowed ends. Lying just on the break of the slope, it inclines slightly down the bank. The end toward the water is carved in a fairly good representation of a turtle's head; on the opposite end are nine artificial cup-like depressions from 1½ to 3 inches in diameter with a depth rather less than half the width; three are on top, three on the end, three on the lower side. Like any long stone supported at the center with the ends free, it gives a metallic note when struck with a knife or other small piece of metal. It is already defaced by curious experimenters, and will probably be broken up some day in search of the "treasure" inside, or to "see where the music comes from." For nearly a mile south of the heiau, covering the space between the ocean cliff and a line approximately parallel to it a fourth of a mile up the hill, are many inclosures and long walls. Low walls surround spaces 10 to 15 feet across, filled level with earth, which are either house sites or burial places. Some inclosures, still smaller, with no break in the wall, are supposed to be graves; and graves may also be marked by the many small piles of stones. Other stone heaps, some straight, some crescent-shaped, from 10 to 20 feet long, all the curved ones convex to the windward, were wind shelters. Some of them are known to be made by modern hunters as blinds in plover shooting. In at least two places are long parallel rows of large stones placed singly, 1 foot to 3 feet apart, the rows separated by a space of from 4 to 6 feet. One set has a dozen or more rows. Inside of one of the inclosures, directly up the hill from the old landing, is a large stone with an artificial depression of 2 gallons capacity. It was intended as a mortar for pounding nuts. LAUPAHOEHOE An old lava flow has pushed out into the ocean in a shape somewhat resembling "a leaf floating on the water," which is the meaning of the word. It forms a nearly level area of 12 or 13 acres, only a few feet above tide. Toward the outer end are numerous walls and inclosures, mostly in ruins and overgrown with trees and bushes. Some of them are clearly modern; others are ancient. Near the lighthouse are the remnants of a heiau; only a part of its walls can be traced. A wall 3 feet high, beginning at a large stone at one corner, incloses a space 26 by 27 feet, outside measurement; the interior is filled with earth and small stones to a level with the top of the walls. At the end toward the ocean, is a platform 20 feet wide, terminating 50 feet from the sea. On this platform is a space 7 by 12 feet, outlined by large rocks. Halfway between the platform and the water is a wall which may be recent. Near this inclosure is one hexagonal in outline, the walls 2 feet high, and the space inside, 11 by 17 feet, filled with earth to a foot above the top of the wall. On top of the bluff, 350 feet above tide level, is a heiau the west wall of which was removed in making a deep cut for the railway. The inside dimensions are 70 feet east and west, 115 feet north and south. The interior area, originally irregular, was somewhat leveled, and covered with a pavement of cobblestones which were carried up from the beach, as were many of the large stones in the wall. The pavement has been torn up in cultivating the ground. The wall is from 4 to 6 feet high inside. This is a little more than the original height, as it was repaired and raised for use as a corral. Along the outside of the north wall, at the west end, is a heavy wall which, with the main wall, forms a "well," nearly filled with rocks. There are no supporting platforms outside, but along the north and east walls are revetments reaching halfway up the face. The southeast corner is rounded and braced or buttressed. These forms of support have been noticed in only one other place. There is a house site within, at the northeast corner. On the wall, placed there in adding to its height, were a broken taro pestle and a very dense siliceous rock, of high specific gravity, and filled with olivines. It weighs about 75 pounds. The ends have been chipped off to give it an ellipsoidal form, otherwise the wave-worn surface is unworked, except that one of its larger faces is rubbed smooth, almost polished, by use as a grinding stone, for which purpose it is excellently adapted by reason of its unusual abrasive quality. * * * MAUI ISLAND There are not many aboriginal structures on Maui, but among those which can be found are some of extreme interest on account of their size and complicated arrangement. KAUPO, OR MOKULAU A mile and a half from the coast at Kaupo, or Mokulau landing, at the eastern end of the island, are two large heiaus. As it would have required a week's time and a considerable outlay of money to reach them, by reason of the distance and lack of roads, they were not visited. WAILUKU At the mouth of the Iao Valley, a mile north of Wailuku, is a sand dune having a nearly level area of about an acre at each end, connected by a curved ridge whose sharp crest is lowered about 20 feet by erosion. On each extremity is a stone inclosure, with several walls on the slopes below them except on the eastern side, toward the ocean. Here a stream has encroached upon the bottom of the dune to such an extent that only a portion of the inclosure nearer town is still remaining, one side and part of each end having fallen into the ravine. The wall along the opposite, or western, side is buried in the sand, only the highest stones still projecting. From the north wall a facing of large stones extending down the surface of the dune for a vertical distance of 15 feet has prevented erosion by the winds. No protection was necessary below this point as the action of rain water on the lime from disintegrated coral rock contained in the deposit has caused the sand to "set" or harden. The other heiau, at the north end of the dune, is apparently unfinished. None of it has disappeared, but the plan is difficult to make out. At its northern end is a protecting layer of stones reaching 25 to 30 feet down the slope, in three separate terraces. Similar terraces are on the slope below the southern end of the east wall. Here and there within the structure are well-like spaces filled with stones. The purpose of these is unknown. Stones of varying sizes, mostly small, within the walls indicate a pavement or floor, but the dense growth of lantana brush and the accumulated sand preclude any careful examination or accurate description of these remains. WAIHEE Southward from the mouth of the Waihee Valley, 5 miles north of Wailuku, is a range of sand dunes from 200 to 300 feet high, extending for half a mile or more in a wide curve, with the concave side facing the ocean. The level space thus bounded is about a fourth of a mile in its greatest width and contains 50 or 60 acres. Approximately parallel with the windings of the shore line, at an average distance of 200 feet from it, is a strong stone wall, built at an unknown date but prior to the advent of the whites. The plain purpose of this wall was to protect from high tides the low land lying behind it and reaching nearly to the foot of the dunes. This area is now cultivated in a variety of crops, mainly rice. Formerly it was a great taro patch of a Hawaiian settlement. A modern flume, which follows closely the line of an ancient ditch, brings down the necessary water from Waihee Creek. In front of the wall a space of 5 or 6 acres is covered with a stone pavement on which are the walls of old houses and inclosures. They are protected on the seaward side by thousands of cubic yards of water-worn stones, piled up like a revetment or riprap, which terminate abruptly at the southern end but extend to the mouth of the creek at the north. The dunes show many angular rocks of the same general material, in their lower portion, so they all probably belong to a spur or projection from the mountain, washed clean at the front by waves, and covered at the rear by the dunes. Some of the stones along the water front were rolled by tides and wave-currents from the débris carried down by the creek from the mountains. At high tides waves surmount this natural breakwater, but spread out over the level pavement and sink between the stones, so that dwellers upon the site were not disturbed by their action. At its northern extremity the high wall connects with a rear corner of an extensive heiau, which was either never completed or has been partially demolished. The unfinished appearance of this, as of all similar remains, is explained by the natives as being due to the interrupted efforts at their construction by "the little people" (fairies), thousands of whom took part in the work. They must complete their task in one night; at the first gleam of dawn they must instantly disappear, leaving their work as it was at the moment, and could never gather at that spot again. The highest part of the heiau wall still upright is about 10 feet; but some of the stones within, promiscuously heaped, are 2 to 3 feet higher. The structure is about 100 by 250 feet, longest on the line from water to hill. A cross wall, possibly somewhat modified in recent times, divides it into two unequal parts, the seaward portion being nearly square and 5 feet higher than the part at the rear. On the latter are small inclosures of stone, the space within them paved with gravel. If of the same age as the remainder of the structure they may have been for priestly seclusion or preparation, though they may be houses of later natives who took advantage of the foundation made by their ancestors. Measurements or clear descriptions of these remains are not possible, owing to overgrowth. A satisfactory study, to distinguish between ancient and modern parts, or between undisturbed stones and those not in their original position, would require careful survey with transit and level after the brush is cleared away; and this must be followed up with considerable excavation as well as removal of loose rock; all of which would demand the labor of a dozen men for three months. Even at that, there is no certainty that definite knowledge would be gained; but it is not to be had in any other way. BURIAL PLACES Near the top of a remnant of a crater rising from the shore line of the ocean, 11 miles from Wailuku on the road to Kahakuloa, is a stone wall built on the leeward slope, the only place on which it could be constructed, as much the larger part of the crater has been blown out into the sea. Between the wall and the summit are at least a dozen stone-covered graves; possibly there are others not seen, as much of the brush is impenetrable. Some of them are sunken; others appear quite recent. Many such graves are found on the dunes. They are all modern, some of them still surrounded by the original wooden fences. IN THE IAO VALLEY The deepest valley on Maui is that of the Iao River. The sides, nearly vertical in places, have an elevation of about 3,000 feet. About 2 miles above the town of Wailuku, well within the mountain, are walls made of stones of varying sizes up to half a ton or more. They extend over several acres of land and their structure is quite complicated. Mostly, they are borders of taro patches, though some of them mark house sites or garden inclosures. One wall, supporting a terrace, is 8 to 10 feet high and contains very heavy stones. Near the head of the Iao Valley there are fully 40 acres of taro beds. A trail formerly led from this spot to the south shore of the island, near Lahaina. It can not now be traced, being obliterated by slides. Residents of Wailuku say these places were in use only 50 or 60 years ago. Many evidences of former occupation have been destroyed in operating the extensive sugar plantations. * * * KAUAI ISLAND There seems to be less evidence of Hawaiian occupancy on Kauai than on any other of the five principal islands. Comparatively few heiaus are reported. Some of those which were in existence when the whites came have been destroyed or defaced to such a degree in establishing sugar plantations that their original form is uncertain; while others are so covered with vegetation, either natural or due to cultivation, that nothing definite can be ascertained as to their size or structure. The site which might be considered as possessing the greatest interest is an aboriginal quarry and workshop where material for stone implements was obtained and shaped into desired forms. There can be no doubt as to the existence of such a place; but no one now knows its location, unless it be some of the older Hawaiians, who, however, profess entire ignorance in regard to it. Mr. William H. Rice, of Lihue, once induced some natives to conduct him to the spot. He believes that if he alone had gone his guides would have fulfilled their promise; but unfortunately several other men joined him, and the natives, either suspicious of their intentions, or not wishing the premises to become publicly known, pursued a devious and wearisome journey through the jungle, crossing gulches and clambering up and down cliffs until the white men were thoroughly bewildered and exhausted; then announced that they "couldn't find it," and led the party home. LIHUE At Niumahu, 2 miles from Lihue, on the road leading south and west from the harbor of Nawiliwili, is a fish pond known as Alakoka. It is a short distance above the mouth of the river, where the little valley widens in a half-moon shape, the stream flowing close to the bluff on the right. The bottom land on the other side is so low as to be swampy. Along the river bank on this side is a heavy wall of stone and earth, reaching the higher land at each end, thus forming a pond of 15 or 20 acres in which the ancient Hawaiians kept their surplus catch of fish. The wall has been raised and strengthened by its present owner, a Chinese, who raises ducks instead of fish. WAILUA Near the mouth of the Wailua River, 6 miles from Lihue, is the former abode of the royal family. The place is so overgrown, except in the few cultivated spots, that no examination of it can be made. No traces of the residences are apparent, although the stone boundary walls of the grounds are still standing. The site of the royal cemetery is set aside as public property. There is nothing now to indicate that any interments were ever made in it. The "Birthstone," on or by which all prospective heirs to the throne must be born in order to insure their right to the succession, still lies in the brush near the foot of a little cliff. In case of a dispute among the claimants to the throne this stone had the power, by some means of which the knowledge has now been lost, to determine which, if any, of the contestants was entitled to possession. The "Sacrifice Stone," also, is in its original place, being so large that it can not be easily removed. Formerly this had a grass roof over it, supported by high poles. When the victim's life was extinct his body was suspended to a rafter or crossbeam at the top of the structure and left there until the flesh had decayed. The bones were then interred on top of the bluff in the rear. It is said that the corpses of chiefs and others of high rank were wrapped in banana leaves and steamed until the flesh fell away. The skeletons were then buried. A mile from the mouth of the Wailua River, on a narrow plateau between it and a small tributary, the summit level being about 200 feet above the water, is a heiau in fairly good condition. It is one of the large structures of its kind, but is so overgrown that measurements or close description are not possible. It is supposed to be the one which was sacred to the devotions of the highest priesthood. The common people were not allowed to venture near it, and even the king could not visit it without special permission involving the most complicated ceremonies. It has passed into possession of the county and will be restored as nearly as can be to its pristine state and thus preserved. On a mass of loose rocks, resulting from disintegration of an old lava flow, projecting into the ocean half a mile east from the mouth of the Wailua River, and near the race track, is a heiau of irregular construction. The extreme measurements are 80 feet north and south by 200 feet east and west. The wall on the side toward the sea is higher and wider along the central half than it is nearer the ends. Small inclosures, bounded by single rows of stones, probably mark the sites of houses for priests and attendants. Along the inner side of the wall next to the water are four depressions, remains of partially filled well-like or cistern-like excavations; similar hollows, obscured by brush, are also next to the inner foot of the opposite wall. A large rock in the form of a triangular prism, standing upright, with one end firmly imbedded in the ground, was no doubt a "god" of some kind; it has a slight hollow or "cup" pecked in the flat top. There are several irregular rows of stones outside of the inclosure. Dense growth prevents the examination necessary for a closer description. DUNE BURIALS Four miles east of Lihue a spur of the plantation railway was run into the dunes to procure sand for making fills. In the course of this work human bones were found, the remains of one individual in one spot and of at least two others not far away. None of these bones seemed to have been long underground. Search in the vicinity, over bare spots among the ridges whose upper portions have been carried away by the winds, revealed indications of burials in at least six other places. Such bones as were found were decayed or in fragments. Among them was part of the skull of a very young infant. A quantity of cooking stones, some coral rasps or files, and a much weathered fragment of a wooden bowl, denoted that camps had been made on the dunes. As the beach is smooth, firm, and extensive, providing an excellent place for landing canoes or dragging seines, these remains probably pertain to parties or families who maintained fishing camps here. At the mouth of the Wailua River, on the east side, was a "City of Refuge." It is now partially destroyed, many of the stones having been taken away to make a fill in the road. It was rectangular in form, 360 feet east and west, 60 feet north and south, made of large stones, some of them weighing a ton or even more. The eastern portion of the interior is artificially made a foot higher than the western. The structure is 300 feet from the water. Midway down the gentle slope in front, opposite the western end, is a slightly crooked row, 100 feet long, of very large stones. A similar row is near the water on the side between the inclosure and the river. WAIMEA There were formerly several heiaus within a few miles of Waimea. Some of them have been destroyed by cultivation, while others are difficult to find and impossible to examine in the cane fields or dense brush. At the east foot of a rocky peak 13 miles by road from Waimea, at an elevation of more than 3,600 feet, is a small heiau almost on the brink of the canyon. Within the walls it is 30 feet across each way. On the south line are three large stones in line, one at each corner, the third about midway between them. No doubt their position determined the location of the structure. It stands on a slight slope. The west wall is 2 feet high inside, the earth having washed down level with its top outside. The north wall is a foot higher than the floor at the west end, and is completely buried at the east, as are the south and west walls along their entire length except for a protruding stone here and there. In fact, the whole interior seems to have received a heavy deposit of earth, carried in from the outside by wind and rain. All these features give an appearance of antiquity to the ruin. Directly below it, well toward the bottom of the canyon, which is said to be 3,000 feet deep, is a long, narrow, curved ridge with rounded top and almost vertical sides. The upper part, apparently an old lava flow, is darker in color than the surrounding precipices, its surface checkered and seamed by weathering and erosion, so that it has an almost startling resemblance to a huge serpent crawling out of the side of the mountain and, with head laid flat on the extreme point of the cliff, watching something in the stream bed a thousand feet below. If the old Hawaiians had been familiar with ophidians, as were the American Indians, this "Snake God" would no doubt have held high rank among their divinities. CONCLUSIONS As intimated above, much additional information regarding antiquities in the Hawaiian Islands can be found in publications of the Bishop Museum in Honolulu. Descriptions, with illustrations, of a number of heiaus are given by Mr. Thrum in the "Hawaiian Annual" for 1906 to 1910, inclusive; and his forthcoming volume will completely cover this branch of archeology. The Bishop Museum has undertaken to make a complete survey and report of all the ancient remains, while Dr. Brigham has almost finished for publication an exhaustive treatise which will include all his observations and deductions along the same lines. With these tasks ended, there will be nothing for anyone else to do, except to take measures for the restoration and care of the principal structures. All the aboriginal remains on the islands are the work of the present Hawaiian race. When the earliest of these people came here they found the islands without inhabitants. There are no evidences of any prehistoric population nor any indications whatever of underground remains. Consequently, so far as can be ascertained, excavations would not result in the discovery of any prehistoric objects or of anything essentially different from what can be seen on the surface or found slightly covered by very recent natural accumulation. At the same time, all the remains are well worthy of study and preservation. These conclusions meet the full approval and indorsement of both Mr. Thrum and Dr. Brigham. INDEX Page. ACCOUNT'S CAVES 131 ADAIR, quoted on construction of houses 170 ADZES-- chert, from Miller's Cave 79 stone, in Molokai 177 AKERS POST OFFICE, cave in vicinity of 18 ALABAMA, explorations in 133-150 ALABASTER-- from Wyandotte Cave 108-109 _See_ Stalagmite; Travertine. ALFORD'S CAVE 140 ALLEN, VALENTINE, acknowledgment to 29 ALTARS, SUPPOSED SACRIFICIAL, origin of 172 _See_ SACRIFICIAL STONES. ALTON, house mounds near 161 ANIMALS-- bones of, found in cave 33 of Molokai 176 ANTLER, OBJECTS OF, from Sell Cave 48 ARKANSAS COUNTY, ARK., excavation of mound in 170 ARKLOW CAVE 125 ARLINGTON-- cairns in vicinity of 40 caves in vicinity of 34, 35 ARMSTRONG, B.G., tradition investigated by 172 ARNHOLDT CAVE 90 ARROWHEADS discovered in caves 31, 39 ASH CAVE 89 ASHES-- beds of, in caves 31, 32, 33, 38 curious cavities in 67-68 deposit of, in Miller's Cave 65-66 ASHLEY CREEK, cave on 19 AWLS-- bone, in Miller's Cave 74 from Goat Bluff Cave 37 AXES-- from Miller's Cave 78 grooved, found in cave 39, 40 AZTALAN, WIS., theory concerning wall at 172 BAGNELL HILL, cave on 94 BAILEY'S CAVE 140 BAKER'S LAKE, cave on 89 "BALLROOM" of Bates Cave 23 BARNARD CAVE 140-141 BARREN COUNTY, KY., explorations in 119 BAT CAVE-- in Colbert County 134 in Shannon County 18 near Crocker 55 on the Osage River 95 BATES CAVE 22-23 BATTLE GROUND near Miller's Cave 59 BEADS-- columella, from cairn 87 shell, found in cairn 28 stone, in cave 31 BEAR CREEK, rock house on 118 BECKER, PHILIP, examination of cave refuse by 84 "BECKWITH'S FORT," mounds near 169 BEDFORD, caves in vicinity of 103, 104 BEER CAVE, popular name for Steuffer Cave 99 BELCHER CAVE 121 BELL, ROBERT A., cave on farm of 51 BELL'S CAVE 122 BEN SMITH'S CAVE 119 BERRY, GEORGE, cave on land of 43 BIG CREEK CAVE 18 BIG-MOUTH CAVE 138 BIG PINEY-- caves in vicinity of 57, 81 house mounds on 162 BIG PINEY POST OFFICE, cave in vicinity of 56 BIRTHSTONE of Kauai Island 192 BISHOP MUSEUM, value of, to students 174 BLATCHLEY, W.S.-- caverns described by 102 quoted 103-104, 107, 110 BLEDSOE COUNTY, TENN., cave in 128 BLOODLAND, house mounds near 57 BLOWING CAVE 136 BLUE RIVER, caves on 111 BLUE SPRING CAVE 18 BLUEWATER CAVE 134 BLUFF CITY, caves in vicinity of 124, 125 BODE CAVE 94 BOILING SPRING OF THE GASCONADE, cave near 34 BOND, JOHN R., cave on farm of 92 BONE CAVE 120 BONES, ANIMAL, in caves 33, 37, 72, 73 BONES, HUMAN-- in Bell's Cave 51 in cairn at Devil's Elbow 86-87 in cairns on Helm's farm 88 in Caldwell's Cave 132 in cave on Meshach Creek 121 in Colyer's Cave 133 in Cub Run Cave 113 in dune burials 193 in Goat Bluff Cave 36, 37, 38, 39 in Gourd Creek Cave 34 in Haunted Cave 116 in Hawaiian caves 182 in Miller's Cave 67, 69-72, 73, 76 in mound 151 in Ramsey's Cave 82 in Sell Cave 47-49 _See_ Skeletons; Skulls. BOWLING GREEN, caves near 118 BRADLEY CAVE 112 BRANDON, cave near 138 BRIDAL CAVE, beauty of 90 BRIGGS, CAPT. J.B., cave owned by 117 BRIGGS, IKE, cave on land of 116 BRIGGS'S CAVE 116 BRIGHAM, DR., work of 174, 194 BROOKS CAVE 56 BRUMLEY, cave in vicinity of 91 BRYANT'S BLUFF, rock shelters in 40 BUCHER CAVE 51 BUCKNER CAVE. _See_ Harry Buckner Cave; Joel Buckner Cave. BUFFALO WALLOWS, so-called 152 BUNCH CAVE 90 BURIAL CAVE near Sheffields 135 BURIAL CUSTOMS in Hawaii 192 BURIAL PLACES on Maui Island 190 BURIALS-- communal 151, 153, 157 dune 193-194 in Goat Bluff Cave 36 in Gourd Creek Cave 30 inclosed in flat stones 88 on Lost Hill 27 _See_ Cairns; Graves. BURKSVILLE, cave near 111 BUSHNELL, D.I., JR.-- conclusion of, regarding house mounds 164 quoted on house mounds 161 CAIRNS-- at Miller's Cave 59 at Sugar Tree camp 40 containing double burial 19 in vicinity of Eugene, Mo. 96 near Pillman's Cave 83 near Woodland Cave 84 of common occurrence 17 on Helm's farm 87-89 on Lost Hill 24-28, 84 on the Gasconade 40, 99 _See_ Burials; Graves. CALDWELL'S CAVE 131-132 CAMDEN COUNTY, MO.-- explorations in 89-91 geological formations in 91 CAMERON, WILLIAM, tradition obtained by 172 CAMP-GROUND CAVE 51 CANNIBAL HOUSE, so-called, near Omaha 156 CANNIBALISM, discoveries indicating 77 CAVE, meaning of term, in Hawaii 182 CAVE EARTH, composition of 16 CAVE EXPLORATION, conditions considered in 101 CAVE MAN, no trace of, in Ozark Hills 15 CAVES. _See_ CAVERNS. CAVERNS-- air of 14-15 as habitations 14 development of 13-14 floors of 14 method of measuring 17 proper examination of 16 CAVITIES IN ASH-BED 67-68, 73 CEDAR GROVE, cave in vicinity of 18 CHATTANOOGA, caves in vicinity of 132 CHAUMONT STATION, cave near 117 CHEATHAM'S FERRY, cave near 134 CHIPPEWAS, Sioux driven westward by 172 CHUNKEY STONES in Molokai 177, 180 CITY OF REFUGE-- at mouth of Wailua River 193 wall of 184 CIVIL WAR, caves as shelters during 23 CLARKSVILLE, cave in vicinity of 123 CLEMMENS CREEK CAVE 89 COAHOMA COUNTY, MISS., large mound in 171 COAL PIT HOLLOW, mention of 24 COFFEE CAVE 134 COKELY CAVE 90 COLBERT COUNTY, ALA., caves of 134, 135 COLE COUNTY, MO., explorations in 100 COLLEGE CAVE 128 COLLINSVILLE, cave in vicinity of 139 COLOSSAL CAVE 115 COLYER'S CAVE 133 COMMUNAL BURIAL. _See_ Burials, communal. COOK, CAPTAIN, death of 184 COOKE, GEORGE, acknowledgment to 175 COOKING, method of, in Molokai 179 COOKVILLE, caves in vicinity of 42 CRAWFORD COUNTY, IND., explorations in 107 CRITTENDEN COUNTY, ARK., mound excavations in 169 CRUMP'S CAVE 118 CUB RUN CAVE 113-115 CULVER'S CAVE 136 CURRENT RIVER, caves of 18 DAERHOFF, BEN, cave on farm of 95 DALLAS COUNTY, MO., house mounds in 161 DANCING PLATFORMS in Molokai 181-182 DAVIS, J.W., caves on farm of 42 DAYLIGHT IN CAVES, use of term 16 DEKALB COUNTY, ALA., caves of 137-139 DENT COUNTY, MO., caves of 20-22 DEVIL'S ELBOW-- burials at 88 house mounds at 162 walled graves at 84 DILLON, house mounds near 42, 162 DINSMORE, DR. R.S., excavations made by 153-154 DISCOIDS, STONE, in Molokai 177 DIXON, cave in vicinity of 89 DIXON'S CAVE 116 DONNEHUE'S CAVE 103 DONNELSON'S CAVE 103-106 DOUBLE CAVE 54-55 DRIP ROCK-- deposits of, in Berry Cave 43 meaning of the term 16 _See_ Stalactite; Stalagmite. DRY CAVE 90 DRY CREEK, cave on 56 DRY FORK POST OFFICE, caves near 119 DUNBAR'S CAVE 123-124 DUNES, BURIALS IN 193 DUNLAP, caves in vicinity of 128-129 EDENVILLE ROAD, cave on 57 EDGAR SPRINGS, cave in vicinity of 23 EDMONSON COUNTY, KY., caves of 115-118 EIDSON, WILL ROBERT, cairns on farm of 90 EIGENMANN, PROFESSOR, conclusions of 105 ELDON, cave in vicinity of 96 ELLIS CAVE 138 EMINENCE, supposed cave near 20 ESMITH CAVES 119-120 EUGENE, graves in vicinity of 96 FARMINGTON, mounds near 162, 166 FEARIN CAVE 139 FERGUSON, MO.-- excavation of mound near 168 house mounds near 161 FISH, eyeless 18 FISHING CAVE 18 FISHPONDS-- at Niumahu 192 of Molokai 175 FLINTWORKING SITE 59 FOOD SUPPLY of Molokai 175 FOOTE, A.L., cave on land of 44 FORD'S CAVE 119 FORT DEPOSIT CAVE-- cross sections of 144-149 description of 143-150 FORT PAYNE CAVE 137-138 FORTIFICATION, INDIAN, near Miller's Cave 59 FOSSIL CAVE-- 91 plan of 92 section of 92 FRANKLIN COUNTY, TENN., caves of 131 FREEBURG, caves in vicinity of 97, 99 FREEMAN'S CAVE 81-83 FRENCH LICK SPRINGS, cavern near 107 GAME played in Molokai 177 GARVIN CAVE 112 GASCONADE RIVER, caves on 96, 97, 98, 99 GASCONDY, cave in vicinity of 98 GILDER'S DISCOVERY 157 GILL, DE LANCEY-- observations of 48 theory of 17 GLAIZE CREEK, cave near 91 GLASS FRAGMENT, from Goat Bluff Cave 37 GLOVER, ROBERT, cave on farm of 122 GOAT BLUFF CAVE, description of 35-39 GODS, STONE 186, 193 GOLD IN CAVES, beliefs concerning 21, 30 GORDON, tradition related by 173 GOUGE, from Miller's Cave 79 GOURD CREEK-- cairns at mouth of 24-25 village site on 34 GOURD CREEK CAVE-- description of 29 exploration of 28-34 GRAHAM CAVE 83 GRANITE MOUNTAIN, mounds near 168 GRAVEL in caves 16 GRAVES-- cist, at Iowa Point 152 near Bell's Cave 123 near McKennan's 52 of Molokai 178 on Laughlin's ranch 44 on Saline Creek 95 walled, at Devil's Elbow 84-87 _See_ Cairns; Burials. "GREAT TEMPLE" of Hawaii 183-184 GREEN RIVER, rock shelters on 118 GREGORY, PROFESSOR-- mention of 175 work of 174 "GROUND HOUSE INDIANS," mounds made by 172 GROUND HOUSE RIVER, probable origin of name 173 GRUNDY COUNTY, TENN., caves of 130 GULFS, formation of 108 GULFS OF LOST RIVER 107 GUMBO for making vessels 69 GUNTERSVILLE, caves in vicinity of 139, 140 GUTHOERL, PETER-- cave on farm of 20 mounds on farm of 22 HA-HA-TON-KA, caves in vicinity of 89 HAMILTON COUNTY, TENN., caves of 132 HAMMERS found in cave 39 HARDIN COUNTY, KY., caves of 112 HARDIN'S CAVE 139-140 HARLOW CAVE 112 HARRISON COUNTY, IND., explorations in 111 HARRISON'S CAVE 136 HARRY BUCKNER CAVE 113 HART COUNTY, KY., explorations in 112 HAUNTED CAVE 116 HAWAII, archeological work in 174-195 HEIAUS-- at Kaupo 188 at Napoopoo 184 described by Mr. Thrum 194 of Hawaii Island 185-187 of Wailua 192-193 of Waimea 194 on Maui Island 190 on Mauna Loa 178-180 sacred to priesthood 192 HELM, DANIEL, cairns on farm of 87 HENSON'S CAVE 129 HILO, archeological work in vicinity of 182 HIXSON'S CAVE 129 HOLMES, W.H., suggestion made by 15 HOLSTON RIVER, cave on 125 HONAUNAU, work of Stokes at 184-185 HONEY LANDING, cave at 139 HOPKINS, ISAAC, mounds on farm of 166-167 HOUSE MOUNDS-- defined 17 in Dent County 22 in Miller County 96 in St. François County, Mo., plan of 168 near Dillon 42 near Ranch House 56-57 near Rolla 41 near St. James 42 near Stover 100 of the lower Mississippi Valley 161 on Brush Creek 99 theories concerning origin of 163-165 _See_ Village sites. HOUSE SITES. _See_ Heiaus. HOWE, NEBR., excavations near 155 HRDLI[VC]KA, DR. ALE[VS], reference to 158 HUBLIN'S CAVE 130 HUGHES, SAM P., work of 155-156 HUNTER, A.B., mounds on farm of 166 HURRICANE BLUFF CAVE 97 HUT RINGS-- at Beckwith's Fort 170 similar to ruins of Mandan houses 171 HUTCHINS CAVE 112 HUTCHINSON, HARRISON, cave on farm of 97 IAO VALLEY, remains in 191 ILLINOIS, explorations in 111 IMPLEMENTS-- found in cave 113 found in Molokai 177 found near cemeteries 123 from Sell Cave 46 INDIAN FORD CAVE 96-97 INDIAN FORT, on the Osage River 99 INDIAN MOUND CAVE 124 INDIANA-- cave region of 102 explorations in 102-111 IOWA POINT, grave at 152 IRON MOUNTAIN, house mounds near 161 IRON MOUNTAIN RAILWAY, mounds along 167 IRVIN, GEORGE, cave on farm of 96 ISBOLL CAVES 135 JACKSON, GENERAL, cave used by, as storage room 143 JACKSON COUNTY, ALA., caves of 135 JEROME, rock shelters in vicinity of 40 JOEL BUCKNER CAVE 113 JONES FARM, cave on 24 JURGGENMEYER, CONRAD, cave on farm of 94 KAMEHAMEHA I, KING-- "slide" made in time of 185 temple built by 183 KANSAN DRIFT, skeletons reported found in 155 KAUAI ISLAND, investigations in 191-194 KENTUCKY, explorations in 112-123 KERR'S MILL, cave near 44 KEY, BUCK, cave on farm of 133 KEY ROCKS 24 KEY'S CAVE 133 KILAUEA, investigations near 183 KILLIAN CAVES 138-139 KNIVES-- discovered in cave 31 flint, found in cave 39 found in cairn 27 LACKAYE'S BLUFF CAVE 97 LAIRD'S CAVE 112 LAKEY'S CAVE 128-129 LAND COMPANY'S CAVE 129 LANE, GEORGE, mound on farm of 24 LANE'S CAVE 56 LAUDERDALE COUNTY, ALA., caves of 133-134 LAUGHLIN RANCH, cairns on 44 LAUPAHOEHOE, ruins at 187 LAWRENCE COUNTY, IND., explorations in 102-106 LEAVENWORTH, caves in vicinity of 111 LEWIS AND CLARK-- mound mentioned by 152 names of, carved on rock 153 LIBRARY OF BISHOP MUSEUM, contents of 174 LIHUE, fishpond near 192 LIMROCK, caves near 135, 136 LINN CREEK, cave formerly near 91 LINNVILLE CAVE 124 LITTLE-MOUTH CAVE 138 LITTLE PINEY-- cave near 40 cave on 23, 34 mound on 24 village site on 34 LITTLE WYANDOTTE CAVE 111 LOCK'S CAVE 112 LODGE SITES on Long's Hill 159-160 LOGAN COUNTY, KY., reconnoissance in 122 LONG'S HILL, the site of Gilder's discovery 157 LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN, Caves on west slope of 138 LOST HILL-- cairn on 84 described 25 LOVE'S CAVE 120 LUCAS, F.A., expert on animal bones 128 LUCKENHOFF, JOHN, cave on farm of 94 MCCREARY CAVE 121 MCDERMENT'S CAVES 141-142 MCWILLIAMS FARM, cave on 42 MAMMAL CAVE 116 MAMMOTH CAVE, KY. 115 caves near 115-117 MAMMOTH CAVE, MO., rumors of, not verified 20 MAMMOTH CAVE OF ILLINOIS 111 MARENGO CAVE 107 MARIES COUNTY, MO., explorations in 96-98 MARION COUNTY, TENN., caves of 131-132 MARSH, HENRY, cave on farm of 23 MARSHALL COUNTY, ALA., explorations in 139-150 MARTIN COUNTY, IND., caves of 106 MARTIN, LEWIS, cave on place of 113 MAUI ISLAND, aboriginal structures on 188-191 MAUNA KEA, quarry on 183 MAXEY'S CAVE, described 43 MERAMEC RIVER, house mounds on 161 MERAMEC VALLEY, relics seldom found in 22 MESHACH CREEK, caves on 121 MILL CAVE 106, 118, 121 MILLER, DANIEL S., cave on farm of 57 MILLER, WALTER, cave on farm of 54 MILLER COUNTY, MO., explorations in 91-96 MILLER'S CAVE-- description of 57-81 measurements of 61-62, 63 plan of 62 shells in 66-67 MILLTOWN, cave near 107 MILLTOWN CAVE, change in 108 MISSOURI RIVER, explorations along 151-160 MITCHELL, cave in vicinity of 104 MIX CAVE 53-54 MOAB, village site near 83 MOLOKAI-- deforestation of 177 former population of 175 investigations in 175-182 kind of stone found in 177 MONEY CAVE 21 MONROE COUNTY, ILL., explorations in 111 MONROE COUNTY, KY., explorations in 120-121 MONTAUK, cave in vicinity of 19 MONTEAGLE, caves in vicinity of 131 MONTGOMERY COUNTY, TENN., explorations in 123-124 MORGAN CAVE 90 MORGAN COUNTY, explorations in 100 MORRELL CAVE 125-128 MORTARS-- found in caves 39, 74, 77, 78 large stone used as 187 MOSQUITO CREEK, communal burial on 153 MOUNDS-- mentioned by Lewis and Clark 152 not found in Molokai 178 _See_ House mounds; Lodge sites; Village sites. MUNFORDVILLE, KY., caves in vicinity of 112-113 MUNRO, JAMES, acknowledgment To 175 MURRELL'S CAVE 134 NAPOOPOO, investigations at 184 NATIONAL MUSEUM, objects shipped to 81 NATURAL BRIDGE CAVE 100 "NEBRASKA MAN," theories regarding 157-158 NEMAHA RIVER, mound on, mentioned by Lewis and Clark 152 NEW MADRID COUNTY, MO., mounds of 166 NEWBURG, cave in vicinity of 41 NEWSOM SPRINGS, caves near 134 NIANGUA RIVER, caverns on 89 NICKAJACK, caves near 131 NICKAJACK CAVE 132 NILES, cave near 19 NORTHTOWN, cave in vicinity of 112 OLAA, bones in caves near 182 OMAHA, investigations in vicinity of 156 ONYX CAVES 22, 34-35, 90 ORANGE COUNTY, IND., explorations in 106-107 ORANGEVILLE, caves in vicinity of 107 OSAGE COUNTY, MO., explorations in 98 OZARK REGION, explorations in 13-100 PAGE, ROBERT, cave on land of 55 PALMER, DR. E.E., rock house on land of 120 PAOLI, caves in vicinity of 106 PAPILLION, NEBR., work near 156 PARIS, REV. MR., story of Captain Cook related to 184 PARK, WILLIAM-- buffalo wallows examined by 152 skeletons exhumed by 151 "PAVED TRAIL" in Molokai 176 PAWNEE VILLAGE SITE 153 PAYNE CAVE 119 PERFORATOR AND KNIFE from Wright Cave 93 PERFORATORS, BONE, in cave 31 PERU, NEBR., lodge sites near 156 PESTLE AND GRINDING STONE found at Laupahoehoe 188 PESTLES-- found in caves 39, 74, 77, 78 in Molokai 177 PETERS CREEK, caves on 119-120 PETROGLYPHS-- near Miller's Cave 60-61 on Gasconade River 89 _See_ Pictographs. PHELPS, JAMES, cave on farm of 24 PHELPS COUNTY, MO.-- caves of 22-42 house mounds in 162 PHILLIPS CAVE 51 PICKETT'S CAVE 129 PICTOGRAPHS-- reported near Paydown 97 _See_ Petroglyphs. PILLMAN, JOHN, cave on land of 83 PIPES-- fragment of, in cave 31 from cairn 27 from Miller's Cave 69, 80 PIQUET ORCHARDS, cave near 89 PLATTIN CREEK, house mounds on 161 POINSETT COUNTY, ARK., mounds in 171 POLISHING STONES. _See_ Rubbing stones. POOL HOLLOW, cave in 41 POT from Goat Bluff Cave 38-39 POTTERY-- from Miller's Cave 77 from Sell Cave 46-47 of Gourd Creek Cave 31 place where made 59 unknown in Molokai 178 POYNER'S CAVE 116-117 PRIDE'S CAVE 134 PROCTOR'S CAVE 116 PULASKI COUNTY, MO.-- caves of 42-89 house mounds in 162 QUARRIES-- in Hawaii 183 on Kauai Island 191 RAILROAD CAVE 55 RAIN HEIAU of Molokai 180-181 RAMSEY'S CAVE 81-83 RANCH HOUSE, house mounds near 56 REFUSE, meaning of the term 16 RENAUD CAVE 23 RICE, WILLIAM H., investigations of 191 RICH FOUNTAIN, house mounds in vicinity of 99, 162 RICHLAND CAVE 52 RIDDLE CAVE 56 RIDEN, J.W., cave on farm of 22 RIDEN'S CAVE 57 RIVER CAVE 90, 98 ROARING SPRING, description of 58 ROBBERS' CAVE 90 ROCK LEDGES QUARRY, discovery at 102 ROCK SHELTERS 24 defined 16-17 in Bryant's Bluff 40 of Colbert County, Ala. 134 on Big Piney 89 ROLLA, house mounds near 41 ROLLA ROAD, house mounds on 22 ROLLINS, SAM T., cave on farm of 52-53 ROOF DUST, use of the term 16 ROSS, JOSEPH, cairns on farm of 85, 88 ROUBIDOUX CAVE 52 ROUBIDOUX CREEK, caves on 42, 43, 44, 45, 51, 52 ROWLETT CAVE 113 ROWLETT'S STATION, caves in vicinity of 112, 113 ROYAL FAMILY OF HAWAII, former abode of 192 RUBBING STONE from Sell Cave 48 RULO, NEBR., investigations near 154 SACRIFICIAL ALTARS. _See_ Altars; Sacrificial stones. SACRIFICIAL STONES in Hawaiian Islands 181, 186, 192 ST. ELIZABETH, caves near 94-95 ST. FRANCIS COUNTY, ARK., house mounds in 170 ST. FRANÇOIS COUNTY, MO., mounds of 166 ST. JAMES, house mounds near 42, 162 ST. JOHN'S BAYOU, mounds along 166 SALEM, MO.-- caves in vicinity of 20 house mounds near 22, 161 SALINE CREEK, grave on 95 SALT CAVE 115-116 SALTPETER-- Hublin's Cave worked for 130 made in Fearin Cave 139 manufactured in Morrell Cave 126 mining for, in Barnard Cave 140-141 SALTPETER CAVE-- in Barren County, Ky. 119 in Crawford County, Ind. 110-111 in Dent County, Mo. 21 in Hardin County, Ky. 112 in Jackson County, Ala. 136 in Marshall County, Ala. 140 in Phelps County, Mo. 41 in Pulaski County, Mo. 57 in Texas County, Mo. 19-20 SCHORD, JOHN W., cave on farm of 56 SELL, DR. W.J., cave on farm of 45 SELL CAVE, described 45-51 SEQUATCHIE COLLEGE, cave near 128 SEQUATCHIE COUNTY, TENN., caves of 128 SEQUATCHIE RIVER, cave on 131 SERPENT, ridge in form of 194 SEWANEE, cave in vicinity of 131 SHANNON COUNTY, MO., caves of 18-19 SHARK GOD-- stone known as 186 tradition concerning 178 SHEFFIELDS, cave at 135 SHELL, objects of, from Miller's Cave 79 SHELL HEAPS in Colbert County, Ala. 135 SHELLMOUND, caves in vicinity of 131 SHELLS, accumulation of, in Miller's Cave 66 SHELTER CAVE, defined 16-17 SHILOAH CAVE 102 SHOAL CREEK, cave on 134 SHOALS, caves in vicinity of 106 SHORT BEND CAVE 20-21 SHORT BEND POST OFFICE, caves near 20, 21 SHORT BEND ROAD, house mounds on 22 SHORT CAVE 117-118 SINK HOLES near Onyx Cave 35 SINKERS, found in Molokai 178 SINKIN CREEK, caves near mouth of 18 SIOUX, driven westward by Chippewas 172 SKELETONS-- communal burial of 151 found near Rulo 154 in mound in Crittenden County 169 _See_ Bones, human; Skulls. SKIVERS, from Miller's Cave 79 SKULLS-- found at Lost Hill 26, 27, 28 petrified 154 _See_ Bones, human; Skulls. SLABS, stone, used in vault 26-27 SLICK ROCK CAVE 120 "SLIDES" of Hawaii 185 SMITH, JAMES I., caves on land of 19 SMITH CAVES 19 SMITH'S CAVE. _See_ Ben Smith's Cave. SMITH'S GROVE, cave near 118 SMITHSONIA, cave at 133 SPEARHEADS discovered in cave 31 SPECIMENS FROM CAVES, where found 17 SPEERS CAVE 100 SPRING CREEK CAVE 83 SPRING CHEEK VALLEY, house mounds in 22 STALACTITES-- abundant in Morrell Cave 125 beauty of, in Bridal Cave 90 _See_ Stalagmite. STALAGMITE-- abundance of, in Morrell Cave 126 in Killian Cave 139 in Luckenhoff Cave 94 in Onyx Cave 35 masses of, in McDerment's Cave 142 _See_ Alabaster; Drip rock; Onyx; Travertine. STANDING ROCK, near Linn Creek 91 STAR CAVE 107 STARK'S CAVE 96 STEFFY'S CAVE 113 STERNS, DR. FREDERICK H., work of 156 STEUFFER CAVE 99 STOKES, MR., work of 174 STOVER, house mounds near 100, 162 STRATMAN, HENRY L., cave on farm of 98 "STRAWHORN'S" HOLLOW, cave in 41 STUDENTS, journey through cave by 105-106 SUGAR TREE CAMP, cairns at 40 SULLIVAN COUNTY, TENN., explorations in 124-128 TAVERN CREEK, cave on 95 TAYLOR MOUND 151 TEETH, deductions from wear of 48, 49 TEMPLE. _See_ Great Temple. TEMPLE HILL, cave near 119 TEMPLE SITE on Senator Cooke's ranch 176 TENNESSEE, explorations in 123-133 TENNESSEE RIVER, caves on 139 TERRELL LAND, cave on 18 TEXAS COUNTY, MO., caves of 19-20 THOBURN, J.B., conclusion of, regarding house mounds 164 THOMAS, DAVID, village site on farm of 83 THOMAS CAVE 118, 125 THRUM, THOMAS G., work of 174, 194 THUMB-SCRAPERS, abundant on village site 153 TICK CREEK CAVE 41 TILLMAN, CHARLES, Grave on Land of 95 TILLMAN, JOHN, graves on land of 96 TODD COUNTY, KY., explorations in 122-123 TOMPKINSVILLE, caves in vicinity of 121 "TONKY," caves in vicinity of 89 TORONTO, caves in vicinity of 90 TRADITION-- concerning the Shark God 178 of the "Ground House Indians" 172 TRAVERTINE-- from Wyandotte Cave 108 _See_ Alabaster; Onyx; Stalagmite. TROY, KANSAS, explorations in vicinity of 153-154 TULEY, JOHN BLACK, cave on land of 121 TUNNEL CAVE 56 TURKEY-PEN SLOUGH, village site at mouth of 40 TUSCUMBIA, MO., village site in vicinity of 95-96 TWIN CAVES 22 VIENNA, cave in vicinity of 96 VILLAGE SITES-- in vicinity of Arlington, Mo. 40 on Big Piney 83 on Gourd Creek 34 on Saline Creek 96 on Wolf River 153 Pawnee 153 _See_ House mounds; Hut rings; Lodge sites; Mounds. WAIHEE, remains at 189-190 WAILUA, investigations at 192-193 WAILUKU, heiaus at 188-189 WAIMEA, remains near 183, 194 WARREN COUNTY, KY., explorations in 118 WATSON CAVE 22 WAYNESVILLE-- cairns in vicinity of 44 caves in vicinity of 43, 51, 52, 56 WELBURN'S CAVE 140 WELCH'S CAVE 18 WHITE CLOUD, KANS., explorations in vicinity of 151-153 WHITE'S CAVE 115 WIDENER, CHARLES E., cave on farm of 23 WILD-HOG CAVE 23 WILSON, JACK, remarkable will of 92-93 WILSON CAVE 92-94 WOLF RIVER, village site on 153 WOOD, G.S., Indian cemetery on farm of 123 WOODLAND HOLLOW, cave in 84 WORLEY, E.S., cave on farm of 125 WRIGHT CAVE 91-92 perforator from 93 WYANDOTTE CAVE 108-110 size of 102 WYNNE'S CAVE 113 YANCY MILLS, caves in vicinity of 23, 24 YELLOW LAKE, mound opened near 172 YOARK, MARTHA, home of 44 YOARK CAVE, described 43-44 ZIMMERMAN, MARK E.-- buffalo wallows examined by 152 skeletons exhumed by 151 * * * * * +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | Page 55: deposists replaced with deposits | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * 
48822	----	THREE YEARS IN THE SERVICE. A RECORD OF THE DOINGS OF THE 11TH REG. MISSOURI VOLS. BY D. McCALL, A PRIVATE OF CO. B. SPRINGFIELD: STEAM PRESS OF BAKER & PHILLIPS. 1864. RECORD OF THE DOINGS OF THE 11TH REG. OF MISSOURI VOLUNTEERS. Being anxious to serve my country, I walked to Springfield, Illinois, a distance of twenty-five miles. I arrived there early in the evening, and took up lodging with a German that night, which was on the 14th day of July, 1861. There were several recruiting officers enlisting men for cavalry or infantry. Andrew J. Weber was enlisting a company for an infantry regiment, which I joined. There were then about thirty members. After remaining here, for a few days, boarding at the Owen House, we got on board the cars, which were in waiting, to carry us to our destination. Sorrowful were the scenes at parting from friends to go from their homes to defend their rights and liberty, many to fall victims of this unholy rebellion. As I was a stranger to the company, I had no regrets at leaving, as my friends were far away. The cars blowed their whistle, and amid the cheers of the people, and waving of handkerchiefs, we left Springfield. Our destination being Missouri, we arrived at night at a place called Illinoistown, opposite St. Louis, and here we remained all night, and next morning we all went down to the river and washed. We were then ordered to fall in to go across the river. Company C accompanied us, commanded by Captain Moses Warner. The two companies fell in and formed in four ranks, and the command was given, and we started to the river; we soon arrived on the bank. There was a ferry boat in waiting to carry us across, we marched board, and the boat soon landed us below St. Louis, where the command was formed in line, and it was soon on its way to the arsenal. We arrived there early in the day. The day was warm, and the streets were dusty, which made it quite disagreeable marching. We were not molested on the way. Most of us were without arms. The people lined the sidewalks as we passed. When we arrived at the arsenal rations were issued to us, and we eat what we got with a good relish, as we had eat nothing since leaving Springfield the day before. Most of the boys were without money. After staying here for a few hours, the command was ordered to fall in and we were went from here to Marine Hospital, where we remained several weeks. It was here we experienced the duties of a soldier. We quartered in a long low building, with straw and plank to lay on. Provisions were good enough, such as they were, and as we had no conveniences prepared, we labored under difficulties to get enough to eat. Commenced drilling, and drilled eight hours a day. Our progress was very slow at first, as our commanders were not very proficient in drill. But we soon learned to keep step and the other changes. This continued until one day we marched down to the arsenal, were sworn in as a regiment, and drew our arms. We had previously no arms but some old flint lock muskets, most of them without bayonets. After drawing our equipments we returned to quarters, and in a few days the order came to prepare for marching. The regiment marched to the bank of the river, stacked arms, and there we remained until evening, awaiting the boat, which arrived at last, and the bugle sounded, and the order came to go on board the boat. We fell in and marched about a mile, when we got on board of the boat awaiting us at the landing. Everything being ready, the boat soon left the landing, and she headed down the river. Next day we landed at Cape Girardeau, Missouri, August 7th, 1861. The regiment soon landed, stacked arms, and men were detailed out of each company to unload the boat. It was hard work, as we had to roll the barrels and hogsheads up a very high hill. But we were strong and healthy, soon put every thing on shore. We carried our things into an old mill, which was deserted. This was to be our quarters for a while--company B on one side of the room, company C the other, in the second story. The regiment was under command of Col. David A. Bayles, a captain in three months' service. He was severe on us. We had to drill eight hours a day, and there was a great deal of fatigue duty to do. The situation of Cape Girardeau when we arrived:--The city is built on the bank of the Mississippi river, and back of it was very high bluffs, and it was defended by the 8th Missouri and 20th Illinois regiments, some Missouri home guards, cavalry and infantry. There was one small fort, partly finished, no guns mounted, every street was strongly guarded, sentinels standing on every corner, and no person allowed to pass without a written permit from headquarters. Patrols patrolled the town night and day. The citizens treated us quite civilly as long as we remained here. We were here but a short time when the report was brought to headquarters that a rebel force was marching on us with a heavy siege piece. The report we found to be true, as a deserter informed us afterwards. The alarm soon spread through the camps, and all was in commotion. Every man was ordered under arms, and three companies of the 11th Missouri regiment were ordered to go out and act as picket. Company B was one of the companies detailed. It was early in the evening when we buckled on our belts, order was given fall into line, and our three companies formed in column and marched three miles, where was a heavy piece of timber. Here we deployed as skirmishers along the fence, which was built very high, and awaited the rebels until morning. Woods were on each side of the road. There was nothing worth mentioning occurred to us during our stay there, but the evening being far advanced, every one was roused to his feet; some were fast asleep, while others preferred walking up and down to sleeping, a shot was fired, and then several followed in quick succession. The sound came from camp. After a volley was fired, everything became silent, and all was still again, and we returned to camp, when we were informed that they were ordered out on the top of a high hill, a short time after the three companies left, and there they remained in line of battle, on the ground, with their arms by their side; as the night was quite dark, they could not distinguish friend from foe; they were attacked and had a skirmish, after several volleys were fired on each side, and three men were badly wounded. If there were rebels they had all disappeared in the morning. Plenty of tracks were visible of men and horses near where the firing was, and the supposition was that there was a considerable force there. Men were busy all that evening throwing up entrenchments and placing guns in position, and thus continued night and day for some time. One evening the order came to prepare for marching. We were soon in line, the command was given, forward, and off we started. Took the Jackson road and marched quite close to it, and the command halted to examine the front, and we were soon ordered forward, the town was quickly surrounded, cannon placed on both ends of the street, and a sentinel guarded every door and window, and the citizens when they arose in the morning, found themselves prisoners in the hands of the federal soldiers. All the stores were shut. It is a very good place for a town, and was at one time a smart place for business. There were several stores and groceries, a saddler's shop, and a fine place for fruit, and the soldiers fared well for a while on peaches and apples. The merchants would not sell goods to the Union boys, and they helped themselves. There were but few men in town, as they left when they heard of our coming, and did not wait for us to make our appearance, as this was their place of resort a short time before. After getting what apples and peaches we wanted, and frightening the citizens by firing several salutes and breaking some windows, we left. A great many of the citizens of the surrounding country came in to see the soldiers, and were detained until we left next morning. When the regiment was ready to return to camp, the report came that General Prentiss was coming into town with a brigade of infantry, and the regiments were formed in open order, and at length the expected visitor arrived with his staff. He rode down through the lines, and back again to the head, and made a short speech to us. He said never take a word of insult from a rebel; if any one offered you any insult, shoot him down, for that was the way to end the rebellion. With a few more remarks, of not much import, he closed his speech, and the column was soon in motion, and we arrived at quarters early in the evening, much pleased with our trip. Then commenced the work of building forts. Spades, shovels and wheelbarrows came into requisition, and all men fit for duty were compelled to work, throwing up breastworks until four strong forts were completed and mounted with heavy siege guns, 24-pounders; the timber was cut down all around within a mile of the fort. All kinds of reports were flying through camp. One evening we were ordered to fall in, and without much ceremony some few companies were marched up through the town, until they reached an old two story building on the corner of a street. Halt, was heard along the line, and they stopped for a short time waiting for further orders. They were soon ordered forward, and marched into the house, up into the first story, and a lookout was placed at each window. I was one detailed for duty. The night was beautiful, and I could discern objects for some distance, but nothing disturbed the quiet of that still evening but the heavy snoring of the soldiers as they lay in deep sleep all around me. Some, perhaps, were thinking or dreaming of loved ones at home, of friends that were far away; so the night passed off without an enemy disturbing us, and in the morning we returned to camp. Several parties of soldiers were sent out to search for rebels, but they never encountered any, as they always evaded our scouts. A man from Perryville, Perry county, came to the Cape asking Bayles to send a force to meet the rebels said to be advancing on it. About 300 men was ordered on board the old Illinois steamboat, and company B was chosen and parts of other companies volunteered to go. After getting on board, the old ark began to recede from shore. After numerous delays we found ourselves at Sandford's Landing, fifteen miles from Perryville, and this must be reached as quick as possible. After ascending a very high hill with the utmost difficulty, we started on our way. Two citizens took the oath of allegiance on the road, and were let go where they pleased. Company B was detailed to skirmish through that broken country, and we were put in advance, and was made to halt if we got too far ahead, and wait until the rear came up. In the evening company B was made the advance guard, and they encamped near a large spring of cold water, which was very acceptable to us, as we did not get much good water after leaving the river. Here a citizen of Perryville was made a prisoner. He was lurking near this spring, was well armed, but made no resistance, and he was soon disarmed. We found him quite an influential man among the citizens, and was then captain of a rebel company. He was owner of a hotel in town. We arrived within sight of the town, and were ordered to divide off into small squads and advance from all sides, and take the town by surprise. The order was quickly obeyed, and the band struck up the tune of Yankee Doodle, with drums beating and colors flying, marched into the court yard before the citizens could get away. There was a German ball in progress, but it was soon stopped and the people returned to their homes. Whisky flowed quite freely, and the officers and men had a good time generally with the ladies of the town. Beef was furnished to us by the people, and it was quite a treat to us to get to eat at a table. There were plenty of apples and peaches, also sweet potatoes, we found in great abundance. There was plenty to eat here, and the people would invite the soldiers to dine with them. Next morning we drew our uniforms, and one of the men by the name of Ford, was drowned while in the river washing himself before changing his clothes. This was the first death in the company. A whole brigade followed this young man to his lonely resting place. The next death was one of Grant's staff, and the next was a John Headly. About the middle of October we were ordered to prepare for marching, as we were to go out to meet Jeff. Thompson's forces, said to be at Fredericksburg. When we started the rain was falling sufficient to make it pleasant marching, during the whole of the trip. A brigade of infantry was encamped near the town, which informed us that Jeff. Thompson had left; so our brigade started in pursuit, consisting of the 17th Illinois, 5th Indiana cavalry, and one battalion. We met the rebels and repulsed them after a fight which lasted about twenty-four hours, which resulted in a loss to the rebels of about 600 in killed, wounded and prisoners. We came very near being surprised and our force taken. We were marching as if it were to our destruction, when an old negro warned us of our danger. He informed Plummer where the rebels were posted. They had planted two batteries so that when we got close enough they could rake our ranks. Plummer ordered up a battery and opened on them where we supposed the rebels were. Blank cartridges were fired from our side, and they replied with shot and shell, doing no damage, as they shot over us. The 17th Illinois and part of the 11th Missouri were ordered forward, and they advanced and poured in a heavy volley of Musketry, and the enemy could not stand it and fled, and left us masters of the field. The 1st Indiana cavalry made a charge, and Major Gavitt was killed with 250 men either killed or wounded. Infantry loss was slight. The 17th and 20th Illinois charged and took a battery. Col. Lowe was killed on the rebel side, and Thompson's army all dispersed. We followed them 12 miles, and they burned a bridge, so we could not follow them any farther. That was the death-blow to Jeff. Thompson's forces. There were about 3,000 rebels engaged. On our side about 1,700. The battle lasted six hours, and the rebels were completely routed. The battle was fought on the 21st day of October, 1861. Nothing worth mentioning occurred to us until the 25th day of February, 1862, when we were ordered to prepare for leaving Cape Girardeau, where we had been encamped for over six months; where we had spent many days on fatigue duty in throwing up breastworks, and when we left there were four forts, strongly fortified, mounted with siege guns, and no force the rebels could send against it could take it, and I think we left it secure from invasion. On the 26th the regiment got on board the steamer Empress, we landed at Commerce, and after staying there a short time we took up our line of march in pursuit of the enemy, said to be retreating from before us. Our advance had a short skirmish with part of Jeff's forces. Our cavalry routed them, and took four small cannon, with a few prisoners. The skirmish was a short distance from Sikestown. Jeff. escaped, but lost his horse and a white feather out of his hat. The next morning we resumed our march. Rain fell that day, and made it hard marching for us, and at length we found ourselves opposite New Madrid. We formed our line of battle and advanced within two miles of the rebel's stronghold, and they commenced shelling us with their heavy guns, but there was little damage done our side, and after remaining under fire for some time, we moved back and bivouacked for the night, as we did not think it advisable to storm the works then, as the rebels were protected by gunboats, and we could not hold them if we should gain possession of them. The weather was quite cold and some snow fell. After staying here a short time we were ordered to move, and we were soon in motion again. We marched nearly all night, and at last came to a halt, and were ordered to lay down without any fire and make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and there we remained until morning. Such a night as we passed there will long be remembered by me. Some of us had no blankets, and we left our knapsacks at Sikestown. There was some snow on the ground; we waded through water over our shoes, and had to sleep with wet feet; but very little sleep we had that long night. We were four miles from a place called Point Pleasant, and at daylight were on the march for this place. We double-quicked about two miles. There were a few boats tied up at the landing, which our sharpshooters soon drove from there, and they all escaped. Some of the crews were killed. After Plummer's men drove the rebels from the town, they took possession, and then commenced the work of plunder. Stores were broken into and everything of value was taken. One warehouse was filled with corn, sugar and molasses. Whisky and medicines in abundance, as there were several drug stores, and the boys helped themselves to what they wanted. Our camp was about a mile from the town, and most everything of value was carried off. It was in a low swampy piece of ground, we had no tents, and had to lay on the ground in water, at times the rain pouring in torrents upon us. A detail was made to go and dig rifle pits. The enemy had a gunboat, and they tried to drive Captain Weber and his working party away, but were unable to make the workers desist, and they soon had sufficient protection from the shot and shell that was continually falling around them. Batteries were planted, and they got a siege gun in operation, the enemy's gunboats found it not good policy to venture within reach of our guns; but they planted batteries on the opposite side of the river, and then could not make us leave. We had come to stay for a while, and we were determined on it. New Madrid was soon stormed and taken, and gunboat ran the blockade, and came down the river puffing and blowing, dismounting all the enemies batteries and scattering them in every direction, as if they were nothing but chaff. After dismounting all the rebel batteries, we were ordered to get ready to move, and soon were in motion again. Mud was over our shoe tops, and it was very hard marching. After a while we arrived at New Madrid. I must mention an occurrence that transpired while at Point Pleasant. One night there was a heavy thunder shower, accompanied with wind and rain, and a good many trees were blown down, and several of the 7th Illinois cavalry men killed and wounded. One evening a detail of men was made to go and haul a siege gun and plant it below camp about four miles at a place called Tiptonville. The work was performed by morning, the boys having hauled it through mud and mire by hand, and in the morning was ready to go into operation, and that one gun whipped five boats, and made them get out of reach of its shot, and no boats could pass there then, so they had to remain above. When we arrived at New Madrid boats were busy transporting troops across the river, the object being to attack Island No. 10; but while this was being done they evacuated, and about 4,000 prisoners were taken near Tiptonville. As they were trying to escape a floating battery came down the river and created quite an excitement amongst the men until they discovered what it was. Some men boarded with a skiff and found that there was no danger. Several steamboats floated down passed our camp, and the rebels tried to sink them by cutting holes in them, but still they floated down to us, and our men soon put them in working order. The floating battery sunk near Tiptonville. We took possession of Island No. 10, and got all the heavy siege guns and an immense quantity of provisions, plenty of small arms and ammunition. After remaining at New Madrid for a few days, we took steamboats, steering our course down the river. Gen. Pope was in command at this time. Plummer was our Colonel. We passed several small towns on the way, and arrived at a place called Mosquito Landing, in Arkansas. It was well worth the name, for a worse place for mosquitos I never saw. There was no peace for us--a continual singing in our ears by these torments. We were within about three miles of Fort Wright, and our mortars and gunboats commenced throwing shot and shell into the rebel works. We could plainly see the smoke and hear the report of our guns as they exploded. After remaining here for a short time we were ordered back up river to opposite Hamburg Landing, where we disembarked, and took up our line of march towards Corinth, where the rebels were making a stand to dispute our progress into the State of Mississippi. Our advance had a fight almost every day, but they drove the rebels before them at every skirmish. They could make but a poor resistance to our advance, and we gained very rapidly on the rebels, and drove them back step by step, until they arrived within about four miles of Corinth. Here a long line of rifle pits were dug, and heavy siege pieces were got into position. We encamped within about six miles of Corinth, and had our grand guard line established to within about three miles of Corinth. Pickets were shooting at one another most of the time, until the 8th of May, 1862, when a brigade of Infantry and some cavalry were ordered out to reconnoitre, when the rebels were drove inside their works. After the day had drawn to a close, and the dew was falling heavily, we retraced our steps, and rested for the night a short distance from Farmington. Early the next morning our ears were saluted with the heavy boom of cannon. The rebels had planted several batteries during the night, and the 22d and 50th Illinois had barely time to throw off their knapsacks, for the rebels were pouring the shot and shell into them, and they had to take the cover of a heavy piece of timber. The rebels tried to dislodge them, but were unable to do so. The brigade was ordered to take a position on the left, and it was done as soon as possible. We could see the rebels as they charged in heavy masses on our men. They advanced with a yell and a rush, but were obliged to fall back from the heavy fire of our men, who were pouring heavy volleys of musketry into their columns. As their regiments were thrown into confusion the 2d Iowa cavalry made a charge, and drove the rebels back, but there were too many of them and they had to fall back with heavy loss. Their was but little artillery used on our side, as the object was not to bring on a general engagement. It was on this day that the Lieut. Colonel of the 47th Illinois was killed. He was very well liked by the regiment, and they suffered a great loss in his death. The 11th Missouri regiment was formed in line of battle within a short distance of a rebel battery which was shelling our men with pretty good effect, but they never fired a shot at us. Their object was to flank us and take all prisoners. Our Colonel at this time was Joseph A. Mowers. Plummer was promoted to a Brigadier General, and he recommended Mower for our Colonel, and he was accepted by the regiment as a fit man to command it. He was riding up and down the lines surveying with an eagle eye the operations of the enemy, when he perceived their intention was to flank us, and he ordered us to about face in retreat, and we double-quicked about two miles, came to a halt, and formed our line, waiting to receive the rebels if they made their appearance. But they did not think it advisable to venture into the timber where we were posted. We remained there until evening, and then returned to camp. An advance was made along our whole line, and that night we planted several batteries, and next day dug rifle pits at Farmington. Our line of rifle pits extended along the whole line, a distance of fourteen miles. Two companies had to lay in the pits in case of an attack, but we were not molested. On the 24th of May five companies of the 11th Missouri and some artillery were ordered out to drive in the rebel grand guard, and our gunners shelled the rebel camp awhile. They had to leave and go inside their works; we made a charge, and the rebels fled before us about half a mile. Companies H and F were thrown out as skirmishers. We passed through some heavy timber, and when we came out into view the rebels poured a heavy volley into us, but it passed over our heads and done us no injury. Company H was skirmishing in advance a short distance, when three of them were wounded, the whole regiment was ordered to fire. We fired one round and the rebels fell back. One man came in and give himself up. But few prisoners were taken. One rebel was carried from the field by our men, and he died before they could get him to the hospital. Our General did not think it good policy to venture too close at this time, so we returned to camp. It was in front of Corinth that Col. Worthington was killed. He was doing duty on guard, and the orders were very strict. The sentinels were ordered to allow no one outside of the lines after night. He gave the order himself, and that night he was killed by one of his own men. He belonged to the 5th Iowa infantry. On the 28th another advance was made, and this day company B lay in between the fire of two batteries--ours and the rebels'--for two hours, as they had to fire right over them. They had skirmished to within 200 yards of the rebel works, and there they were ordered to lay down, and the shot and shell flew all around them, but not a man of company B was injured. A long line of rifle pits were dug and our men soon had protection from the enemy's shot and shell, as they were doing their best to drive them back, they held their position and could not get the federals to leave. They made several charges on our batteries, but were repulsed at every point, and were obliged to retire and leave us masters of the field. We lay in the pits all of the 29th, and on this night the rebels evacuated. The attack was to be made along the whole line on the 30th. Everything being ready, the ball was to be opened on the morrow by Gens. Halleck and Pope, when the rebels evacuated, and we took possession. Our ears were startled by hearing a sound like the report of a hundred cannon being fired at once. It was the rebels blowing up their magazine before leaving. Our men took possession on the morning of the 30th, and started in pursuit of the retreating rebels. We followed them about twenty-five miles, to a place called Booneville. About 20,000 prisoners were taken altogether. Col. Ellett, with a strong force of cavalry intercepted the cars at Booneville with about 2,000 men on board, and an immense amount of arms and ammunition, which was burned and the railroad destroyed. When the rebel magazine was burning a heavy smoke arose, and the sky was dark with dense columns of smoke as it curled upwards from the burning timbers, and at last came the explosion. We thought that our men had made the attack--but no, the birds had flown, and left us nothing but their cage. After remaining at Booneville several days, we returned to Corinth, and took our camp on Clear Creek, about four miles from that place. There we formed a camp of instruction. It was a very hard march from Booneville to our present camp. Our brigade was commanded by the Colonel of the 8th Wisconsin regiment of volunteers. Our Colonel drilled us in the battalion drill in the morning, brigade drill in the afternoon. We had our drills for several weeks. At last we received marching orders, and all was bustle until we were on the move again. We marched from Clear Creek to Burnville, and from Burnville, we went to Iuka, where there are several fine springs of water, and was, in times of peace, a great resort for the aristocracy of the South, to spend their summer. From there we went to Tuscumbia, where we remained for some time. Tuscumbia was a flourishing town a short distance from the Tennessee River. Our gunboats threw a few shell into it and raised quite an excitement in town. There was no business carried on, only by a few sutlers. There was a fine spring and we had plenty of water, apples and peaches in great abundance; also sweet potatoes and corn. The negroes brought into camp watermelons, and we had a good supply of them for some time. From here we were ordered back to Iuka, having received information that a force of rebel cavalry was in Russelville. We took up our line of march with two pieces of artillery, to go into the mountains in search of these marauders. We traveled all over the hills of Tuscumbia, but did not encounter an enemy, as the 3d Michigan cavalry met them and defeated them before we could get to their assistance, near Russelville. We passed through Russelville and Frankfort, and here rebel cavalry cut off some of our stragglers, and two were taken prisoners. At length we arrived at Iuka. After remaining there a short time we moved out about eight miles from there and throwed up breastworks. Several of the boys were out about one mile from the camp gathering watermelons, and six of them were taken prisoners. Our men went out in pursuit but they fled before them. One evening six companies of the 11th Missouri went out to reconnoitre, and went out ten miles when we got intimation that the rebels were in strong force in our front, and came to a halt, and were ordered to lay down and rest our weary limbs. We remained here until about two o'clock, when we were ordered back to camp, where we arrived at day-light and found everything ready to move. When we returned we encamped at Burnville one night, and next day we returned to Camp Clear Creek, and we did not get rested before we were ordered back again to Burnville. We marched all night and at length we arrived again at Burnville, where we encamped for the night. Next day the 8th Wisconsin, 11th Missouri, 16th Iowa, and a battery of artillery and a battalion of cavalry, Berges' sharpshooters, acted as skirmishers, going in advance. We arrived to within about two miles of Iuka, we formed our line of battle and the command was given forward, guide centre, and the 11th moved forward, Colonel Mower at their head. He was in command of the expedition. We advanced to within a mile of Iuka. They disputed our advance, but we steadily moved on. Several shots were fired at the rebel cavalry, but they did not offer us battle, they did not know our numbers. After maneuvering around for several hours we started back, as we supposed, to Burnville, and got about two miles when we were ordered back again, to attack the pursuing rebels who intended to cut us off, but in this they were foiled by the Generalship of Col. Joseph A. Mower, and we drove the rebels into their stronghold. We could hear their bugle sound quite distinctly, and their intention was to send a force of cavalry and cut us off from Burnville. They burned a train of cars, killed several of our cavalry and tore up the road, but did not venture into Burnville. After going quite close to Iuka we retraced our steps, and after kindling numerous fires to deceive the enemy, we left, and they supposed that we were encamped close to them, and great must have been their chagrine and mortification when they surrounded the fires in the morning, to find the bird had flown. After building the fires we returned to camp at Boonville without molestation, where we stayed all of one day and next day until in the afternoon, when we were ordered to march again, and that night we encamped a short distance from Jacinto. It was here that we first saw Rosecrans. He had taken command of our division. We were on the move again early next morning, and came to a halt at our old camping ground, about eight miles from Iuka, where we got our dinner. Skirmishing commenced with the enemy's pickets here, and two of our cavalry were killed at a white house a mile from our camp. The property was owned by a widow woman, and was burned by the infantry. We skirmished with the rebels to within two miles of Iuka, where we came to a halt, and what was it broke the stillness of this pleasant afternoon, the 19th of September, 1862? It was the heavy roar of cannon and musketry. The rebels occupied a strong position in front of Iuka, the 5th Iowa infantry was attacked by the rebels, as they were a support to the 11th Ohio battery; the rebels charged upon them and in spite of the heavy fire of artillery and musketry they drove our men from their guns and took possession of them. The 5th contested the ground bravely, as their thinned ranks could testify. Their loss was about two hundred killed and wounded. About this time our brigade came up and our regiment was ordered to the front. We formed in four columns. After loading our guns we marched to the regiment in double-quick; distant from a piece of timber about half a mile, and here we right-flanked and marched in line of battle until we gained the cover of the timber, and a heavy growth of underbrush. The rebels were advancing to meet us, and said they were our friends and begged us not to fire on them, and we labored under this mistake for some time, but company C, commanded by Capt. Warner, being in advance of the regiment, saw the rebels coming and charged bayonets, and took eleven prisoners, including a Lieutenant. They were sent to the rear. The rebels approached so close that they used their revolvers, as the smoke of powder made it quite dark where we were, they did no damage but scorched some of the boys' faces with the powder. When we discovered the rebels in such close proximity to us we were ordered to fire, which order was obeyed with alacrity, and volley after volley was poured into their advancing columns. They throwed column after column against our lines to break them and cut their way out, but were unable to break our ranks. They tried three times and were as often driven back, as our fire was undiminished until our ammunition was expended, when we were ordered to fall back. After enduring the fire of the enemy for an hour and a half we fell back, by order of commander, and the 10th Missouri took our place. During this time our men charged the rebels and retook our battery and two more guns. We lay on our arms all night; after getting ammunition and filling our cartridge-boxes we laid down to get some rest for our weary limbs; having no blankets, and as the air became quite cold, we had to keep ourselves in motion to keep from freezing. Our shirts were wet from the sweat, and when we laid down we expected every moment to renew the attack. A heavy volley was fired and every man sprung to his gun, but as there was no more firing we lay down again and tried to get some sleep, but that was out of the question, the air was too cold for that. That night General Price left. The attack was to have been made next morning, and an order to that effect was sent to General Rosecrans from Grant, but it was intercepted.--We were sent by the way of Jacinto, and General Grant had to go straight to Iuka, which was not half as far as we had to go, and if it were not for that accident General Price, with all of his force, would have been captured; as it was, they discovered we were too strong for them, and thought it the best policy to get away as soon as possible; so that night they left and next morning we started in pursuit. General Grant threw out his skirmishers and made his advance into the town, but they soon found the rebels had fled, and they went into town with their colors flying. When we passed through the town almost every house was filled with sick or wounded soldiers, which they left behind in their haste to get away. We followed them all day but they had too much the start of us, and at night we encamped, and in the morning were on our way back again. After marching night and day we arrived at Jacinto, where we rested for a short time; but we did not remain here long. We were soon ordered to move again, as there was not much rest for us. From Jacinto we went to Rienzi, and there encamped for some time, and got pretty well rested. One evening when we were thinking of laying down and having a good night's sleep, we were ordered to prepare for marching, so, early in the evening we got started, and after marching until the night was far advanced, the command was ordered to halt, and here we remained until next morning. There we made our coffee and got plenty of good apples. After getting our breakfast we started again and came to a halt at the Hatchie River, where we remained until nearly night, when we were ordered to fall in and were soon on our way back. After following this road for some time we turned to the left, in the direction of Corinth. We marched all night until we came to a place called Cossouth, near which place we encamped one night, and next morning started again, and went within a mile of Corinth, and were ordered to meet the advancing enemy, who were said to be driving our men before them. We came to a halt, stacked our arms and supposed we were to have a rest, when the order in stern command came along our lines to fall in. We suffered greatly for want of water. We marched in quick time and could hear the heavy roar of cannon as we advanced. All at once we came to a halt, and formed our line of battle. What was it that made it so still? all at once everything seemed quiet. It was a calm before an approaching storm, for the rebels were advancing in solid column, and poured a heavy volley of musketry into our ranks, and one hundred of the 8th Wisconsin was either killed or wounded. Our loss was slight, one noble young man in company B, was killed. He was shot in the head and died without a struggle; and we had to leave him on the field. They shot at us at long range, but some of their skirmishers advanced quite close to us, and some of the 11th went out to meet them, and the firing was quite brisk for some time. The rebels did not advance any farther at this time. They got a cross fire on the 8th Wisconsin, and they suffered most in the brigade. The rebels had the advantage of position and numbers. Their intention was to outflank us but they were unable to do so, as we could fall back under the heavy siege guns, commanded by McWilliams. After holding the rebels in check for some time we fell back, the 11th went inside of Fort Robinette and there lay down, and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. About two o'clock in the morning, the boys having built a number of fires along the line, the rebels advanced a battery to within five hundred yards of us and commenced shelling with grape and canister. The order was given to put out the fires, as the rebels were getting the range of us pretty well, and we had to lay close to the ground for fear of being hit. Several guns were injured as they stood in the stacks, and one of company A, was slightly injured. One man in the 27th Ohio was killed by the bursting of a shell, as the whole Ohio brigade lay right in front of us and we were behind them as support. They shelled us and most every shot went over us, and went crashing through the town, a building being a poor protection from balls. Some of them wasted their strength against the trees in the timber, whilst others exploded above us, and we could hear the grape shot as it fell all around us. It was singular that no more were injured as two brigades lay inside the works of Fort Robinette. Our gunners replied at intervals, until at length day began to dawn, when our artillerists could see where to direct their fire, and they soon stopped the rebels' guns.--They killed most all the rebels' horses and one gun was taken as a prize, and the Captain taken prisoner. There was eight brass field pieces, and it was almost impossible to get away with their battery. After the rebels' battery was silenced everything became silent except the occasional shot from the rebel sharpshooters. Their bullets would whistle over us and sometimes strike an officer or private and wound him, but not dangerously, as they were at too great a range to do us much damage, the strength of the balls being spent before they reached us. Sleep did not visit General Rosecrans that night. He was busy planning and placing batteries in position to give the rebels a warm reception if they made their appearance, as it was their intention to make a desperate effort to recover Corinth and drive Rosecrans out, and he was planning how he could best draw them on so he could bring all his guns to bear upon them. We were laying down in the rear of the Ohio brigade as a support to them, and the rebels could use no artillery upon us as they could not get a suitable position to use it. The timber was all cut down in front of us for a quarter of a mile, and the rebels had taken possession of a heavy piece of timber in our front, but on the right of us was an open space of ground where we had a battery planted.--Some of the rebel sharpshooters stationed themselves in trees, the better to see our skirmishers and pick them off. Our men soon discovered where they were, and many a rebel paid the penalty of climbing a tree, being picked off by our sharpshooters. Several were shot out of the tops of trees by the cannon. Our batteries were so fixed that they could rake any part of the field, our artillerists kept up a continual fire from their heavy siege pieces shelling the woods where the rebels in strong force were supposed to be preparing to attack us. At length we saw the long lines of the rebels advancing upon us. Col. Mowers selected two companies of the 11th Missouri to act as skirmishers. Mowers was riding a very fretful horse when he started out, he having his beloved Rock shot under him the day before, a horse that had carried him many a mile and never appeared tired, and that horse would go without flinching wherever his master required him, but he was killed at last, and he had to take another horse.--When we saw him riding at the head of the skirmishers we thought he would be killed or taken prisoner. He galloped on regardless of the many bullets aimed at him, until he was wounded and taken prisoner, but he gave warning to his men and they went back inside the fort, and the rebels came on in solid column. As they emerged from the woods their colors were thrown to the breeze and proudly waved o'er these sons of the South. They steadily advanced to take a battery on our right, and our men were waiting in line of battle to receive them. There was nothing to cover them, and volley after volley of musketry was poured into their advancing columns. As one man fell another took his place, and still they went on, tiring as they went, reached the battery, drove our men from their guns and turned them on our men. But they did not enjoy their triumph long, for a shell from a 64-pounder exploded right amongst them, spread death and destruction all around when they were thrown into confusion, our men rallied and drove them from the guns at the point of the bayonet. Some of the rebels went into town and began to plunder everything they could lay their hands upon. Three were killed in the Provost Marshal's office. It was here that the 5th Minnesota did good service. Many a rebel was made to bite the dust from the deadly aim of the 5th Minnesota rifles, and they were at length compelled to yield and fly before the impetuous valor of our men. All this passed much quicker than I can write. How was it with the rebels? They were creeping upon us like snakes in the grass, firing as they came, led on by the brave Col. Rogers, of the 2d Texas cavalry. The 63d Ohio, also the 27th, was doing its best to keep them back, but still they came on and planted their colors on the fort, when the 11th was ordered to charge. They rose and fired a volley into their ranks and charged bayonets, but the rebels could not stand the cold steel. They broke and fled in all directions. Col. Rogers was ordered to surrender as prisoner of war, but he would not, but kept shooting with his revolver and giving command to his men, when one of the regulars shot him in the side with a revolver, and one of company B shot him through the breast. He reeled from his horse and fell to the ground within a short distance of the outer edge of the ditch. Several other officers were killed and lay close to him. A horse was laying dead and a man by his side; another laid a little in the rear; he had been struck by a shell in the head, and lay with his hand grasping some hair and brains; his head was nothing but a shell, the brains were scattered all over the ground. But few ever reached the woods that made the charge, and their loss must have been terrible. A good many came in and gave themselves up, as it was dangerous business to attempt reaching the timber. They would start up every little while from where they lay concealed, but few could escape our bullets. Many would rise up and cry for quarters; these would come in and be sent to the rear as prisoners. You can judge for yourself how bloody now was the conflict here and along the whole line. Twenty-five dead lay in the ditch, and we had to remove them in order to take their place, so that if the rebels returned we would be prepared for them, as we had gathered up the rebels' guns, we were well supplied. Two of the boys had fifteen guns, and most of them had two. The battle was over by 12 o'clock. Our loss was slight compared to the enemy's. Their loss was about 4,000 killed, wounded and prisoners. Whole ranks were cut down by the cannon shot, every gun that could be brought to bare was used; the rebels could not stand such a decimating fire, they broke and fled in confusion. We laid in the ditches all night waiting the rebels' return, but they never made their appearance. After the battle was over General Rosecrans came through the lines, and was cheered most heartily, as he had proved himself more than a match for Price and his staff. Defeated 40,000 rebel troops under Price with half that number, and gained a decisive victory over them. While they were engaging us Gen. Hurlbut was marching with a strong force to get in the rear of the rebels, and they met at the Hatchie river, where a severe engagement ensued, and our men were victorious, drove them back, and we marched to intercept them. As we started in pursuit on the 5th, they were turned back and had to retrace their steps until they came to another crossing that was not occupied by federals. The rout became general, and all along the whole road was strewn guns, tents, &c. Caissons and cannon were captured, wagon loads of ammunition and wagons of every description. Flour was scattered all along the road, and cooking utensils of all kinds in their haste to get away; our men were close upon them all the time. They would turn and give battle, and then retreat, as our men would overtake them as they would get a pretty good start of them again. Almost every house contained either dead or sick soldiers. Stragglers became plenty, and came in by dozens, as the woods were full of them. They were paroled. The 2d brigade followed them to Ripley. The 11th went to within a short distance of Ripley and came to a halt, and stacked arms in a piece of timber, expecting to remain for some time. Some of the 11th were detailed as grand guard, company B being part of the detail, we went out in advance and deployed out the same as skirmishers, between a cornfield and a swamp. We stood on guard about two hours when we received orders to return to camp. On our return we were informed that we would remain here until evening, when we would go out and establish a grand guard line. At length we started through almost impassable roads, sometimes nothing but a path to guide us. Where we established our line was an old wheat field, and it was the intention of our commanders to cover our whole line with a strong guard; and here we supposed we would remain until next day. But no, there was no such good fortune awaiting us, as the order came for us to return to the regiment, as we were to march that night. We returned to camp again, and were informed that we were to march at 2 o'clock that night. We had sweet potatoes and fresh meat in great plenty, and after eating a good meal we lay down, and were roused from our slumbers by hearing the command to fall in. As we were rear guard to the wagon train, we were the last to get started. Such a march as that was; it was enough to wear out any man's patience. We had to stop every five minutes for the train to proceed. Some of the teams would refuse to pull, and this would stop the whole train. We lingered along this way all night; our progress being very slow and tedious; so next day we went ahead of the train, and did not stop much until we arrived at Corinth, where we established a camp about one mile from the town, and here we remained for some time, had our brigade and battalion drills under Colonel Loomis, of the 26th Illinois, who was acting as brigadier at this time. Every regiment was ordered to report with spade and shovel for fatigue duty, and we had to work from day to day until we considered Corinth impregnable, as there were strong earthworks all around the city. Most of the inhabitants had left, and the town was occupied by soldiers. After completing this work we received orders to prepare to march with two day's rations in our haversacks, also knapsacks with blankets. After every thing was got ready, the command was given along the whole line, and off they moved, one regiment after another. At length came a long line of wagons, extending as far as the eye could reach, and a strong guard was left to guard these trains. So we moved on from day to day, sometimes marching all night. We were not disturbed by an enemy, but the advance skirmished almost every day with the rebels, and at length the rebels were driven back to the Tallahatchie river, where they were in strong position, and had thrown up strong earthworks, and here they would have given us a warm reception if Sherman had not marched with a strong force to get in their rear. We could hear the heavy roar of artillery as our men advanced to the attack, as we had just reached the place where the brigade was establishing camp. Being rear guard we did not arrive at camp until 2 o'clock in the morning. Rations were distributed to us, and we lay down on our blankets and were soon fast asleep. We awoke much refreshed after our tedious march of the day before. Next morning we went about a mile from here, and pitched our tents, and remained several days. There was a grist mill near here, and the soldiers used it and ground corn as long as we remained. There was some ammunition captured here. A very good spring of water was near our camp, which was a rare thing to us. The rebels did not wait long enough to see what Sherman's intentions were, but as soon as they got an intimation that there was a force to get in their rear, they left their stronghold and fled, but Sherman took a good many prisoners, and pursued them for some time. The rebels did not halt until they reached Grenada. After remaining several days here we moved to Cold Water, and remained a short time. There was a small town on the railroad. The next place we went to was Oxford, Mississippi, where we went into camp and remained for some time. Here the report came into camp that the rebels had made a raid on Holly Springs, and taken all the soldiers stationed there prisoners and paroled them, also the commander of the post. Three weeks' provisions for Grant's whole army and an immense quantity of army clothing, several thousand pairs of cavalry boots were also captured, and an immense amount of cotton was burned, together with a train of cars just ready to start out. The raid was made by Van Dorn and about 7,000 mounted infantry, at the break of day. Report says that Murphy had knowledge of the intended raid on Holly Springs, but of that we have no certain information, but he did not prove himself true to the Government at first, as he was entrusted with removing all the commissary stores along the railroad from Corinth to Tuscumbia, as the rebels were said to be advancing in force. Tuscumbia valley is a very fine country, with an abundance of corn for forage for their cavalry. Their advance soon arrived at Tuscumbia and took possession. Everything was removed to Corinth, and their cavalry followed the valley right up to Iuka, surrounded the pickets and took them prisoners. The 8th Wisconsin was scattered all over town, and there were few to resist the attack of the rebels. They returned to camp as soon as possible, but a large number were taken prisoners. Everything that could not be removed was ordered to be destroyed, and it was entrusted to an officer in the 7th Illinois cavalry to do the burning, but for some reason it was neglected, and an immense quantity of flour and commissary stores, which came very acceptable to them, fell into their hands. There were several sutler stores there, and the cavalry took almost everything, clothing, tobacco, and some good liquors. You may ask, where was Murphy all this time? He was retreating with his regiment towards Burnville. The rebels pursued them several miles, as there were a great many negroes following the regiment, the rebels would come up and shoot them down without mercy. After traveling several miles the rebels gave up the pursuit. Murphy was put under arrest for this and tried by court martial, but for some reason got clear, and was restored to confidence again, and entrusted with the post at Holly Springs, but abusing the confidence reposed in him, he was arrested, tried again, cashiered, and dishonorably discharged the service without any pay. That stopped our forward movement, and we were ordered back to Corinth. We returned to Davis' Mills, where part of the 25th Indiana had a desperate engagement with the raiders, as it was their intention to surprise the guard and take them prisoners, but in this they failed in every attempt. A great many of them were killed and wounded. Their intention was to burn the mills and tear up the railroad here, and stop the cars from running, but Col. Morgan with his little band resisted all their attacks, as he was in a strong position near the mill. Earthworks were thrown up and our men were on the inside; some cotton bales were placed around the top as a protection to sharpshooters. Some of the men defended themselves from the mill, several were shot and fell in the water as they were attempting to cross over. After trying in vain to dislodge the federals, they gave it up and left without doing the Indiana boys any damage. But this was not the only place they visited. They went to Bolivar, Tennessee, and there met with as warm a reception as they got at the mills, and they very soon left, leaving some of their number either killed, wounded or prisoners, in the hands of our men. They tried several places along the railroad from Holly Springs, but met with no better success, as the guards were on the alert. They attacked a small force belonging to the 12th Michigan, numbering 115 men, in a small fort, and Van Dorn demanded their surrender, they refused, and informed him if he wanted them he must take them, while we were getting a warm meal they would get a cold bite. Alter receiving this answer to his demand, he made ready for the attack; 500 of the men dismounted and advanced from all sides to surround this little band of brave men; on they came, expecting an easy prize, they approached to within a short distance of the fort when the order was given to fire, and the rebels were met by a shower of bullets, and after trying in vain to get inside of the fort, they left and took their wounded with them, leaving about 30 dead around the fort. There was no artillery used on either side. Such was the success of Van Dorn's raid along the railroad, they cut a few telegraph poles, and the wire in one or two places, and had to leave suddenly as our cavalry had got on their track and were but a short distance behind them, when they left the 12th Michigan infantry. Only one man of the brave little garrison lost his life, and that was by the accidental discharge of his gun. Our cavalry soon drove them inside of their lines, and here we will leave them for awhile. You will return with me to camp again and leave the pursuit of the rebels. Our camp is situated on a rise of ground 100 yards from water, either way, and we did not suffer for that article while we remained there, which was several weeks. Grant's army had to subsist on the citizens of the country; army stores were quite scarce, and it became the duty of our Generals to look out for the welfare of their men, and long trains of wagons were sent with orders to take a certain amount of forage, when it arrived in camp it was distributed to each regiment. This forage consisted of fresh pork, newly packed coffee, sugar, molasses, cattle and hogs were also drove into camp, and we fared pretty well, as there were plenty of provisions in the country. We had plenty of everything but bread. One cracker was allowed us a day. Several thousand army overcoats were discovered concealed in a cellar, and the coffee we got belonged to us. It was stolen at the time of the raid, as the citizens participated in it. They said they had just received it from Memphis, but our men were not to be deceived by such stories, and would take most all of it from them. Some of them had protection papers but this did not save them, as the soldiers had got tired of listening to such professions of Unionism and loyalty as these men made, which was only in vain, as there was but little friendship for the Yankees existing amongst them at this time. We lived on the country for more than two weeks. Everything was taken for miles from camp, and on New-Year's day we were ordered to prepare for marching, taking nothing but two day's rations in our haversacks, and blankets and arms, with forty rounds of ammunition in our cartridge boxes. We ascertained our destination was La Grange. The rebels were expected to make a dash on that place. We arrived in sight of the town about the middle of the afternoon, came to a halt, and remained until nearly evening, when we received orders to return to camp, and were soon treading our way back, as there was no use for us here. We arrived at camp early in the evening, broke ranks and went to our respective tents. As they were made to hold four men each, we lay down and soon were fast asleep. So passed the first day of 1863. But we were not destined to remain here much longer, as we received marching orders to return to Corinth, as a brigade came to take our place from Holly Springs, and they informed us that Oxford was destroyed by fire, also Holly Springs, in retaliation for shooting of our soldiers by the citizens of the town at the time of the raid. It was here that Col. Mowers returned to the regiment, having recovered from the wound which he received before being taken a prisoner by the rebels. He was taken back to their lines, and as he had nothing on him to denote his rank, dressed in a common blouse without any shoulder straps, he was not very closely guarded, and he managed to escape the same day by mounting one of the rebels horses and riding it into camp, or into the lines, as we had no camp at this time. He was cheered by the whole brigade as he rode through the lines without any hat. His wound was quite severe and he had to go to the hospital to receive proper attendance and care, and there he remained until he came here ready to take command of his regiment. General call was sounded and we were ordered to prepare for marching. The tents were soon struck and rolled up and loaded on the wagons, everything being ready we strapped on our knapsacks, fell into line waiting for the command forward, which at last we received, and are again on the tramp. On our march to Corinth, by the way of Bolivar, we passed through several towns, La Grange and Grand Junction, near where the 11th was a guard for ten days, as they were moving towards Holly Springs. Our rations were scarce here as we drew nothing but flour, and as we had no means of cooking it we might as well have had none. We were well supplied with fresh meat as we found plenty of fat hogs in the country which we killed. We managed to get some of the flour baked by the negroes. At length the order came for us to move, and we were glad to leave here, and then we went to Oxford from there. Grand Junction was a railroad station where two roads crossed, between Holly Springs and Corinth. We left it to our right and took the road to Bolivar, where we halted for the night, and the next morning was pleasant, and remained so until we arrived at Bolivar, when the rain commenced falling in torrents upon us, and it became very difficult to march. It rained without intermission most all night, and the brigade was urged forward until at length the men refused to proceed any farther, and fell out of ranks and commenced building fires. There we remained until morning. The roads had become almost impassable. Teams had as much as they wanted to do to haul their loads. The rain ceased towards morning and the sun came out and the roads commenced drying as we proceeded. After days of wearied marching we arrived at Corinth. That evening rain commenced falling, from rain it turned to snow, and after freezing the ground was covered with a crust of ice. After remaining here a few days when we had received our two months' pay, the regiment was ordered to strike tents and get ready for marching. Everything being packed the regiment was ordered to fall in, the rain was coming quite steady, and we arrived at Corinth wet through.--After waiting a short time the snow and ice was fast disappearing from the ground, it had all left the hills. When part of the 11th Missouri went on board, the iron horse began to puff and blow her steam from her pipes, the cars were soon in motion, and Corinth was soon left far behind. We passed through several small towns on our way, stopped at Jackson, Tennessee, for a short time, and was soon on our way again until we arrived at what was once a small town called Germantown, where we remained all night. Some of the boys found quarters in some old deserted buildings, but I chose to stay on the cars as the night was very dark and muddy. I slept soundly until morning. I arose, got off the cars and made me some coffee, and after eating my breakfast took a stroll through the town. It is not much of a town, about fifteen miles from Memphis, on the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. The brigade remained several weeks here to guard the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. After we established camp the rest of the regiment came, and guards were stationed all around the camp as protection, and there was another line out near a mile. In time of peace this place was a great resort for sporting men from Memphis, but there was nothing but a few old houses now, and most of them deserted. Some people were living there then, but most of the men were in the rebel army, and most all of the corn was taken for forage, and there was very little of anything left for the people to subsist on. Hogs were killed until there were scarcely any left, all the fences were burned for fuel, every board that could be found was used to make bunks. Water was plenty and of good quality. The weather became quite pleasant and the roads soon dried up, and we had our daily battalion drill, and spade and shovel came again into requisition, and men were detailed to go and build a fort, as it was considered necessary. After working from day to day with the assistance of the 8th Wisconsin regiment, there was a fort built and a battery planted on the inside. The battery was manned by the 2d Iowa artillerists. After finishing this fort we were ordered to prepare for marching. It was shortly after moving our camp. We had the tent called the Cybley tent, and we could put fire in them and make them quite comfortable, as there was an aperture for the smoke to go out.--There was room enough for fifteen men in one of these tents. They were placed up about three feet from the ground and banked up with earth all around, and a door was made for an entrance. At last our brigade was ordered to move, and we had to pull down our tents and leave our comfortable quarters and try the field again. The brigade moved to within two miles of Memphis, and there they encamped for the night, and men were detailed to go and load the boats, and passed one day loading the boats. The brigade marched down to the landing and were soon on board, as most everything was on board. Each regiment loaded their own things and it was done in short order, and the 11th Missouri was soon ready to go down the river. At last the boat got under way and stopped at Helena for a short time. General Prentiss was commander of this post at this time. Several of the boys got off the boat and got a little the worse of liquor and became quite noisy, and General Prentiss ordered his men to arrest them, but they were unable to do so, owing to the resistence made. Revolvers were drawn and missiles were thrown, and the guard was driven from the ground, and they soon returned with reinforcements, and Mowers went on shore to get the men to go on board their boats, and they soon went on board. The guards formed in line in front of the boats and loaded their guns. Chunks of coal were showered upon them and several of the officers and men were hit. General Prentiss came to give some orders to his men when he was struck in the head, and this so enraged him that he sent for a brigade of infantry and a battery of artillery, and they were coming on double-quick when the boats moved out for fear of a general outbreak, as there was one of the 47th Illinois shot through his leg, and when the sergeant shot he ran, pursued by several of the 47th, but I never learned the particulars as the pursuers had not returned when the boat left. We crossed the river and the boat was tied up to the shore and the regiment got off and then commenced the work of preparing our meals. We landed on a small island, there was plenty of wood for fuel and soon numerous fires were kindled and the work of cooking was soon over, and our meal was ready for eating, which was coffee, fried bacon and crackers, that constituted our bill-of-fare, also sugar to sweeten our coffee. After remaining here several hours the bell rang, and we were ordered on board, the boat was loosed from her mooring and we left this place and went down the river about six miles, and stopped and remained all night on the boats, and in the morning the brigade went on shore. Then commenced the work of clearing ground for a camp. The cane stood thick on the ground and all this was cut down and carried into piles to be burned. Here we got new tents, and there was a place soon cleared off to put them up. The tents were made to hold four men, and there was but little room, as the water was all around us; there was nothing but sand after the cane was carried off. The division was all camped here commanded by General Tuttle, and Joseph A. Mowers commanded the brigade. He received his promotion a short time before. The division remained here for nearly a month awaiting a boat to carry us away. At length the boats arrived, and we were glad to see the tall smoke stacks appear in sight, as we knew that we would soon leave this dull place. We were ordered on board the boats, and under a heavy fall of rain we struck our tents and stayed all night and next day until about four o'clock. The wind was blowing a very strong breeze, the rain had ceased and the weather became cool enough for overcoats. At length, after many hours impatient waiting, the boats got under way, and nothing occurred worthy of notice until we arrived at a place called Duckport, and there the division landed, and then commenced the work of unloading the boats. Provisions and army stores were soon carried from the boat on shore, and our camping ground was soon staked out. Tents were soon pitched and the soldiers were soon enjoying themselves. The division encamped near the Vicksburg canal, it had just been commenced and some soldiers and negroes were at work with spades and shovels, and some were using wheel-barrows to remove the earth from the middle of the ditch, as it was forty feet wide. The object was to turn the course of the father of waters into this canal. There were dredge boats at work at the mouth of it. Each regiment had to take their turn working on this great ditch, and some days there were over two thousand men engaged at once, as they came from Young's Point to assist in carrying on this great work. After three week's hard labor the water was let into it, and some barges and one small steamboat went down through to New Carthage, and then the water commenced falling and the dredge boats had to stop digging. There were three of them in operation deepening the canal at this time. About the middle of April several transports and gunboats ran the blockade, passed all the batteries, and the rebels tried in vain to stop their progress, but still they kept on until they got out of reach of the enemy's guns. There was but few of the boats damaged and they ran the gauntlet several times. Orders came for the division to move camp, and General Mowers' brigade moved their camp about a mile and then commenced the work of leveling off the ground, which was once a cotton field, and a few days after moving camp, orders came to prepare for marching, take nothing but our haversacks and canteens, two days rations, one blanket, forty rounds of cartridges in our boxes and our guns in perfect order. On the 2d day of May we left the mouth of this canal as it had proved of but little use and all our work was to no purpose, and we gave up the project as no use. The division left their camps, and owing to delays, the roads being bad, they had to stop to repair them, so teams could pass as we had to transport our provisions on wagons. They did not get but a short distance from camp the first day and the next day they marched about fifteen miles. They followed the course of the canal all the next day, and at last we arrived at Richmond, Louisiana, where we encamped for one night, and next morning resumed our march and camped as before, and the division kept marching from day to day until they arrived at Hard Times Landing. The water was getting low in the canal and a number of barges could be seen all along the route. Our forces followed the course of the canal until they came to a lake or bayou, and they followed this thirty miles below Vicksburg. A bridge had to be constructed for our forces to cross, and here we were delayed part of a day, and we remained all night waiting to cross a bayou that ran into Black Bayou. At length we arrived at Grand Gulf, on the opposite side of the river, where we were delayed in crossing for several hours. Several boats were busily engaged in transporting troops across the river, landing them on the shore. Our turn came at last, and the 11th Missouri soon got on board and were landed on the opposite shore, and here they remained over night, the weather being pleasant we enjoyed a good night's sleep, and awoke quite refreshed from our weary marches. On the march from Duckport through the State of Louisiana, there were several fine plantations passed, and corn was growing finely, and indications of a good crop. Some splendid dwellings and gardens, and every convenience to make a person comfortable. Before this war broke out the owners of these plantations were living in luxurious ease, nothing to do, slaves to do their bidding and obey their commands, and they became so wealthy that they did not know what to do with their gold, they hardly knew the value of money, they had nothing to do but to get rich, and when this rebellion broke out they were ripe for anything that tended to mischief. They had all left their homes and engaged with their hearts and hands carrying on this unjust war, the almighty negro was the cause. Many valuable lives are lost on both sides, and many more will be lost before this unholy rebellion is crushed. All of these splendid dwellings were destroyed with fire by the soldiers. I will fail in describing the splendor of these dwellings and gardens. All were destroyed, costly furniture and pianos shared the same fate of the other things, nothing was left but smouldering ruins. Many thousand dollars worth of valuable property was destroyed, every deserted dwelling of any value was destroyed on this march, but we were not destined to remain at this place long. There was once a town here but there was nothing but the brick chimneys standing to mark the place, as it had been destroyed by a force of our men before the rebels were driven from this stronghold, as it was a very strong natural position, but a force of our men got in the rear of them and they left everything and fled. Tuttle's division did not arrive in time to take any part. A small force of our men were there to hold this position, as it was situated on a very high bluff it did not require a strong force to hold it. Everything being in readiness for a forward movement the order was given and the division was soon on the move towards Jackson, the capital of Mississippi. We had to march up a very high hill and kept going from one hill up another until we had gone about two miles, and then it became easier marching. We did not suffer for want of bacon, hams, sugar or molasses. Some of it was found hid away in the brush. This was taken by the soldiers and very little was left for the owners to use after our forces had passed. Our advance had a short skirmish with the enemy on the march to Raymond, and five men were killed and wounded on our side. They met with no more opposition until they arrived near Raymond, when Greggs' brigade encountered our advance, and after a desperate resistance they were forced to give way and leave us in possession of the ground. The loss was about equal as they occupied a ditch. The 20th Ohio and 20th Illinois charged upon them and drove them from the ditch at the point of the bayonet. They fired a volley into our advance as they were marching past a heavy piece of timber and took our men partly by surprise, but they soon recovered and drove the enemy from the timber. They could not stand cold steel, as our men rushed with impetuosity right forward, and drove the rebels wherever they tried to make any resistance to our advancing columns; they were bayoneted in the ditch without mercy. Our division did not arrive in time to participate in this battle as the rebels had torn up a bridge we had to cross and burned it, and here we were delayed several hours waiting for the bridge to be repaired. At length the division got started again but the battle was over before we could get to our men's assistance. After passing through Raymond there were indications of an enemy being in advance, when the 5th Minnesota regiment was ordered in front to examine the timber. A line of battle was formed and the advance commenced, the 11th Missouri following the skirmishers. They soon gained a heavy growth of timber. It was with difficulty we could proceed. We had advanced but a short distance into this timber when the order was given to halt, and it being evening, the regiment remained here all night. Some rain fell during the early part of the evening, but it did not last long. As most of us had rubber blankets we did not suffer from the rain, and after preparing our coffee we lay down and slept until morning. Next morning very early the brigade was ordered to fall in, and we were soon on the way towards Jackson. We expected the rebels would dispute our possession of a certain spring, but they did not interfere with us here, as there was a force of cavalry here when the brigade passed in the morning. We halted here long enough to fill our canteens with good cool water. The roads were quite good for marching, as the rain had settled the dust. The bugle was sounded for the command to move forward, and every regiment was soon in motion. On to Jackson, was the word, where the rebels were supposed to be in strong force. May 14th, the morning was cloudy, and had every appearance of a storm--Our forces had proceeded within about six miles of Jackson, when the rain commenced falling in torrents, and the roads soon became almost impassable, but still they moved onward until they arrived within about two miles of Jackson, when the 5th Minnesota regiment was ordered to halt, and the 11th Missouri was put in advance, and company B and F were sent in front to act as skirmishers, and some of the 47th Illinois. Company F, commanded by Captain Clealand, and company B, Lieutenant Weber. They deployed as skirmishers and Clealand ordered them to advance. The rebels had opened from one of their batteries and were getting the range pretty well, when the 2d Iowa battery was ordered forward, and they opened with shot and shell and soon silenced the rebel's guns at this place, and killed the Lieutenant of the battery. They were shooting at our men at a long range and the order was given to advance, and they had to cross an open field, when a volley was fired from the rebel skirmishers and the balls whistled pretty close to us, but did no injury to any of the company. As fast as the skirmishers advanced the rebels fell back until they reached a very deep ditch in front of the rebel's works, and here they had a pretty good position, when the order came to fall back to the reserve, which was steadily advancing. A sharp fire by artillery was kept up on both sides, but their shots passed over our heads, doing but little injury to us. The order was given for the skirmishers to advance again, and they moved forward again and held their position until the 95th Ohio regiment flanked the rebels and found but few men inside the rebel works, and the rebels had fled. There were but few prisoners taken. The citizens of the town engaged in the defense of their capital. There were about one hundred prisoners taken and several pieces of cannon, with all the equipments belonging to them. Our loss on the left was severe, and it was here that the rebels had advantage of position.--Logan's division charged a battery and in spite of the heavy fire from the rebel guns drove them from their guns at the point of the bayonet, and for fear of being surrounded they left everything and fled, leaving nothing but a few artillerists to defend their works. The ground where Logan's men charged across was quite level, and the enemy's batteries was placed to take any part of it, and it was in crossing this that our forces met with the heaviest loss. Mowers' brigade marched to the court house and stacked arms. It rained most of the time and tents were discovered in a warehouse, and they were soon appropriated to our use. Every regiment was supplied. This was a place of great importance to the rebels, the capital of Mississippi, and in time of peace contained nearly five thousand inhabitants, and a great deal of business was done. There were mills for the manufacture of cotton goods, an arsenal for the making of arms, and everything requisite to carry on this cruel war. Tobacco, whisky, sugar, molasses, and flour were found in great abundance. Confederate scrip would pass for full value with the inhabitants of the town. As soon as the soldiers gained possession of the town commenced the work of plunder, breaking open stores, everything of value was taken, and most every soldier in the brigade was dressed in citizens' clothes. Whisky was plenty, and a good many of the boys got tight. Guards were placed over the town, but they were of no avail, and the soldiers distributed shoes to the citizens, and almost every thing that could be got was given to them, as these things were owned by speculators, and were sold to the people of the town at the highest prices. But the soldiers did not long enjoy their new suits, for the order came to wash and dry their uniforms, as they could not wear citizens' clothes any longer than was necessary. They came very acceptable, as our clothes were wet and muddy, having been in the rain all day. The brigade remained two nights and one day here, and I was detailed to go as a guard to protect some citizens. One was a preacher, and he treated the guard quite kindly; one was a retired merchant from Massachusetts. He said if he was only able to handle a musket and bear the fatigue of marching, he would be in the rebel army, and four of us were protecting him from insult and his property from being destroyed; The town was being illuminated, and there was a great deal of it on fire, and many public buildings were being destroyed. The soldiers had received marching orders to leave the next day, and the object was to leave no building standing, but they were restrained by the guards. When morning came we returned to our regiment, and the order was given to burn the tents and break every gun not in use. After everything was prepared the order came to leave the town, as the rebels were advancing in strong force to drive us out. The railroad was all torn up, and burned to the bridge at Black Water, by our forces. We soon left the town with the bands playing Dixie. The Confederate House, which had but recently been built, was burned down. The people were glad to see us leave. A good many of the boys remained behind, and the division had got but a short distance from town when a rebel force of cavalry entered it, and all that had remained behind were made prisoners and paroled or taken to Richmond to be exchanged. A Colonel of the 47th Illinois went back to town on some business connected with his men, when he was ordered to surrender, whereupon he drew his revolver and commenced shooting, when he was shot dead. He was a prisoner once, and said he never would be taken again. The division marched until evening, when they were allowed a short time to prepare some coffee; had barely time to finish drinking coffee when the bugle sounded. The advance had to fall in, take arms, and the command was soon on the move again. They came to a halt late in the evening, and next morning were on the move again. By some mistake we missed the right road, and after marching two miles the command was halted. The heavy thundering of cannon and small arms could be distinctly heard. The news came that our forces had driven the rebels from the railroad bridge across the Black Water after an obstinate resistence. After halting here for a short time, the order was given to forward, march, file right, and we had to retrace our steps until we got back to where we stopped over night. There we turned to the left, and marched until the heat of the day, and then halted for dinner. After eating, the march was resumed until we arrived at Black Water, and after staying here one night and part of a day before crossing the stream, a fine horse was purchased by the privates of the 11th Missouri and presented to Gen. Mowers. He had several horses shot while engaged in battle. He made a few remarks--it was unexpected to him, and took him by surprise. After this was over the division crossed the river on a pontoon bridge, and the bridge was taken up as soon as we crossed. Here the division bivouacked for the night. Next morning most of the division moved forward with the exception of part of the 11th Missouri, which was detailed to guard some ammunition and artillery which had been captured from the rebels. Soon after the ammunition and artillery were removed, and we left the river to rejoin the brigade. Several hundred confederate prisoners who had been taken in the late battles, brought up the rear. We rejoined the brigade, and quite late in the evening arrived in front of the rebel works. Here the army stopped, and the lines extended all around the city of Vicksburg. Here we remained until the evening of the 21st, when an order was read with reference to storming the rebel works on the following day. Meanwhile several batteries were busily engaged throwing shot and shell into the rebel works from morning until night, and it was not safe to go within sight of the rebel works and expose ourselves to their sharpshooters, as several of our soldiers were struck over 800 yards from the fort. From Black river there is a range of high hills, of deep valleys, and heavy timber, until arriving within half a mile of the rebel works. The timber had all been cut down, and there was no way of approaching the rebel works except by roads, and these were well protected by artillery, and the forts were so built that they commanded every road with stockades. The morning of the 22d of May, a day long to be remembered by many was, dark and cloudy. Our lines were formed, and the brigade marched a short distance from the enemy's works and ordered to stop; and here they lay until four o'clock in the afternoon, when the order was given to fall in line, and not speak a word, as the brigade was going to make an effort to get inside of the rebel works. The 11th Missouri was in advance. Up they went on double-quick to within 300 yards, when the rebels opened on us with shot and shell, and their sharp-shooters from behind their works were pouring volleys of rifle bullets into our ranks as they advanced. Whole ranks were shot down, either killed or wounded, and only about 30 reached the works. The Colonel of the 11th led the charge, and reached the outer ditch. While there the rebels threw a hand grenade and it tore off the front of his cap, doing him no other injury. The colors were planted on the outer works, and there they had to remain until evening, when, under cover of darkness, the Colonel got away, with the men that had regained the works. At night the brigade returned to our old camping place. It was a terrible day, for the regiment was exposed to a heavy fire, failing back with heavy loss without accomplishing any thing. The loss was over a hundred men in killed and wounded. After remaining a few days after the storming of the enemy's entrenchments, order came, and the 2d brigade had to move again; and early in the evening our lines were formed, the command was given, and every regiment was soon in motion--destination not known. After marching until quite late, halted, and camped for the night near a creek. The night being warm, we had a comfortable sleep with our blankets and the sky above to cover us. We were not disturbed until morning. Next morning after eating breakfast we resumed our march, until we arrived at Snyder's Bluffs, and here we came to a halt, and remained one night and part of a day. This was a strong position, held by the rebels, but on the approach of our forces was vacated, as there was danger of being cut off from the main army at Vicksburg. It was a place of little importance, as there was nothing but hills and valleys and some rebel entrenchments. A very small portion of the land could be cultivated. There were some people living in these hills, and seemed to enjoy themselves. But few men were to be seen at home, as they were gone into the rebel army. Orders came at last, and the brigade was soon in motion again on the road to Yazoo City. After marching up one hill and down another, the brigade arrived at Mechanicsburg, where our cavalry fell in with a force of rebel cavalry and there was a short skirmish. The infantry went to the cavalry's assistance, when the rebels broke and fled. Our casualties were slight; not much loss on either side. The cavalry did not pursue the enemy far, but returned and camped for the night at Mechanicsburg, where the infantry had kindled fires. You could see where each regiment was halted and were resting from their weary day's march. At the sound of the bugle in the morning every soldier seemed to spring into life again, and were soon all interested in the work of preparing their meal. This work was soon over, most of the boys being their own cooks, and carried their cooking utensils along with them. Water was not very plenty, and most of it cistern water. Mechanicsburg was a small town with a few old houses in it, and no business worth mentioning being done there. Everything appeared desolate and forsaken. Next morning we left this place for Haines' Bluff. Our road lay through a heavy timber; it was a road not much traveled at this time. We followed this road until we came to a very large plantation, and here the command halted for a short time. Finding plenty of chickens here, the soldiers took most of them, and when the command moved forward there was not a rooster left to crow on the plantation. There were a great many negroes on this place, their master in the rebel army, and he very wealthy, owning three large plantations. After staying here a short time the command was ordered to move forward, and each regiment was soon in motion again. After emerging from the hills we struck a flat open country along the Yazoo river, where corn was growing finely, and would soon make good forage. The command halted for dinner, after which we moved forward again, and late in the evening came to a halt near a creek of clear water; here the command bivouacked for the night. Next morning the march was resumed again, and then commenced the work of climbing a very high hill, and leaving the Yazoo bottoms. At length the whole army reached the summit of Haines' Bluffs. The weather had become very warm and it was almost impossible to march, but there was a cool breeze stirring on the hills, and if it were not for this the command would have had to halt, as the heat was almost suffocating. Haines' Bluffs was on the Yazoo river and had been in possession of the rebels, who, for some cause, had left. After blowing up the magazine they went into Vicksburg, and our forces soon took possession. It was a place of vast importance to us, as we could get our supplies from the river, and provisions could be hauled by teams and wagons to the besieging army very easily, as it was but a short distance to the landing. The army got plenty to eat here, but we were not suffered to remain long. One morning early the brigade was ordered on board steamboats, which were in waiting to receive us on board. There were several of them in the river, and one was a gunboat which was to accompany us on the expedition. This day was passed on the boat, everything ready and waiting the signal to move. At last we got under way and the boats moved up the river. The Yazoo river is a long narrow stream, full of short turns; our largest boats could not navigate it. Our destination was unknown to us at that time. At daylight next morning the boats landed us at a place called Setorsia, a small town, containing one church, a few stores and groceries. As soon as the boats stopped the soldiers were soon on shore, the stores plundered of everything they contained, which was not much. Gen. Mower ordered them on board again. Returning to the boats the order came to form in line on land. Signs of an enemy were to be seen, and skirmishers were thrown out to see if the road was clear. The 8th Wisconsin was in advance, and had moved but a short distance from the town, when the advance fell in with some of the enemy's cavalry, and they commenced to fire on the 8th. The skirmishers and brigade halted on the side of a hill, when the rebels fled before them as they advanced, keeping it up all the way to Mechanicsburg. Two of the 8th were severely wounded. Here they resolved we should go no further. They formed their line of battle about one mile and a half from town, and there awaited our approach. A battery was ordered forward, and they opened fire where the rebels were supposed to be; after shelling them a short time, the rebels returned the fire, doing no injury to our men, as they shot too high. A battalion of the 5th Illinois cavalry was ordered to make a charge, which was done in gallant style. They bore down on the rebels with sabres glistening in the sun, rushing at full speed upon the enemy, which was in line of battle to receive them; but what could withstand such a charge? The sabre was the principle weapon used. This was too close work for them, and they broke and fled, taking their artillery with them. The cavalry took 70 prisoners. Their loss in killed not known; a large number were wounded with the sabre. The infantry moved forward to the support of the cavalry, but the rebels were dispersed before the infantry could render any assistance. The rebels were supposed to be about 3,000 strong, mostly mounted infantry. They could not stand but a short time before the impetuous valor of our brave men, fighting for the right. They made several ineffectual attempts at resistance, but they were at last forced to flee and leave us victors. The cavalry pursued the retreating rebels several miles, cutting them down with their sabres whenever they overtook them. Some of the men were quite old and gray. The infantry went about a half a mile from town and there camped for the night. Company B, 11th Missouri, and a company of the 47th Illinois, were sent out in front to act as a grand guard; and here we remained for twenty-four hours, when we were relieved by company C, and returned to the regiment. Order was then given to draw two days' rations, as we were to march next morning. At six o'clock next morning we made preparations to march, drawing another day's rations, and began our return to Haines' Bluff. Our knapsacks had arrived but were returned again to the boats. The 11th Missouri was rear guard and the advance moved quite slow, owing to the extreme heat; it was almost impossible to proceed sometimes; no air stirring, and some of the soldiers died on the way. A great many were sunstruck. We marched back to Sertorsia, which was destroyed, and Mechanicsburg was left burning. After leaving the timber part of a division fell in with our brigade. On this expedition there were three brigades of infantry, under command of Brig. Gen. Kimble; also several regiments of cavalry, with artillery. The Yazoo bottom road was taken. Corn had been planted by order of Jeff. Davis, and it was growing finely on each side of the road; some of the stalks were higher than our heads as we passed along. It would soon make good forage for our cavalry. This road was dry and dusty. There was plenty of water on the bottom, as there were cisterns every few miles. The first day we marched until late, and came to a halt near a creek of running water, and next day arrived at our old camp early in the evening. After remaining here a short time we went by steamboat to Youngs Point. On the march from Mechanicsburg the 11th lost several men; they were behind and were taken by rebel cavalry, who were picking up stragglers, but did not get many, as our cavalry were protecting the rear, and they did not venture up very close. All cotton was burned on this march, also some corn and a few houses, one a very fine house occupied by a rebel. Everything of value was taken because he aided in capturing some of our boys by making signals to a party of bushwhackers. He was taken and delivered as a prisoner to the General. The brigade marched to Young's Point, established camp, where we were soon at home. After resting for a few days orders were received for the brigade to prepare for a move next morning. Everything was found ready on the 14th of June, and on Sunday every regiment was formed in line and soon moved from Young's Point to go to Richmond, Louisiana, where the rebels were said to be in force, throwing up entrenchments. We were sent out to reconnoitre on the 15th, after a good night's rest. Our advance fed in with some of the enemy's skirmishers when about two miles from Richmond. The 5th Minnesota was acting as skirmishers. A line of battle was formed, and then the order was given to forward, and the whole line moved to the support of the skirmishers. When within a mile of Richmond the skirmishers were saluted with a shower of bullets, but most of them passed harmlessly over their heads. Two of the 5th were slightly wounded, which was all the damage we received. Two batteries were brought into play; one was handled by some men of the marine brigade, and they did some good shooting. They came from Millikin's Bend. The 11th Missouri was supporting Taylor's battery. The rebels would send an occasional shot at us as we were laying down in front of our artillery, and after firing over 100 rounds from the two batteries, General Mower discovered where the rebels were. They occupied a strong position on the opposite side of Wolf creek. He rode along the lines, each regiment being in its place, and the command was given to move across this creek and take the rebels in the rear. The marine brigade was ordered to take our place to support the batteries. After marching through a heavy piece of timber, we emerged into an open field near the creek, and then we could see the rebels retreating, and our advance in hot pursuit. We soon reached the creek opposite the town and crossed over. There was evidence of there having been a strong force there, as their shanties were left standing, and deserters informed us that there were 7,000 of Taylor's and Walker's men here when we attacked them in the morning. They had dug some rifle pits and had several pieces of artillery, but used them very little. One man lay dead in a ditch, and two were wounded, one of them seriously. They were injured by a shell. A battalion of the 10th Illinois cavalry pursued the retreating rebels and took 30 prisoners, with slight loss on our side. The citizens of the town fled with the retreating rebels, as they were informed that they would be protected inside the rebel lines. Some of them taking nothing with them, and our men soon took possession. And then commenced the work of plunder, as everything was ordered to be destroyed, the town was soon in ashes; there was nothing but a heap of ruins two hours after our forces took possession. The day passed away and night found us three miles from Richmond, where we halted for the night. The marine brigade returned to their boats that evening, burning everything as they went. Arrived at Young's Point at 1 o'clock on the 16th day of June. The sun was sending its hottest rays upon us, and it was almost impossible to proceed. We had water a short distance from camp and plenty of it; it was not good, and the brigade soon felt the effects of using this water. Ague and fever became frequent, and several men died in the brigade. We remained here encamped until after the surrender of Vicksburg. You may judge of our feelings when we learned that the rebels had surrendered to Grant. It was hardly believed that one of the strongholds of the rebellion was in our possession, and the father of waters was open to commerce again from St. Louis to New Orleans. Col. ANDREW JACKSON WEBER, _11th Missouri Regiment, Mortally Wounded, June 29th, 1863, in front of Vicksburg._ Nothing of importance transpired until the 28th of June, and then the 11th Missouri was ordered in front of Vicksburg as grand guard, and while there the rebels commenced shelling us. A piece of shell striking Col. Weber on the head, he fell mortally wounded. This was on the morning of the 29th; he lived until the morning of the 30th. In him the 11th Missouri lost a true friend, and it was with sorrow we followed his body to the boat which was to convey him home. His corpse was put on board of the boat, and after a short prayer, we returned to camp. All of the brigade followed his body to the boat, as he was universally esteemed by every one who knew him. Although young in years, he had the qualifications rendering him an able commander. He was captain of company B, 11th Missouri, until we arrived at Point Pleasant, but for services rendered there, he was raised to the rank of major, which post he held for some time. At length he was raised to the rank of lieutenant colonel, vice Penny Baker, resigned on account of ill health. He filled every place with honor to himself and with the esteem and friendship of his brother officers. He was a sober officer, and took pride in seeing his men appear well, and was the first to face danger, always kind and obliging, never resorting to extreme measures, he won the good will of his men, who would follow him wherever he saw fit to lead them. He encountered cold, hunger and fatigue, and endured many privations along with his men; had passed safely through several hard fought battles, and was always cool and collected in the midst of danger; always in front of his company or regiment. He was always with his regiment, and took an active part in all the battles that the 11th Missouri was engaged in, and escaped unharmed until the 29th day of June, when he was stricken down in the prime of life. His remains were sent home on the 2d day of July. George Weber accompanied the last remains of as brave and gallant an officer as ever drew a sword. The brigade remained encamped at Young's Point until after the surrender of Vicksburg which happened on the 4th day of July, 1863. Gen. Pemberton surrendered with his whole army, which was paroled, and a great many of the men took the oath of allegiance to the U. S. Government, went home, declaring they would fight no more for Jeff. Davis and his minions. While here the climate began to tell on the men in the brigade, and several fell sick and some died. At last we got on to steamboats and were transferred to Vicksburg, and from there to Black Water on the cars. Here tents were pitched, and the brigade remained for nearly two weeks. From this place the camp was removed ten miles to a heavy piece of timber, which answered very well for a shade; a choice spot was selected for a camp, the ground cleaned off, the tents pitched, and each regiment and brigade took its respective place. Officers' tents in line of the rear of the privates. On laying out the ground for a camp, so much ground is allowed to each company, and every tent must be in line with the others. The ground has to be swept every morning between the tents, and the dirt hauled off in wagons. At this camp we remained for two months; the last month we remained here there was a grand review every Thursday, and company inspection every Sunday. While here Gen. Mowers returned from the hospital, where he had been on account of ill health. He took command of the brigade again, in the place of Col. Hubbard, who was acting brigadier at this time. George Weber also returned from taking his brother home about this time, also Captain J. D. Lloyd, of company B, returned from Memphis, and took command of his company. The country is very broken and hilly for miles around Vicksburg. Some corn near our camp was used for forage. Peaches were in great plenty. The boys would go out miles from camp foraging, bringing in hogs, chickens, and most all kinds of produce. Several of the boys were taken prisoners by guerrillas, and an order was issued to stop going outside the lines. The boys' mules and horses were taken and turned over to the quartermasters. Deaths became frequent, and soldiers died off very fast; some regiments lost a good many men. Here company B lost two. We remained at this point two months, and on the 26th day of September the brigade returned to Black Water again, pitching their tents in the old camping ground. September 26th. Early in the evening our tents were ordered to be taken down and loaded on the wagons, and the brigade was ordered to prepare for leaving this camp and return to Black River bridge. Everything being in readiness, the advance was sounded, and each regiment took its place and off they started. The weather was fine, the moon was shining brightly, and the roads were quite dry and dusty. The brigade soon reached our old camping ground, and after our tents came they were pitched, and here the brigade remained, without anything worthy of notice transpiring until the 14th of October, when Mowers' brigade and the 2d Iowa battery was ordered to get ready to leave camp, taking six days' provisions and 40 rounds of ammunition to the man. The first day we went as far as Gen. Tuttle's headquarters, where we camped for the night, and next morning Tuttle's and Logan's divisions and a brigade of cavalry, all under command of Maj. Gen. McPherson, crossed Black River on a bridge. Mowers' brigade was detailed to guard the train of the division, and night found us at a small town called Brownsville. Here Tuttle's division came to a halt, and the 11th Missouri was detailed to act as grand guard. Our lines were formed near the town, and one man was shot by some of the rebel bushwhackers; we were not disturbed again. In the morning we were ready to move forward, when the order came to advance. In this place there was nothing but a few empty houses, used as stores. Nothing of value could be seen; if there was anything it was concealed, so that few contraband goods were obtained. While marching through this place next morning some goods were discovered in a house belonging to a Jew. The regiment stopping at this place for a short time, some of the soldiers helped themselves to whatever they could find; but a guard being placed over this house, not much could be obtained. The roar of cannon broke upon our ears, and we could tell by the sound that it was some distance ahead of us. It continued for a short time, and then ceased, and we were ordered forward, but soon came to a halt again. In this way we proceeded all day. At nightfall we came to a halt, and camped, the brigade forming a hollow square. Here we remained till morning, when the order came to fall in and move forward. The cavalry had found the rebels and were shelling them with their howitzers. After marching us about a mile we came in full view of them. Logan's division was in line of battle. Skirmishers were thrown forward and the advance commenced. The rebels occupied a good position on a hill, and were supposed to be in strong force. It was a splendid sight to see the blue coats ascend the hill. Skirmishing was kept up and the rebels fell back slowly, firing as they went. They made but little opposition to our men, and soon they left us masters of the field. Tuttle's division had halted, and was now ordered forward again. After advancing about a mile we came to a halt, stacked arms, and bivouacked. Rain fell during the night, and the roads next day were quite muddy, making it pretty hard marching. We were ordered back to Black River bridge, where we arrived on the sixth day after leaving camp. Part of this expedition was sent to destroy a mill which contained a great quantity of provisions. The cavalry, which was in advance, encountered a battery which was placed in position to defend the mill. The cavalry being fired upon, they fell back, and formed a line of battle, and a battery of light artillery was brought forward and opened on the rebels, where they were supposed to be, and the place was soon made too warm for them. A charge was made, and several prisoners taken, with a small loss on our side. After the rebels left, the mill and a machine shop was burned; then returned to camp. After this was accomplished, and as soon as the rebels discovered that the army was on its way back to camp, they returned to harrass our rear. The cavalry had several skirmishes with them during the day, as they would come up and engage our rear guard, but in every instance were driven back. They followed us up to Edwards' Station. It took us two days to return to camp again, marching 40 miles in a day and a half. Sometimes we were on double-quick, and marched in single file on the right of the wagons the whole length of the train. How glad were we when we could see the tops of our tents in the distance. Tired and foot sore, we laid down to rest our weary limbs, and our sleep was enjoyed the first night of our arrival in camp, and we awoke much refreshed. This was the 21st of October, and here we remained until November. About the 6th orders came to strike tents and get ready to move camp. Everything was put on board the cars but the wagons and artillery, and landed at Vicksburg. The wagons were hauled there by the teams, the artillery was put on board steamboats that were in waiting to receive us. Tuttle's division was soon on its way to Memphis. The 11th Missouri was on the boat with General Mowers. The weather was pretty cool and dry, and everything went on favorably until our boat was struck by a floating snag, which tore a hole in the front of it, and it was also set on fire several times by some person or persons on board. It was discovered in time to prevent serious damage. At length we arrived at Memphis, where the division all landed. One brigade remained at Memphis and the other two were left at posts along the railroad as guards. The second brigade under Mowers was carried by railroad to La Grange, Tennessee. Our train had proceeded but a short distance from Memphis when it was fired into and a negro killed in the 11th Missouri, and two of the 5th Minnesota wounded; also a negro in the second Iowa battery was killed. Firing on trains had become quite common, but an order was issued that put a stop to it. Every citizen was held responsible for damage done the railroad by roaming bands of guerrillas who were watching opportunities to obstruct the passage of trains running from Corinth to Memphis. When we arrived here there was but a small force of cavalry stationed at this point, and it was the rebels' intention to attack the place, but they were so long in making up their minds what to do that I don't think they will venture very close to us again. We arrived here near the middle of November, and remained until the 1st of December, when the order came to prepare for marching.--Taking three days' rations in our haversacks, with our blankets and canteens, we were soon on the march again at daylight. Our destination was Pocahontas. We marched up one hill and down another until we arrived within a mile of a small town on the railroad called Middletown. Tired and foot sore, we came to a halt and bivouacked for the night. Our march was along the railroad, and we passed through Grand Junction and Salsbury. At the latter place part of the 8th Wisconsin regiment and some Tennessee cavalry, were stationed. When the brigade passed through the 8th was ordered to accompany it, and when they arrived at Salsbury the town was left without a guard. The rebel cavalry came right in the rear of us and tore up the railroad and burned several houses of the town. Notice was given the General that the rebels were in our rear, when the command was ordered back. The cavalry being in advance they fell in with the rebels a short distance from this town. They were posted in line of battle and were determined to prevent our return to camp. The artillery was soon brought into play, and after shelling them some time, doing but little damage on either side, the rebels gave way and left our forces in possession of the ground. A large open field formed the battle ground, with timber on each side. A running fight was kept up all day, a few prisoners were taken. How glad were we when we could see La Grange again. We reached camp about four o'clock, having marched over forty miles in less than two days. That night we slept until morning, and awoke much refreshed. There was a great stir in camp next morning, caused by the report that the rebels were seen hovering around our lines. No one was allowed to leave camp, and our arms were stacked on the color line, and we were ordered to be ready to take arms at a moment's warning, as there was no knowing what moment the enemy would make the attack. We were not long destined to remain in camp. The regiment was detailed to work on breastworks, and when the fort was nearly completed the order came to march again, and we had to lay by the shovel and pick and take up our guns and try the fortunes of the field again. Two regiments of the second brigade, 47th Illinois, and 11th Missouri, got on the cars and went to Corinth, Mississippi, and here they bivouacked one night in some old empty quarters that had been occupied by soldiers. In the morning the command was ordered to move, and early on the morning of the 21st took our line of march, and night found us within four miles of Purdy, having marched twenty miles. Next morning we moved about five miles and bivouacked until the morning of the third day at half-past two o'clock, when we were ordered again to march, and that night we came to a halt within twenty miles of Jackson, Tennessee, where the rebel General Forrest, was said to have his headquarters. We marched this day thirty miles. Here we remained all night and next day until nearly dark, when we were ordered to march again, and the command was soon on its way back to Corinth again. After marching to within six miles of Purdy, the command came to a halt until morning and next day traveled about ten miles, and were told to make ourselves as comfortable as possible, as we would remain here all night. But an order came for us to return if possible, to La Grange. The next evening at seven o'clock the sky had the appearance of an approaching storm. At about one o'clock that morning we started for Corinth, and arrived there, the rain falling heavily and the roads becoming so slippery and muddy that it was tedious marching. At two o'clock we were on the cars again, and soon left Corinth for La Grange, where we arrived late in the evening, wet and cold. We retired to our quarters where we soon forgot our fatigue in the arms of slumber, having been absent eight days. We did not discover a rebel on this march, but could hear of them every day, and there would be slight skirmishing with our advance cavalry. Not much loss was sustained on either side. The expedition was commanded by General Mowers but I never learned the object of it as nothing was accomplished. General Forrest was said to have crossed the railroad a few miles from La Grange. Our stay was short, an order came to go to Grand Junction, and there the 11th remained for several days without tents to cover themselves. It rained twenty-four hours, and from rain it turned to snow, and froze quite hard. It was almost impossible to endure the cold. We were allowed to return to camp, and how cheering were the camp fires to us that evening, as the snow was falling and the wind blowing a strong breeze from the north-west. As our tents had fire-places in them we did not suffer much from the cold of January, 1864. Here we remained until the 26th of January, when we were ordered to prepare for leaving this camp for Memphis. As most of this railroad was to be abandoned, every available article was removed to Memphis, or inside the Union lines. The 11th and 47th Illinois, were detailed to guard the wagon train into Memphis. After two days we arrived in sight of that city, and here came to a halt and remained a short time. The boys received pay and were ordered on transports which were awaiting to convey troops down the river. At length, all things ready, the boats headed down the river, and we soon found ourselves in front of Vicksburg. Here we landed, formed in line and were soon on the way to Black River bridge, where we arrived on the 4th day of February. A brigade had left their tents standing for the 11th Missouri to occupy. Left Black River bridge, where we were in camp, March 4th, 1864. The regiment occupied the 20th Illinois quarters as they had left their tents standing, and they kindly tendered them to us while they were absent with Sherman on an expedition to Meridian. Tuttle's division was to have gone but did not arrive in time. The expedition had gone before we got there and we had to remain behind. We remained until Sherman's army returned to Canton, Mississippi, when the second brigade was ordered to guard a wagon train of prisoners through to Sherman, whose command had come to a halt and was awaiting supplies. The train went through all right, and how glad were the boys when supplies arrived, they were suffering for the want of something to eat. Their supplies had been all consumed, and they had to subsist on parched corn and fresh pork without salt, and could not get enough of that. The expedition was gone over a month, and had marched over three hundred miles without a change of clothing, with twenty days rations. Everything was destroyed as they went; railroads were torn up, and corn destroyed, which was a great loss to the rebels. They found scarcely anything to oppose them; a few slight skirmishes now and then, but no general engagement. After obtaining supplies the regiment returned to camp again. Five of the 11th Missouri were gobbled up while foraging on this march, and have not been heard from since. As soon as we returned to camp again the regiment, with Tuttle's division, were ordered to Vicksburg, and soon were on the move again. An expedition was fitting out to go up Red River, but the 11th had re-enlisted and were promised a furlough home, while all non-veterans were transferred to other regiments. There were nearly a hundred non-veterans of the 11th Missouri regiment. We pitched our tents in the rear of town and there waited to be transferred; the veterans to go home. As I was one of the non-veterans I was destined to be separated for a while from my comrades. We were transferred to the 33d Missouri, and were soon on the way to Red River. A fleet of transports and gunboats were in this expedition; Smith and Mower were in command; in all, twelve thousand five hundred men, infantry and artillery; a picked body of men who never knew what it was to turn their backs on the foe. Our transfer took place on the 8th of March, after dark. Rain fell that day and the ground had become slippery and muddy; it was difficult to walk without falling. This wading through mud could easily have been prevented if the order had been received in time to have gone to the boats by daylight. As it was we had to endure considerable suffering going from shelter and sleeping on the bank of the river until morning. It was lucky for us that it did not rain any more that day; but the skies looked very threatening. In the morning we were assigned to company B, of the 33d Missouri. There were thirteen of us; seventy-eight belonging to the 11th. Some were assigned to each company in the regiment. Lieut. Col. Heathe was in command of the regiment. As my object is to give an account of the expedition I will not be particular in giving the names of officers. We remained one day on board of the transport Hamilton. On the 10th, everything being ready, the gunboats in advance and the transports loading, we started for Red River. The boats came to anchor at the mouth of Atchafalaya bayou, where the troops landed and burned a rebel's house after plundering it, and the men would have hung the owner but General Mower interposed and saved his life. The soldiers were ordered on board the boats again and a guard was stationed in front of each boat, that no soldier might go on shore again.--Here we remained all night, and in the morning the fleet entered the mouth of Atchafalaya bayou, which was followed for several miles; anchored at a place called Simsport, where there had been a rebel encampment. Some earthworks could be seen but the rebels fled on our approach. Here some of the troops landed, and in the morning marched four miles, where they discovered a fort.--It was across a bayou called Yellow bayou. This was a strong position and was very hard to approach; if the enemy had chosen to make a stand, would have given our men trouble to dislodge them, as they had to cross a bayou and a ditch fifteen feet deep, which would almost have been an impossibility. No resistance was made however, and this position was evacuated and our men soon had possession. Every available article was burned and the works were destroyed. The rebels fell back to a stronger position on Red River. Mower, with his men, returned to Simsport, stacked arms on shore, and we were ordered to prepare ourselves with two days' rations in our haversacks. Everything was soon ready, and we waiting for the command to move forward. It was on a beautiful Sabbath evening and the boys were in fine spirits. The order came at last, and off we started, went marching that evening eight miles; came to a halt, and the next morning were on the move again quite early. There was nothing worth relating until our arrival within two miles of Red River, where a very strong position was held by a force of rebels, and they resolved to make a stand. There were several siege pieces in position which were covered by a fort. It would have been almost an impossibility to capture it if it had been finished. Three guns commanded all approaches by the river; they were nine-inch guns captured from us and taken off the Indianola. The water battery was protected with railroad iron with a foot of white oak frame work. One gun was not mounted yet, but they were working on it when Mower spoiled their calculation and captured all their guns and destroyed these works, which had taken them a year to complete. After examining this position Mower immediately ordered an advance, with skirmishers in front, while the artillery was opened and a heavy fire was kept up on the rebel works. The rebels returned the fire with a will, but doing no damage. A brigade of infantry was steadily advancing, firing as they went. Soon it began to take effect, as our men neared the rebel position, and made it dangerous to show themselves. The firing had nearly ceased on their part when a charge was made, General Mower leading them. The works were soon gained. It was almost impossible to get into the fort, owing to the ditch around it, but with the assistance of one another gained the works. When they got on top of the works they pulled each other up by the aid of their guns. The garrison surrendered with eleven pieces of heavy artillery; also a quantity of ammunition, with nearly three hundred prisoners, who were sent to New Orleans. As it was in Banks' department all prisoners had to be sent there from here. Mower embarked with all the troops but one brigade of infantry, which was left behind to destroy the works, under the orders of A. J. Smith, who was in command of both corps. The regiments that made the assault were the following: 24th Missouri, 89th Indiana, 119th Illinois, 14th Iowa and 21st Missouri, non-veterans. As the order was received at the same time to take the rebel works by assault, all moved at once, and the 24th Missouri claims the honor of planting the first flag on the fort, but all deserve praise for the manner in which the order was obeyed. Every one was confident of victory. On they went under a heavy fire, and were soon in possession of one of the strongest positions in Louisiana. It was well planned. There were places in the fort for prisoners, and ammunition would be safe from harm. The gunboats were to assist in taking the fort, but did not arrive in time to take part in the engagement owing to obstructions in the river, which the boats had to remove before they could get along. This caused some delay. A few shots were fired from the boats, but the fort was taken by this time. Our advance was in possession of the fort by six o'clock in the evening. As our brigade was in the rear, did not arrive in time to take part in the engagement. We were waiting to receive the order to support the advance, but as our assistance was not needed, we stacked our arms two miles from the fort, in an open field, and there remained until morning, when we marched to the landing where the fleet was awaiting us. We all embarked with the exception of one brigade, which remained behind to destroy everything that could not be removed. From carelessness or some other cause, several men were killed and wounded in the destruction of the works; nearly as many as there were in taking them. The rest of the forces under Mower proceeded to Alexandria, the gunboats going in advance, the transports following. Our progress was very slow, only about five miles an hour. This stream is very crooked and narrow, and might be very easily blockaded. The gunboats proceed cautiously. Parker discovered there were torpedoes placed in the river, and four of these infernal machines were taken out before getting very close to them. The fleet arrived at last at Alexandria. All the troops landed, and tents were pitched, and the men were allowed several days to rest and recruit up; but we were not destined to remain long idle. An expedition was fitted out, and after marching about 40 miles, surprised and captured nearly 300 more confederates, with four pieces of artillery. It was under a heavy storm of wind and rain when this capture was made in the dead hour of night, on the 21st of March. Mowers captured the courier, who had the countersign, and by this means deceived the guard, as they imagined that it was reinforcements from Walker. They little thought the Yankees were so close, and were surprised to find themselves in the presence of strangers. We treated them quite civilly, as they were prisoners of war, and were taken without firing a shot. When they discovered how easily they had been taken in, their rage knew no bounds. The 33d Missouri assisted in making this capture. They were marched to Alexandria, while some of the boys rode their horses they were compelled to walk. They were put on board a boat and sent to New Orleans. On returning to Alexandria we found Banks and staff had arrived. Lee, who was chief of cavalry, came into town; it was the advance of Banks' army--it soon came, and encamped in the rear of town for several days. While here three more pieces of artillery were discovered, concealed by the rebels in their haste to get away. They were field pieces, which made in all 18 pieces, with 600 prisoners; a great quantity of sugar and molasses was also captured. Smith's men were called thieves and robbers by Banks, who said they would not fight. He started with the 13th corps, the invincible 19th going ahead, and came to a halt at Grandecore, and there awaited Smith's coming, who was to bring up the rear. Smith arrived, and the troops marched above the falls, and the fleet soon followed, but some of our largest gunboats had to remain at Alexandria, as they drew too much water to get over the falls. After getting over the falls the troops embarked on board the boats again and went to Grandecore. Here there was a short skirmish, in which Captain O'Donald, of the 11th Missouri, was wounded in the arm. A few prisoners were taken. This town was situated on a high bluff, and the rebels had thrown up some earthworks, but left as soon as they saw the gunboats. Few people were living in the town. About the first of April Banks moved, with his long train of wagons, in the direction of Shreveport; the cavalry in advance, and the 13th corps, what there was of it, in support of the cavalry. Skirmishing commenced early, and was kept up until in the afternoon, when the rebels were discovered to be pretty strong in force in our front, having a good position. The cavalry attacked them without hesitation, and after a pretty severe fight, drove the rebels. The loss on our side was light. They were driven several miles this day, which was the 7th of April. Our men drove them in every instance until the 8th, when the 13th corps were forced to fall back, and all their cannon and wagon train were captured, and out of 2,600 men, only half of them escaped. On the morning of the 8th the march commenced, with cavalry in advance, the 13th corps as support, their train next to them, and Banks and his invincible 19th brought up the rear, while Smith and Mowers with their guerrillas were left behind to guard Banks' everlasting train. It was train enough for 150,000 men, and it took all of Smith's army to guard it while landing from the boats. We were soon in marching order, and on the 7th got started, following Banks' grand army. Rain fell this day, and laid the dust. Our march was through a heavy pine timbered country; water was scarce. Marched this day about 16 miles, came to a halt. It was a long dreary march. Very few houses could be seen. Next morning were on the move again. Marched this day about 19 miles, and came to a halt in the rear of a small town called Pleasant Hill. Here we went into camp for the night. Reports began to be circulated through the regiment that the army under Banks was badly whipped, and things began to look gloomy, as the truth came to us that the 13th corps were all killed or captured, with all their cannon and wagon train. Let me ask, who will have to answer for the manner in which this expedition was conducted, and the many brave men who fell a sacrifice to an immense cotton speculation? Who ever heard of a General skirmishing with a wagon train? All were sent right up in front, and our advance went as far as Sabine Cross Roads, 70 miles from Shreveport, and here the battle commenced. A brigade of infantry was sent to support the cavalry. The rebel lines were in the shape of a horse-shoe, and into this our men moved, when a heavy fire was opened from all sides. There was no chance of forming our lines, as the wagon train was in the way, and after a desperate resistence, our ammunition being all expended, our men broke and fled in all directions. Many of them fell into the hands of the enemy. Men and horses were so mixed up they could not be rallied again. The cavalry were forced to fall back, and some of them rode through the lines and caused confusion among the men. Reinforcements were sent for, but did not arrive in time. The invincible 19th got there at last and formed their lines for battle. The enemy were steadily driving our men; on they went, not dreaming that they were hastening to destruction. When they got within short range, a deadly fire of musketry and artillery were poured into them. The rebels came to a halt, and returned the fire, and soon the battle raged fiercely, neither side yielding an inch. Volley after volley was given and received into their very faces. At length the rebels yielded and fell back--our men did not follow up their advantage, when night closed the bloody scene. The loss was heavy on both sides. Kirby Smith was said to be in command. Banks ordered a retreat. He and his negroes were hastening back to Grandecore. We could see the wagons getting to the river as fast as possible, and all day of the 9th the wagons could be seen passing. Two divisions of the 16th corps had arrived, and were waiting orders, when on the morning of the 9th three companies of the 33d Missouri regiment was detailed to guard our train.--Every fire was put out and a guard was stationed all around our wagon train.--The 19th had fell back to Pleasant Hill, and as Banks could not command an army he gave the command to Smith and Mower, who immediately formed their men in line of battle. The place where this battle was fought was on a high ridge, an old field separating both armies. The artillery was placed in position on the ridge. All around this old cotton field was a thick growth of heavy timber and underbrush. In this our lines were formed in the shape of a horse-shoe. Artillery was placed to sweep this open field, and a cannonade was kept up on the rebels, who occupied the timber in front of our men, and were considerably annoyed by a twelve pound howitzer which was throwing shell amongst them. As there was no good position for the enemy to use artillery very little was used. A force of cavalry was sent out to bring on an engagement. Skirmishing commenced immediately, and was kept up for some time, and they were slowly driven back until Price's arrival with reinforcements, when the attack was ordered to commence at once, about 5 o'clock P. M. When the enemy were seen forming their lines in the edge of the timber, every preparation was made to receive them. The 19th corps formed part of the first line. They were seen advancing in three lines. On they came, their object being to outflank us, but were met at every point. Still they came, firing as they advanced, until they arrived within a short distance of our lines, when every gun opened upon them, and as one man fell another took his place. Still they advanced, but they were mowed down like grass. A brigade of cavalry, supported by infantry, only three men of which escaped, made a charge. It was met on the right by the 24th Missouri regiment, and most nobly it was done. Its loss was heavy, one hundred and eighteen killed and wounded. The infantry flanked them and they had to change their position, and it was then they suffered most. All of the regiments suffered that formed this line, as it was on the extreme right. As they could not turn the flanks they fell back and massed their forces for another encounter. A brisk cannonade was kept up all the time, which was killing and wounding their men at every discharge. The 19th corps broke their first line of battle and formed with Smith's men, and Col. Hill's brigade formed in the centre, as it was ordered to the front, and arrived in time to take part in the engagement. The 33d Missouri and 35th Iowa were laying down when the rebels were said to be advancing again. They came on with their accustomed yell, when they were again met with as warm a reception as in their first attempt to break our lines. It was their object to break the centre, but in this they failed. They were met by the western boys. Missouri against Missouri, brother against brother, met in the deadly strife for the mastery of the field. Charge after charge had been made, still the contest went on. The rebel dead lay in heaps along the whole line, and the shouts of the combatants nearly drowned the roar of artillery and the noise of battle. Seven thousand rifles with artillery, were making sad havoc in their ranks. It had raged furiously for two hours, when their lines were seen to waver. Mower, who was riding where the bullets rained the thickest, waving his sword, gave the command forward and give the rebels the cold steel, but they could not stand such a desperate charge as this was. Mower crossed the field, leading the men double-quick into the timber, where the rebels were trying to rally for another charge, but a heavy volley was fired into their masses and they broke and fled in all directions, throwing away their arms in their haste to get away. They were driven from the field three miles, and if our forces had followed the retreating enemy, would have retrieved our loss, and Smith and Price's armies have been destroyed. As it was, all of our artillery was retaken, but could not be got away on account of not having horses to haul it. It was left on the field in the hands of the enemy, with most of our wounded. Banks ordered a retreat. Smith and Mower strenuously opposed falling back; they were for pursuing the enemy, who did not halt till they got twenty miles from the field of battle; leaving some of their best officers on the field. Their loss is not known, but was fully as large as ours, which was great, for it was a hard fought battle, and could be counted one of the hardest of the war, considering the forces engaged. The rebel forces were said to have two thousand two hundred strong, cavalry and infantry. They thought to crush Smith and Mowers and capture their two divisions, but did not succeed in getting one gun or wagon from them, while Banks lost half of his artillery and a good many wagons; also his whisky, paper collars, and ammunition supplies for ten days, belonging to the 13th corps, was all taken. Our ammunition was made good use of in the fight at Pleasant Hill, with our new Enfield rifles. The prisoners call Banks their commissary. They made a requisition on him for sixty thousand rations, and he filled it, giving them something better than we received, which was canned fruit and full rations of whisky. On the 11th we arrived at Grandecore without molestation, as the rebels had no idea but that we were in close pursuit, until they sent in a flag of truce asking permission to care for their wounded and bury their dead. There was no one to receive it, and word was sent back. They soon returned and followed us.--Our retreat commenced early in the morning of the 10th, the 16th corps bringing up the rear. Went into camp and remained here for a week. The fleet had followed us on our advance to Shreveport, and went to within thirty-five miles of that place, when the order was sent to them to return, and it was barely in time to save the boats from destruction. They were not molested on the way up, but on their way back suffered from sharp-shooters that lined the banks. A battery was in position at a small town called Lacompt, distant eight miles from here, and a force of cavalry and infantry were sent there and made them take their battery and skedaddle. The gunboats could not make them leave, owing to the high bank at this place. The fleet got back at last, gunboats in advance. To clear the shore of rebel batteries they were placed on every available point, but could not stand the fire from the gunboats long. The steamer Black Hawk looked like a sieve, it was all perforated with bullets. Several men were killed and wounded on it, but in this attempt to capture the Black Hawk they paid dearly. They did not perceive the Black Monitor laying low in the water.--Green marched his men down to the shore and ordered the boat to shove ashore, but they were not so inclined, and the officer in command informed him that he would try what virtue there was in cold iron. A heavy volley was fired into the boat, when the Monitor opened her broad sides. The rebels found they were charging on the wrong boat, and began to get out of the way as quick as they could, but were not in time to escape the shell that was making such fearful havoc in their ranks. They were shelled as long as they could be seen. Their loss was about five hundred killed and wounded, with Green, who paid the penalty of charging on a boat with a monitor in tow. April 20th. After drawing rations, we left Grandecore, to return to Alexandria. The rebels were determined we should not leave Louisiana, and were on the move to intercept us from going back to Mississippi, at every opportunity would attack our lines in front and rear, and at every point and place where they could make a good stand. On the morning of the 24th, being Sunday, the rebels commenced throwing some shells into our camp, aiming at our wagon train, but did no damage to trains or us until we got ready for them. Our cavalry then made some desperate charges. The 16th Indiana and 6th Missouri cavalry, did the principal fighting, with our line of skirmishers, while our regiment was drawn up in line of battle and watching for an engagement with them, but they did not come to taw. We arrived at Alexandria after marching nearly one hundred miles. There was fighting almost every day, either front or rear, but they were always met with determination. Our cavalry would not be driven. The rebels would come up and attack the rear, when the cavalry would hold the rebels until the infantry could get the start, and then the cavalry would fall in and come on slowly, the rebels following closely. Arrived at Alexandria with the loss of a few men. While at that place, the report was brought into camp that the rebels were to occupy the city on a certain day, and preparation was made to give them a warm reception, if they choose to pay us a visit. A line of battle was formed a short distance from town and we lay on our arms all night, but in the morning returned to camp, as no enemy had appeared. While here, reinforcement for the 13th corps arrived, and were sent out to the front, when orders came for another move. Tents were left standing and, Mower's and Smith's divisions fell into line and moved out to the front; came to a halt and remained in line waiting orders. Skirmishing was going on in front and Banks' men were driving the rebels, and several prisoners were taken. Several batteries opened on their lines and they soon got out of harms way. The men under Smith and Mower fell back about a mile, formed a line and were ordered to be ready to take arms any moment. Nothing disturbed us this night, and early in the morning bugle sounded for the men to fall in, when the advance was sounded and all were on the march again, cavalry in advance. They soon fell in with the rebel pickets, and skirmishing commenced quite early in the day. The enemy were driven slowly, they disputed every foot of ground. Did not come to a halt until we came to a place called Rodgers' Bayon. Here we stopped and eat our dinners, when the brigade, under Col. Hill, was ordered to the front to protect our wagon train, as they were procuring forage at one of the plantations across the bayou. The 6th Missouri cavalry being out in front, deserve praise for the manner in which they held their position. They were forced back on account of superior numbers, there being only two companies. Artillery was used by the rebels and some of their shot came close to our lines, killing and wounding eight of the cavalry. When the cavalry fell back the rebels came close enough to use grape shot, and their guns could be plainly seen by us. After throwing a few shells over us, doing no damage but killing the strength of the powder, they desisted, and as it was nearly dark and our wagons were loaded, we returned to Governor Moore's plantation, and there we had our camping grounds for ten days. Corn was growing finely and wheat was ready for reaping, but everything was destroyed. Governor Moore's family moved to Alexandria, and every building was reduced to ashes. Picket skirmishing was going on most of the time, causing constant alarm in camp. The water having fallen in the river, boats could not get back to Alexandria without damming the river to make the water deep enough for the gunboats to pass over the falls. All of the transports got over at last except one, which was the Woodford. It was used as a hospital, and sunk in getting above the falls and lay in the river. When the army passed there all the sick had been taken off. After finishing the dam all the boats passed through the channel except some of the iron-clads, of which the plating had to be taken off to render them light enough to pass below the falls. Banks was for destroying them, lest they should fall into the rebels' hands, but they got over at last, when Banks got all of his boats loaded with cotton and niggers, started for the Mississippi, 19th corps in advance, 13th next, and his invincible wagon train, and last of all, Smith and Mower's guerrillas bringing up the rear. Started from Moore's plantation, leaving nothing but a few shade trees to mark the home of the rebel Governor, fell in with Banks' army three miles from this place, on their way back. Our march was right along the river and the boats were following us, the Monitor clearing the road of sharp-shooters, who lined the banks of the river, and were doing their best to stop the progress of the fleet down to the Mississippi. A few shell thrown amongst them caused them to get out of danger before the land force could get to where they were. They had captured some of the tin-clad fleet belonging to the Monitor, and several transports. One had five hundred soldiers on it and only about a hundred got to Alexandria. After running the gauntlet boats were sunk in the river as an obstruction, but the gunboat soon made a road, passed through, and at last got around to Simsport. Arrived about the 10th of May, no rain having fallen for more than a month. Nothing occurred but slight skirmishing with our advance until after passing Fort D'Russey, at a place called Marksville Prairie, a small town three miles from the fort. It was a flat, open country, and for miles could be seen a beautiful tract of land, inhabited by French and Creoles, who treated the soldiers with contempt, and very little respect was paid to the neutral flag that could be seen on most all the houses on the prairie. The rebels resolved to make a stand and give us battle. Their lines could be plainly seen. Preparation was made, and the advance commenced. All of our army could be seen as they came on and took their position in line of battle. Everything seemed to work like clock work. It would be a sight for an artist. The blue coats could be seen as far as the eye could reach, together with our long wagon train; the dust so thick it was almost suffocating. Mowers moved his lines. Forward was the word, the skirmishers in advance. The rebels had opened with several guns, and were throwing shot over our lines, doing but little injury to us. A battery was opened from our side, but could not remain long in position, as the rebels soon silenced the guns. A force was sent to the left which caused them to back out of our way and let us pass. Some of the non-veterans of the 11th were wounded, and several of the 33d Missouri killed. The rebels were not heard from again until next day, when our rear was attacked while crossing a bayou. They did not gain anything by this, and were held in check. Presently they left the rear and made a charge on the advance of the train. The negroes met the charge and after killing two of them, left, leaving their major's body and horse in our hands. A heavy guard was placed along the wagon train, and sappers were sent in advance to examine the woods along the route. The 19th corps was hurrying to the river as fast as they could get along, the 13th corps being next, and Smith's and Mowers' brought up the rear. The rebels were endeavoring to reach Yellow Bayou and occupy their old works, but were beat in the race, and at night our men occupied the works, and after crossing the bayou camped in line of battle, fronting the rebels. The cavalry acting as picket guard, was out about a mile in front. This night we slept without being disturbed, and in the morning the cavalry was forced back, when infantry was sent to support the cavalry. The rebels were heavily reinforced. Paul Neck, a Texas Colonel, was said to have been in command, the best artillerist in the South. His practice was so good and aim so accurate, our batteries could not withstand the fire from their guns, as they fired by volley. The infantry was formed in line and started on double-quick for the field where the rebels were supposed to be. A bayou was on one side and a heavy swamp on the other, and in this and the open space the rebel's lines were formed, with batteries in position; so they had decidedly the advantage of our men. Briers and weeds were so thick in the swamp we could not get through at all. Skirmishers were ordered forward and the advance commenced. Their lines could not be discovered until our men were right on them. A volley was given at short range and a charge was made, when we came to a stand. Still, the rebels slowly falling back. Another advance was made, and this time the fighting was quite severe. Our men were so close every shot told; and in this charge about three hundred prisoners were taken. The artillery could not be used on account of the men being mixed up so in the charge. But when they were falling back they suffered most, the rebels using grape. Colonel Hill's son was killed. Hill's brigade suffered severely, and himself wounded in the foot. The battle continued most all day. Two brigades whipped about one thousand rebels, they having the advantage of position. Two of the guns used were taken from the gunboat, and our artillerists could not reach them as they were placed out of range. Their own report of their loss was twenty-five hundred, while ours would not amount to more than five hundred. It was a hot sultry day in May, and a good many of the soldiers fell struck down with the excessive heat. The rebels left our front that night, and reinforcements being sent to relieve those in front, returned to our old place of camping. At night enjoyed a good sleep, and in the morning, May 19th, started to Atchafalaya Bayou. The rebels brought a battery along with them and commenced shelling our rear. A battery was left to protect the rear until everything was got safely away, when the artillerists limbered up and got out of danger. The rebels shelled them as long as they could be seen, doing no damage. Banks had been crossing his men and trains for two days, and as they were out of danger, Smith's guerrillas, who were guarding the rear, were ordered to prepare for crossing the Atchafalaya and march eleven miles and take the boats. A bridge was constructed of boats lashed side by side and plank layed across the front of them, answering very well for a pontoon. On arriving at the bridge we were not long in crossing; we got over that day and encamped.--Whisky was distributed to the boys and some of them became quite merry, as there was no danger of being waked up in the morning by the enemy's shell falling in their midst; and were out of hearing of the enemy's cannon for once in two months. As everything was got over safe the 19th, on the 20th started for the boats. Encamped on the bank of the river until everything was put on board, and we were soon on the way to Vicksburg again. As we were leaving, Banks' grand army could be seen moving in the direction of New Orleans, his expedition having been a grand failure on his part. Loss in men was about ten thousand; three hundred wagons, about three thousand mules and horses, and several batteries of artillery; also several transports and gunboats fell to the rebels to pay for a few bales of cotton, leaving the bereaved friends at home to mourn the loss of those who fell sacrifices in this disastrous expedition, got up for political purposes and cotton. You can see how well it was managed; it was sent into the fight by detail, and as soon as one regiment or brigade was whipped another was sent in, and in this way a whole army could have been annihilated. But when they met Mower's and Smith's guerrillas, Banks was pleased to call them, as they did not wear paper collars, as some of his men did; found they had to fight with men that were not afraid of a greycoat, and well did the army sustain their credit. Mower and Smith have won the confidence of the men in this little band, who arrived at Vicksburg about the 25th. After remaining here for several days, took boats and went to Memphis; the boats came to anchor at a place called Sunnyside. Between Greenville and Memphis, on the way up the river, the rebels were reported to be in force, and it was with extreme danger boats could go either up or down the river. Some cavalry were sent out to reconnoitre, who fell in with some rebel scouts and had a short skirmish, killing and wounding a few of them. June 5th, some rain fell. Most of the troops landed and slept on shore. All night long you could hear a noise as if artillery was moving. Next morning commenced raining. While the fleet went by water a force was sent by land to clear the shore of artillery. The marines started in advance and skirmishing commenced quite early, the enemy driving stubbornly. The 2d brigade supported by the marines, 5th Minnesota, 47th Illinois, and 8th Wisconsin, drove the rebels across a bayou called Muddy Bayou, where artillery was in position. Hill's brigade was ordered to support the 2d brigade, form our lines on theirs, but by some mistake were ordered to charge and take the battery. June 10th. Returned to the 11th Missouri again, but were not destined to remain long inactive. After rejoining the regiment orders came to prepare to march, when they got on the cars at Memphis and went to Moscow, and there remained until the bridges were repaired all along the railroad to La Grange, when the cars commenced running again, and a daily communication was kept up from La Grange to Memphis. The regiment left on the 16th, acting as guard to the railroad until they arrived at La Grange, when they went into camp and remained there until July 5th. Troops began to arrive here in great numbers, and every indication of some important movement going on. A great quantity of provisions sent over the road to La Grange, and when everything was ready two divisions of infantry, one division of cavalry and a brigade of negroes, all under command of A. J. Smith, Mower was in command of the first division, Moore, Colonel of the 21st Missouri, commanded the third division, Bouton was in command of the negroes, and Grierson was in command of the cavalry. All started from La Grange on the 5th of July, and went about five miles, came to a halt and remained there until morning. Started again on the morning of the 6th. After marching about twelve miles came to a halt and waited for the rear to come up, it was late getting into camp. Next morning resumed our march again and passed through Ripley. Here we discovered that the rebels were watching us. The cavalry skirmished. The rebels were commanded by Forrest, a brother of Gen. Forrest. About 3,000 mounted infantry took a position on a high hill awaiting our approach. Our cavalry by some means got information of their whereabouts, and got in their rear, and soon made them seek shelter in flight, leaving 11 dead on the field, and 14 wounded. Our loss was none killed or wounded. The cavalry pursued them for several miles beyond Ripley. We went from there to Pontotoc; there we remained one day and rested. Rebels were reported in force in our front, but no serious demonstrations were made until we arrived within 10 miles of Tupelo. While we were marching along the rebels made a charge, firing a heavy volley of musketry, creating some confusion among the teamsters, some of them running into the brush and leaving their teams to take care of themselves. The rebels were soon met and made to leave in a hurry, having accomplished nothing but killing and wounding a few of our men. They suffered severely in this attack. The negroes being in the rear, on them they vented their spite, but in every instance were repulsed, the negroes showing them no quarters. A heavy guard was stationed along the train which resisted every attempt of the rebels to capture any of our wagon train. Having tried the train to their satisfaction, and seeing that it would be impossible to get any of our hard-tack, took up a position in front of us, forming their lines across the road, with two batteries of artillery. In this way they divided the army. Smith, with most of the cavalry and 3d division of infantry, was hastening as fast as possible to Tupelo, where there was a very good position. The cavalry soon reached this place and commenced tearing up the railroad track, leaving Mowers with the 1st division to guard the train and bring up the rear. The rebels being beat in the race to Tupelo, turned their attention to the rear, and expected by dividing the army they could easily whip and capture each division separately. They reckoned without their host, for our men were ready for them. The rebels fired a volley, and charged with terrific yells on our advancing columns, but Waterhouse's and the 2d Iowa batteries were soon in position to receive them. On they came, hoping to capture these guns as they were waiting to deal death and destruction among them. All at once a deadly fire from cannon and musket was opened upon them at short range, and so desperate was the conflict that most all of the horses of one gun were either killed or disabled, and 11 of their men lay dead in front of the guns. This fight lasted an hour when they were driven off. They used two batteries, but being at long range, did not damage us much. Everything was hurried up, and the rebels with all their shelling could not stop our wagon train, and we were soon out of range of shell. July 13th and 14th. In this attempt they were severely punished, having accomplished nothing, and leaving a number of their dead and wounded in our hands. This fight took place about five miles from Tupelo. We marched this day 18 miles, and encamped on the side of a hill two and a half miles from Tupelo. Tired and weary we were soon in the arms of slumber, being waked by the drum in the morning. Everything arrived safe that evening. They came up and attacked the rear again, but were met by the negroes and cavalry, which were drawn up in line of battle to receive them. Failing again to fall back under a heavy fire from our men. Our loss was slight. A heavy picket guard was stationed all around our camp to guard against a night attack. A desultory fire was kept up, doing but little damage on either side. Things remained in this state until the next morning, when our lines were formed for battle. The rebels were seen advancing in heavy force to attack us. Every preparation was made to receive them. On they came, supported by artillery, to within 150 yards of our lines, when a deadly fire of grape and canister was thrown into their ranks, mowing them down like grass, and soon they were forced to fall back. They rallied again for another desperate effort to take our guns that were making such sad havoc in their ranks, but the second time they were driven back with great slaughter, and they rallied for the third and last charge, to break our lines, but they were met with a deadly storm of bullets no human could withstand. In vain their officers urged them on, and swore that any man who was discovered going to the rear should be shot, but all their efforts were unavailing, they could not stand such deadly volleys from cannon and musketry. A charge was made, and the rebels were driven from the field at the point of the bayonet. A few prisoners were taken. Our loss was slight compared to theirs. They suffered severely in officers--five colonels lay dead on the field--Nelson, Forrest, Harris, Fitzpatrick, Falkner--all had fallen victims to their unholy cause, along with over a thousand more brave men; some of them mere boys, who had left their homes to drive the invaders from their soil, as they called us, but did not succeed in making us leave. We held our position for two days. It was in the rear of Harrisburg, a short distance from Tupelo, with a swamp on both sides, in front was an open country, with a few trees, thick under brush and weeds, for sharpshooters to lay concealed in, and pick off men. The ground was a gentle slope where the rebels had to advance, and we had decidedly the advantage of position. They tried hard to drive us from it, but they were out-generaled. Smith, with the first division, gained the hill first, took up a position on it, and resolved to give the rebels battle. Being defeated in the day time, thought they would try a night attack, and take our men by surprise, but our men were waiting for them, and after an hour's hard fighting were at length compelled to give up the contest and wait for morning to renew it. The armies lay in sight of each other all night, thinking that on the morrow some would sleep beneath the sod. Before morning the rebels withdrew. The negroes fought well, and drove the rebels in every instance. A colonel of the 9th Minnesota, commanding a brigade in the 1st division, was killed; he was shot by a sharp-shooter through the heart. The rebels were commanded by Lee and Forrest. It was reported that Forrest was killed, but I think it was a mistake, there was no such good news for us. Their force was said to be 10,000 strong, mostly mounted infantry. They did not use much artillery in the engagement; it was always off so far that it did but little damage to us. Their shot went crashing through the trees over our heads, doing us no damage. They thought to drive us from our position, as our lines were formed in the swamp to guard against flank movements. The rebels were said to be moving towards our right, and on this they made the night attack, but were defeated in every attempt to break through our lines. A flag of truce was sent in asking permission to take care of their dead and wounded, but it was not so much to take care of their wounded as to gain an advantage over us. Our generals suspected their design, which was to advance and take us unawares, and they were not permitted to advance. All of their wounded were brought from the field along with ours, and received such care as the times would allow. July 15. We still hold the hill in front of the rebels. Skirmishing was still going on. Our wagon train commenced moving out, the cavalry in advance, the 3d division next, and the 1st division to bring up the rear, with some cavalry as support. The rebels were seen advancing in force when the second brigade was ordered to support the 2d Iowa battery, which was sending its compliments in shell into the rebel ranks, who were advancing. Here the 11th Missouri lost four men wounded, who were all struck by the same shell, a captain and three of his men, none of them dangerously wounded. Captain Clealand was struck twice, but will soon be able to take command of his company again. Here we remained as support for a short time, when our position was changed and we were ordered to form our lines on the 3d brigade. When we arrived opposite the 3d brigade they raised a yell and over the barricades they went, firing as they advanced. The rebels fled as fast as possible to their horses, which they left in their rear. Our forces watched them for about a mile, and we could see their wagon train getting out of the way in great haste. The 2d Iowa was accelerating their movements by sending a few shell amongst them. A charge was made by some Iowa cavalry, but they found the rebels too strong for them and they had to fall back with slight loss, when the order came for us to fall in and follow the train, as it had all got started on its way back to La Grange. In this morning's engagement the rebel loss was over a hundred. While we were watching the rear they made a demonstration on the train, but were driven off after some severe fighting. They suffering severely in every instance. An Indiana battery was used to some purpose. We marched this day only about seven miles, and here the 3d division waited until the rear came up, was in camp early this evening, and the rebels were following the rear closely. A trap was set, and into it they easily ran. The 21st Missouri regiment was laying in ambush, and the rebels marched right along, not dreaming that they were rushing on death and destruction. The cavalry were holding them in check but were longing for the infantry to come to their assistance. Soon the first brigade was heavily engaged. The 114th Illinois charged upon them as they were drawn up in line along a cornfield, capturing one piece of artillery and thirty prisoners.--They fled, pursued by our cavalry, leaving five hundred killed and wounded in our hands. They did not molest us again that night, as they got enough of trying to capture wagon trains. They found to their cost, Sturgis was not in command. Where danger was, you would find Mower or Smith. They were always on the alert to prevent surprise, and it was owing to their vigilance that we escaped so well. We returned to La Grange the 21st, having nothing to impede our progress from Tupelo after the last fight. We marched through a very hilly country, up one hill and down another. All day long we toiled on under the scorching sun. A great many died from the effects of the sun, being extremely warm. But the road was shaded with trees that grew along the path, and the men did not suffer so much on the way back. There was plenty of good water on this route, but provisions had become scarce and our allowance was third rations of hard-tack with no coffee and very little meat, and that was fresh beef without salt. Some lived on green apples until we arrived at a small town called Salem, where we received full rations of hard-tack, half rations coffee without sugar, and fourth of meat. Then we fared a little better. From here we went to Davis' Mills, and there encamped for the night. This was only five miles from our place of starting. All the train was correlled before night. Next morning marched to La Grange to the cars for Memphis, where we arrived at our old camp. A train ran off the track the day we started, owing to some imperfection in the road. A few of the passengers were injured. This caused delay in getting to Memphis, but we got back at last with most of our wagon train. Marched two hundred miles, whipped Forrest in every engagement, took one hundred and fifty prisoners with one piece of artillery, killing and wounding two thousand five hundred of the enemy by their own account. Our loss in all will not amount to four hundred and fifty. The rebels in Mississippi received a lesson that will not be forgotten by them soon. There was severe fighting for three days, but in every instance they got the worst of it. _Finish of the Red River Expedition--Battle of Muddy Bayou, June 6, 1864._ When the yell was raised two regiments started on the double-quick to take the batteries at the point of the bayonet, but on reaching the bayou could not get across. The brigade suffered severely in this charge. Four men in the 33d Missouri were struck down by one shot, and the loss in two regiments, 33d Mo. and 35th Iowa, was 80 men. One of their guns was masked. Our artillery did not render us any assistance. Eight guns were playing on us as we advanced, until we got close enough to them to use our guns, and they were forced to leave under a heavy fire. Their loss was not known. Five more of the 11th Mo., non-veterans, were wounded; two of them had to have a leg each amputated; one has since died, a corporal in company B, named Columbus Roe. This makes fifteen killed and wounded in this expedition of the 11th Missouri non-veterans. Our men crossed over and the cavalry pursued the retreating rebels hauling their guns from the field by hand, as our lines were so close to them they could not use horses until they got out of range. A battery was crossed over, and our men shelled them as long as they were in sight. The houses along the road were filled with their wounded, and their loss must have been as heavy as ours. Marmaduke was said to have been in command. We camped at town called Lakeville one night and returned to the boats, which were awaiting us, taking our wounded with us. Got on board of the transport Freestone, and arrived at Memphis, where the 11th Missouri veterans were said to be. Remained two days with 33d Missouri. Wm. L. Barnum was elected Colonel of the veterans, being raised from a captain to lieutenant colonel, and on Websters death took command of the 11th Missouri regiment, and on the regiment re-enlisting was elected Colonel. George Weber resigned on account of disability, and went home with the veterans. Our loss in three years, of officers, was Captain Moore, who died at Cape Girardeau; Captain Singleton, killed at Iuka; Captain Hollister, killed at Corinth, Oct. 4, '62; Andrew J. Weber, June 29, '63, and Adjutant Bookings, May 22, in front of Vicksburg, killed by a rebel sharp-shooter. As my time was drawing to a close, it being the 5th day of August, did not take part in the next expedition under A. J. Smith; and when the veterans left Memphis on another expedition, the non-veterans went to St. Louis, having been mustered out at Memphis, and receiving our discharges, pay and bounty, each one went his own way. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ 
32325	----	Archive: American Libraries. [Illustration: Photo of the Author with Signature "S. L. Clemens"] THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN (TOM SAWYER'S COMRADE) SCENE: The Mississippi Valley TIME: Forty to Fifty Years Ago By Mark Twain ILLUSTRATED _NEW EDITION FROM NEW PLATES_ HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON ====== Books by MARK TWAIN ST. JOAN OF ARC THE INNOCENTS ABROAD ROUGHING IT THE GILDED AGE A TRAMP ABROAD FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR PUDD'NHEAD WILSON SKETCHES NEW AND OLD THE AMERICAN CLAIMANT CHRISTIAN SCIENCE A CONNECTICUT YANKEE AT THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF JOAN OF ARC LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER THE $30,000 BEQUEST THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER TOM SAWYER ABROAD WHAT IS MAN? THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER ADAM'S DIARY A DOG'S TALE A DOUBLE-BARRELED DETECTIVE STORY EDITORIAL WILD OATS EVE'S DIARY IN DEFENSE OF HARRIET SHELLY AND OTHER ESSAYS IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD? CAPT. STORMFIELD'S VISIT TO HEAVEN A HORSE'S TALE THE JUMPING FROG THE 1,000,000 POUND BANK-NOTE TRAVELS AT HOME TRAVELS IN HISTORY MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES ====== HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK [Established 1817] The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn ----- Copyright, 1884. by Samuel L. Clemens ----- Copyright. 1896 and 1899. by Harper & Brothers ----- Copyright. 1912, by Clara Gabrilowitsch ----- Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS Chap. Notice Explanatory I. I Discover Moses and the Bulrushers. II. Our Gang's Dark Oath III. We Ambuscade the A-rabs IV. The Hair-ball Oracle V. Pap Starts in on a New Life VI. Pap Struggles with the Death Angel VII. I Fool Pap and Get Away VIII. I Spare Miss Watson's Jim IX. The House of Death Floats By X. What Comes of Handlin' Snake-skin XI. They're After Us! XII. "Better Let Blame Well Alone" XIII. Honest Loot from the "Walter Scott" XIV. Was Solomon Wise? XV. Fooling Poor Old Jim XVI. The Rattlesnake-skin Does Its Work XVII. The Grangerfords Take Me In XVIII. Why Harney Rode Away for His Hat XIX. The Duke and the Dauphin Come Aboard XX. What Royalty Did to Parkville XXI. An Arkansaw Difficulty XXII. Why the Lynching Bee Failed XXIII. The Orneriness of Kings XXIV. The King Turns Parson XXV. All Full of Tears and Flapdoodle XXVI. I Steal the King's Plunder XXVII. Dead Peter has His Gold XXVIII. Overreaching Don't Pay XXIX. I Light Out in the Storm XXX. The Gold Saves the Thieves XXXI. You Can't Pray a Lie XXXII. I Have a New Name XXXIII. The Pitiful Ending of Royalty XXXIV. We Cheer Up Jim XXXV. Dark, Deep-laid Plans XXXVI. Trying to Help Jim XXXVII. Jim Gets His Witch-pie XXXVIII. "Here a Captive Heart Busted" XXXIX. Tom Writes Nonnamous Letters XL. A Mixed-up and Splendid Rescue XLI. "Must 'a' Been Sperits" XLII. Why They Didn't Hang Jim Chapter the Last. Nothing More to Write ILLUSTRATIONS Portrait of the Author Huckleberry Finn "'Gimme a Chaw'" Tom Advises a Witch Pie NOTICE Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. By Order of the Author, Per G. G., Chief of Ordnance. EXPLANATORY In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. The Author. HUCKLEBERRY FINN CHAPTER I You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer;_ but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly--Tom's Aunt Polly, she is--and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before. Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round--more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back. The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better. After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people. Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry"; and "Don't scrunch up like that, Huckleberry--set up straight"; and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good. Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together. Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so downhearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider. I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees--something was a-stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me. CHAPTER II We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back toward the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says: "Who dah?" He listened some more; then he came tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could 'a' touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upward of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says: "Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it ag'in." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore--and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterward Jim said the witches bewitched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the state, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, "Hm! What you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come from all around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches. Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and found Joe Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore. We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't 'a' noticed that there was a hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says: "Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood." Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever. Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it. Some thought it would be good to kill the _families_ of boys that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says: "Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?" "Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer. "Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more." They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think of anything to do--everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson--they could kill her. Everybody said: "Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in." Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper. "Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of this Gang?" "Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said. "But who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--" "Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "Must we always kill the people?" "Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them--except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "Ransomed? What's that?" "I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "Why, blame it all, we've _got_ to do it. Don't I tell you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "Oh, that's all very fine to _say,_ Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how to do it to them?--that's the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon it is?" "Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead." "Now, that's something _like._ That'll answer. Why couldn't you said that before? We'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get loose." "How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?" "A guard! Well, that _is_ good. So somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I think that's foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?" "Because it ain't in the books so--that's why. Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't you?--that's the idea. Don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing to do? Do you reckon _you_ can learn 'em anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regular way." "All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool way, anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?" "Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn't let on. Kill the women? No; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that. You fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more." "Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't take no stock in it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers. But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say." Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to be a robber any more. So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets. But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people. Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Joe Harper second captain of the Gang, and so started home. I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired. CHAPTER III Well, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way. I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the widow get back her silver snuff-box that was stole? Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to myself, there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was too many for me, but she told me what she meant--I must help other people, and do everything I could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. This was including Miss Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't see no advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about Providence in a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all down again. I judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence, but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery. Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him no more. He used to always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though I used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. They said he was floating on his back in the water. They took him and buried him on the bank. But I warn't comfortable long, because I happened to think of something. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. So I was uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn't. We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned. All the boys did. We hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. But I couldn't see no profit in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn't no Spaniards and A-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. It warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer class at that. We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Joe Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. I didn't see no di'monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and elephants and things. I said, why couldn't we see them, then? He said if I warn't so ignorant, but had read a book called Don Quixote, I would know without asking. He said it was all done by enchantment. He said there was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he called magicians, and they had turned the whole thing into an infant Sunday-school, just out of spite. I said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a numskull. "Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church." "Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to help _us_--can't we lick the other crowd then?" "How you going to get them?" "I don't know. How do _they_ get them?" "Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. They don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man." "Who makes them tear around so?" "Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. If he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from China for you to marry, they've got to do it--and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand." "Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flatheads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that. And what's more--if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp." "How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd _have_ to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not." "What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right, then; I _would_ come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in the country." "Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don't seem to know anything, somehow--perfect saphead." I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I would see if there was anything in it. I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that all that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think different. It had all the marks of a Sunday-school. CHAPTER IV Well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. I had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway. At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding I got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. Living in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but I was getting so I liked the new ones, too, a little bit. The widow said I was coming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. She said she warn't ashamed of me. One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. I reached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. She says, "Take your hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" The widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile awhile, and then went on around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said: "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?" "No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?" "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night--over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all--nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you--the six thousand and all." He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says: "Why, what can you mean, my boy?" I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it--won't you?" He says: "Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?" "Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me nothing--then I won't have to tell no lies." He studied awhile, and then he says: "Oho-o! I think I see. You want to _sell_ all your property to me--not give it. That's the correct idea." Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it." So I signed it, and left. Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (I reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before, but I had forgot it. Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. This time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says: "Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den ag'in he spec he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well ag'in. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. One is rich en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap--his own self! CHAPTER V I had shut the door to. Then I turned around, and there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken--that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after I see I warn't scared of him worth bothring about. He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl--a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes--just rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. His hat was laying on the floor--an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By and by he says: "Starchy clothes--very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug, _don't_ you?" "Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says. "Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say--can read and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? _I'll_ take it out of you. Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?--who told you you could?" "The widow. She told me." "The widow, hey?--and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?" "Nobody never told her." "Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here--you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what _he_ is. You lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. None of the family couldn't before _they_ died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't the man to stand it--you hear? Say, lemme hear you read." I took up a book and begun something about General Washington and the wars. When I'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He says: "It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. I won't have it. I'll lay for you, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll tan you good. First you know you'll get religion, too. I never see such a son." He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy, and says: "What's this?" "It's something they give me for learning my lessons good." He tore it up, and says: "I'll give you something better--I'll give you a cowhide." He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says: "_Ain't_ you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor--and your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a son. I bet I'll take some o' these frills out o' you before I'm done with you. Why, there ain't no end to your airs--they say you're rich. Hey?--how's that?" "They lie--that's how." "Looky here--mind how you talk to me; I'm a-standing about all I can stand now--so don't gimme no sass. I've been in town two days, and I hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard about it away down the river, too. That's why I come. You git me that money to-morrow--I want it." "I hain't got no money." "It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it. I want it." "I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he'll tell you the same." "All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle, too, or I'll know the reason why. Say, how much you got in your pocket? I want it." "I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to--" "It don't make no difference what you want it for--you just shell it out." He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down-town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all day. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when I reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if I didn't drop that. Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him. The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. So Judge Thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business. That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd cowhide me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise some money for him. I borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a week. But he said _he_ was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for _him._ When he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. And when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says: "Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. You mark them words--don't forget I said them. It's a clean hand now; shake it--don't be afeard." So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge--made his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and toward daylight he crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before they could navigate it. The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way. CHAPTER VI Well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I didn't want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That law trial was a slow business--appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then I'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. Every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited--this kind of thing was right in his line. He got to hanging around the widow's too much, and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using around there she would make trouble for him. Well, _wasn't_ he mad? He said he would show who was Huck Finn's boss. So he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was. He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. Every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked it--all but the cowhide part. It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again because pap hadn't no objections. It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drownded, and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but I couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out--big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting toward the end of it when I heard pap's gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. Pap warn't in a good humor--so he was his natural self. He said he was down-town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it. And he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing. He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; I reckoned I wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance. The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night-times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. I judged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would. I got so full of it I didn't notice how long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or drownded. I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. While I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. A body would 'a' thought he was Adam--he was just all mud. Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment. This time he says: "Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for _him_ and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call _that_ govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I _told_ 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it ag'in. Them's the very words. I says, look at my hat--if you call it a hat--but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. Look at it, says I--such a hat for me to wear--one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights. "Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio--a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane--the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the state. And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he could _vote_ when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a state in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll never vote ag'in. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me--I'll never vote ag'in as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger--why, he wouldn't 'a' give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold?--that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the state six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now--that's a specimen. They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the state six months. Here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a-hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and--" Pap was a-going on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of language--mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. He hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick. But it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. He said so his own self afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe. After supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium tremens. That was always his word. I judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then I would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other. He drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't run my way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open all I could do, and so before I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the candle burning. I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek--but I couldn't see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "Take him off! take him off! he's biting me on the neck!" I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by, and laid still awhile, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low: "Tramp--tramp--tramp; that's the dead; tramp--tramp--tramp; they're coming after me; but I won't go. Oh, they're here! don't touch me--don't! hands off--they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!" Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket. By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn't come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed _such_ a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who. So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, and then I laid it across the turnip-barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along. CHAPTER VII "Git up! What you 'bout?" I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where I was. It was after sun-up, and I had been sound asleep. Pap was standing over me looking sour--and sick, too. He says: "What you doin' with this gun?" I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so I says: "Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him." "Why didn't you roust me out?" "Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge you." "Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. I'll be along in a minute." He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I noticed some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so I knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I would have great times now if I was over at the town. The June rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts--sometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and sell them to the woodyards and the sawmill. I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. I shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. I just expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It was a drift-canoe sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the old man will be glad when he sees this--she's worth ten dollars. But when I got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I was running her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, I struck another idea: I judged I'd hide her good, and then, 'stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I'd go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on foot. It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man coming all the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So he hadn't seen anything. When he got along I was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. He abused me a little for being so slow; but I told him I fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet, and then he would be asking questions. We got five catfish off the lines and went home. While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he says: "Another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time you roust me out, you hear?" Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; what he had been saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me. About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. By and by along comes part of a log raft--nine logs fast together. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap would 'a' waited and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that night. I waited till I reckoned he had got a good start; then I out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. Before he was t'other side of the river I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder. [Illustration: HUCKLEBERRY FINN] I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd; took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took fish-lines and matches and other things--everything that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an ax, but there wasn't any, only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done. I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could from the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there. It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn't left a track. I followed around to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over the river. All safe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting around for some birds when I see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie-farms. I shot this fellow and took him into camp. I took the ax and smashed in the door. I beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. I fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the ax, and laid him down on the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was ground--hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it--all I could drag--and I started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. You could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer was there; I knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom Sawyer in such a thing as that. Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the ax good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the ax in the corner. Then I took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. Now I thought of something else. So I went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on the place--pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes--and ducks too, you might say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, I don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. The meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal-sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again. It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They won't ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. All right; I can stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good enough for me; I know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up things I want. Jackson's Island's the place. I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed I was asleep. When I woke up I didn't know where I was for a minute. I set up and looked around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and miles across. The moon was so bright I could 'a' counted the drift-logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and _smelt_ late. You know what I mean--I don't know the words to put it in. I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when I heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was--a skiff, away across the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it. Thinks I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close I could 'a' reached out the gun and touched him. Well, it _was_ pap, sure enough--and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars. I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down-stream soft, but quick, in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more toward the middle of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry-landing, and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before. And how far a body can hear on the water such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry-landing. I heard what they said, too--every word of it. One man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. T'other one said _this_ warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned--and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone. The first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman--she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After that the talk got further and further away, and I couldn't make out the words any more; but I could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson's Island, about two mile and a half down-stream, heavy-timbered and standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat without any lights. There warn't any signs of the bar at the head--it was all under water now. It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then I got into the dead water and landed on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a deep dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part the willow branches to get in; and when I made fast nobody could 'a' seen the canoe from the outside. I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile upstream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast. CHAPTER VIII The sun was up so high when I waked that I judged it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. I was powerful lazy and comfortable--didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up--about abreast the ferry. And there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning--so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest to the shore--I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread"--what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing--that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the current, and I allowed I'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. Where the log forked I could peep through. By and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could 'a' run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Joe Harper, and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. I hope so, anyway." I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. I could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out: "Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd 'a' had some bullets in, I reckon they'd 'a' got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, I didn't hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet awhile. They turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. I crossed over to that side and watched them. When they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town. I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so the rain couldn't get at them. I catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started my camp-fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for breakfast. When it was dark I set by my camp-fire smoking, and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it. And so for three days and nights. No difference--just the same thing. But the next day I went exploring around down through the island. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. They would all come handy by and by, I judged. Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I warn't far from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I hadn't shot nothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game nigh home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and I after it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bounded right on to the ashes of a camp-fire that was still smoking. My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along another piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half, too. When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last-year's camp, and then clumb a tree. I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing--I only _thought_ I heard and seen as much as a thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at last I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast. By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank--about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would stay there all night when I hear a _plunkety-plunk_, _plunkety-plunk_, and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I hadn't got far when I hear a man say: "We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. Let's look around." I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe. I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every time I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn't do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't live this way; I'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on the island with me; I'll find it out or bust. Well, I felt better right off. So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the foot of the island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run across that camp-fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the fantods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I says: "Hello, Jim!" and skipped out. He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "Doan' hurt me--don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river ag'in, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz alwuz yo' fren'." Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lonesome now. I told him I warn't afraid of _him_ telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says: "It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp-fire good." "What's de use er makin' up de camp-fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that what you live on?" "I couldn' git nuffn else," he says. "Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?" "I come heah de night arter you's killed." "What, all that time?" "Yes-indeedy." "And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?" "No, sah--nuffn else." "Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?" "I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de islan'?" "Since the night I got killed." "No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire." So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him. When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By and by Jim says: "But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn't you?" Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what I had. Then I says: "How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you get here?" He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. Then he says: "Maybe I better not tell." "Why, Jim?" "Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me ef I 'uz to tell you, would you, Huck?" "Blamed if I would, Jim." "Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I--I _run off_." "Jim!" "But mind, you said you wouldn' tell--you know you said you wouldn' tell, Huck." "Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it. Honest _injun_, I will. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum--but that don't make no difference. I ain't a-going to tell, and I ain't a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le's know all about it." "Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus--dat's Miss Watson--she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn't do it, but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you. "I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumbledown cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now. "I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's a-gwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' _make_ no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half-way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side. "But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern. I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't--bank too bluff. I uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I foun' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right." "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah--watched um thoo de bushes." Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the tablecloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He says: "Mighty few--an' _dey_ ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's a-gwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?" "What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?" "Well, are you rich?" "No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich ag'in. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "What did you speculate in, Jim?" "Well, fust I tackled stock." "What kind of stock?" "Why, live stock--cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's." "So you lost the ten dollars." "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?" "Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank mysef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex' day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no money." "What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?" "Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum--Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "Well, what did come of it, Jim?" "Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten _cents_ back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'." CHAPTER IX I wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet? So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner. We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest--_fst!_ it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down-stairs--where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." "Well, you wouldn't 'a' ben here 'f it hadn't 'a' ben for Jim. You'd 'a' ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittin' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile." The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri side it was the same old distance across--a half a mile--because the Missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs. Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe. It was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. We went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. Well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles--they would slide off in the water. The ridge our cavern was in was full of them. We could 'a' had pets enough if we'd wanted them. One night we catched a little section of a lumber-raft--nice pine planks. It was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches--a solid, level floor. We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight. Another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house down, on the west side. She was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. We paddled out and got aboard--clumb in at an up-stairs window. But it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight. The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. Then we looked in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor, and there was clothes hanging against the wall. There was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. So Jim says: "Hello, you!" But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says: "De man ain't asleep--he's dead. You hold still--I'll go en see." He went, and bent down and looked, and says: "It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look at his face--it's too gashly." I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky-bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe--it might come good. There was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would 'a' took the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. The way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fish-line as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good currycomb, and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. We got home all safe. CHAPTER X After breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how he come to be killed, but Jim didn't want to. He said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. That sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing I knowed who shot the man, and what they done it for. We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd 'a' knowed the money was there they wouldn't 'a' left it. I said I reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim didn't want to talk about that. I says: "Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in the snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands. Well, here's your bad luck! We've raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, Jim." "Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't you git too peart. It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you, it's a-comin'." It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after dinner Friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some, and found a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled him up on the foot of Jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd be some fun when Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all about the snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket while I struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him. He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in a second with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down. He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. That all comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. Jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it. I done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him. He made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. He said that that would help. Then I slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for I warn't going to let Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it. Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so I judged he was all right; but I'd druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky. Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all gone and he was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn't ever take a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time. And he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool. Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would 'a' flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would 'a' been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring-up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practised around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better. I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl. CHAPTER XI "Come in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer." I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "What might your name be?" "Sarah Williams." "Where'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?" "No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and I'm all tired out." "Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something." "No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?" "No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet." "No," I says; "I'll rest awhile, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeard of the dark." She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the twelve thousand dollars (only she got it twenty) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says: "Who done it? We've heard considerable about these goings-on down in Hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn." "Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people _here_ that 'd like to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself." "No--is that so?" "Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim." "Why _he_--" I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never noticed I had put in at all: "The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there's a reward out for him--three hundred dollars. And there's a reward out for old Finn, too--two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. So then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing." "Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?" "Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him." "Why, are they after him yet?" "Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. I'm one of them--but I hain't talked it around. A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see--him and another man. He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago." I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested--and I was, too--and says: "Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going over there to-night?" "Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They'll go over after midnight." "Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?" "Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his campfire all the better for the dark, if he's got one." "I didn't think of that." The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says: "What did you say your name was, honey?" "M--Mary Williams." Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn't look up--seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeard maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. But now she says: "Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?" "Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary." "Oh, that's the way of it?" "Yes'm." I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet. Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. But she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said, "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd 'a' stayed where he was he'd 'a' been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's matters. But she broke off to say: "Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy." So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "Come, now, what's your real name?" "Wh-hat, mum?" "What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?--or what is it?" I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But I says: "Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll--" "No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she mustn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen. "Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?" "Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to Goshen." "He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong." "Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before daylight." "Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat. You might want it." So she put me up a snack, and says: "Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? Answer up prompt now--don't stop to study over it. Which end gets up first?" "The hind end, mum." "Well, then, a horse?" "The for'rard end, mum." "Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?" "North side." "If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?" "The whole fifteen, mum." "Well, I reckon you _have_ lived in the country. I thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name, now?" "George Peters, mum." "Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's George Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a-tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain. Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. The river road's a rocky one, and your feet 'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon." I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then. When I was about the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. When I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow, though I was most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot. Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says: "Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose. They're after us!" Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. We put out the camp-fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that. I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never saying a word. CHAPTER XII It must 'a' been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things. It warn't good judgment to put _everything_ on the raft. If the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp-fire I built, and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't no fault of mine. I played it as low down on them as I could. When the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A towhead is a sand-bar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth. We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the Illinois side, and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set down and watch a camp-fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog. Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog? Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must 'a' gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy, we would be in that same old town again. So I said I didn't care what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't. When it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next. Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. Every night now I used to slip ashore toward ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway. Mornings before daylight I slipped into corn-fields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more--then he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. But toward daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. I was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet. We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all round, we lived pretty high. The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I, "Hel-_lo_, Jim, looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would 'a' felt when I seen that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. So I says: "Le's land on her, Jim." But Jim was dead against it at first. He says: "I doan' want to go fool'n' 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And besides," I says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and _they_ don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure--that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it?--wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering Kingdom Come. I wish Tom Sawyer _was_ here." Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder! Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but just then I heard a voice wail out and say: "Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!" Another voice said, pretty loud: "It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way before. You always want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've said it jest one time too many. You're the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country." By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so I won't either; I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So I dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying: "I'd _like_ to! And I orter, too--a mean skunk!" The man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "Oh, please don't, Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell." And every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say: "'Deed you _ain't!_ You never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet you." And once he said: "Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd 'a' killed us both. And what _for_? Jist for noth'n'. Jist because we stood on our _rights_--that's what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put _up_ that pistol, Bill." Bill says: "I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?" "But I don't _want_ him killed, and I've got my reasons for it." "Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit you long's I live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started toward where I was, there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says: "Here--come in here." And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't 'a' treed me because I didn't breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a body _couldn't_ breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says: "He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him _now_ it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn state's evidence; now you hear _me._ I'm for putting him out of his troubles." "So'm I," says Packard, very quiet. "Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it." "Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the things _got_ to be done. But what _I_ say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n' around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. Ain't that so?" "You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it this time?" "Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickin's we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that's a considerable sight better 'n killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I right?" "Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she _don't_ break up and wash off?" "Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?" "All right, then; come along." So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "Jim!" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says: "Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put _all_ of 'em in a bad fix--for the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick--hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and--" "Oh, my lordy, lordy! _Raf'?_ Dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone!--en here we is!" CHAPTER XIII Well, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd _got_ to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too--seemed a week before we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any farther--so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would 'a' been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill _he_ come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice: "All ready--shove off!" I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says: "Hold on--'d you go through him?" "No. Didn't you?" "No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet." "Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along." So they got out and went in. The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner was. Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry about the men--I reckon I hadn't had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would I like it? So says I to Jim: "The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes." But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it. It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by I found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: "Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the trouble?" I says: "Pap, and mam, and sis, and--" Then I broke down. He says: "Oh, dang it now, _don't_ take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. What's the matter with 'em?" "They're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?" "Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "I'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and I'm derned if _I'd_ live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I--" I broke in and says: "They're in an awful peck of trouble, and--" "_Who_ is?" "Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--" "Up where? Where are they?" "On the wreck." "What wreck?" "Why, there ain't but one." "What, you don't mean the _Walter Scott?"_ "Yes." "Good land! what are they doin' _there_, for gracious sakes?" "Well, they didn't go there a-purpose." "I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?" "Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--" "Yes, Booth's Landing--go on." "She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-her--I disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so _we_ saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple--and oh, he _was_ the best cretur!--I most wish 't it had been me, I do." "My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And _then_ what did you all do?" "Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'What, in such a night and such a current? There ain't no sense in it; go for the steam-ferry.' Now if you'll go and--" "By Jackson, I'd _like_ to, and, blame it, I don't know but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going to _pay_ for it? Do you reckon your pap--" "Why _that's_ all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, _particular_, that her uncle Hornback--" "Great guns! is _he_ her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you out to Jim Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. And don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. Tell him I'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself, now; I'm a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer." I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some wood-boats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would 'a' done it. I wished the widow knowed about it. I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead-beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in. Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! A kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I struck out for her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't much chance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for I reckoned if they could stand it I could. Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out of eye-reach I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her uncle Hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and I laid into my work and went a-booming down the river. It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people. CHAPTER XIV By and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spy-glass, and three boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. I told Jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. He said that when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with _him_ anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger. I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other and so on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says: "I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. How much do a king git?" "Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them." "_Ain'_ dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?" "_They_ don't do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around." "No; is dat so?" "Of course it is. They just set around--except, maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking--just hawking and sp--Sh!--d'you hear a noise?" We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back. "Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads off. But mostly they hang round the harem." "Roun' de which?" "Harem." "What's de harem?" "The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives." "Why, yes, dat's so; I--I'd done forgot it. A harem's a bo'd'n-house, I reck'n. Mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. I doan' take no stock in dat. Bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin' all de time? No--'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet _down_ de biler-factry when he want to res'." "Well, but he _was_ the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self." "I doan' k'yer what de widder say, he _warn't_ no wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways I ever see. Does you know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?" "Yes, the widow told me all about it." "_Well_, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's de stump, dah--dat's one er de women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill _do_ b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take en whack de bill in _two_, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat's de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?--can't buy noth'n wid it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million un um." "But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile." "Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n I knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. De 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de rain. Doan' talk to me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back." "But I tell you you don't get the point." "Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de _real_ pint furder--it's down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. _He_ know how to value 'em. But you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. _He_ as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey's plenty mo'. A chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to Sollermun, dad fetch him!" I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there warn't no getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that would 'a' been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there. "Po' little chap." "But some says he got out and got away, and come to America." "Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?" "No." "Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne to do?" "Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk French." "Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?" "_No_, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single word." "Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?" "_I_ don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of a book. S'pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy--what would you think?" "I wouldn' think nuffn; I'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat." "Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you know how to talk French?" "Well, den, why couldn't he _say_ it?" "Why, he _is_ a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's _way_ of saying it." "Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it." "Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?" "No, a cat don't." "Well, does a cow?" "No, a cow don't, nuther." "Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?" "No, dey don't." "It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?" "Course." "And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from _us_?" "Why, mos' sholy it is." "Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a _Frenchman_ to talk different from us? You answer me that." "Is a cat a man, Huck?" "No." "Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow a man?--er is a cow a cat?" "No, she ain't either of them." "Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?" "Yes." "_Well_, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he _talk_ like a man? You answer me _dat!"_ I see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to argue. So I quit. CHAPTER XV We judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the Ohio amongst the free states, and then be out of trouble. Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn't come. I was in such a hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to untie her, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do anything with them. As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. That was all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which way I was going than a dead man. Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll run into the bank or a towhead or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. I whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres I hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. The next time it come I see I warn't heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. And the next time I was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much either, for I was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was going straight ahead all the time. I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly I hears the whoop _behind_ me. I was tangled good now. That was somebody else's whoop, or else I was turned around. I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and not some other raftsman hollering. I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog. The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the current was tearing by them so swift. In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred. I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was an island, and Jim had gone down t'other side of it. It warn't no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide. I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon. I was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think of that. No, you _feel_ like you are laying dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don't think to yourself how fast _you're_ going, but you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. If you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the night, you try it once--you'll see. Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but I couldn't do it, and directly I judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for I had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a narrow channel between, and some that I couldn't see I knowed was there because I'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks. Well, I warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and I only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a Jack-o'-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap places so quick and so much. I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so I judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a little faster than what I was. Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but I couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. I reckoned Jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so I laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no more. I didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so sleepy I couldn't help it; so I thought I would take jest one little cat-nap. But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning down a big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I was; I thought I was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week. It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could see by the stars. I looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. I took after it; but when I got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of saw-logs made fast together. Then I see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the raft. When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time. I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim, and says: "Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you stir me up?" "Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead--you ain' drownded--you's back ag'in? It's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No, you ain' dead! you's back ag'in, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck--de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!" "What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?" "Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin'?" "Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?" "How does I talk wild?" "_How?_ Why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone away?" "Huck--Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. _Hain't_ you ben gone away?" "Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? _I_ hain't been gone anywheres. Where would I go to?" "Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumfn wrong, dey is. Is I _me_, or who _is_ I? Is I heah, or whah _is_ I? Now dat's what I wants to know." "Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I think you're a tangle-headed old fool, Jim." "I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de towhead?" "No, I didn't. What towhead? I hain't seen no towhead." "You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?" "What fog?" "Why, _de_ fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. En didn't you whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah he wuz? En didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? Now ain' dat so, boss--ain't it so? You answer me dat." "Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I done the same. You couldn't 'a' got drunk in that time, so of course you've been dreaming." "Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" "Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it happen." "But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--" "It don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in it. I know, because I've been here all the time." Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it. Then he says: "Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfulest dream I ever see. En I hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one." "Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell me all about it, Jim." So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. He said the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get us away from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. The lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was the free states, and wouldn't have no more trouble. It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to the raft, but it was clearing up again now. "Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim," I says; "but what does _these_ things stand for?" It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now. Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says: "What do dey stan' for? I's gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de raf'. En when I wake up en fine you back ag'in, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I could 'a' got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is _trash_; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed." Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel so mean I could almost kissed _his_ foot to get him to take it back. It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry for it afterward, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't done that one if I'd 'a' knowed it would make him feel that way. CHAPTER XVI We slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty men, likely. She had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp-fire in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. There was a power of style about her. It _amounted_ to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that. We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light. We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I had heard say there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town? Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show. But I said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old river again. That disturbed Jim--and me too. So the question was, what to do? I said, paddle ashore the first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited. There warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it. He said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says: "Dah she is?" But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning-bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because I begun to get it through my head that he _was_ most free--and who was to blame for it? Why, _me_. I couldn't get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to troubling me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come home to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. I tried to make out to myself that _I_ warn't to blame, because _I_ didn't run Jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "But you knowed he was running for his freedom, and you could 'a' paddled ashore and told somebody." That was so--I couldn't get around that no way. That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me, "What had poor Miss Watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? What did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. _That's_ what she done." I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep still. Every time he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and I thought if it _was_ Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness. Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free state he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them. It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the old saying, "Give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger, which I had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children--children that belonged to a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm. I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says to it, "Let up on me--it ain't too late yet--I'll paddle ashore at the first light and tell." I felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings out: "We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels! Dat's de good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!" I says: "I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn't be, you know." He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says: "Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say, it's all on accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck; you's de bes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de _only_ fren' ole Jim's got now." I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says: "Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole Jim." Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I _got_ to do it--I can't get _out_ of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says: "What's that yonder?" "A piece of a raft," I says. "Do you belong on it?" "Yes, sir." "Any men on it?" "Only one, sir." "Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?" I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn't come. I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn't man enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and says: "He's white." "I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves." "I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He's sick--and so is mam and Mary Ann." "Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I s'pose we've got to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along." I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says: "Pap 'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't do it by myself." "Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what's the matter with your father?" "It's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much." They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One says: "Boy, that's a lie. What _is_ the matter with your pap? Answer up square now, and it 'll be the better for you." "I will, sir, I will, honest--but don't leave us, please. It's the--the--Gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do." "Set her back, John, set her back!" says one. They backed water. "Keep away, boy--keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap's got the smallpox, and you know it precious well. Why didn't you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?" "Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, and they just went away and left us." "Poor devil, there's something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but we--well, hang it, we don't want the smallpox, you see. Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash everything to pieces. You float along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard. Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?" "Hold on, Parker," says the man, "here's a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-by, boy; you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you'll be all right." "That's so, my boy--good-by, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it." "Good-by, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway niggers get by me if I can help it." They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn't no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get _started_ right when he's little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd 'a' done right and give Jim up, would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad--I'd feel just the same way I do now. Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn't answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time. I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked all around; he warn't anywhere. I says: "Jim!" "Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't talk loud." He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says: "I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool 'em, Huck! Dat _wuz_ de smartes' dodge! I tell you, chile, I 'spec it save' ole Jim--ole Jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey." Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise--twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free states. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there. Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting. That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend. I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says: "Mister, is that town Cairo?" "Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool." "What town is it, mister?" "If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you won't want." I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never mind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned. We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it was high ground, so I didn't go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something. So did Jim. I says: "Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night." He says: "Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck. I awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work." "I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim--I do wish I'd never laid eyes on it." "It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn't know. Don't you blame yo'self 'bout it." When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo. We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn't no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone! We didn't say a word for a good while. There warn't anything to say. We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still. By and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it when there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us. So we shoved out after dark on the raft. Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us. The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the river, and you can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river. We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft. I dived--and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I could hear her. I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any answer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was "treading water," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way. It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log house before I noticed it. I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another peg. CHAPTER XVII In about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says: "Be done, boys! Who's there?" I says: "It's me." "Who's me?" "George Jackson, sir." "What do you want?" "I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me." "What are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?" "I warn't prowling around, sir; I fell overboard off of the steamboat." "Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did you say your name was?" "George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy." "Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody 'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there anybody with you?" "No, sir, nobody." I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. The man sung out: "Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places." "All ready." "Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?" "No, sir; I never heard of them." "Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to squeeze in, d'you hear?" I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a-wanted to. I took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough--put your head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off. The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome--and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old gentleman says: "There; I reckon it's all right. Come in." As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows--there warn't none on the side. They held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "Why, _he_ ain't a Shepherdson--no, there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it--it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says: "Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?" "True for you, Rachel--I forgot." So the old lady says: "Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry." Buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. He says: "Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?" They said, no, 'twas a false alarm. "Well," he says, "if they'd 'a' ben some, I reckon I'd 'a' got one." They all laughed, and Bob says: "Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming." "Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right. I'm always kept down; I don't get no show." "Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you." When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when the candle went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way. "Well, guess," he says. "How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of it before?" "But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy." "_Which_ candle?" I says. "Why, any candle," he says. "I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?" "Why, he was in the _dark_! That's where he was!" "Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?" "Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are you going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming times--they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've got a dog--and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Are you all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss." Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever I've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here. So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says: "Can you spell, Buck?" "Yes," he says. "I bet you can't spell my name," says I. "I bet you what you dare I can," says he. "All right," says I, "go ahead." "G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n--there now," he says. "Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without studying." I set it down, private, because somebody might want _me_ to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to it. It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. They wouldn't took any money for her. Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They squeaked through underneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. On the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath. This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big family Bible full of pictures. One was Pilgrim's Progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough. Another was Friendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn-book, and a lot of other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket. They had pictures hung on the walls--mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing the Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. They was different from any pictures I ever see before--blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing-wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. But I reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up toward the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me. This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded: ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die? And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the mourners cry? No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened, 'Twas not from sickness' shots. No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling Bots. Despised love struck not with woe That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots. O no. Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down a well. They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft In the realms of the good and great. If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could 'a' done by and by. Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever have to stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly. Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside. It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too! CHAPTER XVIII Col. Grangerford was a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean-shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was gray and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners--everybody was always good-mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always--I mean he made it seem like good weather. When he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "Our duty to you, sir, and madam"; and _they_ bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple-brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people too. Bob was the oldest and Tom next--tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad Panama hats. Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful. So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty. Each person had their own nigger to wait on them--Buck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time. This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more--three sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died. The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. These people was mostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you. There was another clan of aristocracy around there--five or six families--mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steamboat-landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when I went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons there on their fine horses. One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says: "Quick! Jump for the woods!" We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young man came galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. But we didn't wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come--to get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute--'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged--then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle: "I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn't you step into the road, my boy?" "The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage." Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt. Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, I says: "Did you want to kill him, Buck?" "Well, I bet I did." "What did he do to you?" "Him? He never done nothing to me." "Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?" "Why, nothing--only it's on account of the feud." "What's a feud?" "Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?" "Never heard of it before--tell me about it." "Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills _him_; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the _cousins_ chip in--and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time." "Has this one been going on long, Buck?" "Well, I should _reckon!_ It started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit--which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would." "What was the trouble about. Buck?--land?" "I reckon maybe--I don't know." "Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford Shepherdson?" "Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago." "Don't anybody know?" "Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place." "Has there been many killed, Buck?" "Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt once or twice." "Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?" "Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet-holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid _him_ out." "I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck." "I reckon he _warn't_ a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons--not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be _fetched_ home--and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. No, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that _kind_." Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching--all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet. About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is different. Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a Testament. So I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with "_Half past two_" wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and I might go and play now. I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running, and says: "Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins." Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says: "All right; trot ahead." I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle-deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says: "You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'." Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. I poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep--and, by jings, it was my old Jim! I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick _him_ up and take him into slavery again. Says he: "I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considerable ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you--I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet ag'in I knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gittin' along." "Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?" "Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn--but we's all right now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when--" "_What_ raft, Jim?" "Our ole raf'." "You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?" "No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal--one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn't ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up ag'in mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'." "Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim--did you catch her?" "How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv 'um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich ag'in. Dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me I doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart." "Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens _he_ ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth." I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was--didn't seem to be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down-stairs--nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the woodpile I comes across my Jack, and says: "What's it all about?" Says he: "Don't you know, Mars Jawge?" "No," says I, "I don't." "Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off in de night some time--nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know--leastways, so dey 'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago--maybe a little mo'--en' I _tell_ you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses _you_ never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times." "Buck went off 'thout waking me up." "Well, I reck'n he _did!_ Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst." I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off. When I came in sight of the log store and the woodpile where the steamboats lands I worked along under the trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. There was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn't. There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat-landing; but they couldn't come it. Every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both ways. By and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the run. They got half-way to the tree I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old. The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other--wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations--the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him--I hain't ever heard anything like it. All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns--the men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses! The boys jumped for the river--both of them hurt--and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "Kill them, kill them!" It made me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell _all_ that happened--it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain't ever going to get shut of them--lots of times I dream about them. I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would 'a' locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened. When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river-bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me. It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot from me says: "Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise." It was Jim's voice--nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says: "Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead ag'in. Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a-startin' startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes ag'in en tells me for certain you _is_ dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back ag'in, honey." I says: "All right--that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down the river--there's something up there that 'll help them think so--so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can." I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens--there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right--and whilst I eat my supper we talked and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft. CHAPTER XIX Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee-deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away--trading-scows, and such things; and long black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it! A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see the ax flash and come down--you don't hear nothing; you see that ax go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head then you hear the _k'chunk!_--it had took all that time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says: "No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'" Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes Buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go much on clothes, nohow. Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to _make_ so many. Jim said the moon could 'a' _laid_ them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something. After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away. One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was _me_--or maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says: "Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that 'll throw the dogs off the scent." They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around awhile; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe. One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags. The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another. "What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap. "Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out _with_ you. That's the whole yarn--what's yourn?" "Well, I'd ben a-runnin' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I _tell_ you, and takin' as much as five or six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that I had a way of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast--I warn't hungry." "Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?" "I ain't undisposed. What's your line--mainly?" "Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor--tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?" "I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find out the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around." Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says: "Alas!" "What 're you alassin' about?" says the baldhead. "To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company." And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. "Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish. "Yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame _you_, gentlemen--far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know--there's a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." He went on a-wiping. "Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heaving your pore broken heart at _us_ f'r? _We_ hain't done nothing." "No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself down--yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer--perfectly right--I don't make any moan." "Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?" "Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass--'tis no matter. The secret of my birth--" "The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say--" "Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!" Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: "No! you can't mean it?" "Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant--I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!" Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "Your Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain "Bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. But the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says: "Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that." "No?" "No, you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place." "Alas!" "No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." And, by jings, _he_ begins to cry. "Hold! What do you mean?" "Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing. "To the bitter death!" He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, "That secret of your being: speak!" "Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!" You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says: "You are what?" "Yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette." "You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least." "Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France." Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort _him._ But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "Your Majesty," and waited on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by _his_ father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: "Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? It 'll only make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says I--that's my motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends." The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would 'a' been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others. It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have their own way. CHAPTER XX They asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running--was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I: "Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run _south?_" No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way, so I says: "My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a little one-horse place on the river forty-four mile below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother us." The duke says: "Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to. I'll think the thing over--I'll invent a plan that 'll fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go by that town yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy." Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat-lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick--better than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He says: "I should 'a' reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. Your Grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself." Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke says: "'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; I yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world--let me suffer; I can bear it." We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little bunch of lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It was my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't 'a' turned in anyway if I'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did scream along! And every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a _h-whack!_--bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit--and then _rip_ comes another flash and another sock-dolager. The waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them. I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that time, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he was always mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside--I didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. About two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway. I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that showed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding-quarters for the day. The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up awhile, five cents a game. Then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill said, "The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture on the Science of Phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece." The duke said that was _him._ In another bill he was the "world-renowned Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. By and by he says: "But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the boards, Royalty?" "No," says the king. "You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the swordfight in 'Richard III.' and the balcony scene in 'Romeo and Juliet.' How does that strike you?" "I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but, you see, I don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. Do you reckon you can learn me?" "Easy!" "All right. I'm jist a-freezin' for something fresh, anyway. Le's commence right away." So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet. "But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe." "No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that. Besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all the difference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her nightgown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts." He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for Richard III. and t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart. There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. We was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the canoe and get some. When we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go, too. The duke said what he was after was a printing-office. We found it; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter-shop--carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty, littered-up place, and had ink-marks, and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. The duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit out for the camp-meeting. We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there from twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck. The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly. The first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. The people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in the wilderness! Look upon it and live!" And people would shout out, "Glory!--A-a-_men_!" And so he went on, and the people groaning and crying and saying amen: "Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (_amen!_) come, sick and sore! (_amen!_) come, lame and halt and blind! (_amen!_) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (_a-a-men!_) come, all that's worn and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and be at rest!" (_a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!_) And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild. Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up onto the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean--and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "Don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!" And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody sings out, "Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "Let _him_ pass the hat around!" Then everybody said it, the preacher too. So the king went all through the crowd with his hat, swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times--and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates. When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with. The duke was thinking _he'd_ been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. He had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office--horse bills--and took the money, four dollars. And he had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance--so they done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet and saddish--the name of it was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it. Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it. The reading was all about Jim and just described him to a dot. It said he run away from St. Jacques's plantation, forty mile below New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. "Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards." We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the printing-office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to. We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says: "Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?" "No," I says, "I reckon not." "Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better." I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it. CHAPTER XXI It was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. The king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his "Romeo and Juliet" by heart. When he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practise it together. The duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out _Romeo!_ that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so--R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass." Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practise the sword-fight--the duke called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river. After dinner the duke says: "Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little something to answer encores with, anyway." "What's onkores, Bilgewater?" The duke told him, and then says: "I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and you--well, let me see--oh, I've got it--you can do Hamlet's soliloquy." "Hamlet's which?" "Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I haven't got it in the book--I've only got one volume--but I reckon I can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if I can call it back from recollection's vaults." So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever _I_ see before. This is the speech--I learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king: To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life; For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent sleep, Great nature's second course, And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune Than fly to others that we know not of. There's the respect must give us pause: Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn In customary suits of solemn black, But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, Breathes forth contagion on the world, And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage, Is sicklied o'er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia: Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to a nunnery--go! Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off. The first chance we got the duke he had some show-bills printed; and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword-fighting and rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the time. One morning, when we was pretty well down the state of Arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but Jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show. We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country-people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The duke he hired the court-house, and we went around and stuck up our bills. They read like this: Shaksperean Revival ! ! ! Wonderful Attraction! For One Night Only! The world renowned tragedians, David Garrick the younger, of Drury Lane Theatre, London, and Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre, Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime Shaksperean Spectacle entitled The Balcony Scene in Romeo and Juliet ! ! ! Romeo...................Mr. Garrick Juliet..................Mr. Kean Assisted by the whole strength of the company! New costumes, new scenery, new appointments! Also: The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling Broad-sword conflict In Richard III. ! ! ! Richard III.............Mr. Garrick Richmond................Mr. Kean Also: (by special request) Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! ! By the Illustrious Kean! Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris! For One Night Only, On account of imperative European engagements! Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents. Then we went loafing around town. The stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. The houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge--a leather one. Some of the fences had been whitewashed some time or another, but the duke said it was in Columbus's time, like enough. There was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out. All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic awnings in front, and the country-people hitched their horses to the awning-posts. There was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching--a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats; they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss-words. There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was: "Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank." "Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill." Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len' me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had"--which is a lie pretty much every time; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says: "_You_ give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back intrust, nuther." "Well, I _did_ pay you back some of it wunst." "Yes, you did--'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head." Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic: "Here, gimme the _chaw_, and you take the _plug_." [Illustration:"'GIMME A CHAW'"] All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else _but_ mud--mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in _all_ the places. The hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, "Hi! _so_ boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back again till there was a dog-fight. There couldn't anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog-fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. On the river-front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. The people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. Families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons. There was considerable whisky-drinking going on, and I seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out: "Here comes old Boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!" All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says: "Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now." Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year." Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an Injun, and singing out: "Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise." He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburn, and his motto was, "Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on." He see me, and rode up and says: "Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?" Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says: "He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's drunk. He's the best-naturedest old fool in Arkansaw--never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober." Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells: "Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've swindled. You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm a-gwyne to have you, too!" And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and going on. By and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a heap the best-dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. He says to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says: "I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till one o'clock, mind--no longer. If you open your mouth against me only once after that time you can't travel so far but I will find you." Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and so he _must_ go home--he must go right away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use--up the street he would tear again, and give Sherburn another cussing. By and by somebody says: "Go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can." So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways and stopped. In about five or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but not on his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody sings out: "Boggs!" I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel Sherburn. He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the men turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level--both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and says, "O Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards onto the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. That young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "Oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" The crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "Back, back! give him air, give him air!" Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off. They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got a good place at the window, where I was close to him and could see in. They laid him on the floor and put one large Bible under his head, and opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and scared. Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as well as you." There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says "Bang!" staggered backwards, says "Bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened. Then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him. Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging with. CHAPTER XXII They swarmed up towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like Injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death. They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. It was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the fence! tear down the fence!" Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. Just then Sherburn steps out onto the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. Sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. The stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. Then he says, slow and scornful: "The idea of _you_ lynching anybody! It's amusing. The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a _man!_ Because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a _man?_ Why, a _man's_ safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him. "Do I know you? I know you clear through. I was born and raised in the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South one man, all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people--whereas you're just _as_ brave, and no braver. Why don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark--and it's just what they _would_ do. "So they always acquit; and then a _man_ goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. Your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. You brought _part_ of a man--Buck Harkness, there--and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd 'a' taken it out in blowing. "You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and danger. _You_ don't like trouble and danger. But if only _half_ a man--like Buck Harkness, there--shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid to back down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you are--_cowards_--and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves onto that half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob without any _man_ at the head of it is _beneath_ pitifulness. Now the thing for _you_ to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a _man_ along. Now _leave_--and take your half-a-man with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this. The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap. I could 'a' stayed if I wanted to, but I didn't want to. I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better save it, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. You can't be too careful. I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in _wasting_ it on them. It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two and two, and gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable--there must 'a' been twenty of them--and every lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a powerful fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol. And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center pole, cracking his whip and shouting "Hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! And so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild. Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. The ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever _could_ think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn't no way understand. Why, I couldn't 'a' thought of them in a year. And by and by a drunken man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm toward the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women begun to scream. So, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. So everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on. The minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. It warn't funny to me, though; I was all of a tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire, too. He just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits. And, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment. Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he _was_ the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of his own men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but I wouldn't 'a' been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty good enough for _me_; and wherever I run across it, it can have all of _my_ custom every time. Well, that night we had _our_ show; but there warn't only about twelve people there--just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke said these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what they wanted was low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping-paper and some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. The bills said: AT THE COURT HOUSE! FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY! _The World-Renowned Tragedians_ DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER! AND EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER! Of the London and Continental Theatres, In their Thrilling Tragedy of THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD, OR THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! ! _Admission 50 cents._ Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said: LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED "There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I don't know Arkansaw!" CHAPTER XXIII I Well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. And--but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. Twenty people sings out: "What, is it over? Is that _all_?" The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out, "Sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. But a big, fine-looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts: "Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We are sold--mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be the laughing-stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. _No_. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the _rest_ of the town! Then we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!--the jedge is right!" everybody sings out.) "All right, then--not a word about any sell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy." Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. House was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town. The third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, I after him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says: "Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you!" I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down-stream, all dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam, and says: "Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" He hadn't been up-town at all. We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village. Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. The duke says: "Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us the third night, and consider it was _their_ turn now. Well, it _is_ their turn, and I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I _would_ just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. They can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions." Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says: "Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?" "No," I says, "it don't." "Why don't it, Huck?" "Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all alike." "But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions." "Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out." "Is dat so?" "You read about them once--you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this 'n' 's a Sunday-school Superintendent to _him_. And look at Charles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in bloom. He _was_ a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up. Next morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off. 'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes. Next morning, 'Chop off her head'--and they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' And he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it Domesday Book--which was a good name and stated the case. You don't know kings, Jim, but I know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at it--give notice?--give the country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares them to come on. That was _his_ style--he never give anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up? No--drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying around where he was--what did he do? He collared it. S'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he done it--what did he do? He always done the other thing. S'pose he opened his mouth--what then? If he didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if we'd 'a' had him along 'stead of our kings he'd 'a' fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to _that_ old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. It's the way they're raised." "But dis one do _smell_ so like de nation, Huck." "Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way." "Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways." "Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a middling hard lot for a duke. When he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king." "Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is all I kin stan'." "It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings." What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It wouldn't 'a' done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you couldn't tell them from the real kind. I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was. But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: "What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I says to her, I says: "'Shet de do'.' "She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It make me mad; en I says ag'in, mighty loud, I says: "'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!" "She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'! I says: "'I lay I _make_ you mine!' "En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'. Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when I come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open _yit_, en dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but I _wuz_ mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-_blam!_--en my lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so--so--I doan' know _how_ I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says _pow!_ jis' as loud as I could yell. She _never budge!_ Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb--en I'd ben a-treat'n her so!" CHAPTER XXIV Next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it _was_ kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it. He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in King Lear's outfit--it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine days. Blamed if he warn't the horriblest-looking outrage I ever see. Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so: _Sick Arab--but harmless when not out of his head._ And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there was a sound. The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that. These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news might 'a' worked along down by this time. They couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the devil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. I done it, of course. The king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. I never knowed how clothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. Says the king: "Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her." I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. I fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him. "Run her nose inshore," says the king. I done it. "Wher' you bound for, young man?" "For the steamboat; going to Orleans." "Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute, my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman, Adolphus"--meaning me, I see. I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. The young fellow says: "When I first see you I says to myself, 'It's Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.' But then I says again, 'No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.' You _ain't_ him, are you?" "No, my name's Blodgett--Elexander Blodgett--_Reverend_ Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it--which I hope he hasn't." "Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter die--which he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would 'a' give anything in this world to see _him_ before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother William at all--that's the deef and dumb one--William ain't more than thirty or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and William's the only ones that's left now; and, as I was saying, they haven't got here in time." "Did anybody send 'em word?" "Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well this time. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and didn't seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see Harvey--and William, too, for that matter--because he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls would be all right--for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to." "Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?" "Oh, he lives in England--Sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country. He hasn't had any too much time--and besides he mightn't 'a' got the letter at all, you know." "Too bad, too bad he couldn't 'a' lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?" "Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives." "It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; I wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?" "Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about fourteen--that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip." "Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so." "Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis' preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here." Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peter's business--which was a tanner; and about George's--which was a carpenter; and about Harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on. Then he says: "What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?" "Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't stop there. When they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati boat will, but this is a St. Louis one." "Was Peter Wilks well off?" "Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers." "When did you say he died?" "I didn't say, but it was last night." "Funeral to-morrow, likely?" "Yes, 'bout the middle of the day." "Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or another. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all right." "Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that." When we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me paddle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says: "Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along, now." I see what _he_ was up to; but I never said nothing, of course. When I got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had said it--every last word of it. And all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good. Then he says: "How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?" The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb person on the histrionic boards. So then they waited for a steamboat. About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm. He says: "If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?" So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men flocked down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says: "Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter Wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to say, "What 'd I tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and gentle: "I'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he _did_ live yesterday evening." Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went all to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and says: "Alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!" Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever I struck. Well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I struck anything like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race. CHAPTER XXV The news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of them putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march. The windows and dooryards was full; and every minute somebody would say, over a fence: "Is it _them?_" And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say: "You bet it is." When we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane _was_ red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Mary Jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they _had_ it! Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have such good times. Then the king he hunched the duke private--I see him do it--and then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying "'Sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could 'a' heard a pin fall. And when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could 'a' heard them to Orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the way they done. And, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place was that damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting. Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle, about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust. And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully. Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, viz.:--Rev. Mr. Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley. Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together--that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bell was away up to Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said "Goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk. So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to George's family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat. Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps the duke on the shoulder and says: "Oh, _this_ ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, _don't_ it?" The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says: "It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you and me, Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best way, in the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way." Most everybody would 'a' been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king: "Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?" They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then the duke says: "Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--I reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and keep still about it. We can spare it." "Oh, shucks, yes, we can _spare_ it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that--it's the _count_ I'm thinkin' about. We want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h'yer money up-stairs and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to--" "Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket. "It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you _have_ got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king. "Blest if the old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out ag'in," and _he_ begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up. It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear. "Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's go up-stairs and count this money, and then take and _give it to the girls."_ "Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. You have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head I ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let 'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em out." When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile--twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says: "Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would 'a' done _more_ generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear William and me. Now, _wouldn't_ he? Ther' ain't no question 'bout it in _my_ mind. Well, then, what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? And what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, _Rob_--sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? If I know William--and I _think_ I do--he--well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed awhile; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the king says, "I knowed it; I reckon _that_ 'll convince anybody the way _he_ feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money--take it _all._ It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful." Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time: "You _dear_ good souls!--how _lovely!_--how _could_ you!" Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking and they was all busy listening. The king was saying--in the middle of something he'd started in on-- "--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want _all_ to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public." And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, "_Obsequies_, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says: "Poor William, afflicted as he is, his _heart's_ aluz right. Asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome. But he needn't 'a' worried--it was jest what I was at." Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before. And when he done it the third time he says: "I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't--obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't used in England no more now--it's gone out. We say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact. It's a word that's made up out'n the Greek _orgo_, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew _jeesum_, to plant, cover up; hence in_ter_. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral." He was the _worst_ I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says, "Why, _doctor!_" and Abner Shackleford says: "Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey Wilks." The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says: "_Is_ it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I--" "Keep your hands off me!" says the doctor. "_You_ talk like an Englishman, _don't_ you? It's the worst imitation I ever heard. _You_ Peter Wilks's brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!" Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how Harvey's showed in forty ways that he _was_ Harvey, and knowed everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and _begged_ him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the poor girls' feelings, and all that. But it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. The poor girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on _them._ He says: "I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn you as a friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an impostor--has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres; and you take them for _proofs_, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out--I _beg_ you to do it. Will you?" Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She says: "_Here_ is my answer." She hove up the bag of money and put it in the king's hands, and says, "Take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no receipt for it." Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says: "All right; I wash _my_ hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a time's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of this day." And away he went. "All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit. CHAPTER XXVI Well, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to Uncle Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me. So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice. She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. The duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby. That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so--said "How _do_ you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for the land's sake, _did_ you get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know. And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She says: "Did you ever see the king?" "Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have--he goes to our church." I knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says he goes to our church, she says: "What--regular?" "Yes--regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the pulpit." "I thought he lived in London?" "Well, he does. Where _would_ he live?" "But I thought _you_ lived in Sheffield?" I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken-bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says: "I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield. That's only in the summer-time, when he comes there to take the sea baths." "Why, how you talk--Sheffield ain't on the sea." "Well, who said it was?" "Why, you did." "I _didn't_, nuther." "You did!" "I didn't." "You did." "I never said nothing of the kind." "Well, what _did_ you say, then?" "Said he come to take the sea _baths_--that's what I said." "Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the sea?" "Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any Congress-water?" "Yes." "Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?" "Why, no." "Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath." "How does he get it, then?" "Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water--in barrels. There in the palace at Sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it." "Oh, I see, now. You might 'a' said that in the first place and saved time." When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she says: "Do you go to church, too?" "Yes--regular." "Where do you set?" "Why, in our pew." "_Whose_ pew?" "Why, _ourn_--your Uncle Harvey's." "His'n? What does _he_ want with a pew?" "Wants it to set in. What did you _reckon_ he wanted with it?" "Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit." Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again, so I played another chicken-bone and got another think. Then I says: "Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?" "Why, what do they want with more?" "What!--to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl as you. They don't have no less than seventeen." "Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as that, not if I _never_ got to glory. It must take 'em a week." "Shucks, they don't _all_ of 'em preach the same day--only _one_ of 'em." "Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?" "Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or another. But mainly they don't do nothing." "Well, then, what are they _for_?" "Why, they're for _style_. Don't you know nothing?" "Well, I don't _want_ to know no such foolishness as that. How is servants treated in England? Do they treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?" "_No!_ A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs." "Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New Year's week, and Fourth of July?" "Oh, just listen! A body could tell _you_ hain't ever been to England by that. Why, Hare-l--why, Joanna, they never see a holiday from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger shows, nor nowheres." "Nor church?" "Nor church." "But _you_ always went to church." Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant. But next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was different from a common servant, and _had_ to go to church whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got done I see she warn't satisfied. She says: "Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?" "Honest injun," says I. "None of it at all?" "None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I. "Lay your hand on this book and say it." I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and said it. So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says: "Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I'll believe the rest." "What is it you won't believe, Jo?" says Mary Jane, stepping in with Susan behind her. "It ain't right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you like to be treated so?" "That's always your way, Maim--always sailing in to help somebody before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing to him. He's told some stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every bit and grain I _did_ say. I reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can't he?" "I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. If you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make _them_ feel ashamed." "Why, Maim, he said--" "It don't make no difference what he _said_--that ain't the thing. The thing is for you to treat him _kind,_ and not be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks." I says to myself, _this_ is a girl that I'm letting that old reptile rob her of her money! Then Susan _she_ waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb! Says I to myself, and this is _another_ one that I'm letting him rob her of her money! Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again--which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered. "All right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon." She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again. I says to myself, this is _another_ one that I'm letting him rob her of her money. And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind's made up; I'll hive that money for them or bust. So then I lit out--for bed, I said, meaning some time or another. When I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to myself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? No--that won't do. He might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane? No--I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. If she was to fetch in help I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one. I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that they won't suspicion that I done it. They've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance time enough. I'll steal it and hide it; and by and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's hid. But I better hive it to-night if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet. So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then I went to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I couldn't do nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I judged I'd got to do the other thing--lay for them and eavesdrop. About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still. They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn't found the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets down then, and the king says: "Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to talk us over." "Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a notion, and I think it's a sound one." "What is it, duke?" "That we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and clip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing we got it so easy--_given_ back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for knocking off and lighting out." That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would 'a' been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed. The king rips out and says: "What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good, salable stuff, too." The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper--didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of _everything_ they had. "Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money. The people that _buys_ the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it--which won't be long after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. These yer orphans 'll git their house back ag'in, and that's enough for _them;_ they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. _They_ ain't a-goin' to suffer. Why, jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, _they_ ain't got noth'n' to complain of." Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says: "Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for _him?_ Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? And ain't that a big enough majority in any town?" So they got ready to go down-stairs again. The duke says: "I don't think we put that money in a good place." That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help me. The king says: "Why?" "Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some of it?" "Your head's level ag'in, duke," says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I tried to think what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the king he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a thought, and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of getting stole now. But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way down-stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I could get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: I knowed that very well. Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn't 'a' gone to sleep if I'd 'a' wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through with the business. By and by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did. So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder. CHAPTER XXVII I crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed along, and got downstairs all right. There warn't a sound anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. The door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was open; but I see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the room and in behind the door. The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought I'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through the crack, and everything was all right. They hadn't stirred. I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money'll be found when they come to screw on the lid. Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I _wanted_ to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it. Every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and I might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. I don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I says to myself. When I got down-stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone. There warn't nobody around but the family and the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but I couldn't tell. Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. I see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't go to look in under it, with folks around. Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little. There warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham. They had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say, "Don't you worry--just depend on me." Then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads. So he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. Then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "_He had a rat!_" Then he drooped down and glided along the wall again to his place. You could see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was. Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. So there I was! I didn't know whether the money was in there or not. So, says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do _I_ know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business! They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces again--I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing. The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done. And he said of course him and William would take the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls, too--tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. Them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but I didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune. Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all the property for auction straight off--sale two days after the funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to. So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. A couple of nigger-traders come along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis, and their mother down the river to Orleans. I thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. The girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated or sold away from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn't 'a' stood it all, but would 'a' had to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a week or two. The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell you the duke was powerful uneasy. Next day was auction day. About broad day in the morning the king and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see by their look that there was trouble. The king says: "Was you in my room night before last?" "No, your majesty"--which was the way I always called him when nobody but our gang warn't around. "Was you in there yisterday er last night?" "No, your majesty." "Honor bright, now--no lies." "Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I hain't been a-near your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and showed it to you." The duke says: "Have you seen anybody else go in there?" "No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe." "Stop and think." I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says: "Well, I see the niggers go in there several times." Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they _had_. Then the duke says: "What, _all_ of them?" "No--leastways, not all at once--that is, I don't think I ever see them all come _out_ at once but just one time." "Hello! When was that?" "It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't early, because I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and I see them." "Well, go on, _go_ on! What did they do? How'd they act?" "They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act anyway much, as fur as I see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up; and found you _warn't_ up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you up." "Great guns, _this_ is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says: "It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let on to be _sorry_ they was going out of this region! And I believed they _was_ sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell _me_ any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. Why, the way they played that thing it would fool _anybody._ In my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't want a better lay-out than that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. Say, where _is_ that song--that draft?" "In the bank for to be collected. Where _would_ it be?" "Well, that's all right then, thank goodness." Says I, kind of timid-like: "Is something gone wrong?" The king whirls on me and rips out: "None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r own affairs--if you got any. Long as you're in this town don't you forgit _that_--you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for _us_." As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says: "Quick sales _and_ small profits! It's a good business--yes." The king snarls around on him and says: "I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. If the profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?" "Well, _they'd_ be in this house yet and we _wouldn't_ if I could 'a' got my advice listened to." The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and lit into _me_ again. He give me down the banks for not coming and _telling_ him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that way--said any fool would 'a' _knowed_ something was up. And then waltzed in and cussed _himself_ awhile, and said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and I felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off onto the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it. CHAPTER XXVIII By and by it was getting-up time. So I come down the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as I come to the girls' room the door was open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she'd been packing things in it--getting ready to go to England. But she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of course anybody would. I went in there and says: "Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and _I_ can't--most always. Tell me about it." So she done it. And it was the niggers--I just expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know _how_ she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and says: "Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't _ever_ going to see each other any more!" "But they _will_--and inside of two weeks--and I _know_ it!" says I. Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it _again_, say it _again_, say it _again!_ I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks, though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm blest if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly _safer_ than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I says to myself at last, I'm a-going to chance it; I'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most _like_ setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where you'll go to. Then I says: "Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could go and stay three or four days?" "Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?" "Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know the niggers will see each other again--inside of two weeks--here in this house--and _prove_ how I know it--will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?" "Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!" "All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more out of _you_ than just your word--I druther have it than another man's kiss-the-Bible." She smiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind it, I'll shut the door--and bolt it." Then I come back and set down again, and says: "Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. These uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds--regular dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling easy." It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the shoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself onto the king's breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says: "The brute! Come, don't waste a minute--not a _second_--we'll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!" Says I: "Cert'nly. But do you mean _before_ you go to Mr. Lothrop's, or--" "Oh," she says, "what am I _thinking_ about!" she says, and set right down again. "Don't mind what I said--please don't--you _won't_, now, _will_ you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that I said I would die first. "I never thought, I was so stirred up," she says; "now go on, and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do, and whatever you say I'll do it." "Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not--I druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble. Well, we got to save _him_, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we won't blow on them." Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I could get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says: "Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it?" "A little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here." "Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low till nine or half past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home again--tell them you've thought of something. If you get here before eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up wait _till_ eleven, and _then_ if I don't turn up it means I'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed." "Good," she says, "I'll do it." "And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took up along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole thing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can." "Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch a hair of your head!" she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too. "If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I _was_ here. I could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something. Well, there's others can do that better than what I can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as I'd be. I'll tell you how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. There--'_Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville._' Put it away, and don't lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these two, let them send up to Bricksville and say they've got the men that played the 'Royal Nonesuch,' and ask for some witnesses--why, you'll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come a-biling, too." I judged we had got everything fixed about right now. So I says: "Just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. Nobody don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. It's just like the way it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. Why, they can't collect the money for the _niggers_ yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary." "Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then I'll start straight for Mr. Lothrop's." "'Deed, _that_ ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I says, "by no manner of means; go _before_ breakfast." "Why?" "What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?" "Well, I never thought--and come to think, I don't know. What was it?" "Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. I don't want no better book than what your face is. A body can set down and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--" "There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast--I'll be glad to. And leave my sisters with them?" "Yes; never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet awhile. They might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don't want you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with all of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and say you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the morning." "Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given to them." "Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to tell _her_ so--no harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing--that bag of money." "Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think _how_ they got it." "No, you're out, there. They hain't got it." "Why, who's got it?" "I wish I knowed, but I don't. I _had_ it, because I stole it from them; and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm just as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the first place I come to, and run--and it warn't a good place." "Oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and I won't allow it--you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. Where did you hide it?" I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. So for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says: "I'd ruther not _tell_ you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to. Do you reckon that 'll do?" "Oh, yes." So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you was crying there, away in the night. I was behind the door, and I was mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane." It made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give it to her I see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says: "_Good_-by. I'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if I don't ever see you again, I sha'n't ever forget you, and I'll think of you a many and a many a time, and I'll _pray_ for you, too!"--and she was gone. Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was more nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same--she was just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the notion--there warn't no back-down to her, I judge. You may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it comes to beauty--and goodness, too--she lays over them all. I hain't ever seen her since that time that I see her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen her since, but I reckon I've thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I'd 'a' thought it would do any good for me to pray for _her_, blamed if I wouldn't 'a' done it or bust. Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody see her go. When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says: "What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?" They says: "There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly." "That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry--one of them's sick." "Which one?" "I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it's--" "Sakes alive, I hope it ain't _Hanner?_" "I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the very one." "My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?" "It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours." "Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her?" I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I says: "Mumps." "Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got the mumps." "They don't, don't they? You better bet they do with _these_ mumps. These mumps is different. It's a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said." "How's it a new kind?" "Because it's mixed up with other things." "What other things?" "Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I don't know what all." "My land! And they call it the _mumps?_" "That's what Miss Mary Jane said." "Well, what in the nation do they call it the _mumps_ for?" "Why, because it _is_ the mumps. That's what it starts with." "Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his _toe_.' Would ther' be any sense in that? _No_. And ther' ain't no sense in _this_, nuther. Is it ketching?" "Is it _ketching?_ Why, how you talk. Is a _harrow_ catching--in the dark? If you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say--and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good." "Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip. "I'll go to Uncle Harvey and--" "Oh, yes," I says, "I _would._ Of _course_ I would. I wouldn't lose no time." "Well, why wouldn't you?" "Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your uncles obleeged to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by yourselves? _You_ know they'll wait for you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is a _preacher_ going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a _ship clerk?_--so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now _you_ know he ain't. What _will_ he do, then? Why, he'll say, 'It's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle Harvey--" "Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether Mary Jane's got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins." "Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors." "Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can't you _see_ that _they'd_ go and tell? Ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at _all_." "Well, maybe you're right--yes, I judge you _are_ right." "But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out awhile, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?" "Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, 'Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say I've run over the river to see Mr.'--Mr.--what _is_ the name of that rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much of?--I mean the one that--" "Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?" "Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. She said, don't say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps--which 'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; I know it, because she told me so herself." "All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message. Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke would ruther Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat--I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't 'a' done it no neater himself. Of course he would 'a' throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very handy, not being brung up to it. Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly. But by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold--everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. So they'd got to work _that_ off--I never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow _everything_. Well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out: "_Here's_ your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old Peter Wilks--and you pays your money and you takes your choice!" CHAPTER XXIX They was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn't see no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But no, nary a pale did _they_ turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see straight off he pronounced _like_ an Englishman--not the king's way, though the king's _was_ pretty good for an imitation. I can't give the old gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this: "This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks's brother Harvey, and this is his brother William, which can't hear nor speak--and can't even make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I get the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait." So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out: "Broke his arm--_very_ likely, _ain't_ it?--and very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's _mighty_ good!--and mighty ingenious--under the _circumstances!_" So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their heads--it was Levi Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentlemen said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up and says: "Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come to this town?" "The day before the funeral, friend," says the king. "But what time o' day?" "In the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown." "How'd you come?" "I come down on the _Susan Powell_ from Cincinnati." "Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the _mornin_'--in a canoe?" "I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'." "It's a lie." Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher. "Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He was up at the Pint that mornin'. I live up there, don't I? Well, I was up there, and he was up there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim Collins and a boy." The doctor he up and says: "Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?" "I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy." It was me he pointed at. The doctor says: "Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but if _these_ two ain't frauds, I am an idiot, that's all. I think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into this thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple, and I reckon we'll find out _something_ before we get through." It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led me along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand. We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and fetched in the new couple. First, the doctor says: "I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they're frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about. If they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold Peter Wilks left? It ain't unlikely. If these men ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they prove they're all right--ain't that so?" Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart. But the king he only looked sorrowful, and says: "Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n send and see, if you want to." "Where is it, then?" "Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I had went down-stairs; and when I sold 'em I hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen." The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see nobody didn't altogether believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal it. I said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made trouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls on me and says: "Are _you_ English, too?" I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "Stuff!" Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it up, and kept it up; and it _was_ the worst mixed-up thing you ever see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would 'a' _seen_ that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what I knowed. The king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about Sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, and so on; but I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi Bell, the lawyer, says: "Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I was you. I reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want is practice. You do it pretty awkward." I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let off, anyway. The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says: "If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell--" The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says: "Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so often about?" The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says: "That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right." So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the first time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says: "You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names." The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says: "Well, it beats _me_--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing, and then _them_ again; and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey Wilks; and here's _these_ two handwritings, and anybody can see _they_ didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's _this_ old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy enough, _he_ didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't properly _writing_ at all. Now, here's some letters from--" The new old gentleman says: "If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother there--so he copies for me. It's _his_ hand you've got there, not mine." "_Well!_" says the lawyer, "this _is_ a state of things. I've got some of William's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we can com--" "He _can't_ write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine too. Look at both, please--they're by the same hand." The lawyer done it, and says: "I believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to grass, partly. But anyway, _one_ thing is proved--_these_ two ain't either of 'em Wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke. Well, what do you think? That mule-headed old fool wouldn't give in _then!_ Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't _tried_ to write--_he_ see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying _himself_; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says: "I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?" "Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both here." Then the old man turns toward the king, and says: "Peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?" Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd 'a' squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most _anybody_ sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was _he_ going to know what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, _Now_ he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use. Well, did he? A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: "Mf! It's a _very_ tough question, _ain't_ it! _Yes_, sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's jest a small, thin, blue arrow--that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. _Now_ what do you say--hey?" Well, _I_ never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek. The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king _this_ time, and says: "There--you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks's breast?" Both of them spoke up and says: "We didn't see no such mark." "Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what you _did_ see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a W, and dashes between them, so: P--B--W"--and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?" Both of them spoke up again, and says: "No, we _didn't_. We never seen any marks at all." Well, everybody _was_ in a state of mind now, and they sings out: "The whole _bilin'_ of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says: "Gentlemen--gentle_men!_ Hear me just a word--just a _single_ word--if you PLEASE! There's one way yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and look." That took them. "Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out: "Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch _them_ along, too!" "We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!" I _was_ scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no getting away, you know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening. As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of town; because now if I could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats. Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them-- I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist--Hines--and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip. He dragged me right along, he was so excited, and I had to run to keep up. When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. And when they got to the grave they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one. So they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all. At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so excited and panting. All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out: "By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!" Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell. I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew--leastways, I had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along! When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at last, just as I was sailing by, _flash_ comes the light in Mary Jane's window! and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this world. She _was_ the best girl I ever see, and had the most sand. The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it and shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope. The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the raft at last I was so fagged I would 'a' just laid down to blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard I sung out: "Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we're shut of them!" Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but I says: "Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and let her slide!" So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it _did_ seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels a few times--I couldn't help it; but about the third crack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held my breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!--and just a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke. So I wilted right down onto the planks then, and give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying. CHAPTER XXX When they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says: "Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company, hey?" I says: "No, your majesty, we warn't--_please_ don't, your majesty!" "Quick, then, and tell us what _was_ your idea, or I'll shake the insides out o' you!" "Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. The man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I lit out. It didn't seem no good for _me_ to stay--I couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be _hung_ if I could get away. So I never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask Jim if I didn't." Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "Oh, yes, it's _mighty_ likely!" and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd me. But the duke says: "Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would _you_ 'a' done any different? Did you inquire around for _him_ when you got loose? I don't remember it." So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. But the duke says: "You better a blame' sight give _yourself_ a good cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most. You hain't done a thing from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That _was_ bright--it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn't been for that they'd 'a' jailed us till them Englishmen's baggage come--and then--the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd 'a' slept in our cravats to-night--cravats warranted to _wear_, too--longer than _we'd_ need 'em." They was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like: "Mf! And we reckoned the _niggers_ stole it!" That made me squirm! "Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "_we_ did." After about a half a minute the king drawls out: "Leastways, I did." The duke says, the same way: "On the contrary, _I_ did." The king kind of ruffles up, and says: "Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?" The duke says, pretty brisk: "When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask what was _you_ referring to?" "Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but _I_ don't know--maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about." The duke bristles up now, and says: "Oh, let _up_ on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame' fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?" "_Yes_, sir! I know you _do_ know, because you done it yourself!" "It's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. The king sings out: "Take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--I take it all back!" The duke says: "Well, you just own up, first, that you _did_ hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself." "Wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and I'll b'lieve you, and take back everything I said." "You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!" "Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more--now _don't_ git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?" The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says: "Well, I don't care if I _did_, I didn't _do_ it, anyway. But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you _done_ it." "I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I _was_; but you--I mean somebody--got in ahead o' me." "It's a lie! You done it, and you got to _say_ you done it, or--" The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out: "'Nough!--I _own up!_" I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off and says: "If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's _well_ for you to set there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for you, after the way you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything--and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to _believe_ that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money I'd got out of the 'None-such' and one thing or another, and scoop it _all!_" The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling: "Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit; it warn't me." "Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "And _now_ you see what you _got_ by it. They've got all their own money back, and all of _ourn_ but a shekel or two _besides_. G'long to bed, and don't you deffersit _me_ no more deffersits, long 's _you_ live!" So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled _his_ bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. That made me feel easy and satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim everything. CHAPTER XXXI We dasn't stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. We was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again. First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. They tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate. And at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it. We judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the "Royal Nonesuch" there yet. ("House to rob, you _mean_," says I to myself; "and when you get through robbing it you'll come back here and wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft--and you'll have to take it out in wondering.") And he said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along. So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. He scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway--and maybe a chance for _the_ chance on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out: "Set her loose, Jim; we're all right now!" But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout--and then another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use--old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says: "Yes." "Whereabouts?" says I. "Down to Silas Phelps's place, two mile below here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. Was you looking for him?" "You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he'd cut my livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out." "Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South som'ers." "It's a good job they got him." "Well, I _reckon!_ There's two hundred dollars dollars' reward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the road." "Yes, it is--and I could 'a' had it if I'd been big enough; I see him _first_. Who nailed him?" "It was an old fellow--a stranger--and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't wait. Think o' that, now! You bet _I'd_ wait, if it was seven year." "That's me, every time," says I. "But maybe his chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. Maybe there's something ain't straight about it." "But it _is_, though--straight as a string. I see the handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot--paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below Newr_leans_. No-sirree-_bob_, they ain't no trouble 'bout _that_ speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?" I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't come to nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore, but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble. After all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars. Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he'd _got_ to be a slave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of _me!_ It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I'd be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. That's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's One that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, "There was the Sunday-school, you could 'a' gone to it; and if you'd 'a' done it they'd 'a' learnt you there that people that acts as I'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire." It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they? It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from _me_, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn't come. It was because my heart warn't right; it was because I warn't square; it was because I was playing double. I was letting _on_ to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make my mouth _say_ I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie--I found that out. So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go and write the letter--and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. HUCK FINN. I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the _only_ one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper. It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "All right, then, I'll _go_ to hell"--and tore it up. It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog. Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam-sawmill that was on the bank. Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign on it, "Phelps's Sawmill," and when I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. But I didn't mind, because I didn't want to see nobody just yet--I only wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man I see when I got there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for the "Royal Nonesuch--three-night performance--like that other time. They had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him before I could shirk. He looked astonished, and says: "Hel-_lo!_ Where'd _you_ come from?" Then he says, kind of glad and eager, "Where's the raft?--got her in a good place?" I says: "Why, that's just what I was going to ask your grace." Then he didn't look so joyful, and says: "What was your idea for asking _me?_" he says. "Well," I says, "when I see the king in that doggery yesterday I says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so I went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. A man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down for the raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, 'They've got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger I've got in the world, and now I'm in a strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living'; so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what _did_ become of the raft, then?--and Jim--poor Jim!" "Blamed if I know--that is, what's become of the raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, 'That little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'" "I wouldn't shake my _nigger_, would I?--the only nigger I had in the world, and the only property." "We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd come to consider him _our_ nigger; yes, we did consider him so--goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the 'Royal Nonesuch' another shake. And I've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. Where's that ten cents? Give it here." I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money I had, and I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and says: "Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? We'd skin him if he done that!" "How can he blow? Hain't he run off?" "No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone." "_Sold_ him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he was _my_ nigger, and that was my money. Where is he?--I want my nigger." "Well, you can't _get_ your nigger, that's all--so dry up your blubbering. Looky here--do you think _you'd_ venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd trust you. Why, if you _was_ to blow on us--" He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says: "I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got no time to blow, nohow; I got to turn out and find my nigger." He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says: "I'll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, I'll tell you where to find him." So I promised, and he says: "A farmer by the name of Silas Ph--" and then he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind. And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says: "The man that bought him is named Abram Foster--Abram G. Foster--and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette." "All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll start this very afternoon." "No you won't, you'll start _now_; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with _us_, d'ye hear?" That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans. "So clear out," he says; "and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim _is_ your nigger--some idiots don't require documents--leastways I've heard there's such down South here. And when you tell him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting 'em out. Go 'long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any _between_ here and there." So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't look around, but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile before I stopped; then I doubled back through the woods towards Phelps's. I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows could get away. I didn't want no trouble with their kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them. CHAPTER XXXII When I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think they're talking about _you._ As a general thing it makes a body wish _he_ was dead, too, and done with it all. Phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump onto a horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log house for the white folks--hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smokehouse back of the kitchen; three little nigger cabins in a row t'other side the smokehouse; one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton-fields begins, and after the fields the woods. I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead--for that _is_ the lonesomest sound in the whole world. I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for I'd noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I left it alone. When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still. And such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say--spokes made out of dogs--circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from every-wheres. A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "Begone! _you_ Tige! you Spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow. And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do. And here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. She was smiling all over so she could hardly stand--and says: "It's _you_, at last!--_ain't_ it?" I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought. She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, "You don't look as much like your mother as I reckoned you would; but law sakes, I don't care for that, I'm so glad to see you! Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's your cousin Tom!--tell him howdy." But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on: "Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away--or did you get your breakfast on the boat?" I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. When we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says: "Now I can have a _good_ look at you; and, laws-a-me, I've been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it's come at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and more. What kep' you?--boat get aground?" "Yes'm--she--" "Don't say yes'm--say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?" I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up--from down towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though; for I didn't know the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on--or--Now I struck an idea, and fetched it out: "It warn't the grounding--that didn't keep us back but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head." "Good gracious! anybody hurt?" "No'm. Killed a nigger." "Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember now, he _did_ die. Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was mortification--that was it. He turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at. Your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now. You must 'a' met him on the road, didn't you?--oldish man, with a--" "No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at daylight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so I come down the back way." "Who'd you give the baggage to?" "Nobody." "Why, child, it 'll be stole!" "Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says. "How'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?" It was kinder thin ice, but I says: "The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have something to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and give me all I wanted." I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I had my mind on the children all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show, Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says: "But here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me a word about Sis, nor any of them. Now I'll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; just tell me _everything_--tell me all about 'm all--every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of." Well, I see I was up a stump--and up it good. Providence had stood by me this fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now. I see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead--I'd got to throw up my hand. So I says to myself, here's another place where I got to resk the truth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says: "Here he comes! Stick your head down lower--there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. Don't you let on you're here. I'll play a joke on him. Children, don't you say a word." I see I was in a _fix_ now. But it warn't no use to worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck. I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and says: "Has he come?" "No," says her husband. "Good-_ness_ gracious!" she says, "what in the world _can_ have become of him?" "I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy." "Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted! He _must_ 'a' come; and you've missed him along the road. I _know_ it's so--something tells me so." "Why, Sally, I _couldn't_ miss him along the road--_you_ know that." "But oh, dear, dear, what _will_ Sis say! He must 'a' come! You must 'a' missed him. He--" "Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed. I don't know what in the world to make of it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't mind acknowledging 't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that he's come; for he _couldn't_ come and me miss him. Sally, it's terrible--just terrible--something's happened to the boat, sure!" "Why, Silas! Look yonder!--up the road!--ain't that somebody coming?" He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. She stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come; and when he turned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. The old gentleman stared, and says: "Why, who's that?" "Who do you reckon 'tis?" "I hain't no idea. Who _is_ it?" "It's _Tom Sawyer!_" By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe. But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I was; for it was like being born again, I was so glad to find out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly go any more, I had told them more about my family--I mean the Sawyer family--than ever happened to any six Sawyer families. And I explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White River, and it took us three days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first-rate; because _they_ didn't know but what it would take three days to fix it. If I'd 'a' called it a bolthead it would 'a' done just as well. Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. Then I says to myself, s'pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat? And s'pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to keep quiet? Well, I couldn't _have_ it that way; it wouldn't do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I told the folks I reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman was for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me. CHAPTER XXXIII So I started for town in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and waited till he come along. I says "Hold on!" and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then says: "I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that. So, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt _me_ for?" I says: "I hain't come back--I hain't been _gone_." When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite satisfied yet. He says: "Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't on you. Honest injun, you ain't a ghost?" "Honest injun, I ain't," I says. "Well--I--I--well, that ought to settle it, of course; but I can't somehow seem to understand it no way. Looky here, warn't you ever murdered _at all?_" "No. I warn't ever murdered at all--I played it on them. You come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me." So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. And he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he reckon we better do? He said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him. So he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says: "It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first." I says: "All right; but wait a minute. There's one more thing--a thing that _nobody_ don't know but me. And that is, there's a nigger here that I'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is _Jim_--old Miss Watson's Jim." He says: "What! Why, Jim is--" He stopped and went to studying. I says: "_I_ know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-down business; but what if it is? _I_'m low down; and I'm a-going to steal him, and I want you keep mum and not let on. Will you?" His eye lit up, and he says: "I'll _help_ you steal him!" Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most astonishing speech I ever heard--and I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer a _nigger-stealer!_ "Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking." "I ain't joking, either." "Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that _you_ don't know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about him." Then he took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at the door, and he says: "Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would 'a' thought it was in that mare to do it? I wish we'd 'a' timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse now--I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd 'a' sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth." That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see. But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down South. In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the window, because it was only about fifty yards, and says: "Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do believe it's a stranger. Jimmy" (that's one of the children), "run and tell Lize to put on another plate for dinner." Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come _every_ year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. When he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says: "Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?" "No, my boy," says the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's place is down a matter of three mile more. Come in, come in." Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "Too late--he's out of sight." "Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to Nichols's." "Oh, I _can't_ make you so much trouble; I couldn't think of it. I'll walk--I don't mind the distance." "But we won't _let_ you walk--it wouldn't be Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in." "Oh, _do_,"' says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay. It's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk. And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on another plate when I see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. Come right in and make yourself at home." So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a stranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson--and he made another bow. Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and I getting a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says: "You owdacious puppy!" He looked kind of hurt, and says: "I'm surprised at you, m'am." "You're s'rp--Why, what do you reckon _I_ am? I've a good notion to take and--Say, what do you mean by kissing me?" He looked kind of humble, and says: "I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no harm. I--I--thought you'd like it." "Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning-stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. "What made you think I'd like it?" "Well, I don't know. Only, they--they--told me you would." "_They_ told you I would. Whoever told you's _another_ lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's _they?_" "Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am." It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says: "Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot short." He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says: "I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all told me to. They all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. They all said it--every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it no more--I won't, honest." "You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd _reckon_ you won't!" "No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again--till you ask me." "Till I _ask_ you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever _I_ ask you--or the likes of you." "Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't make it out, somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But--" He stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, and says, "Didn't _you_ think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?" "Why, no; I--I--well, no, I b'lieve I didn't." Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says: "Tom, didn't _you_ think Aunt Sally 'd open out her arms and say, 'Sid Sawyer--'" "My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so--" and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says: "No, not till you've asked me first." So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again she says: "Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn't looking for _you_ at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him." "It's because it warn't _intended_ for any of us to come but Tom," he says; "but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy place for a stranger to come." "No--not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed; I hain't been so put out since I don't know when. But I don't care, I don't mind the terms--I'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don't deny it, I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack." We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families--and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way I've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. There was a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and Tom was on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the little boys says: "Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?" "No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell the people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time." So there it was!--but _I_ couldn't help it. Tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good night and went up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if I didn't hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure. On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom all about our "Royal Nonesuch" rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the middle of it--it was as much as half after eight then--here comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by I see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail--that is, I knowed it _was_ the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that was human--just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. Well, it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like I couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings _can_ be awful cruel to one another. We see we was too late--couldn't do no good. We asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them. So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling so brash as I was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow--though I hadn't done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for him _anyway._ If I had a yaller dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does I would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same. CHAPTER XXXIV We stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by Tom says: "Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! I bet I know where Jim is." "No! Where?" "In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?" "Yes." "What did you think the vittles was for?" "For a dog." "So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog." "Why?" "Because part of it was watermelon." "So it was--I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can see and don't see at the same time." "Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he came out. He fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from table--same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good. Jim's the prisoner. All right--I'm glad we found it out detective fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now you work your mind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one, too; and we'll take the one we like the best." What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer's head I wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well where the right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon Tom says: "Ready?" "Yes," I says. "All right--bring it out." "My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out if it's Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan work?" "_Work?_ Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. But it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing _to_ it. What's the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk. Why, Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory." I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got _his_ plan ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it. And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and would make Jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what it was here, because I knowed it wouldn't stay the way it was. I knowed he would be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what he done. Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. I _couldn't_ understand it no way at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and save himself. And I _did_ start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says: "Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't I generly know what I'm about?" "Yes." "Didn't I _say_ I was going to help steal the nigger?" "Yes." "Well, then." That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. But I couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to have it so, I couldn't help it. When we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. We went through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. When we got to the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn't acquainted with--which was the north side--we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. I says: "Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim to get through if we wrench off the board." Tom says: "It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. I should _hope_ we can find a way that's a little more complicated than _that_, Huck Finn." "Well, then," I says, "how'll it do to saw him out, the way I done before I was murdered that time?" "That's more _like_," he says. "It's real mysterious, and troublesome, and good," he says; "but I bet we can find a way that's twice as long. There ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around." Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as long as the hut, but narrow--only about six foot wide. The door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says: "Now we're all right. We'll _dig_ him out. It 'll take about a week!" Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door--you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors--but that warn't romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half-way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip. In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim--if it _was_ Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house. This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. So Tom says: "What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?" The nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says: "Yes, Mars Sid, _a_ dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en look at 'im?" "Yes." I hunched Tom, and whispers: "You going, right here in the daybreak? _That_ warn't the plan." "No, it warn't; but it's the plan _now._" So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out: "Why, _Huck!_ En good _lan'!_ ain' dat Misto Tom?" I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn't know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't 'a' done it, because that nigger busted in and says: "Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?" We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says: "Does _who_ know us?" "Why, dis-yer runaway nigger." "I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?" "What _put_ it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?" Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way: "Well, that's mighty curious. _Who_ sung out? _When_ did he sing out? _What_ did he sing out?" And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "Did _you_ hear anybody sing out?" Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so I says: "No; _I_ ain't heard nobody say nothing." Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says: "Did you sing out?" "No, sah," says Jim; "I hain't said nothing, sah." "Not a word?" "No, sah, I hain't said a word." "Did you ever see us before?" "No, sah; not as I knows on." So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe: "What do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? What made you think somebody sung out?" "Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do. Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. Please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey _ain't_ no witches. I jis' wish to goodness he was heah now--_den_ what would he say! I jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it _dis_ time. But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's _sot_, stays sot; dey won't look into noth'n' en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when _you_ fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you." Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says: "I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger. If I was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, I wouldn't give him up, I'd hang him." And whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to Jim and says: "Don't ever let on to know us. And if you hear any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to set you free." Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then. CHAPTER XXXV It would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because Tom said we got to have _some_ light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. We fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and Tom says, kind of dissatisfied: "Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. And so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain't no watchman to be drugged--now there _ought_ to be a watchman. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And there's Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could 'a' got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it's the stupidest arrangement I ever see. You got to invent _all_ the difficulties. Well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got. Anyhow, there's one thing--there's more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. Now look at just that one thing of the lantern. When you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to _let on_ that a lantern's resky. Why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted to, _I_ believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first chance we get." "What do we want of a saw?" "What do we _want_ of a saw? Hain't we got to saw the leg of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?" "Why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip the chain off." "Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You _can_ get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain't you ever read any books at all?--Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chelleeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? No; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of its being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. Then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. Nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat--because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know--and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you across a saddle, and away you go to your native Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it is. It's gaudy, Huck. I wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one." I says: "What do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under the cabin?" But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He had his chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says: "No, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it." "For what?" I says. "Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says. "Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't _no_ necessity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?" "Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And a leg would be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in Europe; so we'll let it go. But there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. And I've et worse pies." "Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim ain't got no use for a rope ladder." "He _has_ got use for it. How _you_ talk, you better say; you don't know nothing about it. He's _got_ to have a rope ladder; they all do." "What in the nation can he _do_ with it?" "_Do_ with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he? That's what they all do; and _he's_ got to, too. Huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the time. S'pose he _don't_ do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clue, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clues? Of course they will. And you wouldn't leave them any? That would be a _pretty_ howdy-do, _wouldn't_ it! I never heard of such a thing." "Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all right, let him have it; because I don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer--if we go to tearing up our sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born. Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for Jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what kind of a--" "Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I'd keep still--that's what I'd do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous." "Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothes-line." He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he says: "Borrow a shirt, too." "What do we want of a shirt, Tom?" "Want it for Jim to keep a journal on." "Journal your granny--_Jim_ can't write." "S'pose he _can't_ write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?" "Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too." "_Prisoners_ don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They _always_ make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. _They_ wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. It ain't regular." "Well, then, what 'll we make him the ink out of?" "Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. Jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window. The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too." "Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan." "That ain't nothing; we can get him some." "Can't nobody _read_ his plates." "That ain't got anything to _do_ with it, Huck Finn. All _he's_ got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out. You don't _have_ to be able to read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin plate, or anywhere else." "Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?" "Why, blame it all, it ain't the _prisoner's_ plates." "But it's _somebody's_ plates, ain't it?" "Well, spos'n it is? What does the _prisoner_ care whose--" He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house. Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. So we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy. And yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when I stole a watermelon out of the nigger patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we _needed._ Well, I says, I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the difference was. He said if I'd 'a' wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it would 'a' been all right. So I let it go at that, though I couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I see a chance to hog a watermelon. Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then Tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk. He says: "Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed." "Tools?" I says. "Yes." "Tools for what?" "Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to _gnaw_ him out, are we?" "Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?" I says. He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says: "Huck Finn, did you _ever_ hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? Now I want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind of a show would _that_ give him to be a hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. Picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king." "Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?" "A couple of case-knives." "To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?" "Yes." "Confound it, it's foolish, Tom." "It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the _right_ way--and it's the regular way. And there ain't no _other_ way, that ever I heard of, and I've read all the books that gives any information about these things. They always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was _he_ at it, you reckon?" "I don't know." "Well, guess." "I don't know. A month and a half." "_Thirty-seven year_--and he come out in China. _That's_ the kind. I wish the bottom of _this_ fortress was solid rock." "_Jim_ don't know nobody in China." "What's _that_ got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't you stick to the main point?" "All right--I don't care where he comes out, so he _comes_ out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But there's one thing, anyway--Jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last." "Yes he will _last,_ too. You don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a _dirt_ foundation, do you?" "How long will it take, Tom?" "Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim, or something like that. So we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can _let on_, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon that 'll be the best way." "Now, there's _sense_ in that," I says. "Letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, I don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me none, after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives." "Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of." "Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," I says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smokehouse." He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says: "It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along and smouch the knives--three of them." So I done it. CHAPTER XXXVI As soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. Tom said we was right behind Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because Jim's counterpin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. So we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. At last I says: "This ain't no thirty-seven-year job; this is a thirty-eight-year job, Tom Sawyer." He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking. Then he says: "It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done. But _we_ can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. If we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner." "Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?" "I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him out with the picks, and _let on_ it's case-knives." "_Now_ you're _talking!_" I says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer," I says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. What I want is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther." "Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting on in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better. It might answer for _you_ to dig Jim out with a pick, _without_ any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because I do know better. Gimme a case-knife." He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and says: "Gimme a _case-knife._" I didn't know just what to do--but then I thought. I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickax and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word. He was always just that particular. Full of principle. So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. When I got up-stairs I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was so sore. At last he says: "It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?" "Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod." So he done it. Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says: "Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim." "Take them in through the hole," I says, "when we get it done." He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first. That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. Then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, _sure_. So Jim he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, Tom says: "_Now_ I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them." I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas I ever struck"; but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. It was his way when he'd got his plans set. So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other large things by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her apron pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and what they was for. And told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. He told him everything. Jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as Tom said. Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom was in high spirits. He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our children to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like it better and better the more he got used to it. He said that in that way it could be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. And he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it. In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got Nat's notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could 'a' worked better. Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first. And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered "Witches" once, and keeled over onto the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed the other door too. Then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. He raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says: "Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I _felt_ um--I _felt_ um, sah; dey was all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does." Tom says: "Well, I tell you what _I_ think. What makes them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? It's because they're hungry; that's the reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for _you_ to do." "But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? I doan' know how to make it. I hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'." "Well, then, I'll have to make it myself." "Will you do it, honey?--will you? I'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!" [Illustration: TOM ADVISES A WITCH PIE] "All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger. But you got to be mighty careful. When we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. And don't you look when Jim unloads the pan--something might happen, I don't know what. And above all, don't you _handle_ the witch-things." "_Hannel_ 'm, Mars Sid? What _is_ you a-talkin' 'bout? I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I wouldn't." CHAPTER XXXVII _That_ was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt Sally's apron pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle Silas's coat pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little while. And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other, and says: "I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what _has_ become of your other shirt." My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a war-whoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and I would 'a' sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was all right again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says: "It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know perfectly well I took it _off_, because--" "Because you hain't got but one _on_. Just _listen_ at the man! I know you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--I see it there myself. But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l one till I can get time to make a new one. And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to _do_ with 'm all is more'n I can make out. A body'd think you _would_ learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life." "I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've ever lost one of them _off_ of me." "Well, it ain't _your_ fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd 'a' done it if you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a spoon gone; and _that_ ain't all. There was ten, and now ther' only nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, _that's_ certain." "Why, what else is gone, Sally?" "Ther's six _candles_ gone--that's what. The rats could 'a' got the candles, and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas--_you'd_ never find it out; but you can't lay the _spoon_ on the rats, and that I _know_." "Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss; but I won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes." "Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta _Phelps!_" Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman steps onto the passage, and says: "Missus, dey's a sheet gone." "A _sheet_ gone! Well, for the land's sake!" "I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful. "Oh, _do_ shet up!--s'pose the rats took the _sheet?_ _Where's_ it gone, Lize?" "Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally. She wuz on de clo's-line yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now." "I reckon the world _is_ coming to an end. I _never_ see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can--" "Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n." "Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet to ye!" Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned I would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. She kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because she says: "It's _just_ as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the other things there, too. How'd it get there?" "I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know I would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain't in; but I'll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament down and took up the spoon, and--" "Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest! Go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till I've got back my peace of mind." I'd 'a' heard her if she'd 'a' said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and I'd 'a' got up and obeyed her if I'd 'a' been dead. As we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: "Well, it ain't no use to send things by _him_ no more, he ain't reliable." Then he says: "But he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without _him_ knowing it--stop up his rat-holes." There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went a-mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: "Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it. I could show her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats. But never mind--let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good." And so he went on a-mumbling up-stairs, and then we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And always is. Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says: "Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons _yet_." She says: "Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I counted 'm myself." "Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and _I_ can't make but nine." She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would. "I declare to gracious ther' _ain't_ but nine!" she says. "Why, what in the world--plague _take_ the things, I'll count 'm again." So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says: "Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's _ten_ now!" and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom says: "Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten." "You numskull, didn't you see me _count_ 'm?" "I know, but--" "Well, I'll count 'm again." So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well, she _was_ in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong. Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cler out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her shingle-nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said _now_ she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she _did_; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more. So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't _care_, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther die first. So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would blow over by and by. But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But of course we thought of the right way at last--which was to cook the ladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could 'a' hung a person with. We let on it took nine months to make it. And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we'd 'a' wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could 'a' had a whole dinner. But we didn't need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. We didn't cook none of the pies in the washpan--afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from England with William the Conqueror in the _Mayflower_ or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business I don't know nothing what I'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too. Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole. CHAPTER XXXVIII Making them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But he had to have it; Tom said he'd _got_ to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. "Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, s'pose it _is_ considerble trouble?--what you going to do?--how you going to get around it? Jim's _got_ to do his inscription and coat of arms. They all do." Jim says: "Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat." "Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different." "Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't." "I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he goes out of this--because he's going out _right_, and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record." So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his'n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. He says: "On the scutcheon we'll have a bend _or_ in the dexter base, a saltire _murrey_ in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron _vert_ in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field _azure_, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, _sable_, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, _Maggiore fretta, minore atto_. Got it out of a book--means the more haste the less speed." "Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of it mean?" "We ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out." "Well, anyway," I says, "what's _some_ of it? What's a fess?" "A fess--a fess is--_you_ don't need to know what a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets to it." "Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a person. What's a bar sinister?" "Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does." That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference. He'd got all that coat-of-arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: _1. Here a captive heart busted. 2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. 4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV._ Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. When he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for Jim to scrabble onto the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck onto the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says: "Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a rock." Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. But Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look to see how me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so Tom says: "I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too." It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. It warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched the grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. Sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through. We got her halfway; and then we was plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. We see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch Jim. So he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and Jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and Tom superintended. He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed how to do everything. Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. Then Tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. But Tom thought of something, and says: "You got any spiders in here, Jim?" "No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom." "All right, we'll get you some." "But bless you, honey, I doan' _want_ none. I's afeard un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'." Tom thought a minute or two, and says: "It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done. It _must_ 'a' been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a prime good idea. Where could you keep it?" "Keep what, Mars Tom?" "Why, a rattlesnake." "De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah I'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid my head." "Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. You could tame it." "_Tame_ it!" "Yes--easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn't _think_ of hurting a person that pets them. Any book will tell you that. You try--that's all I ask; just try for two or three days. Why, you can get him so in a little while that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth." "_Please_, Tom--_doan_' talk so! I can't _stan'_ it! He'd _let_ me shove his head in my mouf--fer a favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' I _ast_ him. En mo' en dat, I doan' _want_ him to sleep wid me." "Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's _got_ to have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you could ever think of to save your life." "Why, Mars Tom, I doan' _want_ no sich glory. Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin off, den _whah_ is de glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sich doin's." "Blame it, can't you _try?_ I only _want_ you to try--you needn't keep it up if it don't work." "But de trouble all _done_ ef de snake bite me while I's a-tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I's gwyne to _leave_, dat's _shore_." "Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. We can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll have to do." "I k'n stan' _dem_, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I couldn' get along widout um, I tell you dat. I never knowed b'fo' 'twas so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner." "Well, it _always_ is when it's done right. You got any rats around here?" "No, sah, I hain't seed none." "Well, we'll get you some rats." "Why, Mars Tom, I doan' _want_ no rats. Dey's de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f I's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I hain' got no use f'r um, skasely." "But, Jim, you _got_ to have 'em--they all do. So don't make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain't ever without rats. There ain't no instance of it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. But you got to play music to them. You got anything to play music on?" "I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp." "Yes they would. _They_ don't care what kind of music 'tis. A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music--in a prison they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of a jew's-harp. It always interests them; they come out to see what's the matter with you. Yes, you're all right; you're fixed very well. You want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jew's-harp; play 'The Last Link is Broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else; and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders and things begin to feel worried about you, and come. And they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good time." "Yes, _dey_ will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is _Jim_ havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I'll do it ef I got to. I reck'n I better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house." Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says: "Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?" "I doan' know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it's tolable dark in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble." "Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it." "One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss." "Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it. And don't call it mullen, call it Pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. And you want to water it with your tears." "Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom." "You don't _want_ spring water; you want to water it with your tears. It's the way they always do." "Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a start'n one wid tears." "That ain't the idea. You _got_ to do it with tears." "She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry." So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim would have to worry along the best he could with an onion. He promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-pot, in the morning. Jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee"; and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jew's-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed. CHAPTER XXXIX In the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed. But while we was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin Jefferson Elexander Phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and Aunt Sally she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. So she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. I never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was. We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give it right up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. Then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn't set down convenient. And so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, I reckon not! And there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went back--we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. But it didn't matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. So we judged we could get some of them again. No, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. You'd see them dripping from the rafters and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want them. Well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm in a million of them; but that never made no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. I never see such a woman. And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. And if she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think the house was afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. Why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much as a week Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all women was just so. He said they was made that way for some reason or other. We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for him. And he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always lively, he said, because _they_ never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over. He said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for a salary. Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim he would get up and write a line in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we was all going to die, but didn't. It was the most undigestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I was saying, we'd got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below Orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St. Louis and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St. Louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters. "What's them?" I says. "Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. But there's always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries a servant-girl done it. It's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both. And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. We'll do that, too." "But looky here, Tom, what do we want to _warn_ anybody for that something's up? Let them find it out for themselves--it's their lookout." "Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've acted from the very start--left us to do _everything_. They're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if we don't _give_ them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing _to_ it." "Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like." "Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I says: "But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you suits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?" "You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock." "Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one." "I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door." "All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my own togs." "You wouldn't look like a servant-girl _then_, would you?" "No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look like, _anyway_." "That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to do our _duty_, and not worry about whether anybody _sees_ us do it or not. Hain't you got no principle at all?" "All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl. Who's Jim's mother?" "I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt Sally." "Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim leaves." "Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and Jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. When a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. It's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. And the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one." So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way Tom told me to. It said: _Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout. UNKNOWN FRIEND._ Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a coffin on the back door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They couldn't 'a' been worse scared if the place had 'a' been full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering through the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face no way and be satisfied, because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she was always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. He said it showed it was done right. So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at the streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. This letter said: _Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate gang of cutthroats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. I am one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. They will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. I am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if I see any danger; but stead of that I will BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. Don't do anything but just the way I am telling you; if you do they will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish any reward but to know I have done the right thing. UNKNOWN FRIEND._ CHAPTER XL We was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half up-stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cubboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about half past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt Sally's dress that he stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says: "Where's the butter?" "I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a corn-pone." "Well, you _left_ it laid out, then--it ain't here." "We can get along without it," I says. "We can get along _with_ it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. I'll go and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to _ba_ like a sheep and shove soon as you get there." So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up-stairs very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes Aunt Sally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says: "You been down cellar?" "Yes'm." "What you been doing down there?" "Noth'n." "_Noth'n!_" "No'm." "Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?" "I don't know 'm." "You don't _know?_ Don't answer me that way. Tom, I want to know what you been _doing_ down there." "I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious if I have." I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but I s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says, very decided: "You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come. You been up to something you no business to, and I lay I'll find out what it is before _I'm_ done with you." So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-room. My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down. They was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but I knowed they was, because they was always taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. I warn't easy myself, but I didn't take my hat off, all the same. I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell Tom how we'd overdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet's nest we'd got ourselves into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with Jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us. At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I _couldn't_ answer them straight, I didn't know which end of me was up; because these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right _now_ and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, "_I'm_ for going and getting in the cabin _first_ and right _now_, and catching them when they come," I most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and says: "For the land's sake, what _is_ the matter with the child? He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!" And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says: "Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when I see that truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowed by the color and all it was just like your brains would be if--Dear, dear, whyd'nt you _tell_ me that was what you'd been down there for, _I_ wouldn't 'a' cared. Now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!" I was up-stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn't hardly get my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder, with guns! His eyes just blazed; and he says: "No!--is that so? _Ain't_ it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put it off till--" "Hurry! _hurry!_" I says. "Where's Jim?" "Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. He's dressed, and everything's ready. Now we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal." But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the padlock, and heard a man say: "I _told_ you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked. Here, I'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming." So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft--Jim first, me next, and Tom last, which was according to Tom's orders. Now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in Injun file, and got to it all right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out: "Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!" But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a _bang,_ _bang,_ _bang!_ and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We heard them sing out: "Here they are! They've broke for the river! After 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!" So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. We was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close onto us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. And when we stepped onto the raft I says: "Now, old Jim, you're a free man _again_, and I bet you won't ever be a slave no more." "En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz planned beautiful, en it 'uz _done_ beautiful; en dey ain't _nobody_ kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed up en splendid den what dat one wuz." We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg. When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel as brash as what we did before. It was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he says: "Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. I wish _we'd_ 'a' had the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn't 'a' been no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in _his_ biography; no, sir, we'd 'a' whooped him over the _border_--that's what we'd 'a' done with _him_--and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps--man the sweeps!" But me and Jim was consulting--and thinking. And after we'd thought a minute, I says: "Say it, Jim." So he says: "Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz _him_ dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'Go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one'? Is dat like Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You _bet_ he wouldn't! _Well_, den, is _Jim_ gywne to say it? No, sah--I doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a _doctor_; not if it's forty year!" I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd say what he did say--so it was all right now, and I told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He raised considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. Then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't do no good. So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says: "Well, then, if you're bound to go, I'll tell you the way to do when you get to the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again. It's the way they all do." So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was gone again. CHAPTER XLI The doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when I got him up. I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must 'a' kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and surprise the folks. "Who is your folks?" he says. "The Phelpses, down yonder." "Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says: "How'd you say he got shot?" "He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him." "Singular dream," he says. So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But when he see the canoe he didn't like the look of her--said she was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says: "Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough." "What three?" "Why, me and Sid, and--and--and _the guns_; that's what I mean." "Oh," he says. But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. But they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go down home and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But I said I didn't; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he started. I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?--lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what _I'll_ do. I'll wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more I'll get down there, too, if I swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when Tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore. So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I'll dig out for the island right off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle Silas's stomach! He says: "Why, _Tom!_ Where you been all this time, you rascal?" "_I_ hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunting for the runaway nigger--me and Sid." "Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your aunt's been mighty uneasy." "She needn't," I says, "because we was all right. We followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's at the post-office to see what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out to get something to eat for us, and then we're going home." So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but just as I suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done fooling around--but we would ride. I couldn't get him to let me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right. When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same when he come. And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says: "Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell--didn't I, Sister Damrell?--s'I, he's crazy, s'I--them's the very words I said. You all hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I. Look at that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell _me't_ any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone? s'I. Here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I says in the fust place, it's what I says in the middle, 'n' it's what I says last 'n' all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I." "An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister Hotchkiss," says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in the name o' goodness _could_ he ever want of--" "The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, look at it, s'I--what _could_ he 'a' wanted of it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she--" "But how in the nation'd they ever _git_ that grindstone _in_ there, _anyway?_ 'n' who dug that-air _hole?_ 'n' who--" "My very _words_, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?--I was a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how _did_ they git that grindstone in there? s'I. Without _help,_ mind you--'thout _help! Thar's_ where 'tis. Don't tell _me,_ s'I; there _wuz_ help, s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a _plenty_ help, too, s'I; ther's ben a _dozen_ a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but _I'd_ find out who done it, s'I; moreover, s'I--" "A _dozen_ says you!--_forty_ couldn't 'a' done everything that's been done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men: look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--" "You may _well_ say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as I was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what do _you_ think of it, Sister Hotchkiss? s'e. Think o' what, Brer Phelps? s'I. Think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a way? s'e? _Think_ of it? s'I. I lay it never sawed _itself_ off, s'I--somebody _sawed_ it, s'I; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I, 'n' if anybody k'n start a better one, s'I, let him _do_ it, s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I--" "Why, dog my cats, they must 'a' ben a house-full o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to 'a' done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret African writ'n done with blood! Must 'a' ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--" "People to _help_ him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you'd _think_ so if you'd 'a' been in this house for a while back. Why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they _didn't_ steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day _and_ night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools _us_ but the Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets _away_ with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time! I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever _heard_ of. Why, _sperits_ couldn't 'a' done better and been no smarter. And I reckon they must 'a' _been_ sperits--because, because, _you_ know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never even got on the _track_ of 'm once! You explain _that_ to me if you can!--_any_ of you!" "Well, it does beat--" "Laws alive, I never--" "So help me, I wouldn't 'a' be--" "_House_-thieves as well as--" "Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd 'a' ben afeard to _live_ in sich a--" "Fraid to _live!_--why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or _set_ down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I was in by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! I was just to that pass I didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough _now_, in the daytime; but I says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way upstairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there and locked 'em in! I _did_. And anybody would. Because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--" She stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--I got up and took a walk. Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little. So I done it. But I dasn't go fur, or she'd 'a' sent for me. And when it was late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and "Sid," and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try _that_ no more. And then I went on and told her all what I told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. So then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown-study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says: "Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet! What _has_ become of that boy?" I see my chance; so I skips up and says: "I'll run right up to town and get him," I says. "No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right wher' you are; _one's_ enough to be lost at a time. If he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go." Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went. He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across Tom's track. Aunt Sally was a good _deal_ uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. So she had to be satisfied. But she said she'd set up for him awhile anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it. And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean, and like I couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now and then if I reckoned he could 'a' got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says: "The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good, _won't_ you? And you won't go? For _my_ sake." Laws knows I _wanted_ to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all intending to go; but after that I wouldn't 'a' went, not for kingdoms. But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless. And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I could do something for her, but I couldn't, only to swear that I wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep. CHAPTER XLII The old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track of Tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating anything. And by and by the old man says: "Did I give you the letter?" "What letter?" "The one I got yesterday out of the post-office." "No, you didn't give me no letter." "Well, I must 'a' forgot it." So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. She says: "Why, it's from St. Petersburg--it's from Sis." I allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn't stir. But before she could break it open she dropped it and run--for she see something. And so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and Jim, in _her_ calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. I hid the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and rushed. She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says: "Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!" And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says: "He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way. I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim; and the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the house. The men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like Jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. But the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. So that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their satisfaction out of him. They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he never let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-by cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says: "Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a bad nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I couldn't cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and I see I couldn't do anything at all with him; so I says, I got to have _help_ somehow; and the minute I says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. Of course I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I _was!_ and there I had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. It was a fix, I tell you! I had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course I'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because the nigger might get away, and then I'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuler, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would 'a' done at home--better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I _was_, with both of 'm on my hands, and there I had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had no trouble. And the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. He ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what I think about him." Somebody says: "Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to say." Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing Jim that good turn; and I was glad it was according to my judgment of him, too; because I thought he had a good heart in him and was a good man the first time I see him. Then they all agreed that Jim had acted very well, and was deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. So every one of them promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more. Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was going to say he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but I judged I'd get the doctor's yarn to Aunt Sally somehow or other as soon as I'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me--explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me put in that dratted night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger. But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night, and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around I dodged him. Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and if I found him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. So I set down and laid for him to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuler all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind. So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says: "Hello!--why, I'm at _home!_ How's that? Where's the raft?" "It's all right," I says. "And _Jim?_" "The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. But he never noticed, but says: "Good! Splendid! _Now_ we're all right and safe! Did you tell Aunty?" I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "About what, Sid?" "Why, about the way the whole thing was done." "What whole thing?" "Why, _the_ whole thing. There ain't but one; how we set the runaway nigger free--me and Tom." "Good land! Set the run--What _is_ the child talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!" "_No_, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm talking about. We _did_ set him free--me and Tom. We laid out to do it, and we _done_ it. And we done it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and I see it warn't no use for _me_ to put in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work--weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. And we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think half the fun it was. And we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and make the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--" "Mercy sakes!" "--and load up the cabin with rats and snake's and so on, for company for Jim; and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and _wasn't_ it bully. Aunty!" "Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was _you_, you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. I've as good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o' you this very minute. To think, here I've been, night after night, a--_you_ just get well once, you young scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both o' ye!" But Tom, he _was_ so proud and joyful, he just _couldn't_ hold in, and his tongue just _went_ it--she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says: "_Well_, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it _now_, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with him again--" "Meddling with _who_ Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised. "With _who?_ Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who'd you reckon?" Tom looks at me very grave, and says: "Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? Hasn't he got away?" "_Him?_" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger? 'Deed he hasn't. They've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!" Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to me: "They hain't no _right_ to shut him up! _Shove!_--and don't you lose a minute. Turn him loose! he ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks this earth!" "What _does_ the child mean?" "I mean every word I _say_, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don't go, _I'll_ go. I've knowed him all his life, and so has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and _said_ so; and she set him free in her will." "Then what on earth did _you_ want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?" "Well, that _is_ a question, I must say; and _just_ like women! Why, I wanted the _adventure_ of it; and I'd 'a' waded neck-deep in blood to--goodness alive, _Aunt Polly!"_ If she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may never! Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over her, and I found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for _us_, seemed to me. And I peeped out, and in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at Tom over her spectacles--kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. And then she says: "Yes, you _better_ turn y'r head away--I would if I was you, Tom." "Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "_is_ he changed so? Why, that ain't _Tom_, it's Sid; Tom's--Tom's--why, where is Tom? He was here a minute ago." "You mean where's Huck _Finn_--that's what you mean! I reckon I hain't raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not to know him when I _see_ him. That _would_ be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from under that bed, Huck Finn." So I done it. But not feeling brash. Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever see--except one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn't 'a' understood it. So Tom's Aunt Polly, she told all about who I was, and what; and I had to up and tell how I was in such a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps took me for Tom Sawyer--she chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me Aunt Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'taint no need to change"--that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I had to stand it--there warn't no other way, and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out, and he let on to be Sid, and made things as soft as he could for me. And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Watson setting Jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and I couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he _could_ help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up. Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her that Tom and _Sid_ had come all right and safe, she says to herself: "Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go off that way without anybody to watch him. So now I got to go and trapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's up to _this_ time, as long as I couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it." "Why, I never heard nothing from you," says Aunt Sally. "Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by Sid being here." "Well, I never got 'em. Sis." Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says: "You, Tom!" "Well--_what?_" he says, kind of pettish. "Don't you what _me_, you impudent thing--hand out them letters." "What letters?" "_Them_ letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-holt of you I'll--" "They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're just the same as they was when I got them out of the office. I hain't looked into them, I hain't touched them. But I knowed they'd make trouble, and I thought if you warn't in no hurry, I'd--" "Well, you _do_ need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. And I wrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I s'pose he--" "No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but _it's_ all right, I've got that one." I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing. CHAPTER THE LAST The first time I catched Tom private I asked him what was his idea, time of the evasion?--what it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before? And he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it was. We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. And we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to death and busted out, and says: "_Dah_, now, Huck, what I tell you?--what I tell you up dah on Jackson Islan'? I tole you I got a hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en I _tole_ you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich _ag'in;_ en it's come true; en heah she _is! Dah_, now! doan' talk to _me_--signs is _signs_, mine I tell you; en I knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich ag'in as I's a-stannin' heah dis minute!" And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the territory, for a couple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and I reckon I couldn't get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up. "No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. Hadn't when I come away, anyhow." Jim says, kind of solemn: "He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck." I says: "Why, Jim?" "Nemmine why, Huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo'." But I kept at him; so at last he says: "Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat wuz him." Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd 'a' knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't 'a' tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before. THE END 
36675	----	[Illustration: POTOSI _alias Mine à Burlon_.] SCENES AND ADVENTURES IN THE Semi-Alpine Region OF THE OZARK MOUNTAINS OF MISSOURI AND ARKANSAS, WHICH WERE FIRST TRAVERSED BY DE SOTO, IN 1541. BY HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT. PHILADELPHIA: LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO. 1853. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by HENRY ROWE SCHOOLCRAFT, in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court for the District of Columbia. Dedication. ~~~~~~~~~~~ _To the Memory_ OF DE WITT CLINTON, LATE GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK, &C. &C. &C., AN EARLY FRIEND, DURING THE YEARS DEVOTED TO THESE EXCURSIONS INTO THE GREAT AREA OF THE WEST;-- A MAN WHO WAS EMINENT IN VARIOUS WALKS OF LIFE;-- WHO, BY HIS EXALTED FORECAST, WISE COUNSELS, AND STEADY POLICY, CONTRIBUTED TO THE HIGHEST BENEFITS AND RENOWN OF HIS NATIVE STATE;-- THESE RECORDS OF INCIDENTS OF EXPLORATORY TRAVEL, ARE DEDICATED WITH THE SINCEREST SENTIMENTS OF RESPECT AND REGARD FOR HIS CHARACTER AND NAME, WHICH I EVER ENTERTAINED FOR HIM WHILE LIVING, AND CONTINUE TO CHERISH NOW THAT HE IS DEAD. HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT. PREFACE. These early adventures in the Ozarks comprehend my first exploratory effort in the great area of the West. To traverse the plains and mountain elevations west of the Mississippi, which had once echoed the tramp of the squadrons of De Soto--to range over hills, and through rugged defiles, which he had once searched in the hope of finding mines of gold and silver rivalling those of Mexico and Peru; and this, too, coming as a climax to the panorama of a long, long journey from the East--constituted an attainment of youthful exultation and self-felicitation, which might have been forgotten with its termination. But the incidents are perceived to have had a value of a different kind. They supply the first attempt to trace the track of the Spanish cavaliers west of the Mississippi. The name of De Soto is inseparably connected with the territorial area of Missouri and Arkansas, which he was the first European to penetrate, and in the latter of which he died. Four-and-thirty years have passed away, since the travels here brought to view, were terminated. They comprise a period of exciting and startling events in our history, social and political. With the occupancy of Oregon, the annexation of Texas, the discoveries in California, and the acquisition of New Mexico, the very ends of the Union appear to have been turned about. And the lone scenes and adventures of a man on a then remote frontier, may be thought to have lost their interest. But they are believed to possess a more permanent character. It is the first and _only_ attempt to identify De Soto's march west of the Mississippi; and it recalls reminiscences of scenes and observations which belong to the history of the discovery and settlement of the country. Little, it is conceived, need be said, to enable the reader to determine the author's position on the frontiers of Missouri and Arkansas in 1818. He had passed the summer and fall of that year in investigating the geological structure and mineral resources of the lead-mine district of Missouri. He had discovered the isolated primitive tract on the sources of the St. Francis and Grand rivers--the "Coligoa" of the Spanish adventurer--and he felt a strong impulse to explore the regions west of it, to determine the extent of this formation, and fix its geological relations between the primitive ranges of the Alleghany and Rocky mountains. Reports represented it as an alpine tract, abounding in picturesque valleys and caves, and replete with varied mineral resources, but difficult to penetrate on account of the hostile character of the Osage and Pawnee Indians. He recrossed the Mississippi to the American bottom of Illinois, to lay his plan before a friend and fellow-traveller in an earlier part of his explorations, Mr. Ebenezer Brigham, of Massachusetts, who agreed to unite in the enterprise. He then proceeded to St. Louis, where Mr. Pettibone, a Connecticut man, and a fellow-voyager on the Alleghany river, determined also to unite in this interior journey. The place of rendezvous was appointed at Potosi, about forty miles west of the Mississippi. Each one was to share in the preparations, and some experienced hunters and frontiersmen were to join in the expedition. But it turned out, when the day of starting arrived, that each one of the latter persons found some easy and good excuse for declining to go, principally on the ground that they were poor men, and could not leave supplies for their families during so long a period of absence. Both the other gentlemen came promptly to the point, though one of them was compelled by sickness to return; and my remaining companion and myself plunged into the wilderness with a gust of adventure and determination, which made amends for whatever else we lacked. It is only necessary to add, that the following journal narrates the incidents of the tour. The narrative is drawn up from the original manuscript journal in my possession. Outlines of parts of it, were inserted in the pages of the Belles-lettres Repository, by Mr. Van Winkle, soon after my return to New York, in 1819; from whence they were transferred by Sir Richard Phillips to his collection of Voyages and Travels, London, 1821. This latter work has never been republished in the United States. In preparing the present volume, after so considerable a lapse of time, it has been thought proper to omit all such topics as are not deemed of permanent or historical value. The scientific facts embraced in the appendix, on the mines and mineralogy of Missouri, are taken from my publication on these subjects. In making selections and revisions from a work which was at first hastily prepared, I have availed myself of the advantage of subsequent observation on the spot, as well as of the suggestions and critical remarks made by men of judgment and science. A single further remark may be made: The term Ozark is applied to a broad, elevated district of highlands, running from north to south, centrally, through the States of Missouri and Arkansas. It has on its east the striking and deep alluvial tract of the Mississippi river, and, on its west, the woodless buffalo plains or deserts which stretch below the Rocky Mountains. The Osage Indians, who probably furnish origin for the term, have occupied all its most remarkable gorges and eminences, north of the Arkansas, from the earliest historical times; and this tribe, with the Pawnees ("Apana"), are supposed to have held this position ever since the days of De Soto. WASHINGTON, January 20, 1853. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION Page 13 CHAPTER I. Junction of the Ohio with the Mississippi--Difficulty of Ascending the latter with a Barge--Its turbid and rapid Character--Incidents of the Voyage--Physical Impediments to its Navigation--Falling-in Banks--Tiawapati--Animals--Floating Trees--River at Night--Needless and laughable Alarm--Character of the Shores--Men give out--Reach the first fast Lands--Mineral Products--Cape Girardeau--Moccasin Spring--Non-poetic geographical Names--Grand Tower--Struggle to pass Cape Garlic. 22 CHAPTER II. Pass Cape Garlic--Obrazo River--Cliffs--Emigrants--Cape St. Comb --Bois Brule Bottom--Paroquet--Fort Chartres--Kaskaskia--St. Genevieve--M. Breton--The Mississippi deficient in Fish-- Antiquities--Geology--Steamer--Herculaneum--M. Austin, Esq., the Pioneer to Texas--Journey on foot to St. Louis--Misadventures on the Maramec--Its Indian Name--Carondelet--St. Louis, its fine Site and probable future Importance--St. Louis Mounds not artificial-- Downward Pressure of the diluvial Drift of the Mississippi. 32 CHAPTER III. Resolve to proceed further West--Night Voyage on the Mississippi in a Skiff--An Adventure--Proceed on foot West to the Missouri Mines--Incidents by the Way--Miners' Village of Shibboleth-- Compelled by a Storm to pass the Night at Old Mines--Reach Potosi --Favourable Reception by the mining Gentry--Pass several Months in examining the Mines--Organize an Expedition to explore Westward --Its Composition--Discouragements on setting out--Proceed, notwithstanding--Incidents of the Journey to the Valley of Leaves. 43 CHAPTER IV. Horses elope--Desertion of our Guide--Encamp on one of the Sources of Black River--Head-waters of the River Currents--Enter a romantic Sub-Valley--Saltpetre Caves--Description of Ashley's Cave --Encampment there--Enter an elevated Summit--Calamarca, an unknown Stream--encounter four Bears--North Fork of White River. 54 CHAPTER V. Descend the Valley--Its Difficulties--Horse rolls down a Precipice --Purity of the Water--Accident caused thereby--Elkhorn Spring-- Tower Creek--Horse plunges over his depth in Fording, and destroys whatever is deliquescent in his pack--Absence of Antiquities, or Evidences of ancient Habitation--a remarkable Cavern--Pinched for Food--Old Indian Lodges--The Beaver--A deserted Pioneer's Camp-- Incident of the Pumpkin. 65 CHAPTER VI. Abandon our Camp and Horse in search of Settlements--Incidents of the first Day--Hear a Shot--Camp in an old Indian Lodge--Acorns for Supper--Kill a Woodpecker--Incidents of the second Day-- Sterile Ridges--Want of Water--Camp at Night in a deep Gorge-- Incidents of the third Day--Find a Horse-path, and pursue it-- Discover a Man on Horseback--Reach a Hunter's Cabin--Incidents there--He conducts us back to our old Camp--Deserted there without Provisions--Deplorable State--Shifts--Taking of a Turkey. 74 CHAPTER VII. Proceed West--Bog our Horse--Cross the Knife Hills--Reach the Unica, or White River--Abandon the Horse at a Hunter's, and proceed with Packs--Objects of Pity--Sugar-Loaf Prairie--Camp under a Cliff--Ford the Unica twice--Descend into a Cavern-- Reach Beaver River, the highest Point of Occupancy by a Hunter Population. 83 CHAPTER VIII. Obstacle produced by the Fear of Osage Hostility--Means pursued to overcome it--Natural Monuments of Denudation in the Limestone Cliffs--Purity of the Water--Pebbles of Yellow Jasper--Complete the Hunters' Cabins--A Job in Jewellery--Construct a Blowpipe from Cane--What is thought of Religion. 93 CHAPTER IX. Proceed into the Hunting-Country of the Osages--Diluvial Hills and Plains--Bald Hill--Swan Creek--Osage Encampments--Form of the Osage Lodge--The Habits of the Beaver--Discover a remarkable Cavern in the Limestone Rock, having natural Vases of pure Water--Its geological and metalliferous Character--Reach the Summit of the Ozark Range, which is found to display a broad Region of fertile Soil, overlying a mineral Deposit. 101 CHAPTER X. Depart from the Cave--Character of the Hunters who guided the Author--Incidents of the Route--A beautiful and fertile Country, abounding in Game--Reach the extreme north-western Source of White River--Discoveries of Lead-ore in a Part of its Bed--Encamp, and investigate its Mineralogy--Character, Value, and History of the Country--Probability of its having been traversed by De Soto in 1541. 109 CHAPTER XI. Severe winter Weather on the Summit of the Ozarks--False Alarm of Indians--Danger of my Furnace, etc., being hereafter taken for Antiquities--Proceed South--Animal Tracks in the Snow--Winoca or Spirit Valley--Honey and the Honey-Bee--Buffalo-Bull Creek--Robe of Snow--Mehausca Valley--Superstitious Experiment of the Hunters --Arrive at Beaver Creek. 115 CHAPTER XII. Descend White River in a Canoe--Its pure Water, Character, and Scenery--Places of Stopping--Bear Creek--Sugar-Loaf Prairie--Big Creek--A River Pedlar--Pot Shoals--Mouth of Little North Fork-- Descend formidable Rapids, called the Bull Shoals--Stranded on Rocks--A Patriarch Pioneer--Mineralogy--Antique Pottery and Bones --Some Trace of De Soto--A Trip by Land--Reach the Mouth of the Great North Fork. 120 CHAPTER XIII. Detention at the Mouth of the Great North Fork--Natural History of the Vicinity--Great Blocks of Quartz--Imposing Precipices of the Calico Rock--A Characteristic of American Scenery--Cherokee Occupancy of the Country between the White and Arkansas Rivers-- Its Effects on the Pioneers--Question of the Fate of the Indian Races--Iron-ore--Descent to the Arkansas Ferries--Leave the River at this Point--Remarks on its Character and Productions. 128 CHAPTER XIV. Ancient Spot of De Soto's crossing White River in 1542--Lameness produced by a former Injury--Incidents of the Journey to the St. Francis River--De Soto's ancient Marches and Adventures on this River in the search after Gold--Fossil Salt--Copper--The ancient Ranges of the Buffalo. 134 CHAPTER XV. Proceed North--Incidents of the Route--A severe Tempest of Rain, which swells the Stream--Change in the Geology of the Country-- The ancient Coligoa of De Soto--A primitive and mineral Region-- St. Michael--Mine a La Motte--Wade through Wolf Creek--A Deserted House--Cross Grand River--Return to Potosi. 142 PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE WEST. Two Letters, addressed to the Hon. J. B. Thomas, U. S. Senate, Washington. 146 APPENDIX. MINERALOGY, GEOLOGY, AND MINES. 1. A View of the Lead-Mines of Missouri. 153 2. A Catalogue of the Minerals of the Mississippi Valley. 198 3. Mineral Resources of the Western Country. A Letter to Gen. C. G. Haines. 215 GEOGRAPHY. 1. Missouri. 222 2. Hot Springs of Washita. 231 3. Memoir of White River. 233 4. List of Steamboats on the Mississippi River in 1819. 239 ANTIQUITIES AND INDIAN HISTORY. 1. Articles of curious Workmanship found in ancient Indian Graves. 241 2. Ancient Indian Cemetery found in the Maramec Valley. 243 INTRODUCTION. De Soto, in 1541, was the true discoverer of the Mississippi river, and the first person who crossed it, who has left a narrative of that fact; although it is evident that Cabaca de Vaca, the noted survivor of the ill-fated expedition of Narvaez in 1528, must, in his extraordinary pilgrimage between Florida and the eastern coasts of the gulf of California, have crossed this river, perhaps before him; but he has not distinctly mentioned it in his memoir. Narvaez himself was not the discoverer of the mouth of the Mississippi, as some persons have conjectured, inasmuch as he was blown off the coast and lost, east of that point. The most careful tracing of the narrative of his voyage in boats along the Florida shore, as given by De Vaca, does not carry him beyond Mobile bay, or, at farthest, Perdido bay.[1] De Soto's death frustrated his plan of founding a colony of Spain in the Mississippi valley; and that stream was allowed to roll its vast volume into the gulf a hundred and thirty-two years longer, before it attracted practical notice. Precisely at the end of this time, namely, in 1673, Mons. Jolliet, accompanied by James Marquette, the celebrated enterprising missionary of New France, entered the stream at the confluence of the Wisconsin, in accordance with the policy, and a plan of exploration, of the able, brave, and efficient governor-general of Canada, the Count Frontenac. Marquette and his companion, who was the chief of the expedition, but whose name has become secondary to his own, descended it to the mouth of the Arkansas, the identical spot of De Soto's demise. La Salle, some five or six years later, continued the discovery to the gulf; and Hennepin extended it upward, from the point where Marquette had entered it, to the falls of St. Anthony, and the river St. Francis. And it is from this era of La Salle, the narrators of whose enlarged plans, civic and ecclesiastical, recognised the Indian geographical terminology, that it has retained its Algonquin name of MISSISSIPPI. It is by no means intended to follow these initial facts by recitals of the progress of the subsequent local discoveries in the Mississippi valley, which were made respectively under French, British, and American rule. Sufficient is it, for the present purpose, to say, that the thread of the discovery of the Mississippi, north and west of the points named, was not taken up effectively, till the acquisition of Louisiana. Mr. Jefferson determined to explore the newly acquired territories, and directed the several expeditions of discovery under Lewis and Clark, and Lieut. Z. M. Pike. The former traced out the Missouri to its sources, and followed the Columbia to the Pacific; while the latter continued the discovery of the Mississippi river above St. Anthony's falls where Hennepin, and perhaps Carver, had respectively left it. The map which Pike published in 1810 contained, however, an error of a capital geographical point, in regard to the actual source of the Mississippi. He placed it in Turtle lake, at the source of Turtle river of upper _Lac Cedre Rouge_, or Cass lake, which lies in the portage to Red lake of the great Red River of the North, being in the ordinary route of the fur trade to that region. In 1820, Mr. Calhoun, who determined to erect a cordon of military posts to cover the remotest of the western settlements, at the same time that he despatched Major Long to ascend to the Yellowstone of the Missouri, directed the extreme upper Mississippi to be examined and traced out to its source. This expedition, led by Gov. Cass, through the upper lakes, reached the mouth of Turtle river of the large lake beyond the upper cataract of the Mississippi, which has since borne the name of the intrepid leader of the party. It was satisfactorily determined that Turtle lake was not the source, nor even one of the main sources, of the Mississippi; but that this river was discharged, in the integrity of its volume, into the western end of Cass lake. To determine this point more positively, and trace the river to its source, another expedition was organized by the Department of War in 1832, and committed to me. Taking up the line of discovery where it had been left in 1820, the river was ascended up a series of rapids about forty miles north, to a large lake called the Amigegoma; a few miles above which, it is constituted by two forks, having a southern and western origin, the largest and longest of which was found[2] to originate in Itasca lake, in north latitude 37° 13'--a position not far north of Ottertail lake, in the highlands of HAUTEUR DES TERRES. So far as the fact of De Soto's exploration of the country west of the Mississippi, in the present area of Missouri and Arkansas, is concerned, it is apprehended that the author of these incidents of travel has been the first person to identify and explore this hitherto confused part of the celebrated Spanish explorer's route. This has been traced from the narrative, with the aid of the Indian lexicography, in the third volume of his Indian History (p. 50), just published, accompanied by a map of the entire route, from his first landing on the western head of Tampa bay. Prior to the recital of these personal incidents, it may serve a useful purpose to recall the state of geographical information at this period. The enlarged and improved map of the British colonies, with the geographical and historical analysis, accompanying it, of Lewis Evans, which was published by B. Franklin in 1754, had a controlling effect on all geographers and statesmen of the day, and was an important element in diffusing a correct geographical knowledge of the colonies at large, and particularly of the great valley of the Mississippi, agreeably to modern ideas of its physical extent. It was a great work for the time, and for many years remained the standard of reference. In some of its features, it was never excelled. Mr. Jefferson quotes it, in his Notes on Virginia, and draws from it some interesting opinions concerning Indian history, as in the allusion to the locality and place of final refuge of the Eries. It was from the period of the publication of this memoir that the plan of an "Ohio colony," in which Dr. Franklin had an active agency, appears to have had its origin. Lewis Evans was not only an eminent geographer himself, but his map and memoir, as will appear on reference to them, embrace the discoveries of his predecessors and contemporary explorers, as Conrad Wiser and others, in the West. The adventurous military reconnoissance of Washington to fort Le Boeuf, on lake Erie, was subsequent to this publication. Evans's map and analysis, being the best extant, served as the basis of the published materials used for the topographical guidance of General Braddock on his march over the Alleghany mountains. Washington, himself an eminent geographer, was present in that memorable march; and so judicious and well selected were its movements, through defiles and over eminences, found to be, that the best results of engineering skill, when the commissioners came to lay out the great Cumberland road, could not mend them. Such continued also to be the basis of our general geographical knowledge of the West, at the period of the final capture of fort Du Quesne by General Forbes, and the change of its name in compliment to the eminent British statesman, Pitt. The massacre of the British garrison of Michilimackinac in 1763, the investment of the fort of Detroit in the same year by a combined force of Indian tribes, and the development of an extensive conspiracy, as it has been termed, against the western British posts under Pontiac, constituted a new feature in American history; and the military expeditions of Cols. Bouquet and Bradstreet, towards the West and North-west, were the consequence. These movements became the means of a more perfect geographical knowledge respecting the West than had before prevailed. Hutchinson's astronomical observations, which were made under the auspices of Bouquet, fixed accurately many important points in the Mississippi valley, and furnished a framework for the military narrative of the expedition. In fact, the triumphant march of Bouquet into the very strongholds of the Indians west of the Ohio, first brought them effectually to terms; and this expedition had the effect to open the region to private enterprise. The defeat of the Indians by Major Gladwyn at Detroit had tended to the same end; and the more formal march of Colonel Bradstreet, in 1764, still further contributed to show the aborigines the impossibility of their recovering the rule in the West. Both these expeditions, at distant points, had a very decided tendency to enlarge the boundaries of geographical discovery in the West, and to stimulate commercial enterprise. The Indian trade had been carried to fort Pitt the very year of its capture by the English forces; and it may serve to give an idea of the commercial daring and enterprise of the colonists to add, that, so early as 1766, only two years after Bouquet's expedition, the leading house of Baynton, Wharton & Morgan, of Philadelphia, had carried that branch of trade through the immense lines of forest and river wilderness to fort Chartres, the military capital of the Illinois, on the Mississippi.[3] Its fertile lands were even then an object of scarcely less avidity.[4] Mr. Alexander Henry had, even a year or two earlier, carried this trade to Michilimackinac; and the English flag, the symbol of authority with the tribes, soon began to succeed that of France, far and wide. The Indians, finding the French flag had really been struck finally, submitted, and the trade soon fell, in every quarter, into English hands. The American revolution, beginning within ten years of this time, was chiefly confined to the regions east of the Alleghanies. The war for territory west of this line was principally carried on by Virginia, whose royal governors had more than once marched to maintain her chartered rights on the Ohio. Her blood had often freely flowed on this border, and, while the great and vital contest still raged in the Atlantic colonies, she ceased not with a high hand to defend it, attacked as it was by the fiercest and most deadly onsets of the Indians. In 1780, General George Rogers Clark, the commander of the Virginia forces, visited the vicinity of the mouth of the Ohio, by order of the governor of Virginia, for the purpose of selecting the site for a fort, which resulted in the erection of fort Jefferson, some few miles (I think) below the influx of the Ohio, on the eastern bank of the Mississippi. The United States were then in the fifth year of the war of independence. All its energies were taxed to the utmost extent in this contest; and not the least of its cares arose from the Indian tribes who hovered with deadly hostility on its western borders. It fell to the lot of Clark, who was a man of the greatest energy of character, chivalric courage, and sound judgment, to capture the posts of Kaskaskia and Vincennes, in the Illinois, with inadequate forces at his command, and through a series of almost superhuman toils. And we are indebted to these conquests for the enlarged western boundary inserted in the definitive treaty of peace, signed at Paris in 1783. Dr. Franklin, who was the ablest geographer among the commissioners, made a triumphant use of these conquests; and we are thus indebted to George Rogers Clark for the acquisition of the Mississippi valley. American enterprise in exploring the country may be said to date from the time of the building of fort Jefferson; but it was not till the close of the revolutionary war, in 1783, that the West became the favorite theatre of action of a class of bold, energetic, and patriotic men, whose biographies would form a very interesting addition to our literature. It is to be hoped that such a work may be undertaken and completed before the materials for it, are beyond our reach. How numerous this class of men were, and how quickly they were followed by a hardy and enterprising population, who pressed westward from the Atlantic borders, may be inferred from the fact that the first State formed west of the Ohio river, required but twenty years from the treaty of peace for its complete organization. Local histories and cyclical memoirs have been published in some parts of the West, which, though scarcely known beyond the precincts of their origin, possess their chief value as affording a species of historical material for this investigation. Pioneer life in the West must, indeed, hereafter constitute a prolific source of American reminiscence; but it may be doubted whether any comprehensive work on the subject will be effectively undertaken, while any of this noble band of public benefactors are yet on the stage of life. The acquisition of Louisiana, in 1803, became the period from which may be dated the first efforts of the United States' government to explore the public domain. The great extent of the territory purchased from France, stretching west to the Pacific ocean--its unknown boundaries on the south, west, and north--and the importance and variety of its reputed resources, furnished the subjects which led the Executive, Mr. Jefferson, to direct its early exploration. The expeditions named of Lewis and Clark to Oregon, and of Pike to the sources of the Mississippi, were the consequence. Pike did not publish the results of his search till 1810. Owing to the death of Governor Meriwether Lewis, a still greater delay attended the publication of the details of the former expedition, which did not appear till 1814. No books had been before published, which diffused so much local geographical knowledge. The United States were then engaged in the second war with Great Britain, during which the hostility of the western tribes precluded explorations, except such as could be made under arms. The treaty of Ghent brought the belligerent parties to terms; but the intelligence did not reach the country in season to prevent the battle of New Orleans, which occurred in January 1815. Letters from correspondents in the West, which were often published by the diurnal press, and the lectures of Mr. W. Darby on western and general geography, together with verbal accounts and local publications, now poured a flood of information respecting the fertility and resources of that region, and produced an extensive current of emigration. Thousands were congregated at single points, waiting to embark on its waters. The successful termination of the war had taken away all fear of Indian hostility. The tribes had suffered a total defeat at all points, their great leader Tecumseh had fallen, and there was no longer a basis for any new combinations to oppose the advances of civilization. Military posts were erected to cover the vast line of frontiers on the west and north, and thus fully to occupy the lines originally secured by the treaty of 1783. In 1816, Mr. J. J. Astor, having purchased the North-west Company's posts, lying south of latitude 49°, established the central point of his trade at Michilimackinac. A military post was erected by the government at the falls of St. Anthony, and another at Council Bluffs on the Missouri. The knowledge of the geography and resources of the western country was thus practically extended, although no publication, so far as I am aware, was made on this subject. In the fall of 1816, I determined to visit the Mississippi valley--a resolution which brought me into the situations narrated in the succeeding volume. In the three ensuing years I visited a large part of the West, and explored a considerable portion of Missouri and Arkansas, in which De Soto alone, I believe, had, in 1542, preceded me. My first publication on the results of these explorations was made at New York, in 1819. De Witt Clinton was then on the stage of action, and Mr. Calhoun, with his grasping intellect, directed the energies of the government in exploring the western domain, which, he foresaw, as he told me, must exercise a controlling influence on the destinies of America. In the spring of 1818, Major S. H. Long, U. S. A., was selected by the War Office to explore the Missouri as high as the Yellowstone, and, accompanied by a corps of naturalists from Philadelphia, set out from Pittsburgh in a small steamer. The results of this expedition were in the highest degree auspicious to our knowledge of the actual topography and natural history of the far West, and mark a period in their progress. It was about this time that Colonel H. Leavenworth was directed to ascend the Mississippi, and establish a garrison at the mouth of the St. Peter's or Minnesota river. Early in 1820, the War Department directed an exploratory expedition to be organized at Detroit, under the direction of Lewis Cass, Esq., Governor of Michigan Territory, for the purpose of surveying the upper lakes, and determining the area at the sources of the Mississippi--its physical character, topography, and Indian population. In the scientific corps of this expedition, I received from the Secretary of War the situation of mineralogist and geologist, and published a narrative of it. This species of public employment was repeated in 1821, during which I explored the Miami of the Lakes, and the Wabash and Illinois; and my position assumed a permanent form, in another department of the service, in 1822, when I took up my residence in the great area of the upper lakes. It is unnecessary to the purposes of this sketch to pursue these details further than to say, that the position I occupied was favorable to the investigation of the mineral constitution and natural history of the country, and also of the history, antiquities, and languages and customs, of the Indian tribes. For a series of years, the name of the author has been connected with the progress of discovery and research on these subjects. Events controlled him in the publication of separate volumes of travels, some of which were, confessedly, incomplete in their character, and hasty in their preparation. Had he never trespassed on public attention in this manner, he would not venture, with his present years, and more matured conceptions of a species of labor, where the difficulties are very great, the chances of applause doubtful, and the rewards, under the most favorable auspices, very slender. As it is, there is a natural desire that what has been done, and may be quoted when he has left this feverish scene and gone to his account, should be put in the least exceptionable form. Hence the revision of these travels. FOOTNOTES: [1] Vide Narr. of Cabaca de Vaca, Smith's Tr., 1851. [2] 291 years after De Soto's discovery, and 159 after Marquette's. [3] MS. Journal of Matthew Clarkson, in the possession of Wm. Duane, Esq., Philadelphia. [4] Ibid. INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL. CHAPTER I. JUNCTION OF THE OHIO WITH THE MISSISSIPPI--DIFFICULTY OF ASCENDING THE LATTER WITH A BARGE--ITS TURBID AND RAPID CHARACTER--INCIDENTS OF THE VOYAGE--PHYSICAL IMPEDIMENTS TO ITS NAVIGATION--FALLING-IN BANKS--TIAWAPATI--ANIMALS --FLOATING TREES--RIVER AT NIGHT--NEEDLESS AND LAUGHABLE ALARM--CHARACTER OF THE SHORES--MEN GIVE OUT--REACH THE FIRST FAST LANDS--MINERAL PRODUCTS--CAPE GIRARDEAU-- MOCCASIN SPRING--NON-POETIC GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES--GRAND TOWER--STRUGGLE TO PASS CAPE GARLIC. I reached the junction of the Ohio with the Mississippi on the last day of June, 1818, with feelings somewhat akin to those of one who performs a pilgrimage;--for that Algonquin name of Mississippi had been floating through my mind ever since boyhood, as if it had been invested with a talismanic power. The reading of books of geography, however, makes but a feeble impression on the mind, compared to the actual objects. Born on one of the tributaries of the Hudson--a stream whose whole length, from the junction of the Mohawk, is less than two hundred miles--I had never figured to myself rivers of such magnificent length and velocity. I had now followed down the Ohio, in all its windings, one thousand miles; it was not only the longest, but the most beautiful river which I had ever seen; and I felt something like regret to find it at last swallowed up, as it were, by the turbid and repulsive Mississippi. The latter was at its summer flood, and rushed by like a torrent, which seemed to be overcharged with the broken-down materials of half a continent. De Soto had been the first European to gaze upon this heady mass of waters, urging downward everything that comes within their influence, and threatening to carry even their own banks into the gulf. We came, in a large, heavily-manned barge, to the very point of the influx of the Ohio, where Cairo is now located. It was early in the afternoon; but the captain of our craft, who was a stout-hearted fellow, of decision of character and a full-toned voice, deemed it best to come-to here, and wait till morning to grapple with the Mississippi. There were some old arks on the point, which had been landed in high water, and were now used as houses; but I retained my berth in the barge, and, after looking around the vicinity, amused myself by angling from the sides of the vessel. The only fish I caught was a gar--that almost single variety of the voracious species in these waters, which has a long bill, with sharp teeth, for arousing its prey, apparently, from a muddy bottom. The junction of two such streams as the Ohio and Mississippi, exhibits a remarkable struggle. For miles, along the eastern shores of the Mississippi, the clear blue waters of the Ohio are crowded to the banks; while the furious current of the former, like some monster, finally gulps it down, though the mastery is not obtained, I am told, till near the Chickasaw bluffs. Early in the morning (1st July), the voice of the captain was heard, and the men paraded the sides of the deck, with their long poles shod with iron; and we were soon in the gurgling, muddy channel, struggling along its eastern shore. The men plied their poles with the skill of veterans, planting them as near the margin of the channel as possible, and placing the head of the pole against the shoulder, while they kept their footing by means of slats nailed across the footway. With every exertion, we made but five miles the first day. This slowness of ascent was, however, very favorable to observation. I was the only passenger on board, except two adventurers from the Youghioghany, in Western Pennsylvania, who had freighted the barge, and were in the position of supercargoes. Such tugging and toiling I had never before seen. It seemed to me that no set of men could long stand it. The current ran as if it were charged with power to sweep everything down its course. Its banks were not proof against this impetuosity, and frequently fell in, with a noise and power which threatened to overwhelm us. This danger was often increased by the floating trees, which had fallen into the stream at higher points. And when, after a severe day's toil, the captain ordered the boat to be moored for the night, we felt an insecurity from the fear that the bank itself might prove treacherous before morning. Nothing in the structure of the country appeared to present a very fixed character. The banks of the river were elevated from ten to fifteen feet above the water, and consisted of a dark alluvium, bearing a dense forest. When they became too precipitous, which was an indication that the water at these points was too deep for the men to reach bottom with their poles, they took their oars, and crossed to the other bank. When night came on, in these damp alluvions, and darkness was added to our danger, the scene was indeed gloomy. I remember, this evening, we tried most perseveringly to drink our tea by a feeble light, which appeared to be a signal for the collection of insects far and near, who, by their numbers and the fierceness of their attacks, made it impossible to bring our cups to our mouths without stopping to brush away the fierce and greedy hordes of mosquitoes. Amongst the growth, cane and cotton-wood were most conspicuous. I had a specimen of boatman manners to-day, which should not certainly be a subject of surprise, considering the rough-and-ready life and character of that class. Having laid down on the top deck of the barge a mineralogical specimen to which I attached value, and gone temporarily away, I found, on my return, that it had been knocked to pieces by one of the men, who acted, probably, like the boy who broke the fiddle, "to get the music out" of it. On expressing my disapproval of this, to one who evidently had not the most distant idea of the scientific value of "a stone," he made some trite remark, that "there was more where this came from," and then, stretching himself up at his full length of six feet, with sinews which had plainly become tense and hard from the use of the setting-pole, he exclaimed, "Help yourself!" July 2d. The toils of this day were similar to those of the last. It was a perpetual struggle to overcome the force of the current by poles placed in the bed, and, when that became too deep, we sought for shallower shores. We encountered the same growth of trees along the banks. The land became somewhat more elevated. The insects were in such hordes, that it was amazing. We proceeded but about six miles to-day, and they were miles of incessant toil. July 3d. To the ordinary dangers and efforts of this day, were added the frequent occurrence of snags and sawyers, or planters--terms which denote some of the peculiar impediments of Mississippi navigation. The captain of our craft, who was a courageous and vigilant man, was continually on the look-out to avoid these dangers, and put-to, at night, at the foot of a large cane-covered island, by which he avoided, in some measure, the sweep of the current, but was yet in jeopardy from falling-in banks. He requested me, in this exigency, to take a pole, and, from the bow, sound for bottom, as we crossed the river, to avoid shoals. This I did successfully. We estimated our ascent this day at seven miles. July 4th. The perils and toils of the crew did not prevent their remembrance of the national anniversary; and the captain acknowledged their appeal in the morning by an extra measure of "old Monongahela." We then set forward against the wild, raging current. From the appearance of the wild turkey and large grey squirrel ashore, it is probable that we are passing out of the inundated region. In other respects, the face of the country and its productions appear the same. After ascending about six miles, when the time approached for looking out for a place to moor for the night, a storm of wind suddenly arose, which dashed the water into the barge. We put ashore in haste, at a precipitous bank of an island, which fell in during the night very near to us, and put us in momentary peril. To leave our position in the dark, would be to take the risk of running afoul of snags, or encountering floating trees; but as early as the light appeared on the morning of the 5th, we left the spot immediately, crossing to the western bank. By diligence we made eight miles this day, which brought us to the first settlement at Tiawapeta bottom, on the Missouri shore. This is the first land that appears sufficiently elevated for cultivation. The settlement consists of six or eight farms, where corn, flax, hemp, potatoes, and tobacco, are abundantly raised. The peach and apple-tree also thrive. I observed the papaw and persimmon among the wild fruits. July 6th. The downward movement of the water, and its gurgling and rush as it meets with obstacles, is very audible after the barge has been fastened to the shore for the night, when its fearful impetuosity, surcharged as it is with floating wrecks of forest life, is impressive to the listener, while night has thrown her dark pall over the scene. Early in the morning, the oarsmen and polemen were at their masculine toils. I had feared that such intense application of muscle, in pushing forward the boat, would exhaust their strength; and we had not gone over three miles this day, when we were obliged to lay-by for the want of more competent hands. The complaining men were promptly paid, and furnished with provisions to return. While detained by this circumstance, we were passed by a boat of similar construction to our own, laden with planks from Olean, on the sources of the Alleghany river, in New York. This article had been transported already more than thirteen hundred miles, on its way to a market at St. Louis, where it was estimated to be worth sixty dollars per thousand feet. While moored along this coast, the day after we had thus escaped from the treacherous island, we seemed to have taken shelter along a shore infested by wild beasts. "Grizzly bear!" was the cry at night. We were all alarmed by a snorting and disturbance at the water's edge, a short distance below us, which, it was soon evident, proceeded from a _large_, light-colored, and furious animal. So far, all agreed. One of our Pennsylvanians, who had a choice rifle, prepared himself for the attack. The captain, who had no lack of resolution, and would, at any rate, have become bold by battling the Mississippi river for six or seven days, had some missiles; and all prepared to be useful on the occasion. As I carried nothing more deadly than a silver crucible and some acids, I remained on the upper deck of the barge. From this elevation I soon saw, by the dim moonlight, the whole party return, without having fired a gun. It turned out that the cause of this unusual disturbance was a large white hog, which had been shot in the head and snout with swan-shot, by some cruel fellows, the preceding day, and came at night to mitigate its burning and festering wounds by bathing in the river. July 7th. Having procured some additional hands, our invincible captain pressed stoutly forward, and, at an early hour, we reached the head of Tiawapeta bottom, where a short stop was made. At this point, the bed of the Mississippi appears to be crossed by a chain of rocks, which oppose, however, no obstruction to its navigation. Such masses of it as appear on shore, are silico-carbonates of lime, and seem to belong to the metalliferous system of Missouri. About half a mile above the commencement of this chain, I observed, at the foot of an elevation near the water's edge, a remarkable stratum of white aluminous earth, of a rather dry and friable character, resembling chalk, and which, I afterwards observed, was extensively used by mechanics in Missouri as a substitute for that article. Masses, and in some instances nodules, of hornstone, resembling true flint, are found imbedded in it; yet it is not to be confounded with the chalk formation. It yields no effervescence with nitric, and is wholly destitute of carbonic, acid. Portions of the stratum are colored deeply by the red oxide of iron. Scattered along the shores of the river at this place, I observed large, angular masses of pudding-stone, consisting chiefly of silicious pebbles and sand, cemented by oxide of iron. I now began to breathe more freely. For seven days we had been passing through such a nascent region, down which the Mississippi swept at so furious a rate, that I never felt sure, at night, that I should behold another day. Had the barge, any day, lost her heading and got athwart the stream, nothing could have prevented the water from rushing over her gunwales, and sweeping her to destruction. And the whole district of the alluvial banks was subject to be momentarily undermined, and frequently tumbled in, with the noise and fury of an avalanche, threatening destruction to whatever was in the vicinity. Owing to the increased firmness of the shore, and the reinforcement of hands, we ascended this day ten miles. We began to feel in better spirits. July 8th. The calcareous and elevated formation of rocks, covered with geological drift, continued constantly along the Missouri shore; for it was this shore, and not the Illinois side, that we generally hugged. This drift, on ascending the elevations, consisted of a hard and reddish loam, or marly clay, filled with pebble-stones of various kinds, and fragments and chips of hornstone, chert, common jasper, argillaceous oxide of iron, radiated quartz, and quartz materials, betokening the disruption, in ancient eras, of prior formations. The trees observed on the diluvial elevations were oaks, sassafras, and, on the best lands, walnut, but of sparse growth; with a dense forest of cotton-wood, sycamore, and elm, on the alluvions. On ascending the river five miles, we came to the town of Cape Girardeau, consisting of about fifty wooden buildings of all sorts, with a post-office and two stores. We were now at the computed distance of fifty miles above the influx of the Ohio. We went no farther that day. This gave me an opportunity to explore the vicinity. I had not yet put my foot ashore, when a fellow-passenger brought me a message from one of the principal merchants of the place, desiring me to call at his store, and aid him in the examination of some drugs and medicines which he had newly received. On reaching his store, I was politely ushered into a back room, where some refreshments were handsomely set out. The whole thing was, in fact, designed as a friendly welcome to a professional man, who came neither to sell nor buy, but simply to inquire into the resources and natural history of the country. At this trait of hospitality and appreciation in a stranger, I took courage, and began to perceive that the West might be relied on. I found the town of Cape Girardeau situated on an elevation of rich, red, marly soil, highly charged with oxide of iron, which is characteristic of the best arable soils of the mine country. This soil appears to be very readily dissolved in water, and carried off rapidly by rains, which furnishes a solution to the deep gulfs and gorges that disfigure many parts of the cultivated high grounds. If such places were sown with the seeds of grass, it would give fixity to the soil, and add much to the beauty of the landscape. July 9th. We resumed our journey up the rapid stream betimes, but, with every exertion, ascended only seven miles. The river, in this distance, preserves its general character; the Missouri shores being rocky and elevated, while the vast alluvial tracts of the Illinois banks spread out in densely wooded bottoms. But, while the Missouri shores create the idea of greater security by their fixity, and freedom from treacherous alluvions, this very fixity of rocky banks creates jets of strong currents, setting around points, which require the greatest exertions of the bargemen to overcome. To aid them in these exigencies, the _cordelle_ is employed. This consists of a stout rope fastened to a block in the bow of the barge, which is then passed over the shoulders of the men, who each at the same time grasp it, and lean hard forward. July 10th. To me, the tardiness of our ascent, after reaching the rock formations, was extremely favorable, as it facilitated my examinations. Every day the mineralogy of the western banks became more interesting, and I was enabled daily to add something to my collection. This day, I picked up a large fragment of the pseudo pumice which is brought down the Missouri by its summer freshets. This mineral appears to have been completely melted; and its superficies is so much enlarged by vesicles filled with air, and its specific gravity thereby so much reduced, as to permit it to float in water. We encamped this evening, after an ascent of seven miles, at a spot called the Moccasin Spring, which is contained in a crevice in a depressed part of the limestone formation. July 11th. This day was signalized by our being passed by a small steamer of forty tons burden, called the Harriet, laden with merchandise for St. Louis. Viewed from our stand-point, she seemed often nearly stationary, and sometimes receded, in her efforts to stem the fierce current; but she finally ascended, slowly and with labor. The pressure of the stream, before mentioned, against the rocky barrier of the western banks, was found, to-day, to be very strong. With much ado, with poles and cordelle, we made but five miles. July 12th. We passed the mouth of Great Muddy river, on the Illinois shore, this morning. This stream, it is said, affords valuable beds of coal. The name of the river does not appear to be very poetic, nor very characteristic, in a region where every tributary stream is muddy; the Mississippi itself being muddy above all others. But, thanks to the Indians, they have not embodied that idea in the name of the Father of rivers; its greatness, with them, being justly deemed by far its most characteristic trait. About two miles above this locality, we came to one of the geological wonders of the Mississippi, called the Grand Tower. It is a pile of limestone rocks, rising precipitously from the bed of the river in a circular form, resembling a massive castle. The height of this geological monument may be about one hundred feet. It is capped by some straggling cedars, which have caught a footing in the crevices. It might, with as much propriety as one of the Alps, be called the Jungfrau (Virgin); for it seems impossible that any human being should ever have ascended it. The main channel of the river passes east of it. There is a narrower channel on the west, which is apparently more dangerous. We crossed the river below this isolated cliff, and landed at some cavernous rocks on the Illinois side, which the boatmen, with the usual propensity of unlettered men, called the Devil's Oven. We then recrossed the river, and, after ascending a distance along the western shore, were repulsed in an attempt, with the cordelle, to pass Garlic Point. The captain then made elaborate preparations for a second attempt, but again failed. A third effort, with all our appliances, was resolved on, but with no better success; and we came-to, finally, for the night, in an eddy below the point, having advanced, during the day, seven miles. If we did not make rapid progress, I had good opportunities of seeing the country, and of contemplating this majestic river in one of its most characteristic phases--namely, its summer flood. I pleased myself by fancying, as I gazed upon its rushing eddies of mud and turbid matter, that I at least beheld a part of the Rocky mountains, passing along _in the liquid state_! It was a sight that would have delighted the eyes of Hutton; for methinks the quantity of detritus and broken-down strata would not have required, in his mind, many cycles to upbuild a continent. Mountains to chaos are by waters hurled, And re-create the geologic world. CHAPTER II. PASS CAPE GARLIC--OBRAZO RIVER--CLIFFS--EMIGRANTS--CAPE ST. COMB--BOIS BRULE BOTTOM--PAROQUET--FORT CHARTRES--KASKASKIA --ST. GENEVIEVE--M. BRETON--THE MISSISSIPPI DEFICIENT IN FISH--ANTIQUITIES--GEOLOGY--STEAMER--HERCULANEUM--M. AUSTIN, ESQ., THE PIONEER TO TEXAS--JOURNEY ON FOOT TO ST. LOUIS-- MISADVENTURES ON THE MARAMEC--ITS INDIAN NAME--CARONDELET-- ST. LOUIS, ITS FINE SITE AND PROBABLE FUTURE IMPORTANCE--ST. LOUIS MOUNDS NOT ARTIFICIAL--DOWNWARD PRESSURE OF THE DILUVIAL DRIFT OF THE MISSISSIPPI. July 13th. We renewed the attempt to pass Cape Garlic at an early hour, and succeeded after a protracted and severe trial. But two of our best men immediately declared their unwillingness to proceed farther in these severe labors, in which they were obliged to pull like oxen; and they were promptly paid off by the captain, and permitted to return. The crew, thus diminished, went on a short distance further with the barge, and came-to at the mouth of the Obrazo river, to await the effort of our commander to procure additional hands. We had not now advanced more than two miles, which constituted the sum of this day's progress. While moored here, we were passed by four boats filled with emigrants from Vermont and Western New York, destined for Boon's Lick, on the Missouri. I embraced the occasion of this delay to make some excursions in the vicinity. July 14th. Having been successful in obtaining a reinforcement of hands from the interior, we pursued the ascent, and made six miles along the Missouri shore. The next day (15th) we ascended seven miles. This leisurely tracing of the coast revealed to me some of the minutest features of its geological structure. The cliffs consist of horizontal strata of limestone, resting on granular crystalline sandstone. Nothing can equal the beauty of the varying landscape presented for the last two days. There has appeared a succession of the most novel and interesting objects. Whatever pleasure can be derived from the contemplation of natural objects, presented in surprising and picturesque groups, can here be enjoyed in the highest degree. Even art may be challenged to contrast, with more effect, the bleak and rugged cliff with the verdant forest, the cultivated field, or the wide-extended surface of the Mississippi, interspersed with its beautiful islands, and winding majestically through a country, which only requires the improvements of civilized and refined society, to render it one of the most delightful residences of man. Nor is it possible to contemplate the vast extent, fertility, resources, and increasing population of this immeasurable valley, without feeling a desire that our lives could be prolonged to an unusual period, that we might survey, an hundred years hence, the improved social and political condition of the country, and live to participate in its advantages, improvements, and power. All the emigrants whom we have passed seem to be buoyed up by a hopeful and enterprising character; and, although most of them are manifestly from the poorest classes, and are from twelve to fifteen hundred miles on their adventurous search for a new home, from none have I heard a word of despondency. July 16th. I observed to-day, at Cape St. Comb, large angular fragments of a species of coarse granular sandstone rock, which appear to be _disjecta membra_ of a much more recent formation than that underlying the prevalent surface formation. The gay and noisy paroquet was frequently seen, this day, wheeling in flocks over the river; and at one point, which was revealed suddenly, we beheld a large flock of pelicans standing along a low, sandy peninsula. Either the current, during to-day's voyage, was less furious, or the bargemen exerted more strength or skill; for we ascended ten miles, and encamped at the foot of _Bois Brule_ (Burnt-wood) bottom. The term "bottom" is applied, in the West, to extensive tracts of level and arable alluvial soil, whether covered by, or denuded of, native forest trees. We found it the commencement of a comparatively populous and flourishing settlement, having on the next day (17th) passed along its margin for seven miles. Its entire length is twelve miles. July 18th. The most prominent incidents of this day were the passing, on the Illinois shore, of the celebrated site of fort Chartres, and the influx of the Kaskaskia (or, as it is abbreviated by the men, _Ocaw_ or _Caw_) river--a large stream on the eastern shore. These names will recall some of the earliest and most stirring scenes of Illinois history. The town of Kaskaskia, which is the present seat of the territorial government, is seated seven miles above its mouth. Fort Chartres is now a ruin, and, owing to the capricious channel of the Mississippi, is rapidly tumbling into it. It had been a regular work, built of stone, according to the principles of military art. Its walls formerly contained not only the chief element of military power in French Illinois, but also sheltered the ecclesiastics and traders of the time. In an old manuscript journal of that fort which I have seen, a singular custom of the Osages is mentioned, on the authority of one Mons. Jeredot. He says (Dec. 22, 1766) that they have a feast, which they generally celebrate about the month of March, when they bake a large (corn) cake of about three or four feet diameter, and of two or three inches thickness. This is cut into pieces, from the centre to the circumference; and the principal chief or warrior arises and advances to the cake, when he declares his valor, and recounts his noble actions. If he is not contradicted, or none has aught to allege against him, he takes a piece of the cake, and distributes it among the boys of the nation, repeating to them his noble exploits, and exhorting them to imitate them. Another then approaches, and in the same manner recounts his achievements, and proceeds as before. Should any one attempt to take of the cake, to whose character there is the least exception, he is stigmatized and set aside as a poltroon. It is said by some of the oldest and most intelligent inhabitants of St. Louis, that about 1768, when the British had obtained possession of fort Chartres, a very nefarious transaction took place in that vicinity, in the assassination of the celebrated Indian chief Pontiac. Tradition tells us that this man had exercised great influence in the North and West, and that he resisted the transfer of authority from the French to the English, on the fall of Canada. Carver has a story on this subject, detailing the siege of Detroit in 1763, which has been generally read. The version of Pontiac's death in Illinois, is this:--While encamped in this vicinity, an Illinois Indian, who had given in his adherence to the new dynasty of the English, was hired by the promise of rum, by some English traders, to assassinate the chief, while the latter was reposing on his pallet at night, still vainly dreaming, perhaps, of driving the English out of America, and of restoring his favorite Indo-Gallic empire in the West. July 19th. We ascended the Mississippi seven miles yesterday, to which, by all appliances, we added eleven miles to-day, which is our maximum ascent in one day. Five miles of this distance, along the Missouri shore, consists of the great public field of St. Genevieve. This field is a monument of early French policy in the days of Indian supremacy, when the agricultural population of a village was brought to labor in proximity, so that any sudden and capricious attack of the natives could be effectively repelled. We landed at the mouth of the Gabarie, a small stream which passes through the town. St. Genevieve lies on higher ground, above the reach of the inundations, about a mile west of the landing. It consists of some three hundred wooden houses, including several stores, a post-office, court-house, Roman Catholic church, and a branch of the Missouri Bank, having a capital of fifty thousand dollars. The town is one of the principal markets and places of shipment for the Missouri lead-mines. Heavy stacks of lead in pigs, are one of the chief characteristics which I saw in, and often piled up in front of its storehouses; and they give one the idea of a considerable export in this article. July 20th. I devoted this day to a reconnoissance of St. Genevieve and its environs. The style of building reminds one of the ancient Belgic and Dutch settlements on the banks of the Hudson and Mohawk--high-pointed roofs to low one-story-buildings, and large stone chimneys out-doors. The streets are narrow, and the whole village as compact as if built to sustain a siege. The water of the Mississippi is falling rapidly, and leaves on the shores a deposit of mud, varying from a foot to two feet in depth. This recent deposit appears to consist essentially of silex and alumine, in a state of very intimate mixture. An opinion is prevalent throughout this country, that the water of the Mississippi, with every impurity, is healthful as a common drink; and accordingly the boatmen, and many of the inhabitants on the banks of the river, make use of no other water. An expedient resorted to at first, perhaps, from necessity, may be continued from an impression of the benefits resulting from it. I am not well enough acquainted with the chemical properties of the water, or the method in which it operates on the human system, to deny its utility; but, to my palate, clear spring-water is far preferable. A simple method is pursued for clarifying it: a handful of Indian meal is sprinkled on the surface of a vessel of water, precipitating the mud to the bottom, and the superincumbent water is left in a tolerable state of purity. July 21st. We again set forward this morning. On ascending three miles, we came to Little Rock ferry--a noted point of crossing from the east to the west of the Mississippi. The most remarkable incident in the history of this place is the residence of an old French soldier, of an age gone by, who has left his name in the geography of the surrounding country. _M. Breton_, the person alluded to, is stated to be, at this time, one hundred and nine years of age. Tradition says that he was at Braddock's defeat--at the siege of Louisbourg--at the building of fort Chartres, in the Illinois--and at the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom, in Flanders. While wandering as a hunter, after his military services had ended, in the country about forty miles west of the Mississippi, he discovered the extensive lead-mines which continue to bear his name. We ascended this day twelve miles, which is the utmost stretch of our exertions against the turbid and heavy tide of this stream. Our captain (Ensminger) looked in the evening as if he had been struggling all day in a battle, and his men took to their pallets as if exhausted to the last degree. July 22d. I have seen very little, thus far, in the Mississippi, in the shape of fish. The only species noticed has been the gar; one of which I caught, as described, from the side of the boat, while lying at the mouth of the Ohio. Of all rivers in the West, I should think it the least favorable to this form of organized matter. Of the coarse species of the catfish and buffalo-fish which are found in its waters, I suppose the freshet has deprived us of a sight. Of antiquities, I have seen nothing since leaving the Ohio valley till this day, when I picked up, in my rambles on shore, an ancient Indian dart, of chert. The Indian antiquities on the Illinois shore, however, are stated to be very extensive. Near the Kaskaskia river are numerous mounds and earthworks, which denote a heavy ancient population. The limestone cliffs, at the place called Dormant Rocks, assume a very imposing appearance. These precipitous walls bear the marks of attrition in water-lines, very plainly impressed, at great heights above the present water-level; creating the idea that they may have served as barriers to some ancient ocean resting on the grand prairies of Illinois. We were passed, near evening, by the little steamer Harriet, on her descent from St. Louis. This vessel is the same that was noticed on the 11th, on her ascent, and is the only representative of steam-power that we have observed.[5] Our ascent this day was estimated at thirteen miles. July 23d. Passing the Platten creek, the prominence called Cornice Rock, and the promontory of Joachim creek, an ascent of five miles brought us to the town of Herculaneum. This name of a Roman city buried for ages, gives, at least, a moral savor of antiquity to a country whose institutions are all new and nascent. It was bestowed, I believe, by Mr. Austin, who is one of the principal proprietors of the place. It consists of between thirty and forty houses, including three stores, a post-office, court-house, and school. There are three shot-towers on the adjoining cliffs, and some mills, with a tan-yard and a distillery, in the vicinity. It is also a mart for the lead-mine country. I had now ascended one hundred and seventy miles from the junction of the Ohio. This had required over twenty-two days, which gives an average ascent of between seven and eight miles per day, and sufficiently denotes the difficulty of propelling boats up this stream by manual labor. At Herculaneum I was introduced to M. Austin, Esq.--a gentleman who had been extensively engaged in the mining business while the country was yet under Spanish jurisdiction, and who was favorably known, a few years after, as the prime mover of the incipient steps to colonize Texas. Verbal information, from him and others, appeared to make this a favorable point from which to proceed into the interior, for the purpose of examining its mineral structure and peculiarities. I therefore determined to leave my baggage here until I had visited the territorial capital, St. Louis. This was still thirty miles distant, and, after making the necessary preparations, I set out, on the 26th of the month, on foot. In this journey I was joined by my two _compagnons de voyage_ from Pennsylvania and Maryland. We began our march at an early hour. The summer had now assumed all its fervor, and power of relaxation and lassitude on the muscles of northern constitutions. We set out on foot early, but, as the day advanced, the sun beat down powerfully, and the air seemed to owe all its paternity to tropical regions. It was in vain we reached the summit land. There was no breeze, and the forest trees were too few and widely scattered to afford any appreciable shade. The soil of the Missouri uplands appears to possess a uniform character, although it is better developed in some localities than in others. It is the red mineral clay, which, in some of its conditions, yields beds of galena throughout the mine country, bearing fragments of quartz in some of its numerous varieties. In these uplands, its character is not so well marked as in the districts further west; geologically considered, however, it is identical in age and relative position. The _gullied_ character of the soil, and its liability to crumble under the effect of rain, and to be carried off, which was first noticed at Cape Girardeau, is observed along this portion of the river, and is most obvious in the gulfy state of the roads. What added greatly to our fatigue in crossing this tract, was the having taken a too westerly path, which gave us a roundabout tramp. On returning to the main track, we forded Cold river, a rapid and clear brook; a little beyond which, we reached a fine, large, crystal spring, the waters of which bubbled up briskly and bright, and ran off from their point of outbreak to the river we had just crossed, leaving a white deposit of sulphur. The water is pretty strongly impregnated with this mineral, and is supposed to have a beneficial effect in bilious complaints. The scenery in the vicinity of the spring is highly picturesque, and the place is capable of being made a delightful resort. Five miles more brought us to the banks of the Maramec river, where we arrived at dark, and prevailed with the ferryman to take us across, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, and the rain, which, after having threatened a shower all the afternoon, now began to fall. The Maramec is the principal stream of the mine country, and is the recipient of affluents, spreading over a large area. The aboriginal name of this stream, Mr. Austin informed me, should be written "Marameg." The ferryman seemed in no hurry to put us over this wide river, at so late an hour, and with so portentous a sky as hung over us, threatening every moment to pour down floods upon us. By the time we had descended from his house into the valley, and he had put us across to the opposite shore, it was dark. We took his directions for finding the house at which we expected to lodge; but it soon became so intensely dark, that we pursued a wrong track, which led us away from the shelter we sought. Satisfied at length that we had erred, we knew not what to do. It then began to pour down rain. We groped about a while, but finally stood still. In this position, we had not remained long, when the faint tinkling of a cow-bell, repeated leisurely, as if the animal were housed, fell on our ears. The direction of the sound was contrary to that we had been taking; but we determined to grope our way cautiously toward it, guided at intervals by flashes of lightning which lit up the woods, and standing still in the meanwhile to listen. At length we came to a fence. This was a guide, and by keeping along one side of it, it led us to the house of which we were in search. We found that, deducting our misadventure in the morning, we had advanced on our way, directly, but about fifteen miles. July 27th. We were again on our path at a seasonable hour, and soon passed out of the fertile and heavily timbered valley of the Maramec. There now commenced a gentle ridge, running parallel to the Mississippi river for twelve miles. In this distance there was not a single house, nor any trace that man had bestowed any permanent labor. It was sparsely covered with oaks, standing at long distances apart, with the intervening spaces profusely covered with prairie grass and flowers. We frequently saw the deer bounding before us; and the views, in which we sometimes caught glimpses of the river, were of a highly sylvan character. But the heat of the day was intense, and we sweltered beneath it. About half-way, we encountered a standing spring, in a sort of open cavern at the foot of a hill, and stooped down and drank. We then went on, still "faint and wearily," to the old French village of Carondelet, which bears the soubriquet of _Vede-pouche_ (empty sack). It contains about sixty wooden buildings, arranged mostly in a single street. Here we took breakfast. Being now within six miles of the place of our destination, and recruited and refreshed, we pushed on with more alacrity. The first three miles led through a kind of brushy heath, which had the appearance of having once been covered with large trees that had all been cut away for firing, with here and there a dry trunk, denuded and white, looking like ghosts of a departed forest. Patches of cultivation, with a few buildings, then supervened. These tokens of a better state of things increased in frequency and value till we reached the skirts of the town, which we entered about four o'clock in the afternoon. St. Louis impressed me as a geographical position of superlative advantages for a city. It now contains about five hundred and fifty houses, and five thousand inhabitants. It has forty stores, a post-office, a land-office, two chartered banks, a court-house, jail, theatre, three churches, one brewery, two distilleries, two water-mills, a steam flouring-mill, and other improvements. These elements of prosperity are but indications of what it is destined to become. The site is unsurpassed for its beauty and permanency; a limestone formation rising from the shores of the Mississippi, and extending gradually to the upper plain. It is in north latitude 38° 36', nearly equidistant from the Alleghany and the Rocky mountains. It is twelve hundred miles above New Orleans, and about one thousand below St. Anthony's falls. No place in the world, situated so far from the ocean, can at all compare with St. Louis for commercial advantages. It is so situated with regard to the surrounding country, as to become the key to its commerce, and the storehouse of its wealth; and if the whole western region be surveyed with a geographical eye, it must rest with unequalled interest on that peninsula of land formed by the junction of the Missouri with the Mississippi--a point occupied by the town of St. Louis. Standing near the confluence of two such mighty streams, an almost immeasurable extent of back country must flow to it with its produce, and be supplied from it with merchandise. The main branch of the Missouri is navigable two thousand five hundred miles, and the most inconsiderable of its tributary streams will vie with the largest rivers of the Atlantic States. The Mississippi, on the other hand, is navigable without interruption for one thousand miles above St. Louis. Its affluents, the De Corbeau, Iowa, Wisconsin, St. Pierre, Rock river, Salt river, and Desmoines, are all streams of the first magnitude, and navigable for many hundred miles. The Illinois is navigable three hundred miles; and when the communication between it and the lakes, and between the Mississippi and lake Superior, and the lake of the Woods--between the Missouri and the Columbia valley--shall be effected; communications not only pointed out, but, in some instances, almost completed by nature; what a chain of connected navigation shall we behold! And by looking upon the map, we shall find St. Louis the focus where all these streams are destined to be discharged--the point where all this vast commerce must centre, and where the wealth flowing from these prolific sources must pre-eminently crown her the queen of the west. My attention was called to two large mounds, on the western bank of the Mississippi, a short distance above St. Louis. I have no hesitation in expressing the opinion that they are geological, and not artificial. Indian bodies have been buried in their sides, precisely as they are often buried by the natives in other elevated grounds, for which they have a preference. But the mounds themselves consist of sand, boulders, pebbles, and other drift materials, such as are common to undisturbed positions in the Mississippi valley generally. Another subject in the physical geography of the country attracted my notice, the moment the river fell low enough to expose its inferior shores, spits, and sand-bars. It is the progressive diffusion of its detritus from superior to inferior positions in its length. Among this transported material I observed numerous small fragments of those agates, and other silicious minerals of the quartz family, which characterize the broad diluvial tracts about its sources and upper portions. FOOTNOTE: [5] I found fifty steamers of all sizes on the Mississippi and its tributaries, of which a list is published in the Appendix. CHAPTER III. RESOLVE TO PROCEED FURTHER WEST--NIGHT VOYAGE ON THE MISSISSIPPI IN A SKIFF--AN ADVENTURE--PROCEED ON FOOT WEST TO THE MISSOURI MINES--INCIDENTS BY THE WAY--MINERS' VILLAGE OF SHIBBOLETH--COMPELLED BY A STORM TO PASS THE NIGHT AT OLD MINES--REACH POTOSI--FAVORABLE RECEPTION BY THE MINING GENTRY--PASS SEVERAL MONTHS IN EXAMINING THE MINES--ORGANIZE AN EXPEDITION TO EXPLORE WESTWARD--ITS COMPOSITION--DISCOURAGEMENTS ON SETTING OUT--PROCEED, NOTWITHSTANDING--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY TO THE VALLEY OF LEAVES. I was kindly received by some persons I had before known, particularly by a professional gentleman with whom I had descended the Alleghany river in the preceding month of March, who invited me to remain at his house. I had now proceeded about seventeen hundred miles from my starting-point in Western New York; and after passing a few days in examining the vicinity, and comparing facts, I resolved on the course it would be proper to pursue, in extending my journey further west and south-west. I had felt, for many years, an interest in the character and resources of the mineralogy of this part of what I better knew as Upper Louisiana, and its reported mines of lead, silver, copper, salt, and other natural productions. I had a desire to see the country which De Soto had visited, west of the Mississippi, and I wished to trace its connection with the true Cordillera of the United States--the Stony or Rocky mountains. My means for undertaking this were rather slender. I had already drawn heavily on these in my outward trip. But I felt (I believe from early reading) an irrepressible desire to explore this region. I was a good draughtsman, mapper, and geographer, a ready penman, a rapid sketcher, and a naturalist devoted to mineralogy and geology, with some readiness as an assayer and experimental chemist; and I relied on these as both aids and recommendations--as, in short, the incipient means of success. When ready to embark on the Mississippi, I was joined by my two former companions in the ascent from the mouth of the Ohio. It was late in the afternoon of one of the hottest summer days, when we took our seats together in a light skiff at St. Louis, and pushed out into the Mississippi, which was still in flood, but rapidly falling, intending to reach Cahokia that night. But the atmosphere soon became overcast, and, when night came on, it was so intensely dark that we could not discriminate objects at much distance. Floating, in a light pine skiff, in the centre of such a stream, on a very dark night, our fate seemed suspended by a thread. The downward pressure of the current was such, that we needed not to move an oar; and every eye was strained, by holding it down parallel to the water, to discover contiguous snags, or floating bodies. It became, at the same time, quite cold. We at length made a shoal covered with willows, or a low sandy islet, on the left, or Illinois shore. Here, one of my Youghioghany friends, who had not yet got over his _penchant_ for grizzly bears, returned from reconnoitering the bushes, with the cry of this prairie monster with a cub. It was too dark to scrutinize, and, as we had no arms, we pushed on hurriedly about a mile further, and laid down, rather than slept, on the shore, without victuals or fire. At daylight, for which we waited anxiously, we found ourselves nearly opposite Carondelet, to which we rowed, and where we obtained a warm breakfast. Before we had finished eating, our French landlady called for pay. Whether anything on our part had awakened her suspicions, or the deception of others had rendered the precaution necessary, I cannot say. Recruited in spirits by this meal, and by the opening of a fine, clear day, we pursued our way, without further misadventure, about eighteen miles, and landed at Herculaneum. The next day, which was the last of July, I set out on foot for the mines, having directed my trunks to follow me by the first returning lead-teams. My course led through an open, rolling country, covered with grass, shrubs, and prairie flowers, and having but few trees. There was consequently little or no shade, and, the weather being sultry, I suffered much from heat and thirst. For the space of about twelve miles, the road ran over an elevated ridge, destitute of streams or springs. I did not meet an individual, nor see anything of the animal creation larger than a solitary wild turkey, which, during the hottest part of the day, came to contest with me for, or rather had previously reached, some water standing in a wagon-rut. I gained the head of the Joachim creek before nightfall, and, having taken lodgings, hastened down to a sheltered part of the channel to bathe, after which I enjoyed a refreshing night's sleep. The aboriginal name of this stream was "Zwashau," meaning pin-oak, as I was told by an old hunter whom I met. The next day I was early on my way; and I soon began to discover, in the face of the country, evidences of its metalliferous character. Twelve miles brought me to the valley of Grand or Big river, one of the principal tributaries of the Maramec. In descending the high grounds, I observed numerous specimens of the brown oxide of iron; and after crossing the ferry, the mineral locally called mineral blossom, (radiated quartz,) of which I had noticed slight traces before, developed itself in fine specimens. The first mining village I came to, bore the name of Shibboleth. At this place there was a smelting furnace, of the kind called a log-furnace. Here I first saw heaps of the ore of lead commonly found. It is the sulphuret, of a broad glittering grain, and cubical fracture. It is readily smelted, being piled on logs of equal length, and adjusted in the before-named furnace, where it is roasted till the sulphur is driven off; when desulphurated, it melts, and the metal is received on an inclined plane and conducted into an orifice, from which it is ladled into moulds. From fifty to sixty per cent, is obtained in this way. Shibboleth is the property of John Smith T.; a man whose saturnine temper and disposition have brought him into collision with many persons, and given him a wide-spread notoriety both in Missouri and Tennessee. I lingered along so leisurely, and stopped so often to examine objects by the way, that my progress was not rapid. I obtained some corn-bread and milk at a house, and pursued my journey to Old Mines, where a heavy storm of rain arose. I took shelter at a neighboring house, where I remained during the night. The next morning I walked into Potosi, and took lodgings at Mr. William Ficklin's. This gentleman was a native of Kentucky, where most of his life had been passed in the perils and adventures attending the early settlement of that State. His conversation was replete with anecdotes of perilous adventures which he had experienced; and I was indebted to him for some necessary practical points of knowledge in forest life, and precautions in travelling in an Indian country. The day after my arrival was a local election day, for a representative from the county in the territorial legislature, to which Mr. Austin the younger was returned. This brought together the principal mining and agricultural gentlemen of the region, and was a circumstance of some advantage to me, in extending my acquaintance, and making known the objects of my visit. In this, the Austins, father and son, were most kind and obliging. Indeed, the spirit with which I was received by the landed proprietors of the country generally, and the frankness and urbanity of their manners and sentiments, inspired me with high hopes of success in making a mineralogical survey of the country. I found the geological structure of the country, embracing the mines, to be very uniform. It consists of a metalliferous limestone, in horizontal strata, which have not been lifted up or disturbed from their horizontality by volcanic forces; but they have been exposed to the laws of disintegration and elemental action in a very singular manner. By this action, the surface of the formation has been divided into ridges, valleys, and hills, producing inequalities of the most striking and picturesque character. There are some forty principal mines, in an area of about seventy miles by thirty or forty in breadth. The chief ore of lead smelted is galena. The associated minerals of most prominence are sulphate of barytes, sulphuret of zinc, calcareous spar, and crystallized quartz, chiefly in radiated crystals. I spent upwards of three months in a survey of the mines of chief consequence, noting their peculiarities and geological features. By far the most remarkable feature in the general structure of the country, consists of the existence of a granitical tract at the sources of the river St. Francis. This I particularly examined. The principal elevations consist of red sienite and greenstone, lying in their usual forms of mountain masses. The geological upheavals which have brought these masses to their present elevations, appear to have been of the most ancient character; for the limestones and crystalline sandstones have been deposited, in perfectly horizontal beds, against their sides. Feeling a desire to compare this formation with the structure of the country west and south of it, extending to the Rocky mountains, and satisfied at the same time that these primary peaks constituted the mineral region of De Soto's most northerly explorations, I determined to extend my explorations south-westwardly. The term "Ozark mountains" is popularly applied to the broad and elevated highlands which stretch in this direction, reaching from the Maramec to the Arkansas. Having obtained the best information accessible from hunters and others who had gone farthest in that direction, I determined to proceed, as early as I could complete my arrangements for that purpose, to explore those elevations. Colonel W. H. Ashley, who had penetrated into this region, together with several enterprising hunters and woodsmen, represented it as metalliferous, and abounding in scenes of varied interest. It had been the ancient hunting-ground of the Osages, a wild and predatory tribe, who yet infested its fastnesses; and it was represented as subject to severe risks from this cause. Two or three of the woodsmen, who were best acquainted with this tract, expressed a willingness to accompany me on a tour of exploration. I therefore, in the month of October, revisited St. Louis and Illinois, for the purpose of making final arrangements for the tour, and obtained the consent of Mr. Brigham and Mr. Pettibone, previously mentioned, to accompany me. A day was appointed for our assembling at Potosi. I then returned to complete my arrangements. I purchased a stout, low-priced horse, to carry such supplies as were requisite, made his pack-saddle with my own hands, and had it properly riveted by a smith. A pair of blankets for sleeping; a small, short-handled frying-pan; a new axe, a tin coffeepot, three tin cups, and the same number of tin plates; a couple of hunting-knives; a supply of lead, shot, ball, powder, and flints; a small smith's hammer, and nails for setting a horse-shoe; a horse-bell and strap; a pocket compass; a gun, shot-pouch, and appendages, containing a space for my diary; a mineral-hammer, constructed under my own directions, so as to embrace a small mortar on one face, and capable of unscrewing at the handle, which could be used as a pestle; a supply of stout clothing, a bearskin and oilcloth, some bacon, tea, sugar, salt, hard bread, &c., constituted the chief articles of outfit. The man of whom I purchased the horse called him by the unpoetic name of "Butcher." It was the beginning of November before my friends arrived, and on the sixth of that month we packed the horse, and took our way over the mineral hills that surround Potosi, making our first encampment in a little valley, on the margin of a stream called Bates's creek. It was fine autumn weather; the leaves of the forest were mostly sere, and the winds scattered them about us with an agreeable movement, as we wound among the hills. We were evidently following an old Indian trail, and, finding a rather tenable old wigwam, constructed of poles and bark, we pitched upon it as our first place of encampment. My kind host from Kentucky, with whom I had been staying, accompanied us thus far, to see us safely in the woods, and taught me the art of hobbling a horse, and tying on his night-bell. The hunters, who had talked rather vaingloriously of their prowess among wild animals and Osages, one by one found obstacles to impede their going. Finally, one of my companions was compelled to return, owing to a continued attack of fever and ague. I determined, nevertheless, to proceed, thinking that a hunter could be found to join us before quitting the verge of civilization. Having unpacked Butcher, prepared him for the night, stowed away the baggage, and built a fire, I took my gun and sallied out into the forest, while my companion prepared things for our supper. I found the greatest abundance of large black and grey squirrels in a neighboring wood, and returned with a number of the finest of them in season to add to our evening's meal. A man's first night in the wilderness is impressive. Our friends had left us, and returned to Potosi. Gradually all sounds of animated nature ceased. When darkness closed around us, the civilized world seemed to have drawn its curtains, and excluded us. We put fresh sticks on the fire, which threw a rich flash of light on our camp, and finally wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and, amidst ruminations on the peculiarities of our position, our hopes, and our dangers, we sank to sleep. Nov. 7th. The first thing listened for this morning was the tinkle of our horse's bell. But Butcher was gone. All my precautions had been in vain. The poor beast appeared to have had a presentiment of the hard fare that was before him, and, although his fore-feet were tethered, and he must lift up both together to jump, yet, having a strong recollection of the corn-fodder and juicy blades left behind him, he had made his way back to the mines. I immediately went in pursuit of him. He was easily tracked until he got to a space of rank herbage, where I lost the track, and hearing, at the same moment, a bell to the left, I pursued the sound over hill and through dale, till I came out at a farm-yard on Mine creek, four miles below Potosi, where I found the bell whose sound I had followed attached to the neck of a stately penned ox. The owner told me that Butcher had reached the mines, and been sent back to my camp by his former owner. I had nothing left but to retrace my steps, which, luckily, were but the shorter line of an acute triangle. I found him at the camp. It was, however, ten o'clock before our breakfast was despatched, and the horse repacked ready for starting. We took the labor of leading the horse, and carrying the compass and guiding, day about, so as to equalize these duties, and leave no cause for dissatisfaction. Our trail carried us across the succession of elevated and arid ridges called the Pinery. Not a habitation of any kind, nor the vestiges of one, was passed; neither did we observe any animal, or even bird. The soil was sterile, hard, and flinty, bearing yellow pines, with some oaks. Our general course was west-south-west. The day was mild and pleasant for the season. For a computed distance of fourteen miles, we encountered a succession of ascents and descents, which made us rejoice, as evening approached, to see a tilled valley before us. It proved to be the location of a small branch of the Maramec river, called by its original French name of _Fourche â Courtois_. The sun sank below the hills as we entered this valley. Some woodcock flew up as we reached the low ground; but as we had a cabin in view, and the day was far gone, we moved on toward our principal object. Presently the loud barking of dogs announced our approach; they seemed, by their clamor, as pertinacious as if two wolves or panthers were stealing on the tenement, till they were silenced by the loud commands of their master. It was a small log building, of the usual construction on the frontiers, and afforded the usual hospitality, and ready accommodations. They gave us warm cakes of corn-bread, and fine rich milk; and, spreading our blankets before the fire, we enjoyed sound slumbers. Butcher, here, had his last meal of corn, and made no attempt to escape. Nov. 8th. With the earliest streaks of daylight we adjusted our pack for the horse, and again set forward on the trail. In the course of two miles' travel, we forded a stream called Law's Fork, and also the branch of the Maramec on which we had lodged the previous night. We soon after descried a hunter's cabin, a small and newly erected hut in the midst of the forest, occupied by a man named Alexander Roberts. This proved the last house we encountered, and was estimated to be twenty miles from Potosi. Some trees had been felled and laid around, partially burned; but not a spot of ground was in cultivation. Dogs, lean and hungry, heralded our approach, as in the former instance; and they barked loud and long. On reaching the cabin, we found that the man was not at home, having left it, his wife said, with his rifle, at an early hour, in search of game. She thought he would be back before noon, and that he would accompany us. We decided to await his return, and in the meanwhile prepared our frugal breakfast. In a short time, Roberts returned; he was a chunky, sinister-looking fellow, and reminded me of Ali Baba, in the "Forty Thieves." He had a short, greasy buckskin frock, and a pointed old hat. His wife, who peeped out of the door, looked queer, and had at least one resemblance to Cogia, which seemed to be "starvation." The hunter had killed nothing, and agreed to accompany us, immediately beginning his preparations. He at the same time informed us of the fear entertained of the Osages, and other matters connected with our journey in the contemplated direction. About ten o'clock he was ready, and, leading a stout little compact horse from a pen, he clapped a saddle on, seized his rifle, announced himself as ready, and led off. The trail led up a long ridge, which appeared to be the dividing ground between the two principal forks of the Maramec. It consisted of a stiff loam, filled with geological drift, which, having been burned over for ages by the Indians, to fit it for hunting in the fall of the year, had little carbonaceous soil left, and exhibited a hard and arid surface. Our general course was still west-south-west. After proceeding about four miles, our path came to the summit of an eminence, from which we descried the valley of the Ozau, or Ozark fork. This valley consisted entirely of prairie. Scarcely a tree was visible in it. The path wound down the declivity, and across the valley. The soil appeared to be fertile. Occupying one bank of the stream, nearly in the centre of the valley, we passed a cluster of Indian wigwams, inhabited alone by the old men, women, and children; the young men being absent, hunting. We found them to be Lenno-Lenapees, or, in other words, Delawares; being descendants of the Indians whom William Penn found, in 1682, in the pleasant forest village of Coacquannok, where Philadelphia now stands. Strange, but not extraordinary history! They have been shoved back by civilization, in the course of a hundred and thirty-six years' mutations, over the Alleghanies--over the Mississippi--into the spurs of these mountains. Where they will be after the lapse of a similar period, no one can say. But this _can_ be said--that the hunting of deer will give out; and if they do not betake themselves to some other means of subsistence, they will be numbered among the nations that were. Roberts informed me that four or five miles lower down the valley was a village of Shawnees, and, higher up, another village of Delawares. On reaching the uplands on the west side of the valley, we pursued the trail up its banks about four or five miles, and encamped by daylight near a clump of bushes at a spring. As I was expert in striking and kindling a fire, this became a duty to which I devoted myself during the entire journey, while my companion busied himself in preparations for our repast. Roberts reconnoitred the vicinity, and came in with a report that we had reached a game country. We were now fairly beyond the line of all settlements, even the most remote, and had entered on that broad highland tract to which, for geographical distinction, the name of Ozark mountains is applied. This tract reaches through Missouri and Arkansas, from the Maramec to the Wachita, and embraces the middle high lands between the plains at the foot of the Rocky mountains, and the rapids of the Maramec, St. Francis, Osage, White, Arkansas, and other principal streams; these traverse a belt of about two hundred miles east and west, by seven hundred miles north and south. It is a sort of Rheingau, through which the rivers burst. Nov. 9th. Early in the morning, Roberts brought in the carcase of a fine deer; and we made our first meal on wild venison, cut fresh smoking from the tenderest parts, and roasted on sticks to suit our tastes. This put every one in the best of spirits, and we packed a supply of the meat for our evening's repast. Seeing that Roberts was more at home among the game, and that he had but a sorry knife for the business, I loaned him a fine new belt and knife, with its sheath, for the day. We now travelled up the Ozark fork about eighteen miles. The weather was exhilarating, and the winds were careering with the leaves of the forest, and casting them in profusion in our track. As we came near the sources of the river, we entered a wide prairie, perfectly covered for miles with these leaves, brought from neighboring forests. At every step the light masses were kicked or brushed away before us. This plain, or rather level vale, was crowned in the distance by elevations fringed with tall trees which still held some of their leafy honors, giving a very picturesque character to the landscape. I booked the scene at night, in my diary, as CLIOLA, or the Valley of Leaves. We held our way over the distant eminences, and at length found a spring by which we encamped, at a rather late hour. It had been a hazy and smoky day, like the Indian summer in Atlantic latitudes. We were in a region teeming with the deer and elk, which frequently bounded across our path. The crack of Roberts's rifle, also, added to the animation of the day's travel; though we might have known, from his unsteady bandit-eye, that he meditated something to our damage. CHAPTER IV. HORSES ELOPE--DESERTION OF OUR GUIDE--ENCAMP ON ONE OF THE SOURCES OF BLACK RIVER--HEAD-WATERS OF THE RIVER CURRENTS --ENTER A ROMANTIC SUB-VALLEY--SALTPETRE CAVES--DESCRIPTION OF ASHLEY'S CAVE--ENCAMPMENT THERE--ENTER AN ELEVATED SUMMIT --CALAMARCA, AN UNKNOWN STREAM--ENCOUNTER FOUR BEARS--NORTH FORK OF WHITE RIVER. Nov. 10th. While we laid on our pallets last night, the trampling of hoofs was frequently heard; but at length the practised ear of the hunter detected that these were the sounds of wild animals' hoofs, and not of our horses. This man's eye had shown an unwonted degree of restlessness and uneasiness during the afternoon of the preceding day, while witnessing the abundant signs of deer and elk in the country; but this excited no suspicions. He was restless during the night, and was disturbed at a very early hour, long before light, by this trampling of animals. These sounds, he said to me, did not proceed from the horses, which were hobbled. He got up, and found both animals missing. Butcher's memory of corn and corn-fodder, at his old master's at Potosi, had not yet deserted him, and he carried the hunter's horse along with him. I immediately jumped up, and accompanied him in their pursuit. There was some moonlight, with clouds rapidly passing. We pursued our back-track, anxiously looking from every eminence, and stopping to listen for the sound of the bells. Roberts occasionally took up a handful of leaves, which were thickly strewn around, and held them up in the moonlight, to see whether the corks of the horses' shoes had not penetrated them. When he finally found this sign, he was sure we were in the right way. At length, when we had gone several miles, and reached an eminence that overlooked the broad plain of the Valley of Leaves, we plainly descried the fugitives, jumping on as fast as possible on the way back. We soon overhauled them, and brought them to camp by daybreak, before my companion had yet awaked. Roberts now sallied out, and in a few minutes fired at and killed a fat doe, which he brought in, and we made a breakfast by roasting steaks. Roberts had expressed no dissatisfaction or desire to return, but, sallying out again among the deer on horseback, said he would rejoin us presently, at a future point. We travelled on, expecting at every turn to see him reappear. But we saw no more of him. The rascal had not only deserted us at a difficult point, but he carried off my best new hunting-knife--a loss not to be repaired in such a place. We at length came to a point where the trail forked. This put us to a stand. Which to take, we knew not; and the result was of immense consequence to our journey, as we afterwards found; for, had we taken the right-hand fork, we should have been conducted in a more direct line to the portions of country we sought to explore. We took the left-hand fork, which we followed diligently, crossing several streams running to the north-west, which were probably tributary to the Missouri through the Gasconade. It was after dark before we came to a spot having the requisites for an encampment, particularly water. It was an opening on the margin of a small lake, having an outlet south-east, which we finally determined to be either one of the sources of the Black river, or of the river Currents. We had now travelled about twenty miles from our last camp, in a southerly direction. We did not entirely relinquish the idea of being rejoined by Roberts, nor become fully satisfied of his treachery, till late in the evening. We had relied on his guidance till we should be able to reach some hunters' camps on the White or Arkansas rivers; but this idea was henceforth abandoned. Left thus, on the commencement of our journey, in the wilderness, without a guide or hunter, we were consigned to a doubtful fate; our extrication from which depended wholly upon a decision and self-reliance, which he only knows how to value, who is first called to grapple with the hardships of western life. It was the edge of a prairie where we had halted. Wood was rather scarce; but we made shift to build a good fire, and went to sleep with no object near us, to excite sympathy, but our horse, who was securely belled and tethered. When we awoke in the morning, the fire was out, and a pack of wolves were howling within a few hundred yards of our camp. Whether the horse feared them, I know not; but he had taken his position near the embers of the fire, where he stood quite still. Nov. 11th. In passing two miles, we crossed a small stream running south-east, which evidently had its source in the little lake at our last night's encampment. The trail beyond this was often faint; in the course of eight or ten miles, we began to ascend elevations covered with pines, but of so sterile and hard a soil, that we lost all trace of it. We wound about among these desolate pine ridges a mile or two, till, from one of the higher points, we descried a river in a deep valley, having a dense forest of hard wood, and every indication of animal life. Overjoyed at this, we mended our pace, and, by dint of great caution, led our pack-horse into it. It proved to be the river Currents, a fine stream, with fertile banks, and clear sparkling waters. The grey-squirrel was seen sporting on its shady margin, and, as night approached, the wild turkey came in from the plains to drink, and make its nightly abode. After fording the river, we soon found our lost trail, which we followed a while up the stream, then across a high ridge which constituted its southern banks, and through dense thickets to the summits of a narrow, deep, and dark limestone valley, which appeared to be an abyss. Daylight left us as we wound down a gorge into its dreary precincts; and we no sooner found it traversed by a clear brook, than we determined to encamp. As the fire flashed up, it revealed on either side steep and frowning cliffs, which might gratify the wildest spirit of romance. This stream, with its impending cavernous cliffs, I designated the Wall-cave or Onónda valley. We had advanced this day about eighteen or twenty miles. We had an opportunity, while on the skirts of the high prairie lands, to fire at some elk, and to observe their stately motions; but, being still supplied with venison, we were not willing to waste the time in pursuing them. Our course varied from south to south-west. Nov. 12th. Daylight fully revealed our position. We were in a valley, often not more than six hundred feet wide, with walls of high precipitous limestone rock. These cliffs were remarkable for nothing so much as their caverns, seated uniformly at a height of forty or fifty feet above the ground, in inaccessible positions. I do not know the number of these caves, as we did not count them; but they existed on either side of the valley as far as we explored it. Most of them were too high to reach. A tree had fallen against the cliff near one of them, by climbing which I reached a small ledge of the rock that afforded a little footing, and, by cautiously groping along, the orifice was finally reached and entered. It proved interesting, although of no great extent; but it contained stalactites depending in clusters from the walls. Of these, I secured a number which were translucent. Slender crystals of nitrate of potash, of perfect whiteness and crystalline beauty, were found in some of the crevices. Having secured specimens of these, I again got out on the ledge of rock, and, reaching the tree, descended in safety. About half a mile higher up the valley, on its south side, we discovered a cavern of gigantic dimensions. The opening in the face of the rock appeared to be about eighty or ninety feet wide, and about thirty high. A projection of rock on one side enabled us to enter it. A vast and gloomy rotundo opened before us. It very soon, after the entry, increases in height to sixty or seventy feet, and in width to one hundred and fifty or two hundred feet, forming an immense hall. This hall has another opening or corridor, leading to a precipitous part of the cliff. It extends into the rock, southerly, an unexplored distance, branching off in lateral avenues from the main trunk. We explored the main gallery five or six hundred yards, when we found obstructions. The roof has been blackened by the carbonaceous effect of fires, kindled by Indians or white men, who have visited it, in former years, in search of nitrous earth. In some parts of it, compact bodies of pebbles and reddish clay, very similar to that found on the cliffs, are seen, which creates an idea that the cavern must have been an open orifice at the geological era of the diluvial deposits. This earth, by being lixiviated with common house-ashes, produces a liquid which, on evaporation, yields saltpetre. The cave, I was informed at Potosi, has been visited for this purpose by Colonel Ashley, and it appropriately bears his name. Finding it a perfect "rock-house," and being dry, and affording advantages for some necessary repairs to our gear, and arrangements for the further continuation of our explorations, we, about four o'clock in the afternoon, removed our camp up the valley, and encamped within it. We could shelter ourselves completely in its capacious chambers in case of rain, of which there were indications, and take a calm view of the course it seemed now expedient to pursue. Thus far, we had had a trail, however slight, to follow; but from this point there was none--we were to plunge into the pathless woods, and to trust ourselves alone to the compass, and the best judgment we could form of courses, distances, and probabilities. A wilderness lay before us, behind us, and around us. We had "taken our lives in our hands," and we were well satisfied that our success must depend on our vigilance, energy, and determination. In addition to the exertion of providing food, and repairing our clothing, which, as we urged our way, was paying tribute to every sharp bush we pressed through, we had to exercise a constant vigilance to prevent Indian surprises; for experience had already taught us that, in the wilderness, where there is no law to impose restraint but the moral law of the heart, man is the greatest enemy of man. Nov. 13th. The threatening appearance of the atmosphere induced us to remain most of the day in our rock-house, which was devoted to devising a more safe and compact mode of carrying specimens, to repairs of our pack-saddles, a reconstruction of the mode of packing, &c. We then made a further reconnoissance of the cavern, and its vicinity and productions. I had paid particular attention to the subject of the occurrence of animal bones in our western caves, as those of Europe had recently excited attention; but never found any, in a single instance, except the species of existing weasels, and other very small quadrupeds, which are to be traced about these castellated and cavernous cliffs. As evening approached, a flock of turkeys, coming in from the plain to the top of the cliff above the cavern, flew down on to the trees directly in front of us, sheltered as we were from their sight, and afforded a fine opportunity for the exercise of our sportsmanship. Nov. 14th. The rain which had threatened to fall yesterday, poured down this morning, and continued with more or less violence all day. Our packages, clothing, arms and accoutrements, were thoroughly overhauled and examined. We had still supplies of everything essential to our comfort. Our bacon had not been seriously trenched on, while the forest had amply supplied us with venison, and our groceries bade fair to last us till we should strike some of the main southern streams, or till our increasing powers of endurance and forest skill should enable us to do without them. Nov. 15th. This morning, the sky being clear and bright, we left our rock abode in the Wall-cave valley. We ascended this valley a short distance, but, as it led us too far west, and the brush proved so thick as to retard our progress, we soon left it. With some ado, the horse was led to the top of the cliff. A number of lateral valleys, covered with thick brush, made this a labor by no means light. The surface of the ground was rough, vegetation sere and dry, and every thicket which spread before us presented an obstacle which was to be overcome. We could have penetrated many of these, which the horse could not be forced through. Such parts of our clothing as did not consist of buckskin, paid frequent tribute to these brambles. At length we got clear of these spurs, and entered on a high table-land, where travelling became comparatively easy. The first view of this vista of highland plains was magnificent. It was covered with moderate-sized sere grass and dry seed-pods, which rustled as we passed. There was scarcely an object deserving the name of a tree, except now and then a solitary trunk of a dead pine or oak, which had been scathed by the lightning. The bleached bones of an elk, a deer, or a bison, were sometimes met. Occasionally we passed a copse of oak, or cluster of saplings. The deer often bounded before us, and we sometimes disturbed the hare from its sheltering bush, or put to flight the quail and the prairie-hen. There was no prominent feature in the distance for the eye to rest on. The unvaried prospect at length produced satiety. We felt, in a peculiar manner, the solitariness of the wilderness. We travelled silently and diligently. It was a dry and wave-like prairie. From morning till sunset, we did not encounter a drop of water. This became the absorbing object. Hill after hill, and vale after vale, were patiently ascended, and diligently footed, without bringing the expected boon. At last we came, suddenly and unexpectedly, to a small running stream in the plain, where we gladly encamped. I quickly struck up a cheerful fire, and we soon had a cup of tea with our evening's repast. Nor was Butcher neglected. There was a patch of short green grass on the margin of the brook, to which he did ample justice. We were not long after supper in yielding ourselves to a sound sleep. While we were in the act of encamping, I had placed my powder-flask on the ground, and, on lighting the fire, neglected to remove it. As the plain was covered with dry leaves, they soon took fire, and burned over a considerable space, including the spot occupied by myself and the flask. The latter was a brass-mounted shooting-flask, of translucent horn, having a flaw through which grains of powder sometimes escaped. Yet no explosion took place. I looked and beheld the flask, which the fire had thus run over, very near me, with amazement. Nov. 16th. We were now on an elevated summit of table-land or water-shed, which threw its waters off alternately to the Missouri and Mississippi. It was covered with high, coarse, prairie grass, and its occasional nodding clusters of prairie flowers run to seed. In depressed places, the greenbriar occasionally became entangled with the horse's feet, and required time to extricate him. We very frequently passed the head and thigh-bones of the buffalo, proving that the animal had been freely hunted on these plains. In the course of about eight miles' travel, we passed two small streams running to the north-west, which led us to think that we were diverging too far towards the Missouri side of this vast highland plateau. It was still some hours to sunset, and we had gone about four miles farther when we reached a large, broad stream, also flowing towards the north-west. It had a rapid and deep current, on each side of which was a wide space of shallow water, and boulders of limestone and sandstone. It required some skill to cross this river, as it was too deep to ford. The horse was led into the edge of the stream and driven over, coming out with his pack safely on the other side. The shallow parts offered no obstacle; and we bridged the deeper portion of the channel with limbs and trunks of trees, which had been brought down by the stream when in flood and left upon its banks, and, being denuded of their bark, were light and dry, and as white as bleached bones. I had crossed the channel safely, after my companion; but he disturbed the bridge on stepping from it, and caused me to slip from the stick. Having my gun in my right hand, I naturally extended it, to break my fall. Each end of it, as it reached the stream, rested on a stone, and, my whole weight being in the centre, the barrel was slightly sprung. This bridge, for the purpose of reference, I called Calamarca. After crossing the stream, we came to a stand, and, on consultation, explored it downward, to determine its general course; but, finding it to incline toward the north-west, we returned up its southern bank two or three miles above our rustic bridge, and encamped. Nov. 17th. In the morning we proceeded in a south-south-westerly direction, which, after keeping up the valley from the camp of Calamarca for a few miles, carried us up an elevated range of hills, covered with large oaks bearing acorns. We had reached the top of a ridge which commanded a view of a valley beyond it, when we observed, far below us in the valley, four bears on an oak, eating sweet acorns. The descent was steep and rough, with loose stones, which made it impossible to lead the horse down without disturbing them. We therefore tied him to a staddle, and, after looking to our priming, we began to descend the height. But, as the leaves had all fallen, concealment was impossible; and when the animals became alarmed, and began to come down the tree, we ran at our utmost speed to reach its foot first. In this effort, my companion fell on the loose stones, and sprained his ankle; I kept on, but did not reach the foot of the tree in time to prevent their escape, and I followed them some distance. When my companion's absence led me back to him, I found him badly hurt; he limped along with the utmost difficulty. I soon mounted him on the pack-horse, and led up the little valley; but the pain of his ankle became so intense, that he could not bear the motion, and, after proceeding a mile or two, we determined to halt and encamp. We had not travelled from our morning's encampment more than five or six miles. I accordingly unpacked the horse, prepared a pallet for my companion, and built a fire. I then bathed his ankle with salt and warm water. This done, I took my gun, and sauntered along the thickets in the hope of starting some game. Nothing, however, was found. The shrill and unmusical cry of the bluejay, which was the largest bird I saw, reminded me of other latitudes. Thoughtful, and full of apprehension at this untoward accident, I returned to our little camp, and diligently renewed my antalgic applications. Nov. 18th. A night's rest, and the little remedies in my power to employ, had so far abated the pain of my companion's ankle, that he again consented to mount the pack-horse, and we pursued our way up the little valley in which we had encamped. We had not, however, travelled far, when we saw two large black bears playing in the grass before us, and so intently engaged in their sport that they did not observe us. My companion, with my aid, quickly dismounted. We examined our arms, tied the horse, and, having determined to fire together, had reached our several stations before the animals noticed our approach. They at first ran a few yards, but then turned and sat up in the high, sere grass, to see what had disturbed them. We fired at the same moment, each having singled out his mark. Both animals fled, but on reaching the spot where the one I fired at had sat, blood was copiously found on the grass. I pursued him and his mate over an adjoining ridge, where I lost sight of them; but discovering, on crossing the ridge, a hollow oak, into which I judged they had crept, I went back for the axe to fell it. While engaged at this, my companion hobbled up, and relieved me at the axe. The tree at length came down with a thundering crash, partially splitting in its fall, and I stood ready with my gun to receive the discomfited inmates; but, after gazing intently for a time, none appeared. It was now evident they had eluded us, and that we had lost the track. The excitement had almost cured my companion's lameness; but it returned when the pursuit was over, and, resuming his position on the horse, we proceeded over a succession of high, oak-covered ridges. In crossing one of these, a large and stately elk offered another object for our notice. He had an enormous pair of horns, which it seemed he must find it difficult to balance in browsing; but the moment he became aware of our propinquity, he lifted his head, and, throwing back the antlers, they seemed to form shields for his shoulders and sides while plunging forward through the thickets. We stood a moment to admire his splendid leaps. These incidents had carried us a few miles out of our course. We were on high broken summits, which resembled, in their surface, what may be conceived of the tossing waves of a sea suddenly congealed. On descending from these towards the south, we came to clumps of bushes, with gravelly areas between, and an occasional standing pool of pure water. It was very evident to our minds, as we advanced, that these pools must communicate with each other through the gravel, and that there were seasons when there was more water washed from the hills. On following down this formation about six miles, the connection became more evident, and the sources of an important river developed themselves. We were, in fact, on the extreme head-waters of the Great North Fork of White river; the Unica of the Cherokees, and the _Riviere au Blanc_ of the French. The manner in which the waters develop themselves on descending the southern slope of these highlands, is remarkable. They proceed in plateaux or steps, on each of which the stream deploys in a kind of lake, or elongated basin, connected with the next succeeding one by a narrow rapid. The rock is a grey sandstone in the lower situations, capped with limestone. In some places the water wholly disappears, and seems to permeate the rock. We came to a place where the river, being some four feet deep, is entirely absorbed by the rock, and does not again appear till a mile below, where it suddenly issues from the rock, in its original volume. CHAPTER V. DESCEND THE VALLEY--ITS DIFFICULTIES--HORSE ROLLS DOWN A PRECIPICE--PURITY OF THE WATER--ACCIDENT CAUSED THEREBY-- ELKHORN SPRING--TOWER CREEK--HORSE PLUNGES OVER HIS DEPTH IN FORDING, AND DESTROYS WHATEVER IS DELIQUESCENT IN HIS PACK--ABSENCE OF ANTIQUITIES, OR EVIDENCES OF ANCIENT HABITATION--A REMARKABLE CAVERN--PINCHED FOR FOOD--OLD INDIAN LODGES--THE BEAVER--A DESERTED PIONEER'S CAMP-- INCIDENT OF THE PUMPKIN. Nov. 19th. Daylight put us in motion. It was determined to follow the valley down in its involutions, which led us, generally, south. We passed over some fertile, heavily timbered bottoms, where I observed the elm, oak, beech, maple, ash, and sycamore. We had not left our camp more than a mile, when we came to the first appearance of the _C. arundinacea_, or cane, and we soon after reached the locality of the greenbriar. Travelling in these rich forests is attended with great fatigue and exertion from the underbrush, particularly from the thick growth of cane and greenbriar; the latter of which often binds masses of the fields of cane together, and makes it next to impossible to force a horse through the matted vegetation. Our horse, indeed, while he relieved us from the burden of carrying packs, became the greatest impediment to our getting forward, while in this valley. To find an easier path, we took one of the summit ranges of the valley. But a horse, it seems, must have no climbing to do, when he is under a pack-saddle. We had not gone far on this ridge, when the animal slipped, or stumbled. The impetus of his load was more than he could resist. The declivity was steep, but not precipitous. He rolled over and over for perhaps two hundred feet, until he reached the foot of the ridge. We looked with dismay as he went, and thought that every bone in his body must have been broken. When we reached him, however, he was not dead, but, with our aid, got up. How he escaped we could not divine, but he looked pleased when he saw us come to his relief, and busy ourselves in extricating him. We unloosed his pack, and did all we could to restore him. We could not find any outward bruise; there was no cut, and no blood was started. Even a horse loves sympathy. After a time, we repacked him, and slowly continued our route. The delay caused by this accident, made this a short day's journey; we did not suppose ourselves to have advanced, in a direct line, over twelve miles. The valley is very serpentine, redoubling on itself. Nov. 20th. We found the stream made up entirely of pure springs, gushing from the gravel, or rocks. Nothing can exceed the crystal purity of its waters. These springs are often very large. We came to one, in the course of this day, which we judged to be fifty feet wide. It rushes out of an aperture in the rock, and joins the main branch of the river about six hundred yards below, in a volume quite equal to that of the main fork. I found an enormous pair of elk's horns lying on one side of the spring, which I lifted up and hung in the forks of a young oak, and from this incident named it the Elkhorn Spring. In forcing my way through the rank vines, weeds, and brush, which encumber the valley below this point, I lost my small farrier's hammer from my belt; a loss which was irreparable, as it was the only means we had of setting a shoe on our horse, and had also served on ordinary occasions as a mineral-hammer, instead of the heavier implement in the pack. We often disturbed the black bear from his lair in the thick canebrakes, but travelled with too much noise to overtake him. The deer frequently bounded across the valley, while turkey, squirrel, duck, and smaller game, were also abundant. Nov. 21st. The bottom-lands continued to improve in extent and fertility as we descended. The stream, as it wears its way into deeper levels of the stratification of the country, presents, on either side, high cliffs of rock. These cliffs, which consist of horizontal limestone, resting on sandstone, frequently present prominent pinnacles, resembling ruinous castellated walls. In some places they rise to an astonishing height, and they are uniformly crowned with yellow pines. A remarkable formation of this description appeared to-day, at the entrance of a tributary stream through these walled cliffs, on the left bank, which I called Tower Creek; it impressed one with the idea of the high walls of a ruined battlement. The purity and transparency of the water are so remarkable, that it is often difficult to estimate its depth in the river. A striking instance of this occurred after passing this point. I was leading the horse. In crossing from the east to the west bank, I had led Butcher to a spot which I thought he could easily ford, without reaching above his knees. He plunged in, however, over his depth, and, swimming across with his pack, came to elevated shores on the other side, which kept him so long in the water, and we were detained so long in searching for a suitable point for him to mount, that almost everything of a soluble character in his pack was either lost or damaged. Our salt and sugar were mostly spoiled; our tea and Indian meal damaged; our skins, blankets, and clothing, saturated. This mishap caused us a world of trouble. Though early in the day, we at once encamped. I immediately built a fire, the horse was speedily unpacked, and each particular article was examined, and such as permitted it, carefully dried. This labor occupied us till a late hour in the night. Nov. 22d. Up to this point we had seen no Osages, of whose predatory acts we had heard so much at Potosi, and on the sources of the Maramec; nor any signs of their having been in this section of the country during a twelvemonth, certainly not since spring. All the deserted camps, and the evidences of encampment, were old. The bones of animals eaten, found on the high plains east of Calamarca, and at the Elkhorn spring, were bleached and dry. Not a vestige had appeared, since leaving the Wall-cliffs, of a human being having recently visited the country. The silence and desolateness of the wilderness reigned around. And when we looked for evidences of an ancient permanent occupation of the region by man, there were none--not a hillock raised by human hands, nor the smallest object that could be deemed antiquarian. The only evidences of ancient action were those of a geological kind--caverns, valleys of denudation, beds of drift, boulders, water-lines and markings on the faces of cliffs, which betokened oceanic overflow at very antique or primary periods. The difficulties attending our progress down the valley, induced us to strike out into the open prairie, where travelling was free, and unimpeded by shrubbery or vines. Nothing but illimitable fields of grass, with clumps of trees here and there, met the eye. We travelled steadily, without diverging to the right or left. We sometimes disturbed covies of prairie birds; the rabbit started from his sheltering bush, or the deer enlivened the prospect. We had laid our course south-south-west, and travelled about twenty miles. As evening approached, we searched in vain for water, to encamp. In quest of it, we finally entered a desolate gorge, which seemed, at some seasons, to have been traversed by floods, as it disclosed boulders and piles of rubbish. Daylight departed as we wound our way down this dry gorge, which was found to be flanked, as we descended, with towering cliffs. In the meantime, the heavens became overcast with dense black clouds, and rain soon began to fall. We scanned these lofty cliffs closely, as we were in a cavernous limestone country, for evidences of some practicable opening which might give us shelter for the night. At length, after daylight had gone, the dark mouth of a large cavern appeared on our left, at some twenty or thirty feet elevation. The horse could not be led up this steep, but, by unpacking him, we carried the baggage up, and then hobbled and belled the poor beast, and left him to pick a meal as best he could in this desolate valley. It was the best, and indeed the only thing, we could do for him. It was not long before I had a fire in the cave, which threw its red rays upon the outlines of the cavern, in a manner which would have formed a study for Michael Angelo. It seemed that internal waters had flowed out of this cavern for ages, carrying particle by particle of the yielding rock, by which vast masses had been scooped out, or hung still in threatening pendants. Its width was some forty feet, its height perhaps double that space, and its depth illimitable. A small stream of pure water glided along its bottom, and went trickling down the cliff. The accident in crossing the stream had saturated, but not ruined our tea; and we soon had an infusion of it, to accompany our evening's frugal repast--for _frugal_ indeed it became, in meats and bread, after our irreparable loss of the day previous. Nothing is more refreshing than a draught of tea in the wilderness, and one soon experiences that this effect is due neither to milk nor sugar. The next thing to be done after supper, was to light a torch and explore the recesses of the cave, lest it should be occupied by some carnivorous beasts, who might fancy a sleeping traveller for a night's meal. Sallying into its dark recesses, gun and torch in hand, we passed up a steep ascent, which made it difficult to keep our feet. This passage, at first, turned to the right, then narrowed, and finally terminated in a low gallery, growing smaller and smaller towards its apparent close. This passage became too low to admit walking, but by the light of our torch, which threw its rays far into its recesses, there appeared no possibility of our proceeding further. We then retraced our steps to our fire in the front of the cave, where there were evidences of Indian camp-fires. We then replenished our fire with fuel, and spread down our pallets for the night. My companion soon adjusted himself in a concave part of the rock, and went to sleep. I looked out from the front of the cave to endeavor to see the horse; but although I caught a sound of his bell, nothing could be seen but intense darkness. The rain had been slight, and had abated; but the cliffs in front, and the clouds above the narrow valley, rendered it impossible to see anything beyond the reach of the flickering rays of our fire. To its precincts I returned, and entered up my journal of the events of the day. Our situation, and the peculiarities of the scenery around us, led me to reflect on that mysterious fate which, in every hazard, attends human actions, and, by the light of the fire, I pencilled the annexed lines, and clapt down the cavern in my journal as the Cave of Tula.[6] LINES WRITTEN IN A CAVE IN THE WILDERNESS OF ARKANSAS. O! thou, who, clothed in magic spell, Delight'st in lonely wilds to dwell, Resting in rift, or wrapped in air, Remote from mortal ken, or care: Genius of caverns drear and wild, Hear a suppliant wandering child-- One, who nor a wanton calls, Or intruder in thy walls: One, who spills not on the plain, Blood for sport, or worldly gain, Like his red barbarian kin, Deep in murder--foul in sin; Or, with high, horrific yells, Rends thy dark and silent cells; But, a devious traveller nigh, Weary, hungry, parched, and dry; One, who seeks thy shelter blest, Not to riot, but to rest. Grant me, from thy crystal rill, Oft my glittering cup to fill; Let thy dwelling, rude and high, Make my nightly canopy, And, by superhuman walls, Ward the dew that nightly falls. Guard me from the ills that creep On the houseless traveller's sleep-- From the ravenous panther's spring, From the scorpion's poisoned sting, From the serpent--reptile curst-- And the Indian's midnight thrust. Grant me this, aerial sprite, And a balmy rest by night, Blest by visions of delight! Let me dream of friendship true, And that human ills are few; Let me dream that boyhood's schemes Are not, what I've found them, dreams; And his hopes, however gay, Have not flitted fast away. Let me dream, I ne'er have felt, Ease that pleases, joys that melt; Or that I shall ever find Honor fair, or fortune kind; Dream that time shall sweetly fling, In my path, perpetual spring. Let me dream my bosom never Felt the pang from friends to sever; Or that life is not replete, Or with loss, pain, wo, deceit. Let me dream, misfortune's smart Ne'er hath wrung my bleeding heart; Nor its potent, galling sway, Forced me far, O! far away; Let me dream it--for I know, When I wake, it is not so![7] Nov. 23d. My first care this morning was to find Butcher, who had been left, last night, with a sorry prospect. He was not to be found. I followed our back track to the plains, whither he had gone for his night's meal. By the time I returned with him, the forenoon was wellnigh gone. We then travelled to the south-east. This brought us, in due time, again into the valley of the North Fork. We found it less encumbered with vines and thickets, and very much widened in its expansion between bluff and bluff. We forded it, and found, on its eastern margin, extensive open oak plains. On one of the most conspicuous trees were marks and letters, which proved that it had been visited and singled out for settlement by some enterprising pioneer. From the open character of the country, we could not get near to large game; and we now found that our supply of ball and shot was near its close. We passed down the valley about ten miles, and encamped. Since the loss of our corn-meal, we had had nothing in the shape of bread, and our provisions were now reduced to a very small quantity of dried meat. We had expected, for some days, to have reached either Indian or white hunters' camps. Our anxiety on this head now became intense. Prudence required, however, that, small as our stores were, they should be divided with strict reference to the probability of our not meeting with hunters, or getting relief, for two or three days. Nov. 24th. The stick frames, without bark, of several Indian lodges, were passed to-day, denoting that they had not been recently occupied. Travelling down the opposite side of the vale from that taken by my companion, who had charge of the horse, I came to a point on the bank of the river, where I discovered two grown beavers sporting in the stream. The tail of this animal, which appears clumsy and unwieldy in the dead specimen, gives the animal a graceful appearance in the water, where it makes him appear to have a very elongated body. After diving about for some time, they came to the shore, and sat in front of their _wauzh_, as it is termed by the Algonquins, or lodge, which in this case was a fissure in the rock. I was perfectly screened by a point of the rock from their view, and sat with my gun cocked, reserving my fire, a few moments, the more perfectly to observe them, when both animals, at the same instant, darted into their holes. Under the influence of a keen appetite, and a tolerably open forest, we pressed on, this day, about fifteen miles; the horse being, as usual, our chief hindrance. Nov. 25th. I took the horse's bridle over my arm this morning, and had proceeded through open woods about ten miles, when we descried, from a little summit, a hut in the distance, which had some traits of the labor of white men. This gave animation to our steps, in the hope of finding it occupied. But, as we approached, we could discern no smoke rising up as the sign of occupancy, and were disappointed to find it an abortive effort of some pioneer, and, at the moment, called it Camp No. We afterwards learned that it had been constructed by one Martin, who, as there was not a foot of land in cultivation, had probably aimed to subsist by the chase alone. The location was well chosen. A large canebrake flanked the river, sufficient to give range to horses and cattle. A little tributary stream bounded a fertile piece of upland, east of this. The hut was built of puncheons, supported on one side by a rude ridge-pole, leaving the front of it open, forming a shed which had a roof and floor. But the stream had now dried up. We found a plant of cotton, bolled out, among the adjacent weeds, which proved the soil and climate suitable to its culture. We were now well within the probable limits of Arkansas. It was determined to encamp at this spot, turn the horse into the adjacent canebrake, where the leaves were green, to deposit our baggage and camp apparatus in one corner of the hut, and, after making light packs, to take our arms, and proceed in search of settlements. This required a little time. To reach a point where civilization had once tried to get a foothold, however, was something; and we consoled ourselves with the reflection that we could not be remote from its skirts. The next day (26th) I made an excursion west of the river, from our position, about five miles, to determine satisfactorily our situation. I found, on the opposite side of the valley, a little higher up, at the foot of the cliff, another small (white man's) hut, which had also been abandoned. In a small patch of ground, which had once been cleared, there grew a pumpkin vine, which then had three pumpkins. This was a treasure, which I at once secured. I found that one of them had been partially eaten by some wild animal, and determined to give it to my horse, but could not resist the inclination first to cut off a few slices, which I ate raw with the greatest appetite. The taste seemed delicious. I had not before been aware that my appetite had become so keen by fasting; for we had had but little to eat for many days. Between the horse and myself, we finished it, and had quite a sociable time of it. With the other two, which were the largest, I rode back to camp, where, having a small camp-kettle, we boiled and despatched them, without meat or bread, for supper. It does not require much to make one happy; for, in this instance, our little luck put us in the best of humor. FOOTNOTES: [6] De Soto. [7] These lines were published in the Belles-Lettres Repository in 1821, and shortly after, with a commendation, in the New York Statesman. CHAPTER VI. ABANDON OUR CAMP AND HORSE IN SEARCH OF SETTLEMENTS--INCIDENTS OF THE FIRST DAY--HEAR A SHOT--CAMP IN AN OLD INDIAN LODGE-- ACORNS FOR SUPPER--KILL A WOODPECKER--INCIDENTS OF THE SECOND DAY--STERILE RIDGES--WANT OF WATER--CAMP AT NIGHT IN A DEEP GORGE--INCIDENTS OF THE THIRD DAY--FIND A HORSE-PATH, AND PURSUE IT--DISCOVER A MAN ON HORSEBACK--REACH A HUNTER'S CABIN--INCIDENTS THERE--HE CONDUCTS US BACK TO OUR OLD CAMP --DESERTED THERE WITHOUT PROVISIONS--DEPLORABLE STATE--SHIFTS --TAKING OF A TURKEY. Nov. 27th. Action is the price of safety in the woods. Neither dreams nor poetic visions kept us on our pallets a moment longer than it was light enough to see the grey tints of morning. Each of us prepared a compact knapsack, containing a blanket and a few absolute necessaries, and gave our belts an extra jerk before lifting our guns to our shoulders; then, secretly wishing our friend Butcher a good time in the canebrake, we set out with a light pace towards the south. My companion Bonee[8] was much attached to tea, and, as the article of a small tin pot was indispensable to the enjoyment of this beverage, he burthened himself with this appendage by strapping it on his back with a green sash. This was not a very military sort of accoutrement; but as he did not pride himself in that way, and had not, in fact, the least notion of the ridiculous figure he cut with it, I was alone in my unexpressed sense of the Fridayishness of his looks on the march, day by day, across the prairies and through the woods, with this not very glittering culinary appendage dangling at his back. Hope gave animation to our steps. We struck out from the valley southerly, which brought us to an elevated open tract, partially wooded, in which the walking was good. After travelling about six miles, we heard the report of a gun on our left. Supposing it to proceed from some white hunter, we tried to get into communication with him, and hallooed stoutly. This was answered. I withdrew the ball from my gun, and fired. We then followed the course of the shot and halloo. But, although a whoop was once heard, which seemed from its intonation to be Indian, we were unsuccessful in gaining an interview, and, after losing a good deal of time in the effort, were obliged to give it up, and proceed. We had now lost some hours. Much of our way lay through open oak forests, with a thick bed of fallen leaves, and we several times searched under these for sweet acorns; but we uniformly found that the wild turkeys had been too quick for us--every sweet acorn had been scratched up and eaten, and none remained but such as were bitter and distasteful. On descending an eminence, we found the sassafras plentifully, and, breaking off branches of it, chewed them, which took away the astringent and bad taste of the acorns. As night approached, we searched in vain for water on the elevated grounds, and were compelled to seek the river valley, where we encamped in an old Indian wigwam of bark, and found the night chilly and cold. We turned restlessly on our pallets, waiting for day. Nov. 28th. Daylight was most welcome. I built a fire against the stump of a dead tree, which had been broken off by lightning at a height of some thirty or forty feet from the ground. We here boiled our tea, and accurately divided about half an ounce of dried meat, being the last morsel we had. While thus engaged, a red-headed woodpecker lit on the tree, some fifteen or twenty feet above our heads, and began pecking. The visit was a most untimely one for the bird. In a few more moments, he lay dead at the foot of the tree, and, being plucked, roasted, and divided, furnished out our repast. We then gave the straps of our accoutrements a tight jerk, by way of preventing a flaccid stomach--an Indian habit--and set forward with renewed strength and hope. We travelled this day over a rolling country of hill and dale, with little to relieve the eye or demand observation, and laid down at night, fatigued, in the edge of a canebrake. Nov. 29th. A dense fog, which overhung the whole valley, prevented our quitting camp at a very early hour. When it arose, and the atmosphere became sufficiently clear to discern our way, we ascended the hills to our left, and took a west-south-west course. Nothing can exceed the roughness and sterility of the country we have to-day traversed, and the endless succession of steep declivities, and broken, rocky precipices, surmounted. Our line of march, as soon as we left the low grounds of the river valley, led over moderately elevated ridges of oak-openings. We came at length to some hickory trees. Beneath one of them, the nuts laid in quantities on the ground. We sat down, and diligently commenced cracking them; but this was soon determined to be too slow a process to satisfy hungry men, and, gathering a quantity for our night's encampment, we pushed forward diligently. Tramp! tramp! tramp! we walked resolutely on, in a straight line, over hill and dale. Trees, rocks, prairie-grass, the jumping squirrel, the whirring quail--we gave them a glance, and passed on. We finally saw the sun set; evening threw its shades around; night presented its sombre hue; and, as it grew dark, it became cloudy and cold. Still, no water to encamp by was found, and it finally became so dark that we were forced to grope our way. By groping in the darkness, we at length stood on the brink of a precipice, and could distinctly hear the gurgling sound of running water in the gulf below. It was a pleasing sound; for we had not tasted a drop since early dawn. Had we still had our horse, we should not have been able to get him down in the darkness; but, by seizing hold of bushes, and feeling our way continually, we reached the bottom, and encamped immediately by the stream. It was a small run of pure mountain water. Soon a fire arose on its banks. We cracked a few of the nuts. We drank our accustomed tin-cup of tea. We wrapped ourselves in our blankets upon its immediate margin, and knew no more till early daylight, when a cold air had quite chilled us. Nov. 30th. We were happy to get out of this gulf at the earliest dawn. After travelling a couple of miles, we stepped suddenly into a well-beaten horse-path, running transversely to our course, with fresh horse-tracks leading both ways. We stopped to deliberate which end of the path to take. I thought the right-hand would conduct us to the mouth of the river which we had been pursuing down, where it could hardly fail there should be hunters or pioneer settlers located. My companion thought the left hand should be taken, without offering any satisfactory reason for it. I determined, in an instant, to rise above him mentally, by yielding the point, and set out with a firm and ready pace to the left. We travelled diligently about three miles without meeting anything to note, but were evidently going back into the wilderness we had just left, by a wider circuit, when my companion relented, and we turned about on our tracks toward the mouth of the river. We had not gone far, and had not yet reached the point of our original issue from the forest, when we descried a man on horseback, coming toward us. Joy flashed in our eyes. When he came up, he told us that there was a hunter located at the mouth of the river, and another, named Wells, nearly equidistant on the path he was pursuing; and that, if we would follow him, he would guide us to the latter. This we immediately determined to do, and, after travelling about seven miles, came in sight of the cabin. Our approach was announced by a loud and long-continued barking of dogs, who required frequent bidding from their master before they could be pacified. The first object worthy of remark that presented itself on our emerging from the forest, was a number of deer, bear, and other skins, fastened to a kind of rude frame, supported by poles, which occupied the area about the house. These trophies of skill in the chase were regarded with great complacency by our conductor, as he pointed them out, and he remarked that Wells was "a great hunter, and a forehanded man." There were a number of acres of ground, from which he had gathered a crop of corn. The house was a substantial, new-built log tenement, of one room. The family consisted of the hunter and his wife, and four or five children, two of whom were men grown, and the youngest a boy of about sixteen. All, males and females, were dressed in leather prepared from deerskins. The host himself was a middle-sized, light-limbed, sharp-faced man. Around the walls of the room hung horns of the deer and buffalo, with a rifle, shot-pouches, leather coats, dried meats, and other articles, giving unmistakeable signs of the vocation of our host. The furniture was of his own fabrication. On one side hung a deerskin, sewed up in somewhat the shape of the living animal, containing bears' oil. In another place hung a similar vessel, filled with wild honey. All the members of the family seemed erudite in the knowledge of woodcraft, the ranges and signs of animals, and their food and habits; and while the wife busied herself in preparing our meal, she occasionally stopped to interrogate us, or take part in the conversation. When she had finished her preparations, she invited us to sit down to a delicious meal of warm corn-bread and butter, honey and milk, to which we did ample justice. A more satisfactory meal I never made. It was late in the afternoon when our supper was prepared, and we spent the evening in giving and receiving information of the highest practical interest to each party. Wells recited a number of anecdotes of hunting, and of his domestic life. We repaid him with full accounts of our adventures. What appeared to interest him most, was the accounts of the bears and other wild animals we had seen. When the hour for rest arrived, we opened our sacks, and, spreading our blankets on a bearskin which he furnished, laid down before the fire, and enjoyed a sound night's repose. Dec. 1st. We were up with the earliest dawning of light, and determined to regain our position at Camp No, on the Great North Fork, with all possible despatch, and pursue our tour westward. We had understood from the conversation of the hunters among themselves, that they designed forthwith to proceed on a hunting excursion into the region we had passed, on the Great North Fork, and determined to avail ourselves of their guidance to our deposits and horse. We understood that our course from that point had been circuitous, and that the place could be reached by a direct line of twenty miles' travel due north-west. We purchased from our host a dressed deerskin for moccasins, a small quantity of Indian corn, some wild honey, and a little lead. The corn required pounding to convert it into meal. This we accomplished by a pestle, fixed to a loaded swing-pole, playing into a mortar burned into an oak stump. The payment for these articles, being made in money, excited the man's cupidity; for, although he had previously determined on going in that direction, he now refused to guide us to Camp No, unless paid for it. This was also assented to, with the agreement to furnish us with the carcase of a deer. By eleven o'clock, A. M., all was ready, and, shouldering our knapsacks and guns, we set forward, accompanied by our host, his three sons, and a neighbor, making our party to consist of seven men, all mounted on horses but ourselves, and followed by a pack of hungry, yelping dogs. Our course was due north-west. As we were heavily laden and sore-footed, our shoes being literally worn from our feet by the stony tracts we had passed over, the cavalcade were occasionally obliged to halt till we came up. This proved such a cause of delay to them, that they finally agreed to let us ride and walk, alternately, with the young men. In this way we passed over an undulating tract, not heavily timbered, until about ten o'clock at night, when we reached our abandoned camp, where we found our baggage safe. A couple of the men had been detached from the party, early in the morning, to hunt the stipulated deer; but they did not succeed in finding any, and came in long before us, with a pair of turkeys. One of these we despatched for supper, and then all betook themselves to repose. Dec. 2d. One of the first objects that presented itself this morning was our horse Butcher, from the neighboring canebrake, who did not seem to have well relished his fare on cane leaves, and stood doggedly in front of our cabin, with a pertinacity which seemed to say, "Give me my portion of corn." Poor animal! he had not thriven on the sere grass and scanty water of the Ozarks, where he had once tumbled down the sides of a cliff with a pack on, been once plunged in the river beyond his depth, and often struggled with the tangled greenbriar of the valleys, which held him by the foot. With every attention, he had fallen away; and he seemed to anticipate that he was yet destined to become wolf's-meat on the prairies. The hunters were up with the earliest dawn, and several of them went out in quest of game, recollecting their promise to us on that head; but they all returned after an absence of a couple of hours, unsuccessful. By this time we had cooked the other turkey for breakfast, which just sufficed for the occasion. The five men passed a few moments about the fire, then suddenly caught and saddled their horses, and, mounting together, bid us good morning, and rode off. We were taken quite aback by this movement, supposing that they would have felt under obligation, as they had been paid for it, to furnish us some provisions. We looked intently after them, as they rode up the long sloping eminence to the north of us. They brought forcibly to my mind the theatrical representation, in the background, of the march of the Forty Thieves, as they wind down the mountain, before they present themselves at the front of the cave, with its charmed gates. But there was no "open sesame!" for us. Cast once more on our own resources in the wilderness, the alternative seemed to be pressed upon our minds, very forcibly, "hunt or starve." Serious as the circumstances appeared, yet, when we reflected upon their manners and conversation, their obtuseness to just obligation, their avarice, and their insensibility to our actual wants, we could not help rejoicing that they were gone. Dec. 3d. Left alone, we began to reflect closely on our situation, and the means of extricating ourselves from this position. If we had called it camp "No" from our disappointment at not finding it inhabited on our first arrival, it was now again appropriately camp "No," from not obtaining adequate relief from the hunters. We had procured a dressed buckskin for making moccasins. We had a little pounded corn, in a shape to make hunters' bread. We had not a mouthful of meat. I devoted part of the day to making a pair of Indian shoes. We had not a single charge of shot left. We had procured lead enough to mould just five bullets. This I carefully did. I then sallied out in search of game, scanning cautiously the neighboring canebrake, and fired, at different times, three balls, unsuccessfully, at turkeys. It was evident, as I had the birds within range, that my gun had been sprung in the heavy fall I had had, as before related, in the crossing Calamarca. My companion then took _his_ gun, and also made an unsuccessful shot. When evening approached, a flock of turkeys came to roost near by. We had now just _one_ ball left; everything depended on _that_. I took it to the large and firm stump of an oak, and cut it into exactly thirty-two pieces, with geometrical precision. I then beat the angular edges of each, until they assumed a sufficiently globular shape to admit of their being rolled on a hard surface, under a pressure. This completed their globular form. I then cleansed my companion's gun, and carefully loaded it with the thirty-two shot. We then proceeded to the roost, which was on some large oaks, in a contiguous valley. I carried a torch, which I had carefully made at the camp. My companion took the loaded gun, and I, holding the torch near the sights at the same time, so that its rays fell directly on the birds, he selected one, and fired. It proved to be one of the largest and heaviest, and fell to the earth with a sound. We now returned to camp, and prepared a part of it for supper, determining to husband the remainder so as to last till we should reach settlements by holding a due west course. Dec. 4th. We had prepared ourselves to start west this day; but it rained from early dawn to dark, which confined us closely to our cabin. Rain is one of the greatest annoyances to the woodsman. Generally, he has no shelter against it, and must sit in it, ride in it, or walk in it. Where there is no shelter, the two latter are preferable. But, as we had a split-board roof, we kept close, and busied ourselves with more perfect preparations for our next sally. I had some minerals that admitted of being more closely and securely packed, and gladly availed myself of the opportunity to accomplish it. Our foot and leg gear, also, required renovating. Experience had been our best teacher from the first; and hunger and danger kept us perpetually on the _qui vive_, and made us wise in little expedients. FOOTNOTE: [8] Elision of Pettibone. CHAPTER VII. PROCEED WEST--BOG OUR HORSE--CROSS THE KNIFE HILLS--REACH THE UNICA, OR WHITE RIVER--ABANDON THE HORSE AT A HUNTER'S, AND PROCEED WITH PACKS--OBJECTS OF PITY--SUGAR-LOAF PRAIRIE-- CAMP UNDER A CLIFF--FORD THE UNICA TWICE--DESCEND INTO A CAVERN--REACH BEAVER RIVER, THE HIGHEST POINT OF OCCUPANCY BY A HUNTER POPULATION. Dec. 5th. The rain ceased during the night, and left us a clear atmosphere in the morning. At an early hour we completed the package of the horse, and, taking the reins, I led him to the brink of the river, and with difficulty effected a passage. The cliffs which formed the western side of the valley, presented an obstacle not easily surmounted. By leading the animal in a zigzag course, however, this height was finally attained. The prospect, as far as the eye could reach, was discouraging. Hill on hill rose before us, with little timber, it is true, to impede us, but implying a continual necessity of crossing steeps and depressions. After encountering this rough surface about two miles, we came into a valley having a stream tributary to the Great North Fork of White river, which we had quitted that morning, but at a higher point. In this sub-valley we found our way impeded by another difficulty--namely, the brush and small canes that grew near the brook. To avoid this impediment, I took the horse across a low piece of ground, having a thicket, but which appeared to be firm. In this I was mistaken; for the animal's feet soon began to sink, and ere long he stuck fast. The effort to extricate him but served to sink him deeper, and, by pawing to get out, he continually widened the slough in which he had sunk. We then obtained poles, and endeavored to pry him up; but our own footing was continually giving way, and we at length beheld him in a perfect slough of soft black mud. After getting his pack off, we decided to leave him to his fate. We carried the pack to dry ground, on one side of the valley, and spread the articles out, not without deeply regretting the poor beast's plight. But then it occurred to us that, if the horse were abandoned, we must also abandon our camp-kettle, large axe, beds, and most of our camp apparatus; and another and concentrated effort was finally resolved on. To begin, we cut down two tall saplings, by means of which the horse was pried up from the bottom of the slough. He was then grasped by the legs and turned over, which brought his feet in contact with the more solid part of the ground. A determined effort, both of horse and help, now brought him to his feet. He raised himself up, and, by pulling with all our might, we brought him on dry ground. I then led him gently to our place of deposit, and, by means of bunches of sere grass, we both busied ourselves first to rub off the mud and wet, and afterwards to groom him, and rub him dry. When he was properly restored, it was found that he was able to carry his pack-saddle and pack; and he was led slowly up the valley about three miles, where we encamped. The grass in this little valley was of a nourishing quality, and by stopping early we allowed him to recruit himself. We did not estimate our whole distance this day at more than nine miles. Dec. 6th. Butcher had improved his time well in the tender grass during the night, and presented a more spirited appearance in the morning. We were now near the head of Bogbrook, which we had been following; and as we quitted its sides, long to be remembered for our mishap, we began to ascend an elevated and bleak tract of the Mocama or Knife hills, so called, over which the winds rushed strongly as we urged our way. Few large trees were seen on these eminences, which were often bare, with a hard cherty footing, replaced sometimes by clusters of brambles and thickets. In one of these, a valuable _couteau de chasse_ was swept from its sheath at my side, and lost. I was now reduced to a single knife, of the kind fabricated for the Indians, under the name of scalper. For a distance of sixteen miles we held on our way, in a west-south-west course, turning neither to the right nor left. As night approached, we found ourselves descending into a considerable valley, caused by a river. The shrubbery and grass of its banks had been swept by fire in the fall, and a new crop of grass was just rising. We formed our encampment in this fire-swept area, which afforded Butcher another benefit, and made some amends for his scanty fare among the bleak eminences of the Ozarks. This stream proved to be the Little North Fork of White river. We here despatched the last morsel of our turkey. Dec. 7th. The ascent of the hills which bounded the valley on the south-west was found to be very difficult; and when the summit was reached, there spread before us an extensive prairie, of varied surface. Trees occasionally appeared, but were in no place so thickly diffused as to prevent the growth of a beautiful carpet of prairie grass. When we had gone about six miles, a bold mound-like hill rose on our left, which seemed a favorable spot for getting a view of the surrounding country. We had been told by the hunters that in travelling fifteen miles about west, we should reach a settlement at Sugar-loaf Prairie, on the main channel of the Unica or White river. But on reaching the summit of this natural look-out, we could descry nothing that betokened human habitation. As far as the eye could reach, prairies and groves filled the undulating vista. On reaching its foot again, where our horse was tied, we changed our course to the south, believing that our directions had been vague. We had gone about a mile in this direction, when we entered a faint and old horse-path. This gave animation to our steps. We pursued it about three miles, when it fell into another and plainer path, having the fresh tracks of horses. We were now on elevated ground, which commanded views of the country all around. Suddenly the opposite side of a wide valley appeared to open far beneath us, and, stepping forward the better to scan it, the river of which we were in search presented its bright, broad, and placid surface to our view, at several hundred feet below. We stood admiringly on the top of a high, rocky, and precipitous cliff. Instinctively to shout, was my first impulse. My companion, as he came up, also shouted. We had reached the object of our search. Pursuing the brow of the precipice about a mile, a log building and some fields were discovered on the opposite bank. On descending the path whose traces we had followed, it brought us to a ford. We at once prepared to cross the river, which was four or five hundred yards wide, reaching, in some places, half-leg high. On ascending the opposite bank, we came to the house of a Mr. M'Garey, who received us with an air of hospitality, and made us welcome to his abode. He had several grown sons, who were present, and who, as we found by their costume and conversation, were hunters. Mrs. M'G. was engaged in trying bears' fat, and in due time she invited us to sit down to a meal of these scraps, with excellent corn-bread and sassafras tea, with sugar and milk, served in cups. M'Garey had a bluff frankness of manner, with an air of independence in the means of living, and an individuality of character, which impressed us favorably. He told us that we were eight hundred miles west of the Mississippi by the stream, that White river was navigable by keel-boats for this distance, and that there were several settlements on its banks. He had several acres in cultivation in Indian corn, possessed horses, cows, and hogs, and, as we observed at the door, a hand-mill. At a convenient distance was a smokehouse, where meats were preserved. I observed a couple of odd volumes of books on a shelf. He was evidently a pioneer on the Indian land. He said that the Cherokees had been improperly located along the western bank of White river, extending to the Arkansas, and that the effect was to retard and prevent the purchase and settlement of the country by the United States. He complained of this, as adverse to the scattered hunters, who were anxious to get titles for their lands. He did not represent the Cherokees as being hostile, or as having committed any depredations. But he depicted the Osages as the scourge and terror of the country. They roamed from the Arkansas to the Missouri frontier, and pillaged whoever fell in their way. He detailed the particulars of a robbery committed in the very house we were sitting in, when they took away horses, clothes, and whatever they fancied. They had visited him in this way twice, and recently stole from him eight beaver-skins; and during their last foray in the valley, they had robbed one of his neighbors, called Teen Friend, of all his arms, traps, and skins, and detained him a prisoner. This tribe felt hostile to all the settlers on the outskirts of Missouri and Arkansas, and were open robbers and plunderers of all the whites who fell defenceless into their hands. They were, he thought, particularly to be dreaded in the region which we proposed to explore. He also said that the Osages were hostile to the newly-arrived Cherokees, who had migrated from the east side of the Mississippi, and had settled in the country between the Red river and Arkansas, and that these tribes were daily committing trespasses upon each other. Having myself, but a short time before, noticed the conclusion of a peace between the western Cherokees and Osages at St. Louis, before General Clark, I was surprised to hear this; but he added, as an illustration of this want of faith, that when the Cherokees returned from that treaty, they pursued a party of Osages near the banks of White river, and stole twenty horses from them. Dec. 8th. On comparing opinions, for which purpose we had an interview outside the premises, it seemed that these statements were to be received with some grains of allowance. They were natural enough for a victim of Indian robberies, and doubtless true; but the events had not been recent, and they were not deemed sufficient to deter us from proceeding in our contemplated tour to the higher Ozarks at the sources of the river. It was evident that we had erred a good deal from our stick bridge at Calamarca, from the proper track; but we were nevertheless determined not to relinquish our object. Having obtained the necessary information, we determined to pursue our way, for which purpose we turned the horse to graze with M'Garey's, rid ourselves of all our heavy baggage by depositing it with him, and prepared our knapsacks for this new essay. When ready, our host refused to take any pay for his hospitalities, but, conducting us to his smokehouse, opened the door, and then, drawing his knife from its sheath, placed it, with an air of pomposity, in my hand, offering the handle-end, and said, "Go in and cut." I did so, taking what appeared to be sufficient to last us to our next expected point of meeting hunters. The place was well filled with buffalo and bear meat, both smoked and fresh, hanging on cross-bars. At nine o'clock we bade our kind entertainer adieu, and, taking directions to reach Sugar-loaf Prairie, crossed over the river by the same ford which we had taken in our outward track from Camp No, in the valley of the Great North Fork. Relieved from the toilsome task of leading the horse, we ascended the opposite cliffs with alacrity, and vigorously pursued our course, over elevated ground, for about sixteen miles. The path then became obscure; the ground was so flinty and hard, that it was in vain we searched for tracks of horses' feet. Some time was lost in this search, and we finally encamped in a cane bottom in the river valley. My companion had again charged himself with the coffeepot, which he carried in a similar manner at his back; and when I came to open my pack, told me he thought I had not cut deep enough into the dried bear's meat of M'Garey's smokehouse. To a man who refused all pay, and had been invariably kind, I felt that moderation, in this respect, was due. I was, besides, myself to be the carrier of it; and we, indeed, never had cause to regret the carefulness of my selection. Dec. 9th. Finding ourselves in the river's bottom, we forced our way, with no small effort, through the thick growth of cane and vines. We had, perhaps, advanced seven miles through this dense vegetation, when we suddenly burst into a small cleared space. Here, in a little, incomplete shanty, we found a woman and her young child. She had not a morsel to eat, and looked half famished. Her husband had gone into the forest to hunt something to eat. The child looked feeble. We were touched at the sight, and did all we could to relieve them. They had been in that position of new-comers about two weeks, having come up from the lower parts of the river. From this point, we ascended the river hills eastwardly, and pursued our journey along an elevated range to the Sugar-loaf Prairie--a name which is derived from the striking effects of denudation on the limestone cliffs, which occupy the most elevated positions along this valley. We were received with blunt hospitality by a tall man in leather, called Coker, whose manner appears to be characteristic of the hunter. Our approach was heralded by the usual loud and long barking of dogs, and we found the premises surrounded by the invariable indications of a successful hunter--skins of the bear and other animals, stretched out on frames to dry. We were no sooner at home with our entertainer, than he began to corroborate what we had before heard of the hostility of the Osages. He considered the journey at this season hazardous, as he thought they had not yet broke up their fall hunting-camps, and retired to their villages on the Grand Osaw (Osage). He also thought it a poor season for game, and presented a rather discouraging prospect to our view. My gun having proved useless, we tried to obtain a rifle which he possessed, and seemed willing to part with, but not at a reasonable price. Mr. Coker represented the settlers of Sugar-loaf Prairie to consist of four families, situated within the distance of eight miles, including both banks of the river. This was exclusive of two families living at Beaver creek, the highest point yet occupied. Dec. 10th. It was noon before we were prepared to depart from Coker's. The old man refused to take anything for our meals and lodging; and we bade him adieu, after taking his directions as to the best route to pursue to reach Beaver creek, our next point. We travelled through a lightly-timbered, hilly, barren country, about eight miles, when the skies became overcast, and some rain fell. It was still an early hour to encamp, but we came at this time into a small ravine, with running water, which had on one bank a shelving cave in the limestone rock, forming a protection from the rain. We built a fire from red cedar, which emitted a strong aromatic odor. The weather begins to assume a wintry character; this is the first day we have been troubled with cold fingers. Dec. 11th. We left our camp at the cave on Cedar brook, and resumed our march at an early hour, and found the face of the country still rough and undulating, but covered, to a great extent, with brush. My companion thought we had gone far enough to have struck the waters of the Beaver, and, as he carried the compass this day, he deviated westward from the intended course. This brought us to the banks of a river, which he insisted, contrary to my opinion, must be the Beaver. To me this did not seem probable, but, yielding the point to him, we forded the stream at waist deep. We then ascended a lofty and difficult range of river hills, and, finding ourselves now at the level of the country, we held on in a westerly course, till it became clearly evident, even to my companion, that we were considerably west of the White river. We then retraced our steps, descended the river hills to the bank of the stream, and followed up its immediate margin, in search of a convenient spot for encampment; for, by this time, night approached rapidly. We were soon arrested by a precipitous cliff, against the base of which the river washed. As the sun sank lower, we felt a keen and cold wind, but could not find a stick of wood on the western bank with which to kindle a fire. The alternative presented to us was, either to remain here all night without a fire, exposed to the chilling blast, or cross a deep stream to the opposite shore, where there was an extensive alluvial plain, covered with trees and the cane plant, and promising an abundance of fuel. Night had already closed around us, when we decided to cross the river. We found it to be four or five feet deep, and some two hundred yards wide. When we got over, it was with great difficulty that we succeeded in collecting a sufficiency of dry materials to kindle a fire; and by the time we had accomplished it, our wet clothes had become stiff and cold, the wind at the same time blowing very fiercely. Our utmost efforts were required to dry and warm ourselves, nor did we attain these points in a sufficient degree to secure a comfortable night's rest. Dec. 12th. The ground this morning was covered with white hoar-frost, with a keen and cold air, and a wintry sky. Early daylight found us treading our way across the low grounds to the cliffs. We soon ascended on an elevated rocky shore, bordering the river, which was completely denuded of trees and shrubbery. It was early, the sun not having yet risen, when we beheld before us, rising out of the ground, a column of air which appeared to be of a warmer temperature. Its appearance was like that of smoke from a chimney on a frosty morning. On reaching it, the phenomenon was found to be caused by a small orifice in the earth, from which rarefied air issued. On looking down intently, and partially excluding the light, it was seen to be a fissure in the limestone rock, with jagged, narrow sides, leading down into a cavern. I determined to try the descent, and found the opening large enough to admit my body. Feeling for a protuberance on which to rest my feet, and closely pressing the sides of the orifice, I slowly descended. My fear was that the crevice would suddenly enlarge, and let me drop. But I descended in safety. I thus let myself down directly about twenty feet, and came to the level floor of a gallery which led in several directions. The light from above was sufficient to reveal the dark outlines of a ramified cavern, and to guide my footsteps for a distance. I went as far in the largest gallery as the light cast any direct rays, but found nothing at all on the floor or walls to reward my adventure. It was a notable fissure in a carbonate of lime, entirely dry, and without stalactites. What I most feared in these dim recesses, was some carnivorous animal, for whose residence it appeared to be well adapted. Having explored it as far as I could command any light to retrace my steps, I returned to the foot of the original orifice. I found no difficulty, by pressing on each side, in ascending to the surface, bringing along a fragment of the limestone rock. I afterwards observed, while descending the river, that this cavern was in a high, precipitous part of the coast, of calcareous rock, the foot of which was washed by the main channel of White river. We now resumed our march, and, at the distance of about six miles, reached Beaver creek, a mile or two above its mouth. It is a beautiful, clear stream, of sixty yards wide, with a depth of two feet, and a hard, gravelly bottom. We forded it, and, keeping down the bank, soon fell into a horse-path, which led us, in following it about a mile and a half, to a hunter's dwelling, occupied by a man named Fisher. He received us in a friendly manner, and we took up our abode with him. Six or eight hundred yards higher, there was another cabin, occupied by a man named Holt. Both had been but a short time located at this place; they had not cleared any ground, nor even finished the log houses they occupied. Both buildings were on the bank of the river, on the edge of a large and very fertile bottom, well wooded, and with a very picturesque coast of limestone opposite, whose denuded pinnacles had received the name of the Little Tower. CHAPTER VIII. OBSTACLE PRODUCED BY THE FEAR OF OSAGE HOSTILITY--MEANS PURSUED TO OVERCOME IT--NATURAL MONUMENTS OF DENUDATION IN THE LIMESTONE CLIFFS--PURITY OF THE WATER--PEBBLES OF YELLOW JASPER--COMPLETE THE HUNTERS' CABINS--A JOB IN JEWELLERY--CONSTRUCT A BLOWPIPE FROM CANE--WHAT IS THOUGHT OF RELIGION. Dec. 13th. Holt and Fisher were the highest occupants of the White river valley. They had reached this spot about four months before, and had brought their effects partly on pack-horses, and partly in canoes. The site was judiciously chosen. A finer tract of rich river bottom could not have been found, while the site commanded an illimitable region, above and around it, for hunting the deer, buffalo, elk, and other species, besides the beaver, otter, and small furred animals, which are taken in traps. We tried, at first vainly, to persuade them to accompany us in our further explorations. To this they replied that it was Osage hunting-ground, and that tribe never failed to plunder and rob all who fell in their power, particularly hunters and trappers. And besides, they were but recent settlers, and had not yet completed their houses and improvements. As we were neither hunters nor trappers, we had no fears of Osage hostility; for this was, in a measure, the just retribution of that tribe for an intrusion on their lands, and the destruction of its game, which constituted its chief value to them. Nor did we anticipate encountering them at all, at this season, as they must have withdrawn, long ere this, to their villages on the river Osage. Dec. 14th. There appears no other way to induce the hunters to go with us, but to aid them in completing their cottages and improvements. This we resolved to do. Holt then agreed to accompany us as a guide and huntsman, with the further stipulation that he was to have the horse which had been left at M'Garey's, and a small sum of money, with liberty also to undertake a journey to the settlements below for corn. Hereupon, Fisher also consented to accompany us. Dec. 15th. This obstacle to our movements being overcome, we busied ourselves in rendering to the hunters all the assistance in our power, and made it an object to show them that we could do this effectively. We began by taking hold of the frow and axe, and aiding Holt to split boards for covering a portion of the roof of his house. I doubt whether my companion had ever done the like work before; I am sure I never had; but having thrown myself on this adventure, I most cheerfully submitted to all its adverse incidents. Dec. 16th. This morning, Holt and Fisher--the latter accompanied by his son, with three horses--set out on their journey to purchase corn, leaving us, in the interim, to provide fuel for their families; a labor by no means light, as the cold was now severe, and was daily growing more intense. To-day, for the first time, we observed floating ice in the river; and, even within the cabins, water exposed in vessels for a few moments, acquired a thin coating of ice. Dec. 17th. At daybreak we built a substantial, rousing fire in the cabin, of logs several feet long; we then pounded the quantity of corn necessary for the family's daily use. This process brings the article into the condition of coarse grits, which are boiled soft, and it then bears the name of homony. Of this nutritious dish our meals generally consist, with boiled or fried bear's bacon, and a decoction of sassafras tea. The fat of the bear is very white and delicate, and appears to be more digestible than fresh pork, which is apt to cloy in the stomach. After breakfast, wishing to give the hunters evidence of our capacity of being useful, we took our axes and sallied out into the adjoining wood, and began to fell the trees, cut them into proper lengths for firewood, and pile the brush. About five o'clock, we were summoned to our second meal, which is made to serve as dinner and supper. We then carried up the quantity of firewood necessary for the night. This consumed the remainder of the short December day; and, before lying down for the night, we replenished the ample fire. This sketch may serve as an outline of our daily industry, during the eleven days we tarried with the hunters. Dec. 18th. I have mentioned the fondness of my companion for tea. This afternoon he thought to produce an agreeable surprise in our hostess's mind, by preparing a dish of young hyson. But she sipped it as she would have done the decoction of some bitter herb, and frankly confessed that she did not like it as well as the forest substitutes, namely, sassafras, dittany, and spicewood. And the manner in which she alluded to it as "store tea," plainly denoted the article not to be numbered among the wants of a hunter's life. Dec. 19th. The river having been closed with ice within the last two days, we crossed it this afternoon to visit the two pyramidal monuments of geological denudation which mark the limestone range of the opposite shore. I determined, if possible, to ascend one of them. The ascent lies through a defile of rocks. By means of projections, which could sometimes be reached by cedar roots, and now and then a leap or a scramble, I succeeded in ascending one of them to near its apex, which gave me a fine view of the windings of the river. The monuments consist of stratified limestone, which has, all but these existing peaks, crumbled under the effects of disintegration. I observed no traces of organic remains. It appeared to be of the same general character with the metalliferous beds of Missouri, and is, viewed in extenso, like that, based on grey or cream-colored sand-rock. I found this limestone rock cavernous, about seven miles below. In crossing the river, I was impressed with the extreme purity of the water. The ice near the cliffs having been formed during a calm night, presented the crystalline purity of glass, through which every inequality, pebble, and stone in its bed, could be plainly perceived. The surface on which we stood was about an inch thick, bending as we walked. The depth of water appeared to be five or six feet; but I was told that it was fully twenty. The pebbles at this place are often a small, pear-shaped, opaque, yellow jasper. They appear to have been disengaged from some mineral bed at a higher point on the stream. Dec. 20th. Observed as a day of rest, it being the Sabbath. The atmosphere is sensibly milder, and attended with haziness, which appears to betoken rain. Dec. 21st. We employed ourselves till three o'clock in hewing and splitting planks for Holt's cabin floor, when rain compelled us to desist. The following circumstance recently occurred here: Two hunters had a dispute about a horse, which it was alleged one had stolen from the other; the person aggrieved, meeting the other some days after in the woods, shot him dead. He immediately fled, keeping the woods for several weeks; when the neighboring hunters, aroused by so glaring an outrage, assembled and set out in quest of him. Being an expert woodsman, the offender eluded them for some time; but at last they obtained a glimpse of him as he passed through a thicket, when one of his pursuers shot him through the shoulder, but did not kill him. This event happened a few days before our arrival in this region. It will probably be the cause of several murders, before the feud is ended. Dec. 22d. The rain having ceased, we resumed and completed our job of yesterday at Holt's. The atmosphere is hazy, damp, and warm. My medical skill had not been called on since the affair at the Four Bear creek, where my companion sprained his ankle. The child of Mrs. Holt was taken ill with a complaint so manifestly bilious, that I gave it relief by administering a few grains of calomel. This success led to an application from her neighbor, Mrs. F., whose delicate situation made the responsibility of a prescription greater. This also proved favorable, and I soon had other applicants. Dec. 23d. About ten o'clock this morning, Holt and Fisher returned, laden with corn. The day was mild and pleasant, the severity of the atmosphere having moderated, and the sky become clear and bright. They appeared to be pleased with the evidences of our thrift and industry during their absence, and we now anticipated with pleasure an early resumption of our journey. To this end, we were resolved that nothing should be wanting on our part. We had already faithfully devoted seven days to every species of labor that was necessary to advance their improvements. Dec. 24th. I had yesterday commenced hewing out a table for Holt's domicile, from a fine, solid block of white-ash. I finished the task to-day, to the entire admiration of all. We now removed our lodgings from Fisher's to Holt's, and employed the remainder of the day in chinking and daubing his log house. Of these two men, who had pushed themselves to the very verge of western civilization, it will be pertinent to say, that their characters were quite different. Holt was the better hunter, and more social and ready man. He was quick with the rifle, and suffered no animal to escape him. Fisher was of a more deliberative temperament, and more inclined to surround himself with the reliances of agriculture. He was also the better mechanic, and more inclined to labor. Holt hated labor like an Indian, and, like an Indian, relied for subsistence on the chase exclusively. Fisher was very superstitious, and a believer in witchcraft. Holt was scarcely a believer in anything, but was ever ready for action. He could talk a little Chickasaw, and had several of their chansons, which he sung. Both men had kept for years moving along on the outer frontiers, ever ready for a new remove; and it was plain enough, to the listener to their tales of wild adventure, that they had not been impelled, thus far, on the ever advancing line of border life, from the observance of any of the sterner virtues or qualities of civilized society. There were occasions in their career, if we may venture an opinion, when to shoot a deer, or to shoot a man, were operations that could be performed "agreeably to circumstances." To us, however, they were uniformly kind, frank, friendly; for, indeed, there was no possible light in which our interests were brought in conflict. We were no professed hunters, and our journey into the Ozark hunting-grounds was an advantage to them, by making them better acquainted with the geography of their position. They could not quit home on such a journey, however, without leaving some meat for their families; and they both set out to-day for this purpose. It appeared that they had, some days before, killed on a river bottom, about twelve miles above this point in the river valley, a buffalo, a bear, and a panther; but, not having horses with them, had scaffolded the carcases of the two former. Notwithstanding this precaution, the wolves had succeeded in reaching the buffalo meat, and had partly destroyed it. The carcase of the bear was safe. They returned in the afternoon with their trophies. They also brought down some of the leg-bones of the buffalo, for the sake of their marrow. They are boiled in water, to cook the marrow, and then cracked open. The quantity of marrow is immense. It is eaten while hot, with salt. We thought it delicious. We learn by conversing with the hunters that a high value is set upon the dog, and that they are sought with great avidity. We heard of one instance where a cow was given for a good hunting dog. Dec. 25th, Christmas day. At our suggestion, the hunters went out to shoot some turkeys for a Christmas dinner, and, after a couple of hours' absence, returned with fourteen. In the meantime, we continued our labors in completing the house. I prevailed on our hostess, to-day, to undertake a turkey-pie, with a crust of Indian meal; and, the weather being mild, we partook of it under the shade of a tree, on the banks of the river. Dec. 26th. Having now obviated every objection, and convinced the hunters that no dangers were to be apprehended at this late season from the Osages, and having completed the preparations for the tour, to-morrow is fixed on as the time of starting. Our hostess mentioned to me that she had a brass ring, which she had worn for many years, and declared it to be an infallible remedy for the cramp, with which she had been much afflicted before putting it on, but had not had the slightest return of it since. She was now much distressed on account of having lately broken it; and, observing the care I bestowed on my mineralogical packages, she thought I must possess skill in such affairs, and solicited me to mend it. It was in vain that I represented that I had no blowpipe or other necessary apparatus for the purpose. She was convinced I could do it, and I was unwilling to show a disobliging disposition by refusing to make the attempt. I therefore contrived to make a blowpipe by cutting several small pieces of cane, and fitting one into the other until the aperture was drawn down to the required degree of fineness. A hollow cut in a billet of wood, and filled with live hickory coals, answered instead of a lamp; and with a small bit of silver money, and a little borax applied to the broken ring, with my wooden blowpipe, I soon soldered it, and afterwards filed off the redundant silver with a small file. I must remark that the little file and bit of borax, without which the job could not have been accomplished, was produced from the miscellaneous housewife of my hostess. Dec. 27th. Rain, which began at night, rendered it impossible to think of starting to-day. It was the Sabbath, and was improved as a time of rest and reflection. I took the occasion to make some allusions, in a gentle and unobtrusive way, to the subject, and, in connection with some remarks which one of my entertainers had made a few days previously, on the subject of religion generally, condense the following observations:--He said that while living on the banks of the Mississippi, a few years ago, he occasionally attended religious meetings, and thought them a very good thing; but he had found one of the preachers guilty of a gross fraud, and determined never to go again. He thought that a man might be as good without going to church as with it, and that it seemed to him to be a useless expenditure, &c.; very nearly, indeed, the same kind of objections which are made by careless and unbelieving persons everywhere, I fancy, _in_ the woods or _out_ of them. The hardships of the hunter's life fall heavily on females. Mrs. Holt tells me that she has not lived in a floored cabin for several years--that during this period they have changed their abode many times--and that she has lost four children, who all died under two years. CHAPTER IX. PROCEED INTO THE HUNTING-COUNTRY OF THE OSAGES--DILUVIAL HILLS AND PLAINS--BALD HILL--SWAN CREEK--OSAGE ENCAMPMENTS--FORM OF THE OSAGE LODGE--THE HABITS OF THE BEAVER--DISCOVER A REMARKABLE CAVERN IN THE LIMESTONE ROCK, HAVING NATURAL VASES OF PURE WATER--ITS GEOLOGICAL AND METALLIFEROUS CHARACTER-- REACH THE SUMMIT OF THE OZARK RANGE, WHICH IS FOUND TO DISPLAY A BROAD REGION OF FERTILE SOIL, OVERLYING A MINERAL DEPOSIT. My stay, which I regarded in the light of a pilgrimage, at the hunters' cabins, was now drawing to a close. I had originally reached their camps after a fatiguing and devious march through some of the most sterile and rough passages of the Ozarks, guided only by a pocket compass, and had thrown myself on their friendship and hospitality to further my progress. Without their friendly guidance, it was felt that no higher point in this elevation could be reached. Every objection raised by them had now been surmounted. I had waited their preliminary journey for corn for their families, and my companion and myself had made ourselves useful by helping, in the mean time, to complete their cabins and improvements. While thus engaged, I had become tolerably familiar with their character, physical and moral, and may add something more respecting them. Holt, as I have before indicated, was a pure hunter, expert with the rifle, and capable of the periodical exertion and activity which hunting requires, but prone to take his ease when there was meat in the cabin, and averse to all work beside. He was of an easy, good-natured temper, and would submit to a great deal of inconvenience and want, before he would rouse himself. But when out in the woods, or on the prairies, he was quite at home. He knew the habits and range of animals, their time for being out of their coverts, the kind of food they sought, and the places where it was likely to be found. He had a quick eye and a sure aim, and quadruped or bird that escaped him, must be nimble. He was about five feet eight inches in height, stout and full faced, and was particular in his gear and dress, but in nothing so much as the skin wrapper that secured his rifle-lock. This was always in perfect order. Fisher was two or three inches taller, more slender, lank of features, and sterner. He was a great believer in the bewitching of guns, seemed often to want a good place to fire from, had more deliberation in what he did, and was not so successful a sportsman. He had, too, when in the cabin, more notions of comfort, built a larger dwelling, worked more on it, and had some desires for cultivation. When on the prairie, he dismounted from his horse with some deliberation; but, before he was well on terra firma, Holt had slid off and killed his game. The shots of both were true, and, between them, we ran no danger of wanting a meal. It was the twenty-eighth day of December before every objection to their guiding us was obviated, and, although neither of them had been relieved from the fear of Osage hostility, they mounted their horses in the morning, and announced themselves ready to proceed. Our course now lay toward the north-west, and the weather was still mild and favorable. We ascended through the heavily-timbered bottom-lands of the valley for a mile or two, and then passed by an easy route through the valley cliffs, to the prairie uplands north of them. After getting fairly out of the gorge we had followed, we entered on a rolling highland prairie, with some clumps of small forest trees, and covered, as far as the eye could reach, with coarse wild grass, and the seed-pods of autumnal flowers, nodding in the breeze. It was a waving surface. Sometimes the elevations assumed a conical shape. Sometimes we crossed a depression with trees. Often the deer bounded before us, and frequently the sharp crack of the rifle was the first intimation to me that game was near. Holt told me that the error of the young or inexperienced hunters was in looking too far for their game. The plan to hunt successfully was, to raise the eye slowly from the spot just before you, for the game is often close by, and not to set it on distant objects at first. We moved on leisurely, with eyes and ears alert for every sight and sound. A bird, a quadruped, a track--these were important themes. When night approached, we encamped near the foot of an eminence, called, from its appearance, the Bald Hill. An incident occurred early in our march, which gave us no little concern. A fine young horse of one of the neighboring hunters, which had been turned out to range, followed our track from White river valley, and, notwithstanding all the efforts of our guides, could not be driven back. At length they fired the dry prairie-grass behind us, the wind serving, deeming this the most effectual way of driving him back. The expedient did not, however, prove eventually successful; for, after a while, the animal again made his appearance. We lost some time in these efforts. It was thought better, at length, that I should ride him, which was accomplished by placing a deerskin upon his back by way of saddle, with a kind of bridle, &c. The animal was spirited, and, thus mounted, I kept up with the foremost. We travelled to-day about ten miles. The day was clear, but chilly, with a north-westerly wind, which we had to face. Holt had killed a young doe during the day, which was quickly skinned, and he took along the choice parts of it for our evening's repast. Part of the carcase was left behind as wolf's-meat. Dec. 29th. Little change appeared in the country. For about six miles we travelled over hill and dale, meeting nothing new, but constantly expecting something. We then descended into the valley of Swan creek--a clear stream of thirty yards wide, a tributary of White river. Its banks present a rich alluvial bottom, well wooded with maple, hickory, ash, hag-berry, elm, and sycamore. We followed up this valley about five miles, when it commenced raining, and we were compelled to encamp. Protection from the rain, however, was impossible. We gained some little shelter under the broad roots of a clump of fallen trees and limbs, and passed a most comfortless night, being wet, and without a fire. The next morning, (Dec. 30th,) at the earliest dawn, we were in motion. After ascending the Swan creek valley about nine miles, through a most fertile tract, we fell into the Osage trail, a well-beaten horse-path, and passed successively three of their deserted camps, which had apparently been unoccupied for a month or more. The poles and frames of each lodge were left standing, and made a most formidable show. The paths, hacked trees, and old stumps of firebrands, showed that they had been deserted in the fall. The fear of this tribe now appeared to have left the minds of our guides. These encampments were all very large, and could probably each have accommodated several hundred persons. The form of the Osage lodge may be compared to a hemisphere, or an inverted bird's-nest, with a small aperture left in the top for the escape of smoke, and an elongated opening at the side, by way of door, to pass and repass. It is constructed by cutting a number of flexible green poles, sharpened at one end, and stuck firmly in the ground. The corresponding tops are then bent over and tied, and the framework covered with linden bark. These wigwams are arranged in circles, one line of lodges within another. In the centre is a scaffolding for meat. The chief's tent is conspicuously situated at the head of each encampment. It is different from the rest, resembling an inverted half cylinder. The whole is arranged with much order and neatness, and evinces that they move in large parties, that the chiefs exercise a good deal of authority. The Osages are a tribe who have from early times been prominent in the south-west, between the Arkansas and Missouri. The term Osage is of French origin; it seems to be a translation of the Algonquin term Assengigun, or Bone Indians. Why? They call themselves Was-ba-shaw, and have a curious allegory of their having originated from a beaver and a snail. They are divided into two bands, the Little and Great Osages, the latter of whom make their permanent encampments on the river Osage of the Missouri. The Ozarks appear from early days to have been their hunting-grounds for the valuable furred animals, and its deep glens and gorges have served as nurseries for the bear. They are one of the great prairie stock of tribes, who call God Wacondah. They are physically a fine tribe of men, of good stature and courage, but have had the reputation, among white and red men, of being thieves and plunderers. Certainly, among the hunter population of this quarter, they are regarded as little short of ogres and giants; and they tell most extravagant tales of their doings. Luckily, it was so late in the season that we were not likely to encounter many of them. In searching the precincts of the old camps, my guides pointed out a place where the Indians had formerly pinioned down Teen Friend, one of the most successful of the white trappers in this quarter, whom they had found trapping their beaver in the Swan creek valley. I thought it was an evidence of some restraining fear of our authorities at St. Louis, that they had not taken the enterprising old fellow's scalp, as well as his beaver packs. Life in the wilderness is dependent on contingencies, which are equally hard to be foreseen or controlled. We are, at all events, clearly out of the jurisdiction of a justice of the peace. And the maxim that we have carefully conned over in childhood, "No man may put off the law of God," is but a feeble reliance when urged against the Osages or Pawnees. Deeming themselves now high enough up the Swan creek valley, my guides determined to leave it, and turned their horses' heads up a gorge that led to the open plains. We now steered our course north-west, over an elevated plain, or prairie, covered, as usual, with ripe grass. We followed across this tract for about twenty miles, with no general deviation of our course, but without finding water. In search of this, we pushed on vigorously till night set in, when it became intensely dark, and we were in danger of being precipitated, at every step, into some hole, or down some precipice. Darkness, in a prairie, places the traveller in the position of a ship at sea, without a compass; to go on, or to stop, seems equally perilous. For some two hours we groped our way in this manner, when one of the guides shouted that he had found a standing pool. Meantime, it had become excessively dark. The atmosphere was clouded over, and threatened rain. On reaching the pool, there was no wood to be found, and we were compelled to encamp without a fire, and laid down supperless, tired, and cold. My guides were hardy, rough fellows, and did not mind these omissions of meals for a day together, and had often, as now, slept without camp-fires at night. As the object seemed to be a trial of endurance, I resolved not to compromit myself by appearing a whit less hardy than they did, and uttered not a word that might even shadow forth complaint. This was, however, a cold and cheerless spot at best, with the wide prairie for a pillow, and black clouds, dropping rain, for a covering. The next morning, as soon as it was at all light, we followed down the dry gorge in which we had lain, to Findley's Fork--a rich and well-timbered valley, which we descended about five miles. As we rode along through an open forest, soon after entering this valley, we observed the traces of the work of the beaver, and stopped to view a stately tree, of the walnut species, which had been partially gnawed off by these animals. This tree was probably eighteen or twenty inches in diameter, and fifty feet high. The animals had gnawed a ring around it, but abandoned their work. It had afterwards been undermined by the freshets of the stream, and had fallen. Was it too hard a work? If so, it would seem that some instinct akin to reason came to their aid, in leading them to give up their essay. There was now every appearance of a change of weather. It was cold, and a wintry breeze chilled our limbs. I thought my blood was as warm as that of my guides, however, and rode on cheerfully. At length, Holt and Fisher, of their own motion, stopped to kindle a fire, and take breakfast. We had still plenty of fresh venison, which we roasted, as each liked, on spits. Thus warmed and refreshed, we continued down the valley, evidently in a better philosophical mood; for a man always reasons better, and looks more beneficently about him, this side of starvation. I observed a small stream of pure water coming in on the north, side, which issued through an opening in the hills; and as this ran in the general direction we were pursuing, the guides led up it. We were soon enclosed in a lateral valley, with high corresponding hills, as if, in remote ages, they had been united. Very soon it became evident that this defile was closed across and in front of us. As we came near this barrier, it was found that it blocked up the whole valley, with the exception of the mouth of a gigantic cave. The great width and height of this cave, and its precipitous face, gave it very much the appearance of some ruinous arch, out of proportion. It stretched from hill to hill. The limpid brook we had been following, ran from its mouth. On entering it, the first feeling was that of being in "a large place." There was no measure for the eye to compute height or width. We seemed suddenly to be beholding some secret of the great works of nature, which had been hid from the foundation of the world. The impulse, on these occasions, is to shout. I called it Winoca.[9] On advancing, we beheld an immense natural vase, filled with pure water. This vase was formed from concretions of carbonate of lime, of the nature of stalagmite, or, rather, stalactite. It was greyish-white and translucent, filling the entire breadth of the cave. But, what was still more imposing, another vase, of similar construction, was formed on the next ascending plateau of the floor of the cave. The water flowed over the lips of this vase into the one below. The calcareous deposit seems to have commenced at the surface of the water, which, continually flowing over the rims of each vase, increases the deposit. The height of the lower vase is about five feet, which is inferable by our standing by it, and looking over the rim into the limpid basin. The rim is about two and a half inches thick. Etruscan artists could not have formed a more singular set of capacious vases. The stream of water that supplies these curious tanks, rushes with velocity from the upper part of the cavern. The bottom of the cave is strewed with small and round calcareous concretions, about the size of ounce balls, of the same nature with the vases. They are in the condition of stalagmites. These concretions are opaque, and appear to have been formed from the impregnated waters percolating from the roof of the cavern. There are evidences of nitric salts in small crevices. Geologically, the cavern is in the horizontal limestone, which is evidently metalliferous. It is the same calcareous formation which characterizes the whole Ozark range. Ores of lead (the sulphurets) were found in the stratum in the bed of a stream, at no great distance north of this cave; and its exploration for its mineral wealth is believed to be an object of practical importance. I had now followed the geological formation of the country far south-westwardly. The relative position of the calcareous, lead-bearing stratum, had everywhere been the same, when not disturbed or displaced. Wide areas on the sources of the Maramec, Gasconade, and Osage, and also of the Currents, Spring river, and Eleven-points and Strawberry, were found covered by heavy drift, which concealed the rock; but wherever valleys had been cut through the formation by the stream, and the strata laid bare, they disclosed the same horizontality of deposit, and the same relative position of limestone and sandstone rock. FOOTNOTE: [9] From the Osage word for an underground spirit. CHAPTER X. DEPART FROM THE CAVE--CHARACTER OF THE HUNTERS WHO GUIDED THE AUTHOR--INCIDENTS OF THE ROUTE--A BEAUTIFUL AND FERTILE COUNTRY, ABOUNDING IN GAME--REACH THE EXTREME NORTH-WESTERN SOURCE OF WHITE RIVER--DISCOVERIES OF LEAD-ORE IN A PART OF ITS BED--ENCAMP AND INVESTIGATE ITS MINERALOGY--CHARACTER, VALUE, AND HISTORY OF THE COUNTRY--PROBABILITY OF ITS HAVING BEEN TRAVERSED BY DE SOTO IN 1541. It was the last day of the year 1818, when we reached the cave of Winoca, as described in the preceding chapter, on the Ozark summit. An inspection of the country had shown the fact that the mineral developments of its underlying rocks were of a valuable character, while the surface assumed the most pleasing aspect, and the soil, wherever examined, appeared to be of the very richest quality. The bold, rough hunters, who accompanied me, thought of the country only as an attractive game country, which it was a great pity, they said, that the Indians alone should occupy; and they had very little curiosity about anything that did not minister to their immediate wants. They had lived for so long a time by the rifle, that they had a philosophy of the rifle. It was the ready arbiter between themselves, and the animal creation, and the Indians, and even other hunters. Neither the striking agricultural or mineral resources of the country, arrested much attention on their part. And as soon as I was ready to relinquish my examinations at the cave and proceed, they were ready to resume their horses and lead forward. Unfortunately, it was now severely cold, and everything in the heavens prognosticated its increasing severity. On leaving the Valley of the Cave, and ascending the hills that environed it, we passed over a gently sloping surface of hill and vale, partly covered with forest trees, and partly in prairies. I have seldom seen a more beautiful prospect. The various species of oaks and hickories had strewed the woods with their fruits, on which the bear and wild turkey revelled, while the red deer was scarcely ever out of sight. Long before the hour of encampment had arrived, the hunters had secured the means of our making a sumptuous evening meal on wild viands; and when, at an early hour, we pitched our camp on the borders of a small brook, Holt, who was ever ready with the rifle, added a fat brant from this brook to our stores. We had not travelled more than twelve miles, but we had a sharp wind to face, the day being severe; and nothing was so agreeable, when we halted, as the fire, around which we enjoyed ourselves, as we each displayed our skill in forest cookery. There was cutting, and carving, and roasting, in the true prairie style. We then prepared our couches and night-fires, and slept. At the earliest peep of light, we were again in motion. The 1st of January, 1819, opened with a degree of cold unusual in these regions. Their elevation is, indeed, considerable; but the wind swept with a cutting force across the open prairies. We were now on the principal north-western source of White river, the channel of which we forded in the distance of two miles. The western banks presented a naked prairie, covered with dry grass and autumnal weeds, with here and there a tree. We pushed on towards the north-east. The prairie-hen, notwithstanding the cold, rose up in flocks before us, as we intruded upon their low-couched positions in the grass. Of these, Holt, whose hunting propensities no cold could restrain, obtained a specimen; he also fired at and killed a wild goose from the channel of the river. On passing about four miles up the western banks of the stream, we observed a lead of lead-ore, glittering through the water in the bed of the river, and determined to encamp at this spot, for the purpose of investigating the mineral appearances. The weather was piercingly cold. We found some old Indian camps near at hand, and procured from them pieces of bark to sheath a few poles and stakes, hastily put up, to form a shelter from the wind. A fire was soon kindled, and, while we cooked and partook of a forest breakfast, we recounted the incidents of the morning, not omitting the untoward state of the weather. When the labor of building the shanty was completed, I hastened to explore the geological indications of the vicinity. The ore which had attracted our notice in the bed of the stream, existed in lumps, which presented bright surfaces where the force of the current had impelled its loose stony materials over them. It was a pure sulphuret of lead, breaking in cubical lines. I also observed some pieces of hornblende. It was not easy to determine the original width of the bed of ore. Its course is across the stream, into the banks of red marly clay on which we had encamped. Its geological position is in every respect similar to the metalliferous deposits at Potosi, except that there were no spars, calcareous or barytic, in sight. I gathered, in a few minutes, a sufficient number of specimens of the ore for examination, and employed myself in erecting, on the banks of the river, a small furnace, of the kind called "log-furnace" in Missouri, to test its fusibility. In the mean time, my New England companion took a survey of the surrounding country, which he pronounced one of the most fertile, and admirably adapted to every purpose of agriculture. Much of the land consists of prairie, into which the plough can be immediately put. The forests and groves, which are interspersed with a park-like beauty through these prairies, consist of various species of oaks, maple, white and black walnut, elm, mulberry, hackberry, and sycamore. Holt and Fisher scanned the country for game, and returned to camp with six turkeys and a wolf. Their fear of the Osages had been only apparently subdued. They had been constantly on the look-out for signs of Indian enemies, and had their minds always filled with notions of hovering Osages and Pawnees. The day was wintry, and the weather variable. It commenced snowing at daylight, and continued till about eight o'clock, A. M. It then became clear, and remained so, with occasional flickerings, until two o'clock, when a fixed snowstorm sat in, and drove me from my little unfinished furnace, bringing in the hunters also from the prairies, and confining us strictly to our camp. This storm continued, without mitigation, nearly all night. Jan. 3d. The snow ceased before sunrise, leaving the country wrapped in a white mantle. The morning was cold; the river began to freeze about nine o'clock, and continued till it was closed. The weather afforded an opportunity for continuing the explorations and examinations commenced yesterday. I found that the red clay afforded a good material for laying the stones of my lead-furnace, and continued working at it for a part of the day. The hunters came in with the carcases of two deer, and the skin of a black wolf. Except in its color, I could not distinguish any permanent characteristics in the latter differing from the large grey wolf, or coyote. Its claws, snout, and ears, were the same--its tail, perhaps, a little more bushy. The size of this animal, judging from the skin, must have been double that of the little prairie-wolf, or _myeengun_ of the Indians of the North. I found the bed of the stream, where it permitted examination, to be non-crystalline limestone, in horizontal beds, corresponding to the formation observed in the cave of Winoca. Its mineral constituents were much the same. The country is one that must be valuable hereafter for its fertility and resources. The prairies which extend west of the river are the most extensive, rich, and beautiful, of any which I have yet seen west of the Mississippi. They are covered with a most vigorous growth of grass. The deer and elk abound in this quarter, and the buffalo is yet occasionally seen. The soil in the river valley is a rich black alluvion. The trees are often of an immense height, denoting strength of soil. It will probably be found adapted to corn, flax, hemp, wheat, oats, and potatoes; while its mining resources must come in as one of the elements of its future prosperity. I planted some peach-stones in a fertile spot near our camp, where the growth of the sumac denoted unusual fertility. And it is worthy of remark that even Holt, who had the antipathy of an Indian to agriculture, actually cut some bushes in a certain spot, near a spring, and piled them into a heap, by way of securing a pre-emption right to the soil. The region of the Ozark range of mountain development is one of singular features, and no small attractions. It exhibits a vast and elevated tract of horizontal and sedimentary strata, extending for hundreds of miles north and south. This range is broken up into high cliffs, often wonderful to behold, which form the enclosing walls of river valleys. The Arkansas itself forces its way through, about the centre of the range. The Washita marks its southern boundary. The St. Francis and the Maramec, at the mouth of the former of which De Soto landed, constitute its northern limits. The junction of the Missouri with the Mississippi may be said to be its extreme northern development. The Missouri, from the influx of the Osage, is pushed northward by the Ozark range. It rests, on the south, upon the primitive granites, slates, and quartz rock, of Washita. The celebrated Hot Springs issue from it. The long-noted mines of Missouri, which once set opinion in France in a blaze, extend from its north-eastern flanks. The primitive sienites and hornblende rock of the sources of the St. Francis and Grand rivers, support it. The Unica or White river, the Strawberry, Spring river, Currents and Black rivers, descend from it, and join the Mississippi. The Great and Little Osage, and the Gasconade, flow into the Missouri. The great plains, and sand-desert, which stretches at the eastern foot of the Rocky mountains, lie west of it. It is not less than two hundred miles in breadth. No part of the central regions of the Mississippi valley exhibits such a variety in its geological constituents, or such a striking mineralogical development. Its bodies of the ore of iron called iron-glance, are unparalleled. These are particularly developed in the locality called Iron Mountain, or the sources of the St. Francis. Its ores of lead, zinc, antimony, and manganese, are remarkable. Its limestones abound in caves yielding nitre. Salt and gypsum are found in the plains on its western borders. Its large blocks of quartz rock, which are found north of the Arkansas river, particularly scattered over the formations crossing the Little Red, Buffalo, and White rivers, about the Buffalo shoals, furnish indications of the diluvial gold deposit, which would justify future examination. Through these alpine ranges De Soto roved, with his chivalrous and untiring army, making an outward and inward expedition into regions which must have presented unwonted hardships and discouragements to the march of troops. To add to these natural obstacles, he found himself opposed by fierce savage tribes, who rushed upon him from every glen and defile, and met him in the open grounds with the most savage energy. His own health finally sank under these fatigues; and it is certain that, after his death, his successor in the command, Moscoso, once more marched entirely through the southern Ozarks, and reached the buffalo plains beyond them. Such energy and feats of daring had never before been displayed in North America; and the wonder is at its highest, after beholding the wild and rough mountains, cliffs, glens, and torrents, over which the actual marches must have laid. Some of the names of the Indian tribes encountered by him, furnish conclusive evidence that the principal tribes of the country, although they have changed their particular locations since the year 1542, still occupy the region. Thus, the Kapahas, who then lived on the Mississippi, above the St. Francis, are identical with the Quappas, the Cayas with the Kanzas, and the Quipana with the Pawnees. CHAPTER XI. SEVERE WINTER WEATHER ON THE SUMMIT OF THE OZARKS--FALSE ALARM OF INDIANS--DANGER OF MY FURNACE, ETC., BEING HEREAFTER TAKEN FOR ANTIQUITIES--PROCEED SOUTH--ANIMAL TRACKS IN THE SNOW--WINOCA OR SPIRIT VALLEY--HONEY AND THE HONEY-BEE--BUFFALO-BULL CREEK--ROBE OF SNOW--MEHAUSCA VALLEY--SUPERSTITIOUS EXPERIMENT OF THE HUNTERS--ARRIVE AT BEAVER CREEK. The indications of severe weather, noticed during the last day of December, and the beginning of January, were not deceptive; every day served to realize them. We had no thermometer; but our feelings denoted an intense degree of cold. The winds were fierce and sharp, and snow fell during a part of each day and night that we remained on these elevations. We wrapped our garments closely about us at night, in front of large fires, and ran alternately the risk of being frozen and burnt. One night my overcoat was in a blaze from lying too near the fire. This severity served to increase the labor of our examinations; but it did not, that I am aware, prevent anything essential. On the fourth day of my sojourn here, a snowstorm began, a little before one o'clock in the morning; it ceased, or, as the local phrase is, "held up," at daybreak. The ground was now covered, to a depth of from two to three inches, with a white mantle. Such severity had never been known by the hunters. The winds whistled over the bleak prairies with a rigor which would have been remarkable in high northern latitudes. The river froze entirely over. The sun, however, shone out clearly as the day advanced, and enabled me to complete my examinations, as fully as it was practicable to do, under the existing state of the weather. It happened, on this day, that my companion had walked a mile or two west, over the smooth prairie, to get a better view of the conformation of the land, returning to camp before the hunters, who had also gone in the same general direction. On their coming back, one of them, whose head was always full of hostile Osages, fell on his returning track in the snow, and carefully traced it to our camp. He came in breathless, and declared that the Osages were upon us, and that not a moment was to be lost in breaking up our camp, and flying to a place of security. When informed of the origin of the tracks, he still seemed incredulous, and could not be pacified without some difficulty. We then prepared, by collecting fuel, and increasing our bark defences against the wind and snow, to pass another night at the camp. I had now followed the Ozarks as far as it seemed practicable, and reached their western summit, notwithstanding every discouragement thrown in my way by the reports of the hunters, from the first moment of my striking the White river; having visited the source of nearly every river which flows from it, both into the Missouri and the Mississippi. I had fully satisfied myself of its physical character and resources, and now determined to return to the camps of my guides at Beaver creek, and continue the exploration south. It was the 5th of January, 1819, when we prepared our last meal at that camp, and I carefully put up my packages in such portable shape as might be necessary. Some time was spent in looking up the horses, which had been turned into a neighboring canebrake. The interval was employed in cutting our names, with the date of our visit, on a contiguous oak, which had been previously blazed for the purpose. These evidences of our visit were left, with the pit dug in search of ore, and the small smelting-furnace, which, it is hoped, no zealous antiquarian will hereafter mistake for monuments of an elder period of civilization in the Mississippi valley. When this was accomplished, and the horses brought up, we set out with alacrity. The snow still formed a thin covering on the ground, and, being a little softened by the sun, the whole surface of the country exhibited a singular map of the tracks of quadrupeds and birds. In these, deer, elk, bears, wolves, and turkeys, were prominent--the first and last species, conspicuously so. In some places, the dry spots on the leaves showed where the deer had lain during the storm. These resting-spots were uniformly on declivities, which sheltered the animal from the force of the wind. Frequently we crossed wolf-trails in the snow, and, in one or two instances, observed places where they had played or fought with each other, like a pack of dogs--the snow being tramped down in a circle of great extent. We also passed tracts of many acres, where the turkeys had scratched up the snow, in search of acorns. We frequently saw the deer fly before us, in droves of twenty or thirty. They will bound twenty feet at a leap, as measured, on a gentle declivity. This animal is impelled by a fatal curiosity to stop and turn round to look at the cause of its disturbance, after running a distance. It is at this moment that the hunter generally fires. About noon, we reached and crossed Findley's Fork, or the Winoca valley--the locality of the cave. Two miles south of it, in ascending an elevation, our ears were saluted by a murmuring sound in the air, which the hunters declared to be single bees, flying in a line. I observed one of them directing its flight to the top of a large oak, which was thus indicated as the repository of their honey. My companion and myself proceeded to chop it down, while the hunters stood by. It was of the white-oak species, and was judged to be two feet and a half across. When it fell, a hollow limb was fractured, disclosing a large deposit of most beautiful white honeycombs. We ate without stint, sometimes dipping cooked pieces of venison (we had no bread) in the fluid part. The remainder was then wrapped up in a freshly flayed deerskin, and firmly tied, to be carried to the hunters' cabins at Beaver creek on one of the horses. We now resumed our route. As evening approached, we entered the head of a valley formed out of the plain, toward our right. It turned out to be a stream known to them, in their buffalo hunts, as Bull creek. Here we encamped, having travelled about twenty miles. The weather continued moderately cold during the day, the sun not having attained sufficient power to melt the snow. A single deer was the trophy of this day's hunt. Morning found us, as we arose from our couches, in a small, brushy, and tangled valley, through which it was not easy to make our way. The weather was raw, cold, and lowering, and the hunters did not seem inclined to make an early start. It was determined to replenish our fire, and breakfast, first. It was a rough region, and cost some exertion and fatigue to get out of its tangled defiles, and ascend the plains south of it. These impediments consumed so much time, that we made but slow progress. The atmosphere was so obscure, that it was difficult to determine the proper course; and it was evident that the guides did not know exactly where they were. At length they entered one of the lateral valleys of Swan creek, the Mehausca of the Osages. In this, after following it down some distance, we encamped. The atmosphere was clouded up, and betokened falling weather. The next morning, (Jan. 7th), when I awoke, I felt an extra pressure of something on my blanket, which had the effect to keep off the wind, and produce warmth; and on opening its folds, I threw off a stratum of an inch or two of snow. We had been fatigued by the day's march, and slept soundly. Some eight miles' travel brought us to the junction of this little tributary with the Mehausca, where our guides, by recognizing known objects, reassured themselves of their true position. It was, however, still hazy and obscure, and doubts soon again arose in their minds as to the proper course. After travelling some miles in this perplexity, they were at length relieved by observing a known landmark in the peak of Bald hill. This mark was, however, soon lost sight of, and, the atmosphere still continuing overclouded, dark, and hazy, they speedily became again bewildered. I was surprised at this; it denoted a want of precision of observation, which an Indian certainly could not have been charged with. He is able, in the worst weather, to distinguish the _north_ from the _south_ face of a mature and weathered tree--a species of knowledge, of the utmost consequence to him in his forest wanderings. An experiment, of letting a certain horse take his course homeward, by throwing the reins upon his neck, was adopted by our guides; but after trying it for some time, it was found necessary to give it up. It was clear that the animal was going directly from home; and Fisher, who believed in bewitched guns, was obliged to yield the point. Not long after resuming the reins, Holt announced, in the dense atmosphere which enveloped us, that we were ascending the valley hills that border the main channel of White river. As soon as this was verified, and we had reached the highest point, the guides both fired their rifles, to advertise their families, on the bottom-lands below, of their approach; and we were soon welcomed, at the hunters' cabins at the mouth of Beaver creek, "by dogs, women, and children, all greasy and glad." During this trip, I had listened to frequent recitals of the details of hunting the bear, beaver, deer, and other animals, the quality of dogs, the secret of baits, &c.--a species of forest lectures, the details of which, at the moment, were new to me, and had the charm of novelty, and the merit of information; but which it is unimportant, at this length of time, to repeat.[10] FOOTNOTE: [10] Vide Journal of a Tour into the Interior of Missouri and Arkansas. London, 1821. CHAPTER XII. DESCEND WHITE RIVER IN A CANOE--ITS PURE WATER, CHARACTER, AND SCENERY--PLACES OF STOPPING--BEAR CREEK--SUGAR-LOAF PRAIRIE--BIG CREEK--A RIVER PEDLAR--POT SHOALS--MOUTH OF LITTLE NORTH FORK--DESCEND FORMIDABLE RAPIDS, CALLED THE BULL SHOALS--STRANDED ON ROCKS--A PATRIARCH PIONEER-- MINERALOGY--ANTIQUE POTTERY AND BONES--SOME TRACE OF DE SOTO--A TRIP BY LAND--REACH THE MOUTH OF THE GREAT NORTH FORK. I determined to descend the river from the hunters' cabins at Beaver creek, being the highest location to which a pioneer hunting population had pushed, and with this view purchased a large and new canoe, of about twenty feet in length, from the enterprising hunters. Putting into this such articles from our former packs as were deemed necessary, and some provisions, I took the bow, with a long and smooth pole to guide it in rapids and shoals, and gave the stern to my companion, with a steering-paddle. It was now the 9th of January. Bidding adieu to our rough, but kind and friendly guides, we pushed into the stream, and found ourselves floating, with little exertion, at the rate of from three to four miles per hour. The very change from traversing weary plains and prairies, and ascending steep cliffs, was exhilarating and delightful. White river is one of the most beautiful and enchanting streams, and by far the most transparent, which discharge their waters into the Mississippi. To a width and depth which entitle it to be classed as a river of the third magnitude in Western America, it unites a current which possesses the purity of crystal, with a smooth and gentle flow, and the most imposing, diversified, and delightful scenery. Objects can be clearly seen in it, through the water, at the greatest depths. Every pebble, rock, fish, or shell, even the minutest body which occupies the bottom of the stream, is seen with the most perfect distinctness; and the canoe, when looking under it, seemed, from the remarkable transparency of the water, to be suspended in air. The Indians, observing this peculiarity, called it Unica, which is the transitive form of _white_. The French of Louisiana merely translated this term to _la riviere au Blanc_. It is, in fact, composed of tributaries which gush up in large crystal springs out of the Ozark range of mountains, and it does not receive a discoloured tributary in all its upper course. These gigantic springs, which are themselves a curiosity, originate in the calcareous or sandstone strata of that remarkable chain, and are overlaid by a heavy oceanic deposit of limestone, quartz, hornstone, and chert pebbles, which serve as a filtering-bed to the upspringing waters. Sometimes these pebbles are found to be jasper, of a beautiful quality. The scenery of its shores is also peculiar. Most frequently the limestone, which has been subjected to the destructive power of the elements, is worn into pinnacles of curious spiral shapes. Where the river washes the base of these formations, a high and precipitous wall of rock casts its shadow over the water. On the shores opposite to such precipices, there is invariably a rich diluvial plain, covered by a vigorous forest of trees, clothed in all the graceful luxuriance of a summer foliage. If the shores be examined to any distance inland, the calcareous rock is found to exhibit frequent caverns, where the percolation of the waters has produced stalactites of beautiful forms, or the concretions are spread upon the floors of these caves in curious masses. Often, upon the shores, we observed the graceful doe. At early hours in the morning, the wild turkeys appeared in large flocks, with their plumage glistening in the light. The duck, goose, and brant, often rose up before us, and lighted in the stream again below us; and we thus drove them, without intending it, for miles. Sometimes, perched on some high pinnacle or towering tree, the eagle, hawk, or heron, surveyed our descent, as if it were an intrusion upon their long undisturbed domain. A few miles below our point of embarkation, we passed, on the left shore, a precipitous wall of calcareous rock, on the summit of which I observed the location of the cavern, into the mouth of which I descended some twenty or thirty feet, on my outward journey; and it now seemed probable that the ramifications which I saw by the dim light admitted, were of an extensive character. As the shades of night overtook us, a hunter's cabin was descried on the left shore, where a landing was made. It proved to be occupied by a person of the name of Yochem, who readily gave us permission to remain for the night. He told us we had descended thirty miles. He regaled us hospitably with wild viands, and, among other meats, the beaver's tail--a dish for epicures. Resuming the descent at an early hour, a couple of miles brought us to the inlet of Bear creek--a stream coming in on the right side, which is described as long, narrow, and crooked. Nothing denoted that man had ever made his residence along this part of the stream. We floated on charmingly. At every turn, some novel combination of scenery presented itself. As evening drew near, a hunter's cabin appeared on our right, and, a couple of miles further, another on our left, near one of those natural monuments of denudation common to the limestone of this river, which is called the Sugar-loaf. We stopped for the night at this habitation, and found it to be occupied by a Mr. Coker. The old man received us with the usual frank and friendly air and manner of a hunter. More than fifty years must have marked his frontier pilgrimage on its constantly shifting boundary. He stood some six feet three in height, was erect and thin, and looked like one of the patriarchs of the woods, who, cherishing his personal independence and his rifle, had ever relied upon his own arm for a support, and distrusted nothing on earth half so much as Indians. In his view, the Osages were the perfection of robbers; and he congratulated us on getting out of their country with our scalps safely on our heads, and our "plunder" (a common word here for baggage) untouched. It appeared from his estimates that we had descended the river twenty-five miles. Rain fell copiously during the night; but it ceased before daylight (11th), by the earliest gleams of which we were again in motion, descending the pellucid river. At the computed distance of sixteen miles, we passed the mouth of Big river, a considerable stream on the left banks, where I halted a few moments to see a new location which had just been commenced. A small clearing had been made in the dense canebrake, and a log house commenced. Shortly below this spot, we encountered a river pedlar, ascending the stream with his commodities in a canoe. On conversing with him, I found his knowledge of affairs very local and partial. Of the outer world, and of its news, he knew nothing. At every stage of our progress, the river was increasing in its volume; and, soon after this occurrence, we observed its velocity accelerated, and almost imperceptibly found ourselves gliding rapidly over the Pot Shoals. This rapid appeared less formidable than had been anticipated. I rose up to observe the draught of the current, and, by a few strokes of the pole, kept the canoe in the force of the stream. About seven miles below these shoals, and just as evening closed in, a house appeared on the left shore. It proved to be M'Garey's, at whose domicile we had originally struck on crossing the wilderness from Potosi. He was glad to hail our return from a region, against the Indian occupants of which, he had decidedly warned us on our outward trip, but from whom we had fortunately received no injury. He informed us that we had this day descended the river forty miles, that being the received distance to Sugar-loaf Prairie. We were indeed cordially received as old acquaintances, and congratulated on our perseverance in visiting a region where Indian hostility was so much to be dreaded. On learning that the Osages had retired west, and that the country abounded in game, one of the sons of our host prepared to push into that region. M'Garey told us that he had delivered "Butcher," agreeably to our order, to Holt; but the latter, on travelling a day's journey toward Beaver creek, had found him too feeble to proceed, and, after taking off his shoes, had abandoned him to the wolves. Sad emblem of the fate of persons who have served great men, till they have reached some pinnacle where the service is forgotten, because no longer necessary! Nearly opposite, but a little below this cabin, we passed, on the 12th, the mouth of the Little North Fork; a stream originating in a broken region on the left bank, and having some alluvions at its mouth. Evidences of habitation became more frequent below the Little North Fork, which caused me to cease noting their succession in my journal. Nothing of special interest occurred to mark the day's progress, till we reached, at an advanced hour in the afternoon, the Bull shoals. At this formidable rapid, the river probably sinks its level fifteen or twenty feet in the space of half a mile. Masses of limestone rock stand up in the bed of the river, and create several channels. Between these the river foams and roars. When I arose in the canoe to take a view of the rapid into which we were about to plunge, the bed of the stream appeared to be a perfect sheet of foam, whirling and rushing with great force and tumult. As I knew not the proper channel, and it was too late to withdraw, the only step left was to keep the canoe headed, and down we went most rapidly. Very soon the canoe leaped on a round rock, driving on it with great force, and veered about crosswise. In an instant I jumped into the water at the bows, while my companion did the same at the stern, and, by main force, we lifted it over the ledge, got in quickly, and again headed it properly. We were, emphatically, in the midst of roaring rapids; their very noise was deafening. The canoe had probably got down six hundred yards, when a similar difficulty occurred, at the head of a second shute or bench of rocks, reaching across the river. In an instant, it again struck. It was obviated by getting into the water, in the same way as on the first occasion; only, however, to put our strength and skill to the test a third time, after which we shot down to the foot of the rapids safely. We had managed neither to ship water, nor to lose a piece of baggage. We were, however, thoroughly wetted, but kept our position in the canoe for five miles below the rapid, bringing us to the head of Friend's settlement. We landed, at a rather early hour in the evening, at a log building on the left shore, where we were hospitably received by Teen Friend, a man of mature age and stately air, the patriarch of the settlement. It was of him that we had heard stories of Osage captivity and cruelty, having visited one of the very valleys where he was kept in "durance vile." The antiquities and mineral appearances in that vicinity were represented as worthy of examination; in consequence of which, I devoted a part of the next day (13th) to these objects. The neighboring hills consist of stratified limestone. The surface of the soil exhibits some fragments of hornstone and radiated quartz, with indications of iron-ore. At the shoals, traces of galena and calcareous spar occur. Mr. Friend, being familiar from personal observation with the geography and resources of the country at large, states that rock-salt is found between the south fork of White river and the Arkansas, where the Pawnees and Osages make use of it. It is presumed that this salt consists of crystalline masses from the evaporation of saline water. He represents the lead-ores on its north-western source, which we had partially explored, as very extensive. If, as is probable, De Soto ranged over these regions in his extensive marches between the St. Francis and Arkansas, his exploratory parties may have reached the locality of crystalline salt referred to, and he would have found the buffalo in several positions east of that place. The antiquarian objects to which my attention was called, afforded the greatest degree of interest. They consisted of pieces of earthenware, some antique fragments of bone, and a metallic alloy, resting in a substance resembling ashes, and also arrow-heads. The metallic alloy, of which Mr. F. gave me a specimen, resembles a combination of lead and tin. But what adds to the interest attending the discovery of these articles, is the fact, that they lie, apparently, below the diluvial deposits, bearing a heavy forest, and at the geological line of intersection with the consolidated rocks. From the apparent vestiges in this quarter, I am of opinion that De Soto's "Tanico" must be located in this vicinity, and that he crossed the White river near this place. A march west of this point, over a hilly country, would bring him into the fertile valley of the Little Red river, or Buffalo creek--his probable Tula, where his people first tasted the flesh of this animal, and where he recruited his army for a new effort. These inquiries occupied the morning. It was late before we embarked, and, at some four miles below, we landed on the right shore, at a Mr. Zadock Lee's, being the first New Englander whom we had met in this region. With him we took dinner. He appeared pleased to see us, and conducted me to see some antique, white, lime-like masses, in the earth, near the bank of the river, which had the appearance of decayed bones. Rumor speaks of some other antiquities in this quarter of the country, in the shape of bricks, concealed by the undisturbed soil; but I saw nothing of this kind. While here, Mr. Lee's son returned from the forest with the flesh of the bear and buffalo, the fruits of his own prowess in the chase, and amused us with an account of his recent exhibition of skill in these departments. We embarked and descended the river six miles, to a Mr. Jacob Yochem's, who received us with hospitality, and added no little, by his conversation, to our local lore. It was determined, the next morning, (14th,) to loan our canoe, which was a capacious, new, and clean vessel, made from white-ash, to our host, to enable him to transport his hunter products to a market at the mouth of the Great North Fork, leaving our baggage to be brought that way. The distance by water is thirty-five miles; by land, probably not more than eighteen or twenty. By this step, we avoided the dangers of navigating two formidable rapids, called the Crooked Creek and Buffalo Shoals; the former situated fifteen, and the latter twenty miles below Yochem's. We left our host's at a seasonable hour in the morning, taking a good horse-path; and we walked diligently till near dusk, before reaching our destination. We then had the whole volume of White river between us and our purposed place of lodgment, which was at the residence of a man named Matney. It was the only house within a considerable distance at which shelter for the night could be obtained; and we did not hesitate long between the two alternatives presented to us--either of lying out in the woods all night, or of fording the river, with the depth of which we were not acquainted. We chose the latter, and accordingly prepared for the attempt. At the shallowest part we could find, it was about four feet deep in the channel; but we struggled through, and reached the house just at nightfall, wet and chilly. We were hospitably received, and speedily made ourselves comfortable. We had been told that the distance was fifteen miles; but to us, who had diligently footed it, it seemed more than twenty. CHAPTER XIII. DETENTION AT THE MOUTH OF THE GREAT NORTH FORK--NATURAL HISTORY OF THE VICINITY--GREAT BLOCKS OF QUARTZ--IMPOSING PRECIPICES OF THE CALICO ROCK--A CHARACTERISTIC OF AMERICAN SCENERY--CHEROKEE OCCUPANCY OF THE COUNTRY BETWEEN THE WHITE AND ARKANSAS RIVERS--ITS EFFECTS ON THE PIONEERS-- QUESTION OF THE FATE OF THE INDIAN RACES--IRON-ORE--DESCENT TO THE ARKANSAS FERRIES--LEAVE THE RIVER AT THIS POINT-- REMARKS ON ITS CHARACTER AND PRODUCTIONS. The canoe had not yet arrived, nor was there any tidings of it the next morning; so that there was no alternative, in our present situation, but to wait patiently. I determined to improve the delay by exploring the neighborhood. It is a geographical point of some importance, being the head of the navigation of White river for all large craft ascending from the Mississippi. As yet, nothing but keel-boats have ascended. Between the point of our embarkation at Beaver creek and this spot, the river has a fall of about sixty feet, at four rapids, which do not probably extend over a mile or two in the aggregate. The stream, during the rest of the way, has a fine, lively current, seldom of great velocity, and never stagnates. The Great North Fork, the scene of our former ramblings, enters a short distance below the foot of the Buffalo Shoals, rendering the draught of water practicable, it is believed, for steamboats at all seasons. I found the pebble-stones and boulders on the margin and bed of the river, which I leisurely examined, to afford a true representation of the formations which had been observed in traversing the elevated and broken surface of the Ozarks. They consist of the various limestones and sandstones of the region, with a partial mixture of quartz rock, red sienite, hornstone, argillaceous rock, and the peculiar, egg-shaped, coarse yellow jasper, which appears to have been imbedded in some of its strata. On ascending the cliffs west of the valley, they were observed to consist of the characteristic limestone of the region, in horizontal layers, the upper strata containing impressions of shells. Very large angular masses of quartz rock lie near the bases of these cliffs. Some of the angles of these masses would probably measure fourteen feet. Their position here appears to be quite anomalous, as, from the absence of attrition, they are clearly not of the erratic block group. They appear to indicate a primitive formation near. The half hunter, half farmer, to whom we had loaned our canoe, came with a number of his companions in the evening, and entered on a scene of merriment, to which, as the cabin had but one room, we were compelled to be unwilling spectators during the livelong night, though, from its character, not participating at all therein. As soon as there was light sufficient to discern objects (16th), we embarked, rejoiced to get clear of this extraordinary nocturnal scene. About half a mile below, we passed the mouth of the Great North Fork, and, some five or six miles further, entered and descended a swift channel, called the Crooked rapids, where there probably has been some slight geological disturbance in the bed of the river, observable in very low stages of water. At the distance of ten miles more, a sudden turn of the river brought us in full sight of the picturesque, elevated, and precipitous shore, called the Calico Rock. This presents a most imposing façade, on which are observable the imitative forms of fantastic architectural devices. The wall is quite precipitous throughout. It is the calcareous rock of the region. Its summit is overlaid with ochreous clays of various colors, which, through the action of the elements, have imparted their fanciful hues to portions of the cliff. This abrupt species of scenery is quite peculiar to the American landscape. A still more imposing section of it is presented in the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior. Nothing of this kind marks the banks of the Rhine, so much eulogized by travellers; for all its formations partake of the parabolic, or curved lines of the primitive, and the eye is relieved by these gradations; but, in the brusque scenes of the West, the precipices are as marked as if they had been hewn down by some gigantic broad-axe. There are some sections, in keeping with these harsh landscapes, on the Mississippi, along the Missouri shores--less prominently along the Illinois borders, near Alton--and at places in Iowa and Wisconsin; but more characteristic in Minnesota, as the river escapes from its primitive plains, and plunges over the falls of St. Anthony. We descended about thirty miles this day, and found lodgment, at night, at a house on the left bank, occupied by a Mr. Jeffery. The next morning (17th), on descending five miles, we stopped at a Mr. Williams's to prepare breakfast, where some persons were gathering to hear an itinerant preacher. Twenty miles lower, we stopped for the night, at a widow Lafferty's. From the remarks made at the places where we have been entertained by the hunters and settlers on this river, there is considerable dissatisfaction with a treaty[11] made with the Cherokee Indians, by which a part of that nation are assigned a location between the north banks of the Arkansas and the south bank of White river. Many of them, including our hostess to-night, and the M'Gareys, Lees, and Matneys above, have lands in cultivation, with dwelling-houses, stock, and improvements, of more or less value, on the south banks of the river; which, as they apprehend, under the operation of this treaty, they are to relinquish to the Cherokees. The truth is, the first white occupants of the frontiers, though generally rough men, and without a title to the lands they settle on, are the pioneers of civilization; and by thus taking their lives in their hands, and encountering the perils of the wilderness and of Indian hostility, they lay the government under a strong obligation to protect them. The natural hatred of races is such, that they are everlastingly on ill terms with the Indians, and the Indians with them. It is difficult to say which of the two races, during this period of contact, is most suspicious of the other. The Indians, also, look up to the government with strong claims for justice and protection. The frontier, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, was on and near the Atlantic borders, from Maine to Georgia, and long continued east of the Alleghany mountains. It is already west of the Mississippi river, that mighty geographical highway, which, like a longitudinal line, stretches across seventeen degrees of latitude, every mile of which will, ere long, be settled and cultivated by the Anglo-American race. As the population presses first on the Indian's hunting-grounds, and next on his cornfields, he flies before the irresistible tide, and takes shelter at some more remote western point. But he is hardly well seated on his new hunting-grounds--he has hardly begun to reap his new cornfields--when the pioneers of the same race that disturbed him before, are upon him; and again, and again he must fly before the resistless--the uncontrollable tide of migration. It is a providential reflux in the wave of races. It is something to be observed, rather than to be apprehended and understood. It seems to say, that the surface of the habitable earth was not formed for the permanent occupancy of races who rely on the pleasing and exciting uses of the bow and arrow; and that labor, which was, at the first, declared to be the proper condition of man, is destined to sweep away, if it cannot merge in its on-rush, these erratic and picturesque tribes. Where their frontiers will be found, a hundred years hence, the voice of history, looking to the past, may only tell; but this appears more appreciable and clear--that the perpetuation of the race as one of the elements of mankind, must depend, in the sequel, however long that sequel be postponed, on his substantial adoption of the principles of industry, letters, and Christianity. The "tents of Shem," however we may read the prediction, are still to be occupied, if they are not now, by a broad philanthropy, to be merged into those of the higher civilization of Japhet. For, the civilization and the moral elevation of man is the great object of revelation; and it appears clear, and conformable to reason, that, where future history is taught in the Pentateuch by figures, it should be figuratively, and not dogmatically, explained. On leaving Mrs. Lafferty's, in the morning of the 18th, we descended about five miles, and stopped to breakfast at a Mr. Jones's. Rumor had pointed out this place as the locality of a tin-mine. The frontiersmen are greatly disposed to excite each other's imaginations by reports of mines and discoveries, every one of which is fancied to be some new Potosi or El Dorado. Our host was not backward in bringing to me some specimens of his supposed treasure. It consisted of several heavy lumps of the ore called, by mineralogists, iron glance. It had the usual color, great weight, and high metallic lustre. He represented it as occurring, in large bodies, about eight or ten miles north of his house, on high lands, at the surface. We had proceeded some miles on our way, when a large black bear was discovered on the shore. It appeared to be about to plunge in for the purpose of crossing the river, when our presence alarmed it, and the animal, with its usual clumsy gait, betook himself to the woods again. The clumsiness of this animal's motions seems to be owing to the bluntness of its hind paws, which appear as if, we should suppose, it arose from re-curved legs. The Indians laugh at the gait of bruin. We had encountered this species several times before, and always, as on this occasion, found it disposed to flee. Fifteen miles below Jones's cabin, we passed Harden's ferry, the house being on the right bank; and, two miles further on, we passed Morrison's ferry. Continuing our descent eight miles lower, we landed at a place called Poke Bayou, where we were hospitably received by a Mr. Robert Bean. The river had now become a magnificent body of water, still clear and beautiful. We were here within the boundaries of the Mississippi alluvions. No highlands are visible for some distance before reaching Harden's. The river winds through broad, fertile plains, bearing a most vigorous growth of forest trees. The banks are elevated some thirty feet above the water, and, as the stream increases in depth and strength, they become subject to be undermined by the flood. The cane, which is common to the river in its entire length, even to the highest elevations of the Ozarks, is here of a tall and most vigorous growth. It is this plant, I apprehend, more than any other feature, which gives an oriental cast to these alluvial tracts; and I was almost ready, at some points, where the growth concealed the trunks of the heavy forest, to see the hippopotamus and elephant display their clumsy forms. For these, however, we had the buffalo, the cougar, and the bear, whose crackling strength, as they passed through these reedy mazes, had, on more than one occasion during our rambles, reminded us of the great muscular power of these boasted objects of hunter skill and enterprise. Often had a fine dog, in the narrations of the hunters, paid the penalty of coming within the stroke of the latter; and we could sympathise with the loss of an animal, which is of the highest value in his pursuits. It is due to this class of men to say, that, however rough they are in their manners, we were uniformly received by them with a frank hospitality, which appears to be always a point of honor with them; nor did any of the number, to whom reward was proffered for entertainment, ever condescend to receive a cent for anything in the shape of food or lodging. The point of our landing was at the crossing of the lower Arkansas road. About twelve or fourteen buildings of all sorts were clustered together, forming a small village, which is now called Batesville; being the only one which had been encountered since leaving Potosi. FOOTNOTE: [11] Treaty of 8th July, 1817. Vide Indian Treaties, p. 209. CHAPTER XIV. ANCIENT SPOT OF DE SOTO'S CROSSING WHITE RIVER IN 1542-- LAMENESS PRODUCED BY A FORMER INJURY--INCIDENTS OF THE JOURNEY TO THE ST. FRANCIS RIVER--DE SOTO'S ANCIENT MARCHES AND ADVENTURES ON THIS RIVER IN THE SEARCH AFTER GOLD--FOSSIL SALT--COPPER--THE ANCIENT RANGES OF THE BUFFALO. I determined to quit the river at this point, and, after a night's rest, made the necessary arrangements. There is almost a moral certainty that De Soto must have crossed the river above this place. The make of the land, and the custom of the Indians in choosing the best ground for a path to travel from village to village, would determine this. His position, after crossing the Mississippi at the mouth of the St. Francis, and reaching the high grounds of the latter, would lead the natives who were his guides to keep the elevated and dry ranges leading to the buffalo country, west; and he must have crossed the affluents of the Black and Currents rivers at a high point towards the Ozarks. The dry and open woods afforded the best ground for the march of his cavalry; and when he attempted to reach the salt and buffalo country from the region east of White river, the roughness of the country would lead him to the central points of that stream. It would be interesting, as a point of antiquarian interest, to know where the old Indian paths were located. The roads, in all parts of the country, were based on these. They led to the most practicable fords of rivers, they avoided swamps and boggy grounds, and evinced a thorough geographical knowledge of the conformation of the country. To travel where De Soto had travelled, and where he had performed some of his heroic feats, had something pleasing, at least, in the association. Doubtless, had the first occupants of Upper Louisiana been as mindful of historical reminiscences as they were set on repeating his search for gold and silver mines, they might have been rewarded by finding some of the straggling bones of his broken-down Andalusian cavalry. The fragments of broken arms and trappings were yet, perhaps, concealed by the accumulated rank vegetable soil of Arkansas and Southern Missouri, whence the plough may at no distant day reveal them. It was ten o'clock on the morning of the 19th, when, having made every necessary preparation, we left Mr. Bean's. I regretted the necessity of making a selection from my collection of minerals and geological specimens. We set out with great alacrity. For the first five miles, we passed over a level, fertile tract, with several plantations; the remaining thirteen miles were comparatively sterile and uneven, without settlements. We had passed about seventeen miles of the distance, when my right foot and ankle began to flinch. I was not sensible of any slip or sprain in walking, but rather believe it resulted from too much ardour and anxiety to get forward. I had, about four years previously, dislocated and injured the same ankle in leaping down a precipice in the Green mountains, having mistaken a granitical shelf of rock at its base, which was covered with autumnal leaves, for soft soil. I believe the suddenness and alacrity of this day's travel, after leaving the quietude of the canoe, had awakened a sympathy in the injured nerves. In a short time, the pain was unendurable. With great effort I walked a mile further, and reached a double log house, the mistress of which bathed the ankle with salt and water, and made other applications. Some alleviation, but no permanent relief, was obtained. I then laid down under the hope of being better, but awoke on the morning of the 20th with little or no abatement of the pain, and inflammation. A traveller on horseback, coming along that morning on a fine animal, agreed, for a small compensation, to let me ride to the south fork of Strawberry river, while he went afoot. This helped me over twelve miles of the road, where his path diverged; and I felt so much relieved by it, on dismounting, that I managed, by easy stages, to walk four miles farther, which brought us to the main river. The afternoon was not yet spent; but the pain of my ankle had returned before reaching the river, and I found it in vain to press forward, without adequate repose. The next morning (21st), my travelling companion, who cared nothing for natural history or antiquities, and was urgent to push on, left me, and returned to St. Louis. Left alone, I felt, for a few moments, a sense of isolation; but I was now in a region where there was no longer any danger to be apprehended for the want of the first necessaries of life. My lameness required nothing, indeed, but perfect repose. The people were kind, and, when I ascertained that my hostess was a sister of one of the hunters who had guided me in the most remote parts of my wanderings in the Ozarks, there was a manifest point of sympathy. I found by inquiry that there were appearances of a mineral deposit in this vicinity, which seemed to connect the hilly grounds of Strawberry river with similar indications which have been noticed near the Bull shoals, on White river. Appearances denote the existence of sulphuret of lead in the vicinity. The sulphate of barytes, calcareous spar, and white crystalline masses of quartz, characterize the uplands. When my foot and ankle would bear it, I proceeded by easy paces northward, going, the first day after leaving the Strawberry valley, ten miles, which brought me to a place called Dogwood Springs, so named from the _cornus florida_. The next day I went ten miles further, when I came to the banks of Spring river, where I was entertained by Major Haynes. Here I first saw cotton in the fields, being the unpulled bolls of the autumn crop, which had not been thought worth gathering. Feeling no injury to result from these easy marches, which gave me time to examine the appearances of the surface, I ventured a little farther on the recovery of my ankle, and, the third day, went nineteen miles. In this distance I crossed the stream called Elevenpoints, a tributary to Spring river, and came, at a rather late hour in the evening, into a small valley called Foosh-e-da-maw, a popular corruption of the French _Fourche à Thomas_. It was quite dark when I applied for a night's lodging at a small cabin, being the only one I had encountered for many miles. The man and his wife, who were its only occupants, were manifestly not blessed with much of this world's goods; but they were kind, and, though they had already gone to bed, and had but one room, they permitted me to occupy a part of the floor. Spare bed they had none; but, had they possessed ever so many, I did not require one. Camping out under the open heavens so long, had created a habit which made it impossible for me to rest in a soft bed. I had declined one the night before, at Spring river, and thrown myself on a single blanket, on the hard puncheons. I wished to keep my nerves up to this tense state, and the hardy habits of the woodman, while I was compelled to foot my way, and take my chances for rough fare, for some time. With the earliest gleams of light I was up, and walked four miles to breakfast. Twelve more brought me to Hicks's ferry, on a large stream called the Currents. I had camped on the source of this river, in the cliffs of the Ozarks, on my outward trip, and found the region remarkable for its large saltpetre caves. It was here a river of eight feet deep, and three hundred yards wide. At this spot I should have stopped; for, after going beyond it, I found the country was thinly settled, which compelled me to walk some time after nightfall, before I could find a house; and, on presenting myself, the man proved to be surly and gruff, and denied me lodging. It was evident to me, from words that passed, that his wife was expecting to be ill; and, as the house was small, there seemed some reason for his apparent unkindness. I had already come twenty-three miles; the night was dark, and threatened rain; and the next house distant. I should have been happy to exclaim, with the poet, "Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way!" but there was no gentle hermit in sight. It was clearly not a question of poetry, but was likely to be one of sober, down-right prose. I said to him, finally, after a look into the black darkness and desolate woods, that I would only claim my length on the floor, and, to give no uneasiness to his good lady, be off at the slightest intimation. He consented, and I laid down without receiving any notice of the lady's expected illness till morning, when I left my pallet at a very early hour. For three miles beyond, it was a rough region, through which it required daylight to pass, and where I must have lost my way in the dark, had I gone on, the night previously. I stopped at a cottage for breakfast. It was occupied by a poor woman. Everything bore tokens of this fact. She appeared to have little in the way of eatables herself, but was very willing, in the article of breakfast, to share that little with me. I had passed the night before supperless, after a long day's walk, and the morning's air had further excited my appetite; still, I should have gone on, had another habitation been near at hand; but what the good woman wanted in means, she made up in readiness and hearty good-will; and, if the meal was not sumptuous, I arose as well satisfied as if I had breakfasted with a lord. Thus refreshed, I went on ten miles, which brought me to the banks of Little Black river. Two miles beyond this stream, I stopped at the house of a Mr. Reeves, at an early hour in the afternoon, my ankle giving indications of returning lameness. Quiet, and a night's repose, had the effect to relieve these symptoms, and I was enabled cautiously to continue my journey the next day. Daylight was ever my signal for rising, and, by easy stages, I made seventeen miles during the day, walking early and late. The first six miles of this distance were made before I stopped for breakfast, and the next ten miles brought me to the ferry over Big Black river--a clear, rapid stream, which, in its progress to the south, is the recipient of all the before-mentioned streams, from the Strawberry river, north; and is itself, finally, a tributary of White river, maintaining through it a free navigation with the Mississippi. After crossing the ferry, I went about half a mile further, and took up my night's lodgings at a Mr. Bollinger's. I felt no further weakness of my foot and ankle, and was happy in the reflection that my cautious movements had been such as not to overtax the strength of my nerves. Indeed, from this point, (till 1830,) I experienced no further symptoms of lameness. On the next morning (28th), I walked seven miles, and took breakfast at a Mr. Esty's, where I fell in with the old road, which had originally been laid, when the country came to be settled, on the ancient Indian path. The elevated lands between Black river and the St. Francis, had evidently been the line of march of De Soto, when (in 1541) he set forward from "Quiguate," on the St. Francis, toward the "north-west," in search of Coligoa. Any other course between west and south-west, would have involved his army in the lagoons, and deep and wide channel, of Black river, which forms a barrier for about one hundred and fifty miles toward the south; while this dividing ground, between the Black river and St. Francis, consists chiefly of dry pine lands and open uplands, offering every facility for the movements of his cavalry, which were ever the dread of the Indians. The first Indian village which De Soto reached, after crossing the Mississippi--probably at the ancient Indian crossing-place at the lower Chickasaw bluffs--and pushing on through the low grounds, was on reaching the elevations of the St. Francis, immediately west of his point of landing. The place was called Casquin, or Casqui; a name which will be recognized as bearing a resemblance to one of the Illinois tribes, who have long been known under the name of Kaskaskias. From this place on the high lands of the St. Francis, he ascended that river, keeping the same side of its current, through a fine country, abounding in the pecan and mulberry, a distance of seven leagues, to the central position of the Casquins. Here it was, and not on the immediate banks of the Mississippi, that he erected a gigantic cross, formed out of a pine tree, which, after it was hewn, a hundred men could not lift. From this place, after a rest of several days, he was led, by the wily chief, to march against the village and chief of Capaha, who was his hereditary enemy, and who had, in past encounters, proved himself more than his equal in prowess. De Soto was caught in this trap, which had nearly proved fatal to his gallant army. Descending the high grounds, evidently, towards the north-east, and crossing alluvial tracts, by a march of about six days he reached the enemy, well posted, strong in numbers, and of great bravery, on the pastoral elevations, which we are disposed to look for at the site of the modern Spanish town of New Madrid. Capaha took shelter on a thickly wooded island in the Mississippi river, where De Soto, assisted by his allies, attacked him in canoes, and from which his allies, and afterwards he himself, were glad to retreat. The chief was a most brave, energetic young man, and fought against his combined enemies with the spirit inspired by long acknowledged success. This place formed the extreme northern limit of De Soto's expedition on the line of the Mississippi, and must have been north of 35°. After this effort, he retraced his steps slowly back to Casqui. The Kapahas, of whom the Sioux are ethnologically a branch, have occupied the west banks of the Mississippi, extending to the base of the Rocky mountains, as long as we have known that stream. They have been inveterate enemies of the whole Algonquin race, to which the Kaskaskias and Illinois belonged; and it is not improbable that they had, at this early day, not only encountered the Spaniards, but that, after their withdrawal, they fell on the Casquins, and drove them east of the Mississippi, into the country of the Illinois. While De Soto was in the country of Capaha, he learned that about forty leagues distant, (west, it must needs have been,) there were, in the hill country, quantities of fossil salt, and also a yellowish metal, which he supposed to be gold. He despatched two trusty and intelligent men, with Indian guides and carriers, to procure samples. After an absence of eleven days, they returned, with six of the Indians laden with crystals of salt, and one of them with metallic copper. A hundred and twenty miles west of the supposed point of starting, would carry the messengers across the valley of White river, and far into the Ozark plains and elevations, between the south fork of that stream, and the north banks of the Arkansas--the same region, in fine, mentioned, in a prior part of these sketches, as yielding those articles, on the authority of the experienced woodsman, Teen Friend. The country through which these messengers passed was sterile and thinly inhabited; but they reported it to be filled with herds of buffalo. These reports led him to march down the banks of the St. Francis, till he reached the village called Quiguate. From thence, having heard of a locality called Coligoa, where he thought there might be gold, he marched again north-west in search of it. This march, in which he followed a single Indian guide, must have led him to the foot of the rough, mountainous, granitic, and mineral region, at the sources of the St. Francis. But this search proved also a disappointment. He was informed that, six leagues north of Coligoa, the buffalo existed in vast herds; but that, if he would reach a rich province, he must march south. It is possible that, in this latitude, he may have, a little, exceeded the utmost point reached by him on the Mississippi; and he hence confined his adventurous marches to Southern Missouri and Arkansas. Having taken the road again, after my halt at Esty's, I travelled diligently ten miles, at which distance I reached the ferry of Dr. Bettis, at the St. Francis. The scene was rural and picturesque, the river winding along in a deep and rapid bed, between elevated and fertile banks. From appearances, and old fields, it seemed altogether such a spot as might have answered the glowing Spanish descriptions of Casqui. The ferry was managed by a black man; and we cut an American half-dollar on the top of an oak stump, agreeably to the Kentucky mode, to adjust the ferriage. On landing on the north bank, I pursued my journey six miles farther, to one Smith's. It was now the 28th of January, and the weather so mild, that I this day found the witch-hazel in bloom. CHAPTER XV. PROCEED NORTH--INCIDENTS OF THE ROUTE--A SEVERE TEMPEST OF RAIN, WHICH SWELLS THE STREAM--CHANGE IN THE GEOLOGY OF THE COUNTRY--THE ANCIENT COLIGOA OF DE SOTO--A PRIMITIVE AND MINERAL REGION--ST. MICHAEL--MINE A LA MOTTE--WADE THROUGH WOLF CREEK--A DESERTED HOUSE--CROSS GRAND RIVER--RETURN TO POTOSI. I left my night's quarters before daylight was fairly developed. The sky was, indeed, heavily overcast, and it soon commenced raining. Expecting to find a house at no great distance, I kept on, the rain at the same time assuming a more settled form, and falling with steadiness. It was seven miles before I reached shelter (Swaim's). I was thoroughly wetted, and, the storm continuing without abatement, I remained until the next morning. The atmosphere was then clear, and the sun rose pleasantly; but the roads were a perfect quagmire. An immense body of rain had fallen. Every little rivulet roared as if it were a torrent that was out of all patience to deliver its quantum of water to the swollen St. Francis. The ground was perfectly saturated with water; but I picked my way four miles to breakfast. It had been my intention to cross the St. Francis, and take the route through Caledonia to Potosi; but after travelling sixteen miles towards the north-west, and reaching the fords, I found them too much swollen to make the attempt. After crossing the St. Francis, towards the north, there are strong indications of a change in the geological structure of the country. The horizontal limestone and sandstone series still continue for a distance; but they are covered with large blocks of sienite and granite. What is remarkable in these blocks, is their angular character, which denotes that they have not been carried far south of their original beds. These blocks increase in frequency and size as we approach the primitive highlands of the St. Francis. And I at length stood, gazing at these rough, red, crystalline peaks, and high orbicular knobs, which reach up from beneath and through the calcareous and sedimentary series, without having lifted up the latter into inclined positions, or in the least disturbing their horizontality--a proof of their priority of position. I passed the night near the fords, at a farmer's; and finding it impossible, the next morning, to pursue this route, or to get a boat or canoe to cross the river, obtained directions for making my way north-eastwardly, towards St. Michael's. I was now in the probable region of De Soto's Coligoa, the utmost north-westwardly point of his explorations. And it ceased to be a matter of surprise that the Indians had given him such wonderful accounts of the mineral wealth of the sources of the St. Francis. The white inhabitants, at this day, have similar notions. They perceive such an unusual geological display before and around them, that they suppose it indicates mineral treasures. There are stories afloat of all kinds of mineral discoveries--not of gold, indeed, which was De Soto's search, but of tin, lead, copper, iron, cobalt, and antimony. The iron mountains of Bellevieu, so called, are part of this development. At a place called the Narrows, the river rushes between alpine peaks of sienite and black hornblende rock, which lies in huge and confused heaps, plainly indicating ancient volcanic action. I had examined this region, with minuteness, the previous summer, in an excursion through the southern limits of the lead-mines, and now revisited some of the points, respecting which, my curiosity was unsatisfied. I wandered among these attractive peaks about ten miles, and slept at a house (Burdett's), to the occupant of which, I had carried a letter of introduction the year before. The next day (Feb. 1) proved rainy; but I took advantage of intervals in the weather to advance on my general course about three miles. The sky, the next morning, was still cloudy, dark, and unsettled. When it indicated signs of clearing up, I was advised of another ford of the St. Francis, at a higher point; and I proceeded a part of the way to reach it; but accounts discouraged me, and I bent my steps to the village of St. Michael. Two miles north of this, I came to the noted lead-mine of La Motte, the most southerly in position of the Missouri circle of mines. At this place, they raised large tubular masses of lead-ore, from its position in the red, marly clay. The slags drawn from the ash-furnace denoted, by the intensity of their blue color, its connexion with the oxide of cobalt. Ten miles beyond these mines, after passing an uninhabited tract, I entered Cook's settlement, where I slept. Next day, I was again in motion at early dawn. The effects of the late copious rains were still an impediment to travelling; but I experienced no further symptoms of lameness, and felt the desire to press on, increasing in proportion as I drew near my starting-point in the prior autumn. I felt that I had succeeded in the accomplishment of a trip of some peril, through a noted mountainous range, into which all but one of my original party had failed to accompany me, and my guides had deserted me at a moment of peculiar peril. It was also true that my only companion had rather abruptly left me, when taken lame on the road. I could not, as I approached the spot of organizing my party for this exploration, help feeling a degree of buoyancy of spirits, while returning to it, in the hope of again meeting familiar acquaintances face to face. Under this impulse, and with the high health produced by daily exercise, I travelled ten miles on the following day. On reaching Wolf creek, it was found to be filled to overflowing. It was already dark; and a ruinous, tenantless house, with the doors and windows standing open, was the only object that presented itself on the opposite bank. Horse or canoe, there was none; but there could be no hesitation in attempting to cross it. The waters, in the deepest parts of the channel, reached to my breast. I came out, of course, dripping; it was still two miles to the next house, and, casting furtive glances at the masses of darkness in the deserted dwelling, and with a path muddy and indistinct, I hurried on to the point of my destination. It was the 4th of February when I crossed Big river, the Grande river of the days of Crozat and the financier Law. I was carried across it in the ferry-boat, and took my way over the sylvan, long, sweeping mineral hills, which stretch toward Potosi, entering that busy town at a seasonable hour, having travelled fifteen miles. The first acquaintance I encountered, on reaching within a few miles of it, was a Major Hawkins--a surveyor, an old resident, and a good woodsman, who, cordially extending his hand to welcome my return, exclaimed, "I thought the Indians or the wolves had long ago eaten you up." This was the first intimation I received that there had been any temerity in the plan for this expedition. Potosi was now selected as the place for drawing up an account of the mines, and the mineralogical productions and resources, of the country--a memoir on which, was published at New York in the autumn of this year (1819), and which is inserted, in a revised form, in the Appendix to these sketches. PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF THE WEST. TWO LETTERS ADDRESSED TO THE HON. J. B. THOMAS, U. S. SENATE, WASHINGTON. I. POTOSI, Missouri, Feb. 9th, 1819. SIR: I beg leave to address you on the subject of my recent expedition into the Ozark region. When I was at your house at Cahokia, I mentioned to you my design of making a tour into the interior of the Territory. I have just returned from the excursion. Two persons were associated with me in the enterprise; but one of them, our mutual friend, Mr. Brigham, was compelled by illness to relinquish the journey, and return, after he had reached Potosi. We proceeded in a south-west direction, which carried us across the sources of the Maramec and Gasconade. We then entered on the elevated highlands, which alternately pour their waters into the Missouri and Mississippi rivers, reaching, in their development, to the Washita river. Through this rough alpine range, the Arkansas, rising in the Rocky mountains, penetrates, and is the only river that completely separates the chain. Our explorations were confined to the region lying on its northern banks. Winter overtook us on the sources of the White river, giving us a few days of severe weather, but offering, generally, no impediment to travelling. There is much that is most striking and picturesque in the scenery of this region, and not less in its productions and physical character. Nowhere, probably, on the globe, is there such a remarkable succession of limestone caverns, and large, transparent springs. At several places, large brooks flow abruptly out of crevices in the rock; and at one place, a flowing stream, Spring river, thus originates. We found the ores of lead, iron, and manganese, in large bodies. The high uplands are often rent by precipitous valleys and large chasms, caused by the force of these streams. These valleys are well wooded, and contain the richest soil. And this broad region must at no distant day attract settlement, and will afford facilities for agriculture and mining, while its abundant water-power gives it great advantages for milling and manufactures. The country is a continuation of the limestone and sandstone formations of the west banks of the Mississippi. The number and extent of the caverns in this formation, is, indeed, remarkable. They yield saltpetre earth, wherever they have been explored. Nitrate of potash has been manufactured in some of these caves, and transported across the wilderness for eighty miles; and a valuable traffic in this article may be established. In the district between the head-waters of White river and the Arkansas, salt is found, in a crystallized state, in the prairies. The region is still occupied by herds of the buffalo, elk, deer, and by the bear, and smaller animals of the latitude, which renders it an attractive country to hunters and trappers. The Osage Indians, who inhabit it, are the cause of fear and alarm to this class; but it did not appear to us, from the sparse numbers of the Indians, and the periodical flying visits they are in the habit of making the eastern and northern parts of it, that there is ground of permanent apprehension from this source. The policy of locating the Cherokees on the north banks of the Arkansas, may well be questioned; and I have heard this arrangement much spoken against. Indeed, the agricultural value of the country has been much underrated. Independent of the mineral discoveries mentioned, the arable lands of the Ozark summit-level constitute one of the richest and most beautiful districts in the Territory. The high grass and flowers which cover the prairie-lands, impart the most sylvan aspect to the scene. Springs of the purest water abound, and, by avoiding the chasms, the country is susceptible of being traversed by roads. It only requires to be better known, to attract the notice of emigrants, and will some day bear a great population. I do not doubt that the high road from St. Louis to Fort Smith will probably cross this tract of country. Such a route must greatly shorten the distance. I cannot refer you to a correct map of the country, and therefore enclose you a sketch, explanatory of my route. From a conversation with Mr. Brigham, I cannot mistake your friendly influence in these explorations. I am desirous to extend them to other parts of the frontiers. I understand that the Secretary of War entertains enlarged and enlightened views on the subject. I should be pleased to be employed in this branch of the public service. I am, with respect, your ob't serv't, HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT. II. POTOSI, Feb. 15, 1819. SIR: I had the honor, on the 9th instant, to address you on the subject of my journey into the region of the Ozarks. You will allow me again to trouble you on the subject of explorations. Government has long been acquainted, by reports, with the existence of native copper on the Upper Mississippi, and the banks of lake Superior. I believe the attempt was made about 1798, to have the localities explored. I know not what success attended that attempt. Probably the remoteness of the country, and the hostility of the Indian tribes, were unfavorable. But I am persuaded that the object is one of importance. The mineralogy of those regions became the topic of early interest, even in the days of the French supremacy. Copper appears to characterize an extensive area. It is stated to break out in the immediate vicinity of St. Anthony's falls, and to continue through to the southern shores of lake Superior. In its exploration, other traits of the natural history of the country would be developed. The establishment of a military post at St. Anthony's falls, renders the present a favorable time for exploring the region. Its features and resources are objects of deep interest; and it appears to be the policy of the government, in the disposition of its western and northern posts, to prepare the way for ascertaining these traits at the earliest period. The position of the most advanced posts which are now in the process of location, is such as to afford great facilities for exploration. The hostilities of the Indians are repressed, and a survey of these parts of the public domain could now be effected with comparative safety, and at little expense. Should you think the appointment of an agent for this purpose, to accompany some of the military movements, would be favorably received by the Secretary of War, may I indulge the hope that, in recommending it, you will remember me in the premises? I am, with respect, your ob't serv't, HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT. APPENDIX. OBSERVATIONS ON THE MINERALOGY, GEOLOGY, ANTIQUITIES, AND GEOGRAPHY OF THE WESTERN COUNTRY. LIST OF PAPERS. A. MINERALOGY, GEOLOGY, AND MINES. 1. A VIEW OF THE LEAD-MINES OF MISSOURI. 2. A CATALOGUE OF THE MINERALS OF THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY. 3. MINERAL RESOURCES OF THE WESTERN COUNTRY. A LETTER TO GEN. C. G. HAINES. B. GEOGRAPHY. 1. MISSOURI. 2. HOT SPRINGS OF WASHITA. 3. MEMOIR OF WHITE RIVER. 4. LIST OF STEAMBOATS ON THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER IN 1819. C. ANTIQUITIES AND INDIAN HISTORY. 1. ARTICLES OF CURIOUS WORKMANSHIP FOUND IN ANCIENT INDIAN GRAVES. 2. ANCIENT INDIAN CEMETERY FOUND IN THE MARAMEC VALLEY. I. LEAD-MINES OF MISSOURI. A MEMOIR ON THE GEOLOGY AND MINERALOGY OF MISSOURI, DRAWN UP IN 1819. PREFACE. When we reflect on the history of our own country--its advance in arts, commerce, and agriculture, and the rapidity with which its population has increased, and its resources been developed--the mind is with difficulty brought to believe that all this has taken place within a comparatively short period. These developments are particularly striking in the region west of the Alleghany mountains. A new world has, as it were, been discovered in the Mississippi valley, which, under the strong impulse of emigration, has been transformed, as if by superhuman exertions. No sooner had its great fertility and productiveness become known, than a universal desire for correct information sprang up. Our first travellers in that region did little more, however, than glance at its most obvious and grand features; and with respect to some topics, such as its antiquities and natural history, these notices have had the effect rather to stimulate, than to gratify curiosity. But, whatever information has been published respecting the country, its mineralogy and geology have remained wholly unnoticed. The mines of Missouri, especially, have failed to attract the consideration which they merit. To supply this deficiency, I have written the following memoir. It is the result of no ordinary degree of opportunity of observation upon the particular mines, and their geological position in the great metalliferous limestone formation west of the Mississippi. Besides visiting the principal mines, and traversing the country thoroughly, to ascertain the character and value of its mineral resources and geological developments, I made an exploratory tour through the broad and elevated region of the Ozarks, lying west and south of this celebrated tract, extending into the Territory of Arkansas. If, therefore, I have failed to collect a body of facts sufficient to impress the reader with a sense of the extent, value, and importance of the country, and particularly of its mines and minerals, it can hardly be ascribed to a want of opportunity, or, indeed, of assiduity in the study or arrangement of my facts. The historical data here recorded, respecting Renault's operations, have never, I believe, appeared in print. They were elicited in the course of a legal investigation, instituted between the heirs-at-law of Renault, the agent of Crozat, in 1723, and sundry individuals, who claimed the same grants on the authority of a date subsequent to the transfer of Louisiana to the United States. The drawings I give of the lead-furnaces which are peculiar to that section of country, are from actual measurement, done under the eye of an operative smelter of approved skill at Potosi, and are conceived to be minutely correct. HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT. NEW YORK, Nov. 25, 1819. In republishing this memoir, advantage has been taken of several judicious suggestions respecting it, made in a critical notice of it, by the able editor of the American Journal of Science, in the volume of that work for 1821. H. R. S. WASHINGTON, Jan. 20, 1853. A VIEW OF THE LEAD-MINES OF MISSOURI. SECTION I. HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE MINES. The rage for adventure, which the brilliant exploits of Cortez, Pizarro, and other Spanish adventurers, had excited throughout Europe, continued for a long time to agitate the public mind, and had not abated at the commencement of the eighteenth century, when an idea of the mineral riches of Louisiana had become prevalent. Gold and silver were then the chief objects which engrossed attention; and in search of them, the earliest discoverers were led to penetrate into the interior. The physical aspect of the country was in general such as to flatter the most sanguine expectations of mineral wealth; and the further the country became known, the more interesting was found its mineralogical character. To men whose preconceived ideas of a country were already high, such appearances must have had the most inspiriting effect, and lightened the embarrassments they encountered in exploring a wilderness. Many of the useful metals were thus met with, and gold and silver mines were reported to have been discovered in several places. Red river, the Arkansas, and the river La Platte of the Missouri, were particularly mentioned; and from the evidence which is afforded by the discovery of ancient furnaces, &c., there is reason to conclude that those metals were wrought at a very early period. Judging from appearances, they were ready to conclude the country exhaustless in mines; and the most exaggerated accounts of them appear to have been transmitted to Europe, particularly to France, where a lively interest was felt in the prosperity of the infant colonies in Louisiana and Illinois; and in the descriptions published at that day, the lands are reputed to equal in fertility the banks of the Nile, and the mountains to vie with the wealth of Peru. It was in this supposition of the immense wealth of Louisiana, both in the vegetable and mineral kingdoms, that the renowned Mississippi scheme originated, which, from the imposing character it was made to assume under the guidance and direction of M. Law, drew upon it the eyes, not only of France, but of all Europe, and produced one of the most memorable disappointments recorded in the annals of commercial speculation. Louis XIV., by letters patent, bearing date September 14th, A. D. 1712, granted to Anthony Crozat, Counsellor of State, Secretary of the Household, &c., the exclusive privilege of commerce of that district of country, now known as the States of Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Illinois, and the Territories of Missouri and Arkansas, with the proprietary right of the mines and minerals he should discover in the country, reserving the fifth part of all bullion of gold and silver, and the one-tenth of the produce of all other mines. The exclusive privilege of commerce was granted for a term of fifteen years; but the right of the mines was conveyed in perpetuity to him and his heirs, on the condition that such mines and minerals should revert back to the crown of France, whenever the working of them was discontinued for three years together. The bounds of Louisiana, as granted to Crozat, are described in these words: "Bounded by New Mexico, (on the west,) and by the lands of the English of Carolina, (on the east,) including all the establishments, ports, havens, rivers, and principally the port and haven of the Isle of Dauphine, heretofore called Massaerè; the river of St. Louis, heretofore called Mississippi, from the edge of the sea as far as the Illinois; together with the river of St. Philip, heretofore called Ouabache (Wabash); with all the countries, territories, lakes within land, and the rivers which fall directly or indirectly into that part of the river of St. Louis." In the month of August, A. D. 1717, M. Crozat solicited permission to retrocede to the crown his privilege of the exclusive commerce and the mines of Louisiana, which was granted by an arret of the Council of State, during the minority of Louis XV. In the same month, letters patent were granted by the Council of the Regency to an association of individuals at Paris, under the name of "The Company of the West," by which they were invested with the exclusive privilege of the commerce of Louisiana, and the working of the mines, to the same extent as it was enjoyed under the grant of Crozat. These letters patent were dated on the 23d of August, A. D. 1717, registered 6th September of the same year, and were to be in force on the 1st of January, 1718, and to continue for a period of twenty-five years. By them, not only such grants and privileges were conveyed as had previously been enjoyed by Crozat; but they were invested with additional powers, rights, and privileges. The territory was granted in free allodium, (_en franc allieu_,) in lordship and injustice, the crown reserving to itself no other rights or duties but those of fealty and liege homage, which the company was required to pay to the king, and to his successors at each mutation of kings, with a crown of gold of the weight of thirty marks. The boundaries were the same as described in the grant to Crozat; and the mines and mining grounds, opened or discovered during the term of its privilege, were declared to belong to the company incommutably, without being holden to pay any rents or proceeds whatever. The company was also invested with the right to sell and alienate the lands of its concession, at whatever price or rents they might fix, and even to grant them _en franc allieu_, without reserving the rights of justice or lordship. It was also provided, that if, after the expiration of the twenty-five years for which the exclusive privilege of commerce was granted, the king should not see proper to continue the privilege by a new grant, all the lands and islands, mines, and mining grounds, which the Company of the West should have inhabited, worked, improved, or disposed of on rent, or any valuable consideration whatever, should remain to it for ever in fee simple, to use and dispose of as a proper inheritance, on the simple condition that the company should never sell such lands to any other than the subjects of France. A company incorporated with such ample rights and privileges, did not fail to draw upon it the attention of the speculative, or to enlist the aid of the enterprising capitalists of the French metropolis. The country of the Illinois was reputed rich beyond comparison: the financial estimates submitted to the view of the public, offered prospects of unusual gain, and capitalists flocked with avidity from all quarters to enrol themselves as members of the company, and partake of the promised wealth. If anything had been wanting to accelerate the pace of adventurers, or to fan the ardor of hope, it was the genius, the financial abilities, and the commanding influence of M. Law, who was placed at the head of the company, and was the moving power in every transaction. Hence, it is no subject for surprise that the most extravagant anticipations were entertained by the members of the Company of the West, or that the unusual splendor of the Mississippi scheme was only equalled by the signal disappointment in which it eventuated. In the year after the Company of the West had been instituted by the royal patent of the king, they formed an establishment in the country of the Illinois, at fort Chartres; and in order to promote the objects of their institution, and to encourage the settlement of the country, held out the most liberal inducements to French emigrants, and made them donations of all lands which they should cultivate or improve. Miners and mechanics were also encouraged to emigrate; and the city of New Orleans, which had been founded during the last year of the authority of Crozat (1717), received a considerable accession to its population in the fall of the same year, and settlements began to extend along the banks of the Mississippi, and in the country of the Illinois. Among the number of adventurers to Illinois, was Philip Francis Renault, (the son of Philip Renault, a noted iron-founder at Consobre, near to Mauberge, in France,) who came over as the agent of the Company of St. Phillips, an association of individuals which had been formed under the patronage of the western company, for prosecuting the mining business in the upper country of Louisiana and Illinois. It appears also that he was a member of the Company of the West, and he is spoken of as "Director-General of the mines of the Royal Company in Illinois;" a name by which not only the present State of Illinois, but a vast district of the adjoining country, appears then to have been known. Renault left France in the year 1719, with two hundred artificers and miners, provided with tools, and whatever else was necessary for carrying the objects of the company into effect. In his passage he touched at the island of St. Domingo, and purchased five hundred slaves for working the mines; and, entering the Mississippi, pursued his voyage up that river to New Orleans, which he reached some time in the year 1720, and soon afterwards proceeded on his way to Kaskaskia, in Illinois. Kaskaskia was then inhabited solely by the French, and was one of the earliest posts occupied by them when they began to extend themselves from Canada, along the great western lakes, and down the Ohio and Mississippi. Renault established himself in the vicinity of this town, near fort Chartres, at a spot which he named St. Phillips, (now called the Little Village,) and from this sent out his mining and exploring parties into various sections of Illinois and Louisiana. These parties were either headed by himself, or by M. La Motte; an agent versed in the knowledge of minerals, whom he had brought over with him. In one of the earliest of these excursions La Motte discovered the lead-mines on the St. Francis, which bear his name; and, at a subsequent period, Renault made the discovery of those extensive mines north of Potosi, which continue to be called after him. Other mines of lead were also found, but their distinctive appellations have not survived; and a proof of the diligence with which Renault prosecuted the object, is furnished by the number and extent of the old diggings which are yet found in various parts of the country. These diggings are scattered over the whole mine country; and hardly a season passes, in which some antique works, overgrown with brush and trees, are not found. Renault, being probably disappointed in the high expectations he had formed of finding gold and silver, turned his whole force towards the smelting of lead; and there is reason to conclude that very great quantities were made. It was conveyed from the interior on pack-horses (the only mode of transportation which was practicable at that early period). The lead made by Renault was sent to New Orleans, and thence chiefly shipped for France. That he also discovered copper, is probable, as a grant of land made to him at Old Peoria, on the Illinois river, embraces a copper-mine. Renault's operations were, however, retarded and checked, from a quarter where it was least expected. By an edict of the king, made at Paris, in May, 1719, the Company of the West was united to the East India and Chinese Company, under the title of the Company Royal of the Indies (_La Compagnie Royale des Indies_). And in 1731, the whole territory was retroceded to the crown of France, the objects of the company having totally failed; and Renault was left in America, without the means of prosecuting the shining business. His exertions in behalf of the company were not, however, overlooked by the government, and four several grants of land were made to him in consideration of his services. These grants bear date June 14th, A. D. 1723, and cover the Mine La Motte, and some other very valuable tracts, which, after having laid dormant for a period of about sixty years, have recently been claimed by the representatives of his heirs-at-law. Renault, however, remained in Illinois several years after the explosion of the Mississippi scheme, and did not return to his native country until 1742. With him the greater part of his workmen returned; the slaves were sold, and the mining business fell into neglect. Here is a period to the first attempt at mining in Louisiana. The country was ceded to Spain in 1762, and taken possession of in 1769. After Renault's departure, little or nothing appears to have been done in the way of mining; and, even after the Spanish had taken possession of the country, the lead-mines were but little attended to. The force which Renault had with him was sufficient to protect him from the attacks of the savages; but, after his departure, the settlements on the Mississippi, feeble in themselves, could not furnish protection to such as might be disposed to work at the mines. The Spanish, however, in a few years after taking possession of the country, did something; and in process of time new discoveries were made, and the mining business began to assume a more respectable character. The principal discovery made under the Spanish authority was that of Mine à Burton, which takes its name from a person of the name of Burton, or Le Breton,[12] who, being out on a hunt in that quarter, found the ore lying on the surface of the ground. This man, who is still living in the vicinity of St. Genevieve, at the advanced age of one hundred and nine years, had been employed while a youth under Renault. The period of this discovery it would be very difficult now to ascertain, Burton himself being unable to fix it. It has probably been known about forty years. The processes of mining pursued under the Spanish government appear to have been very rude and imperfect, not more than fifty per cent. of lead being got from the ore. The common open log furnace was the only one employed, and the lead-ashes were thrown by as useless. In 1797, Moses Austin, Esq., performed a journey from the lead-mines in Wythe county, Virginia, to the Mine à Burton, in Louisiana, and obtained a grant of land one league square, from the Spanish authorities, in consideration of erecting a reverberatory furnace, and other works, for prosecuting the mining business at those mines. This he commenced in 1798, previous to which time no furnace for smelting the ashes of lead had been erected. Mr. Austin sunk the first regular shaft for raising the ore, and introduced some other improvements which were found beneficial. He also, in 1799, erected a shot-tower, in which patent shot of an approved quality were made. A manufactory of sheet-lead was completed during the same year, and the Spanish arsenals at New Orleans and Havana drew a considerable part of the supplies for their navy from this source. About this time, a few other American families crossed over into Louisiana Territory, and settled in the neighborhood of the mines. These, from their more enlightened and enterprising spirit, were an acquisition to the mining interest; and as their earliest attention was directed to it, the lead business began to revive; and at the time the Territory was taken possession of by the United States, the mines were extensively and advantageously worked.[13] The Mine à Robino, Mine à Martin, and many others, were shortly afterwards discovered. Since the year 1804, the number of mines has been astonishingly multiplied; Shibboleth, New Diggings, Lebaum's, and Bryan's mines, are among the latest discoveries of consequence. The lead-mines did not fail to attract the earliest attention of the American government; and, immediately after the occupation of the Territory, measures were taken to ascertain their situation, the method of working them, &c. Several laws have since been enacted on the subject, and a reservation made of all discoveries upon public lands. The emigration to Louisiana, which had partially commenced under the Spanish government, took a more decided character after the cession of the country to the United States, but has been particularly great within the last few years. In 1812, that part of Louisiana bordering on the gulf of Mexico, including New Orleans, and extending up the Mississippi to 33° north latitude, was erected into a State under the name of Louisiana, and the remainder formed into a territorial government by the name of Missouri. There is a petition now before Congress (Feb. 1819) for the admission of Missouri into the Union on a footing with the original States. By this petition it is contemplated that White river will form the southern boundary; and the country between that and the northern line of Louisiana, including our claims on the Spanish, will be erected into a territorial government, under the name of Arkansas.[14] Respecting the present state of the lead-mines, it is only necessary here to add, that they are worked in a more improved manner than at any former period; that they are more extensive than when the country came into the hands of the United States, and of course give employment to a greater number of miners, while every season is adding to the number of mines; and that the ores may be considered of the richest kind. Every day is developing to us the resources of this country in minerals, and particularly in lead; and we cannot resist the belief that, in riches and extent, the mines of Missouri are paralleled by no other mineral district. In working the mines, in raising and smelting the ore, and in the establishment of the different manufactures dependent upon it, there is much to be done. Though the processes now pursued are greatly superior to those in use under the French and Spanish governments, there is still ample room for improvement. The earth has not yet been penetrated over eighty feet! We know not what may be found in the lower strata of the soil. There is reason to believe that the main bodies of ore have not yet been hit upon; that they lie deeper, and that we have thus far only been engaged upon the spurs and detached masses. There is also reason to believe that bodies of the ores of zinc exist in the district of the mines, and that copper will be afforded by the lower strata of earth. It is found overlaid by lead-ores in many of the European mines; and the geognostic character of the country leads us to conclude that it may also be found here. The want of capitalists in the mine country, and of practical skill in the boring, blasting, sinking shafts and galleries, oppose obstacles to the successful progress of mining. There is but one regular hearth-furnace for smelting in the whole district; and that is on the modern plan of English furnaces. There are not over four or five regular shafts in about forty mines; there is not an engine, either by horse, steam, or water power, for removing water from the mines, several of which have been abandoned on this account, with rich prospects of ore in view. In fine, there is little of that system which characterizes the best-conducted European mines, and which, by an application of the most recent discoveries in mechanics, chemistry, and philosophy, render them the admiration of every intelligent visiter. Should the subject attract the attention of mining capitalists, the circumstance would form a new era in the history of the mining operations of this country. Something also remains to be done by the government; the existing laws are inadequate to the purposes for which they were enacted. That feature restricting leases to three years, is injudicious; the period is so short, that it deters those who are most able from engaging in it at all. It is desirable that such a system should be established as would indicate the annual produce of the mines, number of hands employed, and such other facts as are necessary in forming a series of statistical tables on the subject. The want of such data has hitherto prevented us from properly estimating the importance of the mines in a national point of view. The acquisition of a scientific knowledge of minerals should also be facilitated in this quarter. There should be a mineralogical school located in the country, where students might be instructed in that useful science. In a country so rich in minerals, and whose wealth will always so much depend upon a proper development of these resources, the knowledge of mineralogy should be laid open to every one, and should be within the reach of such as do not wish, or cannot get, the other branches of a liberal education. To obtain this knowledge now, a person would be compelled to travel to remote parts of the Union, and to incur an unreasonable expense. No one who is conversant with the advantages which Germany has derived from such a seminary, will deny the utility of a similar one in the United States. Yet, with all the disadvantages under which the lead-mines have been viewed, there are many who may be surprised to find their annual products, from the best information, stated at three millions of pounds; and from this some idea may be formed of their riches and extent, and, when they come to be properly and regularly worked, how greatly they will contribute to the national wealth.[15] SECTION II. TOPOGRAPHICAL AND GEOLOGICAL OUTLINE OF THE MINE COUNTRY. The district of country formerly known as the lead-mines of Louisiana, extends from the head waters of the St. Francis, in a north-west direction, to the Maramec, a distance of seventy miles, by about forty-five in width, having the Mississippi on its eastern borders. It is included, very nearly, between 37° and 38° north latitude, and comprises an area of about three thousand square miles. Most of the mines are situated within a circle of this general area, of which Potosi and Mine à Burton constitute a centre. The rock formation of the country appears to be simple and uniform. At the lowest depths observed in valleys, there is a crystalline sandstone, which often consists of transparent quartzose grains, adhering by the force of aggregation. The lead-bearing limestone reposes upon this. Both formations are deposited in perfectly horizontal strata. Valleys which carry streams have been worn down into this formation, presenting this order of arrangement very satisfactorily. A stratum of red, marly clay, spreads over the limestone. Above this, constituting the top layer, or surface soil, rests a bed of diluvial materials, filled with broken-down fragments of rock, masses of radiated quartz, and chips of hornstone. Vegetable matter and black sand form a covering over such parts of this diluvial deposit as constitute valleys and agricultural plains. The Mississippi river lays open this formation along its western banks, from the influx of the Missouri to Cape Girardeau. Beneath this metalliferous column lie the primitive rocks. The most striking feature of this kind is found in the occurrence of a primitive formation at the sources of the river St. Francis. My attention was arrested by this fact, soon after I began to examine the mine country. This formation consists of sienite, rather than granite; the mica being generally replaced or represented by hornblende. The feldspar, which constitutes three-fourths of the mass, is of a dull red hue. The rock in connection is greenstone trap, which is sometimes porphyritic. I observed small masses of sulphuret of iron in some parts of this rock. The upheaval of this formation appears to have been of the most ancient era of geological action; for the stratified limestones and sandstones, which lie upon or in juxtaposition to these elevations, have not been disturbed in their horizontality. The altitude of this primitive tract does not probably exceed one thousand feet above the waters of the St. Francis river. Vast blocks of the red sienite have been detached, and scattered southwardly over the secondary rocks, apparently by the force of some antique deluge, setting from the north. The whole series of formations may be judged of by the following diagram: [Illustration] The general aspect of the country is sterile, though not mountainous. The lands lie rolling, like a body of water in gentle agitation. In some places they rise into abrupt cliffs, where the rock formations appear. Generally, they present the form of diluvial ridges, sparingly covered with forest, and bearing a growth of prairie-grass and herbage. The western banks of the Mississippi, between St. Genevieve and Herculaneum, present a mural front to this district, in a series of elevated perpendicular cliffs of compact limestone. The whole coast extending to St. Louis, appears to be sufficiently elevated to have served as a former barrier to waters covering the low grounds of Illinois. The strata exhibit ancient water-marks of a diluvial character. They are broken through, from the west, by small streams draining the mine country. No indications of lead-ore have been found in these cliffs. The mines are situated at considerable distances west of them; and when the observer has arrived at their localities, he finds the ore often lying in the unconsolidated soil. This soil is a stiff, reddish-colored clay, filled with fragments of cherty stones, quartz, and small gravel, clearly attesting its diluvial character. This soil extends to the depth of from ten to twenty feet, or more, and is based on limestone rock. It is so firm, in some places, as almost to resist the pick-axe; in others, it partakes more fully of marl, and is readily penetrated. The ore lies in this marly clay, and is often accompanied by sulphate of barytes and calcareous spar. The country is particularly characterized by radiated quartz, which is strewn in detached pieces over the ground, and is also found imbedded in the soil at all depths. This substance is here called _blossom of lead_, or _mineral blossom_. Pyrites, and some other ores of iron, are also found in detached masses upon the surface, and, very rarely, lead-ore. Such is the general character of the mineral lands, which are covered with a stunted growth of oaks, denominated post-oaks. Walnut is found in some instances out of the valleys. A ridge of yellow pine extends west of the mines, between the St. Francis and Maramec, and is more decidedly barren than the grounds covered with oak. All the open, elevated tracts, are clothed with herbage, which hides their flinty aspect, and gives the country a picturesque appearance. The minor slopes and ravines are often rendered almost impassable by hazel, vines, and other bramble, which appear to be indicative of a better, or rather a deeper soil. The whole area of upland soil, which rests as a mantle over the rocks, is a diluvium, which must, we think, be referred to an early period of diluvial action. The only true alluvium of the mines appears to be confined to the valleys or plains, which are, consequently, the principal seats of cultivation, and thus derive an additional value from their contiguity to the barren tracts. This alluvium rests on the red marl-clay, or mineral diluvium; the latter of which is uniformly found on penetrating it. Some of the mines exist in, and have been pursued beneath, this top alluvion, across the valleys. Others are seated beneath an arable soil, bearing a forest. Many of the most barren and stony parts of the elevated lands are, on the contrary, destitute of mines. The depth of the mineral soil varies exceedingly. It barely conceals the rock formations in many of the more elevated positions, and frequently does not conceal them. It is deepest in the plains and depressed grounds, being accumulated much in the manner we should expect, on the supposition of a general diluvial submersion. The principal objection to a general diluvial action, involving the whole Mississippi valley, appears to arise from the admission of the limestone rock's being the true locality of the ore. But we think there are too many facts in support of this opinion, to leave any reasonable grounds for questioning it. Several of the mines in the mineral soil have been traced down into the rock, and have been pursued through apertures, closing and expanding in the manner of true veins. In the numerous cases where the rock has put a stop to further mining, and it has exhibited no signs of ore, it may be supposed that the ore has been moved, by diluvial force, from the original position of the mine, and been finally deposited, with the soil, upon unmetalliferous portions of the rock. And could we with certainty determine the course of diluvial action, the principles of mining might be, in some respects, employed in searching for the original vein. It is evident, from the unscratched and unbroken surface of much of the ore and its spars, that it could not have been transported far; while the portions of it called gravel ore, which evince its diluvial character, are manifest proofs of a change, more or less extensive, in the general position of the ore. With respect to the character of the limestone, we have been perplexed with its protean character, and, to avoid apparent contradictions, were led, at first, to adopt distinctions of strata, which we very soon saw were untenable. It is evidently the American equivalent for the metalliferous limestone of England, and, as a formation, is of the transition era. In a specimen of this rock, now before us, taken from a fresh excavation at Potosi, forty feet below the surface of the soil, and thirty-one feet below the original surface of the rock, the structure is in part compact, and in part granular; the compact portions having minute shining crystalline points, and the granular being without any appearance of crystallization, but changing, in the width of about forty lines, from compact granular to a dull arenaceous structure, quite friable between the fingers. Part of the mass is vesicular, and the vesicles are studded over with minute crystals of white opaque quartz. The two extremes of this specimen have the appearance of totally different formations, yet are both calcareous. By experiment, I found a portion of the lower arenaceous part almost completely soluble, in the cold, in nitro-sulphuric acid; and the actual residuum was, in part, owing to a defect in trituration. Most of the limestone rock disclosed by excavation in the mines, is of the granulated kind; while the structure of the rock above the surface, where the strata are exposed to the weather, as in cliffs and hill-sides, is of the solid, glistening, pseudo-compact variety. Both these varieties, as shown in the specimen, are geologically identical, notwithstanding their striking differences in hardness, structure, colour, and particularly in crystalline lustre. This lustre is, however, as shown by examination with the magnet, owing almost exclusively to minute facets of calcareous crystals, which render it rather sparry than crystalline. We have examined large portions of this rock, in all its varieties, for organic remains; but have not succeeded in finding any well-characterized species, although a further and fuller search might, and probably would, disclose some species. We observed a single mass of the rock, an imperfectly columniform structure, apparently organic. The rock is rather vesicular than cavernous in its structure. The heavy deposit of diluvium conceals the surface. But if the appearances in the mine-diggings are to be received as general indicia, the surface of the concealed rock is extremely rough and irregular, standing up, in the mineral soil, in huge lumps, which renders the general depth at which it may be reached, a question of great uncertainty. It has been intimated that the sparry-compact, and the dull granulated varieties of the limestone, are often contiguous; and we have seen, by the examination of a hard specimen, that they are geologically identical as a formation. If this compact variety from the mines be compared with the principal formation in the precipitous cliffs forming the western banks of the Mississippi, in front of the mine tract, they will be found to coincide in so many points, that these two localities may be deemed parts of the same formation, and as being identical in age. The principal differences consist in the occurrence of organic remains in the strata along the banks of the Mississippi; a discovery attributable to the more full exposure of these cliffs to observation. There is also an apparent absence of the granulated, or sand-lime variety. These two calcareous tracts are not, however, continuous, being separated by a formation of granular quartz, or white crystalline sandstone, which runs nearly parallel with the Mississippi for a distance, a few miles west of it. This stratum of rock, which appears to be rather a quartzose sandstone than a granular quartz, reappears west of Potosi, in the barren area called the Pinery, and is also apparent at several localities between the waters of the Maramec and the St. Francis. At a point thirty miles west of the Mississippi, in about the latitude of St. Genevieve, the primitive formation reveals itself in a series of mountain masses of granite, which cover a comparatively extensive area. This tract appears to be the nucleus of the country, rising through the great secondary formations which intervene between the Alleghany and the Rocky mountains. Its western limits have not yet been explored; but it probably covers an area of not less than a hundred square miles. The mines lie north of it. This granite is composed almost exclusively of reddish feldspar and quartz. The proportion of mica is small, and this mineral is often absent. It has been employed as a material for millstones. It is connected with greenstone, which is sometimes porphyritic. We have now three formations of rock, as constituting the mine series; and it only remains to point out their relative position and extent, with the best means at our command. This might seem to be a very simple process, and would indeed be so, were it not that the area over which the formations extend is extensive, and is covered with deep formations of the diluvial and alluvial character, bearing a forest. The primitive is immediately succeeded by the two latter. Mine à La Motte is situated in the mineral diluvium, and is distant about two miles from the granite on Blackford's fork. The first appearance of rock, in situ, north of this point, is at Rock creek, a few miles distant, where the granular quartzose sandstone appears. There is no further appearance of rock in this direction for many miles. The white crystalline sand-caves of St. Genevieve are seated in this formation. It is again disclosed on the Platten creek, and in the elevations west of the Joachim creek, called Fort Rock, and in the white sand-caves near Herculaneum. Whether it is continued farther in the approach to the Maramec, cannot be stated; but the line of country which is thus traversed by it, is probably sixty miles. The only point where this rock appears on the banks of the Mississippi, is in the range of the Cornice Rocks. Proceeding west across this formation, the mineral diluvium succeeds, and conceals the rock formations; but, wherever they are disclosed by the action of the streams, and by excavations, the metalliferous limestone appears, which constitutes the lowest stratum yet found in the mine region proper. But it is to be observed, that no excavations of any considerable depth have been made; the rock has not been penetrated to any great depth. The principal seat of the mines consists of the area included within the circuits of the Grand river and Mineral Fork, constituting the main tributaries of the Maramec. These streams extend something in the shape of a horse-shoe around the mines. Immediately west and south-west of this area, the white sandstone reappears, extending south towards the granite. The position of the two formations may be represented by a pair of expanded dividers, opening northward; the two shanks of which denote the sandstone ridges, and the head, or rivet, the primitive. The most valuable mineral products of the mines, in addition to lead, are iron and salt; the latter of which is made, in limited quantities, at a saline spring at Madansburgh, in the county of St. Genevieve. Other indications of it exist at one or two localities in the township of Bellevieu, and on the Maramec river, where efforts were formerly made to manufacture salt. Iron-ores are found at numerous points; but no body of the ores of this metal is known, comparable, in extent or value, to the locality of Bellevieu, called the Iron Mountain. The ore exists, at this place, in a very massive form. It is in the state of a micaceous oxide. It has been tried in a slag furnace, and smelted easily, without a flux. The iron obtained was of a very malleable quality, and spread freely under the hammer. This locality is embraced by the waters of Cedar creek, which, at the distance of seven miles, are stated to afford a water-power adequate for the reduction and working of the ore. About five miles distant, at Stout's settlement, occurs another body of this ore. Zinc is found, in the form of a sulphuret, in small quantities, at several of the lead-mines in Washington county. A single mass of the sulphuret of antimony has been discovered in the granitical district, which affords also a locality of coarse graphite, and some other minerals, which will be noticed in the sequel. A sulphur spring exists a few miles west of the Mississippi, in Jefferson county. The water issues, in a copious stream, from an aperture, situated near a cliff of the compact limestone. It is of a bright, transparent quality, but indicates, by its taste, its sulphureous impregnation, and deposits sulphur, in a whitish pulpy form, on the pebble-stones and fallen vegetation of the brook which issues from the spring. Topographically considered, the mine country is a hilly and uneven tract, having a considerable elevation above the waters of the Mississippi. It is well watered, with numerous springs, brooks, and streams, and, from the prevalence of a firm diluvial soil, affords facilities for roads. The climate is favorable to health. The manner in which the smelting of the ores is performed, being in the open air, is probably less injurious to those engaged in it, than if the furnaces were enclosed with buildings. Some losses are sustained in the death of cattle, which die with a disease called the mine sickness. Cows and horses, which are frequently seen licking around old furnaces, often die without any apparent cause. Cats and dogs are taken with violent fits, which never fail, in a short time, to terminate their lives. This is usually attributed, by the inhabitants, to the effects of sulphur, driven off from the ores in smelting. It is more probable that it arises from the sulphurous acid in its combination with barytes, which may operate as a poison to animals. The sickness is wholly confined to quadrupeds.[16] The soil thrown out of the pits, at the abandoned mines, is found to produce some plants, and even trees, which are not peculiar to the surface. Such are the cotton-wood and the beech-grape, species which are usually confined to the arenaceous alluvions of valleys. And we think their growth here is not promoted by the mineral clay, which is manifestly of a fertilizing property, when cast on the surface; but to the disintegration of the sand-lime, producing a soil favorable to such productions. The sensitive brier, observed in the mine district, is evidently not of this class, as it is found remote from any mine excavations. SECTION III. LOCAL POSITION OF THE SEVERAL MINES. Since the first discovery of lead in this Territory, the number of mines has been much increased, and hardly a season passes without some new discovery. Every discovery of importance soon becomes the centre of mining attraction. As the ore is found in the diluvial soil, it is generally exhausted on reaching the solid rock; and after penetrating a considerable area of the surface with any, or but partial success, the locality is abandoned, and a new one sought. As the mines are worked without capital, and the ore is dispersed over a wide area, the number of localities is almost indefinite. Upwards of forty principal sub-districts are known, most of which are appropriately denominated _diggings_. The earliest discovery, at Mine à Burton, has been one of the most valuable, and still continues to afford the ore. Mine à La Motte has also proved an extensive deposit, and is still unexhausted. New Diggings, Shibboleth, and Richwoods, are among the discoveries of later date, which have yielded very large quantities of ore. But the mode of mining in the diluvial soil must exhaust it of its mineral contents, and direct miners, in after years, to the true position of the ore, in the calcareous rock. So long as the search continues in the soil, the business will partake of the uncertainty which now attends it, and which renders it rather an object of temporary enterprise, than a fixed employment. In the search for ore in the soil, scarcely any uniform principles can be certainly relied on. Generally, rocky and barren localities are avoided, and large and deep beds of the red metalliferous clay sought for. The occurrence of crystallized quartz, or spars, on the surface, is regarded only as a general indication, but cannot be depended on to ensure local success. These masses are found to be distributed on and through the top soil, as other debris, being sometimes contiguous to, and sometimes remote from, ore. But they are never, so far as I have observed, found with the ore. The method of searching for and raising the ore, is simple. Having fixed on a spot for digging, the operator measures off about eight feet square. A pick-axe and shovel are used for removing the earth. A practised hand will pitch the earth from a depth of eight or ten feet. A windlass and bucket are then placed over the pit, and the excavation thus continued. Small detached masses of ore, or spars, are often found in the soil, in approaching a larger body. The ore is the sulphuret, or galena. It has a broad, glittering grain, and is readily divisible into cubical fragments. It occurs in beds, or detached masses, which are deposited horizontally in the soil. They are often accompanied by the sulphate of barytes, or by calcareous spar; sometimes by blende, or iron pyrites. The ore is often connected with the barytic spar, indicating the latter to be a true matrix. The direction of these beds of ore appears to be irregular. Veins of ore are confined to the rock. The variety of ore called _gravel ore_, differs from the preceding chiefly by its marks of attrition, and connection with diluvial pebble-stones. No spars have been noticed in these gravel-beds, although it is probable that a careful search might detect them. The calcareous spar is most abundant in connection with rock diggings. It is translucent, or transparent, and often exhibits the property of double refraction. The miners, who employ their own conventional terms, call this substance _glass tiff_, to distinguish it from the sulphate of barytes, which is denominated _tiff_. Much of the radiated quartz of this district bears the marks of diluvial action. It is not uncommon to find masses of it, in which the angles of the crystals are quite defaced. Veins of ore in the rock correspond generally, in their course, I think, with the cardinal points, in the instances of their being pursued horizontally. But they dip at various angles with the plain, or sink perpendicularly into the rock. The horizontal position of the ore-beds in the red clay soil, may be regarded as an evidence of its being a diluvial deposit. The metalliferous, red, marly clay, is, in fine, the most interesting geological problem connected with the mines, and is calculated to show us how little we know of the true eras of the diluvial deposits. After every examination which we have been able to make, we are decidedly of the opinion that this formation belongs to the diluvial, and not to the alluvial era. It seems, indeed, to assert a claim to be considered, among the western strata, as immediately succeeding the secondary. It lies directly next to, and upon, the limestone rock. We have witnessed the progress of an excavation on the public square of Potosi, in which the soil was removed down to the rock, and a clean area of its surface was exposed. There was no other stratum below it, and between the clay and rock. And such we believe to be its general position. The radiated quartz and pebble drift is above it, and, consequently, constitutes a subsequent deposit. And hence it is that the numerous fragmentary masses of the former, called _mineral blossom_, are no sure indications of the subterraneous presence of ore. The gravel-ore and mixed diluvial gravel is likewise a newer deposit, coinciding with the era of the primitive and secondary boulders. No large primitive boulders, however, exist in the mine district, if we except the angular fragments of granite, south of St. Michael, which are, indeed, just without the lead-yielding area. Pebbles of common quartz, granite, and greenstone, are found in the surface soil, and are also to be observed, in accumulated masses, in the beds of brooks. Occasionally an orbicular mass of these rocks, of the size of a melon, is observed. It is evident, from these appearances, that no formations of the primitive exist, towards the sources of the Mississippi, for a great distance, as it is from this direction that diluvial action appears to have been propagated. This clay soil is free from boulders, and is of a homogeneous texture. It partakes, in its qualities, so largely of marl, as to operate as a manure, on being thrown out of the pits, and, after a few years, is covered with a very rank growth of trees, vines, &c. This is a characteristic trait of the locality of abandoned diggings. The following is a catalogue of the mines. It comprises those of most note, which are now worked, or have been at some former period. 1. Mine à Burton. 24. Tapley's Diggings. 2. Mine à Robino. 25. Lambert's Diggings. 3. Mine à Martin. 26. Old Mines. 4. New Diggings. 27. Mine Shibboleth. 5. Citadel Diggings. 28. Elliot's Mines. 6. Perry's Diggings. 29. Belle Fontaine. 7. Hawkins's Mine. 30. Cannon's Mines. 8. Rosebury's Mine. 31. Little Diggings. 9. Austin's Shaft. 32. Becquet's Diggings. 10. Jones's Shaft. 33. Mine Liberty. 11. Rocky Diggings, (Prairie de Roche). 34. Renault's Mines. 12. Gravelly Diggings. 35. Miller's Mine. 13. Brushy-run Diggings. 36. Mine Silvers. 14. Stricklin's Diggings. 37. Fourche à Courtois. 15. Bibb's Diggings. 38. Pratt's Mine, Big river. 16. Tebault's Diggings, (Pinery). 39. Lebaum's Mine, Richwoods. 17. Mine Astraddle. 40. Mine à Joe, Flat river. 18. Masson's Diggings, or Partney's. 41. Bryan's Mines, Hazel run. 19. J. Scott's Diggings. 42. Dogget's Mine, Hazel run. 20. T. Scott's Diggings. 43. Mine La Motte, St. Michael. 21. Micheaux's Diggings. 44. Gray's Mine, Big river. 22. Henry's Diggings. 45. M'Kain's Mine, Dry creek. 23. Moreau's Diggings. The most noted mines are Mine à Burton, New Diggings, Shibboleth, Richwoods, Old Mines, and the numerous mines on the waters of the Mineral Fork of Grand river. Mine à La Motte, Mine à Joe, and Bryan's Mines, are east and south of the principal group of mines in Washington county, and at a considerable distance from them. A few general remarks may be applied to all these mines. The mines possess one general character, although there are some peculiarities which I shall hereafter mention. The ore is found in detached pieces and solid masses, in beds, in red clay, accompanied by sulphate of barytes, calcareous spar, blende, iron pyrites, and quartz. The ore is of that kind called, by mineralogists, lead-glance, or galena, and is the sulphuret of lead, of chemistry. As it is dug up or quarried from the adhering spar, it presents a very rich appearance. It has a broad, glittering grain, of a lead-gray colour, which passes into a bluish shade. The ore is easily broken by the blow of a hammer, and may be pounded to a fine powder, still preserving its glittering appearance. In breaking it, it always separates in cubes. Sometimes detached lumps of four or five pounds weight, of a cubical form, are found imbedded in the clay. Its primitive figure of crystallization is particularly observable after the ore has been desulphurated by heat, which, at the same time, increases its splendor, and renders the lines of intersection between the facets more plainly discoverable. The clay, or red earth, in which the ore is found, appears to partake largely of marl; and a difference of quality is to be observed at the different mines. It all, however, operates more or less as a stimulant to vegetation, on being thrown out of the pits. Mixed with the clay are innumerable pieces of radiated quartz, very beautiful in appearance. This forms the first stratum, and is about fourteen inches in depth; then succeeds a stratum of red clay, four or five feet thick, and sparingly mixed with substances of the same kind; after this, a layer of gravel and rounded pebbles, of a silicious character, ensues; these are about a foot in depth, and lead-ore, in small detached lumps, is then found. This is of the description called gravel-ore, and no spars are found accompanying it. The greatest proportion of lead-ore is, however, found imbedded in marly clay, accompanied by the sulphate of barytes, and resting on limestone rock. The rock is struck at a depth of from fifteen to twenty feet, and is a metalliferous limestone, of a semi-crystalline structure, lying in horizontal beds. It is traversed by veins of lead-ore. Sometimes these expand in the shape of caves, where masses of galena occur. The most valuable substance accompanying the lead-ore, is an ore of zinc, which is found at several of the mines. Another substance, found with the ore in considerable quantities, is the sulphate of barytes. This is sometimes in immediate connection with the ore, but more frequently in contiguous masses, in the clay. The sulphate of barytes, called _tiff_ by the lead-diggers here, is the same substance called _cawk_ by English miners. It is very white, opaque, and very heavy, and may be considered as the proper matrix of the lead-ore. There are also found considerable quantities of calcareous spar, particularly in the caves and veins in rock. This substance is often observed in large orbicular or irregular masses, which have the appearance of external attrition. On breaking them, they fall into rhombs, which are very transparent and glittering; in color, they are either white, or honey-yellow. Pyrites are common at the mines, sometimes crystallized in regular cubes of a beautiful brass-yellow color, and, at others, found in tabular masses, or mixed with blende, sulphate of barytes, or calcareous spar. Quartz is found throughout the whole mine district, both on the surface of the ground, and at all depths below. It is generally in the form of tabular pieces, whose surfaces are thickly studded over with small pyramids of transparent rock-crystal, and present an appearance of the utmost beauty and splendor, looking like so many diamonds set over the surface of white stone. These crystals are frequently grouped in the form of a hemisphere, circular, or oviform, solitary or in clusters, forming the different varieties of mamillary and radiated quartz, and, when met with in their pristine beauty, present a very rich and brilliant appearance. It has acquired the popular name of _blossom of lead_, or mineral blossom, a term perfectly significant of its supposed affinity. The exterior stratum of red clay, with its ores and minerals, will be best understood by comparing it to a garment thrown over the rock-formations of the country. The search for ore has been generally confined to these clay diggings, which are pursued, very much, with the apparatus of common well-digging. If, on reaching the rock, no vein of ore is discovered, the work is generally dropped. On viewing the district on a large scale, this external clay stratum appears to have originally derived its mineral contents from veins in the calcareous, lead-yielding rock. This metalliferous rock has evidently, in former ages, been scooped out by rivers and streams, forming valleys and vast diluvial plateaux, where the abraded materials were deposited. The original subterranean veins were concealed by these geological changes. Some of the mines exhibit traits that may be mentioned. Mine La Motte is one of the oldest mines in the Territory, having been discovered in 1720, by the person whose name it bears. The mines are very extensive, and a large quantity of ore is annually raised. They are situated within two miles of St. Michael, Madison county, and on the head-waters of the river St. François. No spars are found accompanying the ore; iron pyrite is occasionally met with, and plumbago is found in the vicinity. The ore, which is less brilliant, and differs in other characters from any other in the mine tract, is at the same time more refractory; in some instances, the greatest difficulties have been experienced in the smelting. Hence, an idea has originated that it is combined with other metals; but no experiments, I believe, have been made to ascertain this point. On a visit to these mines, I observed the inside of the ash-furnace beautifully tinged with a blue color of considerable intensity. This furnace is built of a white sandstone, which becomes vitrified on the surface, forming glass. We are acquainted with no substance which will communicate a blue color to glass in fusion but cobalt; hence, it is not unreasonable to infer that this metal is volatilized during the smelting, and is thus brought into contact with the liquefied surface of the stone, imparting to it the color noticed. That the ores of La Motte contain an unusual portion of sulphur, is very probable. I draw this inference both from its refractory nature and dull appearance. Sulphur always renders an ore refractory; for, when it is expelled by torrefaction, the ore melts easily. Its dull aspect is not less conclusive; for, the more an ore is roasted, and the more sulphur there is driven off, the brighter it grows. This is evident to every smelter, who cannot fail to observe the surprising brilliancy the ore assumes after it has gone through the first operation in the log furnace. That the difficulties daily experienced in smelting the La Motte ores are, therefore, attributable to the extraordinary quantity of sulphur they contain, is extremely probable; for, even if they were united with other metals, with silver or with cobalt, these would not increase their infusibility, except by the extra quantum of sulphur they brought with them. At least, we have no facts to prove that a simple alloy does not melt as easily as a pure metal, while there are many to show that alloys are of the most easy fusibility. The quantity of ore raised at New Diggings has been very great, a regular vein having been found; but they were abandoned several years ago on account of the water, which rushed in with such rapidity, that to remove it every morning with a common windlass and bucket was found a work of such labor as to render the business unprofitable. The mines were left with the most flattering veins of ore in view. The general character of these mines is such as to justify the erection of a steam-engine, and other works for prosecuting the business on an extensive scale; and their revival at some future period may be confidently looked for. Mine Renault is situated about six miles north-north-west of Mine à Burton, in a very rocky part of the country, which affords some of the most picturesque views of mountain scenery. The region is strongly marked by mineral appearances, rendering it probable that other substances of value, besides lead, may exist in that vicinity. Ores of zinc are abundant at this mine, and a body of micaceous oxide of iron is found in the neighborhood. Bryan's Mines are seated on Hazel run, and are among the most recent discoveries of consequence. Near a million pounds of lead were made here during the first year of the discovery. The mine is characterized by yielding no heavy spar; sometimes a little calcareous spar is found, and then adhering to the ores; a circumstance which I have nowhere else observed. Much of the ore of these mines is found in tabular pieces, which are sonorous in a considerable degree; the ore is brilliant, and smelts readily, yielding the same as at Mine à Burton. Gray's Mine, situated on Big river, in the northern extremity of the mine tract, is remarkable for a body of white clay, which was discovered in searching for ore. In sinking several pits at this mine, a stratum of clay of an unusual appearance was struck at the depth of from eight to ten feet, and no ore was procured at those places; the diggings were abandoned in consequence of the clay, which covers a considerable area of ground on the banks of Big river. This mineral substance bears a striking resemblance to specimens of a pyrous crucible clay. Elliott's Mines lie upon the Mineral Fork, and are characterized by the abundance of pyrites, and the beauty of the calcareous spar found there. Considerable quantities of blende were also met with, and strong indications of the existence of copper are furnished. During the remarkable earthquakes of 1812, a fine spring of water at the mouth of the mines suddenly became warm and foul, and in a few days dried up entirely, and no water has run there since. Illuminations in the atmosphere (arising doubtless from phosphorus) are frequently observed in this vicinity on the approach of night. At Mine à Burton, there is found adhering to the sides of the log-hearth furnace, a grayish-white sublimated matter, of great weight, which I take to be a sublimate of lead. It is considered as chiefly sulphur or arsenic by the lead-smelters, and is thrown by as useless. It is found at every furnace, and a very large quantity could be annually collected. This induced me to undertake some experiments on the subject. I was convinced, on reflection, that there could be no sulphur, at least no considerable quantity of sulphur, in it, from the fact that all sulphur, or other inflammable matter, expelled from the ore in the furnace, would undergo immediate combustion. This is also observable in the color of the flame while the ore is torrified. Indeed, every person conversant with the nature of this substance must know that it cannot be otherwise. The furnace is entirely open, and does not rise over seven or eight feet in height; consequently, there is no opportunity for it to condense. That the sulphuric acid is driven off, is undoubted; for, whenever sulphur is burned, this acid is set at liberty; but it has no opportunity for entering into a new combination within the body of a log furnace. The idea of arsenic in the substance alluded to, is perfectly erroneous, and has originated in an ignorance of the nature of the ores of these mines. It is the _sulphuret of lead_, and not the _arseniate_. That there is a small portion of silver and antimony in combination with the ore, is probable; but they too are mineralized by sulphur. Reflecting on this, I became convinced of the popular error, and, to ascertain the point, made the following experiments: A. I took a lump of the sublimated matter, freed from adhering impurities, and reduced it to the state of a fine powder by pulverizing in an agate mortar, and trituration. Of this I mixed six parts with four of pulverized borax, and a little charcoal, and submitted it to the intense heat of a small chemical furnace. On removing the crucible, I found a button of metallic lead in the bottom, weighing nearly four. B. Dissolved a quantity of the powdered sublimate in nitric acid; it effected a ready solution, with violent effervescence. Poured on liquid carbonate of potash until no more precipitate fell. I then collected the precipitate, and washed away the superfluous alkali by clear water, and dried it in the shade. The result was a very fine, and a very white powder, of considerable weight. This was a carbonate of lead (white lead). With a quantity of the white lead thus made, I mixed linseed oil, and painted a board. The color was of the most delicate white, and it gave a good body. On inspecting this board several months afterwards, I found the color inclining a little to yellowish. But perhaps it stands as well as any white lead would, prepared from litharge, by solution in nitric or acetic acids, and precipitation by carbonated alkali. C. Mixed eight parts of sublimate with twelve of muriate of soda, and fused in a crucible, with a tight cover, in a high heat. Result, a yellow, hard, heavy, vitrified mass, resembling muriate of soda and lead. M'Kain's Mine is situated on a small stream called Dry creek, running into Big river not far from its junction with the Maramec. The mine is worthy of remark only on account of a body of steel-grained lead-ore found there. This ore is found to yield less lead in smelting than the common broad-grained ore, and, as may be inferred from its texture, contains silver. So little has been done, of late years, in mining in the rock, that the character of the veins must be judged of from limited facts. But there can be no question, from what is known, that the true scene of mining operations is the rock. Along the west banks of the Mississippi, and also in some of the interior valleys, we observe that the metal-bearing limestone rests on crystalline sandstone. Both preserve a horizontal position, and both are deposited, at the distance of about seventy miles south of Potosi, upon pre-existing formations of sienitic granite, embracing hornblende rock; some of the latter of which is porphyritic. These primitive formations mark the geography of the country at the sources of the St. Francis. They form alpine peaks, through which the river forces its way. Mine à La Motte is within two miles east of this tract. These peaks have been raised to their present position without disturbing the horizontality of the limestones and sandstones. Hence the conclusion of their prior elevation. At a still further southern point, and before reaching the banks of the St. Francis at Bettis's ferry, the horizontal rocks again appear. But, in this instance, sienitic and granitic boulders are scattered over the southern series of the calcareous strata, showing, with equal clearness, that the geological era of the boulder stratum was posterior to the deposition of the horizontal strata, and that the force which scattered the boulder stratum was from the north. SECTION IV. METHOD OF WORKING THE MINES. The method of raising the ores, and the processes pursued in separating the metal, are, upon the whole, extremely simple. A pick-axe and shovel are the only tools in use for removing the earth; and the drill, rammer, and priming-rod, are added when it is necessary to blast. Having determined on the spot for digging, the process commences by measuring off a square of about eight feet, and throwing out the earth, spar, and gravel, until the miner sinks beneath the depth he can throw the earth. An expert hand will pitch his earth clear out of the pit from a depth of ten, twelve, and even fifteen feet. At this depth a common windlass and bucket are placed over the centre of the pit, and the digging continued by drawing up the earth, spar, and ores, if any are found, in the manner pursued in sinking a well. During his progress, the miner is notified of his approach to a body of ore, by small detached lumps occasionally found imbedded in the soil, within a few feet of the surface. Sometimes lumps on the top of the ground determine on the place for digging. The spar is also a sign by which he judges, as there is seldom a body of spar found without lead-ore. There are also other signs by which an experienced digger is advertised of his prospects, and encouraged to proceed with cheerfulness in his work. These are, peculiar appearances in the texture of the spar, and sometimes minute specks of ore scattered through it, the changes in the color, and other qualities of the earth, gravel, &c. If these appearances are promising, and bits of ore are occasionally met with, he is encouraged to sink down a great depth; but if they should fail, he is generally induced to abandon the pit, and commence at another place. In searching for ore, the soil, the slope of the hills, spar, blossom, trees, &c., are taken as guides, and some are obstinately attached to these signs. Others, who have been fortunate in finding ore where these appearances were least promising, wholly disregard them, and pay no attention to rules. In general, there is a greater disposition to trust to luck and chance, and stumble upon ore, than by attending to mineral character, to be sure of success. As those who search by rules are generally incapable of those minute remarks on the distinguishing character and geological situation of minerals, which are necessary in order to ensure success, it frequently happens that they meet with disappointments. An incident of this kind is enough to perplex a man who has not habituated himself to reasoning on the subject, and to weaken his belief in the affinity of ores and stones. Such a man will not stop to compare and reconcile facts, which are seemingly opposite, or to investigate the nature of general principles. Hence miners exclaim on the uncertainty of finding ores by rules drawn from the observations of science; that the strata of the earth are irregular, and not to be depended upon like the rock formations in Europe; and that, in fine, we have no guides by which its mineral treasures are to be sought, and that, in so confused a soil, chance is the best guide. Such a man is more ready to follow the mysterious guidance of the divining-rod than the light of reason, and would be easily persuaded that fortune is more surely the result of blind chance, than of feasible schemes, well planned and well executed. There would be, nevertheless, some truth in the uncertainties and the confusion complained of, were those circumstances among the observations of scientific men. But it will be hazarding little to say, that when such observations are made, there will be found as much regularity, harmony, and order, in the superposition of the strata, as generally exist. The few facts I have noticed, lead to this conclusion. Having raised a sufficient quantity of ore for smelting, the next process consists in separating the spar, and cleaning the ore from all extraneous matter. This is done by small picks, tapered down to such a point that a careful hand may detach the smallest particle of adhering spar. It is necessary that the ore should be well cleaned, as it would otherwise prove refractory in smelting. If there be any lumps of uncommon size, they are beaten smaller. The object is to bring the lumps as near as may be to an uniform size, so that the heat may operate equally in desulphurating the ore. It is desirable that the lumps should be about the size of a man's two fists, or perhaps fifteen pounds' weight; if too small, a difficulty and a waste is experienced in smelting. In this state, the ore is conveyed to the primary furnace, (see Plate I.) and piled on the logs prepared for its reception. When the charge is put in, which may in a common way be about five thousand pounds, it is surrounded by logs of wood, and covered over at the top, the fire being lit up at the mouth below. A gentle warmth is created at first, which is raised very gradually, and kept at this point for about twelve hours, to allow the sulphur to dissipate; the heat is then increased for the purpose of smelting the ore, and, in twelve hours more, the operation is completed, and the lead obtained. Wood is occasionally added as the process goes on, and there is a practical nicety required in keeping the furnace in proper order, regulating the draught of air, &c., so that some smelters are much more expert, and thereby extract a greater quantity of lead from a like body of ore, than others. This furnace is called the log furnace, and, so far as I know, is peculiar to this country. It is of a very simple construction, consisting of an inclined hearth, surrounded by walls on three sides, open at top, and with an arch for the admission of air below. Upon the whole, it appears well adapted to the present situation and circumstances of the people. It is cheap, simple, may be built at almost any place, and answers the purpose very well. A good furnace of this kind may be built at a cost of from fifty to sixty dollars, every expense considered; and one of the most considerable items in the sum total is the bill of the mason, who cannot be hired, in this region, to work for less than two dollars per day. Plate I., Figure 1. _A Perspective View of the Log Furnace._ a, the front wall, 8 feet long, 7 feet in height, and 2 feet in thickness. b b, the side walls, 8 feet long, and 2 feet thick. c, the hearth, 2 feet wide, and 8 feet in length. d d, the ledges on each side of the hearth, 10 inches in height, and 1 foot wide. These serve to elevate the logs above the hearth, at the same time creating a draught for the air, and passage for the lead. e, the eye of the furnace, or arch, 2 feet across at bottom, with an arch thrown in a half circle, or a flat stone laid across at the height of the ledges. f, the iron ladle for dipping out the melted lead. g, the iron mould. Every bar of lead cast in this, is called a _pig_. h, the hole in the ground, for the reception of the lead as it runs from the furnace. Figure 2, is a perspective view of the furnace from the back or open part. The same letters used in Figure 1 apply to the same parts of the furnace in this figure. Figure 3. _Ground Plan._ _a_, the eye or arch in front. _b b_, the side walls. _c_, the hearth. _d d_, the ledges. [Illustration: _Log Hearth Furnace_ No. 1. _For Smelting Lead Ore_] The process of charging the furnace may be mentioned. Three large oak logs, rolled in from the back side, and resting at each end on these ledges, fill up the width of the furnace; small split logs are then set up all around on the two sides and front; the ore is then piled on until the furnace is full, and logs are then piled over it, beginning at the back, and continuing over to the front, so that the ore is completely surrounded by wood. This furnace is always built on the slope of a hill, as represented in Plate I., Fig. 1; and the hearth is laid on an angle of 45°, so that it falls four feet in a distance of eight. Two furnaces of the size here described are generally built together, by which there is a saving of the expense of one wall, and the work is rendered stronger, one serving as a support to the other. Not only so, but the same number of hands will keep a double-eyed furnace in blast, which are required at a single one. It takes three hands, one to cart wood during the day-time, and the other two to relieve each other alternately, every twelve hours, at the furnace. When a charge is melted off, the furnace is cooled, new logs and upright pieces put in, and the whole operation begun anew. Twenty-four hours is the time generally allotted for each smelting, but it often takes thirty-six; and when there is bad wood and want of attention, it requires still longer, and indeed the result is never so good. The ore is estimated to yield, in the large way, fifty per cent. the first smelting. A considerable portion of what is put in, however, does not become completely desulphurated, and is found in the bottom of the furnace after cooling. This is chiefly the smallest lumps, which have fallen through the apertures that burn between the logs, before they were thoroughly roasted, and thus, getting out of the way of the heat, lie entangled with the ashes. Some lumps, which are too large, also escape complete desulphuration, and either remain unmelted, or else, when the fire is raised, melt altogether into a kind of slag, and produce little or no metallic lead. This constitutes what are called the lead-ashes. The larger pieces, consisting of ore but partially desulphurated, are carefully picked out from among the ashes, and added at the next smelting in the log furnace; while the remainder is thrown by in heaps for further examination. The lead-ashes are still rich in lead, and, when a sufficient quantity has accumulated from repeated smeltings, it is taken off to a proper place contrived for the purpose, and separated from the cinders, wood-ashes, and other adhering impurities. This is done by washing the whole in _buddles_, one set below another, in the manner of the potter, when it is necessary to _search_ his clays. The ashes, which consist of clotted lumps of a moderate hardness, are first pounded to a gross powder, and then introduced into the water through a sieve. The wood-ashes and other impurities, being lighter, swim on the top, and, by letting off the water, are thus carried away. Fresh water is added, the ashes briskly stirred with a hoe, and the water again let off, carrying a further portion of impurity with it. By repeating this operation several times, the lead-ashes are brought to the required degree of purity. Thus washed, they are carried to a furnace of a different construction, called the ash furnace (see Plate II.), and undergo a second smelting. Plate II., Figure 1. _A Perspective View of the Ash Furnace._ _a_, the ash-pit, 2 feet wide, 6 feet long, and 20 inches in height. _b_, the mouth of the fire-arch, a foot square. _c_, the mouth of the flue, where the charge is put in. _d_, the iron pot for the lead to flow in, when the furnace is tapped. Figure 2, is a longitudinal section through the furnace, at right angles with the front, showing the curve of the arch, flue, &c. _a_, the ash-pit. _b_, the grates, 10 inches square, and 3 feet long; these are pieces of hewn stone. _c_, the mouth of the fire-arch. _d_, the _santee_, consisting of two stones, 3 feet long, and 3 feet 6 inches wide, with a thickness of 6 or 7 inches. They reach from the bottom of the ash-pit to a foot above the basin-stone, the interstice between them being rammed full of clay, and the whole measuring 18 inches across. (This keeps the lead, slag, &c., from running into the fire-arch, and is an important part of the furnace, requiring considerable skill and accuracy in the construction.) _e_, the basin-stone, 4 feet square, and 1 foot thick. _f_, the flue, or throat, 10 feet long, 22 inches wide, and 11 inches in height. This must be continued a foot and a half over the mouth of the flue, or apron, making the whole length eleven and a half feet; some prefer the flue twelve and a half feet. _g_, the mouth of the flue or apron, where the furnace is charged; this flares from 22 inches to 3 feet, in a distance of 3 feet, (as shown in Fig. 3.) _h_, the fire-arch, 3 feet high in the centre, 18 inches high where the arch begins to spring, and the same over the centre of the basin-stone. Figure 3. _Ground Plan._ From _a_ to _b_, 8 feet; from _b_ to _c_, 8 feet 6 inches; from _a_ to _d_, 8 feet 6 inches; from _e_ to _f_, 6 feet; from _e_ to _g_, 13 feet. _h_, the basin, 4 feet long, and 22 inches wide, except in the centre, where it is 24 inches wide. _i_, the flue. _k_, the mouth of the flue, or apron, 3 feet at the front, and 22 inches in the rear. _l_, the santee. _m_, the fire-arch, with grates at bottom. (This is 22 inches wide at each end, 24 inches in the centre, and 5 feet long from the inside of its mouth to the santee.) _n_, the mouth of the fire-arch. _o_, the iron pot for the lead to flow into, set in the curve made in the wall for convenience of tapping. _p_, the curve in the wall for drawing off the slag. Figure 4, is a perspective view of the mouth of the flue where the furnace is charged. From _a_ to _b_, 6 feet; from _a_ to _c_, 5 feet; from _a_ to _d_, 1 foot. _c_, the mouth of the flue, 22 inches wide, and 11 high. (This flares out to 3 feet in the distance of 3 feet, the flue covering half of it, so that the heat may be thrown down on the ashes.) [Illustration: _Ash Furnace_ No. 2 _For Smelting Lead Ashes. Missouri._ Fig. I. Fig. II. Fig. III. Fig. IV.] One of the principal points to be attended to in building an ash-furnace is the elevation of the flue. It should rise 5½ feet in 10; some prefer 5½ in 11. If the ascent be too steep, the ore will run down into the basin before it gets hot, which is detrimental. If the ascent be too low, the bottom of the flue next to the basin will soon be eaten away by the heat, and thus in a short time undermine and destroy the furnace. The flux employed is also a matter of moment. Sand, and pulverized flinty gravel, are mixed with the lead-ashes before smelting. The object of this is to promote the vitrification of the slag, which would otherwise remain stiff; the particles of revived lead would not sink through to the bottom, but remain entangled with it, and thus be lost. Lime is also sometimes employed for the same purpose; and indeed any earth would operate as a flux to the scoriaceous part of the lead-ashes, if added in a due proportion, particularly the alkaline earths. Lime and barytes, both of which are afforded in plenty at the mines, might therefore be advantageously employed, when no sand or easy-melting silicious gravel could be obtained. Good fusible sands are readily attacked and liquefied by submitting to heat with oxides of lead, alkaline salts, or any other alkaline or metallic flux; hence their extreme utility in glass, enamels, and all other vitrescent mixtures. When, therefore, silicious sand can be obtained, it will be found a more powerful flux to lead-ashes than either gravel, lime, spars, or any other substance, if we except the fluor spar. This is probably better adapted as a flux than even silicious sands; but it has not yet been brought to light at the lead-mines. Perhaps the lower strata of the earth may afford it. It is found at a lead-mine near Cave-in-Rock, on the right bank of the Ohio river, in the State of Illinois, and, with the exception of a little found at Northampton, Massachusetts, is the only place where this rare, useful, and beautiful mineral, occurs in the United States.[17] The situation for an ash-furnace is always chosen on the declivity of a hill, as represented in the plate. The inside work, or lining, consists of slabs of hewn limestone, laid in clay-mortar, and backed by solid masonry. Although a stone less adapted for furnaces could hardly be found, yet it is made here to answer the purpose, and is an evidence of the ingenuity of men in making a bad material answer when a good one cannot be found. No sandstone or freestone, of that refractory kind used in glass and iron furnaces, is afforded in this vicinity; and the smelters seem to prefer rebuilding their furnaces often, to incurring the expense of transporting good infusible sandstones from a distance. It is not perhaps duly considered, that a furnace built of refractory materials, although expensive in the erection, would be sufficiently durable to warrant that expense, and outlast several built of limestone, which burn out every blast, and have to be rebuilt from the foundation. Limestone is a combination of the pure earth _lime_ with _carbonic acid_ and _water_; it is a carbonate of lime. When subjected to a red heat, it parts with its carbonic acid and water, and, if the operation be continued long enough, is converted into quicklime. This effect, therefore, takes place as well in the lead-furnace as in the limekiln, and with this difference only--that in the former it is laid in a wall, protected in some degree from the heat, and will not part with its carbonic acid readily; while in the latter it is broken into comparatively small lumps, exposed to the heat on all sides, and is easily and readily converted into quicklime. Nevertheless, although this calcination is constantly progressing, an ash-furnace will last from fifteen to twenty days, according to the skill which has been displayed in its construction, and the particular quality of the stone employed. When the stone partakes of clay (alumina), it runs into a variety of argillaceous limestone, and is manifestly better adapted to resist the effects of fire. Whenever the furnace is cooled, so that the stone can attract moisture from the atmosphere, it falls into quicklime. This change does not, however, take place rapidly; for the burning has seldom been uniform, and the stones have either been over-burned, or not burned enough; so that it requires several days, and even weeks, to assume the powdery state. An ash-furnace, built of limestone, is estimated to cost a hundred dollars. This includes every expense, and such a furnace lasts during one blast, say fifteen or twenty days; perhaps, with great care, it will run a month. During this time, from sixty to ninety thousand pounds of lead ought to be made. When a furnace is completed, it requires several days to dry it, and bring it to the proper state for smelting. About ten days are usually spent in this. The fire is begun very moderately at first, being only the warmth of a hot smoke, and is kept so for the first five days, by which means the moisture of the mortar and stone is gradually expelled, and without any danger of cracking the stone, or otherwise injuring the furnace. It is then raised a little every day until the furnace is brought up to a full red heat, when it is ready for the first charge of ashes. The operation begins by shovelling a layer of ashes on the mouth of the flue, then adding a thin layer of sand or flinty gravel as a flux, and then more ashes; and so adding gravel and ashes alternately, until the required quantity is shovelled up. This is suffered to lie here and grow thoroughly hot before it is shoved down the flue into the basin; for, if introduced cold, it would check the heat too suddenly, and prove injurious in the result. When hot, the charge is shoved down the flue with a long-handled iron hoe, and another portion of ashes and gravel immediately shovelled on the mouth, suffered to heat, and then pushed down as before. This operation of heating and charging is continued until the furnace has a full charge, which may require about six hours, and in two hours more the furnace is ready for tapping. The slag, which is in a very fluid state on the top of the lead, is first drawn off, and the aperture closed up with stone and mortar. The smelter then goes to the opposite side of the furnace, and prepares for drawing off the lead by driving a stout sharp pointed iron bar through the side of the furnace, at a particular place contrived for this purpose. On removing the bar, the metallic lead flows out into a large iron pot set in the ground, and accompanied by a considerable quantity of a semi-metallic substance, called _zane_. This is lead not perfectly revived, being combined with some earthy particles, and oxide of lead. The zane occupies the top of the pot, and is first ladled out into hemispherical holes dug in the clay near by. This substance is of the consistence of the prepared sand used by brass-founders when hot, but acquires considerable solidity when cold. The metallic lead is then ladled into iron moulds of about eighteen inches in length, and yielding a pig of lead of about fifty pounds each. The quantity of zane made at each tapping is about equal to that of metallic lead. This is afterwards taken to the log furnace, and readily converted into lead. The lead made at the ash-furnace is not thought to be of so pure a quality as that of the first smelting made at the log furnace. It undoubtedly contains any other metals that may be combined with the ore, and is therefore more refractory. Such lead is thought to be a little harder, and some pretend to discover a lighter color. The lead-ashes are reckoned to yield fifteen per cent. of lead (zane and all), which, added to the first smelting, makes an average product of sixty-five per cent. This estimate will hold good uniformly, when the ores have been properly dressed, and the smelting well performed. Any spar adhering to the ore, renders it refractory; blende and pyrites have the same effect. The latter is particularly injurious, as it consists chiefly of sulphur; a substance known to render all ores refractory. The slag created by the ash-furnace is a heavy, black, glassy substance, well melted, and still containing a portion of lead. Some attempts have been made to obtain a further portion of lead from it, by smelting with charcoal in a blast-furnace; but the undertaking has not been attended with complete success, and is not generally thought to warrant the expense. The per centage of lead recovered from the slag is not estimated at over ten, and, with the utmost success, cannot be reckoned to exceed twelve. Some practical and miscellaneous observations may here be added. Metallic lead in the pig is now (Feb. 1819) worth $4 per cwt. at the mines. It sells for $4 50 on the banks of the Mississippi, at St. Genevieve and Herculaneum; for $5 50 in New Orleans; and is quoted at $6 in Philadelphia. This is lower than has ever been known before, (except at one period,) and a consequent depression in the mining business is felt. There is a governmental duty of one cent per pound on all bar and pig lead imported into the United States; but it does not amount to a prohibition of foreign lead from our markets. Perhaps such a prohibition might be deemed expedient. It is what the lead-smelters here call for; and certainly the resources of this country are very ample, not only for supplying the domestic consumption, but for exportation. Those who dig the ore do not always smelt it. The merchants are generally the smelters, and either employ their own slaves in raising the ore, or pay a stipulated price per cwt. to those who choose to dig. For every hundred pounds of ore, properly cleaned, the digger receives two dollars. He works on his own account, and runs the risk of finding ore. It is estimated that an ordinary hand will raise a hundredweight per day, on an average of a year together. This, however, depends much upon luck; sometimes a vast body is fallen upon, with a few hours' labor; at others, many weeks are spent without finding any. He who perseveres will, however, generally succeed; and the labor bestowed upon the most unpromising mine, is never wholly lost. The above average has been made by those long conversant with the business, and upon a full consideration of all risks. Custom has established a number of laws among the miners, with regard to digging, which have a tendency to prevent disputes. Whenever a discovery is made, the person making it is entitled to claim the ground for twenty-five feet in every direction from his pit, giving him fifty feet square. Other diggers are each entitled to twelve feet square, which is just enough to sink a pit, and afford room for throwing out the earth. Each one measures and stakes off his ground, and, though he should not begin to work for several days afterwards, no person will intrude upon it. On this spot he digs down, but is not allowed to run drifts horizontally, so as to break into or undermine the pits of others. If appearances are unpromising, or he strikes the rock, and chooses to abandon his pit, he can go on any unoccupied ground, and, observing the same precautions, begin anew. In such a case, the abandoned pit may be occupied by any other person; and sometimes large bodies of ore are found by the second occupant, by a little work, which would have richly rewarded the labors of the first, had he persevered. In digging down from fifteen to twenty feet, the rock is generally struck; and as the signs of ore frequently give out on coming to the rock, many of the pits are carried no further. This rock is invariably limestone, though there are many varieties of it, the texture varying from very hard and compact, to soft and friable. The former is considered by the diggers as a flinty stone; the latter is called rotten limestone; and, from its crumbling between the fingers, and falling into grains, there is a variety of it called sandstone. It is all, however, a calcareous carbonate, will burn into quicklime, and, as I find on experiment, is completely soluble in nitric acid. As no remains or impressions of shells, animalculæ, or other traces of animal life, are to be found in it, I conclude it to be what geologists term metalliferous limestone; a conclusion which is strengthened by its semi-crystalline fracture. It exhibits regular stratification, being always found in horizontal masses. How far this formation extends, it would be difficult to determine; but, so far as my observation goes, it is invariably the basis on which the mineral soil at Mine à Burton, and the numerous mines in its vicinity, reposes. It is overlaid by secondary limestone in various places on the banks of the Mississippi, between Cape Girardeau and St. Louis. It is also seen passing into a variety of secondary marble, in several localities. I have seen no specimens of this mineral, however, which can be considered as a valuable material in sculpture. I have already mentioned the per centage of lead obtained by smelting in the large way. I shall here add the result of an assay made on the ore. One hundred parts of ore yielded as follows: Metallic lead 82 Sulphur driven off by torrefaction 11 Earthy matter, and further portion of sulphur, either combined with the scoria, or driven off by heat 7 by estimation. --- 100 The ore experimented upon was the common ore of Mine à Burton, (galena.) I took a lump of the purest ore, completely freed from all sparry and other extraneous matter, beat it into a very gross powder, and roasted for an hour and a half in a moderate heat, with frequent stirring. On weighing the mass, it had lost 11 of sulphur. I now beat this to a very fine powder, and treated it with a strong flux of nitre and dry carbonate of soda, adding some iron filings to absorb the last portions of sulphur. The whole was enclosed in a good Hessian crucible, previously smeared with charcoal, with a luted cover, and exposed for twenty minutes to the high heat of a small chemical blast-furnace. The richest species of galena, of which we have any account, is that of Durham, England. An analysis of a specimen of this ore by Dr. Thompson, gave the following result: Lead 85 13 Sulphur 13 02 Oxide of iron 0 5 ----- 98 65 Many of the English, and nearly all the German ores, are, however, much poorer. Of five several experiments made by Vauquelin on ores from different mines in Germany, sixty-five per cent. of lead was the richest, and all were united with uncommon portions of carbonated lime and silex. The button of metallic lead found at the bottom of the crucible in chemical assays, contains also the silver, and other metals, if any should be present in the ore. So also, in smelting in the large way, the metallic lead is always united with the other metals. When ores of lead contain any considerable portion of silver, they assume a fine steel grain; and the crystals, which are smaller than in common galena, oftener affect the octahedral, than the cubical figure. They are also harder to melt; and the lead obtained is not of so soft and malleable a nature as that procured from the broad-grained, easy-melting ore. The proportion of silver in lead varies greatly. It is sometimes found to yield as high as twelve per cent., and is then called argentiferous lead-glance; but, in the poorest ores, it does not yield more than one ounce out of three hundred. To separate the silver from the lead, a process is pursued called the refining of lead, or cupellation. This is effected by exposing the lead to a moderate heat in a cupel, and removing the oxide as soon as it forms on the surface, until the whole is calcined, leaving the silver in the bottom of the cupel. The lead in this process is converted into litharge, the well-known substance of commerce; and the silver is afterwards refined by a second process, in which the last portions of lead are entirely got rid of. This process is known at the German refineries under the name of _silber brennen_, burning silver. The rationale of cupellation is simply this. Lead on exposure to heat, with access of air, is covered by a thin pellicle or scum, called an oxide; and by removing this, another is formed; and so, by continuing to take off the oxide, the whole quantity of lead is converted into an oxide. It is called an oxide, because it is a combination of lead with oxygen (one of the principles of air and of water.) By this combination, an increase of weight takes place, so that a hundred pounds of bar-lead, converted into the state of an oxide, will weigh as much over a hundred, as the weight of the oxygen which it has attracted from the atmosphere. Silver, however, on being exposed to heat in the same situation, cannot be converted into an oxide; it has no attractive power for oxygen. Hence, when this metal is contained in a bar of lead, the lead only is oxygenated on exposure in a cupel; whilst the silver remains unaltered, but constantly concentrating and sinking, till the lead is all calcined. This is known, to a practised eye, by the increased splendor assumed by the metal. I do not think the ore of Mine à Burton contains a sufficient quantity of silver to render the separation an object. This is to be inferred from its mineralogical character, from the mathematical figure and size of the crystal, its color, splendor, &c. The territory is not, however, it is believed, deficient in ores which are valuable for the silver they contain. The head of White river, the Arkansas, the Maramec, and Strawberry rivers, all afford ores of lead, the appearance of which leads us to conclude they may yield silver in considerable quantity. SECTION V. ANNUAL PRODUCT, AND NUMBER OF HANDS EMPLOYED. On this head, it is very difficult to procure proper information. The desultory manner in which the mines have been wrought, and the imperfect method in which accounts have been kept, when kept at all, with other circumstances, which are in some measure incidental to the operations of mining in a new country, oppose so many obstacles in the way of obtaining the desired information, that I find it impossible to present a correct statement, from authentic sources, of the annual product of the mines for any series of years. When Louisiana was first occupied by the United States, Mine à Burton and Mine La Motte were the principal mines wrought; but the few Americans who had emigrated into the territory, under the Spanish government, were fully aware of the advantages to be derived from the smelting of lead, and, united to the emigrant population which shortly succeeded, made many new discoveries, and the business was prosecuted with increased vigor, and to a much greater extent. The interior parts of the country, and such as had before been deemed dangerous on account of the Indians, were now eagerly explored; and the fortunate discovery of several immense bodies of ore near the surface of the ground, whereby the discoverers enriched themselves by a few days' labor, had a tendency greatly to increase the fame of the mines, and the number of miners. But, as generally happens in new countries, among the number of emigrants were several desperate adventurers, and men of the most abandoned character. Hence, the mines soon became the scene of every disorder, depravity, and crime, and a common rendezvous for renegadoes of all parts. It is by such persons that many of the mines were discovered, and several of them wrought; and it is, therefore, no subject of surprise, that, on inquiry, no accounts of the quantity of lead made, and the number of hands employed, are to be found. To secure the public interest, and remedy, in some degree, the irregularities practised at the mines, a law was passed in Congress, a few years after the cession of Louisiana, reserving all lead-mines, salt-springs, &c., which should be discovered on the public lands, subsequent to that period; and the Governor of the Territory was, at the same time, authorized to grant leases to discoverers for three years. The great defect of that law appears always to have been, that a specific agent was not at the same time authorized to be appointed for the general superintendence, inspection, and management of mines--an office which, from its nature, can never be properly incorporated with that of the territorial executive, and which, with every inclination, it is presumed his other avocations would prevent him from discharging either with usefulness to the public, or satisfaction to himself. But, whatever be the defect of the law, certainly the advantages which the government proposed to derive from it have not accrued. No revenue, it is understood, has yet been realized under it, and we are now as much at a loss how to arrive at a true statement of the mineral product of Missouri, as if the mines had never been a subject of governmental legislation. When a discovery of lead has been made, the miners from the neighboring country have flocked to it, and commenced digging as usual, no one troubling himself about a lease; and thus the provisions of the act have been in a great measure disregarded. Men of respectability, and of sufficient capital to carry on mining in a systematic manner, have, it is believed, been frequently deterred from making applications for leases, from the short period for which only they can be granted. It would not warrant the expense of sinking shafts, erecting permanent furnaces, galleries, and other works necessary for prosecuting the business to advantage; for, no sooner would such works be erected, and the mines begin to be effectually wrought, than the expiration of the lease would throw them into the hands of some more successful applicant. But, although we have no data to form an authenticated schedule of the annual product of the mines for any required number of years, there is something to be obtained by collecting and comparing facts, detached and scanty as they are. Something also is to be acquired by consulting the books which have been kept of late years in the warehouses on the Mississippi, where the lead is sent for exportation, and some information is also to be gleaned from various other sources. It is from information thus obtained that I proceed to an enumeration of the products of the different mines, and the number of persons to whom they furnish employment and support, satisfied, at the same time, that although the information may not be all that could be desired, yet it is all which, without the most extraordinary exertions, could be obtained. The amount of crude ore delivered at the furnaces of Mine Shibboleth, during one of its most productive years (1811), was something rising of 5,000,000 of pounds. The ore of this mine is estimated to yield, in the large way, from 60 to 70 per cent., reckoned at 62½, which is probably a fair average. The product of the mine in 1811 was 3,125,000 pounds. Shibboleth is, however, one of the richest mines in the Territory, and this is the product of one of those years in which it was most profitably worked. It was then a new discovery, vast bodies of ore were found near the surface, and the number of miners drawn together by the fame of its riches was uncommonly great. It has since declined, although the ore is still constantly found; and I am informed by Colonel Smith, the present proprietor, that the product this year (1819) will be about one million of pounds. The number of persons employed in digging lead at Mine à Burton has been constantly lessening for the last four or five years; and this celebrated mine, which has been worked without interruption for more than forty years, and is stated to have yielded as high as three millions per annum, is manifestly in a state of decline. During the last summer (1818), the greater part of which I resided at that place, there were not more than thirty miners employed; and the total product of the different pits, shafts, and diggings, composing this mine, did not exceed half a million of pounds. Of this quantity, Messrs. Samuel Perry & Co. were the manufacturers of about 300,000 lbs. They contemplate realizing an increased quantity during the present year. John Rice Jones, Esq., is also engaged in penetrating the rock in search of ore, with the most flattering prospects, and is determined, as he informs me, to sink through the upper stratum of limestone, and ascertain the character of the succeeding formations. It is highly probable, reasoning from geognostic relations, that the lower formations will prove metalliferous, yielding both lead and copper; a discovery which would form a new era in the history of those mines. The present mode of promiscuous digging on the surface would then be abandoned, and people made to see and to realize the advantages of the only system of mining which can be permanently, uniformly, and successfully pursued, viz., by penetrating into the bowels of the earth. Several other persons of intelligence and capital are also engaged in mining at this place, and it is probable that the total amount of lead manufactured at this mine during the year 1819 will fall little short of one million of pounds. It is not to be inferred, however, that because the number of miners at Potosi has decreased, the mines are exhausted. On the contrary, there is reason to conclude, as already mentioned, that the principal bodies of ore have not yet been discovered, and that it is destined to become the seat of the most extensive and important mining operations. The ore heretofore raised at these mines has been chiefly found in the stratum of earth which forms the surface of that country, and is bottomed on the limestone. This stratum consists of a stiff red clay, passing in some places into marl, and in others partaking more of the silicious character forming a loam, and imbedding the ores of lead, accompanied by the various mineralogical species before mentioned. These minerals are often of a very attractive character for cabinets. The depth of this soil is sometimes thirty feet; and in this the diggings have been chiefly done, requiring no other machinery than is used in well-digging; and the stratum of rock has generally put a stop to the progress of the miner, although veins of ore penetrating it have often invited him in the pursuit. But it requires different tools, machinery, and works, for mining in rock; the process is also more tedious and expensive, and is considered especially so by those who have been accustomed from their youth to find bodies of ore by a few days' digging in the earth, and who, if they should work a fortnight at one place, and not fall upon a bed of ore, would go away quite disheartened. The principal search has therefore been made in the sub-stratum of clay, where large bodies of ore are sometimes found by a day's, and sometimes by an hour's work. Hence, in the neighborhood of Potosi, the ground has been pretty well explored, and more search and labor is required to find it than in other and more distant places, where new mines continue annually to be discovered. But, with the exception of Austin's shaft, who sunk eighty feet, and the mines opened by Jones, the rock at this mine remains unpenetrated. Austin found large quantities of ore filling crevices in the rock, and the appearances were flattering when the last work was done. In sinking down, a change in the rock was experienced, passing from compact solid gray limestone, by several gradations, into a loose granulated limestone, very friable, and easily reduced to grains. This stone was in some instances completely disintegrated, forming a calcareous sand; and the most compact bodies of it, on a few weeks' exposure at the mouth of the shaft, fall into grains. These grains are, however, wholly calcareous, and readily soluble in nitric and muriatic acids. The portion which I submitted to experiment was taken up completely, nor was any sediment deposited by many months' standing. On going deeper, the rock again graduated into a compact limestone, very hard, and of a bluish-gray color, in which were frequently found small cavities studded over with minute pyramids of limpid quartz. These variations in the structure of the earth and rock in that place, are still observable by the stones, spars, and other minerals, lying around the mouths of the mines; and, upon the whole, the appearances are such as to justify a conclusion that the lower strata of rocks at Potosi, and the numerous mines in its vicinity, are of a highly metalliferous character, and such as to warrant the expenditures incident to a search. From a statement lately drawn up, and certified by the proprietors of warehouses at Herculaneum, it appears that the total quantity of pig and bar lead, and shot, exported from that place, from January 1, 1817, to June 1, 1818, a period of eighteen months, was 3,194,249 pounds. Herculaneum may be considered the depôt for the lead of Mine Shibboleth, Richwoods, Bellefontaine, a portion of the lead of Mine à Burton and Potosi, and a few other mines in that neighbourhood. Perhaps nearly or quite half of the whole quantity of lead yearly smelted at the Missouri mines, is shipped from this place. Here then is an average product of 2,395,667 pounds per annum, for the years 1817 and 1818, from those mines which send their lead to Herculaneum. Assuming the ground that these mines produce only half of what is annually made at the whole number of mines, which I conclude may be a true estimate, we shall arrive at the conclusion, that the annual product of the Missouri mines for those years was four millions, seven hundred and ninety-one thousand, three hundred and thirty-four pounds. This, estimated at the present price of four cents per pound, gives us a sum of one hundred and ninety-one thousand, six hundred and fifty-three dollars. This is the produce of one year; and supposing the mines to have produced the same average quantity during every year since they have been in possession of the United States, we have a sum of three millions, sixty-six thousand, four hundred and forty-eight dollars; which is more than the original cost of Louisiana, as purchased from France during the administration of President Jefferson. Let those who have any doubts of the value of our mines, reflect upon this, and consider that it was the product of a year when the mines were in a manifest state of decline, and wrought wholly by individuals, with a foreign competition to oppose, and without the benefits resulting from a systematic organization of the mining interest. Nearly all the lead smelted at the Missouri mines is transported in carts and wagons from the interior to St. Genevieve and Herculaneum. As it must necessarily be deposited for storage at those places, it was naturally expected that authentic accounts of the lead manufactured in the Territory for many years, might be obtained on application. But in this, I experienced some degree of disappointment. At St. Genevieve, although a warehouse has been kept at the landing for many years, the lead sent to town has not all been stored. From the earliest time, and before the establishment of a warehouse by Mr. Janies, the French inhabitants of St. Genevieve had all been more or less engaged in the storage, purchase, and traffic of lead. Every dwelling-house thus became a storehouse for lead, and, in these cases, no regular accounts were kept of the quantities received or delivered. The same practice has, in some measure, continued since, so that it is impossible to obtain, with any precision, the amount shipped from this place. At Herculaneum, a warehouse has been kept since the year 1816; and on application to Mr. Elias Bates, the proprietor, he was so obliging as to allow me permission to peruse his book of receipts, for the purpose of making extracts. The following details embrace the receipts of lead at that place for a period of two years and eleven months, ending May 18, 1819. I. _A Series of Receipts, from June 16, 1816, to December 31 of the same year, being a period of six months and fourteen days._ Fol. 1. Aggregate of receipts 52,781 lbs. 2. 57,097 3. 55,039 4. 58,892 5. 50,639 6. 63,787 7. 55,663 8. 47,287 -------- Aggregate of separate individual acc'ts during same period. 322,134 -------- Total. 763,319 II. _A Series of Receipts from 31st Dec. 1816, to 31st Dec. 1817._ Fol. 1. Aggregate of receipts. 12,375 lbs. 2. 51,521 3. 49,023 4. 60,576 5. 54,242 6. 47,321 7. 60,956 8. 51,420 9. 43,774 10. 42,694 11. 47,958 12. 15,482 ------- 537,343 Aggregate of separate individual acc'ts during same period. 501,903 --------- Total 1,039,246 III. _A Series of Receipts from 31st Dec. 1817, to 31st Dec. 1818._ Fol. 1. Aggregate of receipts 24,261 lbs. 2. 45,981 3. 31,041 4. 39,424 5. 34,711 6. 44,266 7. 31,315 8. 56,442 9. 33,932 -------- 341,372 Aggregate of separate individual acc'ts during same period. 112,203 -------- Total 453,575 IV. _A Series of Receipts from 31st Dec. 1818, to 18th May 1819._ Fol. 1. Aggregate of receipts 14,764 lbs. 2. 44,323 3. 44,628 ------- 103,715 Aggregate of separate individual acc'ts during same period. 26,211 ------- Total 129,926 RECAPITULATION. 1816 763,319 lbs. 1817 1,039,246 1818 453,575 1819 129,926 --------- Total 2,386,066 During eighteen months of the same period, from Dec. 31st, 1816, to June 1st, 1818, there was deposited with, and shipped by, sundry other persons in Herculaneum, as ascertained by Colonel S. Hammond and M. Austin, Esq., 517,495 pounds of lead, together with patent shot, manufactured by Elias Bates and Christian Wilt, to the amount of 668,350 pounds. For the remaining part of the estimated term, (two years and eleven months,) it is reasonable to presume that a like quantity of lead was exported through private channels at Herculaneum, and a like quantity of shot manufactured by Messrs. Bates and Wilt. This will make the quantity of pig and bar lead shipped by individuals, 1,034,990 pounds, and the quantity of patent shot manufactured, 1,356,700 pounds; which two sums, added to the receipts of Mr. Bates's warehouse, as detailed above, gives us an aggregate amount of 4,757,990 pounds, for the period of two years and eleven months. St. Genevieve, as has already been mentioned, is probably the storehouse for one-half of the mines, and may therefore be estimated to have received and exported the same quantity of pig and bar lead during the same period, making a total of 9,515,512 pounds, which gives an average product of more than three million of pounds of lead per annum. It would be interesting to know in what proportion the different mines have contributed to this amount. The above details show us their collective importance; but we should then be enabled to estimate their individual and comparative value. With this view, I have compiled, from the best information, the following: ESTIMATE. Mines. Pounds of lead. No. of hands. Mine à Burton 1,500,000 160 Mine Shibboleth 2,700,000 240 Mine La Motte 2,400,000 210 Richwoods 1,300,000 140 Bryan's Mines } Dogget's Mines } 910,100 80 Perry's Diggings 600,000 60 Elliot's Mines } Old Mines } 45,000 20 Bellefontaine } Mine Astraddle } Mine Liberty } Renault's Mines } 450,000 40 Mine Silvers } Miller's Mines } Cannon's Diggings } Becquet's Diggings } 75,000 30 Little Mines } Rocky Diggings } Citadel Diggings } Lambert's Mine } 1,160,000 130 Austin's Mines } Jones's Mines } Gravelly Diggings } Scott's Mine } Mine à Martin } 50,000 20 Mine à Robino } ---------- ---- 11,180,000 1,130 In this estimate are included all persons concerned in the operations of mining, and who draw their support from it; wood-cutters, teamsters, and blacksmiths, as well as those engaged in digging and smelting lead-ore, &c. The estimate is supposed to embrace a period of three years, ending 1st June, 1819, and making an average product of 3,726,666 lbs. per annum, which is so near the result arrived at in the preceding details, as to induce a conclusion that it is essentially correct, and that the mines of Missouri, taken collectively, yield this amount of pig-lead annually. The United States acquired possession of the mines in the year 1803, fifteen years ago last December; and, assuming the fact that they have annually produced this quantity, there has been smelted, under the American government, fifty-five million pounds of lead. On the view which has now been taken of the Missouri mines, it may be proper here to remark-- 1. That the ores of these mines are of the richest and purest kind, and that they exist in such bodies as not only to supply all lead for domestic consumption, but also, if the purposes of trade require it, are capable of supplying large quantities for exportation. 2. That although at different periods the amount of lead manufactured has been considerable, yet this produce has been subject to perpetual variation, and, upon the whole, has fallen, in the aggregate, far short of the amount the mines are capable of producing. To make these mines produce the greatest possible quantity of lead of which they are capable, with the least possible expense, is a consideration of the first political consequence, to which end it is desirable that the reserved mines be disposed of, to individuals, or that the term for which leases are granted be extended from three to fifteen years, which will induce capitalists, who are now deterred by the illiberality of governmental terms, to embark in mining. That there be laid a governmental duty of two and a half cents per pound on all imported pig and bar lead, which will exclude foreign lead from our markets, and afford a desired relief to the domestic manufacturer. The present duty is one cent per pound. But this does not prevent a foreign competition; and the smelters call for, and appear to be entitled to, further protection. 3. That although the processes of mining now pursued are superior to what they were under the Spanish government, yet there is a very manifest want of skill, system, and economy, in the raising of ores, and the smelting of lead. The furnaces in use are liable to several objections. They are defective in the plan, they are constructed of improper materials, and the workmanship is of the rudest kind. Hence, not near the quantity of metallic lead is extracted from the ore which it is capable, without an increase of expense, of yielding. There is a great waste created by smelting ore in the common log furnace, in which a considerable part of the lead is volatilized, forming the sublimated matter which adheres in such bodies to the sides of the log furnaces, and is thrown by as useless. This can be prevented by an improvement in its construction. To pursue mining with profit, it is necessary to pursue it with economy; and true economy is, to build the best of furnaces, with the best of materials. At present the furnaces are constructed of common limestone, which soon burns into quicklime, and the work requires rebuilding from the foundation. Not only so, but the frequency with which they require to be renewed, begets a carelessness in those who build them, and the work is accordingly put up in the most ordinary and unworkmanlike manner. Instead of limestone, the furnaces ought to be constructed of good refractory sandstone, or apyrous clay, in the form of bricks, which will resist the action of heat for a great length of time. Both these substances are the production of that country, and specimens of them are now in my possession. 4. From the information afforded, it has been seen that the mines are situated in a country which affords a considerable proportion of the richest farming-lands, producing corn, rye, wheat, tobacco, hemp, flax, oats, &c., in the greatest abundance, and that no country is better adapted for raising cattle, horses, hogs, and sheep. The country is well watered, and with the purest of water; the climate is mild and pleasant, the air dry and serene, and the region is healthy in an unusual degree. Every facility is also afforded by its streams for erecting works for the manufacture of white and red lead, massicot, litharge, shot, sheet-lead, mineral yellow, and the other manufactures dependent upon lead. The country also abounds with various useful minerals besides lead, which are calculated to increase its wealth and importance. It is particularly abundant in iron, zinc, manganese, sulphur, salt, coal, chalk, and ochre. 5. That a systematic organization of the mining interest would have a tendency to promote the public welfare. To this end, there should be appointed an officer for the inspection and superintendence of mines. He should reside in the mine country, and report annually to the proper governmental department on the state of the mines, improvements, &c. His duty should consist in part of the following items, viz.: _a._ To lease out public mines, and receive and account for rents. _b._ To prevent the waste and destruction of wood on the public lands. _c._ To see that no mines were wrought without authority. _d._ To keep the government informed, periodically, of the quantity of lead made at the different mines, and of new discoveries of lead, or any other useful minerals; and, _e._ To explore, practically, the mineralogy of the country, in order fully to develop its mineral character and importance. Connected with these duties, should be the collection of mineralogical specimens for a national cabinet of natural history at Washington. The superintendent of mines should be a practical mineralogist, and such a salary attached to the office as to induce a man of respectable talents and scientific acquirements to accept the appointment. To allow the manufacturers of lead every advantage consistent with the public interest, the rent charged on mines should not exceed two and a half per cent. on the quantity manufactured, which is equivalent to the proposed governmental duty on imported lead, whereby the revenue would not only be kept up, but might be considerably enhanced. The foregoing details exhibit an annual produce of 3,726,666 pounds of lead, which, it is presumable, may be half the quantity the mines are capable of producing, with proper management. But, estimating the lead at four cents per pound, and taking that as the average quantity, the annual rents, at two and a half per cent., will create a revenue of thirty-two thousand four hundred and ninety dollars. This subject is believed to be one that commends itself to the attention of the government, which has, from a policy early introduced, reserved the mineral lands on the public domain. No one can view it in the light of these facts, without perceiving the propriety and necessity of an efficient organization of this branch of the public interest. FOOTNOTES: [12] The following sketch of the life of Burton is given by Colonel Thomas H. Benton, of St. Louis, in the Enquirer of that city, October 16, 1818:--"He is a Frenchman, from the north of France. In the fore-part of the last century, he served in the Low Countries, under the orders of Marshal Saxe. He was at Fontenoy when the Duke of Cumberland was beat there by that Marshal. He was at the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom, and assisted in the assault of that place when it was assailed by a division of Marshal Saxe's army, under the command of Count Lowendahl. He has also seen service upon this continent. He was at the building of fort Chartres, on the American bottom; afterwards went to fort Du Quesne (now Pittsburgh), and was present at Braddock's defeat. From the life of a soldier, Burton passed to that of a hunter; and in this character, about half a century ago, while pursuing a bear to the west of the Mississippi, he discovered the rich lead-mines which have borne his name ever since. His present age cannot be ascertained. He was certainly an _old soldier_ at fort Chartres, when some of the people of the present day were little children at that place. The most moderate computation will make him a hundred and six. He now lives in the family of Mr. Micheaux, at the little rock ferry, three miles above St. Genevieve, and walks to that village almost every Sunday to attend mass. He is what we call a square-built man, of five feet eight inches high, full chest and forehead; his sense of seeing and hearing somewhat impaired, but free from disease, and apparently able to hold out against time for many years to come." [13] The following is a list of the principal mines worked under the Spanish government, with their situation: Mine La Motte Head of St. Francis river. Mine à Joe On Flat river. Mine à Burton On a branch of Mineral Fork. Old Mines On a branch of Mineral Fork. Renault's Mines On Mineral Fork, or Fourche Arno. [14] A law erecting the Territory of Arkansas from the southern part of Missouri, has since passed; but its northern boundary is extended so as to include all White river above the latitude of 36° 30'. [15] The following are the principal historical epochs of Louisiana, chronologically arranged: A. D. Discovered by Ferdinand de Soto, and named Florida 1539 Visited by the French from Canada 1674 Settlement made by La Salle 1683 A settlement made at Beloxi 1699 Granted to Crozat by Louis XIV., 14th September 1712 New Orleans founded by the French 1717 Retroceded to the crown by Crozat 1717 Granted to the Company of the West 1717 Retroceded by the Company of the Wes 1731 Ceded by France to Spain 1762 First occupied by the Spanish 1769 Ceded to the United States 1803 Taken possession of by the United States, 20th December 1803 Louisiana became a State, August 1812 Missouri Territory erected, 4th June 1812 [16] On this passage, Mr. Silliman remarks, "that sulphur is not poisonous to men or animals.... The _carbonate_ of barytes is eminently poisonous; but we have never heard that the sulphate is so. May not the licking around the furnaces expose the cattle to receive lead, in some of its forms, minutely divided? or, if it be not active in the metallic state, both the oxide and the carbonate, which must of course exist around the furnaces, would be highly active and poisonous. Is it not possible, also, that some of the natural waters of the country may, in consequence of saline or acid impregnations, dissolve some of the lead, and thus obtain saturnine qualities? We must allow, however, that we are not acquainted with the existence of any natural water thus impregnated."--JOUR. SCI., Vol. III. [17] I was mistaken in supposing this the only locality of the fluate of lime in the United States. It has also been found "in Virginia, near Woodstock or Miller's town, Shenandoah county, in small loose masses, in the fissures of a limestone containing shells. (Barton.)--In Maryland, on the west side of the Blue Ridge, with sulphate of barytes. (Hayden.)--In New Jersey, near Franklin Furnace, in Sussex county, disseminated in lamellar carbonate of lime, and accompanied with mica and carburet of iron; also near Hamburg, in the same county, on the turnpike to Pompton, in a vein of quartz and feldspar. (Bruce.)--In New York, near Saratoga Springs, in limestone; it is nearly colorless, and penetrated by pyrites.--In Vermont, at Thetford.--In Connecticut, at Middletown, in a vein, and is accompanied by sulphurets of lead, zinc, and iron. (Bruce.)--In Massachusetts, at the lead-mine in Southampton, where it is imbedded in sulphate of barytes, or granite; its colors are green, purple, &c.--In New Hampshire, at Rosebrook's Gap, in the White Mountains, in small detached pieces. (Gibbs.)"--CLEVELAND'S MINERALOGY. MINERALOGY. A CATALOGUE OF THE MINERALS OF THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY. In the arrangement of this catalogue, the order introduced in Professor Cleveland's mineralogical tables, has been chiefly observed. It is the commencement of an investigation into the physical history, character, and mineral resources of the West, which it will become the duty of future observers to continue and perfect. The field is an extensive one, and invites attention. The order and beauty that are observed in this branch of natural history, afford as striking proofs as any of the other departments of it, of that design which, in so remarkable a manner, pervades the organization of the various classes of bodies, animate and inanimate, on the surface of the globe. So far as respects mineralogy, its species and varieties have not all been seen, in crystallized forms, agreeably to our imperfect state of microscopical knowledge; but as far as the species have been brought within observation, in the classes of crystals and crystallized ores, they rival, in their colors and exact geometrical forms, other systems of bodies. In revising the list, those specimens are dropped, respecting which further reflection or examination has shown, either that the early descriptions were imperfect, or that the quantity of the mineral was deficient. I. ALKALINE AND EARTHY SALTS. 1. Nitrate of potash. Nitre. 2. Muriate of soda. Salt. 3. Sulphate of barytes. Heavy spar. 4. Carbonate of lime. Calc. spar. _a._ Rhombic crystals. _b._ Concrete forms. 5. Fluate of lime. Fluor spar. 6. Sulphate of lime. Gypsum. 7. Sulphate of magnesia. Magnesia. 8. Sulphate of alumine and potash. Alum. II. EARTHY COMPOUNDS AND STONES. 9. Quartz. _a._ Hexagonal crystals. _b._ Radiated. _c._ Chalcedony. _d._ Agatized wood. _e._ Agate. _f._ Jasper. _g._ Hornstone. _h._ Red ferruginous quartz. _i._ Tabular quartz. _j._ Granular quartz. _k._ Hoary quartz. _l._ Carnelian. _m._ Buhrstone. _n._ Opalized wood. 10. Pumice. 11. Mica. 12. Feldspar. 13. Hornblende. 14. Greenstone porphyry. 15. Clay. _a._ Native alumine. _b._ Indurated clay. _c._ Reddle. 16. Basanite. 17. Indian pipestone. Opwagonite. 18. Schoerl. 19. Novaculite. III. COMBUSTIBLES. 20. Sulphur. _a._ Crystallized. _b._ Concrete. 21. Graphite. 22. Coal. _a._ Slaty-bituminous. _b._ Wood-coal. Bituminous shale. IV. METALS. 23. Native copper. 24. Iron. 25. Sulphuret of iron. 26. Iron glance. 27. Micaceous oxide of iron. 28. Brown oxide of iron. 29. Ironstone. 30. Argillaceous oxide of iron. 31. Ochrey oxide of iron. 32. Sulphuret of lead. _a._ Common galena. _b._ Specular. _c._ Granular. _d._ Cobaltic. 33. Carbonate of lead. 34. Earthy oxide of lead. 35. Sulphuret of zinc. 36. Sulphuret of manganese. FIRST CLASS. 1. NITRE--SALTPETRE. This salt, in its efflorescent state, exists extensively in the limestone caves of Missouri and Arkansas. It also impregnates the masses of earth found in these recesses. This earth is lixiviated with wood-ashes, which allows the nitre to take a crystalline form. I visited a large cavern, about eighty miles south-west of Potosi, where this salt was manufactured, and observed its efflorescences in other caves in the Ozark range. 2. MURIATE OF SODA. About one hundred and fifty thousand bushels of common salt are annually made from the United States' saline on Salt river, in Illinois. It appears, from the remains of antique broken vessels found in that locality, to have been manufactured there by the ancient inhabitants. There is a saline, which has been profitably worked, on Saline creek, in St. Genevieve county. Two salt springs are worked, in a small way, in Jefferson county, Mo. The springs in Arkansas are reported to be extensive, and rumors of rock-salt on its plains have been rife, since the purchase of Louisiana. The hunters whom I met in the Ozark range, invariably affirmed its existence, in crystalline solid masses, in that quarter; from which also, it is to be recollected, De Soto's scouts brought it, in 1542. 3. SULPHATE OF BARYTES--HEAVY SPAR. This mineral is found, in considerable quantities, at the principal lead-mines of Missouri, west of the Mississippi. It presents its usual characters--it is heavy, white, shining, opaque, and easily fractured. It is sometimes found crested, columnar, prismatic, or in tabular crystallizations. Its surface is frequently covered by a yellowish, ochrey earth, or ferruginous oxide. It sometimes exists as the matrix of the sulphuret of lead--more frequently, as one of its accompanying minerals. 4. CARBONATE OF LIME. a. _Calc. Spar._ This form of the carbonate of lime is common in the lead-mine regions of Missouri. At Hazel run, it constitutes, to some extent, the gangue of the lead-ores. It is generally imbedded in lumps in the red clay mineral soil. These lumps are round, externally; but, on being broken, reveal a rhomboidal structure, and are beautifully transparent. b. _Stalactites._ This form of the carbonate of lime is found in a cave on the head-waters of Currents river, in Missouri. The stalactites are found in concretions resembling icicles hanging from the roof, or in columns reaching to the floor. The specimens are translucent. Stalactites are also found in a very large cave (Winoca) on Findley's fork, one of the tributaries of White river, Arkansas. They form two large vases in this cave, which are filled with the most crystalline water. c. _Stalagmite_ (Calcareous Alabaster). The cave which has just been mentioned on Findley's fork, affords this mineral in small, solid globules, which strew the floor of the cave. 5. FLUOR SPAR. The elevated lands on the west banks of the Ohio, near the picturesque shores of Cave-in-Rock, in Illinois, disclose this mineral. It exhibits its well-known character. It is generally of a purple, or amethystine hue, and crystallized, as its primary form, in cubes. Externally, these crystals are dull. Its association here is with the ores of lead, which have been extensively searched for in former times. It is plentifully found, sometimes in large crystals, which have an external appearance as if they had been subjected to the influence of turbid water. It has been thus far, chiefly, explored in the diluvial stratum. 6. GYPSUM. Foliated masses of this mineral occur in the river cliffs in St. Clair county, Illinois. It is found in large quantities near the salines in Upper Arkansas. Dr. Sibley, speaking of the formation in that vicinity, says: "It is a tract of about seventy-five miles square, in which nature has arranged a variety of the most strange and whimsical vagaries. It is an assemblage of beautiful meadows, verdant ridges, and rude misshapen piles of red clay, thrown together in the utmost apparent confusion, yet affording the most pleasing harmonies, and presenting in every direction an endless variety of curious and interesting objects. After winding along for a few miles on the high ridges, you suddenly descend an almost perpendicular declivity of rocks and clay, into a series of level and fertile meadows, watered by some beautiful rivulets, and adorned here and there with shrubby cotton trees, elms, and cedars. These meadows are divided by chains formed of red clay, and huge masses of gypsum, with here and there a pyramid of gravel. One might imagine himself surrounded by the ruins of some ancient city, and that the plain had sunk by some convulsion of nature more than one hundred feet below its former level; for some of the huge columns of red clay rise to the height of two hundred feet perpendicular, capped with rocks of gypsum, which the hand of time is ever crumbling off, and strewing in beautiful transparent flakes, along the declivities of the hill, glittering like so many mirrors in the sun." 7. SULPHATE OF MAGNESIA. A large and curious cavern has been discovered in the calcareous rocks at Corydon, near the seat of government of Indiana, which is found to yield very beautiful white crystals of this mineral. To what extent these appearances exist, is unknown; but the cavern invites exploration. 8. ALUM. Efflorescences of the sulphate of alumina exist in a calcareous cavern in the elevated ranges of Bellevieu, in the county of Washington, Mo. No practical use is made of it. 9. QUARTZ. This important family of mineral bodies exists, in many of its forms, on the west banks of the Mississippi. They will be noticed under their appropriate names. a. _Granular Quartz._ There is a very large body of this mineral about eight miles west of St. Genevieve, near the Potosi road. It is known as the site of a remarkable cave. The sides, roof, and floor of the cave, consist of the most pure and white granular quartz. It is quite friable between the fingers, and falls into a singularly transparent and beautiful sand. Each of these grains, when examined by the microscope, is found to be a transparent molecule of pure quartz. It possesses no definable tint of color, is not acted upon by either nitric or muriatic acids, and appears to be an aggregation of minute crystals of quartz. It occurs in several caves near the road, whose sides are entirely composed of it; and its snowy hue, and granular structure, give it the appearance of refined sugar. It appears to me to be composed of silex nearly or quite pure, and possesses, as I find on treatment with potash, the property of easy fusibility. Could the necessary alkali and apyrous clays be conveniently had at this spot, I cannot conceive a more advantageous place for a manufactory of crystal glass. b. _Radiated Quartz._ This mineral is found in great abundance at the Missouri lead-mines, where it bears the striking name of mineral blossom, or blossom of lead--an opinion being entertained that it indicates the presence or contiguity of lead-ore. Examined with care, it is found to consist of small crystals of quartz, disposed in radii, which resemble the petals of a flower. These crystals are superimposed on a basis consisting of thin lines, or tabular layers, of agate. It is found either strewn on the surface of the soil, imbedded in it, or existing in cavities in the limestone rock. c. _Chalcedony._ This species is brought down the Mississippi or Missouri, and deposited in small fragments along the Missouri shore. It also constitutes the principal layers in the thin tabular, or mamillary masses, which constitute the basis of the radiated quartz. Most commonly, it is bluish-white, or milk-white. d. _Agatized Wood._ Fragments of this mineral are brought down the Missouri, and deposited, in occasional pieces, along the banks of the Mississippi. e. _Hornstone--Chert._ This substance appears to have been imbedded extensively in the calcareous strata of the Mississippi valley; for it is scattered, as an ingredient, in its diluvions. Frequently it is in chips, or fragments, all of which indicate a smooth conchoidal fracture. Sometimes it consists of parts of nodules. Sometimes it is still solidly imbedded in the rock, or consolidated strata, as on the coast below Cape Girardeau, Mo. Indeed, so far as observation goes, it characterizes all the district of country between the western banks of the Mississippi river, and the great prairies and sand deserts at the foot of the Rocky mountains. Its color is generally brown, with different shades of yellow, black, blue, or red. It appears nearly allied to flint, into which it is sometimes seen passing. It runs also into varieties of jasper, chalcedony, and common quartz; and the different gradations from well-characterized hornstone, until its distinctive characters are lost in other sub-species of quartz, may be distinctly marked. The barbs for Indian arrows, frequently found in this region, appear to have been chiefly made of hornstone. f. _Jasper._ This mineral also appears to have been imbedded in the silico-calcareous rocks of the western valley; and it is found, in the fragmentary form, on the banks of the Mississippi, and also on its plains below the Rocky mountains. The fine yellow egg-shaped pebbles of White river, are common jasper. Several specimens, picked up in a desultory journey, possess striking beauty. The first is a uniform bottle-green, very hard, and susceptible of a high polish. The second is the fragment of a nodular mass, consisting of alternate concentric stripes of green, brown, and yellow; the colors passing by imperceptible shades into each other. A specimen found in Potosi consists of alternate stripes of rose and flesh red. g. _Agate._ This mineral is picked up, in a fragmentary form, along the banks of the Mississippi. Its original repository appears to have been the volcanic and amygdaloidal rocks about its sources, which have been extensively broken down by geological mutations, during ante-historical periods. The fragments are often beautifully transparent, sometimes zoned or striped. Sometimes they are arranged in angles, presenting the fortification-agate. The colors are various shades of white and red, the latter being layers of carnelian. All the pieces found in this dispersed state are harder than the imbedded species, and are with difficulty cut by the lapidary. h. _Opal._ A single specimen of this mineral, from the right banks of the Ohio, near Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, is of a delicate bluish-white, and opalesces on being held to the light. It is not acted on by acids. This locality is remarkable as yielding galena, heavy spar, blende, calcareous spar, fluor spar, pyrites, coal, and salt. It belongs to the great secondary limestone formation of the Ohio valley. It is cavernous, and yields some fossil impressions. i. _Red Ferruginous Quartz._ This occurs as one of the imbedded materials of the diluvion of the Mississippi valley. k. _Rock Crystal._ Very perfect and beautiful crystals of this mineral are procured near the Hot Springs of Arkansas. They consist, generally, of six-sided prisms, terminated by six-sided pyramids. Some of these are so perfectly limpid, that writing can be read, without the slightest obscurity, through the parallel faces of the crystals. l. _Pseudomorphous Chalcedony._ Lake Pepin, Upper Mississippi. This appears to have been formed by deposition on cubical crystals, which have disappeared. m. _Tabular Quartz._ West bank of the Mississippi, Missouri. Of a white color, semi-transparent. The plates are single, and the lines perfectly parallel. n. _Hoary Quartz._ West banks of the Mississippi, Mo. The character of hoariness appears to be imparted by very minute crystals, or concretions of quartz, on the surface of radiated quartz. o. _Common Quartz._ This mineral is found in veins of from one to eight or ten feet wide, in the argillaceous rock formation in the vicinity of the Hot Springs of Washita. It is also seen, in very large detached masses, on the south bank of White river. The character of these rocks will not be recognized on a superficial view; for they have a gray, time-worn appearance, and are so much covered by moss, that it was not until I had broken off a fragment with a hammer, that I discovered them to be white quartz. Pebbles of quartz, either white or variously colored by iron, are common on the shores of White river, and, joined to the purity and transparency of the waters, add greatly to the pleasure of a voyage on that beautiful stream. p. _Buhrstone._ Raccoon creek, Indiana. This bed is noted throughout the western country, and affords a profitable branch of manufacture. It covers an area of from ten to fifteen acres square. Its texture is vesicular, yet it is sufficiently compact to admit of being quarried with advantage, and the stones are applied to the purposes of milling with the best success. q. _Sedimentary Quartz--Schoolcraftite._ This mineral occurs three miles from the Hot Springs of Washita. It is of a grayish-white color, partaking a little of green, yellow, or red; translucent in an uncommon degree, with an uneven and moderately glimmering fracture, and susceptible of being scratched with a knife. Oil stones for the purpose of honing knives, razors, or tools, are occasionally procured from this place, and considerable quantities have been lately taken to New Orleans. It gives a fine edge, and is considered equal to the Turkish oil-stone. It appears to me, from external character and preliminary tests, to consist almost entirely of silex, with a little oxide of iron. Its compactness, superior softness, specific gravity, and coloring matter, distinguish it from silicious sinter. It has been improperly termed, heretofore, "novaculite." It contains no alumine. It sometimes reveals partial conditions, or spots, of a degree of hardness nearly equal to common quartz. r. _Carnelian._ Banks of the Mississippi, above the junction of the Ohio. Traces of this mineral begin to be found, as soon as the heavy alluvial lands are passed. It is among the finest detritus of the minerals of the quartz family, brought down from upper plains. The fragments, in these lower positions, are small, transparent, and hard, colored red or yellowish. s. _Basanite--Touchstone._ This mineral is found in the Mississippi detritus; but no fixed locality has been ascertained. 10. PUMICE. The light, vesicular substance, found floating down the Missouri and Mississippi, is not, properly speaking, a true pumice, capable of the applications of that article in the arts; but it cannot be classified with any other species. It is more properly a pseudo-pumice, arising from partial volcanic action on the formations of some of the tributaries of the Missouri, which originate in the Rocky mountains. It is brought down by the June flood, sometimes in large masses, which, as the waters abate, are left on the islands or shores. It is incompletely vitrified, consisting of spongy globules. The masses are irregularly colored, agreeably to the vitrified materials, red, black or brown. Its tenacity is very great. 30. MICA. In the granitical, or primitive district, at the sources of the St. Francis. The great body of these rocks is a sienite, or sienitic granite, or greenstone. Like the northern granitical tracts, the mica is generally replaced by hornblende. The folia, usually, are small. 31. FELDSPAR. With the preceding. The great bulk of these granitical formations consists of red feldspar. Where the greenstone becomes porphyritic, the feldspar is a light green. 32. HORNBLENDE. With the preceding. This mineral assumes its crystalline form, in large areas of the sienite rock. With the two preceding minerals, mica and feldspar, and common quartz, it constitutes the mountain peaks of that remarkable district. It is the only locality, except the Washita hills, where these formations rise to an elevation above the great metalliferous sandstone, and carbonaceous deposits of the central area of the Mississippi valley, south of the Sauk rapids, above St. Anthony's falls, and the head-waters of the St. Peter's, or Minnesota river. The latter constitute the northern limits of the great horizontal, sedimentary, semi-crystallized rocks west of the Alleghanies. 33. GREENSTONE PORPHYRY. With the preceding. 34. PUDDINGSTONE. In the tongue of land formed by the junction of the Ohio with the Mississippi, directly beneath the alluvial lands at the old site of fort Massac, and at the village called "America." Also, in large, broken blocks, along the west shores of the Mississippi, near the "chalk banks," so called, in Cape Girardeau county, and at Cape Garlic, on the west banks of the Mississippi. 33. NATIVE ALUMINE--WHITE, FRIABLE, PURE CLAY. At the head of Tiawapeta bottom, Little Chain of Rocks, west banks of the Mississippi, Cape Girardeau county, Missouri. This remarkable body of white earth is locally denominated chalk, and was thus called in the first edition of this catalogue. It is employed as a substitute for chalk, but is found to contain no carbonic acid, and is destitute of a particle of calcia. It appears, from Mr. Jessup,[18] to be nearly pure alumine. The traveller, on ascending the Mississippi from the mouth of the Ohio, passes through a country of alluvial formation, a distance of thirty-five miles. Here the first high land presents itself on the west bank of the river, in a moderately elevated ridge, running from south-east to north-west, and terminating abruptly in the bank of the river, which here runs nearly at right angles with the ridge, and has been worn away by the action of the water. This ridge consists of secondary limestone, overlying a coarse reddish sandstone, which, at the lowest stage of the water in summer, is seen in huge misshapen fragments, at the immediate edge of the water, and at intervals nearly half way across the river, as well as on the Illinois shore. The mineral occurs in mass, abundantly. It is nearly dry, of a perfectly white color, and chalky friability. It embraces masses of hornstone, resembling flint. It also occurs at a higher point on the same shore, two miles below the Grand Tower. 34. PLASTIC WHITE CLAY. Gray's mine, Jefferson county, Mo. 35. OPWAGUNITE[19]--GEOGNOSTIC RED CLAY. Prairie des Couteau, between the sources of the St. Peter's river and the Missouri. It exists in lamellar masses, beneath secondary masses. It is of a dull red color, is soft, compact, easily cut, and is a material much employed and valued by the Indians for carving pipes, and sometimes neck ornaments. Occasionally it has brighter spots of pale red. It is also found on the Red Cedar, or Folle Avoine branch of Chippewa river, Wisconsin, of a darker color, approaching to that of chocolate. It is polished by the Indians with rushes. III. COMBUSTIBLES. 36. SULPHUR. In flocculent white deposits, in a spring, Jefferson county, Missouri. 37. MINERAL COAL. Bituminous, slaty coal, constitutes a very large geological basin in the Ohio and Mississippi valleys, where it appears to have resulted from the burial of ancient forests. At Pittsburgh, I found it composing thick strata in elevated grounds, on the south banks of the Monongahela river. In an excursion up that stream, it characterizes its banks at intervals for forty miles. It inflames easily, burns with a pitchy smoke and bituminous smell, and throws out a great heat. It occurs in veins in limestone, along with argillaceous slate, indurated clay, red sandstone, and bituminous shale, which are arranged in alternate strata, one above the other, preserving an exact parallelism with the waters of the Alleghany, Monongahela, and Ohio rivers. The coal always constitutes a vein between the shale and clay which are found immediately above and below it. The clay appears to have originated from the decomposition of shale; for it may be observed in all stages of the decomposition, from a well-characterized argillaceous slate, to plastic clay. The veins of coal are from a foot to nine feet in thickness, and the strata of coal, shale, limestone, &c., are repeated; so that the sides of the hills which afford coal, exhibit several strata, with the rock intervening, one above another. The greatest distance, in a perpendicular direction, from one stratum to another, is perhaps one hundred feet; and such is the regularity of the coal formation in this region, that the description of one pit, or bed, will apply almost equally to any other within a circuit of two hundred miles, every section of which is characterized by coal. Sometimes pyrites of a tin-white color are found mixed among the coal. In Missouri, it occurs at Florrisant. 38. GRAPHITE--PLUMBAGO. Twelve miles south of Potosi, Washington county, Mo., in a large body. 39. SULPHURET OF LEAD. a. _Galena._ One of the most remarkable formations of this ore in America, if not in the world, is furnished by the metalliferous limestones of the Mississippi. Of these, Missouri furnishes one of the most celebrated localities. These mines were first explored by the renowned Mississippi Company, in 1719, and have continued to be worked during the successive changes which it has experienced under the French, Spanish, and Americans, to the present period. The number of mines now wrought is about fifty, and the quantity of lead annually smelted is estimated at three millions of pounds. The ore is the common galena, with a broad glittering grain, and bluish-gray color, and is found accompanied by sulphate of barytes, blende, pyrites, quartz, and calcareous spar. It yields, on assay, eighty-two per cent. of metallic lead, the remainder being chiefly sulphur. (Vide "View of the Lead-Mines.") b. _Granular Sulphuret of Lead._ Mine La Motte, Madison county, Missouri. c. _Cobaltic Sulphuret of Lead._ With the preceding. 40. OXIDE OF LEAD. Earthy, yellow. Wythe county, Virginia. 41. CARBONATE OF LEAD. Lead-mines of Missouri. It occurs in some of the mines as a crust, or thin layer, on ores of galena. 42. SULPHURET OF ZINC. In the form of black blende. Lead-mines of Missouri. 43. OXIDE OF ZINC. Earthy, grayish-white. In the mineral called "dry-bone." Missouri lead-mines. 44. IRON. a. _Iron Glance._ In the Iron Mountain and Pilot Knob, on the sources of the river St. Francis, Missouri. It occurs in vast masses, granular, and sometimes specular, without iridescence. Also, on White river, Arkansas. b. _Micaceous Oxide of Iron._ Sources of the St. Francis river, Missouri. A vein of this ore, several feet wide, is found in red sienite, on the banks of the river St. Francis, at the Narrows, Madison county, Missouri Territory. Its unusual appearance has for several years attracted the attention of the inhabitants. It is situated four miles south of the extensive lead-mines of La Motte, and in the centre of a highly interesting geological and mineralogical section of country. The rocks at that place are the old red granite and sienite, in mountain masses, with veins of greenstone, greenstone porphyry, and gneiss. c. _Red Oxide of Iron._ Flint river, Tennessee. d. _Brown Hæmatite._ On the dividing ridge between Strawberry and Spring rivers, Arkansas. e. _Argillaceous Oxide of Iron--Ironstone._ Banks of the Monongahela, Pennsylvania. f. _Sulphuret of Iron._ Accompanying the ores and vein-stones of the Missouri lead-mines. g. _Magnetic Oxide of Iron._ Fifteen miles below the Hot Springs, on the Washita river, Arkansas. In quantity. 45. BLACK OXIDE OF MANGANESE. On Big Sandy river, Kentucky. Also, on the sources of the Maramec and Spring rivers, Missouri, accompanied by the brown oxide of iron. 46. NATIVE COPPER. Scattered masses of this metal have been found on Big river, and also in a shaft sunk near Harrisonville, Illinois. Nothing, however, is known in America, to equal the vast quantities of this metal found in the trap veins on the banks of lake Superior. 47. SULPHATE OF COPPER. On the Washita river, fifteen miles below the Hot Springs, Arkansas. FOOTNOTES: [18] Long's Expedition. [19] From "opwaguu," (Algonquin) a pipe; and "lithos," (Gr.) a stone. CATALOGUE OF MINERALS AND GEOLOGICAL SPECIMENS, (CONTINUED.) OCTOBER, 1819. 1. Sulphate of lime. Arkansas. 2. Sulphuret of lead, in quartz. Washington county, Mo. 3. Agate, from Persia. Brought by Captain Austin. 4. Serpentine. Derby, Conn. 5. Galena upon crystallized quartz. Missouri. 6. Limpid quartz. Hot Springs, Arkansas. 7. Striped agate. St. Genevieve county, Mo. 8. Sienite. Persia. 9. Silicious breccia. Illinois. 10. Sulphuret of lead. Shangum Mountain, Ulster county, N. Y. 11. Garnet, in micaceous schistus. Watertown, Litchfield county, Conn. 12. Galena, iron pyrites, &c., in quartz. Northampton, Mass. 13. Serpentine. Derby, Conn. 14. Red granite. River St. Francis, Madison county, Missouri Territory. 15. Red oxide of zinc. Sussex county, N. J. 16. Metalliferous limestone. Missouri. 17. Agate. Strawberry river, Arkansas Territory. 18. Dolomite. Stockbridge, Mass. 19. Lamellar galena. Bryan's mines, St. Genevieve county, Mo. 20. Shell-limestone. Bermuda. 21. Arseniate of cobalt, with nickel, in actynolite. Chatham, Conn. 22. Galena in quartz. Shangum Mountain, N. Y. 23. Regulus of antimony. 24. Granular argillaceous oxide of iron (pea ore). Staten Island, N. Y. 25. Olivine. Europe. 26. Indicolite in lamellar feldspar. Chesterfield, Mass. 27. Brucite, (Gibbs,) silicious fluate of magnesia, in transition carbonate of lime, with graphite. Sussex county, N. J. 28. Sulphate of lime. Nova Scotia. 29. Serpentine. Hoboken, N. J. 30. Sulphuret of antimony, with crystals of carbonate of lime. Cornwall, England. 31. Chalcedony. Easthaven, Conn. 32. Arseniate of iron, in quartz. Connecticut. 33. Arseniate of cobalt, with iron pyrites and copper. Ireland. 34. Indurated talc. Hoboken, N. J. 35. Primitive granular limestone. Kingsbridge, N. Y. 36. Galena in quartz. Wales. 37. Carbonate and sulphuret of copper, with calcareous spar, in sandstone. Schuyler's mines, Bergen county, N. J. 38. Iron pyrites (cubical). Haddam, Conn. 39. Ferruginous oxide of manganese. Greenwich street, New York city. 40. Green feldspar. Hoboken, N. J. 41. Chert. Wales. 42. Brown hæmatite. Salisbury, Conn. 43. Indicolite, in lamellar feldspar. Chesterfield, Mass. 44. Tremolite. Litchfield county, Conn. 45. Sappare (Cyanite of Cleveland). Litchfield county, Conn. 46. Chabasie. Deerfield, Mass. 47. Anthracite, with quartz. Rhode Island. 48. Fluate of lime. Derbyshire, Eng. 49. Asbestos. Milford, Conn. 50. Zeolite. Giants' Causeway, county of Antrim, Ireland. 51. Hydrate of magnesia. Hoboken, N. J. 52. Serpentine (verte antique). Milford, Conn. 53. Serpentine (pure). Milford, Conn. 54. Primitive granular limestone, equalling Carrara marble. Stockbridge, Mass. 55. Precious serpentine. Hoboken, N. J. 56. Beryl, in granitic rock. Haddam, Conn. 57. Sediment in the Hot Springs of Washita, Arkansas Territory. 58. Asbestos. Milford, Conn. 59. Talc. Staten Island, Richmond county, N. Y. 60. Graphic granite. Staten Island, Richmond county, N. Y. 61. Amethystine quartz. Easthaven, Conn. 62. Prehinite. Hartford, Conn. 63. Jasper. Egypt. 64. Granite. Greenfield Hill, Conn. 65. Fibrous carbonate of lime, resembling zeolite. Hoboken, N. J. 66. Chalcedony. Easthaven, Conn. 67. Tremolite. Litchfield, Conn. 68. Sulphuret of antimony. Cornwall, Eng. 69. Sulphuret of antimony, Cornwall, Eng. 70. Agate. Corlaer's Hook, Island of New York. 71. Sulphuret of molybdena, in granite. Bergen, N. J. 72. Cellular mass of sandstone and quartz, with crystals of quartz. Schuyler's mines, N. J. 73. Crystallized carbonate of lime, with carb'te of copper. Same mines. 74. Micaceous oxide of iron. River St. Francis, Madison county, Mo. 75. Petrified wood. Locality unknown. 76. Sulphate of copper (blue vitriol), with carbonate of copper, in a ferruginous sandstone. Schuyler's mines, N. J. 77. Carbonate of copper. Schuyler's mines, N. J. 78. Agate. South bank of White river, Arkansas Territory. 79. Sulphuret of lead, carbonate of copper, and yellow oxide of iron. Schuyler's mines, N. J. 80, 81, 82, and 83. Calcareous spar. Lead-mines, Missouri. 84 and 85. Sulphuret of lead, in sulphate of barytes. Lead-mines, Missouri. 86. Argentiferous lead-glance. Mine La Motte, Missouri. 87. Specular oxide of iron, with quartz. Bellevieu, Washington county, Missouri. 88. Sulphuret of zinc. Lead-mines, Missouri. 89. Yellow mamillary quartz, incrusted with sulphate of barytes and hæmatitic iron. Old Mines, Missouri. 90. Lamellar sulphate of barytes. Lead-mines of Missouri. 91. Brown hæmatite. Staten Island, N. Y. 92. Greenstone porphyry. River St. Francis, Madison county, Mo. 93. Cubical lead-glance, with calcareous spar. Bryan's mines, Mo. 94. Crested sulphate of barytes. Lead-mines, Missouri. 95. Pyramidal sulphate of barytes (prism spar). Lead-mines, Missouri. 96. Lamellar sulphate of barytes, with galena. Lead-mines, Missouri. 97. Lamellar with crystals of calcareous spar. Lead-mines, Missouri. 98. Blende, with iron pyrites. Elliott's mines, Missouri. 99. Flint. Locality unknown. 100. Granular sulphuret of lead. Mine La Motte, Missouri. 101. Pumice of the Missouri river. 102. Pseudo-volcanic product of same. 103. Ferruginous sulphate of barytes, on radiated quartz. Lead-mines of Missouri. 104. Crested brown oxide of iron. Jefferson county, Mo. 105. Radiated quartz, incrusted with sulphate of barytes and iron. Potosi, Mo. 106. Granular lead-ore (a sulphuret). Mine La Motte, Mo. 107. Brown oxide of iron, crystallized in octahedrons. Washington county, Mo. 108. Mamillary quartz, on a basis of agate. River St. Francis, Mo. 109. Radiated quartz. Lead-mines of Missouri. 110. Radiated quartz. Lead-mines of Missouri. 111, 112, 113, 114, and 115. Mamillary quartz. Lead-mines of Missouri. 116. Chalky clay. Cape Girardeau, Mo. 117. Cubical pyrites, with calcareous spar. Mineral Fork, Mo. 118. Radiated quartz, incrusted with crystallized oxide of iron. Jefferson county, Mo. 119. Tabular galena. Bryan's mines, Mo. 120. Radiated quartz. Jefferson county, Mo. 121. Radiated quartz. Potosi. 122. Hoary quartz (a variety unnoticed in the books). Potosi. 123. Galena, in heavy spar. Potosi. 124. Galena, on radiated quartz. Potosi. 125. Carbonate of lime, covered by crystals of quartz. Potosi. 126. Metalliferous limestone. Potosi. 127. Metalliferous limestone. Potosi. 128. Granite. Missouri. 129. Radiated limpid quartz. Lead-mines of Missouri. 130 and 131. Sulphuret of lead. Potosi. 132. Galena, with calcareous spar. Bryan's mines, Mo. 133 and 134. Galena, partially desulphurated by beat. Potosi. 135. Chalcedony. St. Genevieve county, Mo. 136. Madreporite. Gallatin county, Illinois. 137. Primitive granular limestone. Carrara, Italy. 138. Egyptian marble. 139. Argillaceous porphyry. France. 140 and 141. Milford marble. 142 and 143. Philadelphia marble. 144. Egyptian marble. 145. Bituminous shale. 146. Cubical iron-ore. Jefferson county, Mo. 147. Regulus of nickel and cobalt. 148. Tourmaline. Greensburgh, Westchester county, N. Y. 149. Graphic granite. Corlaer's Hook, N. Y. 150. Fibrous gypsum. Nova Scotia. 151. Trap. Corlaer's Hook, N. Y. 152. Tremolite, in carbonate of lime. Somerstown, Westchester county, New York. 153. Asbestos in steatite, on carbonate of lime. New York. 154. Asbestos in steatite, on carbonate of lime. New York. 155. Lamellar pyrites. Sussex county, N. J. 156. Graphite pyrites. Sussex county, N. J. 157. Pyrites, in hornblende. Sussex county, N. J. 158. Brass yellow pyrites. Sussex county, N. J. 159. Jaspery agate. Corlaer's Hook, N. Y. 160. Pyrites, with specular oxide of iron. Sussex county, N. J. 161. Sulphate of barytes. Schooley's Mountain, N. J. 162. Sulphate of barytes. Washington county, Mo. 163. Bitter spar. Hoboken, N. J. 164. Arseniate of cobalt. Chatham, Conn. 165. Sulphate of lime. Nova Scotia. 166. Granular quartz. St. Genevieve county, Mo. 167. Sulphate of lime. Nova Scotia. 168. Common striped jasper. Corlaer's Hook, N. Y. 169. Sulphate of lime. Nova Scotia. 170. Compact limestone. Herculaneum, Mo. 171. Limestone. St. Louis, Mo. 172. Fibrous quartz. Schuyler's mines, N. J. 173. Quartz. Dutchess county, &c., N. Y. 174. Sulphuret of zinc, in crystallized quartz. Ulster county, N. Y. 175. Brown hæmatite. Salisbury, Conn. 176. Greenstone porphyry. Madison county, Mo. 177. Galena. Missouri. SHELLS. 1. Murex[*] canaliculatus, with Voluta mercatoria[*] included. 2. Murex[*] canaliculatus, with Voluta oliva[*] included. 3. Murex[*] canaliculatus, with serpulæ attached and included. 4. Murex[*] carica, with two pairs Mya[*] arenaria. 5. Helix[*] ampullacea, with two small madrepores.[*] 6. Helix[*] ampullacea, with seven Cypræa[*] monita--African money. 7. Venus[*] mercenaria, with four small ones; a variety of species included. 8. Venus[*] mercenaria, two valves, intermediate between the last named. 9. Cardium[*] leucostomum. 10. Cardium[*] edule. 11. Buccinum[*] perdix, three shells. 12. Murex[*] peritoideus, two shells. 13. Venus[*] maculata. 14. Patella[*] fornicata, six shells. 15. Buccinum[*] testiculus, two shells. 16. Venus[*] Paphia, two valves. 17. Larva[*] of strombus gigas, six shells. 18. Buccinum[+] glabratum (Ebuma of Lamarck). 19 and 20. Cypræa[+] lirabica. 21. C. sordida,[*] Linn. C. carneola, Lam. 22. C. caput[*] serpentis. Viper's head; cowry. 23. C. exanthema.[*] (False argus.) 24. Buccinum[*] patulum. 25. Voluta prunum.[*] 26. Cypræa[*] lota, two shells. 27. Voluta guttrata.[+] 28. Bulla[*] gibbosa, seven shells. 29. Ostrea[*] edulis. 30. Peetsen.[*] 31. Venus[*] tigerina. 32. Tellina[*] radiata. 33. Dentralium.[*] 34. Nerita[*] mammilla. 35. Bulla[*] ampulla. 36. Voluta oryzy.[*] (Rice shells.) 37. Voluta[*] nivea. 38. Arca[*] glycymeris. 39. Cerea[*] noe. 40. Mytilus[*] modiolus. [* Occidental shells.] [+ Oriental shells.] MINERAL RESOURCES OF THE WEST. A LETTER TO CHARLES G. HAINES, ESQ., SECRETARY OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR THE PROMOTION OF INTERNAL IMPROVEMENTS AT NEW YORK. NEW YORK, October 5th, 1819. SIR: In reply to your communication of the 4th inst., I submit the subjoined remarks on the following questions:-- I. "To what extent are the lead, and other mines, worked in our western country, either by the United States' government, or by individuals?" In the extensive region to which this inquiry has allusion, are found numerous ores, salts, ochres, and other minerals; and the catalogue is daily increasing, by the discovery of new substances, which promise to become important to the commerce of the western country; but the only mines worked are those of lead, iron, and coal. The lead-mines are situated in Missouri Territory, (formerly Upper Louisiana,) and extend on the western bank of the Mississippi for a distance of about one hundred miles, by forty in width, comprising the present counties of Washington, St. Genevieve, Jefferson, and Madison. The first lead-ore was discovered by De Lochon, La Motte, and others, acting under the authority of the Company of the West, as early as 1720. Since which period, the number of mines has been annually increasing by new discoveries, under the jurisdiction which has been successively exercised over that country by France, Spain, and the United States. The number of mines now worked is forty-five; thirty-nine of which are in Washington county, three in St. Genevieve, one in Madison, and two in Jefferson. The quantity of lead annually smelted from the crude ore, I have estimated at three million pounds; and the number of hands to whom it furnishes employment, at eleven hundred. A considerable proportion of these are, however, farmers, who only turn their attention to mining a part of the year, when their farms do not require their labor; the residue are professed smelters and miners, including blacksmiths and others, whose services are constantly required. The price of lead at the mines is now four dollars per cwt. It is worth four dollars and fifty cents on the banks of the Mississippi, at St. Genevieve and Herculaneum, and is quoted at seven dollars in Philadelphia. The ore exclusively worked is the common galena, or sulphuret of lead, with a broad glittering grain. It is found in detached pieces and beds in red clay, and in veins in limestone rock, accompanied by sulphate of barytes, calcareous spar, blende, quartz, and pyrites. It melts easily, yielding, in the large way, from sixty to seventy-five per cent. of pure metal. By chemical analysis I procured eighty-two per cent. of metallic lead from a specimen of common ore at Mine à Burton. The residue is chiefly sulphur, with a little carbonate of lime and silex. It contains no silver, or at least none which can be detected by the usual tests. All the lead smelted at these mines is transported in carts and wagons to the banks of the Mississippi, and deposited for shipment at Herculaneum or St. Genevieve. The different mines are situated at various distances, from thirty to forty-five miles in the interior, and the cost of transportation may be averaged at seventy-five cents per cwt. In summer, when the roads are in good order, it may be procured at fifty cents; but in the spring and fall, when the roads are cut up, it will cost one dollar. The transportation from Herculaneum and St. Genevieve to New Orleans, may now be procured at seventy cents per cwt. This is less than the sum paid, previous to the introduction of steamboats on the Mississippi and its tributary streams. Hence, it costs more to convey a hundredweight of lead forty miles by land, in wagons and carts, than to transport the same one thousand miles (the distance from Herculaneum to New Orleans) by steamboats. An improvement of the streams of the mine country, so as to render them navigable at all seasons for keel-boats and barges, is therefore a subject of the first moment. The Maramec river, a stream of one hundred and eighty miles in length, and a hundred yards wide at its mouth, which enters the Mississippi eighteen miles below St. Louis, draws its waters from the mining counties of Washington, Jefferson, St. Genevieve, and the unincorporated wilderness on the south-east, and the fertile counties of Franklin and St. Louis on the north-west; and its south-eastern tributaries meander throughout the mine tract. The principal of these are Grand river and Mineral Fork, which are navigable in spring and fall for keel-boats of a small size, and might, I believe, be rendered so throughout the year, at an inconsiderable expense. The lead-mines are exclusively worked by individuals, either under the authority of leases obtained from the United States for a limited time; on lands which were granted by the French or Spanish, and the titles to which have been subsequently confirmed by the United States; on unconfirmed lands; or in violation of existing laws. There are few sections of the valley of the Mississippi which are not characterized by iron and coal. Iron-ore is abundant on the Ohio and its tributaries, particularly on the Alleghany, Monongahela, and Muskingum. It is worked at several foundries in the counties of Fayette, Armstrong, and Alleghany, in Pennsylvania. The most noted furnaces are at Brownsville, from which the extensive foundries at Pittsburgh are chiefly supplied with pig-iron. It is also worked at Zanesville, on the Muskingum, and on Brush creek, in Ohio; and a foundry at Cincinnati, and another at Louisville, in Kentucky, are supplied with pig-iron from the latter place. The ore is chiefly of that kind called the argillaceous oxide, and produces iron which is well adapted for steam-engine machinery, and for hollow-ware. Stone-coal, of an excellent quality, is abundant at Pittsburgh, where it is largely consumed in iron-foundries, glass-furnaces, and other manufactories, and also in private dwellings. The most extensive pits or galleries are situated immediately opposite the city, on Coal Hill, where it has been pursued into the hill eight or nine hundred yards. It is found breaking out on the banks of the Alleghany at several places, at and near Kittaning, where beds of it have been opened; and I have even observed traces of it in the vicinity of Olean, near the head of Genesee river, in the State of New York. On the Monongahela it extends by Williamsport, Brownsville, and Greensburgh, to the vicinity of Morgantown, in Virginia; and such is the abundance of this mineral, and the uniformity and regularity which the geological structure of this part of the country presents, that there is no considerable section of it, within a circle of two hundred miles in diameter around Pittsburgh, which does not afford beds of good inflammable coal. Pursuing the Ohio down from Pittsburgh, it is successively worked at Wellsburg, Wheeling, Gallipolis, and Maysville. In Illinois, on Great Muddy river, and at Alton; in Missouri, at Florissant, and on Osage river; and in Arkansas, on the Washita river; this valuable mineral has also been found. II. "What mines have been discovered?" V. "Where are the most valuable mines to be found in the western country?" The reply to these inquiries has been, in part, anticipated by the preceding details. Lead and other mines are, however, found in several other sections of the western country. An extensive body of lead-ore is found near Prairie du Chien, on the west bank of the Mississippi, about five hundred miles above St. Louis. The ore is in the state of a sulphuret, is easily reduced, and yields about sixty-two and a half per cent. of metal. These mines are worked in an imperfect manner by the savages, the Sacs and Foxes, the original owners of the soil; and considerable quantities are annually brought down to St. Louis by the north-west traders. Lead-ore is also found on the river Desmoines of the Mississippi, where it was formerly worked by the French--on the Osage, Gasconade, and Mine river of the Missouri; on the White river and its tributaries; on the St. Francis; and on the Arkansas, where it is combined with a small proportion of silver. It is also found at Cave-in-Rock, Gallatin county, Illinois, accompanied by fluor spar; at Drennon's Lick and Millersburgh, in Kentucky; and on New river, at Austinville, in Wythe county, Virginia. At the latter place, it has been worked without interruption for nearly fifty years; and the mines still continue to be wrought. The ore is galena, accompanied by the carbonate of lead, and the earthy oxide of lead; the latter of which is worked in the large way, as is said, to a profit. Zinc is found in Washington county, Missouri, in considerable quantities; but only in the state of a sulphuret. Copper has been found in small masses, in a metallic state, on Great Muddy river, and at Harrisonville, Monroe county, Illinois. A grant of land made to P. F. Renault, in 1723, at Old Peoria, on the Illinois river, specifies the existence of a copper-mine upon it; but the most remarkable bodies of copper which the globe affords, are stated to exist on the western shores of Lake Superior, and on the Upper Mississippi. It is found in the metallic state, but accompanied also, as is said, by the sulphuret and carbonate of copper. The ores stretch over a very extensive region, and have been traced as low as the falls of St. Anthony. There is, indeed, reason to believe that copper is disseminated from the west bank of Great Muddy river, in Illinois, in a north-west direction, to the western shore of lake Superior, as all the streams, so far as observed, which flow either north or south at right angles with such a line, afford traces of copper. Thus, the Kaskaskia, the Illinois and its tributaries, the St. Peter, Wisconsin, and the southern forks of the Wabash and Miami, all furnish specimens of copper, as well as lead, zinc, and iron. An attempt was made by President Adams to explore the copper-mines of the north-west; but I know not what success attended the undertaking. Considering the certainty with which all travellers, since the days of Carver, have spoken of the existence of these mines, with the daily concurrent testimony of traders from that quarter, and their great importance in a national point of view, it is matter of surprise that they have been so long neglected. Is not the present an auspicious time for authorizing a mission into that quarter, for the purpose of exploring its physical geography? Iron is a mineral common to all parts of the western country. One of its most remarkable localities is the head of the river St. Francis, in Missouri Territory, where it extends through a considerable part of Madison and Washington counties. The most noted body is called the Iron Mountain, and is situated about forty miles west of the Mississippi, in Bellevieu, Washington county. The ore is here found in immense masses, and forms the southern extremity of a lofty ridge of hills, which consists chiefly of red granite, but terminates, in a rich alluvial plain, in a mass of solid ore. It is chiefly the micaceous oxide, accompanied by the red oxide, and by iron-glance. It melts very easily, producing a soft, malleable iron. Coal is not less common, and may be considered among those extensive mineral formations which stretch, in so remarkable a manner, throughout the vast basin included between the Alleghany and Rocky mountains. Salt and gypsum may also be referred to the same great geological formations, as they are to be traced, accompanying each other, from the western section of New York, to the southern banks of the Arkansas, where immense quantities of salt and gypsum exist. Clay, flint, ochre of various kinds, saltpetre, alum, reddle, soapstone, plumbago, oil-stone, marble, serpentine, &c., may be enumerated among the useful minerals of less importance, which characterize that region. III. "To what extent and advantage do you think the mines might be worked, under proper management and superintendence?" IV. "Are the laws of Congress, which have been passed in relation to our lead-mines, salutary in their operation?" I have stated the amount of lead annually produced by the Missouri mines at three millions of pounds, which, on reflection, I think is sufficiently high. But there are numerous difficulties opposed to the successful progress of mining in that country, by the removal of which, the amount would be greatly augmented. Some of these difficulties arise from the peculiar nature of the business, from a want of skill, or of mining capital in those by whom mining operations are conducted; but by far the greatest obstacle results from the want of a systematic organization of the mining interest by the United States, or from defects in existing laws on the subject. Immediately after the occupation of Louisiana by the United States, inquiry was made into the situation and extent of the mines; and a law was passed, reserving all mines discovered on the public lands, and authorizing the territorial executive for the time being to lease out such mines for a period of three years. A radical defect in this law appears always to have been, that there was not, at the same time, authorized the appointment of a specific agent for the general management and superintendence of mines. Such an officer has long been called for, not less by the public interest, than by the intelligent inhabitants of the western country, who feel how nearly a proper development of its mineral wealth is connected with their individual prosperity and national independence. The superintendent should reside in the mine country, and such a salary should be attached to the office as to induce a man of science to accept it. His duty should be to report annually to Congress the state of the mines, their produce, new discoveries, and proposed alterations in existing laws. He should lease out and receive rents for the public mines--prevent the destruction of timber on mineral lands, and the working of mines without authority, and should be charged with the investigation of the physical and geographical mineralogy of the country. At present, the most flagrant violations of the laws are practised--mines are worked without leases--wood is destroyed on lands which are only valuable for the wood and the lead-ore they contain; and the government derives but a small revenue from those celebrated mines, which, whether we consider their vast extent, the richness of the ore, or the quantity of metal they are capable of annually producing, are unparalleled by any other mineral district in the world. There is another feature in the existing law, which is not beneficial in its operation. It is that clause restricting the terms of leases to three years. To embark in mining operations with profit, it is necessary to sink shafts and galleries, build engines, and erect other necessary works, which are, in some degree, permanent in their nature, and require much time and expense in their completion. A considerable part of the period must, therefore, elapse before the mine can be put in a state for working; and no sooner is that done, and it begins to afford a profit, and promises a reward for the expense incurred, than the expiration of the lease throws all these works into the hands of some new adventurer, or more successful applicant. This prevents many from engaging in mining on the public lands, and especially those who would be best able to prosecute the business; and of the number who take leases, a great proportion continue to pursue the desultory method of mining in alluvial[20] ground, introduced at an early period by the French, but which is attended with very great uncertainty. Improvements remain also to be introduced in regard to the processes of mining, the furnaces employed, and the method of raising the ore. Inseparable from this subject is the distribution of more enlarged practical and scientific views of mining and minerals generally, which might, in a great degree, be effected by the dissemination of practical treatises on the subject, or by the employment of experienced and skilful miners from Europe. When such improvements shall be effected, with others to which it is not necessary here to advert--when miners are properly secured in the object of their pursuit, either by permanent purchases from government, or by leases for a long period of years--and when the facilities for transportation which that country is destined to afford, by the improved navigation of its streams, and by the introduction of turnpikes, roads, and bridges, are introduced, there is reason to conclude that the annual amount of lead produced will far surpass the proceeds of those mines under the present arrangement, and, indeed, it is impossible to calculate the extent to which it may be carried. It is, perhaps, a moderate estimate to say, that they are capable of being made to yield, by judicious management, six millions of pounds of lead per annum, and that they will furnish employment to three thousand hands. During my late tour throughout the western country, including nearly a year's residence in the interior of Missouri, I devoted much time to this interesting subject, and have been enabled to collect a body of facts on the physical resources and character of that country, and particularly of its mines and minerals, which it is my design to lay before the public. I must, therefore, refer you to this work, which is now in press, for further details on this subject, and, in the mean time, I beg your indulgent perusal of this hasty outline. With respect, Sir, Your obedient servant, HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT. FOOTNOTE: [20] This word is used in its common acceptation in 1819. GEOGRAPHY. MISSOURI. When Louisiana was admitted into the Union as an independent State, all that part of the territory situated north of 33° north latitude, and formerly known as Upper Louisiana, was erected into a separate territorial government, under the name of Missouri. This term is the name of a tribe of Indians who formerly dwelt near the Missouri river. The Territory also included those boundless plains and unexplored countries stretching from north to south, at the foot of the Rocky mountains, and which pass into the province of Texas on the south, and are bounded by the western line of Louisiana on the east. In the month of March of the present year, the southern part of Missouri Territory, including the unincorporated regions on the west and south-west, was erected into a separate Territory, under the name of Arkansas. The regions to the north-west may be considered as an unincorporated wilderness, where the authority of the United States, so far as the Indian title has been extinguished, is maintained in detached posts and garrisons, under the immediate government of military commandants. The bounds of Missouri, as designated in the late law respecting that country, are as follows: beginning on the Mississippi river, in latitude 36° north, and running due west on the latitude line to the river St. Francis, thence up that river to 36° 30' north latitude, thence west to a point due south of the mouth of the river Kanzas, thence north to a point opposite the mouth of the river Desmoines, thence east to the Mississippi river, and down the middle of that river to the place of beginning. It embraces some of the most prominent geographical features of the western country, and, from the meeting of such mighty streams on its confines, and its relation to all the country situated north and west of it, must become the key to all the commerce of those regions, and is destined to have a commanding influence on the surrounding States, and on the political character and mutations of that country. It is bounded by the States of Illinois and Kentucky, from which it is separated by the Mississippi river on the east and north-east, and by the Territory of Arkansas on the south. The country west of the Mississippi differs, in some respects, from any other section of the western country, and affords a variety in its physical aspect which is nowhere else to be met with. A great proportion of the lands in this Territory are of the richest kind, producing corn, wheat, rye, oats, flax, hemp, and tobacco, in great abundance, and in great perfection. The lands bordering on the Missouri river, as far as the Territory extends, are rich beyond comparison. They consist of black alluvial soil, of unknown depth, and partaking largely of the properties of marl; and the heavy growth of forest trees by which it is covered, indicates the strength of the soil. As you recede from the banks of the rivers, the land rises, passing, sometimes by almost imperceptible gradations, and sometimes very abruptly, into elevated barrens, flinty ridges, and rocky cliffs. A portion of the Territory is, therefore, unfit for cultivation, but still serves as the matrix of numerous ores, which are distributed abundantly in the hills and mountains of the interior. There is very little land of an intermediate quality. It is either very rich or very poor; it is either bottom-land or cliff, prairie or barren; it is a deep black marl, or a high bluff rock; and the transition is often so sudden, as to produce scenes of the most picturesque beauty. Hence, the traveller in the interior is often surprised to behold, at one view, cliffs and prairies, bottoms and barrens, naked hills, heavy forests, rocks, streams, and plains, all succeeding each other with rapidity, and mingled with the most pleasing harmony. I have contemplated such scenes, while standing on some lofty bluff in the wilderness of Missouri, with unmixed delight; while the deer, the elk, and the buffalo, were grazing quietly on the plains below. Situated between the 36th and 40th degrees of north latitude, the Territory enjoys a climate of remarkable serenity, and temperate warmth. That clear blue sky, so much admired by the aborigines, is characteristic of the country; and an atmosphere of unusual dryness, exempts the inhabitants from those pulmonary complaints which are more or less the consequence of a humid atmosphere. A country so situated cannot fail to prove genial to the vegetable kingdom. It would be difficult to point out a section of country which affords a more interesting field for the botanist. Its prairies and barrens are covered with a profusion of wild flowers, shrubs, and plants; and its cultivated fields yield to the hands of the planter, a great proportion of the useful vegetables of the earth. Corn succeeds remarkably; no country surpasses the banks of the Missouri for the vigor of its crops. Wheat, rye, oats, flax, and hemp, are also raised with advantage. Tobacco is an article recently introduced, but is found to succeed well, and the lands are said to be well adapted to its growth. Cotton is raised in the southern part of the Territory for family use, but is not an advantageous crop for market. The climate and soil are also adapted to the growth of the sweet or Carolina potato, and to fruit-trees of various kinds. The peach and the apple are most generally cultivated. Of wild fruits, the woods afford abundance; among which, the grape, persimmon, papaw, pecan, and filbert, are conspicuous. Some varieties of the grape are delicious, and they are very common at the mines, where the inhabitants prepare a wine from them, which has a pleasant flavor. The population of the Territory, exclusive of the aborigines, has been stated at 46,000, the greatest proportion of whom have emigrated into it within the last five years. They consist of people from various parts of the United States and Europe. A large number are from Tennessee, Kentucky, New York, and New England. The original inhabitants were French and Spanish. There are few of the latter remaining; but the former constitute a respectable proportion of the population. The principal towns of Missouri are St. Louis, St. Genevieve, St. Charles, and Franklin. Of a lesser size, are Herculaneum, Potosi, New Madrid, Cape Girardeau, Jackson, Chariton, Florissant, and Carondelet. St. Louis is the capital of the Territory, and by far the largest town west of Cincinnati, Ohio. It consists of about 550 houses and 5000 inhabitants, and has two banks, three houses for public worship, a post-office, theatre, land-office, and museum, including forty stores, with several mills, manufactories, &c. It is eligibly situated on the western bank of the Mississippi river, eighteen miles below the junction of the Missouri, and, from its commanding situation, is destined to become the emporium of the western country. Franklin, at Boon's Lick, on the Missouri, has 150 houses, is the thoroughfare for emigrants to that quarter, and is surrounded by one of the richest bodies of land west of the Alleghany mountains, to which emigration is flowing with unexampled rapidity. St. Charles, situated twenty-one miles above St. Louis, on the Missouri, is also a handsome and flourishing town. The same may be said of Chariton, one hundred and eighty miles above, at the mouth of Chariton river. No country in the world affords such an extent of inland navigation by its streams, as the basin lying between the Alleghany and Rocky mountains, whose congregated waters are carried to the ocean by those stupendous natural canals, the Mississippi, Missouri, Ohio, and Illinois. The Mississippi river itself, in whose current all these majestic streams unite, and are discharged into the Mexican gulf, washes the eastern boundaries of the Territory, from the mouth of the river Desmoines to that of the St. Francis, a distance of more than five hundred miles. The Missouri, swelled by its great tributaries, the Yellowstone, Little Missouri, Whitestone, La Platte, Kanzas, and Osage, passes diagonally nearly through its centre, affording on both sides a widely-extended tract of soil transcendently rich, and bearing a luxuriant growth of forest trees and plants, interspersed with prairie. It is navigable, without interruption, from its junction with the Mississippi to its falls, a distance of two thousand miles. The Ohio is a thousand miles in length from its head, at Pittsburgh, to its junction with the Mississippi, and, in its passage, successively washes the shores of Pennsylvania, Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois--shores which are covered with villages, towns, and settlements, and lined with an industrious and hardy population. The Illinois is also a stream affording a great length of navigation, and lands of superior quality, and has a natural connection with the great north-western lakes, into which boats may, at certain seasons, uninterruptedly pass. These rivers, communicating with all parts of the country by their tributaries, afford the advantages of commercial exchange, trade, and manufactures, to a greater extent, and a richer description of country, than is anywhere to be found in Europe, Asia, or Africa. Of these advantages, the Territory of Missouri, occupying so commanding a position in the geography of the country, must always partake largely, and may, from the wealth already concentrated in its capital, St. Louis, enjoy almost exclusively the trade of the Missouri and upper Mississippi. The streams which originate within the lines described by the political boundaries of the Territory, and which, either during their whole course, or for a considerable distance, meander through it, are the Osage, the Gasconade, Maramec, Salt river, St. Francis, and Black river. Of a lesser magnitude are Mine river, Chariton, Currents, Fourche à Thomas, Eleven-points, and Spring rivers; the four latter running southerly into the Arkansas Territory, and discharging their waters into Black river, which is itself a tributary of White river. The Osage originates in a prairie country, near the ninety-sixth degree of west longitude, about one hundred miles north of the Arkansas, and, after meandering in an east and north-east direction for a distance of five hundred miles, unites with the Missouri one hundred and thirty miles above St. Louis. In its course it is swelled by several tributaries, the principal of which is the Little Osage, its great south-eastern fork. This river affords, in its whole length, large bodies of the choicest prairie-land, interspersed with woodland, and occasionally with hills, and is navigable for moderate sized boats. Its banks afford exhaustless beds of stone-coal, and some iron and lead is found, while its upper forks reach into the country of the Pawnees--a country rich in salt. The Osage Indians inhabit its banks; but a part of their lands have been purchased by the United States. It is a very beautiful stream, and situated in a delightful climate; and when its borders are opened for emigration, and its resources properly drawn forth, will support a large population, and a profitable trade. Its fertile soil and genial climate entitle it to the rank of one of the first tributaries of the Missouri. In estimating the length of western rivers, there is one circumstance which is not properly estimated by an eastern reader. It is their serpentine course, which is so remarkable, that, in running one hundred miles on a geographical line, they will, by their great windings, measure at least double that distance; so that a river stated to be one thousand miles in length by its banks, cannot be calculated to traverse a country of more than five hundred miles in extent; indeed, I believe that a fair average of distances would show the geographical distance to be less. The Gasconade enters the Missouri one hundred miles above St. Louis. Its length is about two hundred miles, and it is navigable for half that distance. It is made up of several streams running from a ridge of high lands, separating the waters which fall on the north into the Missouri, from those which flow on the south into the Mississippi. Its banks afford but a small proportion of tillable lands, being bordered with rocks and sterile hills. The rocks are, however, cavernous, and afford saltpetre; and the hills are covered by pine timber, which is sawed into boards and plank. In these two articles, the commerce of this river will always principally consist. The current is rapid, and affords by its fall many mill-seats, so that boats and rafts may descend with ease; but its ascent is attended with great labor. On this stream are already situated several saw-mills. The Maramec also originates in high lands, two hundred and fifty miles south-west of its mouth, and is separated from the waters of the Gasconade only by a dividing ridge of land. It is swelled in its course by a great number of streams, the most noted of which are the Little Maramec, Bourbuse, Fourche à Courtois, Big river, and Mineral Fork. It forms a junction with the Mississippi eighteen miles below St. Louis, where it is two hundred yards wide. It is only navigable about fifty miles, except in high floods in the spring and fall, when most of its tributaries may be ascended with boats. This stream waters the country of the mines, and interlocks, by its affluents, with the Gasconade on the west, and the St. Francis on the south. The mines of Missouri are situated on its southern shores. Salt river enters the Mississippi one hundred and three miles above St. Louis, and seventy-three miles above the mouth of the Illinois. The settlements on its banks are rapidly progressing, and the lands are noted for their fertility. The St. Francis originates, with Big river, in broken lands in the southern part of Washington and St. Genevieve counties, and joins the Mississippi five hundred miles below. The most noted bodies of iron-ore in the western country lie on its head, at Bellevieu. The La Motte lead-mines also lie along the banks of one of its tributaries. It affords, in its course, a proportion of excellent land, mixed with some that is rocky, and bordered near its mouth with much that is swampy, low, and overflown. A raft of trees, about two hundred and fifty miles above its mouth, obstructs the navigation, which would otherwise be good to within fourteen miles of St. Michael, the seat of justice for Madison county. Black river has its origin near the heads of the Gasconade and the Maramec, and is swelled in its course by the river Currents, Fourche à Thomas, Eleven-points, Spring and Strawberry rivers, and forms a junction with White river about forty miles below Poke Bayou, where the road to Arkansas and Red river crosses it. The banks of Black river, and of all its tributaries, afford rich alluvial land of more or less extent; but the intervening ridges are rocky and sterile. Although there is much high land in this Territory, there is perhaps none which, strictly speaking, is entitled to the appellation of a mountain. A ridge of high land, called the Ozark chain, commencing on the banks of the Maramec, near the Fourche à Courtois, extends in a south-west direction to the banks of White river, in Arkansas Territory, a distance of about four hundred miles, and occasionally rises into peaks of mountain height. This ridge serves to divide the waters of the Missouri from those of the Mississippi; the streams on one side running south into the latter, and those on the other running north into the former. The body of red granite found on the head of the St. Francis, lies in mountain masses, and forms, in connection with the accompanying rocks, some of the most rude and terrific scenery, full of interest in a mineralogical, as well as a geological point of view. In the preceding view of the lead-mines of Missouri, and in the catalogue of minerals subsequently introduced, I have already anticipated much that might with propriety be given here; it may therefore be sufficient to give a brief synopsis of both. The lead-mines in this Territory are situated about forty miles west of the Mississippi, and sixty miles south-west of St. Louis. They occupy a district of country between the waters of the St. Francis and the Maramec, one hundred miles in length, by about forty in breadth. The first lead-ore was discovered by Philip Francis Renault and M. La Motte, acting under the authority of the Company of the West, about the year 1720; since which period, the number of mines has been greatly augmented by new discoveries. The quantity of lead annually smelted from the crude ore, I have estimated at three millions of pounds; and the number of hands to whom it furnishes employment, at eleven hundred. Iron-ore is found in very large bodies in Bellevieu, Washington county--on Fourche à Courtois, where it is accompanied by manganese--on Big river--on Platten and Joachim creeks--and on the waters of the St. Francis and Black rivers. Stone-coal exists in large bodies at Florissant, and in various places on the Osage river. On the banks of the Maramec and the Gasconade are found numerous caves, which yield an earth impregnated largely with nitre, procured from it by lixiviation. On the head of Currents river are also found several caves, from which nitre is procured; the principal of which is Ashley's cave, on Cave creek, about eighty miles south-west of Potosi. This is one of those stupendous and extensive caverns which cannot be viewed without exciting our wonder and astonishment, which is increased by beholding the entire works for the manufacture of nitre, situated in its interior. The native nitrate of potash is found in beautiful white crystals, investing the fissures of the limestone rock, which forms the walls of this cave; and several others in its vicinity exhibit the same phenomenon. Of the number of inhabitants now resident in the Territory, I have estimated eleven hundred to be engaged in mining; but the number was much greater at a former period, one thousand men having been employed at Mine à Burton alone. The residue of the population are farmers, mechanics, and manufacturers, including professional men. There is also another class of society, which I shall notice under the name of hunters. The farming class is by far the largest, as the fertility of the soil, and the advantage of procuring lands on easy terms, and in a mild climate, afford the strongest and surest prospects of gain to the emigrant. There are probably fewer mechanics than are required by the existing population. The wages of mechanics of all kinds are very high. A carpenter or bricklayer cannot be hired for less than two dollars per day, and often receives more. Other mechanics are also in demand, particularly in the new settlements; and these are increasing with such rapidity, as to invite the emigration of skilful and industrious artisans from all parts, with the sure prospect of success. The manufactures of the Territory, in addition to its grand staple, lead, consist in the distillation of whiskey from rye and corn, in the flouring of wheat, the fabrication of coarse cotton goods, and tow cloth in private families, and of patent shot. Some white lead has been made at St. Louis. A clothier's and fuller's works have been recently established on Big river; and a number of tan-yards, where raw hides are manufactured into leather, are in successful operation in various sections of the country. Made up of emigrants from all other parts of the United States, and from Europe, the inhabitants can hardly be said to have acquired an uniform character. Hospitality to strangers, enterprise in business, ardor in the pursuit of wealth, an elevated pride of country, and perseverance under the pressure of many difficulties growing out of the infancy of the settlements, are the most conspicuous traits in the character of the inhabitants west of the Mississippi. They are robust, frank, and daring. Taught, by the hardships and dangers incident to a frontier settlement, to depend for security and success upon their own individual exertions, they rely little upon extraneous help, and feel that true independence, flowing from a conviction that their own physical exertions are equal to every call, necessity, and emergency of life. Observations drawn from habitual intercourse, and from witnessing their public debates, would also lead us to conclude, that their enjoyments arise more from those active scenes attendant upon adventures which require corporeal exertion, than from the arts of peace, refinement, and intellectual research. Duelling is unfortunately prevalent in Missouri; and the practice, while it continues to receive the sanction of men occupying the first rank in society, cannot be expected to fall into disrepute, but must, on the contrary, continue to exert its influence over other classes of the community, and to involve, in some measure, in its consequences, those who from principle are opposed to it. Those scenes of riot and atrocity, however, which have been imputed to the inhabitants of the mines by former travellers, do not now exist; the most beneficial changes having been effected in the state of society in that country. Emigration has added to the former population an accession of talents and intelligence, which has served to mark the society at the mines with much of the hospitality, decorum, and refinements of older settlements. The first inhabitants of this part of ancient Louisiana were French and Spanish; the former of whom still constitute a considerable proportion of the population, but of the latter there are very few remaining. The French language is therefore spoken, in many settlements, almost exclusively; and many of the Americans have found it advantageous to acquire a knowledge of that tongue. The hunter class of the population is composed of persons from various sections of the Union, who have either embraced hunting from the love of ease or singularity, or have fled from society to escape the severity of the laws, and to indulge in unrestrained passion. Learning and religion are alike disregarded, and in the existing state of society among the Missouri hunters, we are presented with a contradiction of the theories of philosophers of all ages; for we here behold the descendants of enlightened Europeans in a savage state, or at least in a rapid state of advance towards it. These hunters are chiefly located on the White, Arkansas, and Red rivers. Their numbers may be computed at a thousand or fifteen hundred. The late division of the Territory will throw nearly all of them into Arkansas. The principal tribe of Indians in this Territory are the Osages, a powerful nation residing on the Osage river. They are remarkable for their tall stature, and their fine proportions. It is very rare to see any of them under six feet. They inhabit a delightful country, and are in amity with the United States. Their chiefs are hereditary, and in war they fight on horseback. Their warriors are called _braves_, to which honor no one can arrive without having previously plundered or stolen from the enemy. Hence, plundering and stealing are acts of the greatest merit, and demand rewards proportionate to the adroitness or extent of the act. They are also in the habit of plundering white hunters and travellers, but are never known to commit murders on such occasions. A part of the ancient and once powerful tribes of Shawnees and Delawares, also inhabit this Territory. They are located on the banks of Apple creek and Fourche à Courtois. Many of the plantations and mines are worked by slaves, and among them are to be found blacksmiths and carpenters, whose services are extremely valuable to their masters. The introduction of slavery into this section of the western country, appears to have taken place at an early day, and it has led to a state of society which is calculated to require their continued assistance. HOT SPRINGS OF WASHITA. The attention of the traveller in the interior of Missouri and Arkansas, is frequently arrested by the novelty of the scenery, and the wild and singularly fanciful aspect of the country; he is often induced to stop, to survey some cavern, water-fall, high, loose-hanging cliff, or other natural phenomenon. It is in this light that those natural curiosities, the Hot Springs of Washita, will be found to reward attention. These springs, which have been known for many years, are situated on a stream called Hot Spring creek, which falls into the Washita river eight miles below. They lie fifty miles south of the Arkansas river, and six miles west of the road from Cadron to Mount Prairie, on Red river. The approach to the Springs lies up the valley of the creek, which is partly made up of its waters. On leaving the banks of the Washita, the face of the country almost imperceptibly changes from a rich soil, covered with a luxuriant growth of trees, to a sterile mineral tract. On the right hand rises the Hot Mountain, with the springs issuing at its foot; on the left, the Cold Mountain, which is little more than a confused and mighty pile of stones; and the view in front is terminated by a high point of land, which makes down gradually into the valley, and separates the creek into two forks, of nearly equal size. The Hot Mountain is about three hundred feet high, rising quite steep, presenting occasionally ledges of rocks, and terminating at top in a confused mass of broken rocks, with here and there a pine or oak tree. Its sides, notwithstanding their sterility and the steepness of the ascent, are covered by a most luxuriant growth of vines, particularly muscadine, the fruit of which is delicious. The Cold Mountain is separated from the Hot by a valley of about fifty yards wide, through which the creek flows; it is nearly as steep as the other, about of an equal height, and terminates in the same confused manner. Some pine trees are found on it, but its sides are destitute of vegetation. The springs issue near the foot of the Hot Mountain, at an elevation of about ten feet above the level of the creek. They are very numerous all along the hill-side, and the water, which runs in copious streams, is quite hot. It will scald the hand, and boil an egg hard in ten minutes. Its temperature is considered that of boiling water; but Dr. Andrews, of Red river, tells me that it cannot be reckoned over 200° of Fahrenheit. There is a solitary spring, situated seventy feet higher than the others, on the side of the mountain; but it is also of an equal temperature, and differs in no respect from those below. Evaporation produces a dense fog, which hangs over the springs, and upon the side of the hill, looking at a distance like a number of furnaces in blast. It is probably the condensation of this fog by the cold air at night, which produces such a rank growth of vines on the side of the mountain, where, otherwise, there would hardly exist a sign of vegetable life. An idea of the beneficial effects of this water is generally prevalent throughout the Territory, and numbers annually resort to the springs. They are found serviceable in rheumatisms, paralysis, pains in the breast, and all chronic and nervous complaints. The method of using the water is various. Bathing and sweating are generally resorted to. It is also drunk as hot as can be borne, and is not, like ordinary warm water, productive of nausea in the stomach. Of the chemical or medicinal properties of the water, little is known, as no accurate analysis has been made. The water appears clear, pure, and beautiful; it deposits a sediment, which is sometimes red, and in other places green or yellow. Some of the springs have a petrifying quality. The warmth of the water, acting along the courses of the streams, has a stimulating effect on the vegetation. There is abundance of a beautiful green moss growing in the springs, near their edges; and their devious courses to the creek below are only indicated by a more vigorous growth of grass and moss all along the borders, and a brighter green. The mineralogical character of the country around the springs is highly interesting. Three miles above is a quarry of oil-stone, of a peculiar and valuable kind. It has a very compact texture, is heavy, translucent, and gives a fine edge to a razor. The rock formations here are limestone, slate, and quartz. Veins of white quartz, four or five feet in width, are found running through the slate rock. Fine crystals of limpid quartz are also abundant in the neighborhood. At the cove on Washita river, fifteen miles below the springs, there is a body of magnetic iron-ore; sulphates of copper and zinc, and sulphuret of iron, in cubical crystals, occur in the same locality. These springs, geologically, exist in a primitive formation, which may be considered the southern termination of the Ozark chain. Ancient volcanic forces have raised the beds of slate, sienite, and greenstone, of the chain, to their present elevations. The waters owe their heat to these long-extinguished, but deep-slumbering fires, which may hereafter break out into new activity. UNICA, OR WHITE RIVER In order duly to estimate the magnitude, position, character, and importance of any of our great western rivers, it is necessary to consider the relation they bear to each other, and to the surrounding country. A mere topographical description of an isolated section of country--a mountain, a stream, or a mine--may possess its value; but without a survey, however cursory, of the contiguous regions, it must lose much of its interest to the general reader, and much of its utility to the geographical student. It will be necessary, therefore, to cast a glance at the extensive country in which this river lies, before its individual consideration can be profitably commenced. In looking on the map of ancient Louisiana, the most striking physical trait presented is the Rocky mountains, extending from Mexico into the unexplored regions north and west of lake Superior, with the del Norte, Red river, Arkansas, Kanzas, La Platte, and Yellowstone, all issuing from its sides near the same point, and uniting (with the exception of the former) at different points in the vast basin below, with the Missouri, the Ohio, and the Mississippi, in whose congregated floods they roll on to the Mexican gulf. Other streams traverse the country; but these are the principal rivers of Louisiana, whose heads rest on the Rocky mountains. Immediately at the foot of these mountains commence the almost interminable plains of sand, or Kanzian desert, stretching from north to south for more than a thousand miles, and with an average breadth of six hundred. To this succeed the highlands and mountains of the present Territories of Missouri and Arkansas, which preserve a pretty exact parallelism, from north to south, with the Rocky mountain chain, and give rise to several rivers of secondary magnitude. This again is bounded by the alluvial tract of the Mississippi, being the third grand parallel division presented by the surface of the soil. Through these, the Red river and the Arkansas hold their unaltered course, and reach the Mississippi without a fall; while the Kanzas, the La Platte, and the Yellowstone, bending northward, reach the Missouri, without meeting any mountains to oppose their progress. The rivers of secondary magnitude, whose origin is east of the highlands bordering the western desert, are the Teche, Vermillion, Tensaw, Washita, Little Missouri, Courtableau, Boeuf, Little Red, Grand, White, Black, Osage, Maramec, Gasconade, and St. Francis rivers. Of these, White river, a stream hitherto almost wholly unknown, or only known to hunters, and which has not received its deserved rank on any existing map, is one of the most considerable. It was therefore with surprise that I found, on travelling into those remote regions, so considerable a stream unnoticed by geographers, or only noticed to attest their want of information respecting its size, length, tributaries, character, productions, and importance. I therefore concluded that a summary of these particulars, as observed by myself during a tour into that quarter, would be an acceptable piece of service, and, with this view, began these observations. White river originates near the ninety-seventh degree of west longitude, and about the thirty-sixth of north latitude, and, after running in a very serpentine course for thirteen hundred miles, enters the Mississippi fifty miles above the mouth of the Arkansas, and seven hundred above New Orleans. Its waters, unlike most of the western rivers, are beautifully clear and transparent, being wholly made up of springs that gush from the diluvial hills which are found, for more than half its length, within a few miles of, and often immediately upon, its banks. So much of the country through which it runs, is, therefore, sterile and rough; but the immediate margin of the river uniformly presents a strip of the richest alluvial bottom-land, from a quarter of a mile to a mile and a half in width. On this, corn, wheat, rye, oats, flax, hemp, and potatoes, have a vigorous growth; the mildness of the climate, and the fertility of the soil, combining to render it one of the most favorable of all countries for the pursuits of agriculture. Cotton also succeeds on the banks of this river as high up as settlements have extended, and will hereafter be an important item among its agricultural productions. The district of tillable land on this river, like many others west of the Mississippi, is chiefly confined to its banks. Bordering this, is found a chain of hills on either side, which sometimes close in upon the river's banks in perpendicular cliffs; and the adjacent country may in general be considered as sterile. To this remark, all its tributaries are exceptions; for they invariably afford, however small, tracts of the most fertile land, covered with a heavy growth of forest trees and underbrush. The cane is also common to this stream in its whole course, and affords a nutritious food for cows, horses, and hogs, who are fond of it, and fatten upon it. This plant being an evergreen, cattle and horses may feed upon it all winter; and it is accordingly given to them, as a substitute for hay, by the Indians and hunters. The only inhabitants on the upper part of White river, so far as inhabitants have penetrated, are hunters, who live in camps and log cabins, and support themselves by hunting the bear, deer, buffalo, elk, beaver, raccoon, and other animals, which are found in great plenty in that region. They also raise corn for bread, and for feeding their horses. They seldom, however, cultivate more than an acre or two, subsisting chiefly on animal food and wild honey, and pay no attention to the cultivation of garden vegetables, if I except some cabbages, noticed at a few habitations. When the season of hunting arrives, the ordinary labors of a man about the house and cornfield devolve upon the women, whose condition in such a state of society may readily be imagined. The inhabitants, in fact, pursue a similar course of life with the savages, having embraced their love of ease, and their contempt for agricultural pursuits, with their sagacity in the chase, their mode of dressing in skins, their manners, and their hospitality to strangers. The furs and peltries which are collected during repeated excursions in the woods, are taken down the river at certain seasons in canoes, and disposed of to traders, who visit the lower parts of this river for that purpose. Here they receive, in exchange for their furs, woollen cloths, rifles, knives, hatchets, salt, powder, lead, iron for horse-shoes, blankets, iron pots, shoes, and other articles of primary importance in their way of life. Those living near the cultivated parts of Lawrence county, in Arkansas Territory, also bring down, in exchange for such articles, buffalo beef, pork, bears' meat, beeswax, and honey, which are again sold by the traders along the banks of the Mississippi, or at New Orleans. Very little money is paid, and that in hard cash only; no bank-bills of any kind being taken in that quarter. I happened to be present, on my return from the head-waters of White river, at one of these exchanges, where a further opportunity was offered of observing the manners and character of these people. Bears' meat was sold at $10 per cwt.; buffalo beef at $4; cows' beef at $3; pork, in the hog, at $3 50; venison hams at 25 cents each; wild turkeys, the same; wild honey at $1 per gallon; beaver fur, $2 per lb.; bearskins, $1 50 each; otter skins, $2; raccoon skins, 25 cents; deerskins, 25 cents per lb. These prices were considered high by the purchaser; but they were only nominally so, as he paid them off in articles at the most exorbitant rates. Common three-point or Mackinaw blankets were sold at $8 each; butcher-knives at $2; rifle-locks at $8; common coarse blue cloth at $6 per yard; coffee at 75 cents per lb.; salt at $5 per bushel; lead at 25 cents per lb.; gunpowder at $2 per lb.; axes at $6 each; horseshoe-nails at $3 per set, &c. The trade of this river is consequently attended with profits which amply repay the risks and fatigues incident to a voyage in that quarter. Vast quantities of furs and skins are annually brought down this river, with some beeswax, honey, beef, bacon, &c.; and whenever the hunter population yields to the farming and mechanical class, the list of its productions will be swelled by corn, rye, wheat, oats, flax, hemp, and cotton; a sufficiency of each of which has already been raised, to show that the climate and soil are well adapted to their culture. Its mineral products are also worthy of attention. Iron-ore, lead, zinc, and manganese, have already been discovered; and among its earthy minerals may be enumerated marble, agate, jasper, hornstone, and rock crystal; specimens of which, with some others, I picked up during my journey there. Caves with nitre are also common; and large forests of pine timber, which will be wanted in the progressing settlements on the Mississippi, are situated on its northern tributaries, and may be floated down at an inconsiderable expense. White river runs through a section of country which, according to a recent political division, belongs chiefly to the Territory of Arkansas; but several of its tributaries originate in Missouri, the chief of which are James river, Great North Fork, or Pine river, and Black river, with its auxiliaries--Currents, Fourche à Thomas, Spring, Eleven-points, and Strawberry rivers. About a hundred and fifty miles below the Pawnee mountains, the main south fork of White river is joined by the War Eagle and Osage forks; a region remarkable for the abundance of beaver found in its streams. In the course of the succeeding two hundred miles, it is joined by King's river and Tower creek on the south, and by Roaring fork and James river on the north; the latter being by far the largest stream it has thus far received, and contributing nearly as much water as all the others put together. From the mouth of James river to its junction with the Mississippi, it is successively joined by Long, Bull, Swan, Beaver, and Big creeks, by the Little and Great North Forks, Black and Cash rivers, on the north; and on the south by Bear and Crooked creeks, Buffalo Fork, and Little Red river; and it is finally connected with the Arkansas river by a natural canal called the _cut-off_, about thirty miles above its junction with the Mississippi, which affords a navigable water communication at all seasons. Many of the above tributaries are streams of no ordinary magnitude, and afford boat navigation for many hundred miles; they are all characterized by tracts of rich alluvial lands on their banks. James river, Buffalo Fork, Great North Fork, Black river, and Little Red river, merit individual attention. James river originates in the Ozarks, a few miles south of the Gasconade, in Missouri Territory, and, after running in a south-west direction for two hundred miles, in the course of which it is swelled by Findley's river, and by other streams, forms a junction with White river a thousand miles above the mouth of the latter. Its waters are as pure as crystal; it lies under a climate the most mild, salubrious, and delightful; and on its banks are situated a body of the most fertile and beautiful lands which the whole valley of the Mississippi affords. The timber on its banks is abundant; a remark which cannot with justice be made of many parts of the adjacent country, and nothing can exceed the vigor and the verdure of vegetable nature on the borders of this beautiful stream. Prairies are also found within a mile of its western banks, and extend towards the Grand Osage, as far as the eye can reach, level as a graduated plain, and waving with tall grass, on which the elk, the buffalo, and the deer, feed in countless numbers. Findley river forms a junction with this stream, near the centre of this choice body of land, and about one hundred miles above its mouth. Twenty miles above the junction of these streams, on the immediate banks of James river, are situated some valuable lead-mines, which have been known to the Osage Indians, and to a few White river hunters, for many years. The Indians have been in the habit of procuring lead for bullets at that place, by smelting the ore in a kind of furnace, made by digging a pit in the ground, and casing it with some flat stones, placed so as to resemble the roof of a house inverted; such is the richness of the ore, and the ease with which it smelts. The ore has not, however, been properly explored, and it is impossible to say how extensive the beds or veins may prove. Some zinc, in the state of a sulphuret, is found accompanying it. There is not one inhabitant on all this stream; my own cabin, erected for a temporary purpose at the mines in January last, being the only human habitation within two hundred miles of that place. Buffalo Fork originates near the north banks of the Arkansas, and, after traversing a rocky country for about one hundred and eighty miles in a north-east course, joins White river at the Buffalo Shoals, about seven hundred miles above the Mississippi. It is a fine region for game, and affords some good lands. The Great North Fork, or Pine river, is a stream of two hundred miles in length, and a hundred yards wide at its mouth. Its waters are clear, being entirely made up of springs, which are numerous all along its banks; but the navigation is interrupted by rapids. It originates with James river and the Gasconade, in a ridge of high land, which throws a part of its waters into the Missouri, and a part into the Mississippi, the streams running in opposite directions. In travelling into that country, I accidentally arrived at the extreme head of this river, where it consists only of some drizzling springs, and pursued it down, in all its windings, to its junction with White river, about twelve miles below the mouth of Buffalo Fork. It is bordered on both sides by limestone bluffs, covered generally with tall pines, and affording some detached strips of valuable land. On the whole, however, it must be considered a sterile region, which will never admit of a dense population. The bottoms are overrun by cane and brier, which render travelling extremely fatiguing. This stream appears generally to have been considered by geographers as the head of White river, which is accordingly, on most maps, made to originate at this place. The error has been, in some degree, corrected in Robinson's new map of Louisiana, lately published at Natchez, which may be esteemed the best map extant respecting that section of country. He calls it Pine river. Black river is a large, deep, and gentle stream, composed of numerous auxiliaries, which draw their waters from the counties of Wayne, New Madrid, and Lawrence; the two former lying in Missouri Territory, and the latter in Arkansas. It is navigable with boats of the largest burden, at all seasons of the year, for more than one hundred miles. Little Black, Currents, Fourche à Thomas, Eleven-points, Spring, and Strawberry rivers, are all streams of considerable size, coming in on the west, and deserve particular notice on the future maps of that country. Their banks afford choice bodies of fertile lands, which are already the seat of many plantations and farms, where corn, rye, wheat, oats, flax, hemp, and cotton, are raised in the greatest perfection, and the settlements are rapidly increasing. Considerable quantities of beef and pork are also put up for the New Orleans market, every facility being afforded by the luxuriance of grass in the woods, and the abundance of acorns in the fall, for raising and fattening hogs and cattle. Lawrence county is generally considered among the first farming districts west of the Mississippi. Davidsonville, the seat of justice for this county, is situated on the west bank of Black river, at the junction of Spring river. The settlements on Strawberry river, on the Currents, Fourche à Thomas, Poke Bayou, and other places, are in a flourishing condition. Little Red river issues near the sources of Buffalo Fork, and runs parallel with the Arkansas for a great distance, but inclines gradually to the north-east, and joins White river about two hundred miles above its mouth. It affords a considerable body of choice land, but is subject to very sudden rises, which overflow its banks, and have retarded, to some extent, the further settlement of its valley. Such are the principal tributaries of White river; a stream which is navigable, with keel-boats of thirty tons burden, to the foot of Buffalo Shoals, a distance of seven hundred miles from its mouth, and may be ascended with light vessels five hundred miles higher. It draws its waters from a district of country about three hundred miles in width, by seven or eight hundred in length, having on its borders and tributaries large bodies of very rich lands, mixed with much that is poor and unfit for cultivation; but, taking into view its advantageous situation for commerce, its political relation to the two Territories, in a part of each of which it lies, and the extensive bodies of farming-lands on James river, Buffalo Fork, and Black river, we may anticipate the period when a large population shall find their support on its banks--when numerous villages and towns shall decorate its shores, and the productive labor of its inhabitants swell greatly the commerce of the western country, while they themselves command an important influence in its political transactions. One of the most interesting events connected with the history of this river, is the visit paid to it by De Soto in 1542. The place of his crossing it is not certainly known. STEAM NAVIGATION ON THE MISSISSIPPI. Steamboats were first introduced on the Mississippi about 1812; and, within seven years of that time, not less than fifty boats, of all classes, had been built. The following list, which I made in 1819, embraces all the steam-vessels which are known to have been put upon that stream and its tributaries, prior to that era, and is believed to give with accuracy their names and tonnage. Fulton's first successful experiment in the application of Savary's steam-engine, as improved by Watt and Bolton, to the propulsion of vessels, dates in 1807; so that but five years elapsed before the invention was introduced, and twelve years before it was spread, on the western waters. The impracticability of navigating those waters by the force of sails, caused the invention to be hailed there with acclamation; and this explains the cause of its rapid multiplication. No. Names. Tons. No. Names. Tons. 1. Etna 200 27. St. Louis Packet 150 2. Vesuvius 280 28. Ramapo 100 3. Orleans 200 29. Rising States 150 4. Alabama 300 30. Maid of Orleans 100 5. Columbus 400 31. Hamlet 100 6. Tamerlane 200 32. Perseverance 50 7. James Ross 250 33. Johnson 75 8. United States 500 34. Eagle 100 9. Paragon 250 35. Vesta 110 10. Thomas Jefferson 200 36. Harriet 40 11. Ohio 300 37. Constitution 45 12. General Jackson 100 38. Louisiana 60 13. Maysville 152 39. Governor Shelby 60 14. Exchange 154 40. Franklin 80 15. Volcano 140 41. Rifleman 60 16. Madison 100 42. Newport 45 17. Kentucky 60 43. Expedition 150 18. Hecla 100 44. General Clark 150 19. Napoleon 200 45. Henderson 150 20. Washington 150 46. Tornado 250 21. Buffalo 100 47. Elizabeth 175 22. James Monroe 70 48. Missouri Packet 100 23. Cincinnati 85 49. Post-Boy (for 24. St. Louis 200 pas'gers only) 25. General Pike 75 50. Western Engineer 40 26. Independence 100 ----- Total 7,306 In addition to these, there are two new boats building at Pittsburgh, one at Wheeling, one at Steubenville, one at Marietta, two at Cincinnati, one at Frankfort, two at Shippingport, one at Madison, and two at New Albany, making a total number of sixty-three. There are also several more in contemplation, so that it is probable another year will considerably augment the number. The first steamboat on the western waters was built at Pittsburgh in 1811, eight years ago. Hence it appears there has been an average increase of eight boats per annum; but by far the greatest proportion have been built within the last three years. 7306 tons, at 4 cents per lb. freight up from New Orleans, amounts to $584,480 00 7306 tons, at 1 cent per lb. freight down to New Orleans 146,120 00 10 passengers down in each boat, at $60 39,800 00 5 passengers up in each boat, at $100 31,500 00 ----------- $801,900 00 It is presumable that each boat will perform three trips to and from New Orleans per annum, which will make an aggregate amount of freight and passage money of $2,405,700 per annum. From this, some idea of the trade, population, and business of the vast valley of the Mississippi, may be formed. And let it be remembered, at the same time, that the transportation of merchandise is not wholly done by steamboats. The Ohio and Mississippi are still lined with keel-boats and barges; and much of the produce is still carried to market in flat-bottomed boats, of a temporary construction, which are not calculated to ascend the stream, and are therefore generally sold for a trifle, or abandoned. The following is extracted from a comparative statement of the increase of the principal articles of produce which arrived at the New Orleans market during a period of three years. Productions. 1815. 1816. 1817. Bacon and hams, cwt. 7,000 13,000 18,000 Butter, lbs. 500 1,800 Cotton, bales 60,000 65,000 65,000 Corn, bushels 120,000 130,000 140,000 Flour, barrels 75,000 98,000 190,000 Molasses, gallons 500,000 800,000 1,000,000 Pork, barrels 8,000 9,700 22,000 Sugar, hhds. 5,000 7,300 28,000 Taffia, gallons 150,000 300,000 400,000 Tobacco, hhds 5,000 7,300 28,000 Wheat, bushels 95,000 Whiskey, gallons 150,000 230,000 250,000 ANTIQUITIES AND INDIAN HISTORY. SOME ARTICLES OF CURIOUS WORKMANSHIP FOUND IN AN ANCIENT BARROW. An opinion is entertained by many well-informed persons in the United States, that the country has, at some remote period, been inhabited by a civilized people, prior to its settlement or subjugation by the savages. To the many evidences furnished to strengthen this opinion, by the remnants of fortifications, tumuli, &c., may be added the discovery of several articles of antiquarian value, and of singular workmanship, of glass, or antique enamel, lately made on the eastern shores of lake Erie. I have had an opportunity of examining a specimen of these antique glasses, and, on the authority of my informant, am enabled to remark that they were taken up about two months ago, from an ancient barrow in the town of Hamburg, where they were found deposited in an earthen pot. Contiguous to this pot were also found a skull, and some other human remains, thought to be of an unusual size. This mound, or supposed repository of the dead, is situated in an uncultivated part of the town, and several trees were growing upon it at the time the excavation was made; some of which were judged to be upwards of two feet in diameter. The glass relic which I had an opportunity to examine, (and I am told they are all alike,) is in the form of a large barrel-shaped bead, consisting of a tube of transparent green glass, covered with an opaque coarse red enamel. Its length is nine-tenths of an inch, its greatest width six and a half tenths of an inch, and the bore of the tube two-tenths of an inch. Near the circle of the bore of this tube, is an aperture of the size of a large needle, perforating the tube from one end to the other. The enamel which covers the tube of transparent glass appears to have been ornamented with painting, in figures resembling a spindle, or two inverted sections of a circle; but they are now hardly perceptible, as the bead appears to have been considerably worn. But the circumstance most indicative of art in the making of this bead, is a species of enamelling which has been performed both on the external and internal surfaces of the tube, previous to its being covered by the coarse red enamel. This second enamel is white, and, as the external surface of the tube was not smooth, but in parallel _strie_ or veins, exhibits the appearance of a white vine between the green tube and the red enamel. This enamelling appears to have been done, not by melting on any vitreous composition, as is practised at the present day, but by the effect of calcination for some time in a low red heat. This, it is known, will deprive glass, especially green glass, of its transparency, and render the surface white to a certain depth. The composition of the tube of glass, I have judged to be simply a silicious sand and an alkali, probably with a small addition of lime or vegetable ashes. It is hard, and will not receive scratches like the lead glasses; and I conclude from this circumstance that there is no lead in the composition. Its color seems also owing to the impurity of the materials employed, like the common window and bottle glass, and is probably caused by a minute portion of iron, in the state of an oxide, combined with the sand and alkali. The red enamel covering the tube, and the pot in which these glasses were found, seem to have been constructed of similar materials, as they differ very little in color, texture, or other external character. Probably a very fusible brick-clay, highly impregnated with the oxide of iron, and pulverized fragments of green glass, are the principal ingredients of both. The earthen pot is manifestly constructed of different materials from those employed for brown pottery at the present period. It is a more imperishable substance, of a close texture, and vitreous appearance. I shall not presume to speculate in opinions which discoveries of this interesting nature are calculated to create; it may, however, here be added, that the fabrication of these glasses would suppose a perfection in the arts, which none of the Indian tribes inhabiting this country at the period of its discovery, had arrived at. That if introduced by the French from Canada, in their earliest communications with the Indians inhabiting the western parts of the State of New York, a sufficient time would hardly have elapsed for the growth of trees of such size as were found upon the mound from which these relics were taken. And that, if not introduced by the French at the period alluded to, we must refer their manufacture back to a very remote date, and one on which Indian tradition is wholly silent. Since visiting the western country, I have had occasion to notice a similar discovery on Big river, in the Territory of Missouri. On opening an Indian grave (or what was considered such) on the bank of this river, several beads of glass, of a similar character, were found. They were accompanied by many bones of the human frame, of extraordinary size, and which indicated, to common observation, a stature of seven or eight feet in height. The person appeared to have been deformed, either by birth or accident, as the right jaw-bone ran in a straight line from the mouth back, while the left preserved the usual curve. The excavation was made near the edge of the stream, where the soil is a rich alluvion, and covered by a heavy growth of forest trees, such as are peculiar to the richest Ohio and Mississippi bottom-lands. We may add, that it corresponds best with history and probability to attribute these relics to the early period of the fur-trade. ANCIENT INDIAN CEMETERY IN THE VALLEY OF THE MARAMEC RIVER. In the autumn of 1818, the existence of a number of small tumuli, or antique Indian graves, was made known in the valley of the Maramec. This discovery was made about fifteen miles south of St. Louis. Curiosity led several persons to visit the spot and examine them, and my attention was thus called to the subject. It was conjectured that the bones found in these graves were the remains of a race of beings much smaller than those of the present day. The essential facts connected with these discoveries, are these:--The tumuli, which are small, occupy a wood near the dwelling of a Mr. Long. The attention of this gentleman was arrested by this smallness of cemeterial dimensions, or place of burial. Drs. Walker and Grayson, of St. Louis, proceeded to the spot, opened several of the graves, and examined their contents. The length of the stature of the interred persons, measured by their stony casings, varied from twenty-three inches, to four feet two or three inches. But the skeletons, with the exception of the teeth, were reduced to a complete limy substance, and their forms destroyed. The graves had originally been cased with rude flat stones at the sides, and also at the head and feet. A flat stone had also, in some instances, been laid over the top, and earth piled on the grave, above the surface of the ground, to the general height of three feet. This was a characteristic feature, and seemed designed to mark the locality. In this stony coffin, all the softer and destructible parts of the body had submitted to decay, with the exception before mentioned--the teeth. The examination of these became, therefore, the principal source of interest. They found the enamel perfect, and were surprised to discover that they were the teeth of rather young persons, who had, however, passed the age of puberty. The molars and incisors were of the ordinary dimensions and character of second teeth. The jaw-bone of the first specimen examined, appeared to have its full complement, except the dentis sapienta, which physiologists do not generally recognize until after the ages of eighteen to twenty-three. Many graves were examined, which differed more or less in length, between the extremes stated, but agreed in their general conformity of parts; from all which, these gentlemen came to the conclusion that the remains denoted a stature of inferior size, while appearances indicated a remote antiquity as the epoch of burial, which might as well be supposed to be five centuries as one. This antiquity was inferred, as well from the reduction of the bones to their elements, as from the growth of large trees upon the graves, the roots of which penetrated into their recesses. Upon this exhibition of facts, a legal gentleman[21] of intelligence calls attention, with great pertinency, to the ancient manners and customs of the Indians, in the burial of their dead. "As yet, I have seen no attempt to account for the size and appearance of these skeletons, upon any other supposition than that they are the remains of a people far less in size than any known at the present day. Unwilling to adopt a belief so contrary to the general order of nature, and to the history of the human species, so far as it has been transmitted to us, I shall hazard some conjectures upon the subject, which I think will, in some measure, tend to dissolve the mystery that hovers over these bones, and to reconcile their appearance with the general history of our race. To be sure, Nature, in her sport, has now and then produced monsters. A taste for the marvellous among travellers and historians, has occasionally conjured up a race of giants, or a nation of pigmies; but when the light of truth has reached us from the distant corners of the earth, where they were said to dwell, we have found them to assume the size, shape, and attitude of men, and nothing more. So far as observation or history extends, we find the species nearly the same in all ages and in all countries. Climate has had some effect upon the size, and upon the complexion. The excessive cold of the north has shortened an inch or two the necks of the Esquimaux, and the heat of the south has colored the African. But what, in this genial climate, should make dwarfs? It is here, if anywhere, that we should naturally expect to find giants! All the other productions of nature are here brought forth in the highest perfection. And shall _man_ here grow a pigmy? Unless we are ready to adopt the opinion of certain naturalists, that the human species are the legitimate descendants of the apes, and that they once wore tails, and were of their diminutive size--unless we are ready to believe the history of the Lilliputians, and of Tom Thumb--I think we shall discard the idea of a nation of dwarfs, as wholly preposterous. But how, on any other supposition, shall we account for the appearances upon the farm of Mr. Long? "None of the graves found there exceed four feet in length, many of them fall short of three, and the teeth found in all of them show that they contain the remains of human beings who had arrived at years of maturity. The manners and customs of the Indians with respect to the treatment of their dead, will, I think, solve all difficulties, and satisfactorily account for these appearances, without doing violence to nature. According to the testimony of travellers and historians, it has been the custom among many tribes of Indians to hang their dead in baskets upon trees and scaffolds, until their flesh was consumed, and then to take them down, clean their bones, and bury them. There existed an order of men among them called _bone-pickers_, with long nails like claws, whose business and profession it was to clean the unconsumed flesh from the bones, previous to burial. This custom still exists among the Indians on the waters of the Missouri, and rationally accounts for the appearances upon the farm of Mr. Long. The bones of a skeleton of the ordinary size, when separated, would naturally occupy a grave of three or four feet in length. It appears that in all the graves which were opened, the bones, except the teeth, were reduced to a chalky substance, so that it would be impossible to know, with any certainty, in what state, condition, or form, they were deposited there. These skeletons are said to rest on their sides. Taking this fact to be true, it goes to strengthen my ideas on this subject. In burying a corpse, it is natural, and, so far as we are acquainted, universally the custom, to bury them with the face upwards. We can look upon our dead friends with a melancholy complacency--we cast a long and lingering look after them until they are completely shut from our view in the grave; and nothing is more hard and heart-rending than to tear our last looks from them. It is natural, then, that the body should be placed in such a position as most to favor this almost universal desire of the human heart. But, in burying a skeleton, it would be as natural to avert the horrid grin of a death's-head from us. To face the grinning skeleton of a friend, must fill us with horror and disgust. 'Turn away the horrid sight,' would be the language of nature. If we adopt my supposition as correct in this case, all the facts correspond with nature. But if we adopt the opinion of a recent writer, our conclusions will be at war with nature, reason, and universal observation." The following observations by the Rev. J. M. Peck, of St. Louis, may also here be added: "One grave was opened which measured four feet in length; this was formed by laying a flat stone at the bottom, placing one on each side, one at each end, and covering the mouth with another. In the last circumstance, this grave differed from the others that were opened; the contents were a full-grown skeleton, with the head and teeth, part of the spine, the thigh and leg bones, in a tolerable state of preservation. The leg-bones were found parallel with the bones of the thighs, and every appearance indicated, either that the corpse had been entombed with the legs and thighs placed so as to meet, or that a skeleton had been deposited in this order. The first opinion seems the most probable, from the fact that a large stone pipe was found in the tomb, which I understand is now in the possession of Mr. Long." Both implements of war, and of domestic use, are buried with the dead bodies of the Indians; but it admits of a query if they are ever deposited with the mere skeleton. "It is a well-known fact," says Bishop Madison, while writing on the supposed fortifications of the western country,[22] "that, among many of the Indian tribes, the bones of the deceased are annually collected and deposited in one place, that the funeral rites are then solemnized with the warmest expressions of love and friendship, and that this untutored race, urged by the feelings of nature, consign to the bosom of the earth, along with the remains of their deceased relatives, food, weapons of war, and often those articles they possessed, and most highly valued, when alive." This fact is substantiated from various respectable sources. The pious custom of collecting the relics of the dead, which accident, or the events of a battle, might have dispersed through the wilderness, easily accounts for the graves on the Maramec, as well as explains the origin of the artificial mounds in the vicinity. If these were opened, there would be found promiscuously deposited the bones of the aborigines, which pious veneration, from year to year and from century to century, industriously collected. The cemetery alluded to, on the plantation of Mr. Long, may be viewed as the public burial-place of some powerful nation of the same size, and similar customs, with other Indians. FOOTNOTE: [21] Rufus Pettibone, Esq., of St. Louis. OSAGES. This tribe claims, as original possessors, the territories of the Ozarks, over which my journeys have chiefly laid. They claim all the country north of the Arkansas, to the Maramec. The term Ozark appears to me to be compounded from Osage and Arkansas. They are manly, good-looking, stout-limbed men, erratic in their mode of life, living a part of the year in fixed villages, and roving with their families through the forests, in search of game, the remainder. Their territories are immense. The Osages, if we may judge from popular opinion, are very much in the condition of the sons of Ishmael--"Their hand is against every man, and every man's hand against them." It is remarkable that they possess so much skill as they do in public negotiations, which they manage with address, with a bold, direct air, employing enlarged thoughts and phrases, which are calculated to impress the hearer favorably as to their mental abilities. But little opportunity has been had of personal observation on their manners and customs. Their mode of encampment has been seen, and is so arranged as to place the chiefs of the village, or camp, in the position of honor. It is stated that, at daybreak, a public crier makes proclamation of the expected events and duties of the day, which, to ears uninitiated, sounds like a call to prayer. I fancy the prayer of Indians, if they pray at all, is for deer and buffalo. It appears from the manuscript records of General William Clark, at St. Louis, which I have been permitted to see, that they have a tale, or fiction, of their origin from a snail and beaver. If this is an allegory, we are to suppose that persons bearing these names were their progenitors. I avail myself of the public interpreter of the language to submit the following vocabulary of it.[23] FOOTNOTES: [22] See American Philosophical Transactions, Vol. VI. [23] Omitted. EXTRACTS FROM THE AMERICAN JOURNAL OF SCIENCE. Notice of "A View of the Lead-Mines of Missouri, including some Observations on the Mineralogy, Geology, Geography, Antiquities, Soil, Climate, Population, and Productions, of Missouri and Arkansas, and other sections of the Western Country; accompanied by three Engravings. By HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT, Corresponding Member of the Lyceum of Natural History of New York." 1821. As this work has been more than a year before the American public, and is already well known, it may seem superfluous to make any remarks upon it at so late a period. It was our purpose to have given it an early notice, but circumstances which could not be controlled, prevented. Still, as it is devoted to subjects which form a prominent object in this Journal, and is, as far as we are informed, the only elaborate and detailed account of a mining district in the United States, we are not disposed to remain silent, especially as the discharge of the duty is not likely to be painful, either to ourselves or to the author. Reviews in form, although within the plan of this Journal, do not constitute one of its most leading objects, and we do not hold ourselves responsible for analyses or even for notices of new American books, unless they appear particularly interesting or important, or hold a very intimate connexion with the great design of our work. We have already intimated that we regard Mr. Schoolcraft's work in this light. We take it for granted that the statements of facts made by this author, are both faithful and accurate; the information which we have incidentally derived from other sources, certainly countenances this impression, but the whole amount of it is small, compared with the details contained in the present volume. Mr. Schoolcraft's opportunities for observation were extensive, particularly in relation to the mines of lead in the Missouri region. Among those mines he spent a year. "I have made (says he) a personal examination of every mine of consequence, with a view to ascertain its general character and value and its peculiarities. I have travelled on foot over the whole mine country, exploring its minerals, its geological structure, its geographical position, soil, climate, productions, towns, streams, settlements, and whatever else appeared to me to be necessary to describe, explain and illustrate the subject before me." Mr. Schoolcraft appears to have made good use of the advantages which he enjoyed, and his countrymen are indebted to him for a great amount of valuable information. He appears also to have studied the observations of preceding writers, and, with their works before him, it was in his power to correct errors and to supply deficiencies. He has prefixed an historical sketch which we presume will be acceptable to every reader. The French, as is well known, were the original discoverers and settlers of the Missouri, and Illinois regions, which were embraced in their vast scheme of forming a chain of posts and settlements from the mouth of the St. Lawrence, to that of the Mississippi. They did not occupy the country of the Missouri and Illinois till more than a century after the settlement of Quebec, and about a century before the present period. At that time, (1720,) the lead mines were discovered by Philip Francis Renault, and M. La Motte, and by them they were wrought, although they and the adventurers under them were disappointed in their expectations of finding gold and silver. At the end of about half a century, the country passed into the hands of the Spaniards, and under their dominion, probably about forty years since, the principal mine was discovered by a man of the name of Burton, and from him it has derived the name of Mine à Burton. It appears that the processes of mining under the Spaniards were very imperfect, as they obtained only fifty per cent. of lead from the ore, threw away the lead ashes, and did not attempt any manufactures of shot or any other articles. They employed only the open log furnace. In 1797, Moses Austin, Esq., a native of Connecticut, who had been occupied with lead mines in Wythe county, in Virginia, obtained from the Spanish government, a grant of a league square in the mining district in consideration of his introducing a reverberatory furnace. He sunk the first regular shaft--the mining having, till that time, been prosecuted solely by open digging, in the manner of quarries. Mr. Austin also introduced the manufacture of shot, and that of sheet lead soon followed. About the same time several other American families collected at the mines, and infused new spirit and enterprise into the mining operations, so that they were carried on with considerable vigour at the time when (in 1803) the country was transferred to the United States. Mr. Schoolcraft, from whom these facts are taken, remarks, that since 1804, the number of mines has been astonishingly multiplied--population has flowed rapidly in--the processes on the ore have been much improved--better furnaces have been constructed, and "every season is adding to the number of the mines." "Every day is developing to us the vast resources of this country, particularly in lead," and the author expresses his opinion that "the mines of Missouri are paralleled by no other mineral district in the world." From the specimens which we possess of this ore, and from the documents produced by the author respecting the produce of the mines, we believe his opinion is correct, especially if we consider the fact that "the earth has not yet been penetrated over eighty feet;" "we know not what may be found in the lower strata." "There is reason to believe that the main bodies of ore have not been hit upon, that they lie deeper, and that we have thus far been only engaged upon the spurs and detached masses." Mr. Schoolcraft informs us that although the mining business is much improved, there is still a great deficiency both of capital and of skill--there is in the whole district but one regular hearth furnace for smelting, and that not the best;--among forty mines, there are only four or five regular shafts--there is among all the mines, no engine of any description for raising water, and some of the richest mines with the best prospects in view, have been in consequence abandoned. Yet, under all these disadvantages, the annual produce of the mines is estimated at three millions of pounds of lead. The author suggests the expediency of establishing a school of mines and minerals in the midst of the mines themselves; this would, without doubt, be a very proper measure, but in the meantime, skilful practical miners, and captains of mines, such as are found in every mining district in Europe, would supply the immediate demands of the country. The mining district, formerly called the lead mines of Louisiana, is situate between the 37th and the 38th degree of north latitude, and between the 89th and 92d degree of west longitude, covers three thousand one hundred and fifty square miles--it is from seventy to one hundred miles long by forty or forty-five, extending in width from the Mississippi south-west to the Fourche à Courtois, and in length from the head waters of St. Francis northerly to the Maramec. Lead ore is found in almost every part of this district. Mr. Schoolcraft says, "the general aspect of the country is sterile, though not mountainous: the lands lie rolling, like a body of water in gentle agitation. In some places the hills rise into abrupt cliffs, where the great rock formations of the country may be seen; in others, they run into level plains--a kind of highland prairie." "The soil is a reddish colored clay, stiff and hard, and full of fragments of flinty stones, quartz and gravel; this extends to the depth of from ten to twenty feet, and is bottomed on limestone rock. It is so compact in some places, as almost to resist the pick-axe; in others it seems to partake of marl, is less gravelly, and readily penetrated. The country is particularly characterized by quartz, which is strewed in detached pieces over the surface of the ground, and is also found imbedded in the soil at all depths. This is here called blossom of lead. Iron ores and pyrites are also scattered over the surface of the ground, and occasionally lead ore. Such is the general character of the mineral hills, which are invariably covered by a stinted growth of oaks." Walnut is also found on the hills, and there is a ridge of yellow pine, not more than six or eight miles wide, running nearly south-east and north-west, but it is nearly or quite destitute of lead--the mines lie generally east of it. In summer the flinty aspect of the country is veiled by a luxuriant growth of grass, which gives it a very pleasing and picturesque appearance. The valleys have a rich alluvial soil, well fitted for cultivation; but our limits will not allow us to mention the vegetable productions of the country. This region is well irrigated, and very healthy, being possessed of a fine climate. Mr. Schoolcraft remarks, that during a residence of ten months he never heard of a death; the country is free from the fevers which infest some of the neighboring regions. It seems, however, that the animals are visited by what is called the mine sickness. "Cows and horses are frequently seen to die without any apparent cause. Cats and dogs are taken with violent fits, which never fail, in a short time, to kill them." It is said that the inhabitants impute these affections to the sulphur exhaled in smelting the lead, as the cattle are often seen licking about the old furnaces. But sulphur is not poisonous either to men or animals. The author imputes it to the sulphate of barytes, with which the district abounds, which he states is a "poison to animals." The carbonate of barytes is eminently poisonous; but we have never heard that the sulphate is so. May not the licking around the furnaces expose the cattle to receive lead in some of its forms, minutely divided? or, if it be not active in the metallic state, both the oxides and the carbonate, which must of course exist around the furnaces, would be highly active and poisonous. Is it not possible, also, that some of the natural waters of the country may, in consequence of saline or acid impregnations, dissolve some of the lead, and thus obtain saturnine qualities? We must allow, however, that we are not acquainted with the existence of any natural water thus impregnated. Among the mineral productions of this region, certainly not the least remarkable mentioned by Mr. Schoolcraft, is the Iron Mountain, where the ore is piled in such enormous masses as to constitute the entire southern extremity of a lofty ridge, which is elevated five or six hundred feet above the plain: the ore is the micaceous exide, and is said to yield good malleable iron. There is another body of iron ore five miles west of the iron mountain, scarcely inferior to that mentioned above, and it appears that several other beds exist in the same vicinity. Zinc is abundant, but as the ore is the sulphuret, it is not very valuable. It is not mentioned that calamine, which is the useful ore of zinc, has been found. As to the geological nature of the country, in which the lead mines are situate, he informs us that "Bellevue abounds in granite;" that the only vein of granite rock in the mine country (as far as he had opportunity to observe) passes across the south-western end of Madison county--runs into Bellevue--is four or five miles wide, and twenty or thirty miles in a direction from south-east to north-west. The granite is spoken of in another place, (p. 170,) as being a geological phenomenon, as containing imbedded in it or lying upon its surface, gneiss, green stone, porphyry, iron ores, &c.; it is spoken of as a red granite, containing very little mica, and as being used for millstones. It is mentioned as the "only mass of granite known to exist between the primitive ranges of the Alleghany and Rocky mountains," and as being surrounded on all sides, and to an almost immeasurable extent, with secondary limestone. Again, (p. 193,) the granite is cited as the "old red granite in mountain masses, with some veins of green stone, green stone porphyry, and gneiss;" it is said to terminate in very rough and broken high lands. At page 213, it is mentioned, still again, as giving origin to the river St. Francis, whose "springs gush out among these stupendous piles of red granite." Besides the ores of iron, lead and zinc, "quartz, feldspar, shorl, mica, and graphite are among the minerals furnished by that region," and "green stone, gneiss, and green stone porphyry, are among the larger masses of rock." The green stone, it seems, "is found in large isolated fragments, lying promiscuously among the fragments of granite which have tumbled down from the lofty cliffs above, and is rendered porphyritic by crystals of green and flesh-colored feldspar." We have no right to doubt that the rock described is granite, as the principal features delineated, correspond with that supposition. As it is described as being solitary, the only granite between the Alleghanies and the Rocky mountains, we are led to ask, is it a portion of the nucleus of our globe, covered on every side, for many hundred miles, with secondary rocks, and here heaving its head through the superincumbent strata, and standing alone? But what are we to conclude of the limestone? We should have liked especially to have had the relations of this limestone with that remarkable granite region pointed out. Does this latter repose on the granite, where it dips obliquely under, as it probably does, in order to find its way beneath the other rocks, and to vindicate its claim to a fundamental position? But, perhaps we are asking more than is reasonable, for, it may be that there are no such sections in the strata as would expose all these facts to view, and enable the observer to decide. These hints we have dropped, not, we trust, from a captious disposition, but because we have found a real difficulty in conceiving clearly of the geological nature of this limestone, which, it seems, is the basis of the lead-mine country, and therefore it is very important that its characters should be indubitably fixed. We have not been so fortunate as to see Mr. Schoolcraft's specimens; possibly a view of them would have rendered the preceding remarks, in part at least, unnecessary. Leaving the geological features of the lead-mine district, we proceed to cite some interesting and important facts from Mr. Schoolcraft's work:--"The soil," he remarks, "is a reddish colored clay, stiff and hard, and full of fragments of flinty stone, quartz and gravel; this extends to the depth of from ten to twenty feet, and is bottomed on limestone rock. It is so compact in some places as almost to resist the pick-axe; in others it seems to partake of marl, is less gravelly, and readily penetrated. The country is particularly characterized by quartz, which is strewed in detached pieces over the surface of the ground, and is also found imbedded in the soil at all depths. This is here called blossom of lead. Iron ores and pyrites are also scattered over the surface of the ground, and occasionally lead ore. The mineral productions of the country, in addition to lead, are zinc, iron, ochre, red chalk, saltpetre, sulphur, alum and salt." The ore (the author remarks) is the lead glance, galena, or sulphuret of lead. It is very rich and beautiful, and specimens in our possession fully confirm Mr. Schoolcraft's account; they have a very broad and perfectly foliated fracture, and a high degree of metallic lustre; they break in cubical fragments, and the minutest portions still retain this form. We have already observed that large fragments are found loose in the earth: they sometimes weigh four or five pounds; we have such specimens from these mines; they are of a cubical form, and are surrounded, except where they have been broken, by an earthy incrustation. It is observed that the marly earth thrown out from the pits, enriches the ground, so that in a few years it is covered with a very rank growth of trees, vines, &c., and this is a regular characteristic of old diggings. Innumerable portions of radiated quartz, and sharp fragments of flinty stones are mixed with the clay, and form the first stratum of about fourteen inches. The next is of a red clay, and is four or five feet thick, and less mixed with similar siliceous substances. Then comes a layer of gravel and rounded siliceous pebbles, about one foot thick, containing small portions of lead ore. The thickness of the bed of ore is generally a foot; and the lumps of ore appear to have been rounded by attrition, like common gravel. "This is the character of what is called the gravel ore, and no spars are found accompanying it. The greatest proportion of lead ore is, however, found imbedded in, and accompanied by, the sulphate of barytes, resting in a thick stratum of marly clay, bottomed on limestone rock." They invariably arrive at the rock at the depth of from fifteen to twenty, or sometimes thirty feet; a new process by boring and blasting is now necessary, and most diggers abandon their pits rather than prosecute them at this expense. If, however, as there can be little doubt, the limestone is the real matrix of the lead ore, the time will come when the present diggings will be considered as merely superficial beginnings, and the work will be resumed where hitherto it has been abandoned. It seems that the almost invariable practice of the miners is, to persevere till they strike the rock, and then to go and dig elsewhere; they cannot, if disposed, prosecute the business by levels or galleries, for they are not permitted to carry on their mining except immediately under the surface that is covered by their respective leases, or by twelve feet square, which, if unoccupied, an adventurer may cover by occupancy. Among the substances accompanying the lead, blende and the sulphate of barytes are said to be very abundant; the latter in specimens which we have, is particularly brilliant and white;[24] the quartz is often prettily crystallized, and is so invariable a concomitant of the ore, that the miners, as we have before remarked, give it the meaning appellation of mineral blossom. A curious fact is mentioned by Mr. Schoolcraft, respecting the Elliott's mines. "During the remarkable earthquakes of 1812, a fine spring of water at the mouth of the mines suddenly became warm and foul, and in a few days dried up entirely, and no water has run there since." "Illuminations in the atmosphere are frequently observed in this vicinity on the approach of night."[25] It seems there is a considerable quantity of a greyish white sublimate collected at the log hearth furnaces, and rejected by the workmen upon the supposition that it is sulphur and arsenic; but Mr. Schoolcraft, by unquestionable experiments, ascertained that it was lead, as would appear, in the form of a carbonated oxide. A considerable loss is in this manner sustained, and in a more advanced state of the metallurgic operations of these mines, the author's valuable suggestions will not be neglected. There is one mine (M'Kain's) where the ore is of the steel-grained variety--it is said to yield less lead, and is inferred to contain more silver than the common ores; we are aware that this is the common impression, but our own experiments on different varieties of lead ore would induce us to think that it cannot be relied upon. We have examined fine steel-grained ore which contained very little silver; in one specimen only one five-thousandth part, and in another, and that a foliated specimen, we found three and a half per cent, of silver. The methods of digging for the ore are sufficiently simple. "A pick-axe and shovel are the only tools used for removing the earth, and the drill, hammer and priming rod are added when it is necessary to blast." The process is carried on as in digging a common well. We must refer our readers to the book itself for a clear account of the furnaces and furnace operations, employed for smelting the lead; it will be the more intelligible, as it is accompanied by two good plates containing views and sections of the furnaces. A circumstance which appears very extraordinary is, that the furnaces are most commonly built of limestone, which is of course calcined, and brought to the condition of quicklime by a few blasts, and then it crumbles and the furnaces must be rebuilt. The ore yields at first fifty per cent., and then the ashes give fifteen per cent, more--sixty-five[26] in the whole.[27] Custom, says the author, has established a number of laws among the miners, with regard to digging, which have a tendency to prevent disputes. Whenever a discovery is made, the person claiming it is entitled to claim the ground for twenty-five feet, in every direction from his pit, giving him fifty feet square. Other diggers are each entitled to twelve feet square, which is just enough to sink a pit, and afford room for throwing out the earth. Each one measures and stakes off his ground; and though he should not begin his work for several days afterwards, no person will intrude upon it. On this spot he digs down, but is not allowed to run drifts horizontally, so as to break into or undermine the pits of others. If appearances are unpromising, or he strikes the rock, and chooses to abandon his pit, he can go on any unoccupied ground, and, observing the same precautions, begin anew. In such a case, the abandoned pit may be occupied by any other person; and sometimes large bodies of ore are found by the second occupant, by a little work, which would have richly rewarded the labors of the first had he persevered. Mr. Schoolcraft, from various particulars, infers that the average annual produce of the Missouri lead mines, as mentioned before, is three million pounds per annum, and the lead was worth in 1819, at the mines, four cents per pound. For the last three years, up to 1819 inclusive, the produce of the mines was estimated at three million seven hundred twenty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six pounds per annum of pig lead, which the author supposes to be not more than one half what the mines are capable of yielding. The number of miners is between eleven and twelve hundred, and the number of hands employed in labor at different mines is from twenty to two hundred and forty, including in both cases persons of all descriptions. Many miscellaneous topics connected with the general subject of his work, are introduced by Mr. Schoolcraft, such as the sections relating to the manufactures, and uses of lead, &c., but it is not our object to advert to these topics. Among the miscellaneous mineral productions of the western regions, there are some that are interesting; and it will be seen from the author's table of minerals, that the list is various. There are several caverns which produce nitrate of potash by the usual treatment; and Ashley's Cave, about eighty miles from Potosi, is said to be one of stupendous size, and to "afford native nitrate of potash in beautiful white crystals." The novaculite is mentioned as occurring on Washita, as described by Mr. Bringier in the present number. Steatite exists in abundance at the falls of St. Anthony, on the Mississippi, and is used by the Indians for pipes. The fluate of lime, near Shawneetown, was described in the first volume of this journal. Among other minerals, Mr. Schoolcraft mentions chalcedony in several varieties, earthy oxide of lead, native copper, alum, manganese, opalized and agatized wood, opal, jasper, coal, gypsum, native epsom salts, pumice stone, agate, onyx, burr millstone, native iron, &c.; for the localities and descriptions of which, we must refer to the book itself. Those facts of Mr. Schoolcraft's volume which relate to statistical and political topics, do not come within the plan of these remarks. During our cursory notice of this work, we have cited a number of the most prominent facts which it contains, both because they are in themselves important, and because we were willing to call the attention of our readers both to them, and to the volume in which they are contained. Both are, in our view, entitled to great respect; and we confess ourselves very much indebted to Mr. Schoolcraft for a great mass of valuable information, which, in a connected form, is, we believe, nowhere else to be found. His statements (as regards the most valuable part) are drawn from his own research and observations, and have evidently been the result of much effort, and of no small share of fatigue and personal privation. We trust that so valuable a work will not stop with a single edition, and perhaps we might venture to suggest to the author, that in a second, he might advantageously condense into one view some facts which are several times repeated in different parts of the volume--such as those respecting the granite and its connected rocks, the lead ore and its associated minerals, &c. We consider the present work as an acquisition to our means of information respecting our mineral resources, and believe that it must be a regular volume of reference for all those who are interested in the investigation of these subjects. FOOTNOTES: [24] It is mentioned by the author, as a chemical test or reagent: it may, by decomposing it by ignition with charcoal, or with an alkaline carbonate, be made to afford its earth for the preparation of barytic tests, but we are not aware that it is itself ever used as a test. [25] They are attributed by the author to phosphorus. Is it supposed to be in the form of phosphuretted hydrogen? May not these be electrical phenomena? [26] According to Dr. Meade, the Missouri ore affords only a trace of silver. (See Bruce's Minl. Journal, vol. 1, p. 10.) [27] Mr. Schoolcraft thinks it may yield seventy per cent.--it gave him by analysis eighty-two per cent. THE END. +--------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 24 musquitoes changed to mosquitoes | | Page 64 develope changed to develop | | Page 94 M'Gary's changed to M'Garey's | | Page 103 20th changed to 29th | | Page 110 brandt changed to brant | | Page 113 Gasconage changed to Gasconade | | Page 139 Quiquate changed to Quiguate | | Page 155 emigate changed to emigrate | | Page 155 Philips changed to Phillips | | Page 156 Peora changed to Peoria | | Page 160 scientic changed to scientific | | Page 161 borers changed to borders | | Page 170 M'Kane's changed to M'Kain's | | Page 186 octohedral changed to octahedral | | Page 191 precicision changed to precision | | Page 196 develope changed to develop | | Page 207 1719 date in paragraph 39a may be 1749 | | Page 208 irridescence changed to iridescence | | Page 211 octohedrons changed to octahedrons | | Page 217 annnally changed to annually | | Page 246 some changed to same | | Page 254 coutained changed to contained | +--------------------------------------------------+ 
42322	----	Early Western Travels 1748-1846 Volume XXVI Early Western Travels 1748-1846 A Series of Annotated Reprints of some of the best and rarest contemporary volumes of travel, descriptive of the Aborigines and Social and Economic Conditions in the Middle and Far West, during the Period of Early American Settlement Edited with Notes, Introductions, Index, etc., by Reuben Gold Thwaites, LL.D. Editor of "The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents," "Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition," "Hennepin's New Discovery," etc. Volume XXVI Part I of Flagg's The Far West, 1836-1837 [Illustration] Cleveland, Ohio The Arthur H. Clark Company 1906 COPYRIGHT 1906, BY THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Lakeside Press R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY CHICAGO CONTENTS OF VOLUME XXVI PREFACE TO VOLUMES XXVI AND XXVII. _The Editor_ 9 THE FAR WEST: OR, A TOUR BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS. Embracing Outlines of Western Life and Scenery; Sketches of the Prairies, Rivers, Ancient Mounds, Early Settlements of the French, etc. etc. (The first thirty-two chapters, being all of Vol. I of original, and pp. 1-126 of Vol. II.) _Edmund Flagg._ Copyright Notice 26 Author's Dedication 27 Author's Preface 29 Author's Table of Contents 33 Text (chapters i-xxxii; the remainder appearing in our volume xxvii) 43 ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOLUME XXVI Map of Oregon; drawn by H. J. Kelley, 1830 24 Facsimile of title-page to Vol. I of Flagg's _The Far West_ 25 PREFACE TO VOLUMES XXVI-XXVII These two volumes are devoted to reprints of Edmund Flagg's _The Far West_ (New York, 1838), and Father Pierre Jean de Smet's _Letters and Sketches, with a Narrative of a Year's Residence among the Indian Tribes of the Rocky Mountains_ (Philadelphia, 1843). Flagg's two-volume work occupies all of our volume xxvi and the first part of volume xxvii, the remaining portion of the latter being given to De Smet's book. Edmund Flagg was prominent among early American prose writers, and also ranked high among our minor poets. A descendant of the Thomas Flagg who came to Boston from England, in 1637, Edmund was born November 24, 1815, at Wescasset, Maine. Being graduated with distinction from Bowdoin College in 1835, in the same year he went with his mother and sister Lucy to Louisville, Kentucky. Here, in a private school, he taught the classics to a group of boys, and contributed articles to the Louisville _Journal_, a paper with which he was intermittently connected, either as editorial writer or correspondent, until 1861. The summer and autumn of 1836 found Flagg travelling in Missouri and Illinois, and writing for the _Journal_ the letters which were later revised and enlarged to form _The Far West_, herein reprinted. Tarrying at St. Louis in the autumn of 1836, our author began the study of law, and the following year was admitted to the bar; but in 1838 he returned to newspaper life, taking charge for a time of the St. Louis _Commercial Bulletin_. During the winter of 1838-39 he assisted George D. Prentice, founder of the Louisville _Journal_, in the work of editing the Louisville _Literary News Letter_. Finding, however, that newspaper work overtaxed his health, Flagg next accepted an invitation to enter the law office of Sergeant S. Prentiss at Vicksburg, Mississippi, where in addition to his legal duties he found time to edit the Vicksburg _Whig_. Having been wounded in a duel with James Hagan of the _Sentinel_ in that city, Flagg returned to the less excitable North and undertook editorial duties upon the _Gazette_ at Marietta, Ohio (1842-43), and later (1844-45) upon the St. Louis _Evening Gazette_. He also served as official reporter of the Missouri state constitutional convention the following year, and published a volume of its debates; subsequently (until 1849) acting as a court reporter in St. Louis. The three succeeding years were spent abroad; first as secretary to Edward A. Hannegan, United States minister to Berlin, and later as consul at Venice. In February, 1852, he returned to America, and during the presidential campaign of that year edited a Democratic journal at St. Louis, known as the _Daily Times_. Later, as a reward for political service, he was made superintendent of statistics in the department of state, at Washington--a bureau having special charge of commercial relations. Here he was especially concerned with the compilation of reports on immigration and the cotton and tobacco trade, and published a _Report on Commercial Relations of the United States with all Foreign Nations_ (4 vols., Washington, 1858). Through these reports, particularly the last named, Flagg's name became familiar to merchants in both the United States and Europe. From 1857 to 1860 he was Washington correspondent for several Western newspapers, and from 1861 to 1870 served as librarian of copyrights in the department of the interior. Having in 1862 married Kate Adeline, daughter of Sidney S. Gallaher, of Virginia, he moved to Highland View in that state (1870), and died there November 1, 1890. In addition to his labors in the public service and as a newspaper man, Flagg found time for higher literary work, and won considerable distinction in that field. His first book, _The Far West_, although somewhat stilted in style, possesses considerable literary merit. Encouraged by the success of his initial endeavor, he wrote the following year (1839) the _Duchess of Ferrara_ and _Beatrice of Padua_, two novels, each of which passed through at least two editions. The _Howard Queen_ (1848) and _Blanche of Artois_ (1850) were prize productions. _De Molai_ (1888), says the New York _Sun_ of the period, is "a powerful, dramatic tale which seems to catch the very spirit of the age of Philip of France. It is rare to find a story in which fact and invention are so evenly and adroitly balanced." Our author also wrote several dramas, which were staged in Louisville, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and New York; he also composed numerous poems for newspapers and magazines. His masterpiece, however, was a history dedicated to his lifelong friend and colleague, George D. Prentice, entitled _The City of the Sea_ (2 vols., New York, 1853). This work was declared by the _Knickerbocker_ to be "a carefully compiled, poetically-written digest of the history of the glorious old Venice--a passionate, thrilling, yet accurate and sympathetic account of the last struggle for independence." At the time of his death Flagg had in preparation a volume of reminiscences, developed from a diary kept during forty years, but this has never been published.[1] [1] For a list of Flagg's prose and poetical writings, contributions to periodicals, and editorial works, see "Annual Report of the Librarian of Bowdoin College for the year ending June 1, 1891," in Bowdoin College _Library Bulletin_ (Brunswick, Maine, 1895). "In hope of renovating the energies of a shattered constitution," we are told, Flagg started in the early part of June, 1836, on a journey to what was then known as the Far West. Taking a steamboat at Louisville, he went to St. Louis by way of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and after a brief delay ascended the latter to the mouth of the Illinois, and thence on to Peoria. Prevented by low water from proceeding farther, he returned by the same route to St. Louis, whence after three weeks' stay, spent either in the sick chamber or in making short trips about the city and its environs, the traveller crossed the Mississippi and struck out on horseback across the Illinois prairies, visiting Edwardsville, Alton, Carlinsville, Hillsborough, Carlisle, Lebanon, Belleville, and the American Bottoms. In July, after recrossing the Mississippi, he visited in like manner St. Charles, Missouri, by way of Bellefontaine and Florissant; crossed the Mississippi near Portage des Sioux, and passed through the Illinois towns of Grafton, Carrollton, Manchester, Jacksonville, Springfield, across Grand Prairie to Shelbyville, Mount Vernon, Pinkneyville, and Chester, and returned to St. Louis by way of the old French settlements of Kaskaskia, Prairie du Rocher, and Cahokia. During this journey Flagg wrote for the Louisville _Journal_, as already stated, a series of letters describing the country through which he travelled. Hastily thrown together from the pages of his note book, this correspondence appeared anonymously under the title, "Sketches of a Traveller." They were, however, soon attributed to Flagg, and two years later were collected by the author and published in two small volumes by Harper and Brothers (New York, 1838), as _The Far West_. These volumes are in many respects the best description of the Middle West that had appeared up to the time they were written. Roughly following the journals of Michaux, Harris, and Cuming by forty, thirty, and twenty years respectively, Flagg skillfully shows the remarkable growth and development of the Western country. His descriptions of the Ohio, Mississippi, and Illinois rivers are still among the best in print, particularly from the artistic standpoint. His account of the steamboat traffic is valuable for the history of navigation on the Western rivers, and shows vividly the obstacles which still confronted merchants of that time. Chapters xi, xii, and xiii, dealing with St. Louis and its immediate vicinity, are the most detailed in our series, while the descriptions of St. Charles and the Illinois towns through which Flagg passed, are excellent. The modern reader cannot but wish that Flagg had devoted less space to his youthful philosophizing, but the atmosphere is at least wholesome. Unlike Harris, whose criticism of Western society was keen and acrid, Flagg was a man of broad sympathies, possessing an insight into human nature remarkable for so youthful a writer--for he was but twenty years of age at the time of his travels, and twenty-two when the book was published. Although mildly reproving the old French settlers for their lack of enterprise, he fully appreciates their domestic virtues, and gives a faithful picture of these pleasure-loving, contented, unprogressive people. His description of the once thriving villages of Kaskaskia, Prairie du Rocher, and Cahokia, are valuable historically, as showing the decay settling upon the French civilization after a few years of American occupation. Our author's interview with the Mormon convert, his conversations with early French and American settlers, his accounts of political meetings, his anecdotes illustrating Western curiosity, and particularly his carefully-recounted local traditions, throw much light on the beliefs, manners, and customs of the Western people of his time. _The Far West_ is thus not only a graphic and often forceful description of the interesting region through which the author travelled, but a sympathetic synopsis of its local annals, affording much varied information not otherwise obtainable. The present reprint, with annotations that seek to correct its errors, will, we think, prove welcome in our series. In the _Letters and Sketches_ of Father de Smet, we reprint another Western classic, related to the volumes of Flagg by their common terminus of travel at St. Louis. No more interesting or picturesque episode has occurred in the history of Christian missions in the New World, than the famous visit made in the autumn of 1831 to General William Clark at St. Louis by the Flathead chiefs seeking religious instruction for their people. Vigorously exploited in the denominational papers of the East, this delegation aroused a sentiment that led to the founding of Protestant missions in Oregon and western Idaho, and incidentally to the solution of the Oregon question. But in point of fact, the Flathead deputation was sent to secure a Catholic missionary; and not merely one but four such embassies embarked for St. Louis before the great desideratum, a "black robe" priest, could be secured for ministration to this far-distant tribe. Employed in the Columbian fur-trade were a number of Christian Iroquois from Canada, who had been carefully trained at St. Regis and Caughnawaga in all the observances of the Roman Catholic church. Upon the Pacific waterways and in the fastnesses of the Rockies, these Iroquois taught their fellow Indians the ordinances of the church and the commands of the white man's Great Spirit. John Wyeth (see our volume xxi) testifies to the honesty and humanity of the Flathead tribe: "they do not lie, steal, nor rob any one, unless when driven too near to starvation." He also testifies that they "appear to keep the Sabbath;" and that their word is "as good as the Bible." These were the neophytes who craved instruction, and to whom was assigned that remarkable Jesuit missionary, Father Jean Pierre de Smet. Born in Belgium in 1801, young De Smet was educated in a religious school at Malines. When twenty years of age he responded to an appeal to cross the Atlantic and carry the gospel to the red men of the Western continent. Arrived in Philadelphia (1821), the young Belgian was astonished to see a well-built town, travelled roads, cultivated farms, and other appurtenances of civilization; he had expected only a wilderness and savages. Two years were spent in the Jesuit novitiate in Maryland, before the zealous youth saw any traces of frontier life. Then the youthful novice was removed to Florissant, Missouri, not far from St. Louis, where the making of a log-cabin and the breaking of fresh soil furnished a mild foretaste of his future career. Still more years elapsed before the cherished project of missionary labor could be realized. In 1829 St. Louis University was founded, and herein the young priest, who had been ordained in 1827, was employed upon the instructional force. Later years (1833-37) were spent in Europe, while recruiting his health and securing supplies for the infant university. It was not until 1838 that the first missionary enterprise was undertaken by Father de Smet, when a chapel for the Potawatomi was built on the site of the modern Council Bluffs. There, in 1839, the fourth Flathead deputation rested after the long journey from their Rocky Mountain home; and at the earnest solicitation of the young missioner, he was in the spring of 1840, detailed by his superior to ascertain and report upon the prospects of a mission to the mountain Indians. Of the two tribesmen who had come down to St. Louis, Pierre the Left-handed (Gaucher) was sent back to his people with news of the success of the embassy, while his colleague Ignace was detained to serve as guide to the adventurous Jesuit who in April, 1840, set forth for the Flathead country with the annual fur-trade caravan. The route traversed was the well-known Oregon Trail as far as the Green River rendezvous; there the father was rejoiced to meet a deputation of ten Flatheads, sent to escort him to their habitat, and at Prairie de la Messe was celebrated for them the first mass in the Western mountains. The trail led them on through Jackson's and Pierre's Holes; and in the latter valley the waiting tribesmen to the number of sixteen hundred had collected, and received the "black robe" as a messenger from Heaven. Chants and prayers were heard on every side; "in a fortnight," reports the delighted missionary, "all knew their prayers." After two months spent among his "dear Flatheads," wandering with them across the divide, and encamping for some time at the Three Forks of the Missouri--where nearly forty years before Lewis and Clark first encountered the Western Indians--De Smet took leave of his neophytes. Protected by a strong guard through the hostile Blackfeet country, he arrived at last at the fur-trade post of Fort Union at the junction of the Missouri and the Yellowstone. Descending thence to St. Louis he arrived there on the last day of December, 1840. The remainder of the winter was occupied in preparations for a new journey, and in securing men and supplies for the equipment of the far-away mission begun under such favorable auspices. Once more the father departed from Westport--this time in May, 1841. The little company consisted, besides himself, of two other priests and three lay brothers, all of the latter being skilled mechanics. Among the members of the caravan were a number of California pioneers, one of whom has thus related his impressions of the young missionary: "He was genial, of fine presence, and one of the saintliest men I have ever known, and I cannot wonder that the Indians were made to believe him divinely protected. He was a man of great kindness and great affability under all circumstances; nothing seemed to disturb his temper."[2] [2] John Bidwell, "First Emigrant Train to California," in _Century Magazine_, new series, xix, pp. 113, 114. Father de Smet's letters describe in detail the scenery and incidents of the route from the eastern border of Kansas to Fort Hall, in Idaho, where the British factor received the travellers with abounding hospitality. Here some of the Flatheads were in waiting to convey the missionaries to the tribe, the chiefs of which met them in Beaver Head Valley, Montana, and testified their welcome with dignified simplicity. Passing over to the waters of the Columbia, they founded the mission of St. Mary upon the first Sunday in October, in the beautiful Bitter Root valley at the site of the later Fort Owen. Thence Father de Smet made a rapid journey in search of provisions to Fort Colville, on the upper Columbia, but was again at his mission stockade before the close of the year. In April a longer journey was projected, as far as Fort Vancouver, on the lower Columbia, where Dr. McLoughlin, the British factor, received the good priest with that cordial greeting for which he was already famous. During this journey the father narrowly escaped drowning in the turbulent rapids of the Columbia, where five of his boatmen perished. Returned to St. Mary's, the prospects for a harvest of souls both among the Flatheads and the neighboring tribes appeared so promising that the missionary determined to seek re-enforcement and further aid in Europe. Thereupon he left his companions in charge of the "new Paraguay" of his hopes, and once more undertook the long and adventurous journey to the settlements, this time by way of the Yellowstone and Missouri rivers, arriving at St. Louis the last of October, 1842. At this point the journeys detailed in the volume here reprinted come to an end. The later career of Father de Smet and his subsequent journeyings will be detailed in the preface to volumes xxviii and xxix, in the latter of which will appear his _Oregon Missions_. Father de Smet's writings on missionary subjects ended only with his death, and were increasingly voluminous and detailed. The _Letters and Sketches_ were his first published work, with the exception of a portion of a compilation that appeared in 1841, on the Jesuit missions of Missouri. We find therefore, in the present reprint, the vitality and enthusiasm of the young traveller relating new scenes, and the abounding joy of the successful missionary uplifting a barbaric race. The book was written with the avowed purpose of creating interest in his newly-organized work, and securing contributions therefor. The freshness of description, the wholesome simplicity of the narrative, the frank presentation of wilderness life, charm the reader, and make this book a classic of early Western exploration. Cast in the form of letters, wherein there is more or less repetition of statement, it is nevertheless evident that these have been subjected to a certain editorial revision, and that literary quality has been considered. Aside from the interest evoked by the personality of the writer, and the events of his narrative, the work throws much light upon wilderness travel, the topography and scenery of the Rocky Mountain region, and above all upon the habits and customs, modes of thought, social standards, and religious conceptions of the important tribes of the interior. After the present series of reprints had been planned for, and announced in a detailed prospectus, there was issued from the press of Francis P. Harper of New York the important volumes edited by Major H. M. Chittenden and Alfred Talbot Richardson, entitled _Life, Letters, and Travels of Father Pierre Jean de Smet, S. J., 1801-73_. This publication contains much new material, derived from manuscript sources, which has been interwoven in chronological order with the missionary's several books; and to it all have been added an adequate biography and bibliography of De Smet. This scholarly work has been of great service to us in preparing for accurate reprint the original editions of the only two of Father de Smet's publications that fall within the chronological field of our series. In the preparation for the press of Flagg's _The Far West_, the Editor has had the assistance of Clarence Cory Crawford, A. M.; in editing Father de Smet's _Letters and Sketches_, his assistant has been Louise Phelps Kellogg, Ph.D. R. G. T. MADISON, WIS., April, 1906. PART I OF FLAGG'S THE FAR WEST, 1836-1837 Reprint of Volume I, and chapters xxiii-xxxii of Volume II, of original edition: New York, 1838 [Illustration: MAP OF OREGON.] THE FAR WEST: OR, A TOUR BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS. EMBRACING OUTLINES OF WESTERN LIFE AND SCENERY; SKETCHES OF THE PRAIRIES, RIVERS, ANCIENT MOUNDS, EARLY SETTLEMENTS OF THE FRENCH, ETC., ETC. "If thou be a severe, sour-complexioned man, then I here disallow thee to be a competent judge."--IZAAK WALTON. "I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry, ''Tis all barren.'"--STERNE. "Chacun a son stile; le mien, comme vous voyez, n'est pas laconique."--ME. DE SEVIGNE. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. NEW-YORK: PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET. 1838. [Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.] TO ONE-- AT WHOSE SOLICITATION THESE VOLUMES WERE COMMENCED, AND WITH WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT THEY HAVE BEEN COMPLETED-- TO MY SISTER LUCY ARE THEY AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. TO THE READER "He that writes Or makes a feast, more certainly invites His judges than his friends; there's not a guest But will find something wanting or ill dress'd." In laying before the majesty of the public a couple of volumes like the present, it has become customary for the author to disclaim in his preface all original design of _perpetrating a book_, as if there were even more than the admitted _quantum_ of sinfulness in the act. Whether or not such disavowals now-a-day receive all the credence they merit, is not for the writer to say; and whether, were the prefatory asseveration, as in the present case, diametrically opposed to what it often is, the reception would be different, is even more difficult to predict. The articles imbodied in the following volumes were, a portion of them, in their original, hasty production, _designed_ for the press; yet the author unites in the disavowal of his predecessors of all intention at that time of perpetrating _a book_. In the early summer of '36, when about starting upon a ramble over the prairies of the "Far West," in hope of renovating the energies of a shattered constitution, a request was made of the writer, by the distinguished editor of the Louisville Journal, to contribute {vi} to the columns of that periodical whatever, in the course of his pilgrimage, might be deemed of sufficient interest.[1] A series of articles soon after made their appearance in that paper under the title, "_Sketches of a Traveller_." They were, as their name purports, mere sketches from a traveller's _portfeuille_, hastily thrown upon paper whenever time, place, or opportunity rendered convenient; in the steamboat saloon, the inn bar-room, the log-cabin of the wilderness, or upon the venerable mound of the Western prairie. With such favour were these hasty productions received, and so extensively were they circulated, that the writer, on returning from his pilgrimage to "the shrine of health," was induced, by the solicitations of partial friends, to enter at his leisure upon the preparation for the press of a mass of MSS. of a similar character, written at the time, which had never been published; a thorough revision and enlargement of that which had appeared, united with _this_, it was thought, would furnish a passable volume or two upon the "Far West." Two years of residence in the West have since passed away; and the arrangement for the press of the fugitive sheets of a wanderer's sketch-book would not yet, perhaps, have been deemed of sufficient importance to warrant the necessary labour, had he not been daily reminded that his productions, whatever their merit, were already public property so far as could be the case, and at the mercy of every one who thought proper to assume paternity. "Forbearance ceased to be longer a virtue," and the result is now before the {vii} reader. But, while alluding to that aid which his labours may have rendered to others, the author would not fail fully to acknowledge his own indebtedness to those distinguished writers upon the West who have preceded him. To Peck, Hall, Flint, Wetmore, and to others, his acknowledgments are due and are respectfully tendered.[2] In extenuation of the circumstance that some portions of these volumes have already appeared, though in a crude state, before the public, the author has but to suggest that many works, with which the present will not presume to compare, have made their debut on the unimposing pages of a periodical. Not to dwell upon the writings of Addison and Johnson, and other classics of British literature, several of Bulwer's most polished productions, the elaborate Essays of Elia, Wirt's British Spy, Hazlitt's Philosophical Reviews, Coleridge's Friend, most of the novels of Captain Marryatt and Theodore Hook, and many of the most elegant works of the day, have been prepared for the pages of a magazine. And now, with no slight misgiving, does the author commit his firstborn bantling to the tender mercies of an impartial public. Criticism he does not deprecate, still less does he brave it; and farther than either is he from soliciting undue favour. Yet to the _reader_, as he grasps him by the hand in parting, would he commit his book, with the quaint injunction of a distinguished but eccentric old English writer upon an occasion somewhat similar: "I exhort all people, gentle and simple, men, {viii} women, and children, to buy, to read, to extol these labours of mine. Let them not fear to defend every article; for I will bear them harmless. I have arguments good store, and can easily confute, either logically, theologically, or metaphysically, all those who oppose me." E. F. New-York, Oct., 1838. CONTENTS I The Western Steamboat-landing--Western Punctuality--An Accident--Human Suffering--Desolation of Bereavement-- A Contrast--Sublimity--An Ohio Freshet--View of Louisville-- Early History--The Ohio Falls--Corn Island--The Last Conflict 43 II The Early Morn--"Sleep no more!"--The Ohio--"_La Belle Rivière!_"--Ohio Islands--A Cluster at Sunset--"Ohio Hills"-- The Emigrant's Clearing--Moonlight on the Ohio--A Sunset-scene-- The Peaceful Ohio--The Gigantic Forest-trees--The Bottom-lands-- Obstructions to Navigation--Classification--Removal--Dimensions of Snags--Peculiar difficulties on the Ohio--Leaning Trees-- Stone Dams--A Full Survey--The Result 52 III An Arrest--Drift-wood--Ohio Scenery--Primitive River-craft-- Early Scenes on the Western Waters--The Boatmen--Life and Character--_Annus Mirabilis_--The Steam-engine in the West-- The Freshet--The Comet--The Earthquakes--The first Steamboat-- The _Pinelore_--The Steam-engine--Prophecy of Darwin--Results-- Sublimity--Villages--A new Geology--Rivers--Islands--Forests-- The Wabash and its Banks--New Harmony--Site--Settlement-- Edifices--Gardens--Owen and the "Social System"--Theory and Practice--Mental Independence--Dissension--Abandonment-- Shawneetown--Early History--Settlement--Advancement--Site-- United States' Salines--Ancient Pottery 59 IV Geology of the Mississippi Valley--Ohio Cliffs--The Iron Coffin--"Battery Rock"--"Rock-Inn-Cave"--Origin of Name--{x} A Visit--Outlines and Dimensions--The Indian _Manito_--Island opposite--The Freebooters--"The Outlaw"--The Counterfeiters-- Their Fate--Ford and his Gang--Retributive Justice--"Tower Rock"--The Tradition--The Cave of Hieroglyphics--Islands-- Golconda--The Cumberland--Aaron Burr's Island--Paducah--Name-- Ruins of Fort Massac--The Legend--Wilkinsonville--The "Grand Chain"--Caledonia--A Storm--Sunset--"The Meeting of the Waters"--Characteristics of the Rivers--"Willow Point"--The place of Meeting--Disappointment--A Utopian City--America 70 V Darkness Visible--The "Father of Waters"--The Power of Steam-- The Current--"English Island"--The Sabbath--A Blessed Appointment--Its Quietude--The New-England Emigrant--His Privations--Sorrows--Loneliness--"The Light of Home"--Cape Girardeau--Site--Settlement--Effects of the Earthquakes-- A severer Shock--Staples of Trade--The Spiral Water-wheels-- Their Utility--"Tyowapity Bottom"--Potter's Clay-- A Manufactory--_Rivière au Vase_--Salines--Coal-beds-- "Fountain Bluff"--The "Grand Tower"--Parapet of Limestone-- Ancient Cataract--The Cliffs--Divinity of the Boatmen-- The "Devil's Oven"--The "Tea-table"--Volcanic and Diluvial Action--The Torrent overcome--A Race--Breathless Interest-- The Engineer--The Fireman--Last of the "Horse and Alligator" species--"Charon"--A Triumph--A Defeat 82 VI Navigation of the Mississippi--The First Appropriation-- Improvements of Capt. Shreve--Mississippi and Ohio Scenery contrasted--Alluvial Deposites--Ste. Genevieve--Origin--Site-- The _Haunted_ Ruin--The old "Common Field"--Inundation of '85--Minerals--Quarries--Sand-caves--Fountains--Salines-- Indians--Ancient Remains--View of Ste. Genevieve--Landing-- Outrage of a Steamer--Indignation--The Remedy--A Snag and a Scene--An Interview with "Charon"--Fort Chartres 93 {xi} VII The Hills! the Hills!--Trosachs of Loch Katrine--Alluvial Action--Bluffs of Selma and Herculaneum--Shot-towers--Natural Curiosities--The "Cornice Cliffs"--The Merrimac--Its Riches--Ancient Lilliputian Graves--Mammoth Remains--Jefferson Barracks--Carondelet--Cahokia--U. S. Arsenal--St. Louis in the Distance--Fine View--Uproar of the Landing--The Eternal River--Character--Features--Sublimity--Statistics--The Lower Mississippi--"Bends"--"Cut-offs"--Land-slips--The Pioneer Cabin 102 VIII "Once more upon the Waters!"--"Uncle Sam's Tooth-pullers"--Mode of eradicating a Snag--River Suburbs of North St. Louis--Spanish Fortifications--The Waterworks--The Ancient Mounds--Country Seats--The Confluence--Charlevoix's Description--A Variance-- A View--The Upper Mississippi--Alton in distant View--The Penitentiary and Churches--"Pomp and Circumstance"--The City of Alton--Advantages--Objections--Improvements--Prospects-- Liberality--Railroads--Alton Bluffs--"Departing Day"--The Piasa Cliffs--Moonlight Scene 113 IX The _Coleur de Rose_--The Piasa--The Indian Legend--Caverns-- Human Remains--The Illinois--Characteristic Features--The Canal--The Banks and Bottoms--Poisonous Exhalations--Scenes on the Illinois--The "Military Bounty Tract"--_Cape au Gris_--Old French Village--River Villages--Pekin--"An Unco Sight"--Genius of the Bacchanal--A "Monkey Show"--Nomenclature of Towns--The Indian Names 122 X An Emigrant Farmer--An Enthusiast--Peoria--The Old Village and the New--Early History--Exile of the French--Fort Clarke--Indian Hostilities--The Modern Village--Site--Advantages--Prospects-- Lake _Pinatahwee_--Fish--The Bluffs and Prairie--A Military Spectacle--The "Helen Mar"--Horrors of Steam!--A Bivouac--The Dragoon Corps--Military {xii} Courtesy--"Starved Rock"--The Legend--Remains--Shells--Intrenchments--Music--The Moonlight Serenade--A Reminiscence 132 XI Delay--"A Horse!"--Early French Immigration in the West--The Villages of the Wilderness--St. Louis--Venerable Aspect--Site of the City--A French Village City--South St. Louis--The Old Chateaux--The Founding of the City--The Footprints in the Rock-- The First House--Name of City--Decease of the Founders--Early Annals--Administration of St. Ange--The Common Field--Cession and Recession--"_L'Annee du Grand Coup_"--"_L'Annee des Grandes Eaux_"--Keel-boat Commerce--The Robbers Culbert and Magilbray-- "_L'Annee des Bateaux_"--The First Steamboat at St. Louis-- Wonder of the Indians--Opposition to Improvement--Plan of St. Louis--A View--Spanish Fortifications--The Ancient Mounds-- Position--Number--Magnitude--Outlines--Arrangement--Character-- Neglect--Moral Interest--Origin--The Argument of Analogy 142 XII View from the "Big Mound" at St. Louis--The Sand-bar--The Remedy--The "Floating Dry-dock"--The Western Suburbs--Country Seats--Game--Lakes--Public Edifices--Catholic Religion-- "Cathedral of St. Luke"--Site--Dimensions--Peal of Bells-- Porch--The Interior--Columns--Window Transparencies--The Effect--The Sanctuary--Galleries--Altar-piece--Altar and Tabernacle--Chapels--Paintings--Lower Chapel--St. Louis University--Medical School--The Chapel--Paintings--Library-- Ponderous Volumes--Philosophical Apparatus--The Pupils 160 XIII An Excursion of Pleasure--A fine Afternoon--Our Party--The Bridal Pair--South St. Louis--Advantages for Manufactures-- Quarries--Farmhouses--The "Eagle Powder-works"--Explosion-- The Bride--A Steeple-chase--A Descent--The Arsenal--Grounds-- Structures--Esplanade--Ordnance--Warlike Aspect--Carondelet-- Sleepy-Hollow--River-reach {xiii}--Time Departed--Inhabitants-- Structures--Gardens--Orchards--_Cabarets_--The Catholic Church--Altar-piece--Paintings--Missal--Crucifix--Evergreens-- Deaf and Dumb Asylum--Distrust of Villagers--Jefferson Barracks--Site--Extent--Buildings--View from the Terrace--The Burial Grounds--The Cholera--Design of the Barracks--_Corps de Reserve_--A remarkable Cavern--Our Guide--Situation of Cave--Entrance--Exploration--Grotesque Shapes--A Foot--Boat-- Coffin in Stone--The Bats--_Rivière des Pères_--An Ancient Cemetery--Antiquities--The Jesuit Settlers--Sulphur Spring-- A Cavern--A Ruin 170 XIV City and Country at Midsummer--Cosmorama of St. Louis--The American Bottom--Cahokia Creek--A Pecan Grove--The Ancient Mounds--First Group--Number--Resemblance--Magnitude--Outline--Railroad to the Bluffs--Pittsburg--The Prairie--Landscape--The "Cantine Mounds"--"Monk Hill"--First Impressions--Origin--The Argument--Workmanship of Man--Reflections suggested--Our Memory--The Craving of the Heart--The Pyramid-builders--The Mound-builders--A hopeless Aspiration--"Keep the Soul embalmed" 180 XV The Antiquity of Monk Mound--Primitive Magnitude--Fortifications of the Revolution--The Ancient Population--Two Cities--Design of the Mounds--The "Cantine Mounds"--Number--Size--Position-- Outline--Features of Monk Mound--View from the Summit--Prairie-- Lakes--Groves--Bluffs--Cantine Creek--St. Louis in distance-- Neighbouring Earth-heaps--The Well--Interior of the Mound-- The Monastery of La Trappe--Abbé Armand Rance--The Vows--A Quotation--Reign of Terror--Immigration of the Trappists-- Their Buildings--Their Discipline--Diet--Health--Skill--Asylum Seminary--Worldly Charity--Palliation--A strange Spectacle 187 {xiv} XVI Edwardsville--Site and Buildings--Land Mania--A "Down-east" Incident--Human Nature--The first Land Speculator--Castor-oil Manufacture--Outlines of Edwardsville--Collinsville--Route to Alton--Sultriness--The Alton Bluffs--A Panorama--Earth-heaps-- Indian Graves--Upper Alton--Shurtliff College--_Baptized_ Intelligence--Knowledge not Conservative--Greece--Rome-- France--England--The Remedy 197 XVII The Traveller's Whereabout--The Prairie in a Mist--Sense of Loneliness--The Backwoods Farmhouse--Structure--Outline-- Western Roads--A New-England Emigrant--The "Barrens"--Origin of Name--Soil--The "Sink-holes"--The Springs--Similar in Missouri and Florida--"Fount of Rejuvenescence"--Ponce de Leon--"Sappho's Fount"--The Prairies--First View--The Grass-- Flowers--Island-groves--A Contrast--Prairie-farms--A Buck and Doe--A Kentucky Pioneer--Events of Fifty Years--The "Order Tramontane"--Expedition of Gov. Spotswood--The Change-- A Thunderstorm on the Prairies--"A Sharer in the Tempest"-- Discretionary Valour 207 XVIII Morning after the Storm--The Landscape--The sprinkled Groves-- Nature in unison with the Heart--The Impress of Design-- Contemplation of grand Objects elevates--Nature and the Savage-- Nature and Nature's God--Earth praises God--Indifference and Ingratitude of Man--"All is very Good"--Influence of Scenery upon Character--The Swiss Mountaineer--Bold Scenery most Impressive--Freedom among the Alps--Caucasus--Himmalaya-- _Something_ to Love--Carlinville--"Grand Menagerie"--A Scene-- The Soil--The Inn--Macoupin Creek--Origin of Name--A Vegetable-- An Indian Luxury--Carlinville--Its Advantages and Prospects--A "Fourth-of-July" Oration--The thronging Multitudes--The huge Cart--A Thunder-storm--A Log-cabin--Women and Children--Outlines of the Cabin--The Roof and Floor--The Furniture and Dinner-pot-- A Choice of Evils--The _Pathless_ Prairie 219 {xv} XIX Ponce de Leon--The Fount of Youth--The "Land of Flowers"-- Ferdinand de Soto--"_El Padre de los Aguas_"--The Canadian Voyageurs--"_La Belle Rivière_"--Sieur La Salle--"A Terrestrial Paradise"--Daniel Boone--"Old Kentucke"--"The Pilgrim from the North"--Sabbath Morning--The Landscape--The Grass and Prairie-flower--Nature at Rest--Sabbath on the Prairie--Alluvial Aspect of the Prairies--The Soil--Lakes--Fish--The Annual Fires--Origin--A Mode of Hunting--Captain Smith--Mungo Park-- Hillsborough--Major-domo of the Hostelrie--His Garb and Proportions--The Presbyterian Church--_Picturesqueness_--The "_Luteran_ Church"--Practical Utility--The Dark Minister-- A Mistake--The Patriotic Dutchman--A Veritable Publican-- Prospects of Hillsborough--A Theological Seminary--Route to Vandalia--The Political Sabbath 230 XX The Race of Vagabonds--"Yankee Enterprise"--The Virginia Emigrant--The Western Creeks and Bridges--An Adventure in Botany--Unnatural Rebellion--Christian Retaliation--Vandalia-- "First Impressions"--The Patriotic Bacchanal--The High-priest-- A Distinction Unmerited--The Cause--Vandalia--Situation-- Public Edifices--Square--Church--Bank--Land-office--"Illinois Magazine"--Tardy Growth--Removal of Government--Adventures of the First Legislators--The Northern Frontier--Magic of Sixteen Years--Route to Carlisle--A Buck and Doe--An old Hunter-- "Hurricane Bottom"--Night on the Prairies--The Emigrant's Bivouac--The Prairie-grass--Carlisle--Site--Advantages-- Growth--"Mound Farm" 238 XXI The Love of Nature--Its Delights--The Wanderer's Reflections-- The Magic Hour--A Sunset on the Prairies--"The Sunny Italy"-- The Prairie Sunset--Route to Lebanon--Silver Creek--Origin of Name--The "Looking-glass Prairie"--The Methodist Village-- Farms--Country Seats--Maize-fields--Herds--M'Kendreean College-- "The Seminary!"--Route to Belleville--The Force of Circumstance-- A Contrast--Public {xvi} Buildings--A lingering Look--Route to St. Louis--The French Village--The Coal Bluffs--Discovery of Coal--St. Clair County--Home of Clouds--Realm of Thunder--San Louis 248 XXII Single Blessedness--Text and Comment--_En Route_--North St. Louis--A Delightful Drive--A Delightful Farm-cottage--The Catholic University--A Stately Villa--Belle Fontaine--A Town plat--A View of the Confluence--The _Human Tooth_--The Hamlet of Florissant--Former Name--Site--Buildings--Church--Seminary-- _Tonish_--_Owen's Station_--Scenery upon the Route-- _La Charbonnière_--The Missouri Bottom--The Forest-Colonnade-- The Missouri--Its Sublimity--Indian Names--Its Turbid Character--Cause--An Inexplicable Phenomenon--Theories-- Navigation Dangerous--Floods of the Missouri--Alluvions-- Sources of the Missouri and Columbia--Their Destinies--Human Life--The Ocean of Eternity--Gates of the Rocky Mountains-- Sublimity--A Cataract--The Main Stream--Claims stated 257 {iii} XXIII View of St. Charles and the Missouri--The Bluffs--"A stern round Tower"--Its Origin--The Windmill--A sunset Stroll--Rural Sights and Sounds--The River and Forest--The Duellist's Grave--The Hour and Scene--_Requiescat_--Reflections--Duelling--A sad Event-- Young B----.--His Request--His Monument--"Blood Island"--Its Scenes and Annals--A visit to "_Les Mamelles_"--The Forest-path-- Its Obscurity--Outlines of the Bluffs--Derivation of Name-- Position--Resemblance--The Missouri Bluffs--View from The Mamelle--The Missouri Bottom--The Mamelle Prairie--The distant Cliffs and Confluences--Extent of Plain--Alluvial Origin-- Lakes--Bed of the Rivers--An ancient Deposite 268 XXIV St. Charles--Its Origin--Peculiarities--Early Name--Spanish Rule--Heterogeneous Population--Germans--The Wizard Spell-- American Enterprise--Site of the Village--Prospects--The Baltimore Settlement--Catholic Religion and Institutions-- "St. Charles College"--The Race of Hunters--A Specimen--The Buffalo--Indian Atrocities--The "Rangers"--Daniel Boone-- "Too Crowded!"--The "Regulators"--Boone's Lick--His Decease-- His Memory--The Missouri Indians--The Stoccade Fort--Adventure of a Naturalist--Route from St. Charles--A Prairie without a Path--Enormous Vegetation--The Cliffs--The Column of Smoke-- Perplexity--A delightful Scene--A rare Flower--The Prairie Flora in Spring--In Summer--In Autumn--The Traveller loiters 276 {iv} XXV Novel Feature of the Mamelle Prairie--A Footpath--An old French Village--Bewilderment--Mystery--A Guide--_Portage des Sioux_-- Secluded Site--Advantages--"Common Field"--Garden-plats--A brick Edifice--A _courteous_ Welcome--An _amiable_ Personage--History of the Village--Origin--Earthquakes--Name--An Indian Legend-- Teatable Talk--_Patois_ of the French Villages--An Incident!-- A Scene!--A civil Hint--A Night of Beauty--The Flush of Dawn-- The weltering Prairie--The Forest--The river Scene--The Ferry-horn--Delay--Locale of Grafton--Advantages and Prospects 288 XXVI Cave in the Grafton Cliffs--Outlines--Human Remains--_Desecration_ of the Coopers--View from the Cave's Mouth--The Bluffs--Inclined Planes--The Railroad--A Stone-heap--A beautiful Custom--Veneration for the Dead--The Widow of Florida--The Canadian Mother--The Orientals--An extensive View--The River--The Prairie--The Emigrant Farm--The Illinois--A _tortuous_ Route--Macoupin Settlement-- Carrolton--Outlines of a Western Village--Religious Diversity--An agricultural Village--Whitehall--The Emigrant Family _en route_-- A Western Village--Its rapid Growth--Fit Parallels--Manchester-- The Scarcity of Timber not an insurmountable Obstacle-- Substitutes--Morgan County--Prospects--Soil of the Prairies-- Adaptation to _coarse_ Grains--Rapid Population--New-England Immigrants--The Changes of a few Years--Environs of Jacksonville--Buildings of "Illinois College"--The Public Square 295 XXVII Remark of Horace Walpole--A Word from the Author--Jacksonville-- Its rapid Advancement--Its Site--Suburbs--Public Square-- Radiating Streets--The Congregational Church--The Pulpit--A pleasant Incident--The "New-England of the West"--Immigrant Colonies--"Illinois College"--The Site--Buildings--"Manual Labour System"--The Founders--Their Success--Their Fame-- Jacksonville--Attractions for the Northern Emigrant--New England Character--A faithful {v} Transcript--"The Pilgrim Fathers"-- The "Stump"--Mr. W. and his Speech--Curious Surmisings--Internal Improvements--Route to Springfield--A "Baptist Circuit-rider"-- An Evening Prairie-rider 305 XXVIII The Nature of Man--Facilities for its Study--A Pilgrimage of Observation--Dissection of Character, Physical and Moral--The young Student--The brighter Features of Humanity--An unwitting Episode--Our World a _Ruin_--Sunrise on the Prairies-- Springfield--Its Location--Advantages--Structures--Society-- Prospects--The Sangamon River--Its Navigation--Bottom-lands-- Aged Forests--Cathedral Pomp--A splendid Phenomenon--Civic Honours--"_Sic itur ad astra!_"--A Morning Ride--"Demands of Appetite"--"Old Jim"--A tipsy Host--A revolting Exhibition-- Jacob's Cattle and the Prairie-wolves--An Illinois Table-- The Staples--A Tea Story--Poultry and Bacon--_Chicken Fixens_ and _Common Doins_--An Object of Commiseration 315 XXIX The Burial-ground--A _holy_ Spot--Our culpable Indifference-- Cemeteries in our Land--A sad Reflection--The last Petition-- Reverence for the Departed--Civilized and Savage Nations--The last Resting-place--Worthy of Thought--A touching Expression of the Heart--FRANKLIN--The Object of Admiration and _Love_-- The Burial-ground of Decatur--The dying Emigrant--The Spirit's Sympathy--A soothing Reflection to Friends--The "Grand Prairie"-- The "Lost Rocks"--Decatur--Site and Prospects--A sunset Scene-- The Prairie by Moonlight--The Log-cabin--The Exotic of the Prairie--The Heart--The Thank-offering--The Pre-emption Right-- The Mormonites--Their Customs--Millennial Anticipations--The Angelic Visitant--The _dénouément_--The Miracle!--The System of "New Light"--Its Rise and Fall--Aberrations of the Mind-- A melancholy Reflection--Absurdity of Mormonism 325 XXX A wild Night--An Illusion--Sleeplessness--Loneliness--A Storm-wind on the Prairies--A magnificent Scene--Beauty of {vi} the lesser Prairies--Nature's _chef d'oeuvre_--Loveliness lost in Grandeur--Waves of the Prairie--Ravines--Light and Shade--"Alone, alone, all, all alone!"--Origin of the Prairie-- Argument for _Natural_ Origin--Similar Plains--Derivation of "_Prairie_"--Absence of Trees accounted for--The _Diluvial_ Origin--Prairie Phenomena explained--The Autumnal Fires--An Exception--The Prairie _sui generis_--No Identity with other Plains--A Bed of the Ocean--A new Hypothesis--Extent of Prairie-surface--Characteristic Carelessness--Hunger and Thirst--A tedious Jaunt--Horrible Suggestions!--Land ho!-- A Log-cabin--Hog and Honey 338 XXXI Cis-atlantic Character--Avarice--Curiosity--A grand Propellant-- A Concomitant and Element of Mental Vigour--An Anglo-American Characteristic--Inspection and Supervision--"Uncle Bill"--The Quintessence of Inquisitiveness--A Fault "on Virtue's Side"-- The People of Illinois--A Hunting Ramble--A Shot--_Tempis fugit_--Shelbyville--Dame Justice _in Terrorem_--A Sulphur Spring--The Inn Register--Chill Atmosphere of the Forest-- Contrast on the Prairie--The "Green-head" Prairie-fly--Effect upon a Horse--Numerous in '35--The "Horse-guard"--The _Modus Bellandi_--_Cold Spring_--A _presuming_ Host--Musty Politics-- The Robin Redbreast--Ornithology of the West--The Turtle-dove-- Pathos of her Note--Paley's Remark--Eloquence of the Forest-bird--A Mormonite, _Zion_ward--A forensic Confabulation-- Mormonism Developed--The seduced Pedagogue--_Mount Zion_ Stock-- The Grand Tabernacle--Smith and Rigdom--The Bank--The Temple-- The School--Appearance of Smith--Of Rigdom--Their Disciples-- The National Road--Its Progress--Structure--_Terminus_--Its enormous Character--A Contrast--"Shooting a Beeve"--The Regulations--Salem--A New-England Seaport--The Location--The Village Singing-school--_The Major_ 348 XXXII Rest after Exertion--A Purpose--"Mine Ease in mine Inn"-- The "Thread of Discourse"--A Thunder-gust--Its Approach and Departure--A Bolt--A rifted Elm--An impressive {vii} Scene-- Gray's _Bard_--Mount Vernon--Courthouse--Site--Medicinal Water--A misty Morning--A _blind_ Route--"Muddy Prairie"-- Wild Turkeys--Something Diabolical!--The _direct_ Route-- A vexatious Incident--The unerring Guide--A _Tug_ for a _Fixen_--An evening Ride--Pinkneyville--Outlines and Requisites--The blood-red Jail--The _Traveller's Inn_-- "'Tis true, and Pity 'tis"--A "Soul in Purgatory"--An _unutterable_ Ill--_Incomparable_--An unpitied and unenviable Situation--A laughable Bewilderment--Host and Hostess--The Mischief of a Smile--A Retaliation 362 THE FAR WEST [PART I] I "I do remember me, that, in my youth, When I was wandering--" MANFRED. It was a bright morning in the early days of "leafy June." Many a month had seen me a wanderer from distant New-England; and now I found myself "once more upon the waters," embarked for a pilgrimage over the broad prairie-plains of the sunset West. A drizzly, miserable rain had for some days been hovering, with proverbial pertinacity, over the devoted "City of the Falls," and still, at intervals, came lazily pattering down from the sunlighted clouds, reminding one of a hoiden girl smiling through a shower of April tear-drops, while the quay continued to exhibit all that wild uproar and tumult, "confusion worse confounded," which characterizes the steamboat commerce of the Western Valley. The landing at the time was thronged with steamers, and yet the incessant "boom, boom, boom," of the high-pressure engines, the shrill hiss of scalding steam, and the fitful port-song of the negro firemen rising ever and anon upon the breeze, gave notice of a constant {14} augmentation to the number. Some, too, were getting under way, and their lower _guards_ were thronged by emigrants with their household and agricultural utensils. Drays were rattling hither and thither over the rough pavement; Irish porters were cracking their whips and roaring forth alternate staves of blasphemy and song; clerks hurrying to and fro, with fluttering note-books, in all the fancied dignity of "brief authority;" hackney-coaches dashing down to the water's edge, apparently with no motive to the nervous man but noise; while at intervals, as if to fill up the pauses of the Babel, some incontinent steamer would hurl forth from the valves of her overcharged boilers one of those deafening, terrible blasts, echoing and re-echoing along the river-banks, and streets, and among the lofty buildings, till the very welkin rang again. To one who has never visited the public wharves of the great cities of the West, it is no trivial task to convey an adequate idea of the spectacle they present. The commerce of the Eastern seaports and that of the Western Valley are utterly dissimilar; not more in the staples of intercourse than in the mode in which it is conducted; and, were one desirous of exhibiting to a friend from the Atlantic shore a picture of the prominent features which characterize commercial proceedings upon the Western waters, or, indeed, of Western character in its general outline, at a _coup d'oeil_, he could do no better than to place him in the wild uproar of the steamboat quay. Amid the "crowd, the hum, {15} the shock" of such a scene stands out Western peculiarity in all its stern proportion. Steamers on the great waters of the West are well known to indulge no violently conscientious scruples upon the subject of punctuality, and a solitary exception at our behest, or in our humble behalf, was, to be sure, not an event to be counted on. "There's dignity in being waited for;" hour after hour, therefore, still found us and left us amid the untold scenes and sounds of the public landing. It is true, and to the unending honour of all concerned be it recorded, very true it is our doughty steamer ever and anon would puff and blow like a porpoise or a narwhal; and then would she swelter from every pore and quiver in every limb with the ponderous labouring of her huge enginery, and the steam would shrilly whistle and shriek like a spirit in its confinement, till at length she united her whirlwind voice to the general roar around; and all this indicated, indubitably, an intention to be off and away; but a knowing one was he who could determine the _when_. Among the causes of our wearisome detention was one of a nature too melancholy, too painfully interesting lightly to be alluded to. Endeavouring to while away the tedium of delay, I was pacing leisurely back and forth upon the _guard_, surveying the lovely scenery of the opposite shore, and the neat little houses of the village sprinkled upon the plain beyond, when a wild, piercing shriek struck upon my ear. I was hurrying immediately forward to the spot whence it seemed to proceed, {16} when I was intercepted by some of our boat's crew bearing a mangled body. It was that of our second engineer, a fine, laughing young fellow, who had been terribly injured by becoming entangled with the flywheel of the machinery while in motion. He was laid upon the passage floor. I stood at his head; and never, I think, shall I forget those convulsed and agonized features. His countenance was ghastly and livid; beaded globules of cold sweat started out incessantly upon his pale brow; and, in the paroxysms of pain, his dark eye would flash, his nostril dilate, and his lips quiver so as to expose the teeth gnashing in a fearful manner; while a muttered execration, dying away from exhaustion, caused us all to shudder. And then that wild despairing roll of the eyeball in its socket as the miserable man would glance hurriedly around upon the countenances of the bystanders, imploring them, in utter helplessness, to lend him relief. Ah! it is a fearful thing to look upon these strivings of humanity in the iron grasp of a power it may in vain resist! From the quantity of blood thrown off, the oppressive fulness of the chest, and the difficult respiration, some serious pulmonary injury had evidently been sustained; while a splintered clavicle and limbs shockingly shattered racked the poor sufferer with anguish inexpressible. It was evident he believed himself seriously injured, for at times he would fling out his arms, beseeching those around him to "hold him back," as if even then he perceived the icy grasp of the death angel creeping over his frame. {17} Perhaps I have devoted more words to the detail of this melancholy incident than would otherwise have been the case, on account of the interest which some circumstances in the sufferer's history, subsequently received from the captain of our steamer, inspired. "Frank, poor fellow," said the captain, "was a native of Ohio, the son of a lone woman, a widow. He was all her hope, and to his exertions she was indebted for a humble support." Here, then, were circumstances to touch the sympathies of any heart possessed of but a tithe of the nobleness of our nature; and I could not but reflect, as they were recounted, how like the breath of desolation the first intelligence of her son's fearful end must sweep over the spirit of this lonely widow; for, like the wretched Constance, she can "never, never behold him more."[3] "Her life, her joy, her food, her all the world! Her widow-comfort, and her sorrow's cure!" While indulging in these sad reflections a gay burst of music arrested my attention; and, looking up, I perceived the packet-boat "Lady Marshall" dropping from her mooring at the quay, her decks swarming with passengers, and under high press of steam, holding her bold course against the current, while the merry dashing of the wheels, mingling with the wild clang of martial music, imparted an air almost of romance to the scene. How strangely did this contrast with that misery from which my eye had just turned! There are few objects more truly grand--I had {18} almost said sublime--than a powerful steamer struggling triumphantly with the rapids of the Western waters. The scene has in it a something of that power which we feel upon us in viewing a ship under full sail; and, in some respects, there is more of the sublime in the humbler triumph of man over the elements than in that more vast. Sublimity is a result, not merely of massive, extended, unmeasured greatness, but oftener, and far more impressively, does the sentiment arise from a _combination_ of vast and powerful objects. The mighty stream rolling its volumed floods through half a continent, and hurrying onward to mingle its full tide with the "Father of Waters," is truly sublime; its resistless power is sublime; the memory of its by-gone scenes, and the venerable moss-grown forests on its banks, are sublime; and, lastly, the noble fabric of man's workmanship struggling and groaning in convulsed, triumphant effort to overcome the resistance offered, completes a picture which demands not the heaving ocean-waste and the "oak leviathan" to embellish. It was not until the afternoon was far advanced that we found ourselves fairly embarked. A rapid freshet had within a few hours swollen the tranquil Ohio far beyond its ordinary volume and velocity, and its turbid waters were rolling onward between the green banks, bearing on their bosom all the varied spoils of their mountain-home, and of the rich region through which they had been flowing. The finest site from which to view the city we found to be the channel of the Falls upon the Indiana side of the stream, called the _Indian_ {19} chute, to distinguish it from two others, called the _Middle_ chute and the _Kentucky_ chute. The prospect from this point is noble, though the uniformity of the structures, the fewness of the spires, the unimposing character of the public edifices, and the depression of the site upon which the city stands, give to it a monotonous, perhaps a lifeless aspect to the stranger. It was in the year 1778 that a settlement was first commenced upon the spot on which the fair city of Louisville now stands.[4] In the early spring of that year, General George Rodgers Clarke, under authority of the State of Virginia, descended the Ohio with several hundred men, with the design of reducing the military posts of Kaskaskia, Cahokia, and Fort Vincent, then held by British troops. Disembarking upon Corn Island at the Falls of the Ohio, opposite the present city, land sufficient for the support of six families, which were left, was cleared and planted with _corn_. From this circumstance the island received a name which it yet retains. General Clarke proceeded upon his expedition, and, in the autumn returning successful, the emigrants were removed to the main land, and a settlement was commenced where Louisville now stands. During the few succeeding years, other families from Virginia settled upon the spot, and in the spring of 1780 seven stations were formed upon Beargrass Creek,[5] which here empties into the Mississippi, and Louisville commenced its march to its present importance. The view of the city from the Falls, as I have remarked, is not at all imposing; the view of the {20} Falls from the city, on the contrary, is one of beauty and romance. They are occasioned by a parapet of limestone extending quite across the stream, which is here about one mile in width; and when the water is low the whole chain sparkles with bubbling foam-bells. When the stream is full the descent is hardly perceptible but for the increased rapidity of the current, which varies from ten to fourteen miles an hour.[6] Owing to the height of the freshet, this was the case at the time when we descended them, and there was a wild air of romance about the dark rushing waters: and the green woodlands upon either shore, overshadowed as they were by the shifting light and shade of the flitting clouds, cast over the scene a bewitching fascination. "_Corn Island_," with its legendary associations, rearing its dense clump of foliage as from the depths of the stream, was not the least beautiful object of the panorama; while the receding city, with its smoky roofs, its bustling quay, and the glitter and animation of an extended line of steamers, was alone necessary to fill up a scene for a limner.[7] And our steamer swept onward {21} over the rapids, and threaded their maze of beautiful islands, and passed along the little villages at their foot and the splendid steamers along their shore, till twilight had faded, and the dusky mantle of departed day was flung over forest and stream. _Ohio River._ II "How beautiful is this visible world! How glorious in its action and itself!" MANFRED. "The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great Western World when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods." HEMANS. Long before the dawn on the morning succeeding our departure we were roused from our rest by the hissing of steam and the rattling of machinery as our boat moved slowly out from beneath the high banks and lofty sycamores of the river-side, where she had in safety been moored for the night, to resume her course. Withdrawing the curtain from the little rectangular window of my stateroom, the dark shadow of the forest was slumbering in calm magnificence upon the waters; and glancing upward my eye, the stars were beaming out in silvery brightness; while all along the eastern horizon, where "The gray coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs And drive it through the sky," {22} rested a broad, low zone of clear heaven, proclaiming the coming of a glorious dawn. The hated clang of the bell-boy was soon after heard resounding far and wide in querulous and deafening clamour throughout the cabins, vexing the dull ear of every drowsy man in the terrible language of Macbeth's evil conscience, "sleep no more!" In a very desperation of self-defence I arose. The mists of night had not yet wholly dispersed, and the rack and fog floated quietly upon the placid bosom of the stream, or ascended in ragged masses from the dense foliage upon its banks. All this melted gently away like "the baseless fabric of a vision," and "the beauteous eye of day" burst forth in splendour, lighting up a scene of unrivalled loveliness. Much, very much has been written of "the beautiful Ohio;" the pens of an hundred tourists have sketched its quiet waters and its venerable groves; but there is in its noble scenery an ever salient freshness, which no description, however varied, can exhaust; new beauties leap forth to the eye of the man of sensibility, and even an humble pen may not fail to array them in the drapery of their own loveliness. There are in this beautiful stream features peculiar to itself, which distinguish it from every other that we have seen or of which we have read; features which render it truly and emphatically _sui generis_. It is not "the blue-rushing of the arrowy Rhone," with castled crags and frowning battlements; it is not the dark-rolling Danube, shadowy with the legend of departed time, upon whose banks armies have met and battled; it is not {23} the lordly Hudson, roaming in beauty through the ever-varying romance of the Catskill Highlands; nor is it the gentle wave of the soft-flowing Connecticut, seeming almost to sleep as it glides through the calm, "happy valley" of New-England: but it is that noble stream, bounding forth, like a young warrior of the wilderness, in all the joyance of early vigour, from the wild twin-torrents of the hills; rolling onward through a section of country the glory of a new world, and over the wooded heights of whose banks has rushed full many a crimson tide of Indian massacre. Ohio,[8] "_The River of Blood_," was its fearfully significant name from the aboriginal native; _La Belle Rivière_ was its euphonious distinction from the simple Canadian voyageur, whose light pirogue first glided on its blue bosom. "The Beautiful River!"--it is no misnomer--from its earliest commencement to the broad _embouchure_ into the turbid floods of the Mississippi, it unites every combination of scenic loveliness which even the poet's sublimated fancy could demand.[9] Now it sweeps along beneath its lofty bluffs in the conscious grandeur of resistless might; and then its clear, transparent waters glide in undulating ripples over the shelly bottoms and among the pebbly heaps of the white-drifted sand-bars, or in the calm magnificence of their eternal wandering, "To the gentle woods all night Sing they a sleepy tune." From either shore streams of singular beauty and euphonious names come pouring in their tribute {24} through the deep foliage of the fertile bottoms; while the swelling, volumed outlines of the banks, piled up with ponderous verdure rolling and heaving in the river-breeze like life, recur in such grandeur and softness, and such ever-varying combinations of beauty, as to destroy every approach to monotonous effect. From the source of the Ohio to its outlet its waters imbosom more than an hundred islands, some of such matchless loveliness that it is worthy of remark that such slight allusion has been made to them in the numerous pencillings of Ohio scenery. In the fresh, early summertime, when the deep green of vegetation is in its luxuriance, they surely constitute the most striking feature of the river. Most of them are densely wooded to the water's edge; and the wild vines and underbrush suspended lightly over the waters are mirrored in their bosom or swept by the current into attitudes most graceful and picturesque. In some of those stretched-out, endless reaches which are constantly recurring, they seem bursting up like beautiful _bouquets_ of sprinkled evergreens from the placid stream; rounded and swelling, as if by the teachings of art, on the blue bosom of the waters. A cluster of these "isles of light" I well remember, which opened upon us the eve of the second day of our passage. Two of the group were exceedingly small, mere points of a deeper shade in the reflecting azure; while the third, lying between the former, stretched itself far away in a narrow, well-defined strip of foliage, like a curving gash in the surface, parallel to the {25} shore; and over the lengthened vista of the waters gliding between, the giant branches bowed themselves, and wove their mingled verdure into an immense Gothic arch, seemingly of interminable extent, but closed at last by a single speck of crimson skylight beyond. Throughout its whole course the Ohio is fringed with wooded bluffs; now towering in sublime majesty hundreds of feet from the bed of the rolling stream, and anon sweeping inland for miles, and rearing up those eminences so singularly beautiful, appropriately termed "Ohio hills," while their broad alluvial plains in the interval betray, by their enormous vegetation, a fertility exhaustless and unrivalled. Here and there along the green bluffs is caught a glimpse of the emigrant's low log cabin peeping out to the eye from the dark foliage, sometimes when miles in the distance; while the rich maize-fields of the bottoms, the girdled forest-trees and the lowing kine betray the advance of civilized existence. But if the scenes of the Ohio are beautiful beneath the broad glare of the morning sunlight, what shall sketch their lineaments when the coarser etchings of the picture are mellowed down by the balmy effulgence of the midnight moon of summer! When her floods of light are streaming far and wide along the magnificent forest-tops! When all is still--still! and sky, and earth, and wood, and stream are hushed as a spirit's breathing! When thought is almost audible, and memory is busy with the past! When the distant bluffs, bathed in molten silver, gleam like beacon-lights, and the far-off vistas of the {26} meandering waters are flashing with the sheen of their ripples! When you glide through the endless maze, and the bright islets shift, and vary, and pass away in succession like pictures of the kaleidoscope before your eye! When imagination is awake and flinging forth her airy fictions, bodies things unseen, and clothes reality in loveliness not of earth! When a scene like this is developed, what shall adequately depict it? Not the pen. Such, such is the beautiful Ohio in the soft days of early summer; and though hackneyed may be the theme of its loveliness, yet, as the dying glories of a Western sunset flung over the landscape the mellow tenderness of its parting smile, "fading, still fading, as the day was declining," till night's dusky mantle had wrapped the "woods on shore" and the quiet stream from the eye, I could not, even at the hazard of triteness, resist an inclination to fling upon the sheet a few hurried lineaments of Nature's beautiful creations. There is not a stream upon the continent which, for the same distance, rolls onward so calmly, and smoothly, and peacefully as the Ohio. Danger rarely visits its tranquil bosom, except from the storms of heaven or the reckless folly of man, and hardly a river in the world can vie with it in safety, utility, or beauty. Though subject to rapid and great elevations and depressions, its current is generally uniform, never furious. The forest-trees which skirt its banks are the largest in North America, while the variety is endless; several sycamores were pointed out to us upon the shores from thirty to fifty feet in circumference. Its alluvial {27} bottoms are broad, deep, and exhaustlessly fertile; its bluffs are often from three to four hundred feet in height; its breadth varies from one mile to three, and its navigation, since the improvements commenced, under the authority of Congress, by the enterprising Shreve, has become safe and easy.[10] The classification of obstructions is the following: _snags_, trees anchored by their roots; fragments of trees of various forms and magnitude; _wreck-heaps_, consisting of several of these stumps, and logs, and branches of trees lodged in one place; _rocks_, which have rolled from the cliffs, and varying from ten to one hundred cubic feet in size; and _sunken boats_, principally flat-boats laden with coal. The last remains one of the most serious obstacles to the navigation of the Ohio. Many steamers have been damaged by striking the wrecks of the _Baltimore_, the _Roanoke_, the _William Hulburt_,[11] and other craft, which were themselves snagged; while keel and flat-boats without number have been lost from the same cause.[12] Several thousands of the obstacles mentioned have been removed since improvements were commenced, and accidents from this cause are now less frequent. Some of the snags torn up from the bed of the stream, where they have probably for ages been buried, are said to have exceeded a diameter of six feet at the root, and were upward of an hundred feet in length. The removal of these obstructions on the Ohio presents a difficulty and expense not encountered upon the Mississippi. In the latter stream, the root of the snag, when eradicated, is deposited in some deep {28} pool or bayou along the banks, and immediately imbeds itself in alluvial deposite; but on the Ohio, owing to the nature of its banks in most of its course, there is no opportunity for such a disposal, and the boatmen are forced to blast the logs with gunpowder to prevent them from again forming obstructions. The cutting down and clearing away of all leaning and falling trees from the banks constitutes an essential feature in the scheme of improvement; since the facts are well ascertained that trees seldom plant themselves far from the spot where they fall; and that, when once under the power of the current, they seldom anchor themselves and form snags. The policy of removing the leaning and fallen trees is, therefore, palpable, since, when this is once thoroughly accomplished, no material for subsequent formation can exist. The construction of stone dams, by which to concentrate into a single channel all the waters of the river, where they are divided by islands, or from other causes are spread over a broad extent, is another operation now in execution. The dams at "Brown's Island,"[13] the shoalest point on the Ohio, have been so eminently successful as fully to establish the efficiency of the plan. Several other works of a similar character are proposed; a full survey of the stream, hydrographical and topographical, is recommended; and, when all improvements are completed, it is believed that the navigation of the "beautiful Ohio" will answer every purpose of commerce and the traveller, from its source to its mouth, at the lowest stages of the water. _Ohio River._ III "The sure traveller, Though he alight sometimes, still goeth on." HERBERT. "A RACE-- Now like autumnal leaves before the blast Wide scattered." SPRAGUE. Thump, thump, crash! One hour longer, and I was at length completely roused from a troublous slumber by our boat coming to a dead stop. Casting a glance from the window, the bright flashing of moonlight showed the whole surface of the stream covered with drift-wood, and, on inquiry, I learned that the branches of an enormous oak, some sixty feet in length, had become entangled with one of the paddle-wheels of our steamer, and forbade all advance. We were soon once more in motion; the morning mists were dispersing, the sun rose up behind the forests, and his bright beams danced lightly over the gliding waters. We passed many pleasant little villages along the banks, and it was delightful to remove from the noise, and heat, and confusion below to the lofty _hurricane deck_, and lounge away hour after hour in gazing upon the varied and beautiful scenes which presented themselves in constant succession to the eye. Now we were gliding quietly on through the long island {30} chutes, where the daylight was dim, and the enormous forest-trees bowed themselves over us, and echoed from their still recesses the roar of our steam-pipe; then we were sweeping rapidly over the broad reaches of the stream, miles in extent; again we were winding through the mazy labyrinth of islets which fleckered the placid surface of the stream, and from time to time we passed the lonely cabin of the emigrant beneath the venerable and aged sycamores. Here and there, as we glided on, we met some relic of those ancient and primitive species of river-craft which once assumed ascendency over the waters of the West, but which are now superseded by steam, and are of too infrequent occurrence not to be objects of peculiar interest. In the early era of the navigation of the Ohio, the species of craft in use were numberless, and many of them of a most whimsical and amusing description. The first was the barge, sometimes of an hundred tons' burden, which required twenty men to force it up against the current a distance of six or seven miles a day; next the keel-boat, of smaller size and lighter structure, yet in use for the purposes of inland commerce; then the Kentucky flat, or broad-horn of the emigrant; the enormous ark, in magnitude and proportion approximating to that of the patriarch; the fairy pirogue of the French voyageur; the birch caïque of the Indian, and log skiffs, gondolas, and dug-outs of the pioneer without name or number.[14] But since the introduction of steam upon the Western waters, most of these unique and primitive contrivances {31} have disappeared; and with them, too, has gone that singular race of men who were their navigators. Most of the younger of the settlers, at this early period of the country, devoted themselves to this profession. Nor is there any wonder that the mode of life pursued by these boatmen should have presented irresistible seductions to the young people along the banks. Fancy one of these huge boats dropping lazily along with the current past their cabins on a balmy morning in June. Picture to your imagination the gorgeous foliage; the soft, delicious temperature of the atmosphere; the deep azure of the sky; the fertile alluvion, with its stupendous forests and rivers; the romantic bluffs sleeping mistily in blue distance; the clear waters rolling calmly adown, with the woodlands outlined in shadow on the surface; the boat floating leisurely onward, its heterogeneous crew of all ages dancing to the violin upon the deck, flinging out their merry salutations among the settlers, who come down to the water's edge to see the pageant pass, until, at length, it disappears behind a point of wood, and the boatman's bugle strikes up its note, dying in distance over the waters; fancy a scene like this, and the wild bugle-notes echoing and re-echoing along the bluffs and forest shades of the beautiful Ohio, and decide whether it must not have possessed a charm of fascination resistless to the youthful mind in these lonely solitudes. No wonder that the severe toils of agricultural life, in view of such scenes, should have become tasteless and irksome.[15] The lives of these {32} boatmen were lawless and dissolute to a proverb. They frequently stopped at the villages along their course, and passed the night in scenes of wild revelry and merriment. Their occupation, more than any other, subjected them to toil, and exposure, and privation; and, more than any other, it indulged them, for days in succession, with leisure, and ease, and indolent gratification. Descending the stream, they floated quietly along without an effort, but in ascending against the powerful current their life was an uninterrupted series of toil. The boat, we are told, was propelled by poles, against which the shoulder was placed and the whole strength applied; their bodies were naked to the waist, for enjoying the river-breeze and for moving with facility; and, after the labour of the day, they swallowed their whiskey and supper, and throwing themselves upon the deck of the boat, with no other canopy than the heavens, slumbered soundly on till the morning. Their slang was peculiar to the race, their humour and power of retort was remarkable, and in their frequent battles with the squatters or with their fellows, their nerve and courage were unflinching. It was in the year 1811 that the steam-engine commenced its giant labours in the Valley of the West, and the first vessel propelled by its agency glided along the soft-flowing wave of the beautiful river.[16] Many events, we are told, united to render this year a most remarkable era in the annals of Western history.[17] The spring-freshet of the rivers buried the whole valley from Pittsburgh to New-Orleans {33} in a flood; and when the waters subsided unparalleled sickness and mortality ensued. A mysterious spirit of restlessness possessed the denizens of the Northern forests, and in myriads they migrated towards the South and West. The magnificent comet of the year, seeming, indeed, to verify the terrors of superstition, and to "shake from its horrid hair pestilence and war," all that summer was beheld blazing along the midnight sky, and shedding its lurid twilight over forest and stream; and when the leaves of autumn began to rustle to the ground, the whole vast Valley of the Mississippi rocked and vibrated in earthquake-convulsion! forests bowed their heads; islands disappeared from their sites, and new one's rose; immense lakes and hills were formed; the graveyard gave up its sheeted and ghastly tenants; huge relics of the mastodon and megalonyx, which for ages had slumbered in the bosom of earth, were heaved up to the sunlight; the blue lightning streamed and the thunder muttered along the leaden sky, and, amid all the elemental war, the mighty current of the "Father of Waters" for hours rolled back its heaped-up floods towards its source! All this was the prologue to that mighty drama of _Change_ which, from that period to the present, has been sweeping over the Western Valley; it was the fearful welcome-home to that all-powerful agent which has revolutionized the character of half a continent; for at that epoch of wonders, and amid them all, the first steamboat was seen descending the great rivers, and the awe-struck Indian {34} on the banks beheld the _Pinelore_ flying through the troubled waters.[18] The rise and progress of the steam-engine is without a parallel in the history of modern improvement. Fifty years ago, and the prophetic declaration of Darwin was pardoned only as the enthusiasm of poetry; it is now little more than the detail of reality: "Soon shall thy arm, unconquer'd steam, afar Drag the slow barge or drive the rapid car; Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear The flying chariot through the fields of air; Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above, Shall wave their fluttering kerchiefs as they move, Or warrior bands alarm the gaping crowd, And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud."[19] The steam-engine, second only to the press in power, has in a few years anticipated results throughout the New World which centuries, in the ordinary course of cause and event, would have failed to produce. The dullest forester, even the cold, phlegmatic native of the wilderness, gazes upon its display of beautiful mechanism, its majestic march upon its element, and its sublimity of power, with astonishment and admiration. Return we to the incidents of our passage. During the morning of our third day upon the Ohio we {35} passed, among others, the villages of _Rome_, _Troy_, and Rockport.[20] The latter is the most considerable place of the three, notwithstanding _imposing_ titles. It is situated upon a green romantic spot, the summit of a precipitous pile of rocks some hundred feet in height, from which sweeps off a level region of country in the rear. Here terminates that series of beautiful bluffs commencing at the confluence of the mountain-streams, and of which so much has been said. A new geological formation commences of a bolder character than any before; and the face of the country gradually assumes those features which are found near the mouth of the river. Passing Green River with its emerald waters,[21] its "Diamond Island,"[22] the largest in the Ohio, and said to be _haunted_, and very many thriving villages, among which was Hendersonville,[23] for some time the residence of Audubon,[24] the ornithologist, we found ourselves near midday at the mouth of the smiling Wabash, its high bluffs crowned with groves of the walnut and pecan, the _carya olivoeformis_ of Nuttal, and its deep-died surface reflecting the yet deeper tints of its verdure-clad banks, as the far-winding stream gradually opened upon the eye, and then retreated in the distance. The confluence of the streams is at a beautiful angle; and, on observing the scene, the traveller will remark that the forests upon one bank are superior in magnitude to those on the other, though of the same species. The appearance is somewhat singular, and the fact is to be accounted for only from the reason that the soil {36} differs in alluvial character. It has been thought that no stream in the world, for its length and magnitude, drains a more fertile and beautiful country than the Wabash and its tributaries.[25] Emigrants are rapidly settling its banks, and a route has been projected for uniting by canal its waters with those of Lake Erie; surveys by authority of the State of Indiana have been made, and incipient measures taken preparatory to carrying the work into execution.[26] About one hundred miles from the mouth of the Wabash is situated the village of New-Harmony, far famed for the singular events of which it has been the scene.[27] It is said to be situated on a broad and beautiful plateau overlooking the stream, surrounded by a fertile and heavily-timbered country, and blessed with an atmosphere of health. It was first settled in 1814 by a religious sect of Germans called Harmonites, resembling the Moravians in their tenets, and under the control of George Rapp, in whose name the land was purchased and held. They were about eight hundred in number, and soon erected a number of substantial edifices, among which was a huge House of Assemblage an hundred feet square. They laid out their grounds with beautiful regularity, and established a botanic garden and an extensive greenhouse. For ten years the Harmonites continued to live and labour in love, in the land of their adoption, when the celebrated Robert Dale Owen,[28] of Scotland, came among them, and, at the sum of one hundred and ninety thousand dollars, purchased the establishment entire. His design was of rearing up a community {37} upon a plan styled by him the "Social System." The peculiar doctrines he inculcated were a perfect equality, moral, social, political, and religious. He held that the promise of never-ending love upon marriage was an absurdity; that children should become no impediment to separation, as they were to be considered members of the community from their second year; that the society should have no professed religion, each individual being indulged in his own faith, and that all temporal possessions should be held in common. On one night of every week the whole community met and danced; and on another they united in a concert of music, while the Sabbath was devoted to philosophical lectures. Many distinguished individuals are said to have written to the society inquiring respecting its principles and prospects, and expressing the wish at a future day to unite with it their destinies. Mr. Owen was sanguine of success. On the 4th of July, 1826, he promulgated his celebrated declaration of mental independence;[29] a document which, for absurdity, has never, perhaps, been paralleled. But all was in vain. Dissension insinuated itself among the members; one after another dropped off from the community, until at length Mr. Owen retired in disgust, and, at a vast sacrifice, disposed of the establishment to a wealthy Scotch gentleman by the name of M'Clure, a former coadjutor.[30] Thus was abandoned the far-famed _social system_, which for a time was an object of interest and topic of remark all over the United States and even in Europe. The Duke of Saxe Weimar passed here a {38} week in the spring of 1826, and has given a detailed and amusing description of his visit. About ten miles below the mouth of the Wabash is situated the village of Shawneetown, once a favourite dwelling-spot of the turbulent Shawnee Indian, the tribe of Tecumseh.[31] Quite a village once stood here; but, for some cause unknown, it was forsaken previous to its settlement by the French, and two small mounds are the only vestige of its existence which are now to be seen. A trading-post was established by the early Canadian voyageurs; but, on account of the sickliness of the site, was abandoned, and the spot was soon once more a wilderness. In the early part of 1812 a land-office was here located, and two years subsequent a town was laid off by authority of Congress, and the lots sold as other public lands. Since then it has been gradually becoming the commercial emporium of southern Illinois. The buildings, among which are a very conspicuous bank, courthouse, and a land-office for the southern district of Illinois, are scattered along upon a gently elevated bottom, swelling up from the river to the bluffs in the rear, but sometimes submerged. From this latter cause it has formerly been subject to disease; it is now considered healthy; is the chief commercial port in this section of the state, and is the principal point of debarkation for emigrants for the distant West. Twelve miles in its rear are situated the Gallatin Salines, from which the United States obtains some hundred thousands of bushels of salt annually.[32] It is manufactured by {39} the evaporation of salt water. This is said to abound over the whole extent of this region, yielding from one eighth to one twelfth of its weight in pure muriate of soda. In many places it bursts forth in perennial springs; but most frequently is obtained by penetrating with the augur a depth of from three to six hundred feet through the solid limestone substratum, when a copper tube is introduced, and the strongly-impregnated fluid gushes violently to the surface. In the vicinity of these salines huge fragments of earthenware, apparently of vessels used in obtaining salt, and bearing the impress of wickerwork, have been thrown up from a considerable depth below the surface. Appearances of the same character exist near Portsmouth, in the State of Ohio, and other places. Their origin is a mystery! the race which formed them is departed![33] _Ohio River._ IV "Who can paint Like Nature? Can imagination boast, Amid its gay creations, hues like hers? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In every bud that blooms?" THOMSON. "Precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered, and the same forever." COLERIDGE. It was near noon of the third day of our passage that we found ourselves in the vicinity of that singular series of massive rock formations, stretching along for miles upon the eastern bank of the stream. The whole vast plain, extending from the Northern Lakes to the mouth of the Ohio, and from the Alleghany slope to the boundless prairies of the far West, is said by geologists to be supported by a bed of horizontal limestone rock, whose deep strata have never been completely pierced, though penetrated many hundred feet by the augur. This limestone is hard, stratified, imbedding innumerable shells of the terebratulæ, encrinites, orthocerites, trilobites, productus, and other species. Throughout most of its whole extent it supports a stratum of bituminous coal, various metals, and saline impregnations: its constant decomposition has fertilized the soil, and its absorbent and cavernous nature has prevented swamps from accumulating upon the surface. Such, in general outline, is this vast limerock substratum {41} of the Western Valley. It generally commences but a few feet below the vegetable deposite; at other places its range is deeper, while at intervals it rises from the surface, and frowns in castellated grandeur over objects beneath. These huge masses of limestone sometimes exhibit the most picturesque and remarkable forms along the banks of the western rivers, and are penetrated in many places by vast caverns. The region we were now approaching was a locality of these singular formations, and for miles before reaching it, as has been remarked, a change in scenery upon the eastern bank is observed. Instead of the rounded wooded summits of the "Ohio hills" sweeping beautifully away in the distance, huge, ponderous rocks, heaped up in ragged masses, "Pelion upon Ossa," are beheld rearing themselves abruptly from the stream, and expanding their Briarean arms in every direction. Some of these cliffs present a uniform, jointed surface, as if of masonry, resembling ancient edifices, and reminding the traveller of the giant ruins of man's creations in another hemisphere, while others appear just on the point of toppling into the river. Among this range of crags is said to hang an _iron coffin_, suspended, like Mohammed's, between heaven and earth. It contains the remains of a man of singular eccentricity, who, previous to his decease, gave orders that they should be deposited thus; and the gloomy object at the close of the year, when the trees are stripped of their foliage, may be perceived, it is said, high up among the rocks from the deck of the passing {42} steamer. This story probably owes its origin to an event of actual occurrence somewhat similar, at a cliff called by the river-pilots "Hanging Rock."[34] It is situated in the vicinity of "Blennerhasset's Island."[35] The first of these singular cliffs, called "Battery Rock," stretches along the river-bank for half a mile, presenting a uniform and perpendicular façade upward of eighty feet in height. The appearance is striking, standing, as it does, distinct from anything of a kindred character for miles above and for some distance below. Passing several fine farms, which sweep down to the water's edge, a second range of cliffs are discovered, similar to those described in altitude and aspect; but near the base, through the dark cypresses skirting the water, is perceived the ragged entrance to a large cavernous fissure, penetrating the bluff, and designated by the name of "Rock-Inn-Cave."[36] It is said to have received this significant appellation from emigrants, who were accustomed to tarry with their families for weeks at the place when detained by stress of weather, stage of the river, or any other circumstance unfavourable to their progress. It was near noon of a beautiful day when the necessary orders for landing were issued to the pilot, and our boat rounded up to the low sand-beach just below this celebrated cavern. As we strolled along the shore beneath "the precipitous, black, jagged rocks" overhanging the winding and broken pathway towards the entrance, we could not but consider its situation wild and rugged enough to please the rifest fancy. The entrance, {43} at first view, is exceedingly imposing; its broad massive forehead beetling over the visiter for some yards before he finds himself within. The mouth of the cavern looks out upon the stream rushing along at the base of the cliff, and is delightfully shaded by a cluster of cypresses, rearing aloft their huge shafts, almost concealed in the luxuriant ivy-leaves clinging to their bark. The entrance is formed into a semi-elliptical arch, springing boldly to the height of forty feet from a heavy bench of rock on either side, and eighty feet in width at the base, throwing over the whole a massive roof of uniform concavity, verging to a point near the centre of the cave. Here may be seen another opening of some size, through which trickles a limpid stream, and forming an entrance to a second chamber, said to be more extensive than that below. The extreme length of this cavern is given by Schoolcraft[37] as one hundred and sixty feet, the floor, the roof, and the walls gradually tapering to a point. The rock is a secondary limestone, abounding with testacea and petrifactions, a fine specimen of which I struck from the ledge while the rest of our party were recording their names among the thousand dates and inscriptions with which the walls are defaced. Like all other curiosities of Nature, this cavern was, by the Indian tribes, deemed the residence of a _Manito_[38] or spirit, evil or propitious, concerning {44} whom many a wild legend yet lives among their simple-hearted posterity. They never pass this dwelling-place of the divinity without discharging their guns (an ordinary mark of respect), or making some other offering propitiatory of his favour. These tributary acknowledgments, however, are never of much value. The view of the stream from the left bench at the cave's mouth is most beautiful. Immediately in front extends a large and densely-wooded island, known by the name of the Cave, while the soft-gliding waters flow between, furnishing a scene of natural beauty worthy an Inman's pencil; and, if I mistake not, an engraving of the spot has been published, a ferocious-looking personage, pistol in hand, crouched at the entrance, eagerly watching an ascending boat. This design originated, doubtless, in the tradition yet extant, that in the latter part of the last century this cavern was the rendezvous of a notorious band of freebooters which then infested the region, headed by the celebrated Mason,[39] plundering the boats ascending from New-Orleans and murdering their crews. From these circumstances this cave has become the scene of a poem of much merit, called the "Outlaw," and has suggested a spirited tale from a popular writer. Many other spots in the vicinity were notorious, in the early part of the present century, for the murder and robbery of travellers, whose fate long remained enveloped in mystery. On the summit of a lofty bluff, not far from the "Battery Rock," was pointed out to us a solitary house, with a single chimney rising from its roof. Its {45} white walls may be viewed for miles before reaching the place on descending the river. It was here that the family of Sturdevant carried on their extensive operations as counterfeiters for many years unsuspected; and on this spot, in 1821, they expiated their crimes with their lives. A few miles below is a place called "Ford's Ferry,"[40] where murder, robbery, forgery, and almost every crime in the calendar were for years committed, while not a suspicion of the truth was awakened. Ford not only escaped unsuspected, but was esteemed a most exemplary man. Associated with him were his son and two other individuals, named Simpson and Shouse. They are all now gone to their account. The old man was mysteriously shot by some person who was never discovered, but was supposed to have been Simpson, between whom and himself a misunderstanding had arisen. If it were so, the murderer was met by fitting retribution, for _he_ fell in a similar manner. Shouse and the son of Ford atoned upon the gallows their crimes in 1833. Before reaching this spot the traveller passes a remarkable mass of limestone called "Tower Rock." It is perpendicular, isolated, and somewhat cylindrical in outline. It is many feet in altitude, and upon its summit tradition avers to exist the ruins of an antique tumulus; an altar, mayhap, of the ancient forest-sons, where "Garlands, ears of maize, and skins of wolf And shaggy bear, the offerings of the tribe Were made to the Great Spirit." In the vicinity of the cliff called "Tower Rock," and not far from Hurricane Island, is said to exist a {46} remarkable cavern of considerable extent. The cave is entered by an orifice nine feet in width and twelve feet high; a bench of rock is then ascended a few feet, and an aperture of the size of an ordinary door admits the visiter into a spacious hall. In the mouth of the cavern, on the façade of the cliff, at the altitude of twenty-five feet, are engraved figures resembling a variety of animals, as the bear, the buffalo, and even the lion and lioness. All this I saw nothing of, and am, of course, no voucher for its existence; but a writer in the Port Folio, so long since as 1816, states the fact, and, moreover, adds that the engraving upon the rock was executed in "a masterly style."[41] From this spot the river stretches away in a long delightful reach, studded with beautiful islands, among which "Hurricane Island," a very large one, is chief.[42] Passing the compact little village of Golconda with its neat courthouse, and the mouth of the Cumberland River with its green island, once the rendezvous of Aaron Burr and his chivalrous band, we next reached the town of Paducah, at the outlet of the Tennessee.[43] This is a place of importance,[44] though deemed unhealthy: it is said to have derived its name from a captive Indian woman, who was here sacrificed by a band of the Pawnees after having been assured of safety. About eight miles below Paducah are situated the ruins of Fort Massac, once a French military post of importance.[45] There is a singular legend respecting this fort still popular among the inhabitants of the neighbouring region, the outlines of which {47} are the following: The fortress was erected by the French while securing possession of the Western Valley, and, soon after, hostilities arising between them and the natives, the latter contrived a stratagem, in every respect worthy the craft and subtlety of the race, to obtain command of this stronghold. Early one morning a body of Indians, enveloped each in a bearskin, appeared upon the opposite bank of the Ohio. Supposing them the animal so faithfully represented, the whole French garrison in a mass sallied incontinently forth, anticipating rare sport, while the remnant left behind as a guard gathered themselves upon the glacis as spectators of the scene. Meanwhile, a large body of Indians, concealed in rear of the fort, slipped silently from their ambush, and few were there of the French who escaped to tell the tale of the scene that ensued. They were _massacred_ almost to a man, and hence the name of _Massac_ to the post. During the war of the revolution a garrison was stationed upon the spot for some years, but the structures are now in ruins. A few miles below is a small place consisting of a few farmhouses, called Wilkinsonville,[46] on the site where Fort Wilkinson once stood; just opposite, along the shore, commences the "Grand Chain" of rocks so famous to the Ohio pilot, extending four miles. The little village of Caledonia is here laid off among the bluffs. It has a good landing, and is the proposed site of a marine hospital. It was sunset when we arrived at the confluence of the rivers. In course of the afternoon we had been visited by a violent thunder-gust, accompanied {48} by hail. But sunset came, and the glorious "bow of the covenant" was hung out upon the dark bosom of the clouds, spanning woodland and waters with its beautiful hues. And yet, though the hour was a delightful one, the scene did not present that aspect of vastness and sublimity which was anticipated from the celebrity of the streams. For some miles before uniting its waters with the Mississippi, the Ohio presents a dull and uninteresting appearance. It is no longer the clear, sparkling stream, with bluffs and woodland painted on its surface; the volume of its channel is greatly increased by its union with two of its principal tributaries, and its waters are turbid; its banks are low, inundated, and clothed with dark groves of deciduous forest-trees, and the only sounds which issue from their depths to greet the traveller's ear are the hoarse croakings of frogs, or the dull monotony of countless choirs of moschetoes. Thus rolls on the river through the dullest, dreariest, most uninviting region imaginable, until it sweeps away in a direction nearly southeast, and meets the venerable Father of the West advancing to its embrace. The volume of water in each seems nearly the same; the Ohio exceeds a little in breadth, their currents oppose to each other an equal resistance, and the resultant of the forces is a vast lake more than two miles in breadth, where the united waters slumber quietly and magnificently onward for leagues in a common bed. On the right come rolling in the turbid floods of the Mississippi; and on looking upon it for the first time with preconceived ideas of the magnitude of the mightiest {49} river on the globe, the spectator is always disappointed. He considers only its breadth when compared with the Ohio, without adverting to its vast depth. The Ohio sweeps in majestically from the north, and its clear waters flow on for miles without an intimate union with its turbid conqueror. The characteristics of the two streams are distinctly marked at their junction and long after. The banks of both are low and swampy, totally unfit for culture or habitation. "Willow Point," which projects itself into the confluence, presents an elevation of twenty feet; yet, in unusual inundations, it is completely buried six feet below the surface, and the agitated waters, rolling together their masses, form an enormous lake. How strange it seemed, while gazing upon the view I have attempted to delineate, now fading away beneath the summer twilight--how very strange was the reflection that these two noble streams, deriving their sources in the pellucid lakes and the clear icy fountains of their highland-homes, meandering majestically through scenes of nature and of art unsurpassed in beauty, and draining, and irrigating, and fertilizing the loveliest valley on the globe--how strange, that the confluence of the waters of such streams, in their onward rolling to the deep, should take place at almost the only stage in their course devoid entirely of interest to the eye or the fancy; in the heart of a dreary and extended swamp, waving with the gloomy boughs of the cypress, and enlivened by not a sound but the croaking of bullfrogs, and the deep, surly misery note of {50} moschetoes! Willow Point is the property of a company of individuals, who announce it their intention to elevate the delta above the power of inundations, and here to locate a city.[47] There are as yet, however, but a few storehouses on the spot; and when we consider the incalculable expense the only plan for rendering it habitable involves, we can only deem the idea of a city here as the chimera of a Utopian fancy. For more than twelve miles above the confluence, the whole alluvion is annually inundated, and forbids all improvement; but were this site an elevated one, a city might here be founded which should command the immense commerce of these great rivers, and become the grand central emporium of the Western Valley. Upon the first elevated land above the confluence stands the little town called America. This is the proposed _terminus_ to the grand central railroad of the Internal Improvement scheme of Illinois, projected to pass directly through the state,[48] uniting its northern extremity with the southern. The town is said to have been much retarded in its advancement by the circumstance of a sand-bar obstructing the landing. It has been contemplated to cut a basin, extending from the Ohio to a stream called "Humphrey's Creek," which passes through the place, and thus secure a harbour. Could this plan be carried into execution, America would soon become a town of importance. _Ohio River._ V "The groves were God's first temples." BRYANT. "Oh! it's hame, and it's hame, it's hame wad I be, Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie." CUNNINGHAM. "Those Sabbath bells, those Sabbath bells, I hear them wake the hour of prime." LAMB. "She walks the waters like a thing of life." BYRON. It was late before we had passed the confluence of the Ohio with the dark-rolling tide of the "endless river," and the mellow gorgeousness of summer sunset had gently yielded to the duskiness of twilight, and that to the inky pall of night. The moon had not risen, and the darkness became gradually so dense that doubts were entertained as to the prudence of attempting to stem the mighty current of the Mississippi on such a night. These, however, were overruled; and, sweeping around the low peninsula of Cairo, our steamer met the torrent and quivered in every limb. A convulsed, motionless struggle ensued, in which the heavy labouring of the engine, the shrill whistle of the safety-valve, the quick, querulous crackling of the furnaces, the tumultuous rushing of the wheels, and the stern roar of the scape-pipe, gave evidence of the fearful power summoned up to overcome the flood. At length we began very slowly to ascend the stream. {52} Our speed was about five miles an hour, and the force of the current nearly the same, which so impedes advancement that it requires as long to ascend from the confluence to St. Louis as to descend to the same point from the Falls, though the distance is less than half. All night our steamer urged herself slowly onward against the current, and the morning found us threading a narrow channel amid a cluster of islands, from whose dense foliage the night-mists were rising and settling in dim confusion. Near the middle of the stream, above this collection, lays a very large island, comprising eight or ten thousand acres. It is called English Island;[49] is heavily timbered; huge vines of the wild grape are leaping like living things from branch to branch, and the wild pea flourishes all over the surface of the soil in most luxuriant profusion. The stream here expands itself to the breadth of four miles, and abounds with islands. As the morning advanced the sun burst gloriously forth from the mists; and as I gazed with tranquillized delight upon the beautiful scenery it unrolled, I remembered that it was the morning of the Sabbath--the peaceful Sabbath. It is a sweet thing to pass the hours of holy time amid the eloquent teachings of inanimate nature. It is pleasant to yield up for a season the sober workings of reason to the warm gushings of the heart, and to suffer the homage of the soul to go up before the Author of its being unfettered by the chill formalities, the bustling parade, the soulless dissembling of the unbending courtesies of ordinary life. Amid the {53} crowded assemblage, there is but little of that humbleness of spirit and that simple-hearted fervour of worship which it is in man to feel when communing within the shadowy solitudes of Nature with his God. There are moments, too, when the soul of man is called back from the heartlessness of life, and pours forth its emotions, gush upon gush, in all the hallowed luxuriance of its nature; when, from the fevered turmoil of daily existence, it retires to well up its sympathies alone beneath the covert of a lulled and peaceful bosom; and surely such a season is the calm, waveless hour of Sabbath sacredness. And it is a blessed appointment that, in a world whose quietude too often is disturbed by the untamed heavings of unholy feeling, there should yet be moments when the agitated events of the past are forgotten, when the apprehensions of the future are unthought of, and the generous emotions of the heart are no more repressed. Such moments are the crystal fount of the _oasis_, girt, indeed, by the sands and barrenness of the desert; yet laughing forth in tinkling melody amid its sprinkled evergreens, in all the sparkling freshness of mimic life, to bathe the languid lip of the weary one. Such moments are the mellow radiance of the departing sun when the trials of the day are over; and tenderly and softly do their influences descend upon the heart. Like the pure splendour of the star of even, how calmly does the sacred Sabbath-time beam out from the dark, unquiet firmament of life! 'Tis the blessed rainbow of promise and of consolation amid the rough storms of our pilgrimage, {54} and its holy influences elicit all the untold richness of the heart. It is a season soft as the memorial of buried affection, mild as the melody of departed years, pure as the prayer of feebleness from the lip of childhood, beautiful as yon floating islet sleeping in sunset radiance on the blue evening wave. "Gone, gone for ever!" Another Sabbath is over, and from its gathering shades it is good to cast back a glance of reflection. A company of emigrants, in course of the morning, were landed from our boat at a desolate-looking spot upon the Missouri shore; men, women, and little ones, with slaves, household stuff, pots, kettles, dogs, implements of husbandry, and all the paraphernalia of the backwood's farm heaped up promiscuously in a heterogeneous mass among the undergrowth beneath the lofty trees. A similar party from the State of Vermont were, during our passage, landed near the mouth of the Wabash, one of whom was a pretty, delicate female, with an infant boy in her arms. They had been _deck-passengers_, and we had seen none of them before; yet their situation could not but excite interest in their welfare. Poor woman! thought I, as our boat left them gazing anxiously after us from the inhospitable bank, little do you dream of the trials and the privations to which your destiny conducts, and the hours of bitter retrospection which are to come over your spirit like a blight, as, from these cheerless solitudes, you cast back many a lingering thought to your dear, distant home in New-England; whose very mountain-crags and fierce storms {55} of winter, harsh and unwelcome though they might seem to the stranger, were yet pleasant to you: "My native land! my native land! Though bare and bleak thou be, And scant and cold thy summer smile, Thou'rt all the world to me." A few years, and all this will have passed away. A new home and new ties will have sprung up in the wilderness to soothe the remembrance of the old. This broad valley will swarm with population; the warm breath of man will be felt upon the cheek, and his tread will be heard at the side; the glare of civilization and the confused hum of business will have violated these solitudes and broken in upon their gloom, and here empire shall have planted her throne; and then, perchance, that playful boy upon the bosom may rise to wield the destinies of his fellows. But many a year of toil and privation must first have passed away; and who shall record their annals? A thousand circumstances, all unlooked for, will seize upon the feelings of the emigrant; the harshness of strangers, the cold regard of recent acquaintance, the absence of relatives and of friends long cherished, the distance which separates him from his native home, and the dreary time which must elapse between all communications of the pen. And then the sweet chime of the Sabbath-bell of New-England, pealing out in "angels' music"[50] on the clear mountain-air, to usher in the hours of holy time, and to summon the soul of man to communion with its Maker; will this be heard amid the forest solitude? and all that quiet {56} intermingling of heart with heart which divests grief of half its bitterness by taking from it all its loneliness? And the hour of sickness, and of death, and of gushing tears, as they come to all, may not be absent here; and where are the soothing consolations of religious solemnity, and the sympathies of kindred souls, and the unobtrusive condolence of those who alone may enter the inner temple of the breast, where the stranger intermeddleth not? Yes, it must be--notwithstanding the golden anticipations indulged by every humble emigrant to this El Dorado of promise--it must be that there will arise in his bosom, when he finds himself for the first time amid these vast forest solitudes, attended only by his wife and children, a feeling of unutterable loneliness and desertion. Until this moment he has been sustained by the buoyancy of anticipated success, the excitement of change, the enlivening influences of new and beautiful scenes; and the effect of strange faces and strange customs has been to divert the attention, while the farewell pressure of affection yet has warmly lingered. All this is over now, and his spirit, left to its own resources, sinks within him. The sacred spot of his nativity is far, far away towards the morning sun; and there is the village church and the village graveyard, hallowed by many a holy remembrance; there, too, are the playmates and the scenes of his boyhood-days; the trysting-place of youthful love and of youthful friendship, spots around which are twined full many a tendril of his heart; and he has turned from them all _for ever_. Henceforth he is a wanderer, and a distant soil must {57} claim his ashes. He who, with such reflections, yearns not for the home of his fathers, is an alien, and no true son of New-England. It was yet early in the morning of our first day upon the Mississippi that we found ourselves beneath the stately bluff upon which stands the old village of Cape Girardeau.[51] Its site is a bold bank of the stream, gently sloping to the water's edge, upon a substratum of limerock. A settlement was commenced on this spot in the latter part of the last century. Its founders were of French and German extraction, though its structures do not betray their origin. The great earthquakes of 1811, which vibrated through the whole length of the Western Valley, agitated the site of this village severely; many brick houses were shattered, chimneys thrown down, and other damage effected, traces of the repairs of which are yet to be viewed. The place received a shock far more severe, however, in the removal of the seat of justice to another town in the county: but the landing is an excellent one; iron ore and other minerals are its staples of trade, and it is again beginning to assume a commercial character. The most remarkable objects which struck our attention in passing this place were several of those peculiarly novel mills put in motion by a spiral water-wheel, acted on by the current of the river. These screw-wheels float upon the surface parallel to the shore, rising or falling with the water, and are connected with the gearing in the millhouse upon the bank by a long shaft. The action of the current upon {58} the spiral thread of the wheel within its external casing keeps it in constant motion, which is communicated by the shaft to the machinery of the mills. The contrivance betrays much ingenuity, and for purposes where a _motive_ of inconsiderable power is required, may be useful; but for driving heavy millstones or a saw, the utility is more than problematical. In the vicinity of Cape Girardeau commences what is termed the "Tyowapity Bottom," a celebrated section of country extending along the Missouri side of the stream some thirty miles, and abounding with a peculiar species of potter's clay, unctuous in its nature, exceedingly pure and white, and plastic under the wheel.[52] This stratum of clay is said to vary from one foot to ten in depth, resting upon sandstone, and covered by limestone abounding in petrifactions. A manufactory is in operation at Cape Girardeau, in which this substance is the material employed. Near the northern extremity of this bottom the waters of the Muddy River enter the Mississippi from Illinois.[53] This stream was discovered by the early French voyageurs, and from them received the name of _Rivière au Vase_, or _Vaseux_. It is distinguished for the salines upon its banks, for its exhaustless beds of bituminous coal, for the fertility of the soil, and for a singularly-formed eminence among the bluffs of the Mississippi, a few miles from its mouth. Its name is "_Fountain Bluff_," derived from the circumstance that from its base gush out a number of limpid springs.[54] It is said to measure eight miles {59} in circumference, and to have an altitude of several hundred feet. Its western declivity looks down upon the river, and its northern side is a precipitous crag, while that upon the south slopes away to a fertile plain, sprinkled with farms. A few miles above the Big Muddy stands out from the Missouri shore a huge perpendicular column of limestone, of cylindrical formation, about one hundred feet in circumference at the base, and in height one hundred and fifty feet, called the "Grand Tower."[55] Upon its summit rests a thin stratum of vegetable mould, supporting a shaggy crown of rifted cedars, rocking in every blast that sweeps the stream, whose turbid current boils, and chafes, and rages at the obstruction below. This is the first of that celebrated range of heights upon the Mississippi usually pointed out to the tourist, springing in isolated masses from the river's brink upon either side, and presenting to the eye a succession of objects singularly grotesque. There are said to exist, at this point upon the Mississippi, indications of a huge parapet of limestone having once extended across the stream, which must have formed a tremendous cataract, and effectually inundated all the alluvion above. At low stages of the water ragged shelves, which render the navigation dangerous, are still to be seen. Among the other cliffs along this precipitous range which have received names from the boatmen are the "Devil's Oven," "Teatable," "Backbone," &c., which, with the "Devil's Anvil," "Devil's Island," &c., indicate pretty plainly the divinity most religiously propitiated {60} in these dangerous passes.[56] The "Oven" consists of an enormous promontory of rock, about one hundred feet from the surface of the river, with a hemispherical orifice scooped out of its face, probably by the action, in ages past, of the whirling waters now hurrying on below. It is situated upon the left bank of the stream, about one mile above the "Tower," and is visible from the river. In front rests a huge fragment of the same rock, and in the interval stands a dwelling and a garden spot. The "Teatable" is situated at some distance below, and the other spots named are yet lower upon the stream. This whole region bears palpable evidence of having been subjected, ages since, to powerful volcanic and diluvial action; and neither the Neptunian or Vulcanian theory can advance a superior claim. For a long time after entering the dangerous defile in the vicinity of the _Grand Tower_, through which the current rushes like a racehorse, our steamer writhed and groaned against the torrent, hardly advancing a foot. At length, as if by a single tremendous effort, which caused her to quiver and vibrate to her centre, an onward impetus was gained, the boat shot forward, the rapids were overcome, and then, by chance, commenced one of those perilous feats of rivalry, formerly, more than at present, frequent upon the Western waters, A RACE. Directly before us, a steamer of a large class, deeply laden, was roaring and struggling against the torrent under her highest pressure. During our passage we had several times passed and repassed each other, as either boat was delayed {61} at the various woodyards along the route; but now, as the evening came on, and we found ourselves gaining upon our antagonist, the excitement of emulation flushed every cheek. The passengers and crew hung clustering, in breathless interest, upon the galleries and the boiler deck, wherever a post for advantageous view presented; while the hissing valves, the quick, heavy stroke of the piston, the sharp clatter of the _eccentric_, and the cool determination of the pale engineer, as he glided like a spectre among the fearful elements of destruction, gave evidence that the challenge was accepted. But there was one humble individual, above all others, whose whole soul seemed concentrated in the contest, as from time to time, in the intervals of toil, his begrimed and working features were caught, glaring through the lurid light of the furnaces he was feeding. This was no less a personage than the doughty fireman of our steamer; a long, lanky individual, with a cute cast of the eye, a knowing tweak of the nose, and an interminable longitude of phiz. His checkered shirt was drenched with perspiration; a huge pair of breeches, begirdling his loins by means of a leathern belt, covered his nether extremities, and two sinewy arms of "whipcord and bone" held in suspension a spadelike brace of hands. During our passage, more than once did I avail myself of an opportunity of studying the grotesque, good-humoured visage of this _unique_ individual; and it required no effort of fancy to imagine I viewed before me some lingering remnant of that "horse and alligator race," now, like {62} the poor Indian, fast fading from the West before the march of steamboats and civilization, _videlicet_, "the Mississippi boatman." And, on the occasion of which I speak, methought I could catch no slight resemblance in my interesting fireman, as he flourished his ponderous limbs, to that faithful portraiture of his majesty of the Styx in Tooke's Pantheon! though, as touching this latter, I must confess me of much dubiety in boyhood days, with the worthy "gravedigger" Young, having entertained shrewd suspicions whether the "tyrant ever sat." But in my zeal for the honest Charon I am forgetting the exciting subject of the race. During my digression, the ambitious steamers have been puffing, and sweating, and glowing in laudable effort, to say nothing of stifled sobs said to have issued from their labouring bosoms, until at length a grim smile of satisfaction lighting up the rugged features of the worthy Charon, gave evidence that not in vain he had wielded his mace or heaved his wood. A dense mist soon after came on, and the exhausted steamers were hauled up at midnight beneath the venerable trees upon the banks of the stream. On the first breakings of dawn all was again in motion. But, alas! alas! in spite of all the strivings of our valorous steamer, it soon became but too evident that her mighty rival must prevail, as with distended jaws, like to some huge fish, she came rushing up in our wake, as if our annihilation were sure. But our apprehensions proved groundless; like a civil, well-behaved rival, she speeded on, hurling forth a triple bob-major of {63} curses at us as she passed, doubtless by way of salvo, and disappeared behind a point. When to this circumstance is added that a long-winded racer of a mail-boat soon after swept past us in her onward course, and left us far in the rear, I shall be believed when it is stated that the steamer on which we were embarked was distinguished for anything but speed; a circumstance by none regretted _less_ than by myself. _Mississippi River._ VI "I linger yet with Nature." MANFRED. "Onward still I press, Follow thy windings still, yet sigh for more." GOETHE. "God's my life, did you ever hear the like! What a strange man is this!" BEN JONSON. But a very few years have passed away since the navigation of the Mississippi was that of one of the most dangerous streams on the globe; but, thanks to the enterprising genius of the scientific Shreve, this may no longer with truth be said. In 1824 the first appropriation[57] was voted by Congress for improving the navigation of the Western rivers; and since that period thousands of snags, sawyers, {64} planters, sand-bars, sunken rocks, and fallen trees have been removed, until all that now remains is to prevent new obstacles from accumulating where the old have been eradicated. For much of its course in its lower sections, the Mississippi is now quite safe; and as the progress of settlements advances upon its banks, the navigation of this noble stream will doubtless become unobstructed in its whole magnificent journey from the falls of the "Laughing Water" to the Mexican Gulf. The indefatigable industry, the tireless perseverance, the indomitable enterprise, and the enlarged and scientific policy of Captain Shreve, the projector and accomplisher of the grand national operations upon the Western rivers, can never be estimated beyond their merit. The execution of that gigantic undertaking, the removal of the Red River Raft, has identified his history with that of the empire West;[58] his fame will endure so long as those magnificent streams, with which his name is associated, shall continue to roll on their volumed waters to the deep. These remarks have been suggested by scenes of constant recurrence to the traveller on the Mississippi. The banks, the forests, the islands all differ as much as the stream itself from those of the soft-gliding Ohio. Instead of those dense emerald masses of billowy foliage swelling gracefully up from the banks of "the beautiful river," those of the Mississippi throw back a rough, ragged outline; their sands piled with logs and uprooted trees, while heaps of wreck and drift-wood betray the wild ravages of the stream. In the midst of {65} the mass a single enormous sycamore often rears its ghastly limbs, while at its foot springs gracefully up a light fringe of the pensile willow. Sometimes, too, a huge sawyer, clinging upon the verge of the channel, heaves up its black mass above the surface, then falls, and again rises with the rush of the current. Against one of these sawyers is sometimes lodged a mass of drift-wood, pressing it firmly upon the bottom, till, by a constant accumulation, a foundation is gradually laid and a new island is formed: this again, by throwing the water from its course, causes a new channel, which, infringing with violence upon the opposite bank, undermines it with its colonnade of enormous trees, and thus new material in endless succession is afforded for obstructions to the navigation. The deposites of alluvion along the banks betray a similar origin of gradual accumulation by the annual floods. In some sections of the American Bottom,[59] commencing at its southern extremity with the Kaskaskia River, the mould, upward of thirty feet in depth, is made up of numerous strata of earth, which may be readily distinguished and counted by the colours. About twenty miles above the mouth of the Kaskaskia is situated Ste. Genevieve, grand deposite of the lead of the celebrated ancient mines _La Motte_, and _A'Burton_, and others, some thirty miles in the interior, and the market which supplies all the mining district of the vicinity.[60] It was first commenced about the year 1774 by the original settlers of Upper Louisiana; and the Canadian {66} French, with their descendants, constitute a large portion of its present inhabitants. The population does not now exceed eight hundred, though it is once said to have numbered two thousand inhabitants. Some of the villagers are advanced in years, and among them is M. Valle, one of the chief proprietors of _Mine la Motte_, who, though now some ninety years of age, is almost as active as when fifty.[61] Ste. Genevieve is situated about one mile from the Mississippi, upon a broad alluvial plain lying between the branches of a small stream called _Gabourie_. Beyond the first bottom rises a second steppe, and behind this yet a third, attaining an elevation of more than a hundred feet from the water's edge. Upon this elevated site was erected, some twenty years since, a handsome structure of stone, commanding a noble prospect of the river, the broad American Bottom on the opposite side, and the bluffs beyond the Kaskaskia. It was intended for a literary institution; but, owing to unfavourable reports with regard to the health of its situation, the design was abandoned, and the edifice was never completed. It is now in a state of "ruinous perfection," and enjoys the reputation, moreover, of being _haunted_. In very sooth, its aspect, viewed from the river at twilight, with its broken windows outlined against the western sky, is wild enough to warrant such an idea or any other. A courthouse and Catholic chapel constitute the public buildings. To the south of the village, and lying upon the river, is situated the common field, originally comprising {67} two thousand _arpens_; but it is now much less in extent, and is yearly diminishing from the action of the current upon the alluvial banks. These common fields were granted by the Spanish government, as well as by the French, to every village settled under their domination. A single enclosure at the expense of the villagers was erected and kept in repair, and the lot of every individual was separated from his neighbour's by a double furrow. Near this field the village was formerly located; but in the inundation of 1785, called by the old _habitans_ "_L'annee des grandes eaux_," so much of the bank was washed away that the settlers were forced to select a more elevated site. The Mississippi was at this time swelled to thirty feet above the highest water-mark before known; and the town of Kaskaskia and the whole American Bottom were inundated. Almost every description of minerals are to be found in the county, of which Ste. Genevieve is the seat of justice. But of all other species, iron ore is the most abundant. The celebrated _Iron Mountain_ and the _Pilot Knob_ are but forty miles distant.[62] Abundance of coal is found in the opposite bluffs in Illinois. About twelve miles from the village has been opened a quarry of beautiful white marble, in some respects thought not inferior to that of Carrara. There are also said to be immense caves of pure white sand, of dazzling lustre, quantities of which are transported to Pittsburg for the manufacture of flint glass. There are a number of beautiful fountains in the neighbourhood, one of which is said to be of surpassing loveliness. It is several {68} yards square, and rushes up from a depth of fifteen or twenty feet, enclosed upon three sides by masses of living rock, over which, in pensile gracefulness, repose the long glossy branches of the forest trees. The early French settlers manufactured salt a few miles from the village, at a saline formerly occupied by the aborigines, the remains of whose earthen kettles are yet found on the spot. About thirty years since a village of the Peoria Indians was situated where the French common field now stands;[63] and from the ancient mounds found in the vicinity, and the vast quantities of animal and human remains, and utensils of pottery exhumed from the soil, the spot seems to have been a favourite location of a race whose destiny, and origin, and history are alike veiled in oblivion. The view of Ste. Genevieve from the water is picturesque and beautiful, and its landing is said to be superior to any between the mouth of the Ohio and the city of St. Louis. The village has that decayed and venerable aspect characteristic of all these early French settlements. As we were passing Ste. Genevieve an accident occurred which had nearly proved fatal to our boat, if not to the lives of all on board of her. A race which took place between another steamer and our own has been noticed. In some unaccountable manner, this boat, which then passed us, fell again in the rear, and now, for the last hour, had been coming up in our wake under high steam. On overtaking us, she attempted, contrary to all rules and regulations {69} for the navigation of the river provided, to pass between our boat and the bank beneath which we were moving; an outrage which, had it been persisted in a moment longer than was fortunately the case, would have sent us to the bottom. For a single instant, as she came rushing on, contact seemed inevitable; and, as her force was far superior to our own, and the recklessness of many who have the guidance of Western steamers was well known to us all, the passengers stood clustering around upon the decks, some pale with apprehension, and others with firearms in their hands, flushed with excitement, and prepared to render back prompt retribution on the first aggression. The pilot of the hostile boat, from his exposed situation and the virulent feelings against him, would have met with certain death; and he, consequently, contrary to the express injunctions of the master, reversed the motion of the wheels just at the instant to avoid the fatal encounter. The sole cause for this outrage, we subsequently learned, was a private pique existing between the pilots of the respective steamers. One cannot restrain an expression of indignant feeling at such an exhibition of foolhardy recklessness. It is strange, after all the fearful accidents of this description upon the Western waters, and that terrible prodigality of human life which for years past has been constantly exhibited, there should yet be found individuals so utterly regardless of the safety of their fellow-men, and so destitute of every emotion of generous feeling, as to force their way heedlessly onward into {70} danger, careless of any issue save the paltry gratification of private vengeance. It is a question daily becoming of more startling import, How may these fatal occurrences be successfully opposed? Where lies the fault? Is it in public sentiment? Is it in legal enactment? Is it in individual villany? However this may be, our passage seemed fraught with adventure, of which this is but an incident. After the event mentioned, having composed the agitation consequent, we had retired to our berths, and were just buried in profound sleep, when crash--our boat's bow struck heavily against a snag, which, glancing along the bottom, threw her at once upon her beams, and all the passengers on the elevated side from their berths. No serious injury was sustained, though alarm and confusion enough were excited by such an unceremonious turn-out. The dismay and tribulation of some of our worthy company were entirely too ludicrous for the risibles of the others, and a hearty roar of cachinnation was heard even above the ejaculations of distress; a very improper thing, no doubt, and not at all to be recommended on such occasions, as one would hardly wish to make a grave "unknell'd and uncoffin'd" in the Mississippi, with a broad grin upon his phiz. In alluding to the race which took place during our passage, honourable mention was made of a certain worthy individual whose vocation was to feed the furnaces; and one bright morning, when all the others of our company had bestowed themselves in their berths because of the intolerable {71} heat, I took occasion to visit the sooty Charon in the purgatorial realms over which he wielded the sceptre. "Grievous work this building fires under a sun like that," was the salutation, as my friend the fireman had just completed the toilsome operation once more of stuffing the furnace, while floods of perspiration were coursing down a chest hairy as Esau's in the Scripture, and as brawny. Hereupon honest Charon lifted up his face, and drawing a dingy shirt sleeve with emphasis athwart his eyes, bleared with smut, responded, "Ay, ay, sir; it's a sin to Moses, such a trade;" and seizing incontinently upon a fragment of tin, fashioned by dint of thumping into a polygonal dipper of unearthly dimensions, he scooped up a quantity of the turbid fluid through which we were moving, and deep, deep was the potation which, like a succession of rapids, went gurgling down his throat. Marvellously refreshed, the worthy genius dilated, much to my edification, upon the glories of a fireman's life. "Upon this hint I spake" touching the topic of our recent race; and then were the strings of the old worthy's tongue let loose; and vehemently amplified he upon "our smart chance of a gallop" and "the slight sprinkling of steam he had managed to push up." "Ah, stranger, I'll allow, and couldn't I have teetotally obfusticated her, and right mightily used her up, hadn't it been I was sort of bashful as to keeping path with such a cursed old mud-turtle! But it's all done gone;" and the droughty Charon seized another swig from the unearthly dipper; and closing hermetically his lantern jaws, and resuming his _infernal_ {72} labours, to which those of Alcmena's son or of Tartarean Sysiphus were trifles, I had the discretion to betake myself to the upper world. During the night, after passing Ste. Genevieve, our steamer landed at a woodyard in the vicinity of that celebrated old fortress, Fort Chartres, erected by the French while in possession of Illinois; once the most powerful fortification in North America, but now a pile of ruins.[64] It is situated about three miles from _Prairie de Rocher_, a little antiquated French hamlet, the scene of one of Hall's Western Legends.[65] We could see nothing of the old fort from our situation on the boat; but its vast ruins, though now a shattered heap, and shrouded with forest-trees of more than half a century's growth, are said still to proclaim in their finished and ponderous masonry its ancient grandeur and strength. In front stretches a large island in the stream, which has received from the old ruin a name. It is not a little surprising that there exists no description of this venerable pile worthy its origin and eventful history. _Mississippi River._ VII "The hills! our mountain-wall, the hills!" _Alpine Omen._ "But thou, exulting and abounding river! Making thy waves a blessing as they flow Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever, Could man but leave thy bright creation so--" _Childe Harold._ There are few objects upon the Mississippi in which the geologist and natural philosopher may claim a deeper interest than that singular series of limestone cliffs already alluded to, which, above its junction with the Ohio, present themselves to the traveller all along the Missouri shore. The principal ridge commences a few miles above Ste. Genevieve; and at sunrise one morning we found ourselves beneath a huge battlement of crags, rising precipitously from the river to the height of several hundred feet. Seldom have I gazed upon a scene more eminently imposing than that of these hoary old cliffs, when the midsummer-sun, rushing upward from the eastern horizon, bathed their splintered pinnacles and spires and the rifted tree-tops in a flood of golden effulgence. The scene was not unworthy Walter Scott's graphic description of the view from the Trosachs of Loch Katrine, in the "Lady of the Lake:" "The _eastern_ waves of _rising_ day Roll'd o'er the _stream_ their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. * * * * * Their rocky summits, split and rent, Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, Or seem'd fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked Or mosque of eastern architect." {74} All of these precipices, not less than those on the Ohio, betray palpable indication of having once been swept by the stream; and the fantastic excavations and cavernous fissures which their bold escarpments expose would indicate a current far more furious and headstrong than that, resistless though it be, which now rolls at their base. The idea receives confirmation from the circumstance that opposite extends the broad American Bottom, whose alluvial character is undisputed. This tract once constituted our western border, whence the name. The bluffs of Selma and Herculaneum are distinguished for their beauty and grandeur, not less than for the practical utility to which they have been made subservient. Both places are great depositories of lead from the mines of the interior, and all along their cliffs, for miles, upon every eligible point, are erected tall towers for the manufacture of shot. Their appearance in distant view is singularly picturesque, perched lightly upon the pinnacles of towering cliffs, beetling over the flood, which rushes along two hundred feet below. Some of these shot manufactories have been in operation {75} for nearly thirty years.[66] Herculaneum has long been celebrated for those in her vicinity. The situation of the town is the mouth of Joachim Creek; and the singular gap at this point has been aptly compared to an enormous door, thrown open in the cliffs for the passage of its waters. A few miles west of this village is said to exist a great natural curiosity, in shape of a huge rock of limestone, some hundred feet in length, and about fifty feet high. This rock is completely honeycombed with perforations, and has the appearance of having been pierced by the mytilus or some other marine insect. A few miles above Herculaneum comes in the Platine Creek;[67] and here commence the "Cornice Rocks," a magnificent escarpment of castellated cliffs some two or three hundred feet in perpendicular altitude from the bed of the stream, and extending along the western bank a distance of eight or ten miles. Through the façade of these bluffs pours in the tribute of the Merrimac, a bright, sparkling, beautiful stream.[68] This river is so clear and limpid that it was long supposed to glide over sands of silver; but the idea has been abandoned, and given place to the certainty of an abundant store of lead, and iron, and salt upon its banks, while its source is shaded by extensive forests of the white pine, a material in this section of country almost, if not quite, as valuable.[69] Ancient works of various forms are also found upon the banks of the Merrimac. There is an immense cemetery near the village of Fenton, containing {76} thousands of graves of a pigmy size, the largest not exceeding four feet in length. This cemetery is now enclosed and cultivated, so that the graves are no longer visible; but, previous to this, it is said that headstones were to be seen bearing unintelligible hieroglyphical inscriptions.[70] Human remains, ancient pottery, arrow-heads, and stone axes are daily thrown up by the ploughshare, while the numerous mounds in the vicinity are literally composed of the same materials. Mammoth bones, such as those discovered on the Ohio and in the state of New-York, are said also to have been found at a salt-lick near this stream. It was a bright morning, on the fifth day of an exceedingly long passage, that we found ourselves approaching St. Louis. At about noon we were gliding beneath the broad ensign floating from the flagstaff of Jefferson Barracks.[71] The sun was gloriously bright; the soft summer wind was rippling the waters, and the clear cerulean of the heavens was imaged in their depths. The site of the quadrangle of the barracks enclosing the parade is the broad summit of a noble bluff, swelling up from the water, while the outbuildings are scattered picturesquely along the interval beneath; the view from the steamer cannot but strike the traveller as one of much scenic beauty. Passing the venerable village of Carondelet, with its whitewashed cottages crumbling with years, and old Cahokia buried in the forests on the opposite bank, the gray walls of the Arsenal next stood out before us in the rear of its beautiful esplanade.[72] A fine quay is erected upon the river in front, and the extensive grounds {77} are enclosed by a wall of stone. Sweeping onward, the lofty spire and dusky walls of St. Louis Cathedral, on rounding a river bend, opened upon the eye, the gilded crucifix gleaming in the sunlight from its lofty summit; and then the glittering cupolas and church domes, and the fresh aspect of private residences, mingling with the bright foliage of forest-trees interspersed, all swelling gently from the water's edge, recalled vividly the beautiful "Mistress of the North," as my eye has often lingered upon her from her magnificent bay. A few more spires, and the illusion would be perfect. For beauty of outline in distant view, St. Louis is deservedly famed. The extended range of limestone warehouses circling the shore give to the city a grandeur of aspect, as approached from the water, not often beheld; while the dense-rolling forest-tops stretching away in the rear, the sharp outline of the towers and roofs against the western sky, and the funereal grove of steamboat-pipes lining the quay, altogether make up a combination of features novel and picturesque. As we approached the landing all the uproar and confusion of a steamboat port was before us, and our own arrival added to the bustle. And now, perchance, having escaped the manifold perils of sawyer and snag, planter, wreck-heap, and sand-bar, it may not be unbecoming in me, like an hundred other tourists, to gather up a votive offering, and--if classic allusion be permissible on the waters of the wilderness West--hang it up before the shrine of the "Father of Floods." {78} It is surely no misnomer that this giant stream has been styled the "eternal river," the "terrible Mississippi;"[73] for we may find none other imbodying so many elements of the fearful and the sublime. In the wild rice-lakes of the far frozen north, amid a solitude broken only by the shrill clang of the myriad water-fowls, is its home. Gushing out from its fountains clear as the air-bell, it sparkles over the white pebbly sand-beds, and, breaking over the beautiful falls of the "Laughing Water,"[74] it takes up its majestic march to the distant deep. Rolling onward through the shades of magnificent forests, and hoary, castellated cliffs, and beautiful meadows, its volume is swollen as it advances, until it receives to its bosom a tributary, a rival, a conqueror, which has roamed three thousand miles for the meeting, and its original features are lost for ever. Its beauty is merged in sublimity! Pouring along in its deep bed the heaped-up waters of streams which drain the broadest valley on the globe; sweeping onward in a boiling mass, furious, turbid, always dangerous; tearing away, from time to time, its deep banks, with their giant colonnades of living verdure, and then, with the stern despotism of a conqueror, flinging them aside again; governed by no principle but its own lawless will, the dark majesty of its features summons up an emotion of the sublime which defies contrast or parallel. And then, when we think of its far, lonely course, journeying onward in proud, dread, solitary grandeur, {79} through forests dusk with the lapse of centuries, pouring out the ice and snows of arctic lands through every temperature of clime, till at last it heaves free its mighty bosom beneath the Line, we are forced to yield up ourselves in uncontrolled admiration of its gloomy magnificence. And its dark, mysterious history, too; those fearful scenes of which it has alone been the witness; the venerable tombs of a race departed which shadow its waters; the savage tribes that yet roam its forests; the germes of civilization expanding upon its borders; and the deep solitudes, untrodden by man, through which it rolls, all conspire to throng the fancy. Ages on ages and cycles upon cycles have rolled away; wave after wave has swept the broad fields of the Old World; an hundred generations have arisen from the cradle and flourished in their freshness, and, like autumn leaflets, have withered in the tomb; and the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies, the Cæsars and the Caliphs, have thundered over the nations and passed away; and here, amid these terrible solitudes, in the stern majesty of loneliness, and power, and pride, have rolled onward these deep waters to their destiny! "Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy? God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer!" There is, perhaps, no stream which presents a greater variety of feature than the Mississippi, or phenomena of deeper interest, whether we regard the soil, productions, and climate of its valley, its individual character and that of its tributaries, or {80} the outline of its scenery and course. The confluents of this vast stream are numerous, and each one brings a tribute of the soil through which it has roamed. The Missouri pours out its waters heavily charged with the marl of the Rocky Mountains, the saffron sands of the Yellow Stone, and the chalk of the White River; the Ohio holds in its floods the vegetable mould of the Alleghanies, and the Arkansas and Red Rivers bring in the deep-died alluvion of their banks. Each tributary mingles the spoils of its native hills with the general flood. And yet, after the contributions of so many streams, the remarkable fact is observed that its breadth and volume seem rather diminished than increased.[75] Above the embouchure of the Missouri, fifteen hundred miles from the Mexican gulf, it is broader than at New-Orleans, with scarce one tenth of its waters; and at the foot of St. Anthony's Falls its breadth is but one third less. This forms a striking characteristic of the Western rivers, and owes, perhaps, its origin partially to the turbid character of their waters: as they approach their outlet they augment in volume, and depth, and impetuosity of current, but contract their expanse. None, however, exhibit these features so strikingly as the grand central stream; and while, for its body of water, it is the narrowest stream known, it is charged with heavier solutions and has broader alluvions than any other. The depth of the stream is constantly varying. At New-Orleans it exceeds one hundred feet. Its width is from half of one mile to two miles; the breadth of its valley {81} from six miles to sixty; the rapidity of its current from two miles to four; its mean descent six inches in a mile, and its annual floods vary from twelve feet to sixty, commencing in March and ending in May. Thus much for Statistics. Below its confluence with its turbid tributary, the Mississippi, as has been observed, is no longer the clear, pure, limpid stream, gushing forth from the wreathy snows of the Northwest; but it whirls along against its ragged banks a resistless volume of heavy, sweeping floods, and its aspect of placid magnificence is beheld no more. The turbid torrent heaves onward, wavering from side to side like a living creature, as if to overleap its bounds; rolling along in a deep-cut race-path, through a vast expanse of lowland meadow, from whose exhaustless mould are reared aloft those enormous shafts shrouded in the fresh emerald of their tasselled parasites, for which its alluvial bottoms are so famous. And yet the valley of the "endless river" cannot be deemed heavily timbered when contrasted with the forested hills of the Ohio. The sycamore, the elm, the linden, the cotton-wood, the cypress, and other trees of deciduous foliage, may attain a greater diameter, but the huge trunks are more sparse and more isolated in recurrence. But one of the most striking phenomena of the Mississippi, in common with all the Western rivers, and one which distinguishes them from those which disembogue their waters into the Atlantic, is the uniformity of its meanderings. The river, in its onward course, makes a semicircular sweep almost {82} with the precision of a compass, and then is precipitated diagonally athwart its channel to a curve of equal regularity upon the opposite shore. The deepest channel and most rapid current is said to exist in the bend; and thus the stream generally infringes upon the _bend-side_, and throws up a sandbar on the shore opposite. So constantly do these sinuosities recur, that there are said to be but three _reaches_ of any extent between the confluence of the Ohio and the Gulf, and so uniform that the boatmen and Indians have been accustomed to estimate their progress by the number of bends rather than by the number of miles. One of the sweeps of the Missouri is said to include a distance of forty miles in its curve, and a circuit of half that distance is not uncommon. Sometimes a "_cut-off_," in the parlance of the watermen, is produced at these bends, where the stream, in its headlong course, has burst through the narrow neck of the peninsula, around which it once circled. At a point called the "Grand Cut-off," steamers now pass through an isthmus of less than one mile, where formerly was required a circuit of twenty. The current, in its more furious stages, often tears up islands from the bed of the river, removes sandbars and points, and sweeps off whole acres of alluvion with their superincumbent forests. In the season of flood the settlers, in their log-cabins along the banks, are often startled from their sleep by the deep, sullen crash of a "land-slip," as such removals are called. The scenery of the Mississippi, below its confluence {83} with the Missouri, is, as has been remarked, too sublime for beauty; and yet there is not a little of the picturesque in the views which meet the eye along the banks. Towns and settlements of greater or less extent appear at frequent intervals; and then the lowly log-hut of the pioneer is not to be passed without notice, standing beneath the tall, branchless columns of the girdled forest-trees, with its luxuriant maize-fields sweeping away in the rear. One of these humble habitations of the wilderness we reached, I remember, one evening near twilight; and while our boat was delayed at the woodyard, I strolled up from the shore to the gateway, and entered easily into confabulation with a pretty, slatternly-looking female, with a brood of mushroom, flaxen-haired urchins at her apron-string, and an infant at the breast very quietly receiving his supper. On inquiry I learned that eighteen years had seen the good woman a denizen of the wilderness; that all the responsibilities appertained unto herself, and that her "man" was proprietor of some thousand acres of _bottom_ in the vicinity. Subsequently I was informed that the worthy woodcutter could be valued at not less than one hundred thousand! yet, _en verite_, reader mine, I do asseverate that my latent sympathies were not slightly roused at the first introduction, because of the seeming poverty of the dirty cabin and its dirtier mistress! _St. Louis._ VIII "Once more upon the waters, yet once more!" _Childe Harold._ "I believe this is the finest confluence in the world." CHARLEVOIX. "'Tis twilight now; The sovereign sun behind his western hills In glory hath declined." BLACKWOOD'S _Magazine_. A bright, sunny summer morning as ever smiled from the blue heavens, and again I found myself upon the waters. Fast fading in the distance lay the venerable little city of the French, with its ancient edifices and its narrow streets, while in anticipation was a journeying of some hundred miles up the Illinois. Sweeping along past the city and the extended line of steamers at the landing, my attention was arrested by that series of substantial stone mills situated upon the shore immediately above, and a group of swarthy little Tritons disporting themselves in the turbid waters almost beneath our paddle-wheels. Among other singular objects were divers of those nondescript inventions of Captain Shreve, yclept by the boatmen "Uncle Sam's Tooth-pullers;" and, judging from their ferocious physiognomy, and the miracles they have effected in the navigation of the great waters of the West, well do they correspond to the _soubriquet_. {85} The craft consists of two perfect hulls, constructed with a view to great strength; united by heavy beams, and, in those parts most exposed, protected by an armature of iron. The apparatus for eradicating the snags is comprised in a simple wheel and axle, auxiliary to a pair of powerful steam-engines, with the requisite machinery for locomotion, and a massive beam uniting the bows of the hulls, sheathed with iron. The _modus operandi_ in tearing up a snag, or sawyer, or any like obstruction from the bed of the stream, appears to be this: Commencing at some distance below, in order to gain an impetus as powerful as possible, the boat is forced, under a full pressure of steam, against the snag, the head of which, rearing itself above the water, meets the strong transverse beam of which I have spoken, and is immediately elevated a number of feet above the surface. A portion of the log is then severed, and the roots are torn out by the windlass, or application of the main strength of the engines; or, if practicable, the first operation is repeated until the obstacle is completely eradicated. The efficiency of this instrument has been tested by the removal of some thousand obstructions, at an average expense of about twelve or fifteen dollars each. Along the river-banks in the northern suburbs of the city lie the scattered ruins of an ancient fortification of the Spanish government, when it held domination over the territory; and one circular structure of stone, called "Roy's Tower," now occupied as a dwelling, yet remains entire. There is also an {86} old castle of stone in tolerable preservation, surrounded by a wall of the same material.[76] Some of these venerable relics of former time--alas! for the irreverence of the age--have been converted into limekilns, and into lime itself, for aught that is known to the contrary! The waterworks, General Ashley's beautiful residence, and that series of ancient mounds for which St. Louis is famous, were next passed in succession, while upon the right stretched out the long low outline of "Blood Island" in the middle of the stream.[77] For several miles above the city, as we proceeded up the river, pleasant villas, with their white walls and cultivated grounds, were caught from time to time by the eye, glancing through the green foliage far in the interior. It was a glorious day. Silvery cloudlets were floating along the upper sky like spiritual creations, and a fresh breeze was rippling the waters: along the banks stood out the huge spectral Titans of the forest, heaving aloft their naked limbs like monuments of "time departed," while beneath reposed the humble hut and clearing of the settler. It was nearly midday, after leaving St. Louis, that we reached the embouchure of the Missouri. Twenty miles before attaining that point, the confluent streams flow along in two distinct currents upon either shore, the one white, clayey, and troubled, the other a deep blue. The river sweeps along, indeed, in two distinct streams past the city of St. Louis, upon either side of Blood Island, nor does it unite its heterogeneous floods for many miles below. At intervals, as the huge mass rolls itself {87} along, vast whirls and swells of turbid water burst out upon the surface, producing an aspect not unlike the sea in a gusty day, mottled by the shadows of scudding clouds. Charlevoix,[78] the chronicler of the early French explorations in North America, with reference to this giant confluence, more than a century since thus writes: "I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. The two rivers are much of the same breadth, each about half a league, but the Missouri is by far the most rapid, and seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through which it carries its white waves to the opposite shore without mixing them. Afterward it gives its colour to the Mississippi, which it never loses again, but carries quite down to the sea." This account, with all due consideration for the venerable historian, accords not precisely with the scene of the confluence at the present day, at least not as it has appeared to myself. The Missouri, indeed, rolls in its heavy volume with the impetuosity and bearing of a "conqueror" upon the tranquil surface of its rival; but entering, as it does, at right angles, its waters are met in their headlong course, and almost rolled back upon themselves for an instant by the mighty momentum of the flood they strike. This is manifested by, and accounts for, that well-defined line of light mud-colour extending from bank to bank across its mouth, bounded by the dark blue of the Upper Mississippi, and flowing sluggishly along in a lengthened and dingy stain, like a fringe upon the western shore. The breadth of the embouchure is about one mile, and its {88} channel lies nearly in the centre, bounded by vast sand-bars--sediment of the waters--upon either side. The alluvial deposites, with which it is heavily charged, accumulate also in several islands near the confluence, while the rivers united spread themselves out into an immense lake. As the steamer glides along among these islands opposite the Missouri, the scene with its associations is grand beyond description. Far up the extended vista of the stream, upon a lofty bluff, stands out a structure which marks the site of the ancient military post of "Belle Fontaine;"[79] while on the opposite bank, stretching inland from the point heavily wooded, lies the broad and beautiful prairie of the "Mamelles."[80] Directly fronting the confluence stand a range of heights upon the Illinois shore, from the summit of which is spread out, like a painting, one of the most extraordinary views in the world. The Mississippi, above its junction with its turbid tributary, is, as has been remarked, a clear, sparkling, beautiful stream; now flashing in silvery brilliance over its white sand-bars, then retreating far into the deep indentations of its shady banks, and again spreading out its waters into a tranquil, lakelike basin miles in extent, studded with islets. The far-famed village of Alton, situated upon the Illinois shore a few miles above the confluence, soon rose before us in the distance. When its multiform declivities shall have been smoothed away by the hand of enterprise and covered with handsome edifices, it will doubtless present a fine appearance {89} from the water; as it now remains, its aspect is rugged enough. The Penitentiary, a huge structure of stone, is rather too prominent a feature in the scene. Indeed, it is the first object which strikes the attention, and reminds one of a gray old baronial castle of feudal days more than of anything else. The churches, of which there are several, and the extensive warehouses along the shore, have an imposing aspect, and offer more agreeable associations. As we drew nigh to Alton, the fireman of our steamer deemed proper, in testimonial of the dignity of our arrival, to let off a certain rusty old swivel which chanced to be on board; and to have witnessed the marvellous fashion in which this important manoeuvre was executed by our worthies, would have pardoned a smile on the visage of Heraclitus himself. One lanky-limbed genius held a huge dipper of gunpowder; another, seizing upon the extremity of a hawser, and severing a generous fragment, made use thereof for wadding; a third rammed home the charge with that fearful weapon wherewith he poked the furnaces; while a fourth, honest wight--all preparation being complete--advanced with a shovel of glowing coals, which, poured upon the touchhole, the old piece was briefly delivered of its charge, and the woods, and shores, and welkin rang again to the roar. If we made not our entrance into Alton with "pomp and circumstance," it was surely the fault of any one but our worthy fireman. The site of Alton, at the confluence of three large and navigable streams; its extensive back country {90} of great fertility; the vast bodies of heavy timber on every side; its noble quarries of stone; its inexhaustible beds of bituminous coal only one mile distant, and its commodious landing, all seem to indicate the design of Nature that here should arise a populous and wealthy town. The place has been laid off by its proprietors in liberal style; five squares have been reserved for public purposes, with a promenade and landing, and the corporate bounds extend two miles along the river, and half a mile into the interior. Yet Alton, with all its local and artificial advantages, is obnoxious to objections. Its situation, in one section abrupt and precipitous, while in another depressed and confined, and the extensive alluvion lying between the two great rivers opposite, it is believed, will always render it more or less unhealthy; and its unenviable proximity to St. Louis will never cease to retard its commercial advancement. The _city_ of Alton, as it is now styled by its charter, was founded in the year 1818 by a gentleman who gave the place his name;[81] but, until within the six years past, it could boast but few houses and little business. Its population now amounts to several thousands, and its edifices for business, private residence, or public convenience are large and elegant structures. Its stone churches present an imposing aspect to the visiter. The streets are from forty to eighty feet in width, and extensive operations are in progress to render the place as uniform as its site will admit. A contract has been recently entered upon to construct a culvert over the Little Piasa Creek, {91} which passes through the centre of the town, upon which are to be extended streets. The expense is estimated at sixty thousand dollars. The creek issues from a celebrated fountain among the bluffs called "Cave Spring." Alton is not a little celebrated for its liberal contribution to the moral improvements of the day. To mention but a solitary instance, a gentleman of the place recently made a donation of ten thousand dollars for the endowment of a female seminary at Monticello,[82] a village five miles to the north; and measures are in progress to carry the design into immediate execution. Two railroads are shortly to be constructed from Alton; one to Springfield, seventy miles distant, and the other to Mount Carmel on the Wabash. The stock of each has been mostly subscribed, and they cannot fail, when completed, to add much to the importance of the places. Alton is also a _proposed_ terminus of two of the state railroads, and of the Cumberland Road.[83] At Alton terminates the "American Bottom," and here commences that singular series of green, grassy mounds, rounding off the steep summits of the cliffs as they rise from the water, which every traveller cannot but have noticed and admired. It was a calm, beautiful evening when we left the village; and, gliding beneath the magnificent bluffs, held our way up the stream, breaking in upon its tranquil surface, and rolling its waters upon either side in tumultuous waves to the shore. The rich purple of departing day was dying the western heavens; the light gauzy haze of twilight was unfolding itself like a veil over the forest-tops; "Maro's shepherd {92} star" was stealing timidly forth upon the brow of night; the flashing fireflies along the underbrush were beginning their splendid illuminations, and the mild melody of a flute and a few fine voices floating over the shadowy waters, lent the last touching to a scene of beauty. A little French village, with its broad galleries, and steep roofs, and venerable church, in a few miles appeared among the underbrush on the left.[84] Upon the opposite shore the bluffs began to assume a singular aspect, as if the solid mass of limestone high up had been subjected to the excavation of rushing waters. The cliffs elevated themselves from the river's edge like a regular succession of enormous pillars, rendered more striking by their ashy hue. This giant colonnade--in some places exceeding an altitude of an hundred feet, and exhibiting in its façade the openings of several caves--extended along the stream until we reached Grafton,[85] at the mouth of the Illinois; the calm, beautiful, ever-placid Illinois; beautiful now as on the day the enthusiast voyageur first deemed it the pathway to a "paradise upon earth." The moon was up, and her beams were resting mellowly upon the landscape. Far away, even to the blue horizon, the mirror-surface of the stream unfolded its vistas to the eye; upon its bosom slumbered the bright islets, like spirits of the waters, from whose clear depths stood out the reflection of their forests, while to the left opened upon the view a glimpse of the "Mamelle Prairie," rolling its bright waves of verdure beneath the moonlight like a field of fairy land. For an hour we gazed upon this magnificent scene, and the bright {93} waves dashed in sparkles from our bow, retreating in lengthened wake behind us, until our steamer turned from the Mississippi, and we were gliding along beneath the deep shadows of the forested Illinois. _Illinois River._ IX "A tale of the times of old! The deeds of days of other years!" OSSIAN. "Thou beautiful river! Thy bosom is calm And o'er thee soft breezes are shedding their balm; And Nature beholds her fair features portray'd, In the glass of thy bosom serenely display'd." BENGAL ANNUAL. "Tam saw an unco sight." BURNS. It is an idea which has more than once occurred to me, while throwing together these hasty delineations of the beautiful scenes through which, for the past few weeks, I have been moving, that, by some, a disposition might be suspected to tinge every outline indiscriminately with the "_coleur de rose_." But as well might one talk of an exaggerated emotion of the sublime on the table-rock of Niagara, or amid the "snowy scalps" of Alpine scenery, or of a mawkish sensibility to loveliness amid the purple glories of the "_Campagna di Roma_," as of either, or of both combined, in the noble "valley beyond the mountains." Nor is the interest experienced {94} by the traveller for many of the spots he passes confined to their scenic beauty. The associations of by-gone times are rife in the mind, and the traditionary legend of the events these scenes have witnessed yet lingers among the simple forest-sons. I have mentioned that remarkable range of cliffs commencing at Alton, and extending, with but little interruption, along the left shore of the Mississippi to the mouth of the Illinois. Through a deep, narrow ravine in these bluffs flows a small stream called the Piasa. The name is of aboriginal derivation, and, in the idiom of the Illini, denotes "_The bird that devours men_." Near the mouth of this little stream rises a bold, precipitous bluff, and upon its smooth face, at an elevation seemingly unattainable by human art, is graven the figure of an enormous bird with extended pinions. This bird was by the Indians called the "_Piasa_;" hence the name of the stream. The tradition of the Piasa is said to be still extant, among the tribes of the Upper Mississippi, and is thus related:[86] "Many thousand moons before the arrival of the pale faces, when the great megalonyx and mastodon, whose bones are now thrown up, were still living in the land of the green prairies, there existed a bird of such dimensions that he could easily carry off in his talons a full-grown deer. Having obtained a taste of human flesh, from that time he would prey upon nothing else. He was as artful as he was powerful; would dart suddenly and unexpectedly upon an Indian, bear him off to one of the caves in the bluff, and devour him. Hundreds of warriors attempted for years to destroy him, but without success. {95} Whole villages were depopulated, and consternation spread throughout all the tribes of the Illini. At length _Owatoga_, a chief whose fame as a warrior extended even beyond the great lakes, separating himself from the rest of his tribe, fasted in solitude for the space of a whole moon, and prayed to the Great Spirit, the Master of Life, that he would protect his children from the _Piasa_. On the last night of his fast the Great Spirit appeared to him in a dream, and directed him to select twenty of his warriors, each armed with a bow and pointed arrows, and conceal them in a designated spot. Near the place of their concealment another warrior was to stand in open view as a victim for the _Piasa_, which they must shoot the instant he pounced upon his prey. When the chief awoke in the morning he thanked the Great Spirit, returned to his tribe, and told them his dream. The warriors were quickly selected and placed in ambush. _Owatoga_ offered himself as the victim, willing to die for his tribe; and, placing himself in open view of the bluff, he soon saw the _Piasa_ perched on the cliff, eying his prey. _Owatoga_ drew up his manly form to its utmost height; and, placing his feet firmly upon the earth, began to chant the death-song of a warrior: a moment after, the _Piasa_ rose in the air, and, swift as a thunderbolt, darted down upon the chief. Scarcely had he reached his victim when every bow was sprung and every arrow was sped to the feather into his body. The _Piasa_ uttered a wild, fearful scream, that resounded far over the opposite side of the river, and expired. _Owatoga_ was safe. {96} Not an arrow, not even the talons of the bird had touched him; for the Master of Life, in admiration of his noble deed, had held over him an invisible shield. In memory of this event, this image of the Piasa was engraved in the face of the bluff." Such is the Indian tradition. True or false, the figure of the bird, with expanded wings, graven upon the surface of solid rock, is still to be seen at a height perfectly inaccessible; and to this day no Indian glides beneath the spot in his canoe without discharging at this figure his gun. Connected with this tradition, as the spot to which the Piasa conveyed his human victims, is one of those caves to which I have alluded. Another, near the mouth of the Illinois, situated about fifty feet from the water, and exceedingly difficult of access, is said to be crowded with human remains to the depth of many feet in the earth of the floor. The roof of the cavern is vaulted. It is about twenty-five feet in height, thirty in length, and in form is very irregular. There are several other cavernous fissures among these cliffs not unworthy description. The morning's dawn found our steamer gliding quietly along upon the bright waters of the Illinois. The surface of the stream was tranquil; not a ripple disturbed its slumbers; it was currentless; the mighty mass of the Mississippi was swollen, and, acting as a dam across the mouth of its tributary, caused a _back-water_ of an hundred miles. The waters of the Illinois were consequently stagnant, tepid, and by no means agreeable to the taste. There was present, also, a peculiarly bitter twang, {97} thought to be imparted by the roots of the trees and plants along its banks, which, when motionless, its waters steep; under these circumstances, water is always provided from the Mississippi before entering the mouth of the Illinois. But, whatever its qualities, this stream, to the eye, is one of the most beautiful that meanders the earth. As we glided onward upon its calm bosom, a graceful little fawn, standing upon the margin in the morning sunlight, was bending her large, lustrous eyes upon the delicate reflection of her form, mirrored in the stream; and, like the fabled Narcissus, so enamoured did she appear with the charm of her own loveliness, that our noisy approach seemed scarce to startle her; or perchance she was the pet of some neighbouring log-cabin. The Illinois is by many considered the "_belle rivière_" of the Western waters, and, in a commercial and agricultural view, is destined, doubtless, to occupy an important rank. Tonti, the old French chronicler, speaks thus of it:[87] "The banks of that river are as charming to the eye as useful to life; the meadows, fruit-trees, and forests affording everything that is necessary for men and beasts." It traverses the entire length of one of the most fertile regions in the Union, and irrigates, by its tributary streams, half the breadth. Its channel is sufficiently deep for steamers of the larger class; its current is uniform, and the obstacles to its navigation are few, and may be easily removed. The chief of these is a narrow bar just below the town of Beardstown,[88] stretching like a wing-dam quite across to the western bank; and any boat which may pass this bar {98} can at all times reach the port of the Rapids. Its length is about three hundred miles, and its narrowest part, opposite Peru, is about eighty yards in width. By means of a canal, uniting its waters with those of Lake Michigan, the internal navigation of the whole country from New-York to New-Orleans is designed to be completed.[89] The banks of the Illinois are depressed and monotonous, liable at all seasons to inundation, and stretch away for miles to the bluffs in broad prairies, glimpses of whose lively emerald and silvery lakes, caught at intervals through the dark fringe of cypress skirting the stream, are very refreshing. The bottom lands upon either side, from one mile to five, are seldom elevated much above the ordinary surface of the stream, and are at every higher stage of water submerged to the depth of many feet, presenting the appearance of a stream rolling its tide through an ancient and gloomy forest, luxuriant in foliage and vast in extent. It is not surprising that all these regions should be subject to the visitations of disease, when we look upon the miserable cabin of the woodcutter, reared upon the very verge of the water, surrounded on every side by swamps, and enveloped in their damp dews and the poisonous exhalations rising from the seething decomposition of the monstrous vegetation around. The traveller wonders not at the sallow complexion, the withered features, and the fleshless, ague-racked limbs, which, as he passes, peep forth upon him from the luxuriant foliage of this region of sepulchres; his only astonishment is, that in such an atmosphere the human constitution {99} can maintain vitality at all. And yet, never did the poet's dream image scenery more enchanting than is sometimes unfolded upon this beautiful stream. I loved, on a bright sunny morning, to linger hours away upon the lofty deck, as our steamer thridded the green islets of the winding waters, and gaze upon the reflection of the blue sky flecked with cloudlets in the bluer wave beneath, and watch the startling splash of the glittering fish, as, in exhilarated joyousness, he flung himself from its tranquil bosom, and then fell back again into its cool depths. Along the shore strode the bluebacked wader; the wild buck bounded to his thicket; the graceful buzzard--vulture of the West--soared majestically over the tree-tops, while the fitful chant of the fireman at his toil echoed and re-echoed through the recesses of the forests. Upon the left, in ascending the Illinois, lie the lands called the "_Military Bounty Tract_," reserved by Congress for distribution among the soldiers of the late war with Great Britain.[90] It is comprehended within the peninsula of the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers, about an hundred and seventy miles in length and sixty broad, embracing twelve of the northwest counties of the state. This tract of country is said to be exceedingly fertile, abounding in beautiful prairies and lakes; but the delta or alluvial regions cannot but prove unhealthy. Its disposition for the purpose of military bounties has retarded its settlement behind that of any other quarter of the state; a very inconsiderable portion has been appropriated by the soldiers; most of the titles have {100} long since departed, and the land has been disposed of past redemption for taxes. Much is also held by non-residents, who estimate it at an exorbitant value; but large tracts can be obtained for a trifling consideration, the purchaser risking the title, and many flourishing settlements are now springing up, especially along the Mississippi. Near the southern extremity of the Military Tract, at a point where the river sweeps out a deep bend from its western bank, about fifty years since was situated the little French village of _Cape au Gris_, or Grindstone Point, so named from the neighbouring rocks. The French seem to have vied with the natives in rendering the "signification" conformable to the "thing signified," in bestowing names upon their explorations in the West. The village of _Cape au Gris_ was situated upon the bank of the river, and, so late as 1811, consisted of twenty or thirty families, who cultivated a "common field" of five hundred acres on the adjacent prairie, stretching across the peninsula towards the Mississippi. At the commencement of the late war they were driven away by the savages, and a small garrison from the cantonment of Belle Fontaine, at the confluence, was subsequently stationed near the spot by General Wilkinson. A few years after the close of the war American emigration commenced. This is supposed to have been the site, also, of one of the forts erected by La Salle on his second visit to the West.[91] As we ascended the Illinois, flourishing villages were constantly meeting the eye upon either bank of the stream. Among these were the euphonious {101} names of Monroe, Montezuma, Naples, and Havana! At Beardstown the rolling prairie is looked upon for the first time; it afterward frequently recurs. As our steamer drew nigh to the renowned little city of Pekin, we beheld the bluffs lined with people of all sexes and sizes, watching our approach as we rounded up to the landing.[92] Some of our passengers, surprised at such a gathering together in such a decent, well-behaved little settlement as Pekin, sagely surmised the loss of a day from the calendar, and began to believe it the first instead of the last of the week, until reflection and observation induced the belief that other rites than those of religion had called the multitude together. Landing, streets, tavern, and groceries--which latter, be it spoken of the renowned Pekin, were like anything but "angel's visits" in recurrence--all were swarmed by a motley assemblage, seemingly intent upon _doing nothing_, and that, too, in the noisiest way. Here a congregation of keen-visaged worthies were gathered around a loquacious land-speculator, beneath the shadow of a sign-post, listening to an eloquent holding-forth upon the merits, relative and distinctive, of prairie land and bluff; there a cute-looking personage, with a twinkle of the eye and sanctimoniousness of phiz, was vending his wares by the token of a flaunting strip of red baize; while lusty viragoes, with infants at the breast, were battering their passage through the throng, crowing over a "bargain" on which the "cute" pedler had cleared not _more_ than cent. per cent. And then there were sober men and men not sober; individuals half seas over and whole seas {102} over, all in as merry trim as well might be; while, as a sort of presiding genius over the bacchanal, a worthy wag, tipsy as a satyr, in a long calico gown, was prancing through the multitude, with infinite importance, on the skeleton of an unhappy horse, which, between _nicking_ and _docking_, a spavined limb and a spectral eye, looked the veritable genius of misery. The cause of all this commotion appeared to be neither more nor less than a redoubted "monkey show," which had wound its way over the mountains into the regions of the distant West, and reared its dingy canvass upon the smooth sward of the prairie. It was a spectacle by no means to be slighted, and "divers came from afar" to behold its wonders. For nothing, perhaps, have foreign tourists in our country ridiculed us more justly than for that pomposity of nomenclature which we have delighted to apply to the thousand and one towns and villages sprinkled over our maps and our land; instance whereof this same renowned representative of the Celestial Empire concerning which I have been writing. Its brevity is its sole commendation; for as to the taste or appropriateness of such a name for such a place, to say naught of the euphony, there's none. And then, besides Pekin, there are Romes, and Troys, and Palmyras, and Belgrades, Londons and Liverpools, Babels and Babylons _without account_, all rampant in the glories of log huts, with sturdy porkers forth issuing from their sties, by way, doubtless, of the sturdy knight-errants of yore caracoling from the sally-ports of their illustrious {103} namesakes. But why, in the name of all propriety, this everlasting plagiarizing of the Greek, Gothic, Gallic patronymics of the Old World, so utterly incongruous as applied to the backwoods settlements of the New! If in very poverty of invention, or in the meagerness of our "land's language," we, as a people, feel ourselves unequal to the task--one, indeed, of no ordinary magnitude--of christening all the newborn villages of our land with melodious and appropriate appellations, may it not be advisable either to nominate certain worthy dictionary-makers for the undertaking, or else to retain the ancient Indian names? Why discard the smooth-flowing, expressive appellations bestowed by the injured aborigines upon the gliding streams and flowery plains of this land of their fathers, only to supersede them by affixes most foreign and absurd? "Is this proceeding just and honourable" towards that unfortunate race? Have we visited them with so _many_ returns of kindness that this would overflow the cup of recompense? Why tear away the last and only relic of the past yet lingering in our midst? Have we too many memorials of the olden time? Why disrobe the venerable antique of that classic drapery which alone can befit the severe nobility of its mien, only to deck it out in the starched and tawdry preciseness of a degenerate taste? _Illinois River._ X "It is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land! What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree! What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!" _Childe Harold._ "Good-evening, sir; a good-evening to ye, sir; pleased with our village, sir!" This was the frank and free salutation a genteel, farmer-looking personage, with a broad face, a broad-brimmed hat, and a broad-skirted coat, addressed to me as I stood before the inn door at Peoria, looking out upon her beautiful lake. On learning, in reply to his inquiry, "Whence do ye come, stranger?" that my birth spot was north of the Potomac, he hailed me with hearty greeting and warm grasp as a brother. "I am a Yankee, sir; yes, sir, I am a genuine export of the old 'Bay State.' Many years have gone since I left her soil; but I remember well the 'Mistress of the North,' with her green islands and blue waters. In my young days, sir, I wandered all over the six states, and I have not forgotten the valley of the Connecticut. I have seen the 'Emporium' with her Neapolitan bay, and I have looked on the 'city of the monuments and fountains;' but in all my journeyings, stranger, I have not found a spot so pleasant as this little quiet Peoria of the Western wilderness!" Whether to smile in admiration {105} or to smile at the oddity of this singular compound of truth and exaggeration, propounded, withal, in such grandiloquent style and language, I was at a loss; and so, just as every prudent man would have acted under the circumstances, _neither_ was done; and the quiet remark, "You are an enthusiast, sir," was all that betrayed to the worthy man the emotions of the sublime and ridiculous of which he had been the unwitting cause. But, truly, the little town with this soft Indian name is a beautiful place, as no one who has ever visited it has failed to remark. The incidents of its early history are fraught with the wild and romantic. The old village of Peoria was one of the earliest settlements of the French in the Mississippi Valley; and, many years before the memory of the present generation, it had been abandoned by its founders, a new village having been erected upon the present site, deemed less unhealthy than the former. The first house is said to have been built in new Peoria, or _La ville de Maillet_, as was its _nom de nique_, about the year 1778; and the situation was directly at the outlet of the lake, one mile and a half below the old settlement.[93] Its inhabitants consisted chiefly of that wild, semi-savage race of Indian traders, hunters, trappers, voyageurs, _couriers du bois_, and half-breeds, which long formed the sole link of union between the northern lakes and the southwest. After residing nearly half a century on this pleasant spot, in that happy harmony with their ferocious neighbours for which the early French were so remarkable, they were at length, in the {106} autumn of 1812, exiled from their ancient home by the militia of Illinois, on charge of conniving at Indian atrocities upon our people, a party having been fired on at night while anchored before the village in their boats. The villagers fled for refuge to their friends upon the Mississippi. In the autumn of the succeeding year, General Howard,[94] with 1400 men, ascended the Illinois; a fortress was constructed at Peoria in twelve days from timber cut on the opposite side of the lake. It was named Fort Clarke, and was occupied by a detachment of United States' troops. In course of a few weeks the whole frontier was swept of hostile Indians. On the termination of hostilities with Great Britain the fort was abandoned, and soon after was burned by the Indians, though the ruins are yet to be seen. The present settlement was commenced by emigrants but a few years since, and has advanced with a rapidity scarcely paralleled even in the West. Geographically, it is the centre of the state, and may at some future day become its seat of government. It is the shire town of a county of the same name; has a handsome courthouse of freestone; the neighbouring regions are fertile, and beds of bituminous coal are found in the vicinity. These circumstances render this spot, than which few can boast a more eventful history, one of the most eligible _locales_ in the state for the emigrant. Its situation is indescribably beautiful, extending along the lake of the same name, the Indian name of which was _Pinatahwee_, for several miles from its outlet. This water-sheet, which is little more than an expansion of the stream of from one to three miles, stretches away for about twenty, and is divided near its middle by a contraction called the _Narrows_. Its waters are exceedingly limpid, gliding gently over a pebbly bottom, and abounding in fish of fifty different species, from which an attempt for obtaining oil on a large scale was commenced a few years since, but was abandoned without success. Some of the varieties of these fish are said to be rare and curious. Several specimens of a species called the "Alligator Garr" have been taken. The largest was about seven feet in length, a yard in circumference, and encased in armour of hornlike scales of quadrilateral form, impenetrable to a rifle-ball. The weight was several hundred pounds; the form and the teeth--of which there were several rows--similar to those of the shark, and, upon the whole, the creature seemed not a whit less formidable. Another singular variety found is the "spoonfish," about four feet in length, with a black skin, and an extension of the superior mandible for two feet, of a thin, flat, shovel-like form, used probably for digging its food. The more ordinary species, pike, perch, salmon, trout, buffalo, mullet, and catfish, abound in the lake, while the surface is covered with geese, ducks, gulls, a species of water turkey, and, not unfrequently, swans and pelicans. Its bottom contains curious petrifactions and carnelions of a rare quality. From the pebbly shore of the lake, gushing out with fountains of sparkling water along its whole extent, rises a rolling bank, upon which now stands most of the village. A short distance and you ascend a second eminence, and beyond this you reach {108} the bluffs, some of them an hundred feet in height, gracefully rounded, and corresponding with the meandering of the stream below. From the summit of these bluffs the prospect is uncommonly fine. At their base is spread out a beautiful prairie, its tall grass-tops and bright-died flowerets nodding to the soft summer wind. Along its eastern border is extended a range of neat edifices, while lower down sleep the calm, clear waters of the lake, unruffled by a ripple, and reflecting from its placid bosom the stupendous vegetation of the wooded alluvion beyond. It was near the close of a day of withering sultriness that we reached Peoria. Passing the Kickapoo, or Red Bud Creek,[95] a sweep in the stream opened before the eye a panorama of that magnificent water-sheet of which I have spoken, so calm and motionless that its mirror surface seemed suspended in the golden mistiness of the summer atmosphere which floated over it. As we were approaching the village a few sweet notes of a bugle struck the ear; and in a few moments a lengthened troop of cavalry, with baggage-cars and military paraphernalia, was beheld winding over a distant roll of the prairie, their arms glittering gayly in the horizontal beams of the sinking sun as the ranks appeared, were lost, reappeared, and then, by an inequality in the route, were concealed from the view. The steamer "Helen Mar" was lying at the landing as we rounded up, most terribly shattered by the collapsing of the flue of one of her boilers a few days before in the vicinity. She had been swept by the death-blast from one extremity {109} to the other, and everything was remaining just as when the accident occurred, even to the pallets upon which had been stretched the mangled bodies, and the remedies applied for their relief. The disasters of steam have become, till of late, of such ordinary occurrence upon the waters of the West, that they have been thought of comparatively but little; yet in no aspect does the angel of death perform his bidding more fearfully. Misery's own pencil can delineate no scene of horror more revolting; humanity knows no visitation more terrible! The atmosphere of hell envelops the victim and sweeps him from the earth! Happening casually to fall in with several gentlemen at the inn who chanced to have some acquaintance with the detachment of dragoons I have mentioned, I accepted with pleasure an invitation to accompany them on a visit to the encampment a few miles from the town. The moon was up, and was flinging her silvery veil over the landscape when we reached the bivouac. It was a picturesque spot, a low prairie-bottom on the margin of the lake, beneath a range of wooded bluffs in the rear; and the little white tents sprinkled about upon the green shrubbery beneath the trees; the stacks of arms and military accoutrements piled up beneath or suspended from their branches; the dragoons around their tents, engaged in the culinary operations of the camp, or listlessly lolling upon the grass as the laugh and jest went free; the horses grazing among the thickets, while over the whole was resting the misty splendour of the moonlight, {110} made up a _tout ensemble_ not unworthy the crayon of a Weir.[96] The detachment was a small one, consisting of only one hundred men, under command of Captain S----, on an excursion from Camp des Moines, at the lower rapids of the Mississippi, to Fort Howard, on Green Bay, partially occasioned by a rumour of Indian hostilities threatened in that vicinity.[97] They were a portion of several companies of the first regiment of dragoons, levied by Congress a few years since for the protection of the Western frontier, in place of the "Rangers," so styled, in whom that trust had previously reposed. They were all Americans, resolute-looking fellows enough, and originally rendezvoused at Jefferson Barracks. The design of such a corps is doubtless an excellent one; but military men tell us that some unpardonable omissions were made in the provisions of the bill reported by Congress in which the corps had its origin; for, according to the present regulations, all approximation to discipline is precluded. Captain S---- received us leisurely reclining upon a buffalo-robe in his tent; and, in a brief interview, we found him possessed of all that gentlemanly _naïveté_ which foreign travellers would have us believe is, in our country, confined to the profession of arms. The night-dews of the lowlands had for some hours been falling when we reached the village drenched with their damps. Much to our regret, the stage of water in the Illinois would not permit our boat to ascend the stream, as had been the intention, to Hennepin, some twenty miles above, and Ottawa, at the foot of the rapids.[98] Nearly equidistant between these {111} flourishing towns, upon the eastern bank of the Illinois, is situated that remarkable crag, termed by the early French "_Le Rocher_," by the Indian traditions "_Starved Rock_," and by the present dwellers in its vicinity, as well as by Schoolcraft and the maps, "_Rockfort_." It is a tall cliff, composed of alternate strata of lime and sandstone, about two hundred and fifty feet in height by report, and one hundred and thirty-four by actual measurement. Its base is swept by the current, and it is perfectly precipitous upon three sides. The fourth side, by which alone it is accessible, is connected with the neighbouring range of bluffs by a natural causeway, which can be ascended only by a difficult and tortuous path. The summit of the crag is clothed with soil to the depth of several feet, sufficient to sustain a growth of stunted cedars. It is about one hundred feet in diameter, and comprises nearly an acre of level land. The name of "Starved Rock" was obtained by this inaccessible battlement from a legend of Indian tradition, an outline of which may be found in Flint's work upon the Western Valley, and an interesting story wrought from its incidents in Hall's "Border Tales." A band of the Illini having assassinated Pontiac, the Ottoway chieftain, in 1767, the tribe of the Pottawattamies made war upon them. The Illini, being defeated, fled for refuge to this rock, which a little labour soon rendered inaccessible to all the assaults of their enemy. At this crisis, after repeated repulse, the besiegers determined to reduce the hold by _starvation_, as the only method remaining. The tradition of this siege affords, perhaps, {112} as striking an illustration of Indian character as is furnished by our annals of the unfortunate race. Food in some considerable quantity had been provided by the besieged; but when, parched by thirst, they attempted during the night to procure water from the cool stream rushing below them by means of ropes of bark, the enemy detected the design, and their vessels were cut off by a guard in canoes. The last resource was defeated; every stratagem discovered; hope was extinguished; the unutterable tortures of thirst were upon them; a terrific death in anticipation; yet they yielded not; the speedier torments of the stake and a triumph to their foes was the alternative. And so they perished--all, with a solitary exception--a woman, who was adopted by the hostile tribe, and was living not half a century since. For years the summit of this old cliff was whitened by the bones of the victims; and quantities of remains, as well as arrow-heads and domestic utensils, are at the present day exhumed. Shells are also found, but their _whence_ and _wherefore_ are not easily determined. At the only accessible point there is said to be an appearance of an intrenchment and rampart. A glorious view of the Illinois, which, forming a curve, laves more than half of the column's base, is obtained from the summit. An ancient post of the French is believed to have once stood here.[99] Brightly were the moonbeams streaming over the blue lake Pinatahwee as our steamer glided from its waters. Near midnight, as we swept past Pekin, we were roused from our slumbers by the plaintive {113} notes of the "German Hymn," which mellowly came stealing from distance over the waters; and we almost pardoned the "Menagerie" its multifold transgressions because of that touching air. There is a chord in almost every bosom, however rough and unharmonious its ordinary emotions, which fails not to vibrate beneath the gentle influences of "sweet sounds." From this, as from the strings of the wind-harp, a zephyr may elicit a melody of feeling which the storm could never have awakened. There are seasons, too, when the nerves and fibres of the system, reposing in quietness, are most exquisitely attempered to the mysterious influences and the delicate breathings of harmony; and such a season is that calm, holy hour, when deep sleep hath descended upon man, and his unquiet pulsings have for an interval ceased their fevered beat. To be awakened then by music's cadence has upon us an effect unearthly! It calls forth from their depths the richest emotions of the heart. The moonlight serenade! Ah, its wild witchery has told upon the romance of many a young bosom! If you have a mistress, and you would woo her _not vainly_, woo her thus! I remember me, when once a resident of the courtly city of L----, to have been awakened one morning long before the dawn by a strain of distant music, which, swelling and rising upon the still night-air, came floating like a spirit through the open windows and long galleries of the building. I arose; all was calm, and silent, and deserted through the dim, lengthened streets of the city. Not a light gleamed from a casement; not a {114} footfall echoed from the pavement; not a breath broke the stillness save the crowing of the far-off cock proclaiming the morn, and the low rumble of the marketman's wagon; and then, swelling upon the night-wind, fitfully came up that beautiful gush of melody, wave upon wave, surge after surge, billow upon billow, winding itself into the innermost cells of the soul! "Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet South, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour." _Illinois River._ XI "You will excuse me if I do not strictly confine myself to narration, but now and then interpose such _reflections_ as may offer while I am writing."--NEWTON. "Each was a giant heap of mouldering clay; There slept the warriors, women, friends, and foes; There, side by side, the rival chieftains lay, And mighty tribes swept from the face of day." FLINT. More than three weeks ago I found myself, one bright morning at sunrise, before the city of St. Louis on descending the Illinois; and in that venerable little city have I ever since been a dweller. A series of those vexatious delays, ever occurring to balk the designs of the tourist, have detained me longer than could have been anticipated. Not the {115} most inconsiderable of these preventives to locomotion in this bustling, swapping, chaffering little city, strange as it may seem, has been the difficulty of procuring, at a conscionable outlay of dollars and cents, a suitable steed for a protracted jaunt. But, thanks to the civility or _selfism_ of a friend, this difficulty is at an end, and I have at length succeeded in securing the reversion of a tough, spirited little bay, which, by considerate usage and bountiful foddering, may serve to bear me, with the requisite quantum of speed and safety, over the prairies. A few days, therefore, when the last touch of _acclimation_ shall have taken its leave, and "I'm over the border and awa'." The city of San' Louis, now hoary with a century's years, was one of those early settlements planted by the Canadian French up and down the great valley, from the Northern Lakes to the Gulf, while the English colonists of Plymouth and Jamestown were wringing out a wretched subsistence along the sterile shores of the Atlantic, wearied out by constant warfare with the thirty Indian tribes within their borders. Attracted by the beauty of the country, the fertility of its soil, the boundless variety of its products, the exhaustless mineral treasures beneath its surface, and the facility of the trade in the furs of the Northwest, a flood of Canadian emigration opened southward after the discoveries of La Salle, and the little villages of Cahokia, Kaskaskia, Prairie du Po, Prairie du Rocher, St. Phillipe, St. Ferdinand, Peoria, Fort Chartres, Vuide Poche, Petites Cotes, now St. Charles, Pain Court, now St. Louis, and others, successively sprang up in {116} the howling waste. Over nearly all this territory have the Gaul, the Spaniard, the Briton, and the Anglo-American held rule, and a dash of the national idiosyncrasy of each may be detected. Especially true is this of St. Louis. There is an antiquated, venerable air about its narrow streets and the ungainly edifices of one portion of it; the steep-roofed stone cottage of the Frenchman, and the tall stuccoed-dwelling of the Don, not often beheld. A mellowing touch of time, which few American cities can boast, has passed over it, rendering it a spot of peculiar interest to one with the slightest spirit of the antiquary, in a country where all else is new. The modern section of the city, with its regular streets and lofty edifices, which, within the past fifteen years, has arisen under the active hand of the northern emigrant, presents a striking contrast to the old. The site of St. Louis is elevated and salubrious, lying for some miles along the Mississippi upon two broad plateaux or steppes swelling up gently from the water's edge. Along the first of these, based upon an exhaustless bed of limestone, which furnishes material for building, are situated the lower and central portions of the city, while that above sweeps away in an extensive prairie of stunted black-jack oaks to the west. The latter section is already laid out into streets and building-lots; elegant structures are rapidly going up, and, at no distant day, this is destined to become the most courtly and beautiful portion of the city. It is at a pleasant remove from the dust and bustle of the landing, {117} while its elevation affords a fine view of the harbour and opposite shore. Yet, with all its improvements of the past few years, St. Louis remains emphatically "a little _French_ city." There is about it a cheerful village air, a certain _rus in rube_, to which the grenadier preciseness of most of our cities is the antipodes. There are but few of those endless, rectilinear avenues, cutting each other into broad squares of lofty granite blocks, so characteristic of the older cities of the North and East, or of those cities of tramontane origin so rapidly rising within the boundaries of the valley. There yet remains much in St. Louis to remind one of its village days; and a stern _eschewal_ of mathematical, angular exactitude is everywhere beheld. Until within a few years there was no such thing as a row of houses; all were disjoined and at a considerable distance from each other; and every edifice, however central, could boast its humble _stoop_, its front-door plat, bedecked with shrubbery and flowers, and protected from the inroads of intruding man or beast by its own tall stoccade. All this is now confined to the southern or French section of the city; a right Rip Van Winkle-looking region, where each little steep-roofed cottage yet presents its broad piazza, and the cosey settee before the door beneath the tree shade, with the fleshy old burghers soberly luxuriating on an evening pipe, their dark-eyed, brunette daughters at their side. There is a delightful air of "old-fashioned comfortableness" in all this, that reminds us of nothing we have seen in our own country, but much of the antiquated villages of which we have {118} been told in the land beyond the waters. Among those remnants of a former generation which are yet to be seen in St. Louis are the venerable mansions of Auguste and Pierre Chouteau, who were among the founders of the city.[100] These extensive mansions stand upon the principal street, and originally occupied, with their grounds, each of them an entire square, enclosed by lofty walls of heavy masonry, with loopholes and watch-towers for defence. The march of improvement has encroached upon the premises of these ancient edifices somewhat; yet they are still inhabited by the posterity of their builders, and remain, with their massive walls of stone, monuments of an earlier era. The site upon which stands St. Louis was selected in 1763 by M. Laclede, a partner of a mercantile association at New-Orleans, to whom D'Abbadie, Director-general of the province of Louisiana, had granted the exclusive privilege of the commerce in furs and peltries with the Indian tribes of the Upper Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. By the treaty of that year France had ceded all her possessions east of the Mississippi to Great Britain, and there was on the western shore only the small village of Ste. Genevieve. This was subsequently deemed too distant from the mouth of the Mississippi to be a suitable depôt and post for the fur-trade; and Laclede, having surveyed all the neighbouring region, fixed upon the spot where St. Louis now stands as a more eligible site. Whether this site was selected by the flight of birds, by consultation of the entrails of beasts, or the voice of an oracle; whether by accident {119} or design, tradition averreth not. Yet sure is it, that under the concurrence of all these omens, a more favourable selection could not have been made than this has proved. It _is related_, however, that when the founder of the city first planted foot upon the shore, the imprint of a human foot, naked and of gigantic dimensions, was found enstamped upon the solid limestone rock, and continued in regular succession as if of a man advancing from the water's edge to the plateau above.[101] By a more superstitious age this circumstance would have been deemed an omen, and, as such, commemorated in the chronicles of the city. On the 15th of February, 1764, Colonel Auguste Chouteau, with a number of persons from Ste. Genevieve, Cahokia, and Fort Chartres, arrived at the spot, and commenced a settlement by felling a splendid grove of forest-trees which then reared itself upon the bank, and erecting a building where the market-house now stands. The town was then laid off, and named in honour of Louis XV., the reigning monarch of France, though the settlers were desirous of giving it the name of its founder: to this Laclede would not consent. He died at the post of Arkansas in 1778; Colonel Chouteau followed him in the month of February of 1829, just sixty-four years from the founding of the city. He had been a constant resident, had seen the spot merge from the wilderness, and had become one of its most opulent citizens. For many years St. Louis was called "_Pain_ {120} _Court_," from the scarcity of provisions, which circumstance at one period almost induced the settlers to abandon their design. In 1765 Fort Chartres was delivered to Great Britain, and the commandant, St. Ange, with his troops, only twenty-two in number, proceeded to St. Louis; and assuming the government, the place was ever after considered the capital of the province.[102] Under the administration of St. Ange, which is said to have been mild and patriarchal, the _common field_ was laid open, and each settler became a cultivator of the soil. This field comprised several thousand acres, lying upon the second steppe mentioned, and has recently been divided into lots and sold to the highest bidder. Three years after the arrival of St. Ange, Spanish troops under command of Don Rious took possession of the province agreeable to treaty;[103] but, owing to the dissatisfaction of the inhabitants, no official authority was exercised until 1770. Thirty years afterward the province was retroceded to France, and from that nation to the United States. In the spring of 1778 an attack was made upon the village by a large body of the northern Indians, at the instigation of the English. They were repulsed with a loss of about twenty of the settlers, and the year was commemorated as "_L'annee du grand coup_."[104] In the spring of 1785, the Mississippi rose thirty feet above the highest water-mark previously known, and the American Bottom was inundated. This year was remembered as "_L'annee des grandes eaux_." At that period commerce with New-Orleans, for {121} the purpose of obtaining merchandise for the fur trade, was carried on exclusively by keel-boats and barges, which in the spring started upon their voyage of more than a thousand miles, and in the fall of the year slowly returned against the current. This mode of transportation was expensive, tedious, and unsafe; and it was rendered yet more hazardous from the murders and robberies of a large band of free-booters, under two chiefs, Culburt and Magilbray, who stationed themselves at a place called Cotton Wood Creek, on the Mississippi, and captured the ascending boats. This band was dispersed by a little fleet of ten barges, which, armed with swivels, ascended the river in company. This year was remembered as "_L'annee des bateaux_."[105] All the inconvenience of this method of transportation continued to be experienced until the introduction of steam upon the Western waters; and the first boat of this kind which made its appearance at the port of St. Louis was the "General Pike," in 1814. This boat was commanded by Captain Jacob Reed, and, at the time of its arrival, a large body of a neighbouring Indian tribe chanced to have an encampment in the suburbs of the city. Their astonishment, and even _terror_, at first sight of the evolutions of the steamer, are said to have been indescribable. They viewed it as nothing less than a living thing; a monster of tremendous power, commissioned by the "Great Spirit" for their extermination, and their humiliation was proportional to their terror. Great opposition was raised against steamers by the boatmen, some thousands of whom, by their introduction, would {122} be thrown out of employment; but this feeling gradually passed away, and now vessels propelled by steam perform in a few days a voyage which formerly required as many months. A trip to the city, as New-Orleans, _par excellence_, was styled, then demanded weeks of prior preparation, and a man put his house and household in order before setting out: now it is an ordinary jaunt of pleasure. The same dislike manifested by the old French _habitans_ to the introduction of the steamer or _smoke-boat_, "bateau à vapeur," as they termed it, has betrayed itself at every advance of modern improvement. Erected, as St. Louis was, with no design of a city, its houses were originally huddled together with a view to nothing but convenience; and its streets were laid out too narrow and too irregular for the bustle and throng of mercantile operations. In endeavouring to correct this early error, by removing a few of the old houses and projecting balconies, great opposition has been encountered. Some degree of uniformity in the three principal streets parallel to the river has, however, by this method been attained. Water-street is well built up with a series of lofty limestone warehouses; but an irretrievable error has been committed in arranging them at so short a distance from the water. On some accounts this proximity to the river may be convenient; but for the sake of a broad arena for commerce; for the sake of a fresh and salubrious circulation of air from the water; for the sake of scenic beauty, or a noble promenade for pleasure, there should have been no encroachment upon the precincts {123} of the "eternal river." In view of the miserable _plan_ of St. Louis, if it may claim anything of the kind, and the irregular manner and singular taste with which it has been built, the regret has more than once been expressed, that, like Detroit,[106] a conflagration had not swept it in its earlier days, and given place to an arrangement at once more consistent with elegance and convenience. From the river bank to the elevated ground sweeping off in the rear of the city to the west is a distance of several hundred yards, and the height above the level of the water cannot be far from an hundred feet. The ascent is easy, however, and a noble view is obtained, from the cupola of the courthouse on its summit, of the Mississippi and the city below, of the broad American Bottom, with its bluffs in the distance, and a beautiful extent of natural scenery in the rear. Along the brow of this eminence once stood a line of military works, erected for the defence of the old town in 1780 by Don Francois de Cruzat, lieutenant governor "_de la partie occidentale des Illinois_," as the ancient chronicles style the region west of the Mississippi.[107] These fortifications consisted of several circular towers of stone, forty feet in diameter and half as many in altitude, planted at intervals in a line of stoccade, besides a small fort, embracing four demilunes and a parapet of mason-work. For many years these old works were in a dismantled and deserted state, excepting the fort, in one building of which was held {124} the court, and another superseded the necessity of a prison. Almost every vestige is now swept away. The great earthquakes of 1811 essentially assisted in toppling the old ruins to the ground. The whole city was powerfully shaken, and has since been subject to occasional shocks.[108] It is in the northern suburbs of the city that are to be seen those singular ancient mounds for which St. Louis is so celebrated; and which, with others in the vicinity, form, as it were, a connecting link between those of the north, commencing in the lake counties of Western New-York, and those of the south, extending deep within the boundaries of Mexico, forming an unbroken line from one extremity of the great valley to the other. Their position at St. Louis is, as usual, a commanding one, upon the second bank, of which I have spoken, and looking proudly down upon the Mississippi, along which the line is parallel. They stand isolated, or distinct from each other, in groups; and the outline is generally that of a rectangular pyramid, truncated nearly one half. The first collection originally consisted of ten tumuli, arranged as three sides of a square area of about four acres, and the open flank to the west was guarded by five other small circular earth-heaps, isolated, and forming the segment of a circle around {125} the opening. This group is now almost completely destroyed by the grading of streets and the erection of edifices, and the eastern border may alone be traced. North of the first collection of tumuli is a second, four or five in number, and forming two sides of a square. Among these is one of a very beautiful form, consisting of three stages, and called the "Falling Garden." Its elevation above the level of the second plateau is about four feet, and the area is ample for a dwelling and yard; from the second it descends to the first plateau along the river by three regular gradations, the first with a descent of two feet, the second of ten, and the lower one of five, each stage presenting a beautiful site for a house. For this purpose, however, they can never be appropriated, as one of the principal streets of the city is destined to pass directly through the spot, the grading for which is already commenced. The third group of mounds is situated a few hundred yards above the second, and consists of about a dozen eminences. A series extends along the west side of the street, through grounds attached to a classic edifice of brick, which occupies the principal one; while opposite rise several of a larger size, upon one of which is situated the residence of General Ashley, and upon another the reservoir which supplies the city with water, raised from the Mississippi by a steam force-pump upon its banks. Both are beautiful spots, imbowered in forest-trees; and the former, from its size and structure, is supposed to have been a citadel or place of defence. {126} In excavating the earth of this mound, large quantities of human remains, pottery, half-burned wood, &c., &c., were thrown up; furnishing conclusive evidence, were any requisite farther than regularity of outline and relative position, of the artificial origin of these earth-heaps. About six hundred yards above this group, and linked with it by several inconsiderable mounds, is situated one completely isolated, and larger than any yet described. It is upward of thirty feet in height, about one hundred and fifty feet long, and upon the summit five feet wide. The form is oblong, resembling an immense grave; and a broad terrace or apron, after a descent of a few feet, spreads out itself on the side looking down upon the river. From the extensive view of the surrounding region and of the Mississippi commanded by the site of this mound, as well as its altitude, it is supposed to have been intended as a vidette or watch-tower by its builders. Upon its summit, not many years ago, was buried an Indian chief. He was a member of a deputation from a distant tribe to the agency in St. Louis; but, dying while there, his remains, agreeable to the custom of his tribe, were deposited on the most commanding spot that could be found. This custom accounts for the circumstance urged against the antiquity and artificial origin of these works, that the relics exhumed are found near the surface, and were deposited by the present race. But the distinction between the remains found near the surface and those in the depths of the soil is too palpable and too {127} notorious to require argument. From the _Big Mound_, as it is called, a _cordon_ of tumuli stretch away to the northwest for several miles along the bluffs parallel with the river, a noble view of which they command. They are most of them ten or twelve feet high; many clothed with forest-trees, and all of them supposed to be tombs. In removing two of them upon the grounds of Col. O'Fallon,[109] immense quantities of bones were exhumed. Similar mounds are to be found in almost every county in the state, and those in the vicinity of St. Louis are remarkable only for their magnitude and the regularity of their relative positions. It is evident, from these monuments of a former generation, that the natural advantages of the site upon which St. Louis now stands were not unappreciated long before it was pressed by the first European footstep. It is a circumstance which has often elicited remark from those who, as tourists, have visited St. Louis, that so little interest should be manifested by its citizens for those mysterious and venerable monuments of another race by which on every side it is environed. When we consider the complete absence of everything in the character of a public square or promenade in the city, one would suppose that individual taste and municipal authority would not have failed to avail themselves of the moral interest attached to these mounds and the beauty of their site, to have formed in their vicinity one of the most attractive spots in the West. These ancient tumuli could, at no considerable expense, have been {128} enclosed and ornamented with shrubbery, and walks, and flowers, and thus preserved for coming generations. As it is, they are passing rapidly away; man and beast, as well as the elements, are busy with them, and in a few years they will quite have disappeared. The practical utility of which they are available appears the only circumstance which has attracted attention to them. One has already become a public reservoir, and measures are in progress for applying the larger mound to a similar use, the first being insufficient for the growth of the city. It need not be said that such indifference of feeling to the only relics of a by-gone race which our land can boast, is not well in the citizens of St. Louis, and should exist no longer; nor need allusion be made to that eagerness of interest which the distant traveller, the man of literary taste and poetic fancy, or the devotee of abstruse science, never fails to betray for these mysterious monuments of the past, when, in his tour of the Far West, he visits St. Louis; many a one, too, who has looked upon the century-mossed ruins of Europe, and to whose eye the castled crags of the Rhine are not unfamiliar. And surely, to the imaginative mind, there is an interest which attaches to these venerable beacons of departed time, enveloped as they are in mystery inscrutable; and from their origin, pointing, as they do, down the dim shadowy vista of ages of which the ken of man telleth not, there is an interest which hallows them even as the hoary piles of old Egypt are hallowed, and which feudal Europe, with all her {129} time-sustained battlements, can never boast. It is the mystery, the impenetrable mystery veiling these aged sepulchres, which gives them an interest for the traveller's eye. They are landmarks in the lapse of ages, beneath whose shadows generations have mouldered, and around whose summits a gone _eternity_ plays! The ruined tower, the moss-grown abbey, the damp-stained dungeon, the sunken arch, the fairy and delicate fragments of the shattered peristyle of a classic land, or the beautiful frescoes of Herculaneum and Pompeii--around _them_ time has indeed flung the silvery mantle of eld while he has swept them with decay; but _their_ years may be _enumerated_, and the circumstances, the authors, and the purposes of their origin, together with the incidents of their ruin, are chronicled on History's page for coming generations. But who shall tell the era of the origin of these venerable earth-heaps, the race of their builders, the purpose of their erection, the thousand circumstances attending their rise, history, desertion? Why now so lone and desolate? Where are the multitudes that once swarmed the prairie at their base, and vainly busied themselves in rearing piles which should exist the wonder of the men of other lands, and the sole monument of their own memory long after they themselves were dust? Has war, or famine, or pestilence brooded over these beautiful plains? or has the fiat of Omnipotence gone forth that as a race their inhabitants should exist no longer, and the death-angel been commissioned to sweep them from off the face of {130} the earth as if with destruction's besom? We ask: the inquiry is vain; we are answered not! Their mighty creations and the tombs of myriads heave up themselves in solemn grandeur before us; but from the depths of the dusky earth-heap comes forth no voice to tell us its origin, or object, or story! "Ye mouldering relics of a race departed, Your names have perished; not a trace remains, Save where the grassgrown mound its summit rears From the green bosom of your native plains." Ages since--long ere the first son of the Old World had pressed the fresh soil of the New; long before the bright region beyond the blue wave had been the object of the philosopher's revery by day and the enthusiast's vision by night--in the deep stillness and solitude of an unpeopled land, these vast mausoleums rose as now they rise, in lonely grandeur from the plain, and looked down, even as now they look, upon the giant flood rolling its dark waters at their base, hurrying past them to the deep. So has it been with the massive tombs of Egypt, amid the sands and barrenness of the desert. For ages untold have the gloomy pyramids been reflected by the inundations of the Nile; an hundred generations, they tell us, have arisen from the cradle and reposed beneath their shadows, and, like autumn leaves, have dropped into the grave; but from the deep midnight of by-gone centuries comes forth no daring spirit to claim these kingly sepulchres as his own! And shall the dusky piles on the plains of distant Egypt affect so deeply our reverence for the {131} departed, and these mighty monuments, reposing in dark sublimity upon our own magnificent prairies veiled in mystery more inscrutable than they, call forth no solitary throb? Is there no hallowing interest associated with these aged relics, these tombs, and temples, and towers of another race, to elicit emotion? Are they _indeed_ to us no more than the dull clods we tread upon? Why, then, does the wanderer from the far land gaze upon them with wonder and veneration? Why linger fondly around them, and meditate upon the power which reared them and is departed? Why does the poet, the man of genius and fancy, or the philosopher of mind and nature, seat himself at their base, and, with strange and undefined emotions, pause and ponder amid the loneliness which slumbers around? And surely, if the far traveller, as he wanders through this Western Valley, may linger around these aged piles and meditate upon a power departed, a race obliterated, an influence swept from the earth for ever, and dwell with melancholy emotions upon the destiny of man, is it not meet that those into whose keeping they seem by Providence consigned should regard them with interest and emotion? that they should gather up and preserve every incident relevant to their origin, design, or history which may be attained, and avail themselves of every measure which may give to them perpetuity, and hand them down, undisturbed in form or character, to other generations? The most plausible, and, indeed, the only plausible argument urged by those who deny the artificial {132} origin of the ancient mounds, is _their immense size_. There are, say they, "many mounds in the West that exactly correspond in _shape_ with these supposed antiquities, and yet, from their _size_, most evidently were not made by man;" and they add that "it would be well to calculate upon the ordinary labour of excavating canals, how many hands, with spades, wheelbarrows, and other necessary implements, it would take to throw up mounds like the largest of these within any given time."[110] We are told that in the territory of Wisconsin and in northern Illinois exist mounds to which these are molehills. Of those, Mount Joliet, Mount Charles, Sinsinewa, and the Blue Mounds vary from one to four hundred feet in height; while west of the Arkansas exists a range of earth-heaps ten or twelve miles in extent, and two hundred feet high: there also, it might be added, are the Mamelle Mountains, estimated at one thousand feet.[111] The adjacent country is prairie; farms exist on the summits of the mounds, which from their declivity are almost inaccessible, and _springs gush out from their sides_. With but one exception I profess to know nothing of these mounds from personal observation; and, consequently, can hazard no opinion of their character. The fact of the "gushing springs," it is true, {133} savours not much of artificialness; and in this respect, at least, do these mounds differ from those claimed as of artificial origin. The earth-heaps of which I have been speaking can boast no "springs of water gushing from their sides;" if they could, the fact would be far from corroborating the theory maintained. The analogy between these mounds is admitted to be strong, though there exist diversities; and were there _none_, even Bishop Butler says that we are not to infer a thing true upon slight presumption, since "there may be probabilities on both sides of a question." From what has been advanced relative to the character of the mounds spoken of, it is believed that the probabilities strongly preponderate in favour of their artificial origin, even admitting their _perfect_ analogy to those "from whose sides gush the springs." But more anon. _St. Louis._ XII "Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise." GRAY. "Some men have been Who loved the church so well, and gave so largely to't, They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday." There are few more delightful views in the vicinity of St. Louis of a fine evening than that commanded by the summit of the "Big Mound," of which I have spoken, in the northern suburbs of the city. Far away from the north comes the Mississippi, sweeping on in a broad, smooth sheet, skirted by woodlands; and the rushing of its waters along the ragged rocks of the shores below is fancied faintly to reach the ear. Nearly in the middle of the stream are stretched out the long, low, sandy shores of "Blood Island," a spot notorious in the annals of duelling. Upon the Illinois shore beyond it is contemplated erecting a pier, for the purpose of throwing the full volume of the current upon the western shore, and thus preserving a channel of deep water along the landing of the city. Within a few years past an extensive sand-bar has accumulated opposite the southern section of the city, which threatens, unless removed, greatly to obstruct, if not to destroy, the harbour. To remedy this, an appropriation {135} has been made by Congress, surveys have been taken, measures devised and their execution commenced.[112] Upon the river-bank opposite the island stands the "Floating Dry Dock," an ingenious contrivance, the invention of a gentleman of St. Louis, and owned by a company of patentees.[113] It consists of an indefinite number of floats, which may be increased or diminished at pleasure, each of them fourteen feet in breadth, and about four times that length, connected laterally together. After being sunk and suspended at the necessary depth in the water, the boat to be repaired is placed upon them, and they rise till her hull is completely exposed. As the spectator, standing upon the Mound, turns his eye to the south, a green grove lies before him and the smaller earth-heaps, over which are beheld the towers and roofs of the city rising in the distance; far beyond is spread out a smooth, rolling carpet of tree-tops, in the midst of which the gray limestone of the arsenal is dimly perceived. The extent between the northern suburbs of St. Louis and its southern extremity along the river curve is about six miles, and the city can be profitably extended about the same distance into the interior. The prospect in this direction is boundless for miles around, till the tree-tops blend with the western horizon. The face of the country is neither uniform nor broken, but undulates almost imperceptibly away, clothed in a dense forest of black-jack oak, interspersed with thickets of the wild-plum, the crab-apple, and the hazel. Thirty years ago, and this broad plain was a treeless, shrubless waste, {136} without a solitary farmhouse to break the monotony. But the annual fires were stopped; a young forest sprang into existence; and delightful villas and country seats are now gleaming from the dark foliage in all directions. To some of them are attached extensive grounds, adorned with groves, orchards, fish-ponds, and all the elegances of opulence and cultivated taste; while in the distance are beheld the glittering spires of the city rising above the trees. At one of these, a retired, beautiful spot, residence of Dr. F----, I have passed many a pleasant hour. The sportsman may here be indulged to his heart's desire. The woods abound with game of every species: the rabbit, quail, prairie-hen, wild-turkey, and the deer; while the lakes, which flash from every dell and dingle, are swarmed with fish. Most of these sheets of water are formed by immense springs issuing from _sink-holes_; and are supposed, like those in Florida, which suggested the wild idea of the _fountain of rejuvenescence_, to owe their origin to the subsidence of the bed of porous limestone upon which the Western Valley is based. Many of these springs intersect the region with rills and rivulets, and assist in forming a beautiful sheet of water in the southern suburbs of the city, which eventually pours out its waters into the Mississippi. Many years ago a dam and massive mill of stone was erected here by one of the founders of the city; it is yet standing, surrounded by aged sycamores, and is more valuable and venerable than ever. The neighbouring region is abrupt and broken, varied by a delightful vicissitude of hill and dale. The borders {137} of the lake are fringed with groves, while the steep bluffs, which rise along the water and are reflected in its placid bosom, recall the picture of Ben Venue and Loch Katrine:[114] "The mountain shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest; In bright uncertainty they lie, Like future joys to Fancy's eye." This beautiful lake and its vicinity is, indeed, unsurpassed for scenic loveliness by any spot in the suburbs of St. Louis. At the calm, holy hour of Sabbath sunset, its quiet borders invite to meditation and retirement. The spot should be consecrated as the trysting-place of love and friendship. Some fine structures are rising upon the margin of the waters, and in a few years it will be rivalled in beauty by no other section of the city. St. Louis, like most Western cities, can boast but few public edifices of any note. Among those which are to be seen, however, are the large and commodious places of worship of the different religious denominations; an elegant courthouse, occupying with its enclosed grounds one of the finest squares in the city; two market-houses, one of which, standing upon the river-bank, contains on its second floor the City Hall; a large and splendid theatre, in most particulars inferior to no other edifice of the kind in the United States; and an extensive hotel, which is now going up, to be called the "St. Louis House," contracted for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. The Cathedral of St. Luke, the University, Hospital, Orphan Asylum, and the {138} "Convent of the Sacred Heart," are Catholic Institutions, and well worthy of remark.[115] For many years after its settlement, the Roman Catholic faith prevailed exclusively in St. Louis. The founders of the city and its earliest inhabitants were of this religious persuasion; and their descendants, many of whom are now among its most opulent and influential citizens, together with foreign immigrants of a recent date, form a numerous and respectable body. The names of Chouteau, Pratte, Sarpy, Cabanné, Menard, Soulard, &c., &c., are those of early settlers of the city which yet are often heard.[116] The "Cathedral of St. Luke" is a noble structure of stone.[117] It was consecrated with great pomp in the autumn of '34, having occupied three years in its erection. The site is unfavourable, but it possessed an interest for many of the old citizens which no other spot could claim. Here had stood their ancient sanctuary, with which was associated the holy feelings of their earliest days; here had been the baptismal font and the marriage altar; while beneath reposed the sacred remains of many a being, loved and honoured, but passed away. The former church was a rude structure of logs. The dimensions of the present building are a length of about one hundred and forty feet, to a breadth of eighty and an altitude of forty, with a tower of upward of an hundred feet, surmounted by a lofty cross. The steeple contains a peal of six bells, the three larger of which were cast in Normandy, and chime very pleasantly; upon the four sides of the tower are the dial-plates of a clock, which strikes the hours upon {139} the bells. The porch of the edifice consists of four large columns of polished freestone, of the Doric order, with corresponding entablature, cornice, pediment, and frieze, the whole surface of the latter being occupied with the inscription "_In honorem S. Ludovici. Deo Uni et Trino, Dicatum, A. D. MDCCCXXXIV_," the letters elevated in _basso-relievo_. Over the entrances, which are three in number, are inscribed, in French and in English, passages from Scripture, upon tablets of Italian marble. The porch is protected from the street by battlements, surmounted by an iron railing, and adorned by lofty candelabra of stone. The body of the building is divided by two colonnades, of five pillars each, into three aisles. The columns, composed of brick, stuccoed to imitate marble, are of the Doric order, supporting a cornice and entablature, decorated with arabesques and medallions; and upon them reposes the arch of the elliptic-formed and panelled ceiling. Between the columns are suspended eight splendid chandeliers, which, when lighted at night, produce a magnificent effect. The walls are enriched by frescoes and arabesques, and the windows are embellished with transparencies, presenting the principal transactions of the Saviour's mission. This is said to be one of the first attempts at a substitute for the painted glass of the Middle Ages, and was executed, together with the other pictorial decorations of the edifice, by an artist named _Leon_, sent over for the purpose from France. The effect is grand. Even the garish sunbeams are mellowed down as they struggle dimly through the richly-coloured {140} hangings, and the light throughout the sacred pile seems tinged with rainbow hues. In the chancel of the church, at the bottom of the centre aisle, elevated by a flight of steps, and enclosed by a balustrade of the Corinthian order, is situated the sanctuary. Upon either side stand pilasters to represent marble, decorated with festoons of wheat-ears and vines, symbolical of the eucharist, and surmounted with caps of the Doric order. On the right, between the pilasters, is a gallery for the choir, with the organ in the rear, and on the left side is a veiled gallery for the "Sisters of Charity" connected with the convent and the other institutions of the church. The altar-piece at the bottom of the sanctuary represents the Saviour upon the cross, with his mother and two of his disciples at his feet; on either side rise two fluted Corinthian columns, with a broken pediment and gilded caps, supporting a gorgeous entablature. Above the whole is an elliptical window, hung with the transparency of a dove, emblematic of the Holy Ghost, shedding abroad rays of light. The high altar and the tabernacle stand below, and the decorations on festal occasions, as well as the vestments of the officiating priests, are splendid and imposing. Over the bishop's seat, in a side arch of the sanctuary, hangs a beautiful painting of St. Louis, titular of the cathedral, presented by the amiable Louis XVI. of France previous to his exile.[118] At the bottom of each of the side aisles of the church stand two chapels, at the same elevation with the sanctuary. Between two fluted columns of the Ionic order is suspended, in each chapel, an {141} altar-piece, with a valuable painting above. The piece on the left represents St. Vincent of Gaul engaged in charity on a winter's day, and the picture above is the marriage of the blessed Virgin. The altar-piece of the right represents St. Patrick of Ireland in his pontifical robes, and above is a painting of our Saviour and the centurion, said to be by Paul Veronese. At the opposite extremity of the building, near the side entrances, are two valuable pieces; one said to be by Rubens, of the Virgin and Child, the other the martyrdom of St. Bartholemew.[119] Above rise extensive galleries in three rows; to the right is the baptismal font, and a landscape of the Saviour's immersion in Jordan. Beneath the sanctuary of the church is the lower chapel, divided into three aisles by as many arches, supported by pilasters, which, as well as the walls, are painted to imitate marble. There is here an altar and a marble tabernacle, where mass is performed during the week, and the chapel is decorated by fourteen paintings, representing different stages of the Saviour's passion.[120] In the western suburbs of the city, upon an eminence, stand the buildings of the St. Louis University, handsome structures of brick.[121] The institution is conducted by Jesuits, and most of the higher branches of learning are taught. The present site has been offered for sale, and the seminary is to be removed some miles into the interior. Connected {142} with the college is a medical school of recent date. The chapel of the institution is a large, airy room, hung with antique and valuable paintings. Two of these, suspended on each side of the altar, said to be by Rubens, are master-pieces of the art. One of them represents Ignatius Loyola, founder of the order of Jesuits; the other is the full-length picture of the celebrated Francis Xavier, apostle to the Indies, who died at Goa while engaged in his benevolent labours. In an oratory above hangs a large painting by the same master; a powerful, though unfinished production. All the galleries of the buildings are decorated with paintings, some of which have but little to commend them to notice but their antiquity. The library embraces about twelve hundred volumes, mostly in the French language. The _Universal Geography_ of Braviara, a valuable work of eleven folios, brilliantly illuminated, and the _Actæ Sanctorum_, an enormous work of _forty-two_ folio volumes, chiefly attract the visiter's attention.[122] The philosophical apparatus attached to the institution is very insufficient. Most of the pupils of the institution are French, and they are gathered from all quarters of the South and West; a great number of them are from Louisiana, sons of the planters. _St. Louis._ XIII "Away! away! and on we dash! Torrents less rapid and less rash." _Mazeppa._ "Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze." ROGERS. It was a pleasant afternoon when, in company with a number of friends, I left the city for an excursion into its southern suburbs, and a visit to the military works, a few miles distant. The atmosphere had that mild, mellowy mistiness which subdues the fierce glare of the sunbeams, and flings over every object a softened shade. A gentle breeze from the south was astir balmily and blandly among the leaves; in fine, it was one of those grateful, genial seasons, when the senses sympathize with the quietude of external creation, and there is no reason, earthly or unearthly, why the inward man should not sympathize with the man without; a season when you are at peace with yourself, and at peace with every object, animate, inanimate, or vegetable, about you. Our party consisted of eight precious souls, and "all agog to dash through thick and thin," if essential to a jovial jaunt. And now fain would I enumerate those worthy individuals, together with their several peculiarities and dispositions, good and bad, did not a certain delicacy forbid. {144} Suffice it to say, the excursion was devised in honour, and for the especial benefit, of a young and recently-married couple from "the city of monuments and fountains," who were enjoying their honey-moon in a trip to the Far West. Passing through the narrow streets and among the ancient edifices of the _old_ city, we came to that section called South St. Louis. This is destined to become the district of manufactures; large quantities of bituminous coal, little inferior to that of the Alleghanies, is here found; and railroads to the celebrated Iron Mountain, sixty miles distant, and to the coal-banks of the Illinois bluffs, as well as to the northern section of the city, are projected. The landing is good, the shore being composed of limestone and marble, of two different species, both of which admit a high degree of polish. There is also quarried in this vicinity a kind of freestone, which, when fresh from the bed, is soft, but, on exposure to the atmosphere, becomes dense and hard. We passed a number of commodious farmhouses as we ambled along; and now and then, at intervals through the trees, was caught a glimpse of the flashing sheen of the river gliding along upon our left. At a short distance from the road were to be seen the ruins of the "Eagle Powder-works," destroyed by fire in the spring of '36. They had been in operation only three years previous to their explosion, and their daily manufacture was three hundred pounds of superior powder. The report and concussion of the explosion was perceived miles around the country, and the loss sustained by the proprietors was estimated {145} at forty thousand dollars. The site of these works was a broad plain, over which, as our horses were briskly galloping, a circumstance occurred which could boast quite as much of reality as romance. To my own especial gallantry--gallant man--had been intrusted the precious person of the fair bride, and lightly and gracefully pressed her fairy form upon the back of a bright-eyed, lithe little animal, with a spirit buoyant as her own. The steed upon which I was myself mounted was a powerful creature, with a mouth as unyielding as the steel bit he was constantly champing. The lady prided herself, not without reason, upon her boldness and grace in horsemanship and her skill in the _manège_; and, as we rode somewhat in advance of our cavalcade, the proposal thoughtlessly dropped from her that we should elope and leave our companions in the lurch. Hardly had the syllables left her lip, than the reins were flung loose upon the horses' manes; they bounded on, and away, away, away the next moment were we skirring over the plain, like the steed of the Muses on a steeple-chase. A single shout of warning to my fair companion was returned by an ejaculation of terror, for her horse had become his own master. The race of John Gilpin or of Alderman Purdy were, either or both of them, mere circumstances to ours. For more than a mile our excited steeds swept onward in their furious course to the admiration of beholders; and how long the race might have been protracted is impossible to say, had not certain sons of Erin--worthy souls {146}--in the innocence of their hearts and the ignorance of their heads, and by way of perpetrating a notable exploit, thought proper to throw themselves from the roadside directly before us. The suddenness of the movement brought both our animals nearly upon their haunches, and the next minute saw the fair bride quietly seated in the dust beneath their feet. The shock had flung her from her seat, but she arose uninjured. To leap from my saddle and place the lady again in hers was the work of a moment; and when the cortége made its appearance, our runaway steeds were ambling along in a fashion the most discreet and exemplary imaginable. The situation of the Arsenal, upon a swelling bank of the river, is delightful. It is surrounded by a strong wall of stone, embracing extensive grounds, through which a green, shady avenue leads from the highway. The structures are composed chiefly of unhewn limestone, enclosing a rectangular area, and comprise about a dozen large buildings, while a number of lesser ones are perceived here and there among the groves. The principal structure is one of four stories, looking down upon the Mississippi, with a beautiful esplanade, forming a kind of natural glacis to the whole armory, sweeping away to the water. Upon the right and left, in the same line with the rectangle, are situated the dwellings of the officers; noble edifices of hewn stone, with cultivated garden-plats and fruit-trees. The view of the stream is here delightful, and the breeze came up from its surface fresh and free. A pair of pet deer were frolicking along the shore. Most of the remaining structures are offices and {147} workshops devoted to the manufacture of arms. Of these there were but few in the Arsenal, large quantities having been despatched to the South for the Florida war. It is designed, I am informed, to mount ordnance at these works--to no great extent, probably; there were several pieces of artillery already prepared. The slits and loop-holes in the deep walls, the pyramids of balls and bombshells, and the heavy carronades piled in tiers, give the place rather a warlike aspect for a peaceable inland fortress. A ride of a few miles brought us to the brow of a considerable elevation, from which we looked down upon the venerable little hamlet of Carondelet, or _Vuide Poche_, as it is familiarly termed; a _nom de nique_ truly indicative of the poverty of pocket and the richness of fancy of its primitive habitans. The village lies in a sleepy-looking hollow, scooped out between the bluffs and the water; and from the summit of the hill the eye glances beyond it over the lengthened vista of the river-reach, at this place miles in extent. Along the shore a deeply-laden steamer was toiling against the current on her passage to the city. Descending the elevation, we were soon thridding the narrow, tortuous, lane-like avenues of the old village. Every object, the very soil even, seemed mossgrown and hoary with time departed. More than seventy years have passed away since its settlement commenced; and now, as then, its inhabitants consist of hunters, and trappers, and river-boatmen, absent most of the year on their various excursions. The rude, crumbling tenements {148} of stone or timber, of peculiar structure, with their whitewashed walls stained by age; the stoccade enclosures of the gardens; the venerable aspect of the ancient fruit-trees, mossed with years, and the unique and singular garb, manner, and appearance of the swarthy villagers, all betoken an earlier era and a peculiar people. The little dark-eyed, dark-haired boys were busy with their games in the streets; and, as we paced leisurely along, we could perceive in the little _cabarets_ the older portion of the _habitans_, cosily congregated around the table near the open door or upon the balcony, apparently discussing the gossip of the day and the qualities of sundry potations before them. Ascending the hill in the rear of the village, we entered the rude chapel of stone reared upon its brow: the inhabitants are all Catholics, and to this faith is the edifice consecrated. The altar-piece, with its decorations, was characterized by simplicity and taste. Three ancient paintings, representing scenes in the mission of the Saviour, were suspended from the walls; the brass-plated missal reposed upon the tabernacle; the crucifix rose in the centre of the sanctuary, and candles were planted on either side. Evergreens were neatly festooned around the sanctuary, and every object betrayed a degree of taste. Attached to the church is a small burial-ground, crowded with tenants. The Sisters of Charity have an asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, in a prosperous condition. Our tarry was but a brief one, as the distrust with which our movements were regarded by the villagers was evident; nor is this {149} suspicion at all to be wondered at when we consider the numberless impostures of which, by immigrants, they have been made the victims. A few miles through groves of oaks brought us in view of that beautiful spot, Jefferson Barracks. The buildings, constructed of stone, are romantically situated on a bold bluff, the base of which is swept by the Mississippi, and were intended to garrison an entire regiment of cavalry for frontier service. Three sides of the quadrangle of the parade are bounded by the lines of galleried barracks, with fine buildings at the extremities for the residence of the officers; while the fourth opens upon a noble terrace overlooking the river. The commissary's house, the magazines, and extensive stables, lie without the parallelogram, beneath the lofty trees. From the terrace is commanded a fine view of the river, with its alluvial islands, the extensive woodlands upon the opposite side, and the pale cliffs of the bluffs stretching away beyond the bottom. In the rear of the garrison rises a grove of forest-trees, consisting of heavy oaks, with broad-spreading branches, and a green, smooth sward beneath. The surface is beautifully undulating, and the spot presents a specimen of park scenery as perfect as the country can boast. A neat burial-ground is located in this wood, and the number of its white wooden slabs gave melancholy evidence of the ravages of the cholera among that corps of fine fellows which, four years before, garrisoned the Barracks. Many a one has here laid away his bones to rest far from the home of his nativity. There is another cemetery {150} on the southern outskirts of the Barracks, where are the tombs of several officers of the army. The site of Jefferson Barracks was selected by General Atkinson as the station of a _corps de reserve_, for defence of the Southern, Western, and Northern frontiers. For the purpose of its design, experience has tested its efficiency. The line of frontier, including the advanced post of Council Bluffs on the Missouri,[123] describes the arch of a circle, the chord of which passes nearly through this point; and a reserve post here is consequently available for the entire line of frontier. From its central position and its proximity to the mouths of the great rivers leading into the interior, detachments, by means of steam transports, may be thrown with great rapidity and nearly equal facility into the garrison upon the Upper Mississippi, the Missouri, the Arkansas, Red, or Sabine Rivers. This was tested in the Black Hawk war, and, indeed, in every inroad of the Indian tribes, these troops have first been summoned to the field. When disengaged, the spot furnishes a salubrious position for the reserve of the Western army. By the latest scheme of frontier defence, a garrison of fifteen hundred troops is deemed necessary for this cantonment. A few miles below the Barracks, along the river-bank, is situated quite a remarkable cave.[124] I visited and explored it one fine afternoon, with a number of friends. With some difficulty, after repeated inquiry, we succeeded in discovering the object of our search, and from a neighbouring farmhouse {151} furnished ourselves with lights and a guide. The latter was a German, who, according to his own account, had been something of a hero in his way and day; he was with Napoleon at Moscow, and was subsequently taken prisoner by Blucher's Prussian Lancers at Waterloo, having been wounded in the knee by a musket-ball. To our edification he detailed a number of his "moving accidents by flood and field." A few steps from the farmhouse brought us to the mouth of the cavern, situated in the face of a ragged limestone precipice nearly a hundred feet high, and the summit crowned with trees and shrubbery; it forms the abrupt termination to a ravine, which, united to another coming in on the right, continues on to the river, a distance of several hundred yards, through a wood. The entrance to the cave is exceedingly rough and rugged, piled with huge fragments of the cliff which have fallen from above, and it can be approached only with difficulty. It is formed indeed, by the rocky bed of a stream flowing out from the cave's mouth, inducing the belief that to this circumstance the ravine owes its origin. The entrance is formed by a broad arch about twenty feet in altitude, with twice that breadth between the abutments. As we entered, the damp air of the cavern swept out around us chill and penetrating. An abrupt angle of the wall shut out the daylight, and we advanced by the light of our candles. The floor, and roof, and sides of the cavern became exceedingly irregular as we proceeded, and, after penetrating to the depth of several hundred yards, {152} the floor and ceiling approached each other so nearly that we were forced to pursue our way upon our hands and knees. In some chambers the roof and walls assumed grotesque and singular shapes, caused by the water trickling through the porous limestone. In one apartment was to be seen the exact outline of a human foot of enormous size; in another, that of an inverted boat; while the vault in a third assumed the shape of an immense coffin. The sole proprietors of the cavern seemed the bats, and of these the number was incredible. In some places the reptiles suspended themselves like swarms of bees from the roof and walls; and so compactly one upon the other did they adhere, that scores could have been crushed at a blow. After a ramble of more than an hour within these shadowy realms, during which several false passages upon either side, soon abruptly terminating, were explored, we at length once more emerged to the light and warmth of the sunbeams, thoroughly drenched by the dampness of the atmosphere and the water dripping from the roof. Ancient Indian tumuli and graves are often found in this neighbourhood. On the _Rivière des Pères_,[125] which is crossed by the road leading to the city, and about seven miles distant, there are a number of graves which, from all appearance, seem not to have been disturbed for centuries. The cemetery is situated on a high bluff looking down upon the stream, and is said to have contained skeletons of a gigantic size. Each grave consisted of a shallow basin, formed by flat stones {153} planted upon their edges; most of them, however, are mossed by age, or have sunk beneath the surface, and their tenants have crumbled to their original dust. Some years since, a Roman coin of a rare species was found upon the banks of the _Rivière des Pères_ by an Indian. This may, perhaps, be classed among the other antiquities of European origin which are frequently found. A number of Roman coins, bearing an early date of the Christian era, are said to have been discovered in a cave near Nashville, in the State of Tennessee, which at the time excited no little interest among antiquaries: they were doubtless deposited by some of the settlers of the country from Europe. Settlements on the _Rivière des Pères_ are said to have been commenced at an early period by the Jesuits, and one of them was drowned near its mouth: from this circumstance it derived its name. In the bed of this stream, about six miles from the city, is a sulphur spring, which is powerfully sudorific; and, when taken in any quantity, throws out an eruption over the whole body. A remarkable cavern is said to be situated on this river, by some considered superior to that below the Barracks. A short distance from _Vuide Poche_ are to be seen the remains of a pile of ruins, said to be those of a fort erected by La Salle when, on his second visit, he took possession of the country in the name of the King of France, and in honour of him called it Louisiana.[126] _St. Louis_. XIV "Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat, Its horrid sounds and its polluted air; And, where the season's milder fervours beat, And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird and sound of running stream, Have come a while to wander and to dream." BRYANT. "I lingered, by some soft enchantment bound, And gazed, enraptured, on the lovely scene; From the dark summit of an Indian mound I saw the plain outspread in living green; Its fringe of cliffs was in the distance seen, And the dark line of forests sweeping round." FLINT. There are few things more delightfully refreshing, amid the fierce fervour of midsummer, than to forsake the stifled, polluted atmosphere of the city for the cool breezes of its forest suburbs. A freshened elasticity seems gliding through the languid system, bracing up the prostrated fibres of the frame; the nerves thrill with renewed tensity, and the vital flood courses in fuller gush, and leaps onward with more bounding buoyancy in its fevered channels. Every one has experienced this; and it was under circumstances like these that I found myself one bright day, after a delay at St. Louis which began at length to be intolerably tedious, forsaking the sultry, sun-scorched streets of {155} the city, and crossing the turbid flood for a tour upon the prairies of Illinois. How delightful to a frame just freed from the feverish confinement of a sick-chamber, brief though it had been, was the fresh breeze which came careering over the water, rippling along the polished surface, and gayly riding the miniature waves of its own creation! The finest point from which to view the little "City of the French" is from beneath the enormous sycamores upon the opposite bank of the Mississippi. It is from this spot alone that anything approaching to a cosmorama can be commanded. The city, retreating as it does from the river's brink--its buildings of every diversity of form, material, and structure, promiscuously heaped the one upon the other, and the whole intermingled with the fresh green of forest-trees, may boast of much scenic beauty. The range of white limestone warehouses, circling like a crescent the shore, form the most prominent feature of the foreground, while the forest of shrub-oaks sweeps away in the rear. For some time I gazed upon this imposing view, and then, slowly turning my horse's head, was upon the dusty thoroughfare to Edwardsville. For the first time I found myself upon the celebrated "American Bottom," a tract of country which, for fertility and depth of soil, is perhaps unsurpassed in the world. A fine road of baked loam extended along my route. Crossing Cahokia Creek, which cuts its deep bed diagonally through the bottom from the bluffs some six miles distant, and threading a grove of the beautiful _pecan_, with its long trailing boughs and {156} delicate leaves, my path was soon winding gracefully away among those venerable monuments of a race now passed from the earth. The eye is struck at first by the number of these eminences, as well as by their symmetry of form and regularity of outline; and the most familiar resemblance suggested is that of gigantic hay-ricks sprinkled over the uniform surface of the prairie on every side. As you advance, however, into the plain, leaving the range of mounds upon the left, something of arrangement is detected in their relative position; and a design too palpable is betrayed to mistake them for the handiwork of Nature. Upward of one hundred of these mounds, it is stated, may be enumerated within seven miles of St. Louis, their altitude varying from ten to sixty feet, with a circumference at the base of about as many yards. One of these, nearly in the centre of the first collection, is remarked as considerably larger than those around, and from its summit is commanded an extensive view of the scene. The group embraces, perhaps, fifty tumuli, sweeping off from opposite the city to the northeast, in form of a crescent, parallel to the river, and at a distance from it of about one mile: they extend about the same distance, and a belt of forest alone obstructs their view from the city. When this is removed, and the prairie is under cultivation, the scene laid open must be beautiful. The outline of the mounds is ordinarily that of a gracefully-rounded cone of varying declivity, though often the form is oblong, approaching the rectangle or ellipse. In some instances {157} they are perfectly square, with a level area upon the summit sufficient for a dwelling and the necessary purlieus. Most of them are clothed with dense thickets and the coarse grass of the bottom; while here and there stands out an aged oak, rooted in the mould, tossing its green head proudly to the breeze, its rough bark shaggy with moss, and the pensile parasite flaunting from its branches. Some few of the tumuli, however, are quite naked, and present a rounded, beautiful surface from the surrounding plain. At this point, about half a mile from the river-bank, commencing with the first group of mounds, extends the railroad across the bottom to the bluffs. The expense of this work was considerable. It crosses a lake, into the bed of which piles were forced a depth of ninety feet before a foundation for the tracks sufficiently firm could be obtained. Coal is transported to St. Louis upon this railway direct from the mines; and the beneficial effects to be anticipated from it in other respects are very great. A town called _Pittsburg_ has been laid out at the foot of the coal bluffs.[127] Leaving the first collection of tumuli, the road wound away smooth and uniform through the level prairie, with here and there upon the left a slight elevation from its low surface, seeming a continuation of the group behind, or a link of union to those yet before. It was a sweet afternoon; the atmosphere was still and calm, and summer's golden haze was sleeping magnificently on the far-off bluffs. At intervals the soft breath of the "sweet South" {158} came dancing over the tall, glossy herbage, and the many-hued prairie-flowers flashed gayly in the sunlight. There was the _heliotrope_, in all its gaudy but magnificent forms; there the deep cerulean of the fringed _gentiana_, delicate as an iris; there the mellow gorgeousness of the _solidago_, in some spots along the pathway, spreading out itself, as it were, into a perfect "field of the cloth of gold;" and the balmy fragrance of the aromatic wild thyme or the burgamot, scattered in rich profusion over the plain, floated over all. Small coveys of the prairie-fowl, _tetrao pratensis_, a fine species of grouse, the ungainly form of the partridge, or that of the timid little hare, would appear for a moment in the dusty road, and, on my nearer approach, away they hurriedly scudded beneath the friendly covert of the bright-leaved sumach or the thickets of the rosebush. Extensive groves of the wild plum and the crab-apple, bending beneath the profusion of clustering fruitage, succeeded each other for miles along the path as I rode onward; now extending in continuous thickets, and then swelling up like green islets from the surface of the plain, their cool recesses affording a refreshing shade for the numerous herds. The rude farmhouse, too, with its ruder outbuildings, half buried in the dark luxuriance of its maize-fields, from time to time was seen along the route. After a delightful drive of half an hour the second group of eminences, known as the "Cantine Mounds," appeared upon the prairie at a distance of three or four miles, the celebrated "Monk Hill," largest monument of the kind yet discovered in North America, heaving up its giant, forest-clothed {159} form in the midst.[128] What are the reflections to which this stupendous earth-heap gives birth? What the associations which throng the excited fancy? What a field for conjecture! What a boundless range for the workings of imagination! What eye can view this venerable monument of the past, this mighty landmark in the lapse of ages, this gray chronicler of hoary centuries, and turn away uninterested? As it is first beheld, surrounded by the lesser heaps, it is mistaken by the traveller for an elevation of natural origin: as he draws nigh, and at length stands at the base, its stupendous magnitude, its lofty summit, towering above his head and throwing its broad shadow far across the meadow; its slopes ploughed with yawning ravines by the torrents of centuries descending to the plain; its surface and declivities perforated by the habitations of burrowing animals, and carpeted with tangled thickets; the vast size of the aged oaks rearing themselves from its soil; and, finally, the farmhouse, with its various structures, its garden, and orchard, and _well_ rising upon the broad area of the summit, and the carriage pathway winding up from the base, all confirm his impression that no hand but that of the Mightiest could have reared the enormous mass. At that moment, should he be assured that this vast earth-heap was of origin demonstrably artificial, he would smile; but credulity the most sanguine would fail to credit the assertion. But when, with jealous eye, slowly and cautiously, and with measured footsteps, he has circled its base; when he has surveyed its slopes and declivities from every position, and has {160} remarked the peculiar uniformity of its structure and the mathematical exactitude of its outline; when he has ascended to its summit, and looked round upon the piles of a similar character by which it is surrounded; when he has taken into consideration its situation upon a river-bottom of nature decidedly diluvial, and, of consequence, utterly incompatible with the _natural_ origin of such elevations; when he has examined the soil of which it is composed, and has discovered it to be uniformly, throughout the entire mass, of the same mellow and friable species as that of the prairie at its base; and when he has listened with scrutiny to the facts which an examination of its depths has thrown to light of its nature and its contents, he is compelled, however reluctantly, yet without a doubt, to declare that the gigantic pile is incontestibly the WORKMANSHIP OF MAN'S HAND. But, with such an admission, what is the crowd of reflections which throng and startle the mind? What a series of unanswerable inquiries succeed! When was this stupendous earth-heap reared up from the plain? By what race of beings was the vast undertaking accomplished? What was its purpose? What changes in its form and magnitude have taken place? What vicissitudes and revolutions have, in the lapse of centuries, rolled like successive waves over the plains at its base? As we reflect, we anxiously look around us for some tradition, some time-stained chronicle, some age-worn record, even the faintest and most unsatisfactory legend, upon which to repose our credulity, and relieve the inquiring solicitude of the mind. But {161} our research is hopeless. The present race of aborigines can tell nothing of these tumuli. To them, as to us, they are veiled in mystery. Ages since, long ere the white-face came, while this fair land was yet the home of his fathers, the simple Indian stood before this venerable earth-heap, and gazed, and wondered, and turned away. But there is another reflection which, as we gaze upon these venerable tombs, addresses itself directly to our feelings, and bows them in humbleness. It is, that soon _our_ memory and that of our _own_ generation will, like that of other times and other men, have passed away; that when these frail tenements shall have been laid aside to moulder, the remembrance will soon follow them to the land of forgetfulness. Ah, if there be an object in all the wide universe of human desires for which the heart of man yearns with an intensity of craving more agonizing and deathless than for any other, it is that the memory should live after the poor body is dust. It was this eternal principle of our nature which reared the lonely tombs of Egypt amid the sands and barrenness of the desert. For ages untold have the massive and gloomy pyramids looked down upon the floods of the Nile, and generation after generation has passed away; yet their very existence still remains a mystery, and their origin points down our inquiry far beyond the grasp of human ken, into the boiling mists, the "wide involving shades" of centuries past. And yet how fondly did they who, with the toil, and blood, and sweat, and misery of ages, upreared these stupendous piles, anticipate {162} an immortality for their name which, like the effulgence of a golden eternity, should for ever linger around their summits! So was it with the ancient tomb-builders of this New World; so has it been with man in every stage of his existence, from the hour that the giant Babel first reared its dusky walls from the plains of Shinar down to the era of the present generation. And yet how hopeless, desperately, eternally hopeless are such aspirations of the children of men! As nations or as individuals, our memory we can never embalm! A few, indeed, may retain the forlorn relic within the sanctuary of hearts which loved us while with them, and that with a tenderness stronger than death; but, with the great mass of mankind, our absence can be noticed only for a day; and then the ranks close up, and a gravestone tells the passing stranger that we lived and died: a few years--the finger of time has been busy with the inscription, and we are _as if we had never been_. If, then, it must be even so, "Oh, let keep the soul embalm'd, and pure In living virtue; that, when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, Th' immortal spirit in the skies may bloom." _St. Clair Co., Illinois._ XV "Are they here, The dead of other days? And did the dust Of these fair solitudes once stir with life And burn with passion? All is gone; All, save the piles of earth that hold their bones, The platforms where they worship'd unknown gods, The barriers which they builded from the soil To keep the foe at bay." _The Prairies._ The antiquity of "Monk Mound" is a circumstance which fails not to arrest the attention of every visiter. That centuries have elapsed since this vast pile of earth was heaped up from the plain, no one can doubt: every circumstance, even the most minute and inconsiderable, confirms an idea which the venerable oaks upon its soil conclusively demonstrate. With this premise admitted, consider for a moment the destructive effects of the elements even for a limited period upon the works of our race. Little more than half a century has elapsed since the war of our revolution; but where are the fortifications, and parapets, and military defences then thrown up? The earthy ramparts of Bunker Hill were nearly obliterated long ago by the levelling finger of time, and scarce a vestige now remains to assist in tracing out the line of defence. The same is true with these works all over the country; and even those of the last war--those at Baltimore, for example {164}--are vanishing as fast as the elements can melt them away. Reflect, then, that this vast earth-heap of which I am writing is composed of a soil far more yielding in its nature than they; that its superfices are by no means compact; and then conceive, if you _can_, its stupendous character before it had bided the rains, and snows, and storm-winds of centuries, and before the sweeping floods of the "Father of Waters" had ever circled its base. Our thoughts are carried back by the reflection to the era of classic fiction, and we almost fancy another war of the Titans against the heavens-- "Conati imponere Pelio Ossam-- --atque Ossæ frondosum involvere Olympum," if a quotation from the sweet bard of Mantua, upon a topic like the present, may be pardoned. How large an army of labourers, without the use of iron utensils, as we have every reason to suppose was the case, would be required for scraping up from the prairie's surface this huge pile; and how many years would suffice for its completion? No one can doubt that the broad surface of the American Bottom, in its whole length and breadth, together with all the neighbouring region on either bank of the Mississippi, once swarmed with living men and animals, even as does now the depths of its soil with their remains. The collection of mounds which I have been attempting to describe would seem to indicate two extensive cities within the extent of five miles; and other groups of the same character may be seen upon a lower section of the bottom, to say nothing of those within the more immediate vicinity of St. {165} Louis. The design of these mounds, as has been before stated, was various, undoubtedly; many were sepulchres, some fortifications, some watch-towers or videttes, and some of the larger class, among which we would place Monk Hill, were probably devoted to the ceremonies of religion. The number of the earth-heaps known as the Cantine Mounds is about fifty, small and great. They lie very irregularly along the southern and eastern bank of Cahokia Creek, occupying an area of some miles in circuit. They are of every form and every size, from the mere molehill, perceptible only by a deeper shade in the herbage, to the gigantic Monk Mound, of which I have already said so much. This vast heap stands about one hundred yards from the creek, and the slope which faces it is very precipitous, and clothed with aged timber. The area of the base is about six hundred yards in circumference, and the perpendicular altitude has been estimated at from ninety to upward of a hundred feet. The form is that of a rectangle, lying north and south; and upon the latter extremity, which commands a view down the bottom, is spread out a broad terrace, or rather a steppe to the main body, about twenty feet lower than the summit, extending the whole length of the side, and is one hundred and fifty feet in breadth. At the left extremity of this terrace winds up the sloping pathway from the prairie to the summit of the mound. Formerly this road sloped up an inclined plane, projecting from the middle of the terrace, ten feet in breadth and twenty in extent, and seemed graded for that purpose at {166} the erection of the mound. This declivity yet remains, but now forms part of a corn-field. The view from the southern extremity of the mound, which is free from trees and underbrush, is extremely beautiful. Away to the south sweeps off the broad river-bottom, at this place about seven miles in width, its waving surface variegated by all the magnificent hues of the summer Flora of the prairies. At intervals, from the deep herbage is flung back the flashing sheen of a silvery lake to the oblique sunlight; while dense groves of the crab-apple and other indigenous wild fruits are sprinkled about like islets in the verdant sea. To the left, at a distance of three or four miles, stretches away the long line of bluffs, now presenting a surface naked and rounded by groups of mounds, and now wooded to their summits, while a glimpse at times may be caught of the humble farmhouses at their base. On the right meanders the Cantine Creek, which gives the name to the group of mounds, betraying at intervals its bright surface through the belt of forest by which it is margined. In this direction, far away in the blue distance, rising through the mist and forest, may be caught a glimpse of the spires and cupolas of the city, glancing gayly in the rich summer sun. The base of the mound is circled upon every side by lesser elevations of every form and at various distances. Of these, some lie in the heart of the extensive maize-fields, which constitute the farm of the proprietor of the principal mound, presenting a beautiful exhibition of light and shade, shrouded as they are in the dark, twinkling leaves. The most {167} remarkable are two standing directly opposite the southern extremity of the principal one, at a distance of some hundred yards, in close proximity to each other, and which never fail to arrest the eye. There are also several large square mounds covered with forest along the margin of the creek to the right, and groups are caught rising from the declivities of the distant bluffs. Upon the western side of Monk Mound, at a distance of several yards from the summit, is a well some eighty or ninety feet in depth; the water of which would be agreeable enough were not the presence of sulphur, in some of its modifications, so palpable. This well penetrates the heart of the mound, yet, from its depth, cannot reach lower than the level of the surrounding plain. I learned, upon inquiry, that when this well was excavated, several fragments of pottery, of decayed ears of corn, and other articles, were thrown up from a depth of sixty-five feet; proof incontestible of the artificial structure of the mound. The associations, when drinking the water of this well, united with its peculiar flavour, are not of the most exquisite character, when we reflect that the precious fluid has probably filtrated, part of it, at least, through the contents of a sepulchre. The present proprietor is about making a transfer, I was informed, of the whole tract to a gentleman of St. Louis, who intends establishing here a house of entertainment. If this design is carried into effect, the drive to this place will be the most delightful in the vicinity of the city. Monk Mound has derived its name and much of {168} its notoriety from the circumstance that, in the early part of the present century, for a number of years, it was the residence of a society of ecclesiastics, of the order _La Trappe_, the most ascetic of all the monastic denominations. The monastery of La Trappe was originally situated in the old province of Perche, in the territory of Orleannois, in France, which now, with a section of Normandy, constitutes the department of Orne. Its site is said to have been the loneliest and most desolate spot that could be selected in the kingdom. The order was founded in 1140 by Rotrou, count of Perche; but having fallen into decay, and its discipline having become much relaxed, it was reformed in 1664, five centuries subsequent, by the Abbé Armand Rance. This celebrated ecclesiastic, history informs us, was in early life a man of fashion and accomplishments; of splendid abilities, distinguished as a classical scholar and translator of Anacreon's Odes. At length, the sudden death of his mistress Montbazon, to whom he was extremely attached, so affected him that he forsook at once his libertine life, banished himself from society, and introduced into the monastery of La Trappe an austerity of discipline hitherto unknown.[129] The vows were chastity, poverty, obedience, and perpetual silence. The couch was a slab of stone, the diet water and bread once in twenty-four hours, and each member removed a spadeful of earth every day from the spot of his intended grave. The following passage relative to this monastery I find quoted from an old French author; and as the {169} language and sentiments are forcible, I need hardly apologize for introducing it entire. "_C'est la que se retirent, ceux qui out commis quelque crime secret, dont les remords les poursuivent; ceux qui sont tourmentes de vapeurs mélancoliques et religieuse; ceux qui ont oublie que Dieu est le plus miséricordieux des pères, et qui ne voient en lui, que le plus cruel des tyrans; ceux qui reduisent à vieu, les souffrances, la mort et la passion de Jesu Crist, et qui ne voient la religion que du cote effrayent et terrible: c'est la que sont pratique des austerite qui abregent la vie, et sont injure à la divinité._" During the era of the Reign of Terror in France, the monks of La Trappe, as well as all the other orders of priesthood, were dispersed over Europe. They increased greatly, however, notwithstanding persecution, and societies established themselves in England and Germany. From the latter country emigrated the society which planted themselves upon the American Bottom. They first settled in the State of Kentucky; subsequently they established themselves at the little French hamlet of Florisant, and in 1809 they crossed the Mississippi, and, strangely enough, selected for their residence the spot I have been describing.[130] Here they made a purchase of about four hundred acres, and petitioned Congress for a pre-emption right to some thousands adjoining. The buildings which they occupied were never of a very durable character, but consisted of about half a dozen large structures of logs, on the summit of the mound about fifty yards to the right {170} of the largest. This is twenty feet in height, and upward of a hundred and fifty feet square; a well dug by the Trappists is yet to be seen, though the whole mound is now buried in thickets. Their outbuildings, stables, granaries, &c., which were numerous, lay scattered about on the plain below. Subsequently they erected an extensive structure upon the terrace of the principal mound, and cultivated its soil for a kitchen-garden, while the area of the summit was sown with wheat. Their territory under cultivation consisted of about one hundred acres, divided into three fields, and embracing several of the mounds. The society of the Trappists consisted of about eighty monks, chiefly Germans and French, with a few of our own countrymen, under governance of one of their number called Father Urbain.[131] Had they remained, they anticipated an accession to their number of about two hundred monks from Europe. Their discipline was equally severe with that of the order in ancient times. Their diet was confined to vegetables, and of these they partook sparingly but once in twenty-four hours: the stern vow of perpetual silence was upon them; no female was permitted to violate their retreat, and they dug their own graves. Their location, however, they found by no means favourable to health, notwithstanding the severe simplicity of their habits. During the summer months fevers prevailed among them to an alarming extent; few escaped, and many died. Among the latter was Louis Antoine Langlois, a native of Quebec, more familiarly known as François {171} Marie Bernard, the name he assumed upon entering the monastery. He often officiated in the former Catholic church of St. Louis, and is still remembered by the older French inhabitants with warm emotions, as he was greatly beloved. The Trappists are said to have been extremely industrious, and some of them skilful workmen at various arts, particularly that of watchmaking; insomuch that they far excelled the same craft in the city, and were patronised by all the unruly timepieces in the region. They had also a laboratory of some extent, and a library; but the latter, we are informed, was of no marvellous repute, embracing chiefly the day-dreams of the Middle Ages, and the wondrous doings of the legion of saints, together with a few obsolete works on medicine. Connected with the monastery was a seminary for the instruction of boys; or, rather, it was a sort of asylum for the orphan, the desolate, the friendless, the halt, the blind, the deaf, and the dumb, and also for the aged and destitute of the male sex. They subjected their pupils to the same severe discipline which they imposed upon themselves. They were permitted to use their tongues but two hours a day, and then very _judiciously_: instead of exercising that "unruly member," they were taught by the good fathers to gesticulate with their fingers at each other in marvellous fashion, and thus to communicate their ideas. As to juvenile sports and the frolics of boyhood, it was a sin to dream of such things. They all received an apprenticeship to some useful trade, however, and were no doubt trained {172} up most innocently and ignorantly in the way they should go. The pupils were chiefly sons of the settlers in the vicinity; but whether they were fashioned by the worthy fathers into good American citizens or the contrary, tradition telleth not. Tradition doth present, however, sundry allegations prejudicial to the honest monks, which we are bold to say is all slander, and unworthy of credence. Some old gossips of the day hesitated not to affirm that the monks were marvellously filthy in their habits; others, that they were prodigiously keen in their bargains; a third class, that the younger members were not so obdurate towards the gentler part of creation as they _might have been_; while the whole community round about, _una voce_, chimed in, and solemnly declared that men who neither might, could, would, or should speak, were a little worse than dumb brutes, and ought to be treated accordingly. However this may have been, it is pretty certain, as is usually the case with our dear fellow-creatures where they are permitted to know nothing at all about a particular matter, the good people, in the overflowings of worldly charity, imagined all manner of evil against the poor Trappist, and seemed to think they had a perfect right to violate his property and insult his person whenever they, in their wisdom and kind feeling, thought proper to do so. But this was soon at an end. In 1813 the monks disposed of their personal property, and leaving fever and ague to their persecutors, and the old mounds to their primitive solitude, forsook the country and sailed for France. {173} Though it is not easy to palliate the unceremonious welcome with which the unfortunate Trappist was favoured at the hand of our people, yet we can readily appreciate the feelings which prompted their ungenerous conduct. How strange, how exceedingly strange must it have seemed to behold these men, in the garb and guise of a distant land, uttering, when their lips broke the silence in which they were locked, the unknown syllables of a foreign tongue; professing an austere, an ancient, and remarkable faith; denying themselves, with the sternest severity, the simplest of Nature's bounties; how strange must it have seemed to behold these men establishing themselves in the depths of this Western wilderness, and, by a fortuitous concurrence of events, planting their altars and hearths upon the very tombs of a race whose fate is veiled in mystery, and practising their austerities at the forsaken temple of a forgotten worship! How strange to behold the devotees of a faith, the most artificial in its ceremonies among men, bowing themselves upon the high places reared up by the hands of those who worshipped the Great Spirit after the simplest form of Nature's adoration! For centuries this singular order of men had figured upon the iron page of history; their legends had shadowed with mystery the bright leaf of poetry and romance, and with them were associated many a wild vision of fancy. And here they were, mysterious as ever, with cowl, and crucifix, and shaven head, and the hairy "crown of thorns" encircling; ecclesiastics the most severe of all the orders of monarchism. How strange must it all {174} have seemed! and it is hardly to be wondered at, unpopular as such institutions undoubtedly were and ever have been in this blessed land of ours, that a feeling of intolerance, and suspicion, and prejudice should have existed. It is not a maxim of _recent_ date in the minds of men, that "whatever is peculiar is false." _Madison County, Ill._ XVI "Let none our author rudely blame, Who from the story has thus long digress'd." DAVENANT. "Nay, tell me not of lordly halls! My minstrels are the trees; The moss and the rock are my tapestried walls, Earth sounds my symphonies." BLACKWOOD'S _Mag._ "Sorrow is knowledge; they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth; The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life." MANFRED. There are few lovelier villages in the Valley of the West than the little town of Edwardsville, in whose quiet inn many of the preceding observations have been sketched.[132] It was early one bright morning that I entered Edwardsville, after passing a sleepless night at a neighbouring farmhouse. The situation of the village is a narrow ridge of {175} land swelling abruptly from the midst of deep and tangled woods. Along this elevation extends the principal street of the place, more than a mile in length, and upon either side runs a range of neat edifices, most of them shaded by forest-trees in their front yards. The public buildings are a courthouse and jail of brick, neither of them worthy of farther mention, and two plain, towerless churches, imbosomed in a grove somewhat in the suburbs of the village. There is something singularly picturesque in the situation of these churches, and the structures themselves are not devoid of beauty and symmetrical proportion. At this place, also, is located the land-office for the district. On the morning of my arrival at the village, early as was the hour, the place was thronged with disappointed applicants for land; a lean and hungry-looking race, by-the-by, as it has ever been my lot to look upon. Unfortunately, the office had the evening before, from some cause, been closed, and the unhappy speculators were forced to trudge away many a weary mile, through dust and sun, with their heavy specie dollars, to their homes again. I remember once to have been in the city of Bangor, "away down East in the State of Maine," when the public lands on the Penobscot River were first placed in the market. The land mania had for some months been running high, but could hardly be said yet to have reached a crisis. From all quarters of the Union speculators had been hurrying to the place; and day and night, for the week past, the steamers had been disgorging upon the city their ravenous freights. The important {176} day arrived. At an early hour every hotel, and street, and avenue was swarming with strangers; and, mingling with the current of living bodies, which now set steadily onward to the place of sale, I was carried resistlessly on by its force till it ceased. A confused murmur of voices ran through the assembled thousands; and amid the tumult, the ominous words "_land--lumber--title-deed_," and the like, could alone be distinguished. At length, near noon, the clear tones of the auctioneer were heard rising above the hum of the multitude: all was instantly hushed and still; and gaining an elevated site, before me was spread out a scene worthy a Hogarth's genius and pencil. Such a mass of working, agitated features, glaring with the fierce passion of avarice and the basest propensities of humanity, one seldom is fated to witness. During that public land-sale, indeed, I beheld so much of the selfishness, the petty meanness, the detestable heartlessness of man's nature, that I turned away disgusted, sick at heart for the race of which I was a member. We are reproached as a nation by Europeans for the contemptible vice of avarice; is the censure unjust? Parson Taylor tells us that Satan was the first speculator in land, for on a certain occasion he took Jesus up into an exceedingly high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory thereof, and said to him, "All these things will I give to thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me," when, in fact, the devil did not own one inch of land to give! "Think of the devil's brazen phiz, When not an inch of land was his!" {177} Yet it is to be apprehended that not a few in our midst would not hesitate to barter soul and body, and fall down in worship, were a sufficient number of _acres_ spread out before them as the recompense. Among other objects worthy the traveller's notice in passing through Edwardsville is a press for the manufacture of that well-known, agreeable liquid, _castor oil_: it is situated within the precincts of what is termed, for distinction, the "Upper Village." The apparatus, by means of which the oil is expressed from the bean and clarified, is extremely simple, consisting merely of the ordinary jack-screw. One bushel of the castor beans--_palma Christi_--yields nearly two gallons of the liquid. The only previous preparation to pressing is to dry the beans in an oven. This establishment[133] has been in operation upward of ten years, and has rendered its proprietor, Mr. Adams, a wealthy man.[134] He has a delightful villa, with grounds laid out with taste; and though many years have passed away since he left his native New-England, yet the generosity of his heart and the benevolence of his character tell truly that he has not yet ceased the remembrance of early principles and habits. The village of Edwardsville and its vicinity are said to be remarkably healthy; and the location in the heart of a fertile, well-watered, heavily-timbered section of country, tilled by a race of enterprising yeomanry, gives promise of rapid advancement. The town plat was first laid off in 1815; but the place advanced but little in importance until five years afterward, when a new {178} town was united to the old. About twelve miles southeast from Edwardsville is situated the delightful little hamlet of Collinsville, named from its founder, to which I paid a hasty visit during my ramble on the prairies.[135] It was settled many years ago, but till very recently had not assumed the dignity of a town. Its site is the broad, uniform surface of an elevated ridge, ascending gently from the American Bottom, beautifully shaded by forest-trees, and extending into the interior for several miles. It is almost entirely settled by northern emigrants, whose peculiarities are nowhere more strikingly exhibited. Much attention is bestowed upon religion and education; not a grocery exists in the place, nor, by the charter of the town, can one be established for several years. This little village presents a delightful summer-retreat to the citizens of St. Louis, only ten miles distant. The sun had not yet risen when I left Edwardsville, after a pleasant visit, and, descending into the Bottom, pursued my route over the plain to Alton. The face of the country, for a portion of the way, is broken, and covered with forests of noble trees, until the traveller finds himself on the deep sand-plains, stretching away for some miles, and giving support to a stunted, scragged growth of shrub-oaks. The region bears palpable evidence of having been, at no distant period, submerged; and the idea is confirmed by the existence, at the present time, of a lake of considerable extent on the southern border, which, from the character of the surface, a slight addition of water would spread for miles. I shall not {179} soon forget, I think, the day I entered Alton for the second time during my ramble in the West. It was near the noon after an exceedingly sultry morning; and the earth beneath my horse's hoofs was reduced by protracted drought to an impalpable powder to the depth of several inches. The blazing sunbeams, veiled by not a solitary cloud, reflected from the glassy surface of the Mississippi as from the face of an immense steely mirror and again thrown back by the range of beetling bluffs above, seemed converged into an intense burning focus along the scorched-up streets and glowing roofs of the village. I have endured heat, but none more intolerable in the course of my life than that of which I speak. In the evening, when the sultriness of the day was over, passing through the principal street of the town, I ascended that singular range of bluffs which, commencing at this point, extend along the river, and to which, on a former occasion, I have briefly alluded. The ascent is arduous, but the glorious view from the summit richly repays the visiter for his toil. The withering atmosphere of the depressed, sunburnt village at my feet was delightfully exchanged for the invigorating breezes of the hills, as the fresh evening wind came wandering up from the waters. It was the sunset hour. The golden, slanting beams of departing day were reflected from the undulating bosom of the river, as its bright waters stretched away among the western forests, as if from a sea of molten, gliding silver. On the left, directly at your feet, reposes the village of Alton, overhung by hills, with the gloomy, castellated {180} walls of the Penitentiary lifting up their dusky outline upon its skirts, presenting to the eye a perfect panorama as you look down upon the tortuous streets, the extensive warehouses of stone, and the range of steamers, alive with bustle, along the landing. Beyond the village extends a deep forest; while a little to the south sweep off the waters of the river, bespangled with green islands, until, gracefully expanding itself, a noble bend withdraws it from the view. It is at this point that the Missouri disgorges its turbid, heavy mass of waters into the clear floods of the Upper Mississippi, hitherto uncheckered by a stain. At the base of the bluffs, upon which you stand, at an elevation of a hundred and fifty feet, rushes with violence along the crags the current of the stream; while beyond, upon the opposite plain, is beheld the log hut of the emigrant couched beneath the enormous sycamores, and sending up its undulating thread of blue, curling smoke through the lofty branches. A lumber steam-mill is also here to be seen. Beyond these objects the eye wanders over an interminable carpet of forest-tops, stretching away till they form a wavy line of dense foliage circling the western horizon. By the aid of a glass, a range of hills, blue in the distance, is perceived outlined against the sky: they are the bluffs skirting the beautiful valley of the Missouri. The heights from which this view is commanded are composed principally of earth heaped upon a massive ledge of limerock, which elevates itself from the very bed of the waters. As the spectator gazes and reflects, he cannot but be amazed that the {181} rains, and snows, and torrents of centuries have not, with all their washings, yet swept these earth-heaps away, though the deep ravines between the mounds, which probably originated their present peculiar form, give proof conclusive that such diluvial action to some extent has long been going on. As is usually found to be the case, the present race of Indians have availed themselves of these elevated summits for the burial-spots of their chiefs. I myself scraped up a few decaying fragments of bones, which lay just beneath the surface. At sunrise of the morning succeeding my visit to the bluffs I was in the saddle, and clambering up those intolerably steep hills on the road leading to the village of Upper Alton, a few miles distant. The place is well situated upon an elevated prairie; and, to my own taste, is preferable far for private residence to any spot within the precincts of its rival namesake. The society is polished, and a fine-toned morality is said to characterize the inhabitants. The town was originally incorporated many years ago, and was then a place of more note than it has ever since been; but, owing to intestine broils and conflicting claims to its site, it gradually and steadily dwindled away, until, a dozen years since, it numbered only _seven_ families. A suit in chancery has happily settled these difficulties, and the village is now thriving well. A seminary of some note, under jurisdiction of the Baptist persuasion, has within a few years been established here, and now comprises a very respectable body of students.[136] It originated in a seminary {182} formerly established at Rock Spring in this state. About five years since a company of gentlemen, seven in number, purchased here a tract of several hundred acres, and erected upon it an academical edifice of brick; subsequently a stone building was erected, and a preparatory school instituted. In the year 1835, funds to a considerable amount were obtained at the East; and a donation of $10,000 from Dr. Benjamin Shurtliff, of Boston, induced the trustees to give to the institution his name. Half of this sum is appropriated to a college building, and the other half is to endow a professorship of belles lettres. The present buildings are situated upon a broad plain, beneath a walnut grove, on the eastern skirt of the village; and the library, apparatus, and professorships are worthy to form the foundation of a _college_, as is the ultimate design, albeit a Western college and a Northern college are terms quite different in signification. I visited this seminary, however, and was much pleased with its faculty, buildings, and design. All is as it should be. What reflecting mind does not hail with joy these temples of science elevating themselves upon every green hill and broad plain of the West, side by side with the sanctuaries of our holy religion! It is intelligence, _baptized intelligence_, which alone can save this beautiful valley, if indeed it is to be saved from the inroads of arbitrary rule and false religion; which is to hand down to another generation our civil and religious immunities unimpaired. In most of the efforts for the advancement of education in {183} the West, it is gratifying to perceive that this principle has not been overlooked. Nearly all those seminaries of learning which have been established profess for their design the culture of the _moral_ powers as well as those of the _intellect_. That _intelligence_ is an essential requisite, a prime constituent of civil and religious freedom, all will admit; that it is the _only_ requisite, the _sole_ constituent, may be questioned. "Knowledge," in the celebrated language of Francis Bacon, "is power;" ay! POWER; an engine of tremendous, incalculable energy, but blind in its operations. Applied to the cause of wisdom and virtue, the richest of blessings; to that of infidelity and vice, the greatest of curses. A lever to move the world, its influence cannot be over-estimated; as the bulwark of liberty and human happiness, its effect has been fearfully miscalculated. Were man inclined as fully to good as to evil, then might knowledge become the sovereign panacea of every civil and moral ill; as man by nature unhappily _is_, "the fruit of the tree" is oftener the stimulant to evil than to good. Unfold the sacred record of the past. Why did not intelligence save Greece? Greece! the land of intellect and of thought; the birthspot of eloquence, philosophy, and song! whose very populace were critics and bards! Greece, in her early day of pastoral ignorance, was free; but from the loftiest pinnacle of intellectual glory she fell; and science, genius, intelligence, all could not save her. The buoyant bark bounded beautifully over the blue-breasted billows; but the helm, the helm of {184} _moral_ culture was not there, and her broad-spread pinions hurried her away only to a speedier and more terrible destruction. Ancient Rome: in the day of her rough simplicity, _she_ was free; but from her proudest point of _intellectual_ development--the era of Augustus--we date her decline. France: who will aver that it was popular _ignorance_ that rolled over revolutionary France the ocean-wave of blood? When have the French, _as a people_, exhibited a prouder era of mind than that of their sixteenth Louis? The encyclopedists, the most powerful men of the age, concentrated all their vast energies to the diffusion of science among the people. Then, as now, the press groaned in constant parturition; and essays, magazines, tracts, treatises, libraries, were thrown abroad as if by the arm of Omnipotent power. Then, as now, the supremacy of human reason and of human society flitted in "unreal mockery" before the intoxicated fancy; and wildly was anticipated a career of upward and onward advancement during the days of all coming time. France was a nation of philosophers, and the great deep of mind began to heave; the convulsed labouring went on, and, from time to time, it burst out upon the surface. Then came the tornado, and France, refined, intelligent, scientific, etherealized France, was swept, as by Ruin's besom, of every green thing. Her own children planted the dagger in her bosom, and France was a nation of scientific, philosophic parricides! But "France was poisoned {185} by infidelity." Yes! so she was: but why was not the subtle element neutralized in the cup of _knowledge_ in which it was administered? Is not "knowledge omnipotent to preserve; the salt to purify the nations?" England: view the experiment there. It is a matter of parliamentary record, that within the last twenty years, during the philanthropic efforts of Lord Henry Brougham and his whig coadjutors, crime in England has more than tripled. If knowledge, pure, defecated knowledge, be a conservative principle, why do we witness these appalling results? What, then, shall be done? Shall the book of knowledge be taken from the hands of the people, and again be locked up in the libraries of the few? Shall the dusky pall of ignorance and superstition again be flung around the world, and a long starless midnight of a thousand years once more come down to brood over mankind? By no means. _Let_ the sweet streams of knowledge go forth, copious, free, to enrich and irrigate the garden of mind; but mingle with them the pure waters of that "fount which flows fast by the oracles of God," or the effect now will be, as it ever has been, only to intoxicate and madden the human race. There is nothing in cold, dephlegmated intellect to warm up and foster the energies of the moral system of man. Intellect, mere intellect, can never tame the passions or purify the heart. _Upper Alton, Ill._ XVII "The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. Loud sung the wind above; and doubly loud Shook o'er his turret-cell the thunder-cloud." _The Corsair._ "These The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name-- The prairies." BRYANT. Whoever will take upon himself the trouble to run his eye over the "Tourist's Pocket Map of Illinois," will perceive, stretching along the western border of the state, parallel with the river, a broad carriage highway, in a direction nearly north, to a little village called Carlinville; if then he glances to the east, he may trace a narrow pathway striking off at right angles to that section of the state. Well, it is here, upon this pathway, just on the margin of a beautiful prairie, sweeping away towards the town of Hillsborough,[137] that I find myself at the close of the day, after a long and fatiguing ride. The afternoon has been one of those dreary, drizzly, disagreeable seasons which relax the nerves and ride like an incubus upon the spirits; and my route has conducted me over a broad-spread, desolate plain; for, lovely as may appear the prairie when its bright flowerets and its tall grass-tops {187} are nodding in the sunlight, it is a melancholy place when the sky is beclouded and the rain is falling. There is a certain indescribable sensation of loneliness, which steals over the mind of the solitary traveller when he finds himself alone in the heart of these boundless plains, which he cannot away with; and the approach to a forest is hailed with pleasure, as serving to quiet, with the vague idea of _society_, this sense of dreariness and desertion. Especially is this the case when rack and mist are hovering along the border, veiling from the view those picturesque woodland-points and promontories, and those green island-groves which, when the sky is clear, swell out upon every side into the bosom of the plain. Then all is fresh and joyous to the eye as a vision: change the scene, and the grand, gloomy, misty magnificence of old ocean presents itself on every side. The relief to the picture afforded by the discovery of man's habitation can hardly be described. It was near nightfall, when, wearied by the fatigue of riding and drenched with mist, I reached the log-cabin of an old pioneer from Virginia, beneath whose lowly roof-tree I am seated at this present writing; and though hardly the most sumptuous edifice of which it has been my lot to be an inmate, yet with no unenviable anticipations am I looking forward to hearty refreshment and to sound slumber upon the couch by my side. There are few objects to be met with in the backwoods of the West more unique and picturesque than the dwelling of the emigrant. After selecting an elevated spot as {188} a site for building, a cabin or a log-house--which is somewhat of an improvement upon the first--is erected in the following manner. A sufficient number of straight trees, of a size convenient for removing, are felled, slightly hewn upon the opposite sides, and the extremities notched or mortised with the axe. They are then piled upon each other so that the extremities lock together; and a single or double edifice is constructed, agreeable to the taste or ability of the builder. Ordinarily the cabin consists of two quadrangular apartments, separated by a broad area between, connected by a common floor, and covered by a common roof, presenting a parallelogram triple the length of its width. The better of these apartments is usually appropriated to the entertainment of the casual guest, and is furnished with several beds and some articles of rude furniture to correspond. The open area constitutes the ordinary sitting and eating apartment of the family in fine weather; and, from its coolness, affords a delightful retreat. The intervals between the logs are stuffed with fragments of wood or stone, and plastered with mud or mortar, and the chimney is constructed much in the same manner. The roof is covered with thin clapboards of oak or ash, and, in lieu of nails, transverse pieces of timber retain them in their places. Thousands of cabins are thus constructed, without a particle of iron or even a common plank. The rough clapboards give to the roof almost the shaggy aspect of thatch at a little distance, but they render it impermeable to even the heaviest and {189} most protracted rain-storms. A rude gallery often extends along one or both sides of the building, adding much to its coolness in summer and to its warmth in winter by the protection afforded from sun and snow. The floor is constructed of short, thick planks, technically termed "puncheons," which are confined by wooden pins; and, though hardly smooth enough for a ballroom, yet well answer every purpose for a dwelling, and effectually resist moisture and cold. The apertures are usually cut with a view to free ventilation, and the chimneys stand at the extremities, outside the walls of the cabin. A few pounds of nails, a few boxes of glass, a few hundred feet of lumber, and a few days' assistance of a house-carpenter, would, of course, contribute not a little to the comfort of the _shieling_; but neither of these are indispensable. In rear of the premises rise the outbuildings; stables, corn-crib, meat-house, &c., all of them quite as perfect in structure as the dwelling itself, and quite as comfortable for residence. If to all this we add a well, walled up with a section of a hollow cotton-wood, a cellar or cave in the earth for a pantry, a zigzag rail fence enclosing the whole clearing, a dozen acres of Indian corn bristling up beyond, a small garden and orchard, and a host of swine, cattle, poultry, and naked children about the door, and the _tout ensemble_ of a backwoods farmhouse is complete. Minor circumstances vary, of course, with the peculiarities of the country and the origin of the settlers; but the principal features of the picture everywhere prevail. The present mode of cultivation {190} sweeps off vast quantities of timber; but it must soon be superseded. Houses of brick and stone will take the place of log-cabins; hedge-rows will supply that of rail enclosures, while coal for fuel will be a substitute for wood. At Upper Alton my visit was not a protracted one. In a few hours, having gathered up my _fixens_ and mounted my _creetur_, I was threading a narrow pathway through the forest. The trees, most of them lofty elms, in many places for miles locked together their giant branches over the road, forming a delightful screen from the sunbeams; but it was found by no means the easiest imaginable task, after once entering upon the direct route, to continue upon it. This is a peculiarity of Western roads. The commencement may be uniform enough, but the traveller soon finds his path diverging all at once in several different directions, like the radii of a circle, with no assignable cause therefor, and not the slightest reason presenting itself why he should select one of them in preference to half a dozen others, equally good or bad. And the sequel often shows him that there in reality existed no more cause of preference than was apparent; for, after a few tortuosities through the forest, for variety's sake, the paths all terminate in the same route. The obstacle of a tree, a stump, a decaying log, or a sand-bank often splits the path as if it were a flowing stream; and then the traveller takes upon him to exercise the reserved right of radiating to any point of the compass he {191} may think proper, provided always that he succeeds in clearing the obstruction. Passing many log-cabins, such as I have described, with their extensive maize-fields, the rude dwelling of a sturdy old emigrant from the far East sheltered me during the heat of noon; and having luxuriated upon an excellent dinner, prepared and served up in right New-England fashion, I again betook myself to my solitary route. But I little anticipated to have met, in the distant prairies of Illinois, the habitation of one who had passed his life in my own native state, almost in my own native village. Yet I know not why the occurrence should be a cause of surprise. Such emigrations are of constant occurrence. The farmer had been a resident eight years in the West; his farm was under that high cultivation characteristic of the Northern emigrant, and peace and plenty seemed smiling around. Yet was the emigrant satisfied? So far from it, he acknowledged himself a disappointed man, and sighed for his native northern home, with its bleak winds and barren hillsides. The region through which, for most of the day, I journeyed was that, of very extensive application in the West, styled "Barrens," by no means implying unproductiveness of soil, but a species of surface of heterogeneous character, uniting prairie with _timber_ or forest, and usually a description of land as fertile, healthy, and well-watered as may be found. The misnomer is said to have derived its origin from the early settlers of that section of Kentucky south of Green River, which, presenting {192} only a scanty, dwarfish growth of timber, was deemed of necessity _barren_, in the true acceptation of the term.[138] This soil there and elsewhere is now considered better adapted to every variety of produce and the vicissitudes of climate than even the deep mould of the prairies and river-bottoms. The rapidity with which a young forest springs forward, when the annual fires have once been stopped in this species of land, is said to be astonishing; and the first appearance of timber upon the prairies gives it the character, to some extent, of barrens. Beneath the trees is spread out a mossy turf, free from thickets, but variegated by the gaudy petals of the heliotrope, and the bright crimson buds of the dwarf-sumach in the hollows. Indeed, some of the most lovely scenery of the West is beheld in the landscapes of these barrens or "oak openings," as they are more appropriately styled. For miles the traveller wanders on, through a magnificence of park scenery on every side, with all the diversity of the slope, and swell, and meadow of human taste and skill. Interminable avenues stretch away farther than the eye can reach, while at intervals through the foliage flashes out the unruffled surface of a pellucid lake. There are many of these circular lakes or "sinkholes," as they are termed in Western dialect, which, as they possess no inlet, seem supplied by subterraneous springs or from the clouds. The outline is that of an inverted cone, as if formed by the action of whirling waters; and, as sinkholes exist in great numbers in the vicinity of the rivers, and possess an outlet {193} at the bottom through a substratum of porous limestone, the idea is abundantly confirmed. In the State of Missouri these peculiar springs are also observed. Some of them in Greene county burst forth from the earth and the fissures of the rocks with sufficient force to whirl a _run_ of heavy buhrstones, and the power of the fountains seems unaffected by the vicissitudes of rain or drought. These same sinkholes, circular ponds, and gushing springs are said to constitute one of the most remarkable and interesting features of the peninsula of Florida. There, as here, the substratum is porous limestone; and it is the subsidence of the layers which gives birth to the springs. The volume of water thrown up by these boiling fountains is said to be astonishingly great; many large ones, also, are known to exist in the beds of lakes and rivers. From the circumstance of the existence of these numerous springs originated, doubtless, the tradition which Spanish chroniclers aver to have existed among the Indians of Porto Rico and Cuba, that somewhere among the Lucayo Islands or in the interior of Florida there existed a fountain whose waters had the property of imparting _rejuvenescence_ and perpetuating perennial youth. Only twenty years after the discoveries of Columbus, and more than three centuries since, did the romantic Juan Ponce de Leon, an associate of the Genoese and subsequent governor of Porto Rico, explore the peninsula of Florida in search of this traditionary fountain; of the success of the enterprise we have no account. Among the other poetic founts of the "Land of {194} Flowers," we are _told_ of one situated but a few miles from Fort Gaines, called "Sappho's Fount,"[139] from the idea which prevails that its waters impart the power of producing sweet sounds to the voices of those who partake of them. It was near evening, when, emerging from the shades of the _barrens_, which, like everything else, however beautiful, had, by continuous succession, begun to become somewhat monotonous, my path issued rather unexpectedly upon the margin of a wide, undulating prairie. I was struck, as is every traveller at first view of these vast plains, with the grandeur, and novelty, and loveliness of the scene before me. For some moments I remained stationary, looking out upon the boundless landscape before me. The tall grass-tops waving in the billowy beauty in the breeze; the narrow pathway winding off like a serpent over the rolling surface, disappearing and reappearing till lost in the luxuriant herbage; the shadowy, cloud-like aspect of the far-off trees, looming up, here and there, in isolated masses along the horizon, like the pyramidal canvass of ships at sea; the deep-green groves besprinkled among the vegetation, like islets in the waters; the crimson-died prairie-flower flashing in the sun--these features of inanimate nature seemed strangely beautiful to one born and bred amid the bold mountain scenery of the North, and who now gazed upon them "for the first." "The prairies! I behold them for the first, And my heart swells, while the dilated sight Takes in the encircling vastness." {195} As I rode leisurely along upon the prairie's edge, I passed many noble farms, with their log-cabins couched in a corner beneath the forest; and, verily, would a farmer of Yankee-land "stare and gasp" to behold the prairie cornfield of the Western emigrant; and yet more would he be amazed to witness the rank, rustling luxuriance of the vegetable itself. Descending a swell of the prairie near one of these farms, a buck with his doe leaped out from a thicket beside my path, and away, away bounded the "happy pair" over the grass-tops, free as the wind. They are often shot upon the prairies, I was informed by an old hunter, at whose cabin, in the middle of the plain, I drew up at twilight, and with whom I passed the night. He was a pioneer from _the dark and bloody ground_, and many a time had followed the wild buck through those aged forests, where Boone, and Whitley, and Kenton once roved.[140] Only fifty years ago, and for the first time were the beautiful fields of Kentucky turned up by the ploughshare of the Virginia emigrant; yet their very descendants of the first generation we behold plunging deeper into the wilderness West. How would the worthy old Governor Spotswood stand astounded, could he now rear his venerable bones from their long resting-place, and look forth upon this lovely land, far away beyond the Blue Ridge of the Alleghany hills, the very passage of which he had deemed not unworthy "the horseshoe of gold" and "the order tramontane." "_Sic juvat transcendere montes._" Twenty years before Daniel Boone, "backwoodsman of Kentucky," was {196} born, Alexander Spotswood, governor of Virginia, undertook, with great preparation, a passage of the Alleghany ridge. For this expedition were provided a large number of horseshoes, an article not common in some sections of the "Old Dominion;" and from this circumstance, upon their return, though without a glimpse of the Western Valley, was instituted the "_Tramontane Order_, or _Knights of the Golden Horseshoe_," with the motto above. The badge of distinction for having made a passage of the Blue Ridge was a golden horseshoe worn upon the breast. Could the young man of that day have protracted the limits of life but a few years beyond his threescore and ten, what astonishment would not have filled him to behold _now_, as "the broad, the bright, the glorious West," the region _then_ regarded as the unknown and howling _wilderness beyond the mountains_! Yet even thus it is.[141] A long ride over a dusty road, beneath a sultry sun, made me not unwilling to retire to an early rest. But in a few hours my slumbers were broken in upon by the glare of lightning and the crash of thunder. For nearly five weeks had the prairies been refreshed by not a solitary shower; and the withered crops and the parched soil, baked to the consistency of stone or ground up to powder, betrayed alarming evidence of the consequence. Day had succeeded day. The scorching sun had gone up in the firmament, blazed from his meridian throne, and in lurid sultriness descended to his rest. The subtle fluid had been gathering and concentrating in the skies; and, early on the night of {197} which I speak, an inky cloud had been perceived rolling slowly up from the western horizon, until the whole heavens were enveloped in blackness. Then the tempest burst forth. Peal upon peal the hoarse thunder came booming over the prairies; and the red lightning would glare, and stream, and almost hiss along the midnight sky, like Ossian's storm-spirit riding on the blast. At length there was a hush of elements, and all was still--"still as the spirit's silence;" then came one prolonged, deafening, terrible crash and rattle, as if the concave of the firmament had been rent asunder, and the splintered fragments, hurled abroad, were flying through the boundlessness of space; the next moment, and the torrents came weltering through the darkness. I have witnessed thunder-storms on the deep, and many a one among the cliffs of my native hills; but a midnight thunder-gust upon the broad prairie-plains of the West is more terrible than they. A more sublimely magnificent spectacle have I never beheld than that, when one of these broad-sheeted masses of purple light would blaze along the black bosom of the cloud, quiver for an instant over the prairie miles in extent, flinging around the scene a garment of flame, and then go out in darkness. "Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman!" "Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, A portion of the tempest and of thee!" {198} And a sharer in the tempest surely was "a certain weary pilgrim, in an upper chamber" of a certain log-cabin of the prairie. Unhappily for his repose or quiet, had he desired either, the worthy host, in laudable zeal for a window when erecting his hut, had thought proper to neglect or to forget one of the indispensables for such a convenience in shape of sundry panes of glass. Wherefore, as is easy to perceive, said aperture commanding the right flank of the pilgrim's dormitory, the warring elements without found abundant entrance for a by-skirmish within. Sad to relate, the pilgrim was routed, "horse, foot, and dragoons;" whereupon, agreeable to Falstaff's _discretionary_ views of valour, seizing upon personal effects, he beat a retreat to more hospitable realms. _Greene County, Ill._ XVIII "What earthly feeling unabash'd can dwell In Nature's mighty presence? mid the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, And frown of rocks and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness." HEMANS. "La grace est toujours unie à la magnificence, dans les scenes de la nature."--CHATEAUBRIAND'S "_Atala_." It was morning. The storm had passed away, and the early sunlight was streaming gloriously over the fresh landscape. The atmosphere, discharged of its electric burden, was playing cool and free among the grass-tops; the lark was carolling in the clouds above its grassy nest; the deer was rising from his sprinkled lair, and the morning mists were rolling heavily in masses along the skirts of the prairie woodlands, as I mounted my horse at the door of the cabin beneath whose roof I had passed the night. Before me at no great distance, upon the edge of the plain, rose an open park of lofty oaks, with a mossy turf beneath; and the whole scene, lighted up by the sunbeams breaking through the ragged mists, presented a most gorgeous spectacle. The entire wilderness of green; every bough, spray, leaf; every blade of grass, wild weed, and floweret, was hung with trembling {200} drops of liquid light, which, reflecting and refracting the sun-rays, threw back all the hues of the iris. It was indeed a morning of beauty after the tempest; and Nature seemed to have arrayed herself in her bridal robes, glittering in all their own matchless jewellery to greet its coming. Constituted as we all naturally are, there exist, bound up within the secresies of the bosom, certain emotions and sentiments, designed by our Creator to leap forth in joyousness in view of the magnificence of his works; certain springs of exquisite delicacy deep hidden in the chambers of the breast, but which, touched or breathed upon never so lightly, strike the keys of feeling and fill the heart with harmony. And I envy not the feelings of that man who, amid all "the glories of this visible world," can stand a passionless beholder; who feels not his pulses thrill with quickened vibration, and his heart to heave in fuller gush as he views the beneficence of his Maker in the magnificence of his works; who from all can turn calmly away, and in the chill, withering accents of Atheism, pronounce it the offspring of blind fatality, the resultant of meaningless chance! When we look abroad upon the panorama of creation, so palpable is the impress of an omnipotent hand, and so deeply upon all its features is planted the demonstration of design, that it would almost seem, in the absence of reason and revelation, we need but contemplate the scenery of nature to be satisfied of the existence of an all-wise, all-powerful Being, whose workmanship it is. The {201} firmament, with its marshalled and glittering hosts; the earth, spread out in boundlessness at our feet, now draperied in the verdant freshness of springtime, anon in the magnificent glories of summer sultriness, again teeming with the mellow beauty of autumnal harvesting, and then slumbering in the chill, cheerless desolation of winter, all proclaim a Deity eternal in existence, boundless in might. The mountain that rears its bald forehead to the clouds; the booming cataract; the unfathomed, mysterious sounding ocean; the magnificent sweep of the Western prairie; the eternal flow of the Western river, proclaim, in tones extensive as the universe--tones not to be misunderstood, that their CREATOR lives. It is a circumstance in the character of the human mind, which not the most careless or casual observer of its operations can fail to have remarked, that the contemplation of all grand and immeasurable objects has a tendency to enlarge and elevate the understanding, lend a loftier tone to the feelings, and, agreeable to the moral constitution of man, carry up his thoughts and his emotions directly to their Author, "from Nature up to Nature's God." The savage son of the wilderness, as he roams through his grand and gloomy forests, which for centuries have veiled the soil at their base from the sunlight, perceives a solemn awe stealing over him as he listens to the surges of the winds rolling among the heavy branches; and in Nature's simplicity, untaught but by her untutored promptings, he believes that "the Great Spirit is whispering in {202} the tree tops." He stands by the side of Niagara. With subdued emotions he gazes upon the majestic world of floods as they hurry on. They reach the barrier! they leap its precipice! they are lost in thunder and in foam! And, as the raging waters disappear in the black abyss; as the bow of the covenant, "like hope upon a deathbed," flings its irised arch in horrible beauty athwart the hell of elements, the bewildered child of nature feels his soul swell within his bosom; the thought rises solemnly upon him, "the Great Spirit is here;" and with timid solicitude he peers through the forest shades around him for some palpable demonstration of His presence. And such is the effect of all the grand scenes of nature upon the mind of the savage: they lead it up to the "Great Spirit." Upon this principle is the fact alone to be accounted for, that no race of beings has yet been discovered destitute of _all_ idea of a Supreme Intelligence to whom is due homage and obedience. It is _His_ voice they hear in the deep hour of midnight, when the red lightning quivers along the bosom of the cloud, and the thunder-peal rattles through the firmament. It is _He_ they recognise in the bright orb of day, as he blazes from the eastern horizon; or, "like a monarch on a funeral pile," sinks to his rest. _He_ is beheld in the pale queen of night, as in silvery radiance she walks the firmament, and in the beautiful star of evening as it sinks behind his native hills. In the soft breathing of the "summer wind" and in the terrible sublimity of the autumn tempest; in the gentle dew of heaven and {203} the summer torrent; in the sparkling rivulet and the wide, wild river; in the delicate prairie-flower and the gnarled monarch of the hills; in the glittering minnow and the massive narwhal; in the fairy humbird and the sweeping eagle; in each and in all of the creations of universal nature, the mind of the savage sees, feels, _realizes_ the presence of a Deity. "Earth with her thousand voices praises God!" is the beautiful sentiment of Coleridge's hymn in the Vale of Chamouni; and its truth will be doubted by no man of refined sensibility or cultivated taste. In viewing the grand scenery of nature, the mind of the savage and the poet alike perceive the features of Deity; on the bright page of creation, in characters enstamped by his own mighty hand, they read his perfections and his attributes; the vast volume is spread out to every eye; he who will may read and be wise. And yet, delightful and instructive as the study of Nature's creations cannot fail to be, it is a strange thing that, by many, so little regard is betrayed for them. How often do we gaze upon the orb of day, as he goes down the western heavens in glory to his rest; how often do we look away to the far-off star, as it pursues in beauty its lonely pathway, distinct amid the myriads that surround it; how often do we glance abroad upon the splendours of earth, and then, from all this demonstration of Omnipotent goodness turn away with not _one_ pulsation of gratitude to the Creator of suns and stars; with not one aspiration of feeling, one acknowledgment of regard to {204} the Lord of the universe? Yet surely, whatever repinings may at times imbitter the unsanctified bosom in view of the moral, the intellectual, or social arrangements of existence, there should arise but one emotion, and that--_praise_ in view of _inanimate_ nature. Here is naught but power and goodness; now, as at the dawn of Creation's morning, "all is very good." But these are scenes upon which the eye has turned from earliest infancy; and to this cause alone may we attribute the fact, that though their grandeur may never weary or their glories pall upon the sense, yet our gaze upon them is often that of coldness and indifferent regard. Still their influence upon us, though inappreciable, is sure. If we look abroad upon the race of man, we cannot but admit the conviction that natural scenery, hardly less than climate, government, or religion, lays its impress upon human character. It is where Nature exhibits herself in her loftiest moods that her influence on man is most observable. 'Tis there we find the human mind most chainlessly free, and the attachments of patriotic feeling most tenacious and exalted. To what influence more than to that of the gigantic features of nature around him, amid which he first opened his eyes to the light, and with which from boyhood days he has been conversant, are we to attribute that indomitable hate to oppression, that enthusiastic passion for liberty, and that wild idolatry of country which characterizes the Swiss mountaineer? _He_ would be free as the geyer-eagle of his native cliffs, whose eyrie hangs in the clouds, whose eye brightens in {205} the sunlight, whose wild shriek rises on the tempest, and whose fierce brood is nurtured amid crags untrodden by the footstep of man. To _his_ ear the sweep of the terrible _lauwine_, the dash of the mountain cataract, the sullen roar of the mountain forest, is a music for which, in a foreign land, he pines away and dies. And all these scenes have but one language--and that is chainless _independence_! It is a fact well established, and one to be accounted for upon no principle other than that which we advance, that the dwellers in mountainous regions, and those whose homes are amid the grandeur of nature, are found to be more attached to the spot of their nativity than are other races of men, and that they are ever more forward to defend their ice-clad precipices from the attack of the invader. For centuries have the Swiss inhabited the mountains of the Alps. They inhabit them still, and have never been entirely subdued. But "The free Switzer yet bestrides _alone_ His chainless mountains." Of what _other_ nation of Europe, if we except the Highlands of Scotland, may anything like the same assertion with truth be made? We are told that the mountains of Caucasus and Himmalaya, in Asia, still retain the race of people which from time immemorial have possessed them. The same accents echo along their "tuneful cliffs" as centuries since were listened to by the patriarchs; while at their base, chance, and change, and conquest, like successive floods, have swept the delta-plains of {206} the Ganges and Euphrates. These are but isolated instances from a multitude of similar character, which might be advanced in support of the position we have assumed. Nor is it strange that peculiarities like these should be witnessed. There must ever be _something_ to love, if the emotion is to be permanently called forth; it matters little whether it be in the features of inanimate nature or in those of man; and, alike in both cases, do the boldest and most prominent create the deepest impression. Just so it is with our admiration of character; there must exist bold and distinctive traits, good or bad, to arouse for it unusual regard. A monotony of character or of feeling is as wearisome as a monotony of sound or scenery. But to return from a digression which has become unconscionably long. After a brisk gallop of a few hours through the delightful scenery of the Barrens, I found myself approaching the little town of Carlinville. As I drew nigh to the village, I found it absolutely reeling under the excitement of the "Grand Menagerie." From all points of the compass, men, women, and children, emerging from the forest, came pouring into the place, some upon horses, some in farm-wagons, and troops of others on foot, slipping and sliding along in a fashion most distressing to behold. The soil in this vicinity is a black loam of surpassing fertility; and, when saturated with moisture, it adheres to the sole with most pertinacious tenacity, more like to an amalgam of soot and soap-grease than to any other substance that has ever come under my cognizance. The inn {207} was thronged by neighbouring farmers, some canvassing the relative and individual merits of the _Zebedee_ and the _Portimous_; others sagely dwelling upon the mooted point of peril to be apprehended from the great _sarpent_--_Boy Contractor_; while little unwashen wights did run about and dangerously prophecy on the recent disappearance of the big elephant. Carlinville is a considerable village, situated on the margin of a pleasant prairie, on the north side of Macoupin Creek, and is the seat of justice for the county. The name _Macoupin_ is said to be of aboriginal derivation, and by the early French chroniclers was spelled and pronounced _Ma-qua-pin_, until its present uncomely combination of letters became legalized on the statute-book. The term, we are told by Charlevoix, the French _voyageur_, is the Indian name of an esculent with a broad corolla, found in many of the ponds and creeks of Illinois, especially along the course of the romantic stream bearing its name. The larger roots, eaten raw, were poisonous, and the natives were accustomed to dig ovens in the earth, into which, being walled up with flat stones and heated, was deposited the vegetable. After remaining for forty-eight hours in this situation, the deleterious qualities were found extracted, and the root being dried, was esteemed a luxury by the Indians. The region bordering upon Carlinville is amazingly fertile, and proportionally divided into prairie and timber--a circumstance by no means unworthy of notice. There has been a design of establishing {208} here a Theological Seminary, but the question of its site has been a point easier to discuss than to decide.[142] My tarry at the village was a brief one, though I became acquainted with a number of its worthy citizens; and in the log-office of a young limb of _legality_, obtained, as a special distinction, a glance at a forthcoming "Fourth-of-July" oration, fruitful in those sonorous periods and stereotyped patriotics indispensable on such occasions, and, at all hazard, made and provided for them. As I was leaving the village I was met by multitudes, pouring in from all sections of the surrounding region, literally thronging the ways; mothers on horseback, with young children in their arms; fathers with daughters and wives _en croupe_, and at intervals an individual, in quiet possession of an entire animal, came sliding along in the mud, in fashion marvellously entertaining to witness. A huge cart there likewise was, which excited no small degree of admiration as it rolled on, swarmed with women and children. An aged patriarch, with hoary locks resting upon his shoulders, enacted the part of charioteer to this primitive establishment; and now, in zealous impatience to reach the scene of action, from which the braying horns came resounding loud and clear through the forest, he was wretchedly belabouring, by means of an endless whip, six unhappy oxen to augment their speed. I had travelled not many miles when a black cloud spread itself rapidly over the sky, and in a few moments the thunder began to bellow, the lightnings to flash, and the rain to fall in torrents. {209} Luckily enough for me, I found myself in the neighbourhood of man's habitation. Leaping hastily from my steed, and lending him an impetus with my riding whip which carried him safely beneath a hospitable shed which stood thereby, I betook myself, without ceremony or delay, to the mansion house itself, glad enough to find its roof above me as the first big raindrops came splashing to the ground. The little edifice was tenanted by three females and divers flaxen-pated, sun-bleached urchins of all ages and sizes, and, at the moment of my entrance, all in high dudgeon, because, forsooth, they were not to be permitted to drench themselves in the anticipated shower. Like Noah's dove, they were accordingly pulled within the ark, and thereupon thought proper to set up their several and collective _Ebenezers_. "Well!" was my exclamation, in true Yankee fashion, as I bowed my head low in entering the humble postern; "we're going to get pretty considerable of a sprinkling, I guess." "I reckon," was the sententious response of the most motherly-seeming of the three women, at the same time vociferating to the three larger of the children, "Oh, there, you Bill, Sall, Polly, honeys, get the gentleman a cheer! Walk in, sir; set down and take a seat!" This evolution of "setting down and taking a seat" was at length successfully effected, after sundry manoeuvrings by way of planting the three pedestals of the uncouth tripod upon the same plane, and avoiding the fearful yawnings in the _puncheon_ floor. When all was at length quiet, I {210} improved the opportunity of gazing about me to explore the curious habitation into which I found myself inserted. The structure, about twenty feet square, had originally been constructed of rough logs, the interstices stuffed with fragments of wood and stone, and daubed with clay; the chimney was built up of sticks laid crosswise, and plastered with the same material to resist the fire. Such had been the backwoodsman's cabin in its primitive prime; but time and the elements had been busy with the little edifice, and sadly had it suffered. Window or casement was there none, neither was there need thereof; for the hingeless door stood ever open, the clay was disappearing from the intervals between the logs, and the huge fireplace of stone exhibited yawning apertures, abundantly sufficient for all the purposes of light and ventilation to the single apartment of the building. The _puncheon_ floor I have alluded to, and it corresponded well with the roof of the cabin, which had never, in its best estate, been designed to resist the peltings of such a pitiless torrent as was now assailing it. The water soon began trickling in little rivulets upon my shoulders, and my only alternative was my umbrella for shelter. The furniture of the apartment consisted of two plank-erections designed for bedsteads, which, with a tall clothes-press, divers rude boxes, and a side-saddle, occupied a better moiety of the area; while a rough table, a shelf against the wall, upon which stood a water-pail, a gourd, and a few broken trenchers, completed the household paraphernalia {211} of this most unique of habitations. A half-consumed flitch of bacon suspended in the chimney, and a huge iron pot upon the fire, from which issued a savoury indication of the seething mess within, completes the "still-life" of the picture. Upon one of the beds reclined one of the females to avoid the rain; a second was alternating her attentions between her infant and her needle; while the third, a buxom young baggage, who, by-the-by, was on a visit to her sister, was busying herself in the culinary occupations of the household, much the chief portion of which consisted in watching the huge dinner-pot aforesaid, with its savoury contents. After remaining nearly two hours in the cabin, in hopes that the storm would abate, I concluded that, since my umbrella was no sinecure _within_ doors, it might as well be put in requisition _without_, and mounted my steed, though the rain was yet falling. I had proceeded but a few miles upon the muddy pathway when my compass informed me that I had varied from my route, a circumstance by no means uncommon on the Western prairies. During the whole afternoon, therefore, I continued upon my way across a broad pathless prairie, some twelve or eighteen miles in extent, and dreary enough withal, until nightfall, when I rejoiced to find myself the inmate of the comfortable farmhouse upon its edge from which my last was dated. _Hillsborough, Ill._ XIX "Skies softly beautiful, and blue As Italy's, with stars as bright; Flowers rich as morning's sunrise hue, And gorgeous as the gemm'd midnight. Land of the West! green Forest Land, Thus hath Creation's bounteous hand Upon thine ample bosom flung Charms such as were her gift when the green world was young!" GALLAGHER. "Go thou to the house of prayer, I to the woodlands will repair." KIRK WHITE. "There is religion in a flower; Its still small voice is as the voice of conscience." BELL. More than three centuries ago, when the romantic Ponce de Leon, with his chivalrous followers, first planted foot upon the southern extremity of the great Western Valley, the discovery of the far-famed "Fountain of Youth" was the wild vision which lured him on. Though disappointed in the object of his enterprise, the adventurous Spaniard was enraptured with the loveliness of a land which even the golden realms of "Old Castile" had never realized; and _Florida_,[143] "the Land of Flowers," was the poetic name it inspired. Twenty years, and the bold soldier Ferdinand de Soto, of Cuba, {213} the associate of Pizarro, with a thousand steel-clad warriors at his back, penetrated the valley to the far-distant post of Arkansas, and "_El padre de las aguas_" was the expressive name of the mighty stream he discovered, beneath the eternal flow of whose surges he laid his bones to their rest.[144] "_La Belle Rivière!_" was the delighted exclamation which burst from the lips of the Canadian voyageur, as, with wonder hourly increasing, he glided in his light pirogue between the swelling bluffs, and wound among the thousand isles of the beautiful Ohio. The heroic Norman, Sieur La Salle, when for the first time he beheld the pleasant hunting-grounds of the peaceful Illini, pronounced them a "Terrestrial Paradise." Daniel Boone, the bold pioneer of the West, fifty years ago, when standing on the last blue line of the Alleghanies, and at the close of a day of weary journeying, he looked down upon the beautiful fields of "Old Kentucke," now gilded by the evening sun, turned his back for ever upon the green banks of the Yadkin and the soil of his nativity, hailing the glories of a new-found home.[145] "Fair wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams, Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers." And thus has it ever been; and even yet the "pilgrim from the North" rejoices with untold joy over the golden beauties of the Valley beyond the Mountains. {214} It was a fine Sabbath morning when I mounted my steed at the gate of the log farmhouse where I had passed the night, to pursue my journey over the prairie, upon the verge of which it stood. The village of Hillsborough was but a few miles distant, and there I had resolved to observe the sacredness of the day. The showers of the preceding evening had refreshed the atmosphere, which danced over the plain in exhilarating gales, and rustled among the boughs of the green woodlands I was leaving. Before me was spread out a waving, undulating landscape, with herds of cattle sprinkled here and there in isolated masses over the surface; the rabbit and wild-fowl were sporting along the pathway, and the bright woodpecker, with his splendid plumage and querulous note, was flitting to and fro among the thickets. Far away along the eastern horizon stretched the dark line of forest. The gorgeous prairie-flower flung out its crimson petals upon the breeze, "blushing like a banner bathed in slaughter," and methought it snapped more gayly in the morning sunbeams than it was wont; the long grass rustled musically its wavy masses back and forth, and, amid the Sabbath stillness around, methought there were there notes of sweetness not before observed. The whole scene lay calm and quiet, as if Nature, if not man, recognised the Divine injunction _to rest_; and the idea suggested itself, that a solitary Sabbath on the wild prairie, in silent converse with the Almighty, might not be all unprofitable. {215} "Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die."[146] From the centre of the prairie the landscape rolled gracefully away towards the eastern timber, studded along its edge with farms. The retrospect from beneath the tall oaks of the prairie over which I had passed was exceedingly fine; the idea strikes the spectator at once, and with much force, that the whole plain was once a sheet of water. Indeed, were we to form our opinion from the _appearance_ of many of the prairies of Illinois, the idea would be irresistible, that this peculiar species of surface originated in a submersion of the whole state. There are many circumstances which lead us to the conclusion that these vast meadows once formed the bed of a body of water similar to the Northern lakes; and when the lowest point at the _Grand Tower_ on the Mississippi was torn away by some convulsion of nature, a uniform surface of fine rich mud was left. The ravines were ploughed in the soft soil by subsequent floods, and hence, while the elevated lands are fertile, those more depressed are far less so. The soil of the prairies is of a character decidedly alluvial, being composed of compact strata of loam piled upon each other, like that at the bottom of bodies of water long stagnant. The first stratum is a black, pliable mould, from two feet to five in depth; the second a red clay, amalgamated with sand, from {216} five to ten feet in thickness; the third a blue clay, mixed with pebbles, of beautiful appearance, unctuous to the feeling, and, when exposed to the atmosphere, of a fetid smell. Lakes are often found in the prairies abounding in fish, which, when the waters subside, are removed by cartloads. The origin of these vast prairie-plains is, after all, no easy matter to decide; but, whatever the cause, they have doubtless been perpetuated by the autumnal fires which, year after year, from an era which the earliest chronicles of history or tradition have failed to record, have swept their surface; for, as soon as the grass is destroyed by the plough, the winged seeds of the cotton-wood and sycamore take root, and a young growth of timber sprouts forth. The same is true along the margin of creeks and streams, or upon steril or wet prairies, where the vegetation does not become sufficiently heavy or combustible for conflagration to a great extent. These fires originated either in the friction of the sear and tinder-like underbrush, agitated by the high winds, or they were kindled by the Indians for the purpose of dislodging game. The mode of hunting by circular fires is said to have prevailed at the time when Captain Smith first visited the shores of Chesapeake Bay, where extensive prairies then existed. These plains, by cultivation, have long since disappeared. Mungo Park describes the annual fires upon the plains of Western Africa for a similar purpose and with the same result.[147] Tracts of considerable extent in {217} the older settlements of the country, which many years since were meadow, are clothed with forest. "Coot morning, shur! A pleashant tay, shur! Coome in, shur!" was the hospitable greeting of mine host, or rather of the major domo of the little brick hostelrie of Hillsborough as I drove up to the bar-room entrance. He was a comical-looking, bottle-shaped little personage, with a jolly red nose, all the brighter, doubtless, for certain goodly potations of his own goodly admixtures; with a brief brace of legs, inserted into a pair of inexpressibles _à la Turque_, a world too big, and a white capote a world too little, to complete the Sunday toilet. He could boast, moreover, that amazing lubricity of speech, and that oiliness of tongue wherewith sinful publicans have ever been prone to beguile unwary wayfarers, _taking in travellers_, forsooth! Before I was fully aware of the change in my circumstances, I found myself quietly dispossessed of horse and equipments, and placing my foot across the threshold. The fleshy little Dutchman, though now secure in his capture, proceeded to redouble his assiduities. "Anything to trink, shur? Plack your poots, shur? shave your face, shur?" and a host of farther interrogatories, which I at length contrived to cut short with, "Show me a chamber, sir!" The Presbyterian Church, at which I attended worship, is a neat little edifice of brick, in modern style, but not completed. The walls remained unconscious of plaster; the orchestra, a naked scaffolding; the pulpit, a box of rough boards; and, {218} more _picturesque_ than all, in lieu of pews, slips, or any such thing, a few coarse slabs of all forms and fashions, supported on remnants of timber and plank, occupied the open area for seats. And marvellously comfortless are such seats, to my certain experience. In the evening I attended the "Luteran Church," as my major domo styled it, at the special instance of one of its worthy members. This house of worship is designed for a large one--the largest in the state, I was informed--but, like its neighbour, was as yet but commenced. The external walls were quite complete; but the rafters, beams, studs, and braces within presented a mere skeleton, while a few loose boards, which sprang and creaked beneath the foot, were spread over the sleepers as an apology for a floor. There's practical utility for an economist! Because a church is unfinished is no good and sufficient reason why it should remain unoccupied! As we entered the building, my _cicerone_ very unexpectedly favoured me with an introduction to the minister. He was a dark, solemn-looking man, with a huge Bible and psalm-book choicely tucked under his left arm. After sundry glances at my dress and demeanour, and other sundry whisperings in the ear of my companion, the good man drew nigh, and delivered himself of the interrogatory, "Are you a clergyman, sir?" At this sage inquiry, so sagely administered, my rebellious lips struggled with a smile, which, I misdoubt me much, was not unobserved by the dark-looking minister; {219} for, upon my reply in the negative, he turned very unceremoniously away, and betook him to his pulpit. By-the-by, this had by no means been the first time I had been called to answer the same inquiry during my ramble in the West. On returning to our lodgings after service, we found quite a respectable congregation gathered around the signpost, to whom my pink of major domos was holding forth in no measured terms upon the propriety of "letting off the pig guns" at the dawning of the ever-memorable morrow,[148] "in honour of the tay when our old farders fought like coot fellows; they tid so, py jingoes; and I'll pe out at tree o'glock, py jingoes, I will so," raphsodied the little Dutchman, warming up under the fervour of his own eloquence. This subject was still the theme of his rejoicing when he marshalled me to my dormitory and wished me "pleashant treams." The first faint streak of crimson along the eastern heavens beheld me mounting at the door of the inn; and by my side was the patriotic domo, bowing, and ducking, and telling over all manner of kind wishes till I had evanished from view. A more precious relic of the true oldfashioned, swaggering, pot-bellied publican is rarely to be met, than that which I encountered in the person of the odd little genius whose peculiarities I have recounted: even the worthy old "Caleb of Ravenswood," that miracle of major domos, would not {220} have disowned my _Dutchy_ for a brother craftsman. The village of Hillsborough is a pleasant, healthy, thriving place; and being intersected by some of the most important state routes, will always remain a thoroughfare. An attempt has been made by one of its citizens to obtain for this place the location of the Theological Seminary now in contemplation in the vicinity rather than at Carlinville, and the offer he has made is a truly munificent one. The site proposed is a beautiful mound, rising on the prairie's edge south of the village, commanding a view for miles in every direction, and is far more eligible than any spot I ever observed in Carlinville. After crossing a prairie about a dozen miles in width, and taking breakfast with a farmer upon its edge, I continued my journey over the undulating plains until near the middle of the afternoon, when I reached my present stage. The whole region, as I journeyed through it, lay still and quiet: every farmhouse and log-cabin was deserted by its tenants, who had congregated to the nearest villages to celebrate the day; and, verily, not a little did my heart smite me at my own heedless desecration of the political Sabbath of our land. _Vandalia, Ill._ XX "There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes--" _Childe Harold._ "The sun in all his broad career Ne'er looked upon a fairer land, Or brighter skies or sweeter scenes." Ever since the days of that king of vagabonds, the mighty Nimrod of sacred story, and, for aught to the contrary, as long before, there has existed a certain roving, tameless race of wights, whose chief delight has consisted in wandering up and down upon the face of the earth, with no definite object of pursuit, and with no motive of peregrination save a kind of restless, unsatisfied craving after change; in its results much like the migratory instinct of passage-birds, but, unlike that periodical instinct, incessant in exercise. Now, whether it so be that a tincture of this same vagrant, Bohemian spirit is coursing my veins under the name of "Yankee enterprise," or whether, in my wanderings through these wild, unsettled regions, I have imbibed a portion thereof, is not for me to decide. Nevertheless, sure it is, not unfrequently are its promptings detected as I journey through this beautiful land. It is evening now, and, after the fatigues of a pleasant day's ride, I am seated beneath the piazza {222} of a neat farmhouse in the edge of a forest, through which, for the last hour, my path has conducted, and looking out upon a broad landscape of prairie. My landlord, a high-minded, haughty Virginia emigrant, bitterly complains because, forsooth, in the absence of slave-labour, he is forced to cultivate his own farm; and though, by the aid of a Dutchman, he has made a pretty place of it, yet he vows by all he loves to lay his bones within the boundaries of the "Ancient Dominion." My ride since noon has been delightful; over broad plains, intersected by deep creeks, with their densely-wooded bottoms. These streams constitute one of the most romantic features of the country. I have crossed very many during my tour, and all exhibit the same characteristics: a broad, deep-cut channel, with precipitous banks loaded with enormous trees, their trunks interwoven and matted with tangled underbrush and gigantic vegetation. As the traveller stands upon the arch of the bridge of logs thrown over these creeks, sometimes with an altitude at the centre of forty feet, he looks down upon a stream flowing in a deep, serpentine bed, and winding away into the dusky shades of the overhanging woods, until a graceful bend withdraws the dark surface of the waters from his view. In the dry months of summer, these creeks and ravines are either completely free of water, or contain but a mere rivulet; and the traveller is amazed at the depth and breadth of a channel so scantily supplied. But at the season of the spring or autumnal rains the scene is changed: a deep, turbid torrent rolls {223} wildly onward through the dark woods, bearing on its surface the trunks of trees and the ruins of bridges swept from its banks; and the stream which, a few weeks before, would scarcely have wet the traveller's sole, is now an obstacle in his route difficult and dangerous to overcome. Within a few miles of my present quarters an adventure transpired of some slight interest to _myself_, at least, as it afforded me a weary trudge beneath a broiling sun. As I was leisurely pursuing my way through the forest, I had chanced to spy upon the banks of the roadside a cluster of wild flowers of hues unusually brilliant; and, with a spirit worthy of Dr. Bat,[149] I at once resolved they should enrich my "_hortus siccus_." Alighting, therefore, and leaving my steed by the roadside, I at length succeeded, after most laudable scramblings for the advancement of science, in gathering up a bouquet of surpassing magnificence. Alas! alas! would it had been less so; for my youthful steed, all unused to such sights and actions, and possessing, moreover, a most sovereign and shameful indifference to the glories of botany, had long, with suspicious and sidelong glances, been eying the vagaries of his truant master; and now, no sooner did he draw nigh to resume his seat and journey, than the ungracious and ungrateful quadruped flung aloft his head, and away he careered through the green branches, mane streaming and saddle-bags flapping. In vain was the brute addressed in language the most mild and conciliatory that ever insinuated itself into horse's lug; in vain was he ordered, {224} in tones of stern mandate, to cease his shameless and unnatural rebellion, and to surrender himself incontinently and without delay to his liege: entreaty and command, remonstrance and menace, were alike unsuccessful; and away he flew, "with flowing tail and flying mane," in utter contempt of all former or future vassalage. At one moment he stood the attitude of humbleness and submission, coolly cropping the herbage of the high banks; and then, the instant the proximity of his much-abused master became perilous to his freedom, aloft flew mane and tail, and away, away, the animal was off, until an interval consistent with his new-gained license lay behind him. After an hour of vexatious toiling through dust and sun, a happily-executed manoeuvre once more placed the most undutiful of creatures in my power. And then, be ye sure, that in true Gilpin fashion, "whip and spur did make amends" for all arrears of unavenged misbehaviour. "Twas for your pleasure that I _walked_, Now you shall RUN for mine," was the very Christian spirit of retaliation which animated the few succeeding miles. "But something too much of this." Some pages back I was entering the capital of Illinois. The town is approached from the north, through a scattered forest, separating it from the prairies; and its unusually large and isolated buildings, few in number as they are, stationed here and there upon the eminences of the broken surface, give the place a singularly novel aspect viewed from the adjacent {225} heights. There is but little of scenic attraction about the place, and, to the traveller's eye, still less of the picturesque. Such huge structures as are here beheld, in a town so inconsiderable in extent, present an unnatural and forced aspect to one who has just emerged from the wild waste of the neighbouring prairies, sprinkled with their humble tenements of logs. The scene is not in keeping; it is not picturesque. Such, at all events, were my "first impressions" on entering the village, and _first_ impressions are not necessarily false. As I drew nigh to the huge white tavern, a host of people were swarming the doors; and, from certain uncouth noises which from time to time went up from the midst thereof, not an inconsiderable portion of the worthy multitude seemed to have succeeded in rendering themselves gloriously tipsy in honour of the glorious day. There was one keen, bilious-looking genius in linsey-woolsey, with a face, in its intoxicated state, like a red-hot tomahawk, whom I regarded with special admiration as high-priest of the bacchanal; and so fierce and high were his objurgations, that the idea with some force suggested itself, whether, in the course of years, he had not screamed his lean and hungry visage to its present hatchet-like proportions. May he forgive if I err. But not yet were my adventures over. Having effected a retreat from the abominations of the bar-room, I had retired to a chamber in the most quiet corner of the mansion, and had seated myself to endite an epistle, when a rap at the door announced the presence of mine host, leading along an old {226} yeoman whom I had noticed among the revellers; and, having given him a ceremonious introduction, withdrew. To what circumstance I was indebted for this unexpected honour, I was puzzling myself to divine, when the old gentleman, after a preface of clearings of the throat and scratchings of the head, gave me briefly to understand, much to my admiration, that I was believed to be neither more nor less than an "Agent for a Western Land Speculating Company of the North," etc., etc.: and then, in a confidential tone, before a syllable of negation or affirmation could be offered, that he "owned a certain tract of land, so many acres prairie, so many timber, so many cultivated, so many wild," etc., etc.: the sequel was anticipated by undeceiving the old farmer forthwith, though with no little difficulty. The cause of this mistake I subsequently discovered to be a very slight circumstance. On the tavern register in the bar-room I had entered as my residence my native home at the North, more for the novelty of the idea than for anything else; or because, being a sort of cosmopolitan, I might presume myself at liberty to appropriate any spot I thought proper as that of my departure or destination. As a matter of course, and with laudable desire to augment their sum of useful knowledge, no sooner had the traveller turned from the register than the sagacious host and his compeer brandy-bibbers turned towards it; and being unable to conceive any reasonable excuse for a man to be wandering so far from his home except for lucre's sake, the conclusion at once and irresistibly followed that {227} the stranger was a land-speculator, or something thereunto akin; and it required not many moments for such a wildfire idea to run through such an inflammable mass of curiosity. With the situation and appearance of Vandalia I was not, as I have expressed myself, much prepossessed; indeed, I was somewhat disappointed.[150] Though not prepared for anything very striking, yet in the capital of a state we always anticipate something, if not superior or equal, at least not inferior to neighbouring towns of less note. Its site is an elevated, undulating tract upon the west bank of the Kaskaskia, and was once heavily timbered, as are now its suburbs. The streets are of liberal breadth--some of them not less than eighty feet from kerb to kerb--enclosing an elevated public square nearly in the centre of the village, which a little expenditure of time and money might render a delightful promenade. The public edifices are very inconsiderable, consisting of an ordinary structure of brick for legislative purposes; a similar building originally erected as a banking establishment, but now occupied by the offices of the state authorities; a Presbyterian Church, with cupola and bell, besides a number of lesser buildings for purposes of worship and education. A handsome structure of stone for a bank is, however, in progress, which, when completed, with other public buildings in contemplation, will add much to the aspect of the place. Here also is a land-office for the district, and the Cumberland Road is permanently located and partially constructed to the {228} place. An historical and antiquarian society has here existed for about ten years, and its published proceedings evince much research and information. "The Illinois Magazine" was the name of an ably-conducted periodical commenced at this town some years since, and prosperously carried on by Judge Hall, but subsequently removed to Cincinnati.[151] Some of the articles published in this magazine, descriptive of the state, were of high merit. It is passing strange that a town like Vandalia, with all the natural and artificial advantages it possesses; located nearly twenty years ago, by state authority, expressly as the seat of government; situated upon the banks of a fine stream, which small expense would render navigable for steamers, and in the heart of a healthy and fertile region, should have increased and flourished no more than seems to have been the case. Vandalia will continue the seat of government until the year 1840; when, agreeable to the late act of Legislature, it is to be removed to Springfield, where an appropriation of $50,000 has been made for a state-house now in progress. The growth of Vandalia, though tardy, can perhaps be deemed so only in comparison with the more rapid advancement of neighbouring towns; for a few years after it was laid off it was unsurpassed in improvement by any other. We are told that the first legislators who assembled in session at this place sought their way through the neighbouring prairies as the mariner steers over the trackless ocean, by his knowledge of the cardinal points. {229} Judges and lawyers came pouring in from opposite directions, as wandering tribes assemble to council; and many were the tales of adventure and mishap related at their meeting. Some had been lost in the prairies; some had slept in the woods; some had been almost chilled to death, plunging through creeks and rivers. A rich growth of majestic oaks then covered the site of the future metropolis; tangled thickets almost impervious to human foot surrounded it, and all was wilderness on every side. Wonderful accounts of the country to the north; of rich lands, and pure streams, and prairies more beautiful than any yet discovered, soon began to come in by the hunters.[152] But over that country the Indian yet roved, and the adventurous pioneer neither owned the soil he cultivated, nor had the power to retain its possession from the savage. Only eight years after this, and a change, as if by magic, had come over the little village of Vandalia; and not only so, but over the whole state, which was now discovered to be a region more extensive and far more fertile than the "sacred island of Britain." The region previously the frontier formed the heart of the fairest portion of the state, and a dozen new counties were formed within its extent. Mail-routes and post-roads, diverging in all directions from the capital, had been established, and canals and railways had been projected. Eight years more, and the "Northern frontier" is the seat of power and population; and {230} here is removed the seat of government, because the older settlements have not kept pace in advancement. It was a fine mellow morning when I left Vandalia to pursue my journey over the prairies to Carlisle. For some miles my route lay through a dense clump of old woods, relieved at intervals by extended glades of sparser growth. This road is but little travelled, and so obscure that for most of the way I could avail myself of no other guide than the "_blaze_" upon the trees; and this mark in many places, from its ancient, weather-beaten aspect, seemed placed there by the axe of the earliest pioneer. Rank grass has obliterated the pathway, and overhanging boughs brush the cheek. It was in one of those extended glades I have mentioned that a nobly-antlered buck and his beautiful doe sprang out upon the path, and stood gazing upon me from the wayside until I had approached so near that a rifle, even in hands all unskilled in "gentle woodcraft," had not been harmless. I was even beginning to meditate upon the probable effect of a pistol-shot at twenty paces, when the graceful animals, throwing proudly up their arching necks, bounded off into the thicket. Not many miles from the spot I shared the rough fare of an old hunter, who related many interesting facts in the character and habits of this animal, and detailed some curious anecdotes in the history of his own wild life. He was just about leaving his lodge on a short hunting excursion, and the absence of a rifle alone prevented me from accepting a civil request to bear him company. {231} Most of the route from Vandalia to Carlisle is very tolerable, with the exception of one detestable spot, fitly named "Hurricane Bottom;" a more dreary, desolate, purgatorial region than which, I am very free to say, exists not in Illinois.[153] It is a densely-wooded swamp, composed of soft blue clay, exceedingly tenacious to the touch and fetid in odour, extending nearly two miles. A regular highway over this mud-hole can scarcely be said to exist, though repeated attempts to construct one have been made at great expense: and now the traveller, upon entering this "slough of despond," gives his horse the reins to slump, and slide, and plunge, and struggle through among the mud-daubed trees to the best of his skill and ability. Night overtook me in the very heart of a broad prairie; and, like the sea, a desolate place is the prairie of a dark night. It demanded no little exercise of the eye and judgment to continue upon a route where the path was constantly diverging and varying in all directions. A bright glare of light at a distance at length arrested my attention. On approaching, I found it to proceed from an encampment of tired emigrants, whose ponderous teams were wheeled up around the blazing fire; while the hungry oxen, released from the yoke, were browsing upon the tops of the tall prairie-grass on every side. This grass, though coarse in appearance, in the early stages of its growth resembles young wheat, and furnishes a rich and succulent food for cattle. It is even asserted that, when running at large in fields where the young wheat covers the {232} ground, cattle choose the prairie-grass in the margin of the field in preference to the wheat itself. A few scattered, twinkling lights, and the fresh-smelling air from the Kaskaskia, soon after informed me that I was not far from the village of Carlisle.[154] This is a pleasant, romantic little town, upon the west bank of the river, and upon the great stage-route through the state from St. Louis to Vincennes. This circumstance, and the intersection of several other state thoroughfares, give it the animated, business-like aspect of a market town, not often witnessed in a village so remote from the advantages of general commerce. Its site is elevated and salubrious, on the border of a fertile prairie: yet, notwithstanding all these advantages, Carlisle cannot be said to have increased very rapidly when we consider that twenty years have elapsed since it was first laid off for a town. It is the seat of justice for Clinton county, and can boast a wooden courthouse in "ruinous perfection." In its vicinity are some beautiful country-seats. One of these, named "Mound Farm," the delightful residence of Judge B----, imbowered in trees and shrubbery, and about a mile from the village, I visited during my stay. It commands from its elevated site a noble view of the neighbouring prairie, the village and river at its foot, and the adjacent farms. Under the superintendence of cultivated taste, this spot may become one of the loveliest retreats in Illinois. _Clinton County, Ill._ XXI "To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language." THANATOPSIS. "The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely round the Grecian coast May thy blue pillars rise: I only know how fair they stand About my own beloved land." _The Skies._--BRYANT. To the man of cultivated imagination and delicate taste, the study of nature never fails to afford a gratification, refined as it is exquisite. In the pencilled petals of the flower as it bows to the evening breeze; in the glittering scales of the fish leaping from the wave; in the splendid plumage of the forest-bird, and in the music-tinklings of the wreathed and enamelled sea-shell rocked by the billow, he recognises an eloquence of beauty which he alone can appreciate. For him, too, the myriad forms of animate creation unite with inanimate nature in one mighty hymn of glory to their Maker, from the hum of the sparkling ephemeroid as he blithely dances away his little life in the beams of a summer sun, and the rustling music of the prairie-weed swept by the winds, to the roar of the shaggy woods upon the mountain-side, and the fierce, wild shriek of the ocean-eagle. To investigate {234} the more minute and delicate of Nature's workings is indeed a delightful task; and along this fairy and flowery pathway the cultivated fancy revels with unmingled gratification; but, as the mind approaches the vaster exhibitions of might and majesty, the booming of the troubled ocean, the terrible sublimity of the midnight storm, the cloudy magnificence of the mountain height, the venerable grandeur of the aged forest, it expands itself in unison till lost in the immensity of created things. Reflections like these are constantly suggesting themselves to the traveller's thoughts amid the grand scenery of the West; but at no season do they rise more vividly upon the mind than when the lengthened shadows of evening are stealing over the landscape, and the summer sun is sinking to his rest. This is the "magic hour" when "Bright clouds are gathering one by one, Sweeping in pomp round the dying sun; With crimson banner and golden pall, Like a host to their chieftain's funeral." There is not a more magnificent spectacle in nature than summer sunset on the Western prairie. I have beheld the orb of day, after careering his course like a giant through the firmament, go down into the fresh tumbling billows of ocean; and sunset on the prairies, which recalls that scene, is alone equalled by it. Near nightfall one evening I found myself in the middle of one of these vast extended plains, where the eye roves unconfined over the scene, for miles unrelieved by a stump, or a tree, or a thicket, and meets only the deep blue of the horizon on {235} every side, blending with the billowy foliage of the distant woodland. Descending a graceful slope, even this object is lost, and a boundless landscape of blue above and green below is unfolded to the traveller's vision; again, approaching the summit of the succeeding slope, the forest rises in clear outline in the margin of the vast panorama. For some hours the heavens had been so enveloped in huge masses of brassy clouds, that now, when the shadows deepened over sky and earth, one was at a loss to determine whether the sun had yet gone down, except for a broad zone of sapphire girding the whole western firmament. Upon the superior edge of this deep belt now glistened the luminary, gradually revealing itself to the eye, and blazing forth at length "like angels' locks unshorn," flinging a halo of golden effulgence far athwart the dim evening prairie. A metamorphosis so abrupt, so rapid, so unlooked for, seemed almost to realize the fables of enchantment. One moment, and the whole vast landscape lay veiled in shadowy dimness; the next, and every grass blade, and spray, and floweret, and nodding wild-weed seemed suffused in a flood of liquid effulgence; while far along, the uniform ridges of the heaving plain gleamed in the rich light like waves of a moonlit sea, sweeping away, roll upon roll, till lost in distance to the eye. Slowly the splendid disk went down behind the sea of waving verdure, until at length a single point of intense, bewildering brightness flamed out above the mass of green. An instant, this too was gone--as "An angel's wing through an opening cloud, Is seen and then withdrawn:"-- {236} and then those deep, lurid funeral fires of departing day streamed, flaring upward even to the zenith, flinging over the vast concave a robe of unearthly, terrible magnificence! Then, as the fount of all this splendour sank deeper and deeper beneath the horizon, the blood-red flames died gently away into the mellow glories of summer evening skylight, bathing the brow of heaven in a tender roseate, which hours after cheered the lonely traveller across the waste. The pilgrim wanderer in other climes comes back to tell us of sunnier skies and softer winds! The blue heavens of Italy have tasked the inspiration of an hundred bards, and the warm brush of her own Lorraine has swept the canvass with their gorgeous transcript! But what pencil has wandered over the grander scenes of the North American prairie? What bard has struck his lyre to the wild melody of loveliness of the prairie sunset? Yet who shall tell us that there exists not a glory in the scene, amid the untrod wastes of the wilderness West, which even the skies of "sunny Italy" might not blush anew to acknowledge? No wandering Harold has roamed on a pilgrimage of poetry over the sublime and romantic scenery of our land, to hymn its praise in breathing thoughts and glowing words; yet here as there, "Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away: The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray!" I cannot tell of the beauties of climes I have never seen; but I have gazed upon all the varied loveliness of my own fair, native land, from the rising {237} sun to its setting, and in vain have tasked my fancy to image a fairer. A pleasant day's ride directly west from Carlisle, over extensive and beautiful prairies, intersected by shady woods, with their romantic creeks, and the traveller finds himself in the quiet village of Lebanon. Its site is a commanding, mound-like elevation in the skirts of a forest, swelling gently up from the prairie on the west bank of Little Silver Creek.[155] This stream, with the larger branch, received its name from the circumstance that the early French settlers of the country, in the zeal of their faith and research for the precious metals, a long while mistook the brilliant specula of _horneblende_ which flow in its clear waters for silver, and were unwilling to be undeceived in their extravagant anticipations until the absence of the material in their purses aroused them from their error. In the neighbourhood of Rock Spring a shaft for a mine was sunk.[156] It was early one beautiful morning that I found myself approaching the village of Lebanon, though many miles distant in the adjacent plain; appropriately named for its loveliness the "Looking-glass Prairie." The rosy sunbeams were playing lightly over the pleasant country-seats and neat farmhouses, with their white palings, sprinkled along the declivity before me, imbowered in their young orchards and waving maize-fields; while flocks and herds, {238} gathered in isolated masses over the intervening meadow, were cropping the rich herbage. To the right and left, and in the rear, the prairie stretches away beyond the view. The body of the village is situated about one mile from these suburbs, and its character and history may be summed up in the single sentence, _a pleasant little Methodist country village_. The peculiarities of the sect are here strikingly manifested to the traveller in all the ordinary concerns and occupations of life, even in the every-day garb and conversation of its sober-browed citizens. It presents the spectacle, rare as it is cheering, of an entire community characterized by its reverence for religion. Located in its immediate vicinity is a flourishing seminary, called McKendreean College.[157] It is under the supervision of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and has at present two instructers, with about fifty pupils in the preparatory department. It has a commodious frame building, presenting from its elevated site an imposing view to the traveller. As is usually the case with these little out-of-the-world villages, when any object comes up in the midst around which the feelings and interests of all may cluster, upon this institution is centred the heart and soul of every man, to say not a word of all the women and children, in Lebanon; and everything not connected, either remotely or immediately, with its welfare, is deemed of very little, if of any importance. "_The Seminary! The Seminary!_" I defy a traveller to tarry two hours in the village without hearing rung all the changes upon that topic for his edification. The surrounding region is fertile, populous, {239} and highly cultivated; and for an inland, farming village, it is quite as bustling, I suppose, as should be expected; though, during my visit, its streets--which, by-the-by, are of very liberal breadth--maintained a most Sabbath-like aspect. The route from Lebanon to Belleville is, in fine weather, very excellent. Deep woods on either side of the hard, smooth, winding pathway, throw their boughs over the head, sometimes lengthening away into an arched vista miles in extent. It was a sultry afternoon when I was leisurely travelling along this road; and the shadowy coolness of the atmosphere, the perfume of wild flowers and aromatic herbs beneath the underbrush, and the profusion of summer fruit along the roadside, was indescribably delightful. Near sunset, a graceful bend of the road around a clump of trees placed before me the pretty little village of Belleville; its neat enclosures and white cottages peeping through the shrubbery, now gilded by the mellow rays of sunset in every leaf and spray.[158] Whether it was owing to this agreeable coincidence, or to the agreeable visit I here enjoyed, that I conceived such an attachment for the place, I cannot say; but sure it is, I fell in love with the little town at _first_ sight; and, what is more marvellous, was not, according to all precedent, cured at second, when on the following morning I sallied forth to reconnoitre its beauties "at mine own good leisure." Now it is to be presumed that, agreeable to the taste of six travellers in a dozen, I have passed through many a village in Illinois quite as attractive as this same Belleville: but to convince me of the fact would be no {240} easy task. "Man is the sport of circumstance," says the fatalist; and however this may be in the moral world, if any one feels disposed to doubt upon the matter in the item before us, let him disembark from a canal-boat at Pittsburgh on a rainy, misty, miserable morning; and then, unable to secure for his houseless head a shelter from the pitiless peltings, let him hurry away through the filthy streets, deluged with inky water, to a crowded Ohio steamer; and if "_circumstances_" do not force him to dislike Pittsburgh ever after, then his human nature is vastly more forbearing than my own. Change the picture. Let him enter the quiet little Illinois village at the gentle hour of sunset; let him meet warm hospitality, and look upon fair forms and bright faces, and if he fail to be pleased with that place, why, "he's not the man I took him for." The public buildings of Belleville are a handsome courthouse of brick, a wretched old jail of the same material, a public hall belonging to a library company, and a small framed Methodist house of worship. It is situated in the centre of "Turkey-hill Settlement," one of the oldest and most flourishing in the state, and has a fine timber tract and several beautiful country-seats in its vicinity. Leaving Belleville with some reluctance, and not a few "longing, lingering looks behind," my route continued westward over a broken region of alternating forest and prairie, sparsely sprinkled with trees, and yet more sparsely with inhabitants. At length, having descended a precipitous hill, the rounded summit of which, as well as the adjoining heights, commanded an immense expanse of level {241} landscape, stretching off from the base, I stood once more upon the fertile soil of the "_American Bottom_." The sharp, heavy-roofed French cottages, with low verandahs running around; the ungainly outhouses and enclosures; the curiously-fashioned vehicles and instruments of husbandry in the barnyards and before the doors; the foreign garb and dialect of the people; and, above all, the amazing fertility of the soil, over whose exhaustless depths the maize has rustled half a century, constitute the most striking characteristics of this interesting tract, in the section over which I was passing. This settlement, extending from the foot of the bluffs for several miles over the Bottom, was formed about forty years ago by a colony from Cahokia, and known by the name of "_Little French Village_;" it now comprises about twenty houses and a grogshop. In these bluffs lies an exhaustless bed of bituminous coal: vast quantities have been transported to St. Louis, and for this purpose principally is the railway to the river designed. This vein of coal is said to have been discovered by the rivulet of a spring issuing from the base of the bluffs. The stratum is about six feet in thickness, increasing in size as it penetrates the hill horizontally. Though somewhat rotten and slaty, it is in some particulars not inferior to the coal of the Alleghanies; and the vein is thought to extend from the mouth of the Kaskaskia to that of the Illinois. About three miles below the present shaft, a continuation of the bed was discovered by fire communicated from the root of a tree; the bank of coal burnt for upward of a {242} twelvemonth, and the conflagration was then smothered only by the falling in of the superincumbent soil. St. Clair county, which embraces a large portion of the American Bottom, is the oldest settlement in the state. In 1795 the county was formed by the Legislature of the Northwestern Territory, and then included all settlements in Illinois east of the Mississippi. I had just cleverly cleared the outskirts of the little antediluvian village beneath the bluffs, when a dark, watery-looking cloud came tumbling up out of the west; the thunder roared across the Bottom and was reverberated from the cliffs, and in a few moments down came the big rain-drops dancing in torrents from the clouds, and pattering up like mist along the plain. Verily, groaned forth the wo-begone traveller, this is the home of clouds and the realm of thunder! Never did hapless mortals sustain completer drenchings than did the traveller and his steed, notwithstanding upon the first onset they had plunged themselves into the sheltering depths of the wood. A half hour's gallop over the slippery bottom, and the stern roar of a steamer's 'scape-pipe informed me that I was not far from the "great waters." A few yards through the belt of forest, and the city of San Louis, with towers and roofs, stood before me. _St. Louis._ XXII "I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for; a mere spectator of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts."--_Anat. of Melancholy._ "Oh ye dread scenes, where Nature dwells alone, Serenely glorious on her craggy throne; Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, Veiled by the mists, and girdled by the storms; Ravines, and glens, and deep-resounding caves, That hold communion with the torrent waves." HEMANS. Ah, the single blessedness of the unmarried state! Such is the sentiment of an ancient worthy, quietly expressed in the lines which I have selected for a motto. After dozing away half his days and all his energies within the dusky walls of a university, tumbling over musty tomes and shrivelled parchments until his very brain had become cobwebbed as the alcoves he haunted, and the blood in his veins was all "adust and thin;" then, forsooth, the shameless old fellow issues forth with his vainglorious sentiment upon his lips! And yet, now that we consider, there is marvellous "method" in the old man's "madness!" In very truth and soberness, there is a blessedness which the bachelor can boast, _single_ though it be, in which the "man of family," though _doubly_ blessed, cannot share! To the former, life may be made one long holyday, and its path a varied and flowery one! while to the poor {244} victim of matrimonial toils, _wife and children_ are the Alpha and Omega of a weary existence! Of all travelling companionship, forfend us from that of a married man! Independence! He knows not of it! Such is the text and such the commentary: now for the practical application. It was a balmy July morning, and the flutelike melody of the turtle-dove was ringing through the woodlands. Leaving the pleasant villa of Dr. F. in the environs of North St. Louis, I found myself once more fairly _en route_, winding along that delightful road which sweeps the western bottom of the Mississippi. Circumstances not within my control, Benedict though I am, had recalled me, after a ramble of but a few weeks over the prairies, again to the city, and compelled me to relinquish my original design of a tour of the extreme Northwest. Ah, the despotism of circumstance! My delay, however, proved a brief, though pleasant one; and with a something of mingled _regret_ and anticipation it was that I turned from the bright eyes and dark locks of St. Louis--"forgive my folly"--and once again beheld its imposing structures fade in distance. By far the most delightful drive in the vicinity of St. Louis is that of four or five miles in its northern suburbs, along the river bottom. The road, emerging from the streets of the city through one of its finest sections, and leaving the "Big Mound" upon the right, sweeps off for several miles upon a succession of broad plateaux, rolling up from the water's edge. To the left lies an extensive range of heights, surmounted by ancient mounds and crowned with {245} groves of the shrub-oak, which afford a delightful shade to the road running below. Along this elevated ridge beautiful country-seats, with graceful piazzas and green Venitian blinds, are caught from time to time glancing through the shrubbery; while to the right, smooth meadows spread themselves away to the heavy belt of forest which margins the Mississippi. Among these pleasant villas the little white farm-cottage, formerly the residence of Mr. C., beneath the hills, surrounded by its handsome grounds, and gardens, and glittering fishponds, partially shrouded by the broad leaved catalpa, the willow, the acacia, and other ornamental trees, presents, perhaps, the rarest instance of natural beauty adorned by refined taste. A visit to this delightful spot during my stay at St. Louis informed me of the fact that, within as well as abroad, the hand of education and refinement had not been idle. Paintings, busts, medallions, Indian curiosities, &c., &c., tastefully arranged around the walls and shelves of an elegant library, presented a feast to the visiter as rare in the Far West as it is agreeable to a cultivated mind. Near this cottage is the intended site of the building of the St. Louis Catholic University, a lofty and commanding spot.[159] A considerable tract was here purchased, at a cost of thirty thousand dollars; but the design of removal from the city has for the present been relinquished. Immediately adjoining is situated the stately villa of Colonel O'Fallon, with its highly-cultivated gardens and its beautiful park sweeping off in the rear. In a very few years this must become one of the most delightful spots {246} in the West. For its elegant grounds, its green and hot houses, and its exotic and indigenous plants, it is, perhaps, already unequalled west of Cincinnati. No expense, attention, or taste will be wanting to render it all of which the spot is capable. Leaving the Bottom, the road winds gracefully off from the Mississippi, over the hard soil of the bluffs, through a region broken up by sink-holes, and covered with a meager growth of oaks, with small farms at intervals along the route, until at length the traveller finds himself at that beautiful spot on the Missouri, Belle Fontaine, fifteen miles from St. Louis. On account of the salubrity and beauty of the site, an army cantonment was located here by General Wilkinson in the early part of the present century, and fortifications consisting of palisade-work existed, and a line of log-barracks sufficient to quarter half a regiment. Nothing now remains but a pile of ruins. "The barracks have crumpled into dust, and the ploughshare has passed over the promenade of the sentinel." Jefferson Barracks, in the southern environs of the city, have superseded the old fortress, and the spot has been sold to a company, which has here laid off a town; and as most of the lots have been disposed of, and a turnpike-road from St. Louis has been chartered, a succeeding tourist may, at no distant period, pencil it in his notebook "a flourishing village." _Cold Water Creek_ is the name of a clear stream which empties itself into the Missouri just above, upon which are several mill-privileges; and from the base of the bluff itself gushes a fountain, on account {247} of which the place received its name from the French. The site for the new town is a commanding and beautiful one, being a bold, green promontory, rising from the margin of the stream about four miles above its confluence with the Mississippi. The view developed to the eye of the spectator from this spot on a fine day is one of mingled sublimity and beauty. For some miles these old giants of the West are beheld roaming along through their deep, fertile valleys, so different in character and aspect that one can hardly reconcile with that diversity the fact that their destiny is soon to become _one_ and unchangeably the same. And then comes the mighty "meeting of the waters," to which no pen can hope to render justice. There is a singular circumstance related of the discovery of a large _human tooth_ many years since at Belle Fontaine, in excavating a well, when at the depth of forty feet. This was the more extraordinary as the spot was not alluvion, and could have undergone no change from natural causes for centuries. Various strata of clay were passed through before the _tooth_ was thrown up; and this circumstance, together with the situation of the place, would almost preclude the possibility of a vein of subterraneous water having conveyed it to the spot. This is mysterious enough, certainly; but the fact is authentic. Returning at an angle of forty-five degrees with the road by which he approaches, a ride of a dozen miles up the Missouri places the traveller upon a bold roll of the prairie, from which, in the beautiful {248} valley below, rising above the forest, appear the steep roofs and tall chimneys of the little hamlet of Florissant.[160] Its original name was St. Ferdinand, titular saint of its church; and though one of the most advanced in years, it is by no means the most antique-looking of those ancient villages planted by the early French. Its site is highly romantic, upon the banks of a creek of the same name, and in the heart of one of the most fertile and luxuriant valleys ever subjected to cultivation.[161] The village now embraces about thirty or forty irregular edifices, somewhat modernized in style and structure, surrounded by extensive corn-fields, wandering flocks of Indian ponies, and herds of cattle browsing in the plain. Here also is a Catholic Church, a neat building of brick, with belfry and bell; connected with which is a convent of nuns, and by these is conducted a Seminary for young ladies of some note. This institution--if the Hibernian hostess of the little inn at which I dined is to be credited in her statements--is the most flourishing establishment in all the region far and near! and "_heducates_ the young _leddies_ in everything but religion!" For the redoubtable _Tonish_, who whilom figured so bravely on the prairies and in print, I made diligent inquiry. His cottage--the best in the village--and a dirty little brood of his posterity, were pointed out to me, but the old worthy himself was, as usual, in the regions of the Rocky Mountains: when last seen, he could still tell the stoutest lie with the steadiest muscles of any man in the village, while he and his {249} hopeful son could cover each other's trail so nicely that a lynx-eye would fail to detect them. In the vicinity of Florissant is a settlement called Owen's Station, formerly the site of a stoccade fort for defence against the Indians, and of a Spanish _station_ on account of a fine fountain in the vicinity.[162] The direct route from St. Louis to Florissant is an excellent one, over a high rolling prairie, and commands a noble sweep of scenery. From several elevated points, the white cliffs beyond the American Bottom, more than twenty miles distant, may be seen, while farmhouses and villas are beheld in all directions gleaming through the groves. Scenery of the same general character presents itself upon the direct route to St. Charles, with the exception of steeper hills and broader plains. Upon this route my path entered nearly at right angles soon after leaving the French village. Upon the right shore of the Missouri, not far above Florissant, is situated _La Charbonnière_, a name given to a celebrated coal-bank in a bluff about two hundred feet in altitude, and about twice as long.[163] The stratum of coal is about a dozen feet in thickness, and lies directly upon the margin of the river: the quantity in the bank is said to be immense, and it contains an unusual proportion of bitumen. Iron ore has also been discovered at this spot. The road over the Missouri Bottom was detestable, as never fails to be the case after a continued rain-storm, and my horse's leg sank to the middle in the black, unctuous loam almost at every step. Upon either side, like colonnades, rose up those {250} enormous shafts of living verdure which strike the solitary traveller upon these unfrequented bottoms with such awe and veneration; while the huge whirls of the writhing wild-vine hung dangling, like gigantic serpents, from the lofty columns around whose capitals they clung. On descending the bluffs to the bottom, the traveller crosses a bed of limestone, in which is said to exist a fissure perfectly fathomless. In a few moments, the boiling, turbid floods of the Missouri are beheld rolling majestically along at the feet, and to the stranger's eye, at first sight, always suggesting the idea of _unusual_ agitation; but so have they rolled onward century after century, age after age. The wild and impetuous character of this river, together with the vast quantities of soil with which its waters are charged, impart to it a natural sublimity far more striking, at first view, than that of the Mississippi. This circumstance was not unobserved by the Indian tribes, who appropriately named it the "_Smoky Water_:" by others it was styled the "_Mad River_," on account of the impetuosity of its current; and in all dialects it is called the "_Mother of Floods_," indicative of the immense volume of its waters. Various causes have been assigned for the turbid character of the Missouri: and though, doubtless, heavily charged by the volumes of sand thrown into its channel by the Yellow Stone--its longest tributary, equal to the Ohio--and by the chalky clay of the White River, yet we are told that it is characterized by the same phenomenon from its very source. At the gates of the Rocky Mountains, where, having torn {251} for itself a channel through the everlasting hills, it comes rushing out through the vast prairie-plains at their base, it is the same dark, wild torrent as at its turbid embouchure. And, strange to tell, after roaming thousands of miles, and receiving into its bosom streams equal to itself, and hundreds of lesser, though powerful tributaries, it still retains, unaltered, in depth or breadth, that volume which at last it rolls into its mighty rival! Torrent after torrent, river after river, pour in their floods, yet the giant stream rolls majestically onward unchanged! At the village of St. Charles its depth and breadth is the same as at the Mandan villages, nearly two thousand miles nearer its source.[164] The same inexplicable phenomenon characterizes the Mississippi, and, indeed, all the great rivers of the West; for _inexplicable_ the circumstance yet remains, however plausible the theories alleged in explanation. With regard to the Missouri, it is urged that the porous, sandy soil of its broad alluvions absorbs, on the principle of capillary attraction, much of its volume, conveying it by subterraneous channels to the Mississippi; and of this latter stream it is asserted that large quantities of its waters are taken up by the innumerable bayous, lakes, and lagoons intersecting the lower region of its course; and thus, unperceived, they find their way to the gulf. The navigation of the Missouri is thought to be the most hazardous and difficult of any of the Western rivers, owing to its mad, impetuous current, to the innumerable obstructions in its bed, and the incessant variation of its channel.[165] Insurance and pilotage {252} upon this river are higher than on others; the season of navigation is briefer, and steamers never pursue their course after dusk. Its vast length and numerous tributaries render it liable, also, to frequent floods, of which three are expected every year. The chief of these takes place in the month of June, when the heaped-up snows of the Rocky Mountains are melted, and, having flowed thousands of miles through the prairies, reach the Mississippi. The ice and snows of the Alleghanies, and the wild-rice lakes of the far Upper Mississippi, months before have reached their destination, and thus a general inundation, unavoidable had the floods been simultaneous, is prevented by Providence. The alluvions of the Missouri are said to be higher than, and not so broad as, those of the Mississippi; yet their extent is constantly varying by the violence of the current, even more than those of the latter stream. Many years ago the flourishing town of Franklin was completely torn away from its foundations, and its inhabitants were forced to flee to the adjacent heights; and the bottom opposite St. Charles and at numerous other places has, within the few years past, suffered astonishing changes.[166] Opposite the town now flow the waters of the river where once stood farms and orchards. The source of the Missouri and that of the Columbia, we are told, are in such immediate proximity, that a walk of but a few miles will enable the traveller to drink from the fountains of each. Yet how unlike their destiny! One passes off through a region of boundless prairie equal in extent to a {253} sixth of our globe; and, after a thousand wanderings, disembogues its troubled waters into the Mexican Gulf; the other, winding away towards the setting sun, rolls on through forests untrodden by human footstep till it sleeps in the Pacific Seas. Their destinies reach their fulfilment at opposite extremes of a continent! How like, how very like are the destinies of these far, lonely rivers to the destinies of human life! Those who, in the beautiful starlight of our boyhood, were our schoolmates and play-fellows, where are they when our sun of ripened maturity has reached its meridian? and what, and where are they and we, when evening's lengthening shadows are gathering over the landscape of life? Our paths diverged but little at first, but mountains, continents, half a world of waters may divide our destinies, and opposite extremes of "the great globe itself" witness their consummation. Yet, like the floods of the far-winding rivers, the streams of our existences will meet again, and mingle in the ocean--that ocean without a shore--_ETERNITY_! The gates of the Rocky Mountains, through which the waters of the Missouri rush forth into the prairies of the great Valley, are described as one of the sublimest spectacles in nature. Conceive the floods of a powerful mountain-torrent compressed in mid career into a width of less than one hundred and fifty yards, rushing with the speed of "the wild horse's wilder sire" through a chasm whose vast walls of Nature's own masonry rear themselves on either side from the raging waters to the precipitous {254} height of twelve hundred perpendicular feet; and then consider if imagination can compass a scene of darker, more terrible sublimity! And then sweep onward with the current, and within one hundred miles you behold a cataract, next to Niagara, from all description grandest in the world. Such are some of the mighty features of the stream upon which I was now standing. As to the much disputed question which of the great streams of the West is entitled to the name of the _Main River_, I shall content myself with a brief statement of the arguments alleged in support of the pretensions of either claimant. The volume of the Missouri at the confluence far exceeds that of its rival; the length of its course and the number and magnitude of its tributaries are also greater, and it imparts a character to the united streams. On the other hand, the Mississippi, geographically and geologically considered, is the grand Central River of the continent, maintaining an undeviating course from north to south; the valley which it drains is far more extensive and fertile than that of the Missouri; and from the circumstance of having first been explored, it has given a name to the great river of the Western Valley which it will probably ever retain, whatever the right. "_Sed non nostrum tantas componere lites._" _St. Charles, Mo._ XXIII "Say, ancient edifice, thyself with years Grown gray, how long upon the hill has stood Thy weather-braving tower?" HURDIS. "An _honourable_ murder, if you will; For naught he did in hate, but all in honour." "The whole broad earth is beautiful To minds attuned aright." ROBT. DALE OWEN. The view of St. Charles from the opposite bank of the Missouri is a fine one. The turbid stream rolls along the village nearly parallel with the interval upon which it is situated. A long line of neat edifices, chiefly of brick, with a few ruinous old structures of logs and plastering, relics of French or Spanish taste and domination, extend along the shore; beyond these, a range of bluffs rear themselves proudly above the village, crowned with their academic hall and a neat stone church, its spire surmounted by the cross. Between these structures, upon a spot somewhat more elevated, appears the basement section of "a stern round tower of former days," now a ruin; and, though a very peaceable {10} pile of limestone and mortar, well-fitted in distant view to conjure up a host of imaginings: like Shenstone's Ruined Abbey, forsooth, "Pride of ancient days; Now but of use to grace a rural scene, Or bound our vistas." The history of the tower, if tower it may be styled, is briefly this.[167] During the era of Spanish rule in this region, before its cession to France half a century since, this structure was erected as a watch-tower or magazine. Subsequently it was dismantled, and partially fell to ruins, when the novel project was started to plant a _windmill_ upon the foundation. This was done; but either the wind was too high or too low, too frequent or too rare, or neither; or there was no corn to grind, or the projector despaired of success, or some other of the fifty untoward circumstances which suggest themselves came to pass; the windmill ere long fell to pieces, and left the old ruin to the tender mercies of time and tempest, a monument of chance and change. The evening of my arrival at St. Charles I strolled off at about sunset, and, ascending the bluffs, approached the old ruin. The walls of rough limestone are massively deep, and the altitude cannot now be less than twenty feet. The view from the spot is noble, and peculiarly impressive at the sunset hour. Directly at your feet lies the village, from the midst of which come up the rural sounds of evening; the gladsome laugh of children at their sports; the whistle of the home-plodding labourer; the quiet hum of gossips around the open doors; {11} while upon the river's brink a huge steam-mill sends forth its ceaseless "boom, boom" upon the still air. Beneath the village ripples the Missouri, with a fine sweep both above and below the town not unlike the letter S; while beyond the stream extends its heavily-timbered bottom: one cluster of trees directly opposite are Titanic in dimensions. Upon the summit of the bluff, in the shadow of the ruin by your side, lies a sunken grave. It is the grave of a _duellist_. Over it trail the long, melancholy branches of a weeping willow. A neat paling once protected the spot from the wanderer's footstep, but it is gone now; only a rotten relic remains. All is still. The sun has long since gone down. One after another the evening sounds have died away in the village at the feet, and one after another the lights have twinkled forth from the casements. A fresh breeze is coming up from the water; the rushing wing of the night-hawk strikes fitfully upon the ear; and yonder sails the beautiful "boat of light," the pale sweet crescent. On that crescent is gazing many a distant friend! What a spot--what an hour to meditate upon the varying destinies of life! I seated myself upon the foot of the grave, which still retained some little elevation from the surrounding soil, and the night-wind sighed through the trailing boughs as if a requiem to him who slumbered beneath. _Requiescat in pace_, in no meaningless ceremony, might be pronounced over him, for his end was a troubled one. Unfortunate man! you have gone to your account; and that tabernacle in which once burned a beautiful flame has long since been mingling with the dust: {12} but I had rather be even as thou art, cold in an unhonoured grave, than to live on and wear away a miserable remnant of existence, that "guilty thing" with crimsoned hand and brow besprinkled with blood. To drag out a weary length of days and nights; to feel life a bitterness, and all its verdure scathed; to walk about among the ranks of men a being "Mark'd, And sign'd, and quoted for a deed of shame;" to feel a stain upon the palm which not all the waters of ocean could wash away; a smell of blood which not all the perfumes of Arabia could sweeten; ah! give me death rather than this! That the custom of duelling, under the present arrangements of society and code of honour, in some sections of our country, is necessary, is more than problematical; that its practice will continue to exist is certain; but, when death ensues, "'tis the surviver dies." The stranger has never, perhaps, stood upon the bluffs of St. Charles without casting a glance of anxious interest upon that lone, deserted grave; and there are associated with its existence circumstances of melancholy import. Twenty years ago, he who lies there was a young, accomplished barrister of superior abilities, distinguished rank, and rapidly rising to eminence in the city of St. Louis. Unhappily, for words uttered in the warmth of political controversy, offence was taken; satisfaction demanded; a meeting upon that dark and bloody ground opposite the city ensued; and poor B---- fell, in the sunshine of his spring, lamented by all {13} who had known him. Agreeable to his request in issue of his death, his remains were conveyed to this spot and interred. Years have since rolled away, and the melancholy event is now among forgotten things; but the old ruin, beneath whose shadow he slumbers, will long remain his monument; and the distant traveller, when he visits St. Charles, will pause and ponder over his lonely grave.[168] "But let no one reproach his memory. His life has paid the forfeit of his folly, Let that suffice." Ah! the valuable blood which has steeped the sands of that steril island in the Mississippi opposite St. Louis! Nearly thirty years ago a fatal encounter took place between Dr. F. and Dr. G., in which the latter fell: that between young B. and a Mr. C. I have alluded to, and several other similar combats transpired on the spot at about the same time. The bloody affair between Lieutenants Biddle and Pettis, and that between Lucas and Benton, are of more recent date, and, with several others, are familiar in the memory of all. The spot has been fitly named "Murder" or "Blood Island."[169] Lying in the middle of the stream, it is without the jurisdiction of either of the adjoining states; and deep is the curse which has descended upon its shores! {14} The morning star was beaming beautifully forth from the blue eastern heavens when I mounted my horse for a visit to that celebrated spot, "_Les Mamelles_." A pleasant ride of three miles through the forest-path beneath the bluffs brought me at sunrise to the spot. Every tree was wreathed with the wild rose like a rainbow; and the breeze was laden with perfume. It is a little singular, the difficulty with which visiters usually meet in finding this place. The Duke of Saxe Weimar, among other dignitaries, when on his tour of the West several years since, tells us that he lost his way in the neighbouring prairie by pursuing the river road instead of that beneath the bluffs. The natural eminences which have obtained the appropriate appellation of Mamelles, from their striking resemblance to the female breast, are a pair of lofty, conical mounds, from eighty to one hundred feet altitude, swelling up perfectly naked and smooth upon the margin of that celebrated prairie which owes to them a name. So beautifully are they paired and so richly rounded, that it would hardly require a Frenchman's eye or that of an Indian to detect the resemblance designated, remarkable though both races have shown themselves for bestowing upon objects in natural scenery significant names. Though somewhat resembling those artificial earth-heaps which form such an interesting feature of the West, these mounds are, doubtless, but a broken continuation of the Missouri bluffs, which at this point terminate from the south, while those of the Mississippi, commencing at the same point, stretch away at right angles to the west. {15} The mounds are of an oblong, elliptical outline, parallel to each other, in immediate proximity, and united at the extremities adjoining the range of highlands by a curved elevation somewhat less in height. They are composed entirely of earth, and in their formation are exceedingly uniform and graceful. Numerous springs of water gush out from their base. But an adequate conception of these interesting objects can hardly be conveyed by the pen; at all events, without somewhat more of the quality of patience than chances to be the gift of my own wayward instrument. In brief, then, imagine a huge _spur_, in fashion somewhat like to that of a militia major, with the enormous rowel stretching off to the south, and the heel-bow rounding away to the northeast and northwest, terminated at each extremity by a vast excrescence; imagine all this spread out in the margin of an extended prairie, and a tolerably correct, though inadequate idea of the outline of the Mamelles is obtained. The semicircular area in the bow of the spur between the mounds is a deep dingle, choked up with stunted trees and tangled underbrush of hazels, sumach, and wild-berry, while the range of highlands crowned with forest goes back in the rear. This line of heights extends up the Missouri for some distance, at times rising directly from the water's edge to the height of two hundred feet, rough and ragged, but generally leaving a heavily-timbered bottom several miles in breadth in the interval, and in the rear rolling off into high, undulating prairie. The bluffs of the Mississippi extend to the westward in a similar {16} manner, but the prairie interval is broader and more liable to inundation. The distance from the Mamelles to the confluence of the rivers is, by their meanderings, about twenty or thirty miles, and is very nearly divided into prairie and timber. The extremity of the point is liable to inundation, and its growth of forest is enormous. The view from the summit of the Mamelles, as the morning sun was flinging over the landscape his ruddy dyes, was one of eminent, surpassing loveliness. It is celebrated, indeed, as the most beautiful prairie-scene in the Western Valley, and one of the most romantic views in the country. To the right extends the Missouri Bottom, studded with farms of the French villagers, and the river-bank margined with trees which conceal the stream from the eye. Its course is delineated, however, by the blue line of bluffs upon the opposite side, gracefully curving towards the distant Mississippi until the trace fades away at the confluence. In front is spread out the lovely Mamelle Prairie, with its waving ocean of rich flowers of every form, and scent, and hue, while green groves are beheld swelling out into its bosom, and hundreds of cattle are cropping the herbage. In one direction the view is that of a boundless plain of verdure; and at intervals in the deep emerald is caught the gleam from the glassy surface of a lake, of which there are many scattered over the peninsula. All along the northern horizon, curving away in a magnificent sweep of forty miles to the west, rise the hoary cliffs of the Mississippi, in the opposite state, like towers and castles; while {17} the windings of the stream itself are betrayed by the heavy forest-belt skirting the prairie's edge. It is not many years since this bank of the river was perfectly naked, with not a fringe of wood. Tracing along the bold façade of cliffs on the opposite shore, enveloped in their misty mantle of azure, the eye detects the embouchure of the Illinois and of several smaller streams by the deep-cut openings. To the left extends the prairie for seventy miles, with an average breadth of five from the river, along which, for most of the distance, it stretches. Here and there in the smooth surface stands out a solitary sycamore of enormous size, heaving aloft its gigantic limbs like a monarch of the scene. Upward of fifty thousand acres are here laid open to the eye at a single glance, with a soil of exhaustless fertility and of the easiest culture. The whole plain spread out at the foot of the Mamelles bears abundant evidence of having once been submerged. The depth of the alluvion is upward of forty feet; and from that depth we are told that logs, leaves, coal, and a stratum of sand and pebbles bearing marks of the attrition of running waters, have been thrown up. Through the middle of the prairie pass several deep canals, apparently ancient channels of the rivers, and which now form the bed of a long irregular lake called _Marais Croche_; there is another lake of considerable extent called _Marais Temps Clair_.[170] This beautiful prairie once, then, formed a portion of that immense lake which at a remote period held possession of the American Bottom; and at the base of the graceful {18} Mamelles these giant rivers merrily mingled their waters, and then rolled onward to the gulf. That ages have since elapsed, the amazing depth of the alluvial and vegetable mould, and the ancient monuments reposing upon some portions of the surface, leave no room for doubt.[171] By heavy and continued deposites of alluvion, the vast peninsula gradually rose up from the waters; the Missouri was forced back to the bluff La Charbonnière, and the rival stream to the Piasa cliffs of Illinois. _St. Charles, Mo._ XXIV "Westward the star of empire holds its way." BERKELEY. "Travellers entering here behold around A large and spacious plain, on every side Strew'd with beauty, whose fair grassy ground, Mantled with green, and goodly beautified With all the ornaments of Flora's pride." "The flowers, the fair young flowers." "Ye are the stars of earth." Ten years ago, and the pleasant little village of St. Charles was regarded as quite the frontier-post of civilized life; now it is a flourishing town, and an early stage in the traveller's route to the Far West. Its origin, with that of most of the early settlements in this section of the valley, is French, and {19} some few of the peculiar characteristics of its founders are yet retained, though hardly to the extent as in some other villages which date back to the same era. The ancient style of some of the buildings, the singular costume, the quick step, the dark complexion, dark eyes and dark hair, and the merry, fluent flow of a nondescript idiom, are, however, at once perceived by the stranger, and indicate a peculiar people. St. Charles was settled in 1769, and for upward of forty years retained its original name, _Les Petites Cotes_. For some time it was under the Spanish government with the rest of the territory, and from this circumstance and a variety of others its population is made up of a heterogeneous mass of people, from almost every nation under the sun. Quite a flood of German emigration has, within six or seven years past, poured into the county. That wizard spell, however, under which all these early French settlements seem to have been lying for more than a century, St. Charles has not, until within a few years past, possessed the energy to throw off, though now the inroads of American enterprise upon the ancient order of things is too palpable to be unobserved or mistaken. The site of the town is high and healthy, upon a bed of limestone extending along the stream, and upon a narrow _plateau_ one or two miles in extent beneath the overhanging bluffs. Upon this interval are laid off five streets parallel with the river, only the first of which is lined with buildings. Below the village the alluvion stretches along the margin of the stream for three miles, until, reaching the termination of the {20} highlands at the Mamelles, it spreads itself out to the north and west into the celebrated prairie I have described. St. Charles has long been a great thoroughfare to the vast region west of the Missouri, and must always continue so to be: a railroad from St. Louis in this direction must pass through the place, as well as the national road now in progress. These circumstances, together with its eligible site for commerce; the exhaustless fertility of the neighbouring region, and the quantities of coal and iron it is believed to contain, must render St. Charles, before many years have passed away, a place of considerable mercantile and manufacturing importance. It has an extensive steam flouring-mill in constant operation; and to such an extent is the cultivation of wheat carried on in the surrounding country, for which the soil is pre-eminently suited, that in this respect alone the place must become important. About six miles south of St. Charles, upon the Booneslick road, is situated a considerable settlement, composed chiefly of gentlemen from the city of Baltimore.[172] The country is exceedingly beautiful, healthy, and fertile; the farms are under high cultivation, and the tone of society is distinguished for its refinement and intelligence. The citizens of St. Charles are many of them Catholics; and a male and female seminary under their patronage are in successful operation, to say nothing of a nunnery, beneath the shade of which such institutions invariably repose. "St. Charles College," a Protestant institute of two or three years' standing, is well supported, having four professors {21} and about a hundred students.[173] Its principal building is a large and elegant structure of brick, and the seminary will doubtless, ere long, become an ornament to the place. At no distant day it may assume the character and standing of its elder brothers east of the Alleghanies; and the muse that ever delights to revel in college-hall may strike her lyre even upon the banks of the far-winding, wilderness Missouri. Among the heterogeneous population of St. Charles are still numbered a few of those wild, daring spirits, whose lives and exploits are so intimately identified with the early history of the country, and most of whose days are now passed beyond the border, upon the broad buffalo-plains at the base of the Rocky Mountains. Most of them are trappers, hunters, _couriers du bois_, traders to the distant post of Santa Fé, or _engagés_ of the American Fur Company. Into the company of one of these remarkable men it was my fortune to fall during my visit at St. Charles; and not a little to my interest and edification did he recount many of his "hairbreadth 'scapes," his "most disastrous chances," "His moving accidents by flood and field." All of this, not to mention sundry sage items on the most approved method of capturing _deer_, _bar_, _buffalo_, and _painters_, I must be permitted to waive. I am no tale-teller, "but your mere traveller, believe me," as Ben Jonson has it. The proper home of the buffalo seems now to be the vast {22} plains south and west of the Missouri border, called the Platte country, compared with which the prairies east of the Mississippi are mere meadows in miniature. The latter region was, doubtless, once a favourite resort of the animal, and the banks of the "beautiful river" were long his grazing-grounds; but the onward march of civilization has driven him, with the Indian, nearer the setting sun. Upon the plains they now inhabit they rove in herds of thousands; they regularly migrate with change of season, and, in crossing rivers, many are squeezed to death. Dead bodies are sometimes found floating upon the Missouri far down its course. With the village and county of St. Charles are connected most of the events attending the early settlement of the region west of the Mississippi; and during the late war with Great Britain, the atrocities of the savage tribes were chiefly perpetrated here. Early in that conflict the Sacs and Foxes, Miamis, Pottawattamies, Iowas, and Kickapoo Indians commenced a most savage warfare upon the advanced settlements, and the deeds of daring which distinguished the gallant "rangers" during the two years in which, unaided by government, they sustained, single-handed, the conflict against a crafty foe, are almost unequalled in the history of warfare.[174] St. Charles county and the adjoining county of Booneslick were the principal scene of a conflict in which boldness and barbarity, courage and cruelty, contended long for the mastery. The latter county to which I have alluded {23} received its name from the celebrated Daniel Boone.[175] After being deprived, by the chicanery of law, of that spot for which he had endured so much and contended so boldly in the beautiful land of his adoption, we find him, at the close of the last century, journeying onward towards the West, there to pass the evening of his days and lay away his bones. Being asked "_why_ he had left that dear Kentucke, which he had discovered and won from the wild Indian, for the wilderness of Missouri," his memorable reply betrays the leading feature of his character, the _primum mobile_ of the man: "Too crowded! too crowded! I want elbow-room!" At the period of Boone's arrival in 1798, the only form of government which existed in this distant region was that of the "Regulators," a sort of military or hunters' republic, the chief of which was styled _commandant_. To this office the old veteran was at once elected, and continued to exercise its rather arbitrary prerogatives until, like his former home, the country had become subject to other laws and other councils. He continued here to reside, however, until the death of his much-loved wife, partner of all his toils and adventures, in 1813, when he removed to the residence of his son, some miles in the interior. Here he discovered a large and productive salt-lick, long and profitably worked, and which still continues to bear his name and give celebrity to the surrounding country. To this lick was the old hunter accustomed to repair in his aged days, when his sinews were unequal to the chase, and lie in wait for the deer {24} which frequented the spring. In this occupation and in that of trapping beavers he lived comfortably on until 1818, when he calmly yielded up his adventurous spirit to its God.[176] What an eventful life was that! How varied and wonderful its incidents! How numerous and pregnant its vicissitudes! How strange the varieties of natural character it developed! The name of Boone will never cease to be remembered so long as this Western Valley remains the pride of a continent, and the beautiful streams of his discovery roll on their teeming tribute to the ocean! Of the Indian tribe which formerly inhabited this pleasant region, and gave a name to the river and state, scarcely a vestige is now to be seen. The only associations connected with the savages are of barbarity and perfidy. Upon the settlers of St. Charles county it was that Black Hawk directed his first efforts;[177] and, until within a few years, a stoccade fort for refuge in emergency has existed in every considerable settlement. Among a variety of traditionary matter related to me relative to the customs of the tribe which formerly resided near St. Charles, the following anecdote from one of the oldest settlers may not prove uninteresting. "Many years ago, while the Indian yet retained a crumbling foothold upon this pleasant land of his fathers, a certain Cis-atlantic naturalist--so the story goes--overflowing with laudable zeal for the advancement of science, had succeeded in penetrating the wilds of Missouri in pursuit of his favourite study. Early one sunny morning a man in strange {25} attire was perceived by the simple natives running about their prairie with uplifted face and outspread palms, eagerly in pursuit of certain bright flies and insects, which, when secured, were deposited with manifest satisfaction into a capacious tin box at his girdle. Surprised at a spectacle so novel and extraordinary, a fleet runner was despatched over the prairie to catch the curious animal and conduct him into the village. A council of sober old chiefs was called to _sit upon_ the matter, who, after listening attentively to all the phenomena of the case, with a sufficiency of grunting, sagaciously and decidedly pronounced the pale-face a _fool_. It was in vain the unhappy man urged upon the assembled wisdom of the nation the distinction between a _natural_ and a naturalist. The council grunted to all he had to offer, but to them the distinction was without a difference; they could comprehend not a syllable he uttered. 'Actions speak louder than words'--so reasoned the old chiefs; and as the custom was to _kill_ all their own fools, preparation was forthwith commenced to administer this summary cure for folly upon the unhappy naturalist. At this critical juncture a prudent old Indian suggested the propriety, as the fool belonged to the 'pale faces,' of consulting their 'Great Father' at St. Louis on the subject, and requesting his presence at the execution. The sentence was suspended, therefore, for a few hours, while a deputation was despatched to General Clarke,[178] detailing all the circumstances of the case, and announcing the intention of killing the fool as soon as possible. {26} The old general listened attentively to the matter, and then quietly advised them, as the _fool_ was a _pale face_, not to kill him, but to conduct him safely to St. Louis, that he might dispose of him himself. This proposition was readily acceded to, as the only wish of the Indians was to rid the world of a _fool_. And thus was the worthy naturalist relieved from an unpleasant predicament, not, however, without the loss of his box of bugs; a loss he is said to have bewailed as bitterly as, in anticipation, he had bewailed the loss of his head." For the particulars of this anecdote I am no voucher; I give the tale as told me; but as it doubtless has its origin in fact, it may have suggested to the author of "The Prairie" that amusing character, "Obed Battius, M.D.," especially as the scene of that interesting tale lies in a neighbouring region.[179] It was a sultry afternoon when I left St. Charles. The road for some miles along the bottom runs parallel with the river, until, ascending a slight elevation, the traveller is on the prairie. Upon this road I had not proceeded many miles before I came fully to the conclusion, that the route I was then pursuing would never conduct me and my horse to the town of Grafton, Illinois, the point of my destination. In this idea I was soon confirmed by a half-breed whom I chanced to meet. Receiving a few general instructions, therefore, touching my route, all of which I had quite forgotten ten minutes after, I pushed forth into the pathless prairie, and was soon in its centre, almost buried, with my horse beneath me, in the monstrous vegetation. {27} Between the parallel rolls of the prairie, the size of the weeds and undergrowth was stupendous; and the vegetation heaved in masses heavily back and forth in the wind, as if for years it had flourished on in rank, undisturbed luxuriance. Directly before me, along the northern horizon, rose the white cliffs of the Mississippi, which, as they went up to the sheer height, in some places, of several hundred feet, presented a most mountain-like aspect as viewed over the level surface of the plain. Towards a dim column of smoke which curled lazily upward among these cliffs did I now direct my course. The broad disk of the sun was rapidly wheeling down the western heavens; my tired horse could advance through the heavy grass no faster than a walk; the pale bluffs, apparently but a few miles distant, seemed receding like an _ignis fatuus_ as I approached them; and there lay the swampy forest to ford, and the "terrible Mississippi" beyond to ferry, before I could hope for food or a resting-place. In simple verity, I began to meditate upon the yielding character of prairie-grass for a couch. And yet, of such surpassing loveliness was the scene spread out around me, that I seemed hardly to realize a situation disagreeable enough, but from which my thoughts were constantly wandering. The grasses and flowering wild-plants of the Mamelle Prairie are far-famed for their exquisite brilliancy of hue and gracefulness of form. Among the flowers my eye detected a species unlike to any I had yet met with, and which seemed indigenous only here. Its fairy-formed corolla {28} was of a bright enamelled crimson, which, in the depths of the dark herbage, glowed like a living coal. How eloquently did this little flower bespeak the being and attributes of its Maker. Ah! "There is religion in a flower; Mountains and oceans, planets, suns, and systems, Bear not the impress of Almighty power In characters more legible than those Which he has written on the tiniest flower Whose light bell bends beneath the dewdrop's weight." One who has never looked upon the Western prairie in the pride of its blushing bloom can hardly conceive the surpassing loveliness of its summer flora; and, if the idea is not easy to conceive, still less is it so to convey. The autumn flowers in their richness I have not yet beheld; and in the early days of June, when I first stood upon the prairies, the beauteous sisterhood of spring were all in their graves; and the sweet springtime of the year it is when the gentle race of flowers dance over the teeming earth in gayest guise and profusion. In the first soft days of April, when the tender green of vegetation begins to overspread the soil scathed by the fires of autumn, the _viola_, primrose of the prairie, in all its rare and delicate forms; the _anemone_ or wind-flower; the blue dewy harebell; the pale oxlip; the flowering _arbute_, and all the pretty family of the pinks and lilies lie sprinkled, as by the enchantment of a summer shower, or by the tripping footsteps of Titania with her fairies, over the landscape. The blue and the white then tint the perspective, from the most {29} limpid cerulean of an _iris_ to the deep purple of the pink; from the pearly lustre of the cowslip to the golden richness of the buttercup. In early springtime, too, the island groves of the prairies are also in flower; and the brilliant crimson of the _cercis canadensis_, or Judas-tree; the delightful fragrance of the _lonicera_ or honeysuckle, and the light yellow of the _jasimum_, render the forests as pleasant to the smell as to the eye. But spring-time passes away, and with her pass away the fair young flowers her soft breath had warmed into being. Summer comes over the prairies like a giant; the fiery dog-star rages, and forth leap a host of bright ones to greet his coming. The _heliotrope_ and _helianthus_, in all their rich variety; the wild rose, flinging itself around the shrub-oak like a wreath of rainbows; the _orchis_, the balmy thyme, the burgamot, and the asters of every tint and proportion, then prevail, throwing forth their gaudy, sunburnt petals upon the wind, until the whole meadow seems arrayed in the royal livery of a sunset sky. Scarcely does the summer begin to decline, and autumn's golden sunlight to stream in misty magnificence athwart the landscape, than a thousand gorgeous plants of its own mellow hue are nodding in stately beauty over the plain. Yellow is the garniture of the autumnal Flora of the prairies; and the haughty golden-rod, and all the splendid forms of the _gentiana_, commingling with the white and crimson _eupatorium_, and the red spire of the _liatris_, everywhere bespangle the scene; while the trumpet-formed corolla of the _bignonia radicans_ glitters {30} in the sunbeams, amid the luxuriant wreathing of ivy, from the tall capitals of the isolated trees. All the _solidago_ species are in their glory, and every variety of the _lobelia_; and the blood-red sumach in the hollows and brakes, and the _sagittaria_, or arrow-head, with its three-leaved calyx and its three white petals darting forth from the recesses of the dark herbage, and all the splendid forms of the aquatic plants, with their broad blossoms and their cool scroll-like leaves, lend a finished richness of hue to the landscape, which fails not well to harmonize with the rainbow glow of the distant forest. "----Such beauty, varying in the light Of gorgeous nature, cannot be portrayed By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; But is the property of those alone Who have beheld it, noted it with care, And, in their minds, recorded it with love." What wonder, then, that, amid a scene like this, where the summer reigned, and young autumn was beginning to anticipate its mellow glories, the traveller should in a measure have forgotten his vocation, and loitered lazily along his way! _Portage des Sioux, Mo._ XXV "There's music in the forest leaves When summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forest girls That braid their sunny hair." HALLECK. "The forests are around him in their pride, The green savannas, and the mighty waves; And isles of flowers, bright floating o'er the tide That images the fairy world it laves." HEMANS. There is one feature of the Mamelle Prairie, besides its eminent beauty and its profusion of flowering plants, which distinguishes it from every other with which I have met. I allude to the almost perfect uniformity of its surface. There is little of that undulating, wavelike slope and swell which characterizes the peculiar species of surface called prairie. With the exception of a few lakes, abounding with aquatic plants and birds, and those broad furrows traversing the plain, apparently ancient beds of the rivers, the surface appears smooth as a lawn. This circumstance goes far to corroborate the idea of alluvial origin. And thus it was that, lost in a mazy labyrinth of grass and flowers, I wandered on over the smooth soil of the prairie, quite regardless of the whereabout my steps were conducting me. The sun was just going down when my horse entered a slight footpath leading into a point of woodland upon {32} the right. This I pursued for some time, heedlessly presuming that it would conduct me to the banks of the river; when, lo! to my surprise, on emerging from the forest, I found myself in the midst of a French village, with its heavy roofs and broad piazzas. Never was the lazy hero of Diedrich Knickerbocker--luckless Rip--more sadly bewildered, after a twenty years' doze among the Hudson Highlands, than was your loiterer at this unlooked-for apparition. To find one's self suddenly translated from the wild, flowery prairie into the heart of an aged, moss-grown village, of such foreign aspect, withal, was by no means easy to reconcile with one's notions of reality. Of the name, or even the existence of the village, I had been quite as ignorant as if it had never possessed either; and in vain was it that I essayed, in my perplexity, to make myself familiar with these interesting items of intelligence by inquiry of the primitive-looking beings whom I chanced to encounter, as I rode slowly on into the village through the tall stoccades of the narrow streets. Every one stared as I addressed him; but, shaking his head and quickening his pace, pointed me on in the direction I was proceeding, and left me to pursue it in ignorance and single blessedness. This mystery--for thus to my excited fancy did it seem--became at length intolerable. Drawing up my horse before the open door of a cottage, around which, beneath the galleries, were gathered a number of young people of both sexes, I very peremptorily made the demand _where I was_. All stared, and some few took it upon them, graceless youths, to {33} laugh; until, at length, a dark young fellow, with black eyes and black whiskers, stepped forward, and, in reply to my inquiry repeated, informed me that the village was called "_Portage des Sioux_;" that the place of my destination was upon the opposite bank of the Mississippi, several miles above--too distant to think of regaining my route at that late hour; and very politely the dark young man offered to procure for me accommodation for the night, though the village could boast no inn. Keeping close on the heels of my _conducteur_, I again began to thrid the narrow lanes of the hamlet, from the doors and windows of every cottage of which peeped forth an eager group of dark-eyed women and children, in uncontrolled curiosity at the apparition of a stranger in their streets at such an advanced hour of the day. The little village seemed completely cut off from all the world beside, and as totally unconscious of the proceedings of the community around as if it were a portion of another hemisphere. The place lies buried in forest except upon the south, where it looks out upon the Mamelle Prairie, and to the north is an opening in the belt of woods along the river-bank, through which, beyond the stream, rise the white cliffs in points and pinnacles like the towers and turrets of a castellated town, to the perpendicular altitude of several hundred feet. The scene was one of romantic beauty, as the moonbeams silvered the forest-tops and cliffs, flinging their broad shadows athwart the bosom of the waters, gliding in oily rippling at their base. The site of Portage des Sioux is about seven miles above {34} the town of Alton, and five below the embouchure of the Illinois. Its landing is good; it contains three or four hundred inhabitants, chiefly French; can boast a few trading establishments, and, as is invariably the case in the villages of this singular people, however inconsiderable, has an ancient Catholic church rearing its gray spire above the low-roofed cottages. Attached to it, also, is a "common field" of twelve hundred _arpens_--something less than as many acres--stretching out into the prairie. The soil is, of course, incomparably fertile. The garden-plats around each door were dark with vegetation, overtopping the pickets of the enclosures; and away to the south into the prairie swept the broad maize-fields nodding and rustling in all the gorgeous garniture of summer. My _conducteur_ stopped, at length, at the gate of a small brick tenement, the only one in the village, whose modern air contrasted strangely enough with the venerable aspect of everything else; and having made known my necessities through the medium of sundry Babel gibberings and gesticulations, he left me with the promise to call early in the morning and see me on my way. "What's your _name_, any how?" was the courteous salutation of mine host, as I placed my foot across his threshold, after attending to the necessities of the faithful animal which had been my companion through the fatigues of the day. He was a dark-browed, swarthy-looking man, with exceedingly black hair, and an eye which one might have suspected of Indian origin but for the genuine cunning {35}--the "lurking devil"--of its expression. Replying to the unceremonious interrogatory with a smile, which by no means modified the haughty moroseness of my landlord's visage, another equally civil query was proposed, to which I received the hurried reply, "Jean Paul de --." From this _amiable_ personage I learned, by dint of questioning, that the village of Portage des Sioux had been standing about half a century: that it was originally settled by a colony from Cahokia: that its importance now was as considerable as it ever had been: that it was terribly shaken in the great earthquakes of 1811, many of the old cottages having been thrown down and his own house rent from "turret to foundation-stone"--the chasm in the brick wall yet remaining--and, finally, that the village owed its name to the stratagem of a band of Sioux Indians, in an expedition against the Missouris. The legend is as follows: "The Sioux being at war with a tribe of the Missouris, a party descended the Upper Mississippi on an expedition for pillage. The Missouris, apprized of their approach, laid in ambush in the woods at the mouth of the river, intending to take their enemies by surprise as their canoes doubled the point to ascend. The Sioux, in the depths of Indian subtlety, apprehending such a manoeuvre, instead of descending to the confluence, landed at the portage, took their canoes upon their backs, and crossed the prairie to the Indian village on the Missouri, several miles above. By this stratagem the design of their expedition was accomplished, and they had returned to their canoes in safety with their plunder long {36} before the Missouris, who were anxiously awaiting them at their ambuscade, were aware of their first approach." Supper was soon served up, prepared in the neatest French fashion. While at table a circumstance transpired which afforded me some little diversion. Several of the villagers dropped in during the progress of the meal, who, having seated themselves at the board, a spirited colloquy ensued in the _patois_ of these old hamlets--a species of _gumbo-French_, which a genuine native of _La Belle France_ would probably manage to unravel quite as well as a Northern Yankee. From a few expressions, however, the meaning of which were obvious, together with sundry furtive glances to the eye, and divers confused withdrawals of the gaze, it was not very difficult to detect some pretty free remarks upon the stranger-guest. All this was suffered to pass with undisturbed _nonchalance_, until the meal was concluded; when the hitherto mute traveller, turning to the negro attendant, demanded in familiar French a glass of water. _Presto!_ the effect was electric. Such visages of ludicrous distress! such stealthy glancing of dark eyes! such glowing of sallow cheeks! The swarthy landlord at length hurriedly ejaculated, "_Parlez vous Français?_" while the dark-haired hostess could only falter "_Pardonnez moi!_" A hearty laugh on my own part served rather to increase than diminish the _empressement_, as it confirmed the suspicion that their guest had realized to the full extent their hospitable remarks. Rising from the table to put an end to rather an awkward {37} scene, I took my _portfeuille_ and seated myself in the gallery to sketch the events of the day. But the dark landlord looked with no favouring eye upon the proceeding; and, as he was by no means the man to stand for ceremony, he presently let drop a civil hint of the propriety of _retiring_; the propriety of complying with which civil hint was at once perceived, early as was the hour; and soon the whole house and village was buried in slumber. And then "the stranger within their gates" rose quietly from his couch, and in a few moments was luxuriating in the fresh night-wind, laden with perfumes from the flowerets of the prairie it swept. And beautifully was the wan moonlight playing over forest, and prairie, and rustling maize-field, and over the gray church spire, and the old village in its slumbering. And the giant cliffs rose white and ghastly beyond the dark waters of the endless river, as it rolled on in calm magnificence, "for ever flowing and the same for ever." And associations of the scene with other times and other men thronged "thick and fast" upon the fancy. The first vermeil flush of morning was firing the eastern forest-tops, when a single horseman was to be seen issuing from the narrow lanes of the ancient village of Portage des Sioux, whose inhabitants had not yet shaken off the drowsiness of slumber, and winding slowly along beneath the huge trees skirting the prairie's margin. After an hour of irregular wandering through the heavy meadow-grass, drenched and dripping in the dews, and glistening in the morning sunlight, he plunges into the {38} old woods on his right, and in a few moments stands beneath the vine-clad sycamores, with the brilliant, trumpet-formed flower of the _bignonia_ suspended from the branches upon the margin of a stream. It is the "Father of Waters," and beyond its bounding bosom lies the little hamlet of Grafton, slumbering in quiet beauty beneath the cliffs. The scene is a lovely one: the mighty river rolling calmly and majestically on--the moss-tasselled forest upon its bank--the isles of brightness around which it ripples--the craggy precipice, rearing its bald, broad forehead beyond--the smoking cottages at the base, and the balmy breath of morning, with fragrance curling the blue waters, are outlines of a portraiture which imagination alone can fill up. Blast after blast from the throat of a huge horn suspended from the limb of an aged cotton-wood, went pealing over the waters; but all the echoes in the surrounding forest had been awakened, and an hour was gone by, before a float, propelled by the sturdy sinews of a single brace of arms, had obeyed the summons. And so the traveller sat himself quietly down upon the bank beneath the tree-shade, and luxuriated on the feast of natural scenery spread out before him. The site of the town of Grafton is an elevated strip of bottom-land, stretching along beneath the bluffs, and in this respect somewhat resembling Alton, fifteen or twenty miles below. The _locale_ of the village is, however, far more delightful than that of its neighbour, whatever the relative advantages for commerce they may boast, though those of the {39} former are neither few nor small. Situated at the _mouth_ of the Illinois as to navigation; possessing an excellent landing for steamers, an extensive and fertile interior, rapidly populating, and inexhaustible quarries for the builder, the town, though recently laid off, is going on in the march of improvement; and, with an hundred other villages of the West, bids fair to become a nucleus of wealth and commerce. _Grafton, Ill._ XXVI "When breath and sense have left this clay, In yon damp vault, oh lay me not; But kindly bear my bones away To some lone, green, and sunny spot." "Away to the prairie! away! Where the sun-gilt flowers are waving, When awaked from their couch at the breaking of day, O'er the emerald lawn the gay zephyrs play, And their pinions in dewdrops are laving." On the morning of my arrival at Grafton, while my brisk little hostess was making ready for my necessities, I stepped out to survey the place, and availed myself of an hour of leisure to visit a somewhat remarkable cavern among the cliffs, a little below the village, the entrance of which had caught my attention while awaiting the movements of the ferryman on the opposite bank of the Mississippi. It is approached by a rough footpath along the {40} river-margin, piled up with huge masses of limestone, which have been toppled from the beetling crags above: these, at this point, as before stated, are some hundred feet in perpendicular height. The orifice of the cave is elliptical in outline, and somewhat regular, being an excavation by the whirling of waters apparently in the surface of the smooth escarpment; it is about twenty feet in altitude, and as many in width. Passing the threshold of the entrance, an immediate expansion takes place into a spacious apartment some forty or fifty feet in depth, and about the same in extreme height: nearly in the centre a huge perpendicular column of solid rock rears itself from the floor to the roof. From this point the cavern lengthens itself away into a series of apartments to the distance of several hundred feet, with two lesser entrances in the same line with that in the middle, and at regular intervals. The walls of the cave, like everything of a geological character in this region, are composed of a secondary limestone, abounding in testaceous fossils. The spot exhibits conclusive evidence of having once been subject to diluvial action; and the cavern itself, as I have observed, seems little else than an excavation from the heart of an enormous mass of marine petrifaction. Large quantities of human bones of all sizes have been found in this cavern, leaving little doubt that, by the former dwellers in this fair land, the spot was employed as a catacomb. I myself picked up the _sincipital_ section of a scull, which would have ecstasied a virtuoso beyond measure; and {41} several of the _lumbar vertebræ_, which, if they prove nothing else, abundantly demonstrate the aboriginal natives of North America to have been no pigmy race. The spot is now desecrated by the presence of a party of sturdy coopers, who could not, however, have chosen a more delightful apartment for their handicraft; rather more taste than piety, however, has been betrayed in the selection. The view of the water and the opposite forest from the elevated mouth of the cavern is very fine, and three or four broad-leafed sycamores fling over the whole a delightful shade. The waters of the river flow onward in a deep current at the base, and the fish throw themselves into the warm sunlight from the surface. What a charming retreat from the fiery fervour of a midsummer noon! The heavy bluffs which overhang the village, and over which winds the great road to the north, though not a little wearisome to surmount, command from the summit a vast and beautiful landscape. A series of inclined planes are talked of by the worthy people of Grafton to overcome these bluffs, and render their village less difficult of inland ingress and regress; and though the idea is not a little amusing, of rail-cars running off at an angle of forty-five degrees, yet when we consider that this place, if it ever becomes of _any_ importance, must become a grand thoroughfare and dépôt on the route from St. Louis and the agricultural regions of the Missouri to the northern counties of Illinois, the design seems less chimerical _than it might be_. A charter, indeed, for a railroad {42} from Grafton, through Carrolton to Springfield, has been obtained, a company organized, and a portion of the stock subscribed;[180] while another corporation is to erect a splendid hotel. The traveller over the bluffs, long before he stands upon their summit, heartily covets any species of locomotion other than the back of a quadruped. But the scenery, as he ascends, caught at glimpses through the forest, is increasingly beautiful. Upon one of the loftiest eminences to the right stand the ruins of a huge stone-heap; the tumulus, perchance, of some red-browed chieftain of other days. It was a beautiful custom of these simple-hearted sons of the wilderness to lay away the relics of their loved and honoured ones even upon the loftiest, greenest spots of the whole earth; where the freed spirit might often rise to look abroad over the glories of that pleasant forest-home where once it roved in the chase or bounded forth upon the path of war. And it is a circumstance not a little worthy of notice, that veneration for the dead is a feeling universally betrayed by uncivilized nations. The Indian widow of Florida annually despoils herself of her luxuriant tresses to wreathe the headstone beneath which reposes the bones of her husband. The Canadian mother, when her infant is torn from her bosom by the chill hand of death, and, with a heart almost breaking, she has been forced to lay him away beneath the sod, is said, in the touching intensity of her affection, to bathe the tombstone of her little one with that genial flood which Nature poured through her veins for his nourishment {43} while living. The Oriental nations, it is well known, whether civilized or savage, have ever, from deepest antiquity, manifested an eloquent solicitude for the sepulchres of their dead. The expiring Israelite, we are always told, "was gathered to his fathers;" and the tombs of the Jewish monarchs, some of which exist even to the present day, were gorgeously magnificent. The nations of modern Turkey and India wreathe the tombs of their departed friends with the gayest and most beautiful flowers of the season; while the very atmosphere around is refreshed by fountains. From the site of the stone-heap of which I have spoken, and which may or may _not_ have been erected to the memory of some Indian chieftain, a glorious cosmorama of the whole adjacent region, miles in circumference, is unfolded to the eye. At your feet, far below, flow on the checkered waters of the Mississippi, gliding in ripples among their emerald islands; while at intervals, as the broad stream comes winding on from the west, is caught the flashing sheen of its surface through the dense old woods that fringe its margin. Beyond these, to the south, lies spread the broad and beautiful Mamelle Prairie, even to its faint blue blending with the distant horizon laid open to the eye, rolling and heaving its heavy herbage in the breeze to the sunlight like the long wave of ocean. And the bright green island-groves, the cape-like forest-strips swelling out upon its bosom, the flashing surface of lakes and water-sheets, almost buried in the luxuriance of vegetation, with thousands of {44} aquatic birds wheeling their broad flight over them, all contribute to fill up the lineaments of a scene of beauty which fails not to enrapture the spectator. Now and then along the smooth meadow, a darker luxuriance of verdure, with the curling cabin-smoke upon its border, and vast herds of domestic cattle in its neighbourhood, betray the presence of man, blending _his_ works with the wild and beautiful creations of Nature. On the right, at a distance of two miles, come in the placid waters of the Illinois, from the magnificent bluffs in the back-ground stealing softly and quietly into the great river through the wooded islands at its mouth. The day was a sultry one; the atmosphere was like the breath of a furnace; but over the heights of the bluffs swept the morning air, fresh and cool from the distant prairie. For some miles, as is invariably the case upon the banks of the Western rivers, the road winds along among bluffs and sink-holes; and so constantly does its course vary and diverge, that a pocket compass is anything but a needless appendage. Indeed, all his calculations to the contrary notwithstanding, the traveller throughout the whole of this region describes with his route a complete Virginia fence. The road is not a little celebrated for its tortuosity. At length the traveller emerges upon a prairie. On its edge beneath the forest stands a considerable settlement, bordering on Macoupin Creek, from which it takes a name. In the latter part of 1816 this settlement was commenced, and was then the most northern location of whites in the Territory of Illinois.[181] {45} It was evening, at the close of a sultry day, that the village of Carrolton appeared before me among the trees.[182] I was struck with the quiet air of simple elegance which seemed to pervade the place, though its general outlines are those of every other Western village I have visited. One broad, regular street extends through the town, upon either side of which stand the stores and better class of private residences; while in the back-ground, scattered promiscuously along the transverse avenues, are log-cabins surrounded by cornfields, much like those in the villages of the French. Three sides of the town are bounded by forest, while the fourth opens upon the prairie called "String Prairie." In the centre of the village, upon the principal street, is reserved a square, in the middle of which stands the courthouse, with other public structures adjacent, and the stores and hotels along its sides. One thing in Carrolton which struck me as a little singular, was the unusual diversity of religious denominations. Of these there are not less than five or six; three of which have churches, and a fourth is setting itself in order to build; and all this in a village of hardly one thousand inhabitants. The courthouse is a handsome edifice of brick, two stories, with a neat spire. The neighbouring region is fertile and healthy; well proportioned with prairie and timber, well watered by the Macoupin and Apple Creeks,[183] and well populated by a sturdy, thriving race of yeomanry. This is, indeed, strictly an agricultural village; and, so far as my own observation {46} extended, little attention is paid or taste manifested for anything else. About a dozen miles north of Carrolton is situated the village of Whitehall, a flourishing settlement in the prairie's edge, from the centre of which, some miles distant, it may be seen.[184] Three years ago the spot was an uncultivated waste; the town has now two houses of worship, a school, an incorporation for a seminary, two taverns, six hundred inhabitants, and a steam mill to feed them withal. A few miles from this place, on the outskirts of another small settlement, I was met by a company of emigrants from Western New-York. The women and children were piled upon the top of the household stuff with about as much ceremony as if they constituted a portion thereof, in a huge lumbering baggage-wagon, around which dangled suspended pots and kettles, dutch-ovens and tin-kitchens, cheese-roasters and bread-toasters, all in admired confusion, jangling harsh discord. The cart-wheels themselves, as they gyrated upon the parched axles, like the gates of Milton's hell on their hinges, "grated harsh thunder." In the van of the cavalcade strode soberly on the patriarch of the family, with his elder sons, axe upon shoulder, rifle in hand, a veritable Israel Bush. For six weeks had the wanderers been travelling, and a weary, bedusted-looking race were they, that emigrant family. The rapidity with which a Western village goes forward, and begins to assume importance among the nations, after having once been born and {47} christened, is amazing. The mushrooms of a summer's night, the wondrous gourd of Jonah, the astonishing bean of the giant-killer, or the enchantments of the Arabian Nights, are but fit parallels to the growth of the prairie-village of the Far West. Of all this I was forcibly reminded in passing through quite a town upon my route named Manchester, where I dined, and which, if my worthy landlord was not incorrect, two years before could hardly boast a log-cabin.[185] It is now a thriving place, on the northern border of Mark's Prairie, from which it may be seen four or five miles before entering its streets; it is surrounded by a body of excellent timber, always the _magnum desideratum_ in Illinois. This scarcity of timber will not, however, be deemed such an insurmountable obstacle to a dense and early population of this state as may have been apprehended, when we consider the unexampled rapidity with which a young growth pushes itself forward into the prairies when once protected from the devastating effects of the autumnal fires; the exhaustless masses of bituminous coal which may be thrown up from the ravines, and creeks, and bluffs of nearly every county in the state; the facility of ditching, by the assistance of blue grass to bind the friable soil, and the luxuriance of hedge-rows for enclosures, as practised almost solely in England, France, and the Netherlands; and, finally, the convenience of manufacturing brick for all the purposes of building. There is not, probably, any quarter of the state destined to become more populous and powerful {48} than that section of Morgan county through which I was now passing. On every side, wherever the traveller turns his eye, beautiful farms unfold their broad, wavy prairie-fields of maize and wheat, indicative of affluence and prosperity. The _worst_ soil of the prairies is best adapted to wheat; it is _generally_ too fertile; the growth too rapid and luxuriant; the stalk so tall and the ear so heavy, that it is lodged before matured for the sickle. Illinois, consequently, can never become a celebrated wheat region, though for corn and coarser grains it is now unequalled. The rapidity with which this state has been peopled is wonderful, especially its northern counties. In the year 1821, that section of country embraced within the present limits of Morgan county numbered but twenty families; in 1830 its population was nearly fourteen thousand, and cannot now be estimated at less than seventeen thousand! Many of the settlers are natives of the New-England States; and with them have brought those habits of industrious sobriety for which the North has ever been distinguished. In all the enterprise of the age, professing for its object the amelioration of human condition and the advancement of civilization, religion, and the arts, Morgan county stands in advance of all others in the state. What a wonderful revolution have a few fleeting years of active enterprise induced throughout a region once luxuriating in all the savageness of nature; while the wild prairie-rose "blushed unseen," and the wilder forest-son pursued the deer! Fair villages, {49} like spring violets along the meadow, have leaped forth into being, to bless and to gladden the land, and to render even this beautiful portion of God's beautiful world--though for ages a profitless waste--at length the abode of intelligence, virtue, and peace. It was near the close of the day that the extent and frequency of the farms on either side, the more finished structure of the houses, the regularity of enclosures, the multitude of vehicles of every description by which I was encountered, and the dusty, hoof-beaten thoroughfare over which I was travelling, all reminded me that I was drawing nigh to Jacksonville, the principal town in Illinois. Passing "Diamond Grove," a beautiful forest-island of nearly a thousand acres, elevated above the surrounding prairie to which it gives a name,[186] and environed by flourishing farms, the traveller catches a view of the distant village stretching away along the northern horizon. He soon enters an extended avenue, perfectly uniform for several miles, leading on to the town. Beautiful meadows and harvest-fields on either side sweep off beyond the reach of the eye, their neat white cottages and palings peeping through the enamelled foliage. To the left, upon a swelling upland at the distance of some miles, are beheld the brick edifices of "Illinois College," relieved by a dark grove of oaks resting against the western sky.[187] These large buildings, together with the numerous other public structures, imposingly situated and strongly relieved, give to the place a dignified, city-like aspect in distant {50} view. After a ride of more than a mile within the immediate suburbs of the town, the traveller ascends a slight elevation, and the next moment finds himself in the public square, surrounded on every side by stores and dwellings, carts and carriages, market-people, horses, and hotels. _Jacksonville, Ill._ XXVII "What a large volume of adventures may be grasped in this little span of life by him who interests his heart in everything, and who, having his eyes to see what time and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he journeyeth on his way, misses nothing he can _fairly_ lay his hands on."--STERNE'S _Sentimental Journal_. "Take this in good part, whosoever thou be, And wish me no worse than I wish unto thee." TURNER. It was a remark of that celebrated British statesman, Horace Walpole, that the vicissitudes of no man's life were too slight to prove interesting, if detailed in the simple order of their occurrence. The idea originated with the poet Gray, if an idea which has suggested itself to the mind of every man may be appropriated by an individual. Assuming the sentiment as true, the author of these SKETCHES has alone presumed to lay his observations and adventures as a traveller before the _majesty of the public_; and upon this principle _solely_ must they rely for any interest they may {51} claim. A mere glance at those which have preceded must convince the reader that their object has been by no means exact geographical and statistical information. Errors and omissions have, doubtless, often occurred in the hasty view which has been taken: partially through negligence, sometimes through lack of knowledge, misinformation, or attempt at brevity, but never through aforethought or malice prepense. Upon the whole, the writer admits himself completely laid open to criticism; and, should any public-spirited worthy deem it his duty to rise up in judgment and avenge the wrongs of literature and the community, he has undoubted right so to do: nathless, he is most veritably forewarned that he will hardly gather up his "labour for his pains!" But _allons_. It is only ten or twelve years since the town site of Jacksonville, now, perhaps, the most flourishing inland village in Illinois, was first _laid off_; and it is but within the past five years that its present unprecedented advancement can be dated.[188] Its site is a broad elevated roll in the midst of a beautiful prairie; and, from whatever point it is approached, few places present a more delightful prospect. The spot seems marked and noted by Nature for the abode of man. The neighbouring prairie is undulating, and the soil uncommonly rich, even in this land of fertility. It is mostly under high cultivation, and upon its northern and western edge is environed by pleasant groves, watered by many a "sweet and curious brook." The public square in the centre of the town is of noble dimensions, {52} occupied by a handsome courthouse and a market, both of brick, and its sides filled up with dwelling-houses, stores, law-offices, a church, bank, and hotel. From this point radiate streets and avenues in all directions: one through each side of every angle near its vertex, and one through the middle of every side; so that the town-plat is completely cut up into rectangles. If I mistake not in my description, it will be perceived that the public square of Jacksonville may be entered at no less than twelve distinct avenues. In addition to the spacious courthouse, the public buildings consist of three or four churches. One of these, belonging to the Congregational order, betrays much correct taste; and its pulpit is the most simply elegant I remember ever to have seen. It consists merely of a broad platform in the chancel of the building, richly carpeted; a dark mahogany bar without drapery, highly polished; and a neat sofa of the same material in a plain back-ground. The outline and proportion are perfect; and, like the doctrines of the sect which worships here, there is an air of severe, dignified elegance about the whole structure, pleasing as it is rare. The number of Congregational churches in the West is exceedingly small; and as it is always pleasant for the stranger in a strange land to meet the peculiarities of that worship to which from childhood-days he has been attached, so it is peculiarly grateful to the New-England emigrant to recognise in this distant spot the simple faith and ceremony of the Pilgrims. Jacksonville is largely made up of emigrants from {53} the North; and they have brought with them many of their customs and peculiarities. The State of Illinois may, indeed, be truly considered the New-England of the West. In many respects it is more congenial than any other to the character and prejudices of the Northern emigrant. It is not a slave state; internal improvement is the grand feature of its civil polity; and measures for the universal diffusion of intellectual, moral, and religious culture are in active progression. In Henry county, in the northern section of the state, two town-plats have within the past year been laid off for colonies of emigrants from Connecticut, which intend removing in the ensuing fall, accompanied each by their minister, physician, lawyer, and with all the various artisans of mechanical labour necessary for such communities. The settlements are to be called Wethersfield and Andover.[189] Active measures for securing the blessings of education, religion, temperance, etc., have already been taken.[190] The edifices of "Illinois College," to which I have before alluded, are situated upon a beautiful eminence one mile west of the village, formerly known as "Wilson's Grove." The site is truly delightful. In the rear lies a dense green clump of oaks, and in front is spread out the village, with a boundless extent of prairie beyond, covered for miles with cultivation. Away to the south, the wildflower flashes as gayly in the sunlight, and {54} waves as gracefully when swept by the breeze, as centuries ago, when no eye of man looked upon its loveliness. During my stay at Jacksonville I visited several times this pleasant spot, and always with renewed delight at the glorious scenery it presented. Connected with the college buildings are extensive grounds; and students, at their option, may devote a portion of each day to manual labour in the workshop or on the farm. Some individuals have, it is said, in this manner defrayed all the expenses of their education. This system of instruction cannot be too highly recommended. Apart from the benefits derived in acquiring a knowledge of the use of mechanical instruments, and the development of mechanical genius, there are others of a higher nature which every one who has been educated at a public institution will appreciate. Who has not gazed with anguish on the sunken cheek and the emaciated frame of the young aspirant for literary distinction? Who has not beheld the funeral fires of intellect while the lamp of life was fading, flaming yet more beautifully forth, only to be dimmed for ever! The lyre is soon to be crushed; but, ere its hour is come, it flings forth notes of melody sweet beyond expression! Who does not know that protracted, unremitting intellectual labour is _always_ fatal, unaccompanied by corresponding physical exertion; and who cannot perceive that _any_ inducement, be it what it may, which can draw forth the student from his retirement, is invaluable. Such an inducement is the lively interest which the cultivated mind {55} always manifests in the operations of mechanical art. Illinois College has been founded but five or six years, yet it is now one of the most flourishing institutions west of the mountains. The library consists of nearly two thousand volumes, and its chymical apparatus is sufficient. The faculty are five in number, and its first class was graduated two years since. No one can doubt the vast influence this seminary is destined to exert, not only upon this beautiful region of country and this state, but over the whole great Western Valley. It owes its origin to the noble enterprise of seven young men, graduates of Yale College, whose names another age will enrol among our Harvards and our Bowdoins, our Holworthys, Elliots, and Gores, great and venerable as those names are. And, surely, we cannot but believe that "some divinity has shaped their ends," when we consider the character of the spot upon which a wise Providence has been pleased to succeed their design. From the Northern lakes to the gulf, where may a more eligible site be designated for an institution whose influence shall be wide, and powerful, and salutary, than that same beautiful grove, in that pleasant village of Jacksonville. To the left of the college buildings is situated the lordly residence of Governor Duncan, surrounded by its extensive grounds.[191] There are other fine edifices scattered here and there upon the eminence, among which the beautiful little cottage of Mr. C., brother to the great orator of the {56} West, holds a conspicuous station.[192] Society in Jacksonville is said to be superior to any in the state. It is of a cast decidedly moral, and possesses much literary taste. This is betrayed in the number of its schools and churches; its lyceum, circulating library, and periodicals. In fine, there are few spots in the West, and none in Illinois, which to the _Northern_ emigrant present stronger attractions than the town of Jacksonville and its vicinity. Located in the heart of a tract of country the most fertile and beautiful in the state; swept by the sweet breath of health throughout the year; tilled by a race of enterprising, intelligent, hardy yeomen; possessing a moral, refined, and enlightened society, the tired wanderer may here find his necessities relieved and his peculiarities respected: he may here find congeniality of feeling and sympathy of heart. And when his memory wanders, as it sometimes must, with melancholy musings, mayhap, over the loved scenes of his own distant New-England, it will be sweet to realize that, though he sees not, indeed, around him the beautiful romance of his native hills, yet many a kindly heart is throbbing near, whose emotions, like his own, were nurtured in their rugged bosom. "_Cælum non animum mutatur._" And is it indeed true, as they often tell us, that New-England character, like her own ungenial clime, is cold, penurious, and heartless; while to her brethren, from whom she is separated only by an imaginary boundary, may be ascribed all that is lofty, and honourable, and chivalrous in man! This is an old {57} calumny, the offspring of prejudice and ignorance, and it were time it were at rest. But it is not for me to contrast the leading features of Northern character with those of the South, or to repel the aspersions which have been heaped upon either. Yet, reader, believe them not; many are false as ever stained the poisoned lip of slander. It was Saturday evening when I reached the village of Jacksonville, and on the following Sabbath I listened to the sage instruction of that eccentric preacher, but venerable old man, Dr. P. of Philadelphia, since deceased, but then casually present. "_The Young Men of the West_" was a subject which had been presented him for discourse, and worthily was it elaborated. The good people of this little town, in more features than one, present a faithful transcript of New-England; but in none do they betray their Pilgrim origin more decidedly than in their devotedness to the public worship of the sanctuary. Here the young and the old, the great and small, the rich and poor, are all as steadily church-goers as were ever the pious husbandmen of Connecticut--men of the broad breast and giant stride--in the most "high and palmy day" of blue-laws and tything men. You smile, reader, yet "Noble deeds those iron men have done!" It was these same church-going, psalm-singing husbandmen who planted Liberty's fair tree within our borders, the leaves of which are now for the "healing of the nations," and whose broad branches are overshadowing the earth; and they watered it--ay, watered it with their blood! The Pilgrim Fathers!--{58} the elder yeomanry of New-England!--the Patriots of the American Revolution!--great names! they shall live enshrined in the heart of Liberty long after those of many a railer are as if they had never been. And happy, happy would it be for the fair heritage bequeathed by them, were not the present generation degenerate sons of noble sires. At Jacksonville I tarried only a few days; but during that short period I met with a few things of tramontane origin, strange enough to my Yankee notions. It was the season approaching the annual election of representatives for the state and national councils, and on one of the days to which I have alluded the political candidates of various creeds _addressed the people_; that is--for the benefit of the uninitiated be it stated--each one made manifest what great things he had done for the people in times past, and promised to do greater things, should the dear people, in the overflowing of their kindness, be pleased to let their choice fall upon him. This is a custom of universal prevalence in the Southern and Western states, and much is urged in its support; yet, sure it is, in no way could a Northern candidate more utterly defeat his election than by attempting to pursue the same. The charge of _self-electioneering_ is, indeed, a powerful engine often employed by political partisans. The candidates, upon the occasion of which I am speaking, were six or seven in number: and though I was not permitted to listen to the _eloquence_ of all, some of these harangues are said to have been powerful productions, especially that of Mr. S. The day {59} was exceedingly sultry, and Mr. W., candidate for the state Senate, was on the _stump_, in shape of a huge meat-block at one corner of the market-house, when I entered.[193] He was a broadfaced, farmer-like personage, with features imbrowned by exposure, and hands hardened by honourable toil; with a huge rent, moreover, athwart his left shoulder-blade--a badge of democracy, I presume, and either neglected or produced there for the occasion; much upon the same principle, doubtless, that Quintilian counselled his disciples to disorder the hair and tumble the toga before they began to speak. Now mind ye, reader, I do not accuse the worthy man of having followed the Roman's instructions, or even of acquaintance therewith, or any such thing; but, verily, he did, in all charity, seem to have hung on his worst rigging, and that, too, for no other reason than to demonstrate the democracy aforesaid, and his affection for the _sans-culottes_. His speech, though garnished with some little rhodomontade, was, upon the whole, a sensible production. I could hardly restrain a smile, however, at one of the worthy man's figures, in which he likened himself to "the _morning sun_, mounting a stump to scatter the mists which had been gathering around his fair fame." Close upon the heels of this _ruse_ followed a beautiful simile--"a people free as the wild breezes of their own broad prairies!" The candidates alternated according to their political creeds, and denounced each other in no very measured terms. The approaching election was found, indeed, to be the prevailing topic of thought and conversation all over the land; insomuch {60} that the writer, himself an unassuming wayfarer, was more than once, strangely enough, mistaken for a _candidate_ as he rode through the country, and was everywhere _catechumened_ as to the articles of his political faith. It would be an amusing thing to a solitary traveller in a country like this, could he always detect the curious surmisings to which his presence gives rise in the minds of those among whom he chances to be thrown; especially so when, from any circumstance, his appearance does not betray his definite rank or calling in life, and anything of mystery hangs around his movements. Internal Improvement seems now to be the order of the day in Northern Illinois. This was the hobby of most of the stump-speakers; and the projected railway from Jacksonville to the river was under sober consideration. I became acquainted, while here, with Mr. C., a young gentleman engaged in laying off the route. It was late in the afternoon when I at length broke away from the hustings, and mounted my horse to pursue my journey to Springfield. The road strikes off from the public square, in a direct line through the prairie, at right angles with that by which I entered, and, _like_ that, ornamented by fine farms. I had rode but a few miles from the village, and was leisurely pursuing my way across the dusty plain, when a quick tramping behind attracted my attention, and in a few moments a little, portly, red-faced man at my side, in linsey-woolsey and a broad-brimmed hat, saluted me frankly with the title of "friend," and forthwith announced himself a "Baptist {61} circuit-rider!" I became much interested in the worthy man before his path diverged from my own; and I flatter myself he reciprocated my regard, for he asked all manner of questions, and related all manner of anecdotes, questioned or not. Among other edifying matter, he gave a full-length biography of a "_billards fever_" from which he was just recovering; even from the premonitory symptoms thereof to the relapse and final convalescence. At nightfall I found myself alone in the heart of an extensive prairie; but the beautiful crescent had now begun to beam forth from the blue heavens; and the wild, fresh breeze of evening, playing among the silvered grass-tops, rendered the hour a delightful one to the traveller. "Spring Island Grove," a thick wood upon an eminence to the right, looked like a region of fairy-land as its dark foliage trembled in the moonlight. The silence and solitude of the prairie was almost startling; and a Herculean figure upon a white horse, as it drew nigh, passed me "on the other side" with a glance of suspicion at my closely-buttoned surtout and muffled mouth, as if to say, "this is too lone a spot to form acquaintance." A few hours--I had crossed the prairie, and was snugly deposited in a pretty little farmhouse in the edge of the grove, with a crusty, surly fellow enough for its master. _Springfield, Ill._ XXVIII "Hee is a rite gude creetur, and travels _all_ the ground over most faithfully." "The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together."--SHAKESPEARE. It is a trite remark, that few studies are more pleasing to the inquisitive mind than that of the _nature of man_. But, however this may be, sure it is, few situations in life present greater facilities for watching its developments than that of the ordinary _wayfaring_ traveller. Though I fully agree with Edmund Burke, that "the age of chivalry has passed away," with all its rough virtues and its follies, yet am I convinced that, even in this degenerate era of sophisters, economists, and speculators, when a solitary individual, unconnected with any great movements of the day, throws himself upon his horse, and sallies fearlessly forth upon the arena of the world, whether in _quest_ of adventure or not, he will be quite sure to meet, at least, with some slight "inklings" thereof. A thousand exhibitions of human character will fling themselves athwart his pathway, inconsiderable indeed in themselves, yet which, as days of the year and seconds of the day, go to make up the lineaments of man; and which, from the observation of the pride, and pomp, and circumstance of wealth and equipage, would of necessity be veiled. Under the eye of the solitary {63} wanderer, going forth upon a pilgrimage of observation among the ranks of men--who is met but for once, and whose opinion, favourable or otherwise, can be supposed to exert but trifling influence--there is not that necessity for enveloping those petty weaknesses of our nature in the mantle of selfishness which would, under more imposing circumstances, exist. To the mind of delicate sensibility, unschooled in the ways of man, such exhibitions of human heartlessness might, perchance, be anything but _interesting_; but to one who, elevated by independence of character above the ordinary contingencies of situation and circumstance, can smile at the frailties of his race, even when exhibited at his own expense, they can but afford a fund of interest and instruction. The youthful student, when with fresh, unblunted feeling he for the first time enters the dissecting-room of medical science, turns with sickened, revolting sensibilities from the mutilated form stretched out upon the board before him, while the learned professor, with untrembling nerve, lays bare its secrecies with the crimsoned knife of science. Just so is it with the exhibitions of human nature; yet who will say that dissection of the moral character of man is not as indispensable to an intimate acquaintance with its phenomena, as that of his physical organization for a similar purpose. But, then, there are the brighter features of humanity, which sometimes hang across the wanderer's pathway like the beautiful tints of a summer evening bow; and which, as they are oftenest met reposing beneath the cool, sequestered shades of {64} retirement, where the roar and tumult of a busy world are as the heavy swing of the distant wave, so there, oftener than elsewhere, they serve to cheer the pilgrim traveller's heart. Ah! it is very sweet, from the dull Rembrandt shades of which human character presents but too much, to turn away and dwell upon these green, beautiful spots in the wastes of humanity; these _oases_ in a desert of barrenness; to hope that man, though indeed a depraved, unholy being, is not that _thing_ of utter detestation which a troubled bosom had sometimes forced us to believe. At such moments, worth years of coldness and distrust, how inexpressibly grateful is it to feel the young tendrils of the heart springing forth to meet the proffered affection; curling around our race, and binding it closer and closer to ourselves. But your pardon, reader: my wayward pen has betrayed me into an episode upon poor human nature most unwittingly, I do assure thee. I was only endeavouring to present a few ideas circumstances had casually suggested, which I was sure would commend themselves to every thinking mind, and which some incidents of my wayfaring may serve to illustrate, when lo! forth comes an essay on human nature. It reminds one of Sir Hudibras, who _told the clock by algebra_, or of Dr. Young's satirised gentlewoman, who _drank tea by stratagem_. "How little do men realize the loveliness of this visible world!" is an exclamation which has oftentimes involuntarily left my lips while gazing upon the surpassing splendour of a prairie-sunrise. This is at all times a glorious hour, but to a lonely traveller {65} on these beautiful plains of the departed Illini, it comes on with a charm which words are powerless to express. We call our world a RUIN. Ah! it _is_ one in all its moral and physical relations; but, like the elder cities of the Nile, how vast, how magnificent in its desolation! The astronomer, as he wanders with scientific eye along the sparkling galaxy of a summer's night, tells us that among those clustering orbs, far, far away in the clear realms of upper sky, he catches at times a glimpse of _another_ world! a region of untold, unutterable brightness! the high empyrean, veiled in mystery! And so is it with our own humbler sphere; the glittering fragment of a world _we_ have never known ofttimes glances before us, and then is gone for ever. Before the dawn I had left the farmhouse where I had passed the night, and was thridding the dark old forest on my route to Springfield. The dusky twilight of morning had been slowly stealing over the landscape; and, just as I emerged once more upon my winding prairie-path, the flaming sunlight was streaming wide and far over the opposite heavens. Along the whole line of eastern horizon reposed the purple dies of morning, shooting rapidly upward into broad pyramidal shafts to the zenith, till at last the dazzling orb came rushing above the plain, bathing the scene in an effulgence of light. The day which succeeded was a fine one, and I journeyed leisurely onward, admiring the mellow glories of woodland and prairie, until near noon, when a flashing cupola above the trees reminded me I was approaching {66} Springfield.[194] Owing to its unfavourable situation and the fewness of its public structures, this town, though one of the most important in the state, presents not that imposing aspect to the stranger's eye which some more inconsiderable villages can boast. Its location is the border of an extensive prairie, adorned with excellent farms, and stretching away on every side to the blue line of distant forest. This town, like Jacksonville, was laid out ten or twelve years since, but for a long while contained only a few scattered log cabins: all its present wealth or importance dates from the last six years. Though inferior in many respects to its neighbour and rival, yet such is its location by nature that it can hardly fail of becoming a place of extensive business and crowded population; while its geographically central situation seems to designate it as the capital of the state. An elegant state-house is now erecting, and the seat of government is to be located here in 1840. The public square, a green, pleasant lawn, enclosed by a railing, contains the courthouse and a market, both fine structures of brick: the sides are lined with handsome edifices. Most of the buildings are small, however, and the humble log cabin not unfrequently meets the eye. Among the public structures are a jail, and several houses of worship. Society is said to be excellent, and the place can boast much literary taste. The plan of Internal Improvement projected for the state, when carried out, cannot fail to render Springfield an important place. It was a cool, beautiful evening when I left Springfield and held my way over the prairie, rolling its {67} waving verdure on either side of my path. Long after the village had sunk in the horizon, the bright cupola continued to flame in the oblique rays of the setting sun. I passed many extensive farms on my route, and in a few hours had entered the forest and forded Sangamon _River_--so styled out of pure courtesy, I presume, for at the spot I crossed it seemed little more than a respectable creek, with waters clear as crystal, flowing over clean white sand.[195] At periods of higher stages, however, this stream has been navigated nearly to the confluence of its forks, a distance of some hundred miles; and in the spring of 1832 a boat of some size arrived within five miles of Springfield. An inconsiderable expense in removing logs and overhanging trees, it is said, would render this river navigable for keelboats half the year. The advantages of such a communication, through one of the richest agricultural regions on the globe, can hardly be estimated. The Sangamon bottom has a soil of amazing fertility, and rears from its deep, black mould a forest of enormous sycamores; huge, overgrown, unshapely masses, their venerable limbs streaming with moss. When the traveller enters the depths of these dark old woods, a cold chill runs over his frame, and he feels as if he were entering the sepulchre. A cheerless twilight reigns for ever through them: the atmosphere he inhales has an earthly smell, and is filled with floating greenish exhalations; the moist, black mould beneath his horse's hoofs, piled with vegetable decay for many feet, and upon whose festering bosom the cheering light of day has not smiled for {68} centuries, is rank and yielding: the enormous shafts leaning in all attitudes, their naked old roots enveloped in a green moss of velvet luxuriance, tower a hundred feet above his head, and shut out the heavens from his view: the huge wild-vine leaps forth at their foot and clasps them in its deadly embrace; or the tender ivy and pensile woodbine cluster around the aged giants, and strive to veil with their mantling tapestry the ravages of time. There is much cathedral pomp, much of Gothic magnificence about all this; and one can hardly fling off from his mind the awe and solemnity which gathers over it amid the chill, silent, and mysterious solitude of the scene. Emerging from the river-bottom, my pathway lay along a tract of elevated land, among beautiful forest-glades of stately oaks, through whose long dim aisles the yellow beams of summer sunset were now richly streaming. Once more upon the broad prairie, and the fragment of an iris was glittering in the eastern heavens: turning back, my eye caught a view of that singular but splendid phenomenon, seldom witnessed--a heavy, distant rain-shower between the spectator and the departing sun. Nightfall found me at the residence of Mr. D., an intelligent, gentlemanly farmer, with whom I passed an agreeable evening. I was not long in discovering that my host was a candidate for civic honours; and that he, with his friend Mr. L., whose speech I had subsequently the pleasure of perusing, had just returned from Mechanicsburg,[196] a small village in the vicinity, where they had been exerting themselves upon the stump to win the _aura popularis_ for the coming election. "_Sic itur ad astra!_" {69} Before sunrise I had crossed the threshold of my hospitable entertainer; and having wound my solitary way, partially by twilight, over a prairie fifteen miles in extent, "Began to feel, as well I might, The keen demands of appetite." Reining up my tired steed at the door of a log cabin in the middle of the plain, the nature and extent of my necessities were soon made known to an aged matron, who had come forth on my approach. "Some victuals you shall get, _stran-ger_; but you'll just take your _creetur_ to the crib and _gin_ him his feed; _bekase_, d'ye see, the old man is kind o' _drinkin_ to-day; yester' was 'lection, ye know." From the depths of my sympathetic emotions was I moved for the poor old body, who with most dolorous aspect had delivered herself of this message; and I had proceeded forthwith, agreeable to instructions, to satisfy the cravings of my patient animal, when who should appear but my tipsified host, _in propria persona_, at the door. The little old gentleman came tottering towards the spot where I stood, and, warmly squeezing my hand, whispered to me, with a most irresistible serio-comic air, "_that he was drunk_;" and "that he was four hours last night getting home from _'lection_," as he called it. "Now, stran-ger, you won't think hard on me," he continued, in his maudlin manner: "I'm a poor, drunken old fellow! but old Jim wan't al'ays so; old Jim wan't al'ays so!" he exclaimed, with bitterness, burying his face in his toilworn hands, as, having now regained the house, he seated himself with difficulty upon the {70} doorstep. "Once, my son, old Jim could knock down, drag out, whip, lift, or throw any man in all Sangamon, if he _was_ a _leetle_ fellow: but _now_--there's the receipt of his disgrace--there," he exclaimed, with vehemence, thrusting forth before my eyes two brawny, gladiator arms, in which the volumed muscles were heaving and contracting with excitement; ironed by labour, but shockingly mutilated. Expressing astonishment at the spectacle, he assured me that these wounds had been torn in the flesh by the teeth of infuriated antagonists in drunken quarrels, though the relation seemed almost too horrible to be true. Endeavouring to divert his mind from this disgusting topic, on which it seemed disposed to linger with ferocious delight, I made some inquiries relative to his farm--which was, indeed, a beautiful one, under high culture--and respecting the habits of the prairie-wolf, a large animal of the species having crossed my path in the prairie in the gray light of dawn. Upon the latter inquiry the old man sat silent a moment with his chin leaning on his hands. Looking up at length with an arch expression, he said, "Stran-ger, I _haint_ no _larnin_; I _can't_ read; but don't the Book say somewhere about old Jacob and the ring-streaked cattle?" "Yes." "Well, and how old Jake's ring-streaked and round-spotted _creeturs_, after a _leetle_, got the better of all the stock, and overrun the _univarsal_ herd; don't the Book say so?" "Something so." "Well, now for the wolves: they're all colours but ring-streaked and round-spotted; and if the sucker-farmers don't look to it, the prairie-wolves will get {71} the better of all the geese, turkeys, and _hins_ in the barnyard, speckled or no!" My breakfast was now on the table; a substantial fare of corn-bread, butter, honey, fresh eggs, _fowl_, and _coffee_, which latter are as invariably visitants at an Illinois table as is bacon at a Kentucky one, and that is saying no little. The exhilarating herb tea is rarely seen. An anecdote will illustrate this matter. A young man, journeying in Illinois, stopped one evening at a log cabin with a violent headache, and requested that never-failing antidote, _a cup of tea_. There was none in the house; and, having despatched a boy to a distant grocery to procure a pound, he threw himself upon the bed. In a few hours a beverage was handed him, the first swallow of which nearly excoriated his mouth and throat. In the agony of the moment he dashed down the bowl, and rushed half blinded to the fireplace. Over the blaze was suspended a huge iron kettle, half filled with an inky fluid, seething, and boiling, and bubbling, like the witches' caldron of unutterable things in Macbeth. The good old lady, in her anxiety to give her sick guest a _strong_ dish of tea, having never seen the like herself or drank thereof, and supposing it something of the nature of soup, very innocently and ignorantly poured the whole pound into her largest kettle, and set it a boiling. Poultry is the other standing dish of Illinois; and the poor birds seem to realize that their destiny is at hand whenever a traveller draws nigh, for they invariably hide their heads beneath the nearest covert. Indeed, so invariably are poultry and bacon visitants at an Illinois table, that {72} the story _may_ be true, that the first inquiry made of the guest by the village landlord is the following: "Well, stran-ger, what'll ye take: wheat-bread and _chicken fixens_, or corn-bread and _common doins_?" by the latter expressive and elegant soubriquet being signified bacon. Breakfast being over, my foot was once more in the stirrup. The old man accompanied me to the gateway, and shaking my hand in a boisterous agony of good-nature, pressed me to visit him again when he was _not drunk_. I had proceeded but a few steps on my way when I heard his voice calling after me, and turned my head: "Stran-ger! I say, stran-ger! what do you reckon of sending this young Jack Stewart to Congress?" "Oh, he'll answer." "Well, and that's what I'm a going to vote; and there's a heap o' people always thinks like old Jim does; and that's what made 'em get me groggy last night." I could not but commiserate this old man as I pursued my journey, reflecting on what had passed. He was evidently no common toper; for some of his remarks evinced a keenness of observation, and a depth and shrewdness of thought, which even the withering blight of drunkenness had not completely deadened; and which, with other habits and other circumstances, might have placed him far above the beck and nod of every demagogue. _Decatur, Ill._ XXIX "Ay, but to die, and go we know not where!" _Measure for Measure._ "Plains immense, interminable meads, And vast savannas, where the wand'ring eye, Unfix'd, is in a verdant ocean lost." THOMSON. "Ye shall have miracles; ay, sound ones too, Seen, heard, attested, everything but true." MOORE. "Call in the barber! If the tale be long, He'll cut it short, I trust." MIDDLETON. There are few sentiments of that great man Benjamin Franklin for which he is more to be revered than for those respecting the burial-place of the departed.[197] The grave-yard is, and should ever be deemed, a _holy_ spot; consecrated, not by the cold formalities of unmeaning ceremony, but by the solemn sacredness of the heart. Who that has committed to earth's cold bosom the relics of one dearer, perchance, than existence, can ever after pass the burial-ground with a careless heart. There is nothing which more painfully jars upon my own feelings--if I may except that wanton desecration of God's sanctuary in some sections of our land {74} for a public commitia--than to see the grave-yard slighted and abused. It is like wounding the memory of a buried friend. And yet it is an assertion which cannot be refuted, that, notwithstanding the reverence which, as a people, we have failed not to manifest for the memory of our dead, the same delicate regard and obsequy is not with us observed in the sacred rites as among the inhabitants of the Eastern hemisphere. If, indeed, we may be permitted to gather up an opinion from circumstances of daily notoriety, it would seem that the plat of ground appropriated as a cemetery in many of the villages of our land was devoted to this most holy of purposes solely because useless for every other; as if, after seizing upon every spot for the benefit of the living, this last poor _remnant_ was reluctantly yielded as a resting-place for the departed. And thus has it happened that most of the burial-grounds of our land have either been located in a region so lone and solitary, "You scarce would start to meet a spirit there," or they have been thrust out into the very midst of business, strife, and contention; amid the glare of sunshine, noise, and dust; "the gaudy, babbling, and remorseless day," with hardly a wall of stones to protect them from the inroads of unruly brutes or brutish men. It is as if the rites of sepulture were refused, and the poor boon of a resting-place in the bosom of our common mother denied to her offspring; as if, in our avarice of soul, we grudged even the last narrow house destined for all; and {75} fain would resume the last, the only gift our departed ones may retain. Who would not dread "_to die_" and have his lifeless clay deposited thus! Who would not, ere the last fleeting particle of existence had "ebbed to its finish," and the feeble breathing had forsaken its tenement for ever, pour forth the anguish of his spirit in the melancholy prayer, "When breath and sense have left this clay, In yon damp vault, oh lay me not! But kindly bear my bones away To some lone, green, and sunny spot." Reverence for the departed is ever a beautiful feature of humanity, and has struck us with admiration for nations of our race who could boast but few redeeming traits beside. It is, moreover, a circumstance not a little remarkable in the history of funeral obsequy, that veneration for the departed has prevailed in a ratio almost inverse to the degree of civilization. Without attempting to account for this circumstance, or to instance the multitude of examples which recur to every mind in its illustration, I would only refer to that deep religion of the soul which Nature has implanted in the heart of her simple child of the Western forests, teaching him to preserve and to honour the bones of his fathers! And those mysterious mausoleums of a former race! do they convey no meaning as they rise in lonely grandeur from our beautiful prairies, and look down upon the noble streams which for ages have dashed their dark floods along their base! {76} But a few years have passed away since this empire valley of the West was first pressed by the footstep of civilized man; and, if we except those aged sepulchres of the past, the cities of the dead hardly yet range side by side with the cities of the living. But this cannot _always_ be; even in this distant, beautiful land, death _must_ come; and here it doubtless has come, as many an anguished bosom can witness. Is it not, then, meet, while the busy tide of worldly enterprise is rolling heavily forth over this fair land, and the costly structures of art and opulence are rising on every side, as by the enchantment of Arabian fiction--is it _not_ meet that, amid the pauses of excitement, a solitary thought would linger around that spot, which must surely, reader, become the last resting-place of us all! I have often, in my wanderings through this pleasant land, experienced a thrill of delight which I can hardly describe, to behold, on entering a little Western hamlet, a neat white paling rising up beneath the groves in some green, sequestered spot, whose object none could mistake. Upon some of these, simple as they were, seemed to have been bestowed more than ordinary care; for they betrayed an elaborateness of workmanship and a delicacy of design sought for in vain among the ruder habitations of the living. This is, _surely_, as it should be; and I pity the man whose feelings cannot appreciate such a touching, beautiful expression of the heart. I have alluded to Franklin, and how pleasant it is to detect the kindly, household emotions of our nature throbbing beneath the {77} starred, dignified breast of philosophy and science. FRANKLIN, the statesman, the sage; he who turned the red lightnings from their wild pathway through the skies, and rocked the iron cradle of the mightiest democracy on the globe! we gaze upon him with awe and astonishment; involuntarily we yield the lofty motto presented by the illustrious Frenchman,[198] "_Eripuit fulmen coelo, mox sceptra tyrannis_." But when we behold that towering intellect descending from its throne, and intermingling its emotions even with those of the lowliest mind, admiration and reverence are lost in _love_. The preceding remarks, which have lengthened out themselves far beyond my design, were suggested by the loveliness of the site of the graveyard of the little village of Decatur. I was struck with its beauty on entering the place. It was near sunset; in the distance slept the quiet hamlet; upon my right, beneath the grove, peeped out the white paling through the glossy foliage; and as the broad, deep shadows of summer evening streamed lengthening through the trees wide over the landscape, that little spot seemed to my mind the sweetest one in the scene. And should not the burial-ground be ever thus! for who shall tell the emotions which may swell the bosom of many a dying emigrant who here shall find his long, last rest? In that chill hour, how will the thought of home, kindred, friendships, childhood-scenes, come rushing over the memory! and to lay his bones in the {78} quiet graveyard of his own native village, perchance may draw forth many a sorrowing sigh. But this now may never be; yet it will be consoling to the pilgrim-heart to realize that, though the resurrection morn shall find his relics far from the graves of his fathers, he shall yet sleep the long slumber, and at last come forth with those who were kind and near to him in a stranger-land; who laid away his cold clay in no "Potter's Field," but gathered it to their own household sepulchre. The human mind, whatever its philosophy, can never utterly divest itself of the idea that the spirit retains a consciousness of the lifeless body, sympathizing with its honour or neglect, and affected by all that variety of circumstance which may attend its existence: and who shall say how far this belief--superstition though it be--may smooth or trouble the dying pillow! How soothing, too, the reflection to the sorrow of distant friends, that their departed one peacefully and decently was gathered to his rest; that his dust is sleeping quietly in some sweet, lonely spot beneath the dark groves of the far-land; that his turf is often dewed by the teardrop of sympathy, and around his lowly headstone waves the wild-grass ever green and free! The son, the brother, the loved wanderer from his father's home, "Is in his grave! After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." The route leading to Decatur from the west lies chiefly through a broad branch of the "Grand Prairie," an immense plain, sweeping diagonally, with {79} little interruption, through the whole State of Illinois, from the Mississippi to the Wabash. For the first time, in any considerable number, I here met with those singular granite masses, termed familiarly by the settlers "_lost rocks_"; in geology, _boulders_. They are usually of a mammillated, globular figure, the surface perfectly smooth, sometimes six hundred tons in weight, and always lying completely isolated, frequently some hundred miles from a quarry. They rest upon the surface or are slightly imbedded in the soil; and, so far as my own observation extends, are of distinct granitic formation, of various density and composition. Several specimens I obtained are as heavy as metal, and doubtless contain iron. Many of them, however, like those round masses dug from the ancient works in Ohio, are pyritous in character. There is a mystery about these "lost rocks" not easily solved, for no granite quarry has ever yet been discovered in Illinois. Their appearance, in the midst of a vast prairie, is dreary and lonely enough. The site of the town of Decatur is somewhat depressed, and in the heart of a grove of noble oaks.[199] Long before the traveller reaches it, the whole village is placed before his eye from the rounded summit of the hill, over which winds the road. The neighbouring region is well settled; the prairie high and rolling, and timber abundant. It is not a large place, however; and perhaps there are few circumstances which will render it otherwise for some years. It contains, nevertheless, a few handsome buildings; several trading establishments; a good tavern; is said to be healthy; and, upon the whole, is a far {80} prettier, neater little village than many others of loftier pretensions through which I have passed in Illinois. The village will be intersected by two of the principal railroads of the state, now projected, which circumstance cannot fail to place it in the first rank as an inland trading town. My visit at Decatur was a short one; and, after tea, just as the moon was beginning to silver the tops of the eastern oaks, I left the village and rode leisurely through the forest, in order to enter upon the prairie at dawn the following day. A short distance from Decatur I again forded the Sangamon; the same insignificant stream as ever; and, by dint of scrambling, succeeded in attaining the lofty summit of its opposite bank, from which the surrounding scenery of rolling forest-tops was magnificent and sublime. From this elevation the pathway plunged into a thick grove, dark as Erebus, save where lighted up by a few pale moonbeams struggling through a break in the tree-tops, or the deep-red gleamings of the evening sky streaming at intervals along the undergrowth. The hour was a calm and impressive one: its very loneliness made it sweeter; and that beautiful hymn of the Tyrolean peasantry at sunset, as versified by Mrs. Hemans, was forcibly recalled by the scene: "Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done. Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wood's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie." {81} After a ride of a few miles my path suddenly emerged from the forest upon the edge of a boundless prairie, from whose dark-rolling herbage, here and there along the distant swells, was thrown back the glorious moonlight, as if from the restless, heaving bosom of the deep. An extensive prairie, beneath a full burst of summer moonlight, is, indeed, a magnificent spectacle. One can hardly persuade himself that he is not upon the ocean-shore. And now a wild, fresh breeze, which all the day had been out playing among the perfumed flowers and riding the green-crested waves, came rolling in from the prairie, producing an undulation of its surface and a murmuring in the heavy forest-boughs perfect in the illusion. All along the low, distant horizon hung a thin mist of silvery gauze, which, as it rose and fell upon the dark herbage, gave an idea of mysterious boundlessness to the scene. Here and there stood out a lonely, weather-beaten tree upon the plain, its trunk shrouded in obscurity, but its leafy top sighing in the night-breeze, and gleaming like a beacon-light in the beams of the cloudless moon. There was a dash of fascinating romance about the scene, which held me involuntarily upon the spot until reminded by the chill dews of night that I had, as yet, no shelter. On casting around my eye, I perceived a low log cabin, half buried in vegetation, standing alone in the skirt of the wood. Although a miserable tenement, necessity compelled me to accept its hospitality, and I entered. It consisted of a single apartment, in which two beds, two stools, a cross-legged deal table, {82} and a rough clothes-press, were the only household furniture. A few indispensable iron utensils sat near the fire; the water-pail and gourd stood upon the shelf, and a half-consumed flitch of bacon hung suspended in the chimney; but the superlatives of andirons, shovel and tongs, etc., etc., were all unknown in this primitive abode. A pair of "lost rocks"--_lost_, indeed--supplied the first, and the gnarled branch of an oak was substituted for the latter. The huge old chimney and fireplace were, as usual, fashioned of sticks and bedaubed with clay; yet everything looked neat, yea, _comfortable_, in very despite of poverty itself. A young female with her child, an infant boy, in her arms, was superintending the preparation of the evening meal. Her language and demeanour were superior to the miserable circumstances by which she was surrounded; and though she moved about her narrow demesne with a quiet, satisfied air, I was not long in learning that _affection_ alone had transplanted this exotic of the prairie from a more congenial soil. What woman does not love to tell over those passages of her history in which the _heart_ has ruled lord of the ascendant? and how very different in this respect is our sex from hers! Man, proud man, "the creature of interest and ambition," often blushes to be reminded that he has a heart, while woman's cheek mantles with the very intensity of its pulsation! The husband in a few minutes came in from attending to my horse; the rough table was spread; a humble fare was produced; all were seated; and then, beneath that miserable roof, {83} around that meager board, before a morsel of the food, poor as it was, passed the lip of an individual, the iron hand of toil was reverently raised, and a grateful heart called down a blessing from the Mightiest! Ah! thought I, as I beheld the peaceful, satisfied air of that poor man, as he partook of his humble evening meal with gratefulness, little does the son of luxury know the calm contentment which fills his breast! And the great God, as he looks down upon his children and reads their hearts, does he not listen to many a warmer, purer thank-offering from beneath the lowly roof-tree of the wilderness, than from all the palaces of opulence and pride? So it has ever been--so it has _ever_ been--and so can it never cease to be while the heart of man remains attempered as it is. The humble repast was soon over; and, without difficulty, I entered into conversation with the father of the family. He informed me that he had been but a few years a resident of Illinois; that he had been unfortunate; and that, recently, his circumstances had become more than usually circumscribed, from his endeavours to save from speculators a pre-emption right of the small farm he was cultivating. This farm was his _all_; and, in his solicitude to retain its possession, he had disposed of every article of the household which would in any way produce money, even of a part of his own and his wife's wardrobe. I found him a man of considerable intelligence, and he imparted to me some facts respecting that singular sect styling themselves Mormonites of which I was previously hardly aware. Immense {84} crowds of these people had passed his door on the great road from Terre Haute, all with families and household effects stowed away in little one-horse wagons of peculiar construction, and on their journey to Mount Zion, the New Jerusalem, situated near Independence, Jackson county, Missouri! Their observance of the Sabbath was almost pharisaically severe, never permitting themselves to travel upon that day; the men devoting it to hunting, and the females to washing clothes, and other operations of the camp! It was their custom, likewise, to hold a preachment in every village or settlement, whether men would hear or forbear: the latter must have been the case with something of a majority, I think, since no one with whom I have ever met could, for the life of him, give a subsequent expose of _Mormonism_, "though often requested." "I never heard or could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, To name, define by speech, or write on page, The _doctrines_ meant precisely by that word, Which surely is exceedingly absurd." They assert that an angelic messenger has appeared to Joe Smith, announcing the millennial dawn at hand; that a glorious city of the faithful--the New Jerusalem, with streets of gold and gates of pearl--is about to be reared upon Mount Zion, Mo., where the Saviour will descend and establish a kingdom to which there shall be no end; ergo, argue these everlasting livers, it befits all good citizens to get to Independence, Jackson county, aforesaid, as fast as one-horse wagons will convey them![200] Large quantities of arms and ammunition have, moreover, been {85} forwarded, so that the item of "the sword being beaten into a ploughshare, and spear into pruning-hook," seems not of probable fulfilment according to these worthies. The truth of the case is, they anticipated a brush with the long-haired "pukes"[201] before securing a "demise, release, and for ever quitclaim" to Zion Hill, said _pukes_ having already at sundry times manifested a refractory spirit, and, from the following anecdote of my good man of the hut, in "rather a ridic'lous manner." I am no voucher for the story: I give it as related; "and," as Ben Jonson says, "what he has possessed me withal, I'll discharge it amply." "One Sabbath evening, when the services of the congregation of the Mormonites were over, the Rev. Joe Smith, priest and prophet, announced to his expectant tribe that, on the succeeding Sabbath, the baptismal sacrament would take place, when an angel would appear on the opposite bank of the stream. Next Sabbath came, and 'great was the company of the people' to witness the miraculous visitation. The baptism commenced, and was now wellnigh concluded: 'Do our eyes deceive us! can such things _be_! The prophecy! the angel!' were exclamations which ran through the multitude, as a fair form, veiled in a loose white garment, with flowing locks and long bright pinions, stood suddenly before the assembled multitude upon the opposite shore, and then disappeared! All was amazement, consternation, awe! But where is Joe Smith? In a few moments Joe Smith was with them, and their faith was confirmed. {86} "Again was a baptism appointed--again was the angel announced--a larger congregation assembled--and yet again did the angel appear. At that moment two powerful men sprang from a thicket, rushed upon the angelic visitant, and, amid mingling exclamations of horror and _execrations_ of piety from the spectators, tore away his long white wings, his hair and robe, and plunged him into the stream! By some unaccountable metamorphosis, the angel emerged from the river honest Joe Smith, priest of Mormon, finder of the golden plates, etc., etc., and the magi of the enchantment were revealed in the persons of two brawny _pukes_." Since then, the story concludes, not an angel has been seen all about Mount Zion! The miracle of walking upon water was afterward essayed, but failed by the removal, by some impious wags, of the _benches_ prepared for the occasion. It is truly astonishing to what lengths superstition has run in some sections of this same Illinois. Not long since, a knowing farmer in the county of Macon conceived himself ordained of heaven a promulgator to the world of a system of "New Light," so styled, upon "a plan entirely new." No sooner did the idea strike his fancy, than, leaving the plough in the middle of the furrow, away sallies he to the nearest village, and admonishes every one, everywhere, forthwith to be baptized by his heaven-appointed hands, and become a regenerate man on the spot. Many believed--was there ever faith too preposterous to obtain proselytes? the doctrine, in popular phrase, "took mightily;" and, it must be confessed, the whole world, men, women, and children, were {87} in a fair way for regeneration. Unfortunately for that desirable consummation, at this crisis certain simple-hearted people thereabouts, by some freak of fancy or other, took it into their heads that the priest himself manifested hardly that _quantum_ of the regenerated spirit that beseemed so considerable a functionary. Among other peccadilloes, he had unhappily fallen into a habit every Sabbath morning, when he rode in from his farmhouse--a neat little edifice which the good people had erected for his benefit in the outskirts of the village--of trotting solemnly up before the grocery-door upon his horse, receiving a glass of some dark-coloured liquid, character unknown, drinking it off with considerable gusto, dropping a _picayune_ into the tumbler, then proceeding to the pulpit, and, on the inspiration of the mysterious potation, holding vehemently forth. Sundry other misdeeds of the reverend man near about the same time came to light, so that at length the old women pronounced that terrible fiat, "the preacher was no _better_ than he should be;" which means, as everybody knows, that he was a good deal _worse_. And so the men, old and young, chimed in, and the priest was politely advised to decamp before the doctrine should get unsavoury. Thus ended the glorious discovery of New-lightism! It is a humiliating thing to review the aberrations of the human mind: and, believe me, reader, my intention in reviewing these instances of religious fanaticism has been not to excite a smile of transient merriment, nor for a moment to call in question the {88} reality of true devotion. My intention has been to show to what extremes of preposterous folly man may be hurried when he once resigns himself to the vagaries of fancy upon a subject which demands the severest deductions of reason. It is, indeed, a _melancholy_ consideration, that, in a country like our own, which we fondly look upon as the hope of the world, and amid the full-orbed effulgence of the nineteenth century, there should exist a body of men, more than twelve thousand in number, as is estimated, professing belief in a faith so unutterably absurd as that styled Mormonism; a faith which would have disgraced the darkest hour of the darkest era of our race.[202] But it is not for me to read the human _heart_. _Shelbyville, Ill._ XXX "The day is lowering; stilly black Sleeps the grim waste, while heaven's rack, Dispersed and wild, 'tween earth and sky Hangs like a shatter'd canopy!" _Fire-worshippers._ "Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky; The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun By fits effulgent gilds the illumined fields, And black by fits the shadows sweep along." THOMSON. "The bleak winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There's scarce a bush." _Lear, Act 2._ "These are the Gardens of the Desert." BRYANT. Merrily, merrily did the wild night-wind howl, and whistle, and rave around the little low cabin beneath whose humble roof-tree the traveller had lain himself to rest. Now it would roar and rumble down the huge wooden chimney, and anon sigh along the tall grass-tops and through the crannies like the wail of some lost one of the waste. The moonbeams, at intervals darkened by the drifting clouds and again pouring gloriously forth, streamed in long threads of silver through the shattered walls; while the shaggy forest in the back-ground, tossing its heavy branches against the troubled sky, {90} roared forth a deep chorus to the storm. It was a wild night, and so complete was the illusion that, in the fitful lullings of the tempest, one almost imagined himself on the ocean-beach, listening to the confused weltering of the surge. There was much of high sublimity in all this; and hours passed away before the traveller, weary as he was, could quiet his mind to slumber. There are seasons when every chord, and nerve, and sinew of the system seems wound up to its severest tension; and a morbid, unnatural excitement broods over the mind, forbidding all approach to quietude. Every one has _experienced_ this under peculiar circumstances; few can _describe_ it. The night wore tediously away, and at the dawn the traveller was again in the saddle, pushing forth like a "pilgrim-bark" upon the swelling ocean-waste, sweeping even to the broad curve of undulating horizon beyond. There is always something singularly unpleasant in the idea of going out upon one of these vast prairies _alone_; and such the sense of utter loneliness, that the solitary traveller never fails to cast back a lingering gaze upon the last low tenement he is leaving. The winds were still up, and the rack and clouds were scudding in wild confusion along the darkened sky; "Here, flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast; There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling!" From time to time a heavy blast would come careering {91} with resistless fury along the heaving plain, almost tearing the rider from his horse. The celebrated "Grand Prairie," upon which I was now entering, stretched itself away to the south thirty miles, a vast, unbroken meadow; and one may conceive, not describe, the terrible fury of a storm-wind sweeping over a surface like this.[203] As the morning advanced, the violence of the tempest lulled into fitful gusts; and, as the centre of the vast amphitheatre was attained, a scene of grandeur and magnificence opened to my eye such as it never before had looked upon. Elevated upon a full roll of the prairie, the glance ranged over a scene of seemingly limitless extent; for upon every side, for the first time in my ramble, the deep blue line of the horizon and the darker hue of the waving verdure blended into one. The touching, delicate loveliness of the lesser prairies, so resplendent in brilliancy of hue and beauty of outline, I have often dwelt upon with delight. The graceful undulation of slope and swell; the exquisite richness and freshness of the verdure flashing in native magnificence; the gorgeous dies of the matchless and many-coloured flowers dallying with the winds; the beautiful woodland points and promontories shooting forth into the mimic sea; the far-retreating, shadowy _coves_, going back in long vistas into the green wood; the curved outline of the dim, distant horizon, caught at intervals through the openings of the forest; and the whole gloriously lighted up by the early radiance of morning, as with rosy footsteps she came dancing {92} over the dew-gemmed landscape; all these constituted a scene in which beauty unrivalled was the sole ingredient. And then those bright enamelled clumps of living emerald, sleeping upon the wavy surface like the golden Hesperides of classic fiction, or, like another cluster of Fortunate Isles in the dark-blue waters, breathing a fragrance as from oriental bowers; the wild-deer bounding in startled beauty from his bed, and the merry note of the skylark, whistling, with speckled vest and dew-wet wing, upon the resin-weed, lent the last touchings to Nature's _chef d'oeuvre_. "Oh, beautiful, still beautiful, Though long and lone the way." But the scene amid which I was now standing could boast an aspect little like this. Here, indeed, were the rare and delicate flowers; and life, in all its fresh and beautiful forms, was leaping forth in wild and sportive luxuriance at my feet. But all was vast, measureless, Titanic; and the loveliness of the picture was lost in its grandeur. Here was no magnificence of _beauty_, no _gorgeousness_ of vegetation, no _splendour_ of the wilderness; "Green isles and circling shores _ne'er_ blended here In wild reality!" All was bold and impressive, reposing in the stern, majestic solitude of Nature. On every side the earth heaved and rolled like the swell of troubled waters; now sweeping away in the long heavy wave of ocean, and now rocking and curling like the abrupt, broken bay-billow tumbling around the {93} crag. Between the lengthened parallel ridges stretch the ravines by which the prairie is drained; and, owing to the depth and tenacity of the soil, they are sometimes almost impassable. Ascending from these, the elevation swells so gradually as to be almost imperceptible to the traveller, until he finds himself upon the summit, and the immense landscape is spread out around him. "The clouds Sweep over with their shadows, and beneath, The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase The sunny ridges." The diversity of light and shade upon the swells and depressions at the hour of sunrise, or when at midday clouds are drifting along the sky, is endless. A few points here and there are thrown into prominent relief; while others, deeply retreating, constitute an imaginary back-ground perfect in its kind. And then the sunlight, constantly changing its position, is received upon such a variety of angles, and these, too, so rapidly vary as the breeze rolls over the surface, that it gives the scene a wild and shifting aspect to the eye at times, barely reconcilable with the idea of reality. As the sun reached the meridian the winds went down, and then the stillness of death hung over the prairie. The utter desolateness of such a scene is indescribable. Not a solitary tree to intercept the vision or to break the monotony; not a sound to cheer the ear or relieve the desolation; not a living {94} thing in all that vast wild plain to tell the traveller that he was not "Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea!" It is at such a season that the question presents itself with more than ordinary vehemence to the mind, _To what circumstance do these vast prairies owe their origin_? Amid what terrible convulsion of the elements did these great ocean-plains heave themselves into being? What mighty voice has rolled this heaped-up surface into tumult, and then, amid the storm and the tempest, bid the curling billows stand, and fixed them there? "The hand that built the firmament hath heaved And smooth'd these verdant swells." The origin of the prairie has given rise to much speculation. Some contend that we are to regard these vast plains in the same light as mountains, valleys, forests, and other grand features of Nature's workmanship. And, it is very true, plains of a character not dissimilar are to be met with all over our earth; at every degree of elevation of every extent, and of every stage of fertility, from the exhaustless fecundity of the delta of the Nile to the barren sterility of the sands of the desert. Northern Asia has her boundless _pastures_ and _steppes_, where the wild Tartar feeds his flock; Africa may boast her Bedouin _sands_, her _tablelands_, and her _karroos_; South America her grassy _llanos_ and _pampas_; Europe her purple _heather_; India her _jungles_; the southern sections of our own land their beautiful _savannas_; and wherefore not the {95} vast regions of the "Far West" their broad-rolling _prairies_? The word is of French derivation, signifying _meadow_; and is applied to every description of surface destitute of timber and clothed with grass. It was, then, upon their own fair prairies of Judea and Mesopotamia that the ancient patriarchs pitched their tents. The tough sward of the prairie, when firmly formed, it is well known, refuses to receive the forest; but, once broken into by the ploughshare or by any other cause, and protected from the autumnal flames, and all is soon rolling with green; and the sumach, the hazel, and the wild-cherry are succeeded by the oak. Such is the argument for the _natural_ origin of the prairie, and its cogency none will deny. But, assuming for a moment a _diluvial_ origin to these vast plains, as a thousand circumstances concur to indicate, and the phenomena are far more satisfactorily and philosophically resolved. In a soil so exhaustlessly fertile, the grasses and herbs would first secure possession of the surface. Even now, whenever the earth is thrown up, from whatever depth, it is immediately mossed with verdure by the countless embryos buried in its teeming bosom; a proof incontestable of secondary origin. After the grasses succeeded flowering shrubs; then the larger weeds; eventually, thickets were formed; the surface was baked and hardened by the direct rays of the sun, and the bosom of the soil, bound up as if by bands of brass and iron, utterly refused to receive or nourish the seeds of the forest now strewn over it. This is the unavoidable conclusion wherever natural {96} causes have held their sway. Upon the borders of rivers, creeks, and overflowing streams, or wherever the soil has become broken, this series of causes was interrupted, and the result we see in the numerous island-groves, and in the forests which invariably fringe the water-courses, great and small. The autumnal fires, too, aboriginal tradition informs us, have annually swept these vast plains from an era which the memory of man faileth to record, scathing and consuming every bush, shrub, or thicket which in the lapse of ages might have aspired to the dignity of a tree; a nucleus around which other trees might have clustered. Here and there, indeed, amid the heaving waste, a desolate, wind-shaken, flame-blackened oak rears its naked branches in the distance; but it is a stricken thing, and only confirms the position assumed. From a concurrence of fortuitous circumstances easily conceived, the solitary seed was received into a genial soil; the tender shrub and the sapling were protected from destruction, and at length it had struggled into the upper air, and defied alike the flames and blasts of the prairie. The argument of _analogy_ for the _natural origin_ of the prairie may also be fairly questioned, since careful examination of the subject must convince any unprejudiced mind that the similarity of feature between these plains and others with which we are acquainted is not sufficiently striking to warrant comparison. The _pampas_, the _steppes_, and the _sand-plains_, though not unlike in the more prominent characteristics, are yet widely different {97} in configuration, extent, and soil. The prairie combines characteristics of each, exhibiting features of all in _common_, of no one in _particular_. Who would institute comparison between the dark-rolling luxuriance of the North American prairie, and the gloomy moor of Northern Europe, with its heavy, funereal mantle of heather and _ling_. Could the rifest fancy conjure up the _weird sisters_, all "so withered and so wild in their attire," upon these beautiful plains of the departed Illini! Nor do we meet in the thyme-breathing downs of "merry England," the broad rich levels of France, the grape-clad highlands of Spain, or in the golden mellowness of the Italian _Campagna_, with a similitude of feature sufficiently striking to identify our own glorious prairies with them. Europe can boast, indeed, no peculiarity of surface assuming like configuration or exhibiting like phenomena. When, then, we reflect, that of all those plains which spread out themselves upon our globe, the North American prairie possesses characteristics peculiar to itself, and to be met with nowhere beside; when we consider the demonstrations of a soil of origin incontestably diluvial; when we wander over the heaving, billowy surface, and behold it strewed with the rocky offspring of another region, and, at intervals, encased in the saline crust of the ocean-sediment; when we dive into its fathomless bosom, and bring forth the crumbling relics of man and animal from sepulchres into which, for untold cycles, they have been entombed; and when we linger along those rolling streams by which they {98} are intersected, and behold upon their banks the mighty indications of whirling, subsiding floods, and behold buried in the heart of the everlasting rock productions only of the sea, the conviction is forced upon us, almost resistlessly, that here the broad ocean once heaved and roared. To what circumstance, indeed, but a revolution of nature like this, are we to refer that uniform deposition of earthy strata upon the alluvial bottom-land of every stream? to what those deep-cut race-paths which the great streams have, in the lapse of centuries, worn for themselves through the everlasting rock, hundreds of feet? to what those vast salt-plains of Arkansas? those rocky heaps of the same mineral on the Missouri, or those huge isolated masses of limestone, rearing themselves amid the lonely grandeur, a wonder to the savage? Or to what else shall we refer those collections of enormous seashells, heaped upon the soil, or thrown up to its surface from a depth of fifty feet? Many phenomena in the Valley of the Mississippi concur to confirm the idea that its vast delta-plains, when first forsaken by the waters of the ocean, were possessed by extensive canebrakes, covering, indeed, its entire surface. If, then, we suppose the Indians, who passed from Asia to America in the early centuries of the Christian era, to have commenced the fires in autumn when the reed was like tinder, and the conflagration would sweep over boundless regions, we at once have an hypothesis which accounts for the origin of the prairies. It is at least as plausible as some others. The occasions of the autumnal fires may have been {99} various. The cane-forests must have presented an insurmountable obstacle in travelling, hunting, agriculture, or even residence; while the friction caused by the tempestuous winds of autumn may have kindled numerous fires among the dry reeds. The surface peculiar to the prairie is first perceived in the State of Ohio. As we proceed north and west it increases in extent, until, a few hundred miles beyond the Mississippi, it rolls on towards the setting sun, in all the majesty and magnificence of boundlessness, to the base of the Rocky Mountains. Such are the beautiful prairies of the fair Far West; and if, gentle reader, my pen, all rapid though it be, has lingered tediously to thee along their fairy borders, it may yet prove no small consolation to thy weariness to reflect that its errings upon the subject are wellnigh ended. It was yet early in the day, as I have intimated, when I reached the centre of that broad branch of the Grand Prairie over which I was passing; and, mile after mile, the narrow pathway, almost obliterated here and there by the waving vegetation, continued to wind itself along. With that unreflecting carelessness which characterizes the inexperienced wayfarer, I had left behind me the last human habitation I was for hours to look upon, without the slightest refreshment; and now the demands of unappeased nature, sharpened by exercise, by the keen atmosphere of the prairies, and, probably, by the force of fancy, which never fails to aggravate privations which we know to be remediless, had become absolutely painful. The faithful animal beneath {100} me, also, from the total absence of water along our path, was nearly exhausted; and there, before and around, and on every side, not an object met the view but the broad-rolling, limitless prairie, and the dim, misty horizon in the distance. Above, the heavens were calm and blue, and the bright sun was careering on in his giant course as gloriously as if the storm-cloud had never swept his path. League after league the prairie lay behind me, and still swell upon swell, wave after wave, heaved up itself in endless succession before the wearied eye. There _is_ a point, reader, in physical, not less than in moral affairs, where forbearance ceases to be a virtue; and, veritably, suggestions bordering on the horrible were beginning to flit athwart the fancy, when, happily, a long, low, wavering cloud-like line was caught stretching itself upon the extremest verge of the misty horizon. My jaded animal was urged onward; and slowly, _very_ slowly, the dim outline undulated upward, and the green forest rose gradually before the gladdened vision! A few miles, the path plunged into the green, fresh woods; crossed a deep creek, which betrayed its meandering by the grove along its banks, and the hungry traveller threw himself from his horse before a log cabin imbowered in the trees. The spot was one of those luxuriant copses in the heart of the prairie, comprising several hundred acres, so common in the northern sections of Illinois. "_Victuals and drink!_" were, of course, the first demand from a female who showed herself at the door; and, "_I judge_" was the laconic but cheering {101} reply. She stared with uncontrolled curiosity at her stranger-guest. At the moment he must have looked a perfect incarnation of ferocity; a very genius of famine and starvation; but, all in good time, he was luxuriating over a huge fragment of swine's flesh, a bowl of honey, and a loaf of bread; and soon were his _miseries_ over. What! honey and hog's flesh not a luxury! Say ye so, reader! Verily, then, were ye never half starved in the heart of a Western prairie! _Salem, Ill._ XXXI "No leave take I, for I will ride As far as land will let me." "The long sunny lapse of a summer's daylight." "What fool is this!" _As You Like It._ Among that novel variety of feature which the perspicacity of European tourists in America has enabled them to detect of Cis-atlantic character, two traits seem ever to stand forth in striking relief, and are dwelt upon with very evident satisfaction: I allude to Avarice and Curiosity. Upon the former of these characteristics it is not my purpose to comment; though one can hardly have been a traveller, in any acceptation of the term, or in almost any section of our land, without having arrived at a pretty decided opinion upon the subject. Curiosity, {102} however, it will not, I am persuaded, be denied, _does_ constitute a feature, and no inconsiderable one, in our national character; nor would it, perhaps, prove a difficult task to lay the finger upon those precise circumstances in our origin and history as a people which have tended to superinduce a trait of this kind--a trait so disgusting in its ultra development; and yet, in its ultimate nature, so indispensably the mainspring of everything efficient in mind. "_Low vice_," as the author of Childe Harold has been pleased to stigmatize it; yet upon this single propellant may, in retrospect, be predicated the cause of more that contributes to man's happiness than perhaps upon any other. _Frailty of a little mind_, as it _may_ be, and is often deemed; yet not the less true is it that the omnipotent workings of this passion have ever been, and must, until the nature of the human mind is radically changed, continue to remain, at once the necessary concomitant and the essential element of a vigorous understanding. If it be, then, indeed true, as writers and critics beyond the waters would fain have us believe, that American national character is thus compounded, so far from blushing at the discovery, we would hail it as a leading cause of our unparalleled advancement as a people in the time past, and as an unerring omen of progression in future. My pen has been insensibly betrayed into these remarks in view of a series of incidents which, during my few months rambling, have from time to time transpired; and which, while they illustrate forcibly to my mind the position I have assumed, {103} have also demonstrated conclusively the minor consideration, that the passion, in all its _phenomena_, is by no means, as some would have us believe, restricted to any one portion of our land; that it _is_, in verity, a characteristic of the entire Anglo-American race! Thus much for _sage forensic_ upon "that low vice, curiosity." My last number left me luxuriating, with all the gusto of an amateur prairie-wolf fresh from his starving lair, upon the _fat_ and _honey_ of Illinois. During these blessed moments of trencher devotion, several inmates of the little cabin whose hospitality I was enjoying, who had been labouring in the field, successively made their appearance; and to each individual in turn was the traveller handed over, like a bale of suspected contraband merchandise, for supervision. The interrogatories of each were quite the same, embracing name and nativity, occupation, location, and destination, administered with all the formal exactitude of a county-court lawyer. With the inquiries of none, however, was I more amused than with those of a little corpulent old fellow ycleped "Uncle Bill," with a proboscis of exceeding rubicundity, and eyes red as a weasel's, to say nothing of a voice melodious in note as an asthmatic clarionet. The curiosity of the Northern Yankee is, in all conscience, unconscionable enough when aroused; but, for the genuine quintessence of inquisitiveness, commend your enemy, if you have one, to an army of starving gallinippers, or to a backwoods' family of the Far West, who see a traveller twice a year, and don't take the newspaper! Now {104} mark me, reader! I mention this not as a _fault_ of the worthy "Suckers:"[204] it is rather a misfortune; or, if otherwise, it surely "leans to virtue's side." A _peculiarity_, nevertheless, it certainly is; and a striking one to the stranger. Inquiries are constantly made with most unblushing effrontery, which, under ordinary circumstances, would be deemed but a single remove from insult, but at which, under those to which I refer, a man of sense would not for a moment take exception. It is _true_, as some one somewhere has said, that a degree of inquisitiveness which in the more crowded walks of life would be called impertinent, is perfectly allowable in the wilderness; and nothing is more conceivable than desire for its gratification. As to the people of Illinois, gathered as they are from every "kindred, and nation, and tribe, and language under heaven," there are traits of character among them which one could wish universally possessed. Kind, hospitable, open-hearted, and confiding have I ever found them, whether in the lonely log cabin of the prairie or in the overflowing settlement; and some noble spirits _I_ have met whose presence would honour any community or people. After my humble but delicious meal was concluded, mine host, a tall, well-proportioned, sinewy young fellow, taking down his rifle from the _beckets_ in which it was reposing over the rude mantel, very civilly requested me to accompany him on a hunting ramble of a few hours in the vicinity for deer. Having but a short evening ride before me, I readily consented; and, leaving the cabin, we strolled {105} leisurely through the shady woods, along the banks of the creek I have mentioned, for several miles; but, though indications of deer were abundant, without success. We were again returning to the hut, which was now in sight on the prairie's edge, when, in the middle of a remark upon the propriety of "_disposing of a part of his extensive farm_," the rifle of my companion was suddenly brought to his eye; a sharp crack, and a beautiful doe, which the moment before was bounding over the nodding wild-weeds like the summer wind, lay gasping at our feet. So agreeable did I find my youthful hunter, that I was wellnigh complying with his request to "tarry with him yet a few days," and try my own hand and eye, all unskilled though they be, in _gentle venerie_; or, at the least, to taste a steak from the fine fat doe. _Sed fugit, interea fugit, irreparabile tempus_; and when the shades of evening were beginning to gather over the landscape, I had passed over a prairie some eight miles in breadth; and, chilled and uncomfortable from the drenching of a heavy shower, was entering the village of Shelbyville through the trees.[205] This is a pleasant little town enough, situated on the west bank of the Kaskaskia River, in a high and heavily-timbered tract. It is the seat of justice for the county from which it takes its name, which circumstance is fearfully portended by a ragged, bleak-looking structure called a courthouse. Its shattered windows, and flapping doors, and weather-stained bricks, when associated with the object to which it is appropriated, perched up as it is in the {106} centre of the village, reminds one of a cornfield scarecrow, performing its duty by looking as hideous as possible. _In terrorem_, in sooth. Dame Justice seems indeed to have met with most shameful treatment all over the West, through her legitimate representative the courthouse. The most interesting object in the vicinity of Shelbyville is a huge sulphur-spring, which I did not tarry long enough to visit. "Will you be pleased, sir, to register your name?" was the modest request of mine host, as, having _settled the bill_, with foot in stirrup, I was about mounting my steed at the door of the little hostlerie of Shelbyville the morning after my arrival. Tortured by the pangs of a curiosity which it was quite evident must now or never be gratified, he had pursued his guest _beyond the threshold_ with this _dernier resort_ to elicit _a_ name and residence. "Register my name, sir!" was the reply. "And pray, let me ask, where do you intend that desirable operation to be performed?" The discomfited publican, with an expression of ludicrous dismay, hastily retreating to the bar-room, soon reappeared gallanting a mysterious-looking little blue-book, with "Register" in ominous characters portrayed upon the back thereof. _A_ name was accordingly soon despatched with a pencil, beneath about a dozen others, which the honest man had probably managed to _save_ in as many years; and, applying the spur, the last glance of the traveller caught the eager features of his host poring over this new accession to his treasure. {107} The early air of morning was intensely chilling as I left the village and pursued my solitary way through the old woods; but, as the sun went up the heavens, and the path emerged upon the open prairie, the transition was astonishing. The effect of emerging from the dusky shades of a thick wood upon a prairie on a summer day is delightful and peculiar. I have often remarked it. It impresses one like passing from the damp, gloomy closeness of a cavern into the genial sunshine of a flower-garden. For the first time during my tour in Illinois was my horse now severely troubled by that terrible insect, so notorious all over the West, the large green-bottle prairie-fly, called the "green-head." My attention was first attracted to it by observing several gouts of fresh blood upon the rein; and, glancing at my horse's neck, my surprise was great at beholding an orifice quite as large as that produced by the _fleam_ from which the dark fluid was freely streaming. The instant one of these fearful insects plants itself upon a horse's body, the rider is made aware of the circumstance by a peculiar restlessness of the animal in every limb, which soon becomes a perfect agony, while the sweat flows forth at every pore. The last year[206] was a remarkable one for countless swarms of these flies; many animals were _killed_ by them; and at one season it was even dangerous to venture across the broader prairies except before sunrise or after nightfall. In the early settlement of the county, these insects were so troublesome as in {108} a great measure to retard the cultivation of the prairies; but, within a few years, a yellow insect larger than the "green-head" has made its appearance wherever the latter was found, and, from its sweeping destruction of the annoying fly, has been called the "horse-guard." These form burrows by penetrating the earth to some depth, and there depositing the slaughtered "green-heads." It is stated that animals become so well aware of the relief afforded by these insects and of their presence, that the traveller recognises their arrival at once by the quiet tranquillity which succeeds the former agitation. Ploughing upon the prairies was formerly much delayed by these insects, and heavy netting was requisite for the protection of the oxen. At an inconsiderable settlement called _Cold Spring_, after a ride of a dozen miles, I drew up my horse for refreshment.[207] My host, a venerable old gentleman, with brows silvered over by the frosts of sixty winters, from some circumstance unaccountable, presumed his guest a political circuit-rider, and arranged his remarks accordingly. The old man's politics were, however, not a little musty. Henry Clay was spoken of rather as a young aspirant for distinction, just stepping upon the arena of public life, than as the aged statesman about resigning "the seals of office," and, hoary with honour, withdrawing from the world. Nathless, much pleased was I with my host. He was a native of Connecticut, and twenty years had seen him a resident in "the Valley." Resuming my route, the path conducted through {109} a high wood, and for the first time since my departure from New-England was my ear charmed by the sweet, melancholy note of the robin, beautiful songster of my own native North. A wanderer can hardly describe his emotions on an occurrence like this. The ornithology of the West, so far as a limited acquaintance will warrant assertion, embraces many of the most magnificent of the feathered creation. Here is found the jay, in gold and azure, most splendid bird of the forest; here the woodpecker, with flaming crest and snowy capote; the redbird; the cardinal grosbeak, with his mellow whistle, gorgeous in crimson dies; the bluebird, delicate as an iris; the mockbird, unrivalled chorister of our land; the thrush; the wishton-wish; the plaintive whippoorwill; and last, yet not the least, the turtle-dove, with her flutelike moaning. How often, on my solitary path, when all was still through the grove, and heaven's own breathings for a season seemed hushed, have I reined up my horse, and, with feelings not to be described, listened to the redundant pathos of that beautiful woodnote swelling on the air! Paley has somewhere[208] told us, that by nothing has he been so touchingly reminded of the benevolence of Deity as by the quiet happiness of the infant on its mother's breast. To myself there is naught in all Nature's beautiful circle which speaks a richer eloquence of praise to the goodness of our God than the gushing joyousness of the forest-bird! All day I continued my journey over hill and {110} dale, creek and ravine, woodland and prairie, until, near sunset, I reined up my weary animal to rest a while beneath the shade of a broad-boughed oak by the wayside, of whose refreshing hospitality an emigrant, with wagon and family, had already availed himself. The leader of the caravan, rather a young man, was reclining upon the bank, and, according to his own account, none the better for an extra dram. From a few remarks which were elicited from him, I soon discovered--what I had suspected, but which he at first had seemed doggedly intent upon concealing--that he belonged to that singular sect to which I have before alluded, styling themselves Mormonites, and that he was even then on his way to Mount Zion, Jackson county, Mo.! By contriving to throw into my observations a few of those tenets of the sect which, during my wanderings, I had gathered up, the worthy Mormonite was soon persuaded--pardon my insincerity, reader--that he had stumbled upon a veritable brother; and, without reserve or mental reservation, laid open to my cognizance, as we journeyed along, "the reasons of the faith that was in him," and the ultimate, proximate, and intermediate designs of the _party_. And such a chaotic fanfaronade of nonsense, absurdity, nay, madness, was an idle curiosity never before punished with. The most which could be gathered of any possible "_account_" from this confused, disconnected mass of rubbish, was the following: That Joe Smith, or Joe Smith's father, or the devil, or some other great personage, had somewhere dug up the golden {111} plates upon which were graven the "Book of Mormon:" that this all-mysterious and much-to-be-admired book embraced the chronicles of the lost kings of Israel: that it derived its cognomen from one Mormon, its principal hero, son of Lot's daughter, king of the Moabites: that Christ was crucified on the spot where Adam was interred: that the descendants of Cain were all now under the curse, and no one could possibly designate who they were: that the Saviour was about to descend in Jackson county, Missouri; the millennium was dawning, and that all who were not baptized by Joe Smith or his compeers, and forthwith repaired to Mount Zion, Missouri, aforesaid, would assuredly be cut off, and that without remedy. These may, perhaps, serve as a specimen of a host of wild absurdities which fell from the lips of my Mormonite; but, the instant argument upon any point was pressed, away was he a thousand miles into the fields of mysticism; or he laid an immediate embargo on farther proceedings by a barefaced _petitio principii_ on the faith of the golden plates; or by asserting that the stranger knew more upon the matter than he! At length the stranger, coming to the conclusion that he could at least boast as _much_ of Mormonism, he spurred up, and left the man still jogging onward, to Mount Zion. And yet, reader, with all his nonsense, my Mormonite was by no means an ignorant fanatic. He was a native of Virginia, and for fifteen years had been a pedagogue west of the Blue Ridge, from which edifying profession he had at length been {112} enticed by the eloquence of sundry preachers who had held forth in his schoolhouse. Thereupon taking to himself a brace of wives and two or three braces of children by way of stock in trade for the community at Mount Zion, and having likewise taken to himself a one-horse wagon, into which were bestowed the moveables, not forgetting a certain big-bellied stone bottle which hung ominously dangling in the rear; I say, having done this, and having, moreover, pressed into service a certain raw-boned, unhappy-looking horse, and a certain fat, happy-looking cow, which was driven along beside the wagon, away started he all agog for the promised land. The grand tabernacle of these fanatics is said to be at a place they call _Kirtland_, upon the shores of Lake Erie, some twenty miles from Cleveland, and numbers no less than four thousand persons. Their leader is Joe Smith, and associated with him is a certain shrewd genius named Sydney Rigdom, a quondam preacher of the doctrine of Campbell.[209] Under the control of these worthies as president and cashier, a banking-house was established, which issued about $150,000, and then deceased. The private residences are small, but the temple is said to be an elegant structure of stone, three stories in height, and nearly square in form. Each of its principal apartments is calculated to contain twelve hundred persons, and has six pulpits arranged gradatim, three at each extremity of the "Aaronic priesthood," and in the same manner with the "priesthood of Melchisedek." The {113} slips are so constructed as to permit the audience to face either pulpit at pleasure. In the highest seat of the "Aaronic priesthood" sits the venerable sire of the prophet, and below sit his hopeful Joe and Joe's prime minister, Sydney Rigdom. The attic of the temple is occupied for schoolrooms, five in number, where a large number of students are taught the various branches of the English, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages. The estimated cost of this building is $60,000.[210] Smith is represented as a quiet, placid-seeming knave, with passionless features, perfectly composed in the midst of his heterogeneous multitude of dupes. Rigdom, on the contrary, has a face full of fire, a fine tenour voice, and a mild and persuasive eloquence of speech. Many of their followers are said to be excellent men. The circumstances of the origin, rise, and progress of this singular sect have been given to the public by the pen of an eccentric but polished writer, and there is nothing material to add. The close of the day found me once more upon the banks of the Kaskaskia; and early on the succeeding morning, fording the stream, I pursued my route along the great national road towards Terre Haute. This road is projected eighty feet in breadth, with a central carriage-path of thirty feet, elevated above all standing water, and in no instance to exceed three degrees from a perfect level. The work has been commenced along the whole {114} line, and is under various stages of advancement; for most of the way it is perfectly _direct_. The bridges are to be of limestone, and of massive structure, the base of the abutments being equal in depth to one third their altitude. The work was for a while suspended, for the purpose of investigating former operations, and subsequently through failure of an appropriation from Congress; but a grant has since been voted sufficient to complete the undertaking so far as it is now projected.[211] West of Vandalia the route is not yet located, though repeated surveys with reference to this object have been made. St. Louis, Alton, Beardstown, and divers other places upon the Mississippi and its branches present claims to become the favoured point of its destination. Upon this road I journeyed some miles; and, even in its present unfinished condition, it gives evidence of its enormous character. Compare this grand national work with the crumbling relics of the mound-builders scattered over the land, and remark the contrast: yet how, think you, reader, would an hundred thousand men regard an undertaking like this? My route at length, to my regret, struck off at right angles from the road, and for many a mile wound away among woods and creeks. As I rode along through the country I was somewhat surprised at meeting people from various quarters, who seemed to be gathering to some rendezvous, all armed with rifles, and with the paraphernalia of hunting suspended from their shoulders. At length, near noon, I passed a log-cabin, around which {115} were assembled about a hundred men: and, upon inquiry, learned that they had come together for the purpose of "shooting a beeve,"[212] as the marksmen have it. The regulations I found to be chiefly these: A bull's-eye, with a centre nail, stands at a distance variously of from forty to seventy yards; and those five who, at the close of the contest, have most frequently _driven the nail_, are entitled to a fat ox divided into five portions. Many of the marksmen in the vicinity, I was informed, could drive the nail twice out of every three trials. Reluctantly I was forced to decline a civil invitation to join the party, and to leave before the sport commenced; but, jogging leisurely along through a beautiful region of prairie and woodland interspersed, I reached near nightfall the village of Salem.[213] This place, with its dark, weather-beaten edifices, forcibly recalled to my mind one of those gloomy little seaports sprinkled along the iron-bound coast of New-England, over some of which the ocean-storm has roared and the ocean-eagle shrieked for more than two centuries. The town is situated on the eastern border of the Grand Prairie, upon the stage-route from St. Louis to Vincennes; and, as approached from one quarter, is completely concealed by a bold promontory of timber springing into the plain. It is a quiet, innocent, gossiping little place as ever was, no doubt; never did any harm in all its life, and probably never will do any. This sage conclusion is predicated upon certain items gathered at the village singing-school; at which, ever-notable place, the traveller, agreeable to invitation {116} attended, and carolled away most vehemently with about a dozen others of either sex, under the cognizance of a certain worthy personage styled _the Major_, whose vocation seemed to be to wander over these parts for the purpose of "_building up_" the good people in psalmody. To say that I was not more surprised than delighted with the fruits of the honest songster's efforts in Salem, and that I was, moreover, marvellously edified by the brisk airs of the "Missouri Harmony," from whose cheerful pages operations were performed, surely need not be done; therefore, prithee reader, question me not. _Mt. Vernon, Ill._ XXXII "After we are exhausted by a long course of application to business, how delightful are the first moments of indolence and repose! _O che bella coza di far niente!_"--STEWART. "Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn!" _Falstaff._ That distinguished metaphysician Dugald Stewart, in his treatise upon the "Active and Moral Powers," has, in the language of my motto, somewhere[214] observed, that leisure after continued exertion is a source of happiness perfect in its kind; and {117} surely, at the moment I am now writing, my own feelings abundantly testify to the force of the remark. For more than one month past have I been urging myself onward from village to village and from hamlet to hamlet, through woodland, and over prairie, river, and rivulet, with almost the celerity of an _avant courier_, and hardly with closer regard to passing scenes and events. My purpose, reader, for I may as well tell you, has been to accomplish, within a portion of time to some degree limited, a "tour over the prairies" previously laid out. This, within the prescribed period, I am now quite certain of fulfilling; and here am I, at length "taking mine ease in mine inn" at the ancient and venerable French village Kaskaskia. It is evening now. The long summer sunset is dying away in beauty from the heavens; and alone in my chamber am I gathering up the fragments of events scattered along the pathway of the week that is gone. Last evening at this hour I was entering the town of Pinkneyville, and my last number left me soberly regaling myself upon the harmonious _vocalities_ of the sombre little village of Salem. Here, then, may I well enough resume "the thread of my discourse." During my wanderings in Illinois I have more than once referred to the frequency and violence of the thunder-gusts by which it is visited. I had travelled not many miles the morning after leaving Salem when I was assailed by one of the most terrific storms I remember to have yet encountered. All the morning the atmosphere had been most oppressive, {118} the sultriness completely prostrating, and the livid exhalations quivered along the parched-up soil of the prairies, as if over the mouth of an enormous furnace. A gauzy mist of silvery whiteness at length diffused itself over the landscape; an inky cloud came heaving up in the northern horizon, and soon the thunder-peal began to bellow and reverberate along the darkened prairie, and the great raindrops came tumbling to the ground. Fortunately, a shelter was at hand; but hardly had the traveller availed himself of its liberal hospitality, when the heavens were again lighted up by the sunbeams; the sable cloud rolled off to the east, and all was beautiful and calm, as if the angel of desolation in his hurried flight had but for a moment stooped the shade of his dusky wing, and had then swept onward to accomplish elsewhere his terrible bidding. With a reflection like this I was about remounting to pursue my way, when a prolonged, deafening, terrible crash--as if the wild idea of heathen mythology was indeed about to be realized, and the thunder-car of Olympian Jove was dashing through the concave above--caused me to falter with foot in stirrup, and almost involuntarily to turn my eye in the direction from which the bolt seemed to have burst. A few hundred yards from the spot on which I stood a huge elm had been blasted by the lightning; and its enormous shaft towering aloft, torn, mangled, shattered from the very summit to its base, was streaming its long ghastly fragments on the blast. The scene was one startlingly impressive; one of those few scenes in a man's life the remembrance {119} of which years cannot wholly efface; which he never _forgets_. As I gazed upon this giant forest-son, which the lapse of centuries had perhaps hardly sufficed to rear to perfection, now, even though a ruin, noble, that celebrated passage of the poet Gray, when describing his _bard_, recurred with some force to my mind: in this description Gray is supposed to have had the painting of Raphael at Florence, representing Deity in the vision of Ezekiel, before him: "Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air," &c. A ride of a few hours, after the storm had died away, brought me to the pleasant little town of Mt. Vernon.[215] This place is the seat of justice for Jefferson county, and has a courthouse of brick, decent enough to the eye, to be sure, but said to have been so miserably constructed that it is a perilous feat for his honour here to poise the scales. The town itself is an inconsiderable place, but pleasantly situated, in the edge of a prairie, if I forget not, and in every other respect is exactly what every traveller has seen a dozen times elsewhere in Illinois. Like Shelbyville, it is chiefly noted for a remarkable spring in its vicinity, said to be highly medicinal. How this latter item may stand I know not, but I am quite sure that all of the _pure element_ it was my own disagreeable necessity to partake of during my brief tarry savoured mightily of medicine or of something akin. Epsom salts and alum seemed the chief substances in solution; and with these minerals all the water in the region appeared heavily charged. {120} It was a misty, miserable morning when I left Mt. Vernon; and as my route lay chiefly through a dense timbered tract, the dank, heavy atmosphere exhaling from the soil, from the luxuriant vegetation, and from the dense foliage of the over-hanging boughs, was anything but agreeable. To endure the pitiless drenching of a summer-shower with equanimity demands but a brief exercise of stoicism: but it is not in the nature of man amiably to withstand the equally pitiless _drenching_ of a drizzling, penetrating, everlasting fog, be it of sea origin or of land. At length a thunder-gust--the usual remedy for these desperate cases in Illinois--dissipated the vapour, and the glorious sunlight streamed far and wide athwart a broad prairie, in the edge of which I stood. The route was, in the language of my director, indeed a _blind_ one; but, having received special instructions thereupon, I hesitated not to press onward over the swelling, pathless plain towards the _east_. After a few miles, having crossed an arm of the prairie, directions were again sought and received, by which the route became due _south_, pathless as before, and through a tract of woodland rearing itself from a bog perfectly Serbonian. "Muddy Prairie" indeed. On every side rose the enormous shafts of the cypress, the water-oak, and the maple, flinging from their giant branches that gray, pensile, parasitical moss, which, weaving its long funereal fibres into a dusky mantle, almost entangles in the meshes the thin threads of sunlight struggling down from above. It was here for the first time that I met in any considerable numbers {121} with that long-necked, long-legged, long-toed, long-tailed gentry called wild-turkeys: and, verily, here was a host ample to atone for all former deficiency, parading in ungainly magnificence through the forest upon every side, or peeping curiously down, with outstretched necks and querulous piping, from their lofty perches on the traveller below. It is by a skilful imitation of this same piping, to say nothing of the melodious gobble that always succeeds it, that the sportsman decoys these sentimental bipeds within his reach. The same method is sometimes employed in hunting the deer--an imitated bleating of the fawn when in distress--thus taking away the gentle mother's life through the medium of her most generous impulses; a most diabolical _modus operandi_, reader, permit me to say. Emerging at length, by a circuitous path, once more upon the prairie, instructions were again sought for the _direct_ route to Pinkneyville, and a course nearly _north_ was now pointed out. Think of that; _east_, _south_, _north_, in regular succession too, over a tract of country perfectly uniform, in order to run a _right_ line between two given points! This was past all endurance. To a moral certainty with me, the place of my destination lay away just southwest from the spot on which I was then standing. Producing, therefore, my pocket-map and pocket-compass, by means of a little calculation I had soon laid down the prescribed course, determined to pursue none other, the remonstrances, and protestations, and objurgations of men, women, and children to the contrary notwithstanding. Pushing {122} boldly forth into the prairie, I had not travelled many miles when I struck a path leading off in the direction I had chosen, and which _proved_ the direct route to Pinkneyville! Thus had I been forced to cross, recross, and cross again, a prairie miles in breadth, and to flounder through a swamp other miles in extent, to say nothing of the _depth_, and all because of the utter ignorance of the worthy souls who took upon them _to direct_. I have given this instance in detail for the special edification and benefit of all future wayfarers in Illinois. The only unerring guide on the prairies is the map and the compass. Half famished, and somewhat more than half vexed at the adventures of the morning, I found myself, near noon, at the cabin-door of an honest old Virginian, and was ere long placed in a fair way to relieve my craving appetite. With the little compass which hung at the safety-riband of my watch, and which had done me such rare service during my wanderings, the worthy old gentleman seemed heart-stricken at first sight, and warmly protested that he and the "_stranger_" must have "_a small bit of a tug_" for that _fixen_, a proposition which said stranger by no means as warmly relished. Laying, therefore, before the old farmer a slight outline of my morning's ramble, he readily perceived that with me the "_pretty leetle fixen_" was anything but a superlative. My evening ride was a delightful one along the edge of an extended prairie; but, though repeatedly assured by the worthy settlers upon the route that I could "_catch no diffick_ulty on my way no how," my compass was {123} my only safe guide. At length, crossing "Mud River" upon a lofty bridge of logs, the town of Pinkneyville was before me just at sunset.[216] Pinkneyville has but little to commend it to the passing traveller, whether we regard beauty of location, regularity of structure, elegance, size, or proportion of edifices, or the cultivation of the farms in its vicinage. It would, perhaps, be a pleasant town enough were its site more elevated, its buildings larger, and disposed with a little more of mathematical exactness, or its streets less lanelike and less filthy. As it is, it will require some years to give it a standing among its fellows. It is laid out on the roll of a small prairie of moderate fertility, but has quite an extensive settlement of enterprising farmers, a circumstance which will conduce far more to the ultimate prosperity of the place. The most prominent structure is a blood-red jail of brick, standing near the centre of the village; rather a savage-looking concern, and, doubtless, so designed by its sagacious architect for the purpose of frightening evil doers. Having taken these _observations_ from the tavern door during twilight, the traveller retired to his chamber, nothing loath, after a ride of nearly fifty miles, to bestow his tired frame to rest. But, alas! that verity compels him to declare it-- "'Tis true, and pity 'tis 'tis true," the "_Traveller's Inn_" was anything, nay, _every_thing but the comfort-giving spot the hospitable cognomen swinging from its signpost seemed to imply. Ah! the fond visions of quietude and repose, {124} of plentiful feeding and hearty sleeping, which those magic words, "_Traveller's Inn_," had conjured up in the weary traveller's fancy when they first delightfully swung before his eye. "But human pleasure, what art thou, in sooth! The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below!!" Well--exhausted, worn down, tired out, the traveller yet found it as utterly impossible quietly to rest, as does, doubtless, "a half-assoilzed soul in purgatory;" and, hours before the day had begun to break, he arose and ordered out his horse. Kind reader, hast ever, in the varyings of thy pilgrimage through this troublous world of ours, when faint, and languid, and weary with exertion, by any untoward circumstance, been forced to resist the gentle promptings of "quiet nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep," and to count away the tedious hours of the livelong night till thy very existence became a burden to thee; till thy brain whirled and thy nerves twanged like the tense harp-string? And didst thou not, then--didst thou not, from the very depths of thy soul, assever this ill, of all ills mortality is heir to, that one most utterly and unutterably intolerable patiently to endure? 'Tis no very pitiful thing, sure, to consume the midnight taper, "sickly" though it be: we commiserate the sacrifice, but we fail not to appreciate the reward. Around the couch of suffering humanity, who could not outwatch the stars? the recompense is not of _this_ world. "When youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with flying feet," _who_ asks for "sleep till morn!" But when in weariness {125} of the flesh and in languidness of spirit, the overspent wayfarer has laid down his wearied frame to rest for the toils of the morrow, it is indeed a _bitter_ thing rudely to have that rest broken up! "The sleep of the _wayfaring_ man is sweet," and to have that slumber obtruded upon by causes too contemptible for a thought, is not in nature with equanimity to bear! Besides, the luckless sufferer meets with no _commiseration_: it is a matter all too ludicrous for pity; and as for fortitude, and firmness, and the like, what warrior ever achieved a laurel in such a war? what glory is to be gained over a host of starving--but I forbear. You are pretty well aware, kind reader, or ought to be, that the situation of your traveller just then was anything but an enviable one. Not so, however, deemed the worthy landlord on this interesting occasion. His blank bewilderment of visage may be better imagined than described, as, aroused from sleep, his eye met the vision of his stranger guest; while the comic amalgamation of distress and pique in the marvellously elongated features of the fair hostess was so truly laughable, that a smile flitted along the traveller's rebellious muscles, serving completely to disturb the serenity of her breast! The good lady was evidently not a little nettled at the _apparent_ mirthfulness of her guest under his manifold miseries--I do assure thee, reader, the mirthfulness was only _apparent_--and did not neglect occasion thereupon to let slip a sly remark impugning his "gentle breeding," because, forsooth, dame Nature, in throwing together her "cunning workmanship," had gifted it with a {126} nervous system not quite of steel. Meanwhile, the honest publican, agreeable to orders, having brought forth the horse, with folded hands all meekly listened to the eloquence of his spouse; but the good man was meditating the while a retaliation in shape of a most unconscionable bill of cost, which was soon presented and was as soon discharged. Then, leaving the interesting pair to their own cogitations, with the very _top_ of the morning the traveller flung himself upon his horse and was soon out of sight. _Kaskaskia, Ill._ FOOTNOTES: [1] George D. Prentice (1802-70), founder of the Louisville _Journal_, was graduated from Brown University in 1823. Two years later he became editor of the Connecticut _Mirror_ and in 1828-30 had charge of the _New England Weekly Review_. In the spring of 1830, at the earnest solicitation of several influential Connecticut Whigs, he went West to gather data for a life of Henry Clay. Once in Kentucky he threw all the force of his political genius in support of Clay's policy. On November 24, 1830, he issued the first number of the Louisville _Journal_, which through his able management was soon recognized as the chief Whig organ in the West. Wholly devoted to Clay's cause, its own reputation rose and declined with that of its champion. The _Journal_ maintained an existence till 1868, when Henry Watterson consolidated it with the Courier, under the title of _Courier-Journal_. Prentice is reputed to have been the originator of the short, pointed paragraph in journalism. His _Life of Henry Clay_ (Hartford, 1831) is well known. In 1859 he published a collection of poems under the name _Prenticeana_ (New York). It was reprinted in 1870 with a biography of the author by G. W. Griffin (Philadelphia).--ED. [2] John M. Peck, a Baptist minister, went as a missionary to St. Louis in 1817. After nine years of preaching in Missouri and Illinois, he founded (1826) the Rocky Spring Seminary for training teachers and ministers. It is said that he travelled more than six thousand miles collecting money for endowing this school. In 1828 Peck began publishing the _Western Pioneer_, the first official organ of the Baptist church in the West, and served as the corresponding secretary and financial agent of the American Baptist Publication Society from 1843 to 1845. He died at Rocky Springs, Illinois, in 1858. Peck made important contributions to the publications of the early historical societies in the Northwest. His chief independent works are: _A Guide for Emigrants_ (Boston, 1831), republished as _A New Guide for Emigrants_ (Boston, 1836); _Gazetteer of Illinois_ (Jacksonville, 1834 and 1837); _Father Clark or the Pioneer Preacher_ (New York, 1855); and "Life of Daniel Boone," in Jared Sparks, _American Biography_. Judge James Hall was born in Philadelphia (1793), and died near Cincinnati in 1868. He was a member of the Washington Guards during the War of 1812-15, was promoted to the 2nd United States artillery, and accompanied Decatur on his expedition to Algiers (1815). Resigning in 1818, he practiced law at Shawneetown, Illinois (1820-27), and filled the office of public prosecutor and judge of the circuit court. He moved to Vandalia (1827) and began editing the _Illinois Intelligencer_ and the _Illinois Monthly Magazine_. From 1836 to 1853 he was president of the commercial bank at Cincinnati, and acted as state treasurer. He published: _Letters from the West_ (London, 1828); _Legends of the West_ (1832); _Memoirs of the Public Services of General William Henry Harrison_ (Philadelphia, 1836); _Sketches of History, Life and Manners of the West_ (Philadelphia, 1835); _Statistics of the West at the Close of 1836_ (Cincinnati, 1836); _Notes on the Western States_ (Philadelphia, 1838); _History and Biography of the Indians of North America_ (3 volumes, 1838-44); _The West, its Soil, Surface, etc._ (Cincinnati, 1848); _The West, its Commerce and Navigation_ (Cincinnati, 1848); besides a few historical novels. For a contemporary estimate of the value of Hall's writings see _American Monthly Magazine_ (New York, 1835), v, pp. 9-15. For Timothy Flint, see Pattie's _Narrative_, in our volume xviii, p. 25, note 1. Major Alphonso Wetmore (1793-1849) was of much less importance as a writer on Western history than those above mentioned. He entered the 23rd infantry in 1812, and subsequently was transferred to the 6th. He served as paymaster for his regiment from 1815 to 1821, and was promoted to a captaincy (1819). In 1816 he moved with his family to Franklinton, Missouri, and later practiced law in St. Louis. His chief contribution to Western travel is a _Gazetteer of Missouri_ (St. Louis, 1837).--ED. [3] The reference is to Shakespeare's _King John_, III, iv.--ED. [4] For a brief sketch of the history of Louisville, see Croghan's _Journals_, in our volume i, p.136, note 106.--ED. [5] The seven stations formed on Beargrass Creek in the fall of 1779 and spring of 1780 were: Falls of the Ohio, Linnis, Sullivan's Old, Hoagland's, Floyd's, Spring, and Middle stations. Beargrass Creek, a small stream less than ten miles in length, flows in a northwestern trend and uniting with two smaller creeks, South and Muddy forks, enters the Ohio (not the Mississippi) immediately above the Falls of the Ohio (Louisville).--ED. [6] It is only at high stages of the river that boats even of a smaller class can pass over the Falls. At other times they go through the "Louisville and Portland Canal." In 1804 the Legislature of Kentucky incorporated a company to cut a canal around the falls. Nothing effectual, however, beyond surveys, was done until 1825, when on the 12th of January of that year the Louisville and Portland Canal Company was incorporated by an act of the legislature, with a capital of $600,000, in shares of $100 each, with perpetual succession. 3665 of the shares of the company are in the hands of individuals, about seventy in number, residing in the following states: New-Hampshire, Massachusetts, New-York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Ohio, Kentucky, and Missouri, and 2335 shares belong to the government of the United States. In December, 1825, contracts were entered into to complete the work of this canal within two years, for about $375,000, and under these contracts the work was commenced in March, 1826. Many unforeseen difficulties retarded the work until the close of the year 1828. At this time the contractors failed; new contracts were made at advanced prices, and the canal was finally opened for navigation December 5th, 1830. When completed it cost about $750,000. Owing to the advanced season at which it was opened, the deposites of alluvial earth at the lower extremity of the canal, or debouchure, could not be removed; and also from the action of the floods during the succeeding severe winter on the stones that had been temporarily deposited on the sides of the canal, causing them to be precipitated into the canal, it was not used to the extent that it otherwise would have been. During the year 1831, 406 steamboats, 46 keelboats, and 357 flatboats, measuring 76,323 tons, passed through the locks, which are about one fourth the number that would have passed if all the obstructions had been removed. The Louisville and Portland Canal is about two miles in length; is intended for steamboats of the largest class, and to overcome a fall of 24 feet, occasioned by an irregular ledge of limerock, through which the entire bed of the canal is excavated, a part of it, to the depth of 12 feet, is overlaid with earth. There is one guard and three lift locks combined, all of which have their foundation on the rock. One bridge of stone 240 feet long, with an elevation of 68 feet to top of the parapet wall, and three arches, the centre one of which is semi-elliptical, with a transverse diameter of 66, and a semi-conjugate diameter of 22 feet. The two side arches are segments of 40 feet span. The guard lock is 190 feet long in the clear, with semicircular heads of 26 feet in diameter, 50 feet wide, and 42 feet high, and contains 21,775 perches of mason-work. The solid contents of this lock are equal to 15 common locks, such as are built on the Ohio and New-York canals. The lift locks are of the same width with the guard lock, 20 feet high, and 183 feet long in the clear, and contain 12,300 perches of mason-work. The entire length of the walls, from the head of the guard lock to the end of the outlet lock, is 921 feet. In addition to the amount of mason-work above, there are three culverts to drain off the water from the adjacent lands, the mason-work of which, when added to the locks and bridge, give the whole amount of mason-work 41,989 perches, equal to about 30 common canal locks. The cross section of the canal is 200 feet at top of banks, 50 feet at bottom, and 42 feet high, having a capacity equal to that of 25 common canals; and if we keep in view the unequal quantity of mason-work compared to the length of the canal, the great difficulties of excavating earth and rock from so great a depth and width, together with the contingencies attending its construction from the fluctuations of the Ohio River, it may not be considered as extravagant in drawing the comparison between the work in this and in that of 70 or 75 miles of common canalling. In the upper sections of the canal, the alluvial earth to the average depth of twenty feet being removed, trunks of trees were found more or less decayed, and so imbedded as to indicate a powerful current towards the present shore, some of which were cedar, which is not now found in this region. Several _fireplaces_ of a rude construction, with partially burnt wood, were discovered near the rock, as well as the bones of a variety of small animals and several human skeletons; rude implements formed of bone and stone were frequently seen, as also several well-wrought specimens of hematite of iron, in the shape of plummets or sinkers, displaying a knowledge in the arts far in advance of the present race of Indians. The first stratum of rock was a light, friable slate, in close contact with the limestone, and difficult to disengage from it; this slate did not, however, extend over the whole surface of the rock, and was of various thicknesses, from three inches to four feet. The stratum next to the slate was a close, compact limestone, in which petrified seashells and an infinite variety of coralline formations were imbedded, and frequent cavities of crystalline incrustations were seen, many of which still contained petroleum of a highly fetid smell, which gives the name to this description of limestone. This description of rock is on an average of five feet, covering a substratum of a species of cias limestone of a bluish colour, imbedding nodules of hornstone and organic remains. The fracture of this stone has in all instances been found to be irregularly conchoidal, and on exposure to the atmosphere and subjection to fire, it crumbles to pieces. When burnt and ground, and mixed with a due proportion of silicious sand, it has been found to make a most superior kind of hydraulic cement or water-lime. The discovery of this valuable limestone has enabled the canal company to construct their masonry more solidly than any other known in the United States. A manufactory of this hydraulic cement or water-lime is now established on the bank of the canal, on a scale capable of supplying the United States with this much-valued material for all works in contact with water or exposed to moisture; the nature of this cement being to harden in the water; the grout used on the locks of the canal is already _harder_ than the _stone_ used in their construction. After passing through the stratum which was commonly called the water-lime, about ten feet in thickness, the workmen came to a more compact mass of primitive gray limestone, which, however, was not penetrated to any great depth. In many parts of the excavation masses of a bluish white flint and hornstone were found enclosed in or incrusting the fetid limestone. And from the large quantities of arrow-heads and other rude formations of this flint stone, it is evident that it was made much use of by the Indians in forming their weapons for war and hunting; in one place a magazine of arrow-heads was discovered, containing many hundreds of these rude implements, carefully packed together and buried below the surface of the ground. The existence of iron ore in considerable quantities was exhibited in the progress of the excavation of the canal, by numerous highly-charged chalybeate springs that gushed out, and continued to flow during the time that the rock was exposed, chiefly in the upper strata of limestone.--_Louisville Directory for 1835._--FLAGG. [7] A circumstance, too, which adds not a little of interest to the spot, is the old Indian tradition that here was fought the last battle between their race and the former dwellers in Kentucky--the _white mound-builders_--in which the latter were exterminated to a man. True or false, vast quantities of human remains have, at low stages of the Ohio, been found upon the shores of Sandy Island, one mile below, and an extensive graveyard once existed in the vicinity of Shipping-port.--FLAGG. [8] _Kentucke_ is said to have a similar meaning.--FLAGG. [9] Ohio is thought by some philologists to be a corruption of the Iroquois word, "Ohionhiio," meaning "beautiful river," which the French rendered as La Belle Rivière; see also Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, p. 92, note 49.--ED. [10] At the age of twenty-five, Henry M. Shreve (1785-1854) was captain of a freight boat operating on the Ohio. In 1814 he ran the gauntlet of the British batteries at New Orleans, and carried supplies to Fort St. Phillip. The following year, in charge of the "Enterprise" he made the first successful steamboat trip from New Orleans to Louisville. Later he constructed the "Washington," making many improvements on the Fulton model. Fulton and Livingstone brought suit against him but lost in the action. May 24, 1824, at the instigation of J. C. Calhoun, then secretary of war, Congress appropriated seventy-five thousand dollars (not $105,000, as Flagg says) for the purpose of removing obstructions from the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. As early as 1821, Shreve had invented a device for removing snags and sawyers from river beds. But it was not until after two years' fruitless trials with a scheme devised by John Bruce of Kentucky, that Barbour, at Calhoun's suggestion, appointed Shreve superintendent of improvements on Western rivers (December 10, 1826). This position he held until September 11, 1841, when he was dismissed for political reasons. In the face of discouraging opposition Shreve constructed (1829) with government aid the snagboat "Heleopolis" with which he later wrought a marvellous improvement in navigation on the Ohio and Mississippi. From 1833 to 1838 he was engaged in removing the Red River "raft" for a distance of a hundred and sixty miles, thus opening that important river for navigation. For a good biography of Shreve, see the _Democratic Review_, xxii (New York, 1848), pp. 159-171, 241-251. A fair estimate of the importance of his work can be gained from the following statistics; from 1822-27 the loss from snags alone, of property on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, including steam and flat-boats and their cargoes, amounted to $1,362,500; the like loss from 1827-32 was reduced to $381,000, although the volume of business had greatly increased.--ED. [11] The "Baltimore" (73 tons) was built at Pittsburg in 1828; the "Roanoke" (100 tons), at Wheeling in 1835. It is reported that from 1831 to 1833, of the sixty-six steamboats which went out of service, twenty-four were snagged, fifteen burned, and five destroyed by collision with other boats. See James Hall, _Notes on the Western States_ (Philadelphia, 1838), p. 239.--ED. [12] The keel-boat Hindoo, with merchandise to the amount of $50,000, is a late instance.--FLAGG. [13] Brown's Island, two miles and a half long by half a mile at its greatest width, is located six or seven miles above Steubenville, Ohio, following the course of the river.--ED. [14] The keel-boat was usually from sixty to seventy feet long, and fifteen to eighteen broad at beam, with a keel extending from bow to stern, and had a draft of twenty to thirty inches. When descending the stream, the force of the current, with occasional aid from the pole, was the usual mode of locomotion. In ascending the stream, however, sails, poles, and almost every known device were used; not infrequently the vessel was towed by from twenty to forty men, with a rope several hundred feet in length attached to the mast. These boats were built in Pittsburg at a cost of two to three thousand dollars each. The barge was constructed for narrow, shallow water. As a rule it was larger than the keel-boat; but of less draft, and afforded greater accommodations for passengers. Broad-horn was a term generally applied to the Mississippi and Ohio flat-boat, which made its advent on the Western waters later than the barge or the keel-boat. It was a large, unwieldy structure, with a perfectly flat bottom, perpendicular sides, and usually covered its entire length. It was used only for descending the stream. "The earliest improvement upon the canoe was the pirogue, an invention of the whites. Like the canoe, this is hewed out of the solid log; the difference is, that the pirogue has greater width and capacity, and is composed of several pieces of timbers--as if the canoe was sawed lengthwise into two equal sections, and a broad flat piece of timber inserted in the middle, so as to give greater breadth of beam to the vessel." Hall, _Notes on the Western States_, p. 218.--ED. [15] Flint.--FLAGG. [16] For an account of the first steamboat on the Ohio, see Flint's _Letters_, in our volume ix, p. 154, note 76.--ED. [17] Latrobe.--FLAGG. _Comment by Ed._ Charles J. Latrobe (1801-75) visited the United States in 1832-33. His _Rambles in North America in 1832-3_ (New York, 1835) and _Rambles in Mexico_ (New York and London, 1836) have much value in the history of Western travel. [18] The first steamer upon the waters of the Red River was of a peculiar construction: her steam scape-pipe, instead of ascending perpendicularly from the hurricane deck, projected from the bow, and terminated in the form of a serpent's head. As this monster ascended the wilds of the stream, with her furnaces blazing, pouring forth steam with a roar, the wondering Choctaws upon the banks gave her the poetic and appropriate name of _Pinelore_, "the Fire-Canoe."--FLAGG. [19] This quotation is from _Botanic Gardens_, book i, chapter i, by Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802).--ED. [20] For Rome, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 160, note 77.--ED. [21] Green River, rising in central Kentucky, flows west through the coal fields to its junction with the Big Barren; thence it turns north, and empties into the Ohio nine miles above Evansville, Indiana. Beginning with 1808 the state legislature expended large sums of money for improving navigation on Green River. As a consequence small steamboats may ascend it to a distance of more than a hundred and fifty miles. The length of the stream is estimated at three hundred and fifty miles.--ED. [22] Diamond Island, densely wooded, is located thirty-six miles below the mouth of Green River, and seven miles above Mount Vernon. Its name is perhaps derived from its shape, being five miles long and one and a half wide.--ED. [23] For note on Hendersonville, see Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, p. 267, note 175.--ED. [24] John J. Audubon, born in Louisiana (1780), was a son of a wealthy French naval officer; his mother was a Spanish Creole. Educated in France, he returned to America (1798) and settled near Philadelphia, devoting his time to the study of birds. In 1808 he went west and until 1824 made fruitless attempts to establish himself in business in Kentucky and Louisiana. He issued in London (1827-38) his noted publication on the _Birds of America_, which was completed in eighty-seven parts. During 1832-39 he published five volumes entitled _Ornithological Biographies_. Audubon died in 1851. See M. R. Audubon, _Audubon and his Journals_ (New York, 1897).--ED. [25] For the historical importance of the Wabash River, see Croghan's _Journals_, in our volume i, p. 137, note 107.--ED. [26] The Wabash and Erie Canal, which connects the waters of Lake Erie with the Ohio River by way of the Maumee and Wabash rivers, has played an active rôle in the development of Indiana, her most important cities being located upon its route. The Ohio section was constructed during the years 1837-43, and the Indiana section as far as Lafayette in 1832-40; the canal being later continued to Terre Haute and the Ohio River near Evansville. Although the federal government granted Indiana 1,505,114 acres for constructing the canal, the state was by this work plunged heavily in debt. After the War of Secession the canal lost much of its relative importance for commerce. June 14, 1880, Congress authorized the secretary of war to order a survey and estimate of cost and practicability of making a ship canal out of the old Wabash and Erie Canal. The survey and estimate were made, but the matter was allowed to drop. See _Senate Docs._, 46 Cong., 3 sess., iii, 55.--ED. [27] For an account of New Harmony and its founder, George Rapp, see Hulme's _Journal_, in our volume x, p. 50, note 22, and p. 54, note 25.--ED. [28] Flagg is evidently referring to Robert Owen, the active promoter of the scheme. A brief history of his activities is given in Hulme's _Journal_, in our volume x, p. 50, note 22. For Robert Dale Owen see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxiv, p. 133, note 128.--ED. [29] "Declaration of Mental Independence" delivered by Robert Owen (not Robert Dale Owen) on July 4, 1826, was printed in the New Harmony _Gazette_ for July 12, 1826. An extended quotation is given in George B. Lockwood, _The New Harmony Communities_ (Marion, Indiana, 1902), p. 163.--ED. [30] For an account of William Maclure, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 163, note 81. In reference to the Duke of Saxe Weimar, see Wyeth's _Oregon_, in our volume xxi, p. 71, note 47.--ED. [31] On Shawneetown and the Shawnee Indians see our volume i, p. 23, note 13, and p. 138, note 108.--ED. [32] For a brief statement on the salines, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 58, note 11.--ED. [33] An excellent account of the Mound Builders is given by Lucien Carr in Smithsonian Institution _Report_, 1891 (Washington, 1893), pp. 503-599; see also Cyrus Thomas, "Report on Mound Explorations" in United States Bureau of Ethnology _Report_ (1890-91).--ED. [34] Hanging Rock is the name given to a high sandstone escarpment on the right bank of the river, three miles below Ironton, Ohio.--ED. [35] Blennerhasset's Island is two miles below Parkersburg, West Virginia. For its history, see Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, p. 129, note 89.--ED. [36] A brief description of Rock Inn Cave (or Cave-in-Rock) may be found in Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, p. 273, note 180.--ED. [37] For Schoolcraft, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volume xx, p. 286, note 178.--ED. [38] It is a remarkable circumstance, that this term is employed to signify the _same_ thing by all the tribes from the Arkansas to the sources of the Mississippi; and, according to Mackenzie, throughout the Arctic Regions.--FLAGG. [39] See Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, p. 268.--ED. [40] Ford's Ferry is today a small hamlet in Crittenden County, Kentucky, twenty-five miles below Shawneetown. Flagg is referring probably to the Wilson family. Consult Lewis Collins, _History of Kentucky_ (Covington, 1874), i. p. 147.--ED. [41] Since the remarks relative to "the remarkable cavern in the vicinity of _Tower Rock_, and not far from Hurricane Island," were in type, the subjoined notice of a similar cave, probably the same referred to, has casually fallen under my observation. The reader will recognise in this description the outlines of _Rock-Inn-Cave_, previously noticed. It is not a little singular that none of our party, which was a numerous one, observed the "hieroglyphics" here alluded to. The passage is from Priest's "American Antiquities." "_A Cavern of the West, in which are found many interesting Hieroglyphics, supposed to have been made by the Ancient Inhabitants._ "On the Ohio, twenty miles below the mouth of the Wabash, is a cavern in which are found many hieroglyphics and representations of such delineations as would induce the belief that their authors were indeed comparatively refined and civilized. It is a cave in a rock, or ledge of the mountain, which presents itself to view a little above the water of the river when in flood, and is situated close to the bank. In the early settlement of Ohio this cave became possessed by a party of Kentuckians called 'Wilson's Gang.' Wilson, in the first place, brought his family to this cave, and fitted it up as a spacious dwelling; erected a _signpost_ on the water side, on which were these words: 'Wilson's Liquor Vault and House of Entertainment.' The novelty of such a tavern induced almost all the boats descending the river to call for refreshments and amusement. Attracted by these circumstances, several idle characters took up their abode at the cave, after which it continually resounded with the shouts of the licentious, the clamour of the riotous, and the blasphemy of gamblers. Out of such customers Wilson found no difficulty in forming a band of robbers, with whom he formed the plan of murdering the crews of every boat that stopped at his tavern, and of sending the boats, manned by some of his party, to New-Orleans, and there sell their loading for cash, which was to be conveyed to the cave by land through the States of Tennessee and Kentucky; the party returning with it being instructed to murder and rob on all good occasions on the road. "After a lapse of time the merchants of the upper country began to be alarmed on finding their property make no returns, and their people never coming back. Several families and respectable men who had gone down the river were never heard of, and the losses became so frequent that it raised, at length, a cry of individual distress and general dismay. This naturally led to an inquiry, and large rewards were offered for the discovery of the perpetrators of such unparalleled crimes. It soon came out that Wilson, with an organized party of forty-five men, was the cause of such waste of blood and treasure; that he had a station at Hurricane Island to arrest every boat that passed by the mouth of the cavern, and that he had agents at Natchez and New-Orleans, of presumed respectability, who converted his assignments into cash, though they knew the goods to be stolen or obtained by the commission of murder. "The publicity of Wilson's transactions soon broke up his party; some dispersed, others were taken prisoners, and he himself was killed by one of his associates, who was tempted by the reward offered for the head of the captain of the gang. "This cavern measures about twelve rods in length and five in width; its entrance presents a width of eighty feet at its base and twenty-five feet high. The interior walls are smooth rock. The floor is very remarkable, being level through the whole length of its centre, the sides rising in stony grades, in the manner of seats in the pit of a theatre. On a diligent scrutiny of the walls, it is plainly discerned that the ancient inhabitants at a very remote period had made use of the cave as a house of deliberation and council. The walls bear many hieroglyphics well executed, and some of them represent animals which have no resemblance to any now known to natural history. "This cavern is a great natural curiosity, as it is connected with another still more gloomy, which is situated exactly above, united by an aperture of about fourteen feet, which, to ascend, is like passing up a chimney, while the mountain is yet far above. Not long after the dispersion and arrest of the robbers who had infested it, in the upper vault were found the skeletons of about sixty persons, who had been murdered by the gang of Wilson, as was supposed. "But the tokens of antiquity are still more curious and important than a description of the mere cave, which are found engraved on the sides within, an account of which we proceed to give: "The sun in different stages of rise and declension; the moon under various phases; a snake biting its tail, and representing an orb or circle; a viper; a vulture; buzzards tearing out the heart of a prostrate man; a panther held by the ears by a child; a crocodile; several trees and shrubs; a fox; a curious kind of hydra serpent; two doves; several bears; two scorpions; an eagle; an owl; some quails; _eight_ representations of animals which are now unknown. Three out of the eight are like the elephant in all respects except the tusk and the tail. Two more resemble the tiger; one a wild boar; another a sloth; and the last appears a creature of fancy, being a quadruman instead of a quadruped; the claws being alike before and behind, and in the act of conveying something to the mouth, which lay in the centre of the monster. Besides these were several fine representations of men and women, _not naked_, but clothed; not as the Indians, but much in the costume of Greece and Rome."--FLAGG. _Comment by Ed._ This same account is given by Collins (_op. cit._, in note 40), and is probably true. [42] Hurricane Island, four miles below Cave-in-Rock, is more than five miles in length. The "Wilson gang" for some time used this island for a seat of operation.--ED. [43] Golconda is the seat of Pope County, Illinois. See Woods's _English Prairie_, in our volume x, p. 327, note 77. On or just before Christmas, 1806, Aaron Burr came down the Cumberland River from Nashville and joined Blennerhasset, Davis Floyd, and others who were waiting for him at the mouth of the river, and together they started on Burr's ill-fated expedition (December 28, 1806). Their united forces numbered only nine batteaux and sixty men. See W. F. McCaleb, _Aaron Burr's Conspiracy_ (New York, 1903), p. 254 ff. For a short account of Paducah, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 203, note 110.--ED. [44] It has since been nearly destroyed by fire.--FLAGG. [45] On Fort Massac, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 73, note 139.--ED. [46] Wilkinsonville, named for General James Wilkinson, was a small hamlet located on the site of the Fort Wilkinson of 1812, twenty-two miles above Cairo. Two or three farm houses are today the sole relics of this place; see Thwaites, _On the Storied Ohio_, p. 291. Caledonia is still a small village in Pulaski County, Illinois. Its post-office is Olmstead.--ED. [47] For account of the attempt at settlements at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 204, note 111.--ED. [48] For America see Ogden's _Letters_, our volume xix, p. 44, note 30, and Woods's _English Prairie_, our volume x, p. 327, note 77. The scheme known as the "Internal Improvement Policy" was authorized over the governor's veto by the Illinois general assembly on February 27, 1837, in response to the popular clamor for its adoption. The object was to open the country for immigration and hasten its natural development by constructing railroads and canals as yet not needed commercially. Ten million two hundred thousand dollars were appropriated by the act, including two hundred thousand dollars to be given directly to the counties not favored. Surveys were made, and speculation was rife. Then followed a collapse, and six million five hundred thousand dollars were added to the state debt. The scheme was later referred to as the General Insanity Bill.--ED. [49] The English Island of 1836 is probably the Power's Island of today. It is three miles long, and forms a part of Scott County, Missouri, more than twenty miles above Cairo.--ED. [50] Herbert.--FLAGG. [51] For a sketch of Cape Girardeau, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 80, note 154.--ED. [52] A superior quality of kaolin, or china clay, is mined in large quantities in Cape Girardeau County. Marble ninety-nine per cent pure, is procured in abundance.--ED. [53] "Muddy River," usually called "Big Muddy," is the English translation of the French _Rivière au Vase_, or _Vaseux_. Formed by the union of two branches rising in Jefferson County, Illinois, it flows in a southwesterly direction and empties into the Mississippi about twenty-five miles above Cape Girardeau. It is one hundred and forty miles long.--ED. [54] Fountain Bluff is six miles above the mouth of the Big Muddy. Flagg's descriptions are in the main accurate.--ED. [55] Grand Tower, seventy-five feet high, and frequently mentioned by early writers, is a mile above the island of the same name, at the mouth of the Big Muddy, and stands out some distance from the Missouri side. Grand Tower Island was an object of much dread to boatmen during the days of early navigation on the Mississippi. A powerful current sweeping around Devil's Oven, frequently seized frail or unwieldy craft to dash it against this rock. Usually the boatmen landed, and by means of long ropes towed their vessels along the Illinois side, past this perilous rock.--ED. [56] The Mississippi between the mouth of the Kaskaskia River and Cape Girardeau offered many obstructions to early navigation. As at Grand Tower, the boatmen frequently found it necessary to land and tow their boats past the dangerous points, and here the Indians would lie in ambush to fall upon the unfortunate whites. The peril of these places doubtless lent color to their nomenclature. Flagg's descriptions are fairly accurate except in the matter of dimensions, wherein he tends to exaggeration.--ED. [57] $105,000.--FLAGG. [58] For Red River raft, see James's Long's _Expedition_, in our volume xvii, p. 70, note 64.--ED. [59] In reference to the American Bottom, see Ogden's _Letters_, in our volume xix, p. 62, note 48.--ED. [60] For an account of Ste. Genevieve, see Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, p. 266, note 174. According to Austin, cited below, La Motte (or La Mothe) Cadillac, governor of Louisiana, went on an expedition (1715) to the Illinois in search of silver, and found lead ore in a mine which had been shown him fifteen miles west of the Mississippi. It is believed by some authorities that this was the famous "Mine la Mothe," at the head of the St. Francis River. Schoolcraft, however, says that Philip Francis Renault, having received mining grants from the French government, left France in 1719, ascended the Mississippi, established himself the following year near Kaskaskia, and sent out small companies in search of precious metals; and that La Mothe, who had charge of one of these companies, soon discovered the mine that still bears his name. It was operated only at intervals, until after the American occupation, when its resources were developed. Under the Spanish domination (1762-1800), little was done to develop the mine. In 1763, however, Francis Burton discovered the "Mine à Burton," on a branch of Mineral Fork. Like the "Mine la Mothe," it was known to the Indians before the discovery by the whites, and both are still operated. Burton was said to have been alive in 1818, at the age of a hundred and six; see Colonel Thomas Benton's account of him in St. Louis _Enquirer_, October 16, 1818. For an account of primitive mining operations, see Thwaites, _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, xiii, pp. 271-292; Moses Austin, "Lead Mines of Ste. Geneviève and St. Louis Counties," _American State Papers_ (_Public Lands_), iii, pp. 609-613; and H. R. Schoolcraft, _Lead Mines of Missouri_ (New York, 1819).--ED. [61] From 1738 to 1744, the mines were considered as public property: but in the year last mentioned François Vallé received from the French government a grant of two thousand arpents of land (1,666 acres) including "Mine la Mothe," and eighteen years later twenty-eight thousand arpents (23,333 acres) additional. At Vallé's death the land passed to his sons, François and John, and Joseph Pratt, a transfer confirmed by Congress in 1827. The next year it was sold to C. C. Vallé, L. E. Linn, and Everett Pratt. In 1830 it was sold in part and the remainder leased. In 1868 the estate passed from the hands of the Vallés.--ED. [62] Pilot Knob is a conical-shaped hill, a mile in diameter, in Iron County, Missouri, seventy-five miles southwest of St. Louis, and is rich in iron ore. In the War of Secession it was the scene of a battle between General Sterling Price and General Hugh B. Ewing (September 26, 27, 1864). Iron Mountain is an isolated knob of the St. François Mountains in St. François County, eighty miles south of St. Louis. One of the richest and purest iron mines in the United States is found there.--ED. [63] The Peoria were one of the five principal tribes of the Illinois Confederation. They resided around the lake in the central portion of Illinois, which bears their name. In 1832 they were removed to Kansas, and in 1854 to Indian Territory, where, united with other tribes, they still reside.--ED. [64] For a short account of Fort Chartres, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 71, note 136.--ED. [65] For Prairie du Rocher see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 70, note 133. The legend referred to is, "Michel de Couce" by James Hall, in his _Legends of the West_. Contrary to Flagg's statement that there exists no description of Fort Chartres worthy of its history, Philip Pittman, who visited the place in 1766, gives a good detailed description of the fort in his _Present State of the European Settlements on the Missisippi_ (London, 1770), pp. 45, 46.--ED. [66] For location and date of settlement of Herculaneum, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 212, note 122. On a perpendicular bluff, more than a hundred feet in height, in the vicinity of Herculaneum, J. Macklot erected (1809) what was probably the first shot-tower this side of the Atlantic. The next year one Austin built another tower at the same point. According to H. R. Schoolcraft in his _View of the Lead Mines of Missouri_ (New York, 1819), pp. 138, 139, there were in 1817 three shot-towers near Herculaneum, producing in the eighteen months ending June 1 of that year, 668,350 pounds of shot. From the top of small wooden towers erected on the edge of the bluff, the melted lead was poured through holes in copper pans or sieves.--ED. [67] For the location of the Platine (usually spelled Plattin), see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 212, note 123. Lead mining has been carried on in this district, intermittently, since 1824.--ED. [68] See Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 212, note 123.--ED. [69] The following extract from the Journal of Charlevoix, one of the earliest historians of the West, with reference to the Mines upon the Merrimac, may prove not uninteresting. The work is a rare one. "On the 17th (Oct., 1721), after sailing five leagues farther, I left, on my right, the river Marameg, where they are at present employed in searching for a silver mine. Perhaps your grace may not be displeased if I inform you what success may be expected from this undertaking. Here follows what I have been able to collect about this affair, from a person who is well acquainted with it, and who has resided for several years on the spot. "In the year 1719, the Sieur de Lochon, being sent by the West India Company, in quality of founder, and having dug in a place which had been marked out to him, drew up a pretty large quantity of ore, a pound whereof, which took up four days in smelting, produced, as they say, two drachms of silver; but some have suspected him of putting in this quantity himself. A few months afterward he returned thither, and, without thinking any more of the silver, he extracted from two or three thousand weight of ore fourteen pounds of very bad lead, which stood him in fourteen hundred francs. Disgusted with a labour which was so unprofitable, he returned to France. "The company, persuaded of the truth of the indications which had been given them, and that the incapacity of the founder had been the sole cause of their bad success, sent, in his room, a Spaniard called Antonio, who had been taken at the siege of Pensacola; had afterward been a galley-slave, and boasted much of his having wrought in a mine at Mexico. They gave him very considerable appointments, but he succeeded no better than had done the Sieur de Lochon. He was not discouraged himself, and others inclined to believe that he had failed from his not being versed in the construction of furnaces. He gave over the search after lead, and undertook to make silver; he dug down to the rock, which was found to be eight or ten feet in thickness; several pieces of it were blown up and put into a crucible, from whence it was given out that he extracted three or four drachms of silver; but many are still doubtful of the truth of this fact. "About this time arrived a company of the King's miners, under the direction of one _La Renaudiere_, who, resolving to begin with the lead mines, was able to do nothing; because neither he himself nor any of his company were in the least acquainted with the construction of furnaces. Nothing can be more surprising than the facility with which the company at that time exposed themselves to great expenses, and the little precaution they took to be satisfied of the capacity of those they employed. La Renaudiere and his miners not being able to procure any lead, a private company undertook the mines of the Marameg, and Sieur Renault, one of the directors, superintended them with care. In the month of June last he found a bed of lead ore two feet in thickness, running to a great length over a chain of mountains, where he has now set his people to work. He flatters himself that there is silver below the lead. Everybody is not of his opinion, but will discover the truth."--FLAGG. [70] Flagg's account agrees with a much longer treatment by Lewis C. Beck, in his _Gazetteer of the States of Illinois and Missouri_ (Albany, 1823), with the exception that the latter says there were no inscriptions to be found on the gravestones. Beck himself makes extended quotations from the _Missouri Gazette_, November 6, 1818, and subsequent numbers. Though no doubt exaggerated, these accounts were probably based on facts, for a large number of prehistoric remains have been found in St. Louis County and preserved in the Peabody Museum at New Haven, Connecticut, and elsewhere.--ED. [71] For an account of Jefferson Barracks, see Townsend's _Narrative_, in our volume xxi, p. 122, note 2.--ED. [72] For the history of Carondelet, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 215, note 124. For reference to Cahokia, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 70, note 135. On May 20, 1826, Congress made an appropriation of fifteen thousand dollars to the secretary of war, for the purpose of purchasing the site for the erection of an arsenal in the vicinity of St. Louis. Lands now far within the southeastern limits of the city were purchased, and the buildings erected which were used for arsenals until January 16, 1871, when they were occupied as a depot for the general mounted recruiting service.--ED. [73] A name of Algonquin origin--_Missi_ signifying great, and _sepe_ a river.--FLAGG. [74] Indian name for the "Falls of St. Anthony."--FLAGG. [75] That the Mississippi, the Missouri, and, indeed, most of the great rivers of the West, are annually enlarging, as progress is made in clearing and cultivating the regions drained by them, scarcely admits a doubt. Within the past thirty years, the width of the Mississippi has sensibly increased; its overflows are more frequent, while, by the diminution of obstructions, it would seem not to have become proportionally shallow. In 1750, the French settlements began upon the river above New-Orleans, and for twenty years the banks were cultivated without a _levee_. Inundation was then a rare occurrence: ever since, from year to year, the river has continued to rise, and require higher and stronger embankments. A century hence, if this phenomenon continues, what a magnificent spectacle will not this river present! How terrific its freshets! The immense forest of timber which lies concealed beneath its depths, as evinced by the great earthquakes of 1811, demonstrates that, for centuries, the Mississippi has occupied its present bed.--FLAGG. [76] In 1764 Auguste Chouteau made tentative plans for the fortification of St. Louis. In obedience to an order by Don Francisco Cruzat, the lieutenant-governor, he made a survey in 1781 for the purpose of perfecting these earlier plans. In the same year the stockade was begun immediately south of the present site of the courthouse. In 1797 the round stone tower which Flagg mentions was constructed and preparations made for building four additional towers; the latter were never completed. From 1804 to 1806 these fortifications were used by the United States troops, and then abandoned for military purposes. The commandant's house served as a courthouse from 1806 to 1816; and the tower as a jail until 1819. For a detailed description of the plans, see J. F. Scharf, _St. Louis City and County_ (Philadelphia, 1883), p. 136 ff.--ED. [77] For a brief sketch of William H. Ashley see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 250, note 198. He purchased (1826 or 1827) eight acres on the present site of Broadway, between Biddle and Bates streets, St. Louis, where he built a handsome residence. Bloody Island, now the Third Ward of East St. Louis, was formed about 1800 by the current cutting its way through the neck in a bend of the river. For a long time it was not determined to what state it belonged, and being considered neutral ground many duels were fought there, notably those between Thomas H. Benton and Charles Lucas (1817), United States District Attorney Thomas Rector and Joshua Barton (1823), and Thomas Biddle and Spencer Pettis (1830). The name was derived from these bloody associations.--ED. [78] For a sketch of Charlevoix, see Nuttall's _Journal_, in our volume xiii, p. 116, note 81.--ED. [79] D'Ulloa, the first Spanish governor of Louisiana, sent a detachment of soldiers to St. Louis in 1767. Later, these troops were transferred to the south bank of the Missouri, a few miles above its mouth, where "Old Fort St. Charles the Prince" was erected. General Wilkinson built Fort Bellefontaine on this site in 1805. From 1809 to 1815 this was the headquarters of the military department of Louisiana (including Forts Madison, Massac, Osage, and Vincennes). It was the starting point of the Pike, Long, and Atkinson expeditions. On July 10, 1826, it was abandoned for Jefferson Barracks, but a small arsenal of deposits was maintained here until 1834. The land was eventually sold by the government (1836). See Walter B. Douglas's note in Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_ (New York, 1905), v, pp. 392, 393.--ED. [80] North of Missouri River, twenty miles above its confluence with the Mississippi, where the bluffs of the two streams unite, two smooth, treeless, grass-covered mounds stand out from the main bluffs. These mounds, a hundred and fifty feet in height, were called by the early French "mamelles" from their fancied resemblance to the human breast.--ED. [81] Alton, twenty-five miles above St. Louis, is the principal city of Madison County, Illinois. In 1807 the French erected here a small trading post. Rufus Easton laid out the town (1818), and named it for his son. The state penitentiary was first built at Alton (1827), but the last prisoner was transferred (1860) to the new penitentiary at Joliet, begun in 1857. Alton was the scene of the famous anti-Abolitionist riot of November 7, 1837, when Elijah P. Lovejoy was killed.--ED. [82] Captain Benjamin Godfrey donated fifteen acres of land and thirty-five thousand dollars for the erection of a female seminary at Godfrey, Madison County, Illinois. The school was opened April 11, 1838, under the title of the Monticello Female Seminary, with Rev. Theron Baldwin for its first principal.--ED. [83] The plans mentioned here were probably being agitated when Flagg visited Alton in 1836. The act incorporating the first railroad in Illinois was approved January 17, 1835; it provided for the construction of a road from Chicago to a point opposite Vincennes. By the internal improvement act of February 27, 1837, a road was authorized to be constructed from Alton to Terre Haute, by way of Shelbyville, and another from Alton to Mount Carmel, by way of Salem, Marion County; but the act was repealed before the roads were completed. The Cumberland road was constructed only to Vandalia, Fayette County, though the internal improvement act contemplated its extension to St. Louis.--ED. [84] The French village is no doubt Portage des Sioux. In 1799 Francis Leseuer, a resident of St. Charles, visited the place, which was then an Indian settlement. Pleased with the location he returned to St. Charles, and secured a grant of the land from Don Carlos Dehault Delassus, lieutenant-governor of Upper Louisiana, organized a colony from among the French inhabitants of St. Charles and St. Louis, and occupied the place the same autumn.--ED. [85] Grafton, Jersey County, Illinois, was settled in 1832 by James Mason, and named by him in honor of his native place. It was laid out (1836) by Paris and Sarah Mason.--ED. [86] The Illinois Indians (from "Illini," meaning "men") were of Algonquian stock, and formerly occupied the state to which they gave the name. They were loyal to the French during their early wars, later aided the English, and were with great difficulty subdued by the United States government. Separate tribes of the Illinois Indians were the Cahokia, Kaskaskia, Michigami, Moingewena, Peoria, and Tamaroa. On a high bluff just above Alton there was formerly to be seen a huge painted image known among the Indians as the Piasa Bird. To the natives it was an object of much veneration, and in time many superstitions became connected therewith. First described in the _Journal_ of Father Jacques Marquette (1673) its origin was long a subject of speculation among early writers. Traces of this strange painting could be seen until 1840 or 1845, when they were entirely obliterated through quarrying. See P. A. Armstrong, _The Piasa or the Devil among the Indians_ (Morris, Illinois, 1887). The version of the tradition given by Flagg was probably from the pen of John Russell, who in 1837 began editing at Grafton, Illinois, the _Backwoodsman_, a local newspaper. Russell had in 1819 or 1820 published in the _Missourian_ an article entitled "Venomous Worm," which won for him considerable reputation. Russell admitted that the version was largely imaginative; nevertheless it had a wide circulation.--ED. [87] For a sketch of Tonty, see Nuttall's _Journal_, in our volume xiii, p. 117, note 85.--ED. [88] Beardstone, Cass County, Illinois, was laid out by Thomas Beard and Enoch Marsh (1827). During the Black Hawk War (1832), it was the principal supply base for the Illinois volunteers.--ED. [89] For an account of the Illinois Canal, see Flint's _Letters_, in our volume ix, p. 186, note 93.--ED. [90] By act of Congress approved May 6, 1812, three tracts of land, not exceeding on the whole six million acres, were authorized to be surveyed and used as a bounty for the soldiers engaged in the war begun with Great Britain in that year. The tract surveyed in Illinois Territory comprehended the land lying between the Mississippi and Illinois rivers, extending seven miles north of Quincy, on the former stream, and to the present village of De Pue, in southeastern Bureau County, on the latter; it embraced the present counties of Calhoun, Pike, Adams, Brown, Schuyler, Hancock, McDonough, Fulton, Peoria, Stark, Knox, Warren, Henderson, and Mercer, and parts of Henry, Bureau, Putnam, and Marshall.--ED. [91] Cap au Gris was a point of land on the Mississippi, in Calhoun County, Illinois, just above the mouth of the Illinois. J. M. Peck, in his _Gazetteer of Illinois_ (1837), from which Flagg derives his account of this place, says that a settlement had been formed there about forty years earlier. The town of this name is now in Lincoln County, Missouri. There is no foundation for the belief that La Salle had erected a fort here.--ED. [92] Montgomery, on the right bank of Illinois River, in Pike County, was laid out by an Alton Company, for a new landing. Naples is a small village in Scott County. Havana, founded in 1827, is the seat of justice for Mason County. Pekin is in Tazewell County.--ED. [93] Peoria, now the second largest city in Illinois, is situated a hundred and sixty miles southwest of Chicago, on the west bank and near the outlet of Lake Peoria, an expansion of the Illinois River. Its site was visited in 1680 by La Salle. Early in the eighteenth century a French settlement was made a mile and a half farther up, and named Peoria for the local Indian tribe. French missionaries were in this neighborhood as early as 1673-74. In 1788 or 1789 the first house was built on the present site of Peoria and by the close of the century the inhabitants of the old town, because of its more healthful location, moved to the new village of Peoria, which at first was called La Ville de Maillet, in honor of a French Canadian who commanded a company of volunteers in the War of the Revolution. Later the name was changed to its present form. At the opening of the War of 1812-15, the French inhabitants were charged with having aroused the Indians against the Americans in Illinois. Governor Ninian Edwards ordered Thomas E. Craig, captain of a company of Illinois militia, to proceed up the Illinois River and build a fort at Peoria. Under the pretense that his men had been fired upon by the inhabitants, when the former were peaceably passing in their boats, Craig burned half the town of Peoria in November, 1812, and transferred the majority of the population to below Alton. In the following year, Fort Clark--named in honor of General George Rogers Clark--was erected by General Benjamin Howard on this site; but after the close of the war the fort was burned by the Indians. After the affair of 1812, Peoria was not occupied, save occasionally, until 1819, when it was rebuilt by the Americans. The American Fur Company established a post there in 1824. See C. Ballance, _History of Peoria_ (Peoria, 1870).--ED. [94] Benjamin Howard (1760-1814) was elected to the state legislature of Kentucky (1800), to Congress (1807-10); appointed governor of Upper Louisiana Territory (1810), and in March, 1813, brigadier-general of the United States army in command of the 8th military department. He died at St. Louis, September, 1814.--ED. [95] Kickapoo Creek rises in Peoria County, flows southeasterly and enters Illinois River two miles below Peoria.--ED. [96] Robert Walter Weir (1803-89), after studying and painting in New York, Florence (1824-25), and Rome (1825-27), opened a studio in New York, and became an associate and later academician of the National Academy of Design. He was professor of drawing in the United States Military Academy at West Point from 1832 to 1874. Weir is best known for his historical paintings, prominent among which are "The Bourbons' Last March," "Landing of Hendric Hudson," "Indian Captives," and "Embarkation of the Pilgrims." He built and beautified the Church of Holy Innocents at Highland Falls, West Point. His two sons, John Ferguson and Julian Alden, became noted artists.--ED. [97] By order of the war department (May 19, 1834), Lieutenant-Colonel S. W. Kearny was sent with companies B, H, and I of the 1st United States dragoons to establish a fort near the mouth of Des Moines River. The present site of Montrose, Lee County, Iowa, at the head of the lower rapids of the Mississippi, was chosen. The barracks being completed by November, 1834, they were occupied until the spring of 1837, when the troops were transferred to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. As early as 1721 a French fort (La Baye) had been erected at Green Bay, on the left bank of Fox River, a half league from its mouth. After suffering many vicissitudes during the Fox wars it was later strengthened, and when occupied by English troops in 1761, was re-named Fort Edward Augustus. After the close of the War of 1812-15, the United States government determined to exercise a real authority over the forts on the upper Great Lakes, where, in spite of the provision of Jay's Treaty (1794), its power had been merely nominal. In 1815 John Bowyer, the first United States Indian agent for the Green Bay district, established a government trading post at Green Bay, and made an ineffectual attempt to control the fur trade of the region. The following year, Fort Howard, named in honor of General Benjamin Howard, was built on the site of the old French fort. With the exception of 1820-22, when the troops were transferred to Camp Smith, on the east shore, Fort Howard was continuously occupied until 1841, when its garrison was ordered to Florida and Mexico. Later, from 1849 to 1851, it was occupied by Colonel Francis Lee and Lieutenant-Colonel B. L. E. Bonneville, and then permanently abandoned as a garrison, although a volunteer company was stationed there for a short time during the War of Secession. Almost every trace of the old fort has been obliterated. Consult _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, xvi, xvii; also William L. Evans, "Military History of Green Bay," in Wisconsin Historical Society _Proceedings_, 1899, pp. 128-146.--ED. [98] Hennepin, on the east bank of the Illinois River, was laid out in 1831 and made the seat of justice for Putnam County. Ottawa, the county seat of La Salle, was laid off by the canal commissioners (1830) at the junction of the Fox and Illinois rivers.--ED. [99] Flagg's description of this noted bluff is accurate. After careful investigations, Francis Parkman, the historian, was convinced that _Le Rocher_ or Starved Rock is the site of Fort St. Louis, erected by La Salle in December, 1682. On his departure in the autumn of 1683, La Salle left the post in command of his lieutenant, Henri de Tonty, who was soon succeeded by De Baugis. In 1690 Tonty and La Forest were granted the proprietorship of the stronghold, but in 1702 it was abandoned by royal order. By 1718 it was again occupied by the French, although when Father Charlevoix passed three years later, it was once more deserted. The tradition which gave rise to the name Starved Rock was well known; see _Tales of the Border_ (Philadelphia, 1834); Osman Eaton, _Starved Rock, a Historical Sketch_ (Ottawa, Illinois, 1895); and Francis Parkman, _La Salle and the Discovery of the Great West_ (Boston, 1869). Pontiac was assassinated in 1769 instead of 1767. For accounts of the Ottawa and Potawotami, see Croghan's _Journals_, in our volume i, p. 76, note 37, and p. 115, note 84, respectively.--ED. [100] For a biographical sketch of Pierre and Auguste Chouteau, the elders, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xvi, p. 275, note 127.--ED. [101] The imprint of a human foot is yet to be seen in the limestone of the shore not far from the landing at St. Louis. With reference to the _human footprints in the rock at St. Louis_, I have given the local tradition. Schoolcraft's detailed description, which I subjoin, varies from this somewhat. The print of a human foot is said to have been discovered also in the limestone at Herculaneum. Morse, in his _Universal Geography_, tells us of the tracks of an army of men and horses on a certain mountain in the State of Tennessee, fitly named the Enchanted Mountain. "Before leaving Harmony, our attention was particularly directed to a tabular mass of limestone, containing two apparent prints or impressions of the naked human foot. This stone was carefully preserved in an open area, upon the premises of Mr. Rappe, by whom it had previously been conveyed from the banks of the Mississippi, at St. Louis. The impressions are, to all appearance, those of a man standing in an erect posture, with the left foot a little advanced and the heels drawn in. The distance between the heels, by accurate measurement, is six and a quarter inches, and between the extremities of the toes thirteen and a half. But, by a close inspection, it will be perceived that these are not the impressions of feet accustomed to the European shoe; the toes being much spread, and the foot flattened in the manner that is observed in persons unaccustomed to the close shoe. The probability, therefore, of their having been imparted by some individual of a race of men who were strangers to the art of tanning skins, and at a period much anterior to that to which any traditions of the present race of Indians reaches, derives additional weight from this peculiar shape of the feet. "In other respects, the impressions are strikingly natural, exhibiting the muscular marks of the foot with great precision and faithfulness to nature. This circumstance weakens very much the supposition that they may, _possibly_, be specimens of antique sculpture, executed by any former race of men inhabiting this continent. Neither history nor tradition has preserved the slightest traces of such a people. For it must be recollected that, as yet, we have no evidence that the people who erected our stupendous Western tumuli possessed any knowledge of masonry, far less of sculpture, or that they had even invented a chisel, a knife, or an axe, other than those of porphyry, hornstone, or obsidian. "The average length of the human foot in the male subject may, perhaps, be assumed at ten inches. The length of each foot, in our subject, is ten and a quarter inches: the breadth, taken across the toes, at right angles to the former line, four inches; but the greatest spread of the toes is four and a half inches, which diminishes to two and a half at the heel. Directly before the prints, and approaching within a few inches of the left foot, is a well-impressed and deep mark, having some resemblance to a scroll, whose greatest length is two feet seven inches, and greatest breadth twelve and a half inches. "The rock containing these interesting impressions is a compact limestone of a grayish-blue colour. It was originally quarried on the left bank of the Mississippi at St. Louis, and is a part of the extensive range of calcareous rocks upon which that town is built. It contains very perfect remains of the encrinite, echinite, and some other fossil species. The rock is firm and well consolidated, as much so as any part of the stratum. A specimen of this rock, now before us, has a decidedly sparry texture, and embraces a mass of black blende. This rock is extensively used as a building material at St. Louis. On parting with its carbonic acid and water, it becomes beautifully white, yielding an excellent quick-lime. Foundations of private dwellings at St. Louis, and the military works erected by the French and Spaniards from this material sixty years ago, are still as solid and unbroken as when first laid. We cite these facts as evincing the compactness and durability of the stone--points which must essentially affect any conclusions, to be drawn from the prints we have mentioned, and upon which, therefore, we are solicitous to express our decided opinion."--FLAGG. [102] For the history of Fort Chartres, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, in our volume iii, p. 71, note 136. For a biographical sketch of St. Ange, see Croghan's _Journals_, in our volume i, p. 138, note 109.--ED. [103] At the close of 1767 Captain Francisco Rios arrived at St. Louis in pursuance of an order of D'Ulloa, governor of Louisiana. The following year he built Fort Prince Charles, and although at first coldly received, won the respect of the inhabitants by his tact and good judgment. After the expulsion of D'Ulloa in the revolution of 1768, Rios returned with his soldiers to New Orleans.--ED. [104] Spain retroceded Louisiana to France by the treaty of San Ildefonso (October 1, 1800). The latter transferred the territory to the United States by the treaty signed at Paris, April 30, 1803. The attack on St. Louis mentioned by Flagg, occurred May 26, 1780. The expedition, composed of Chippewa, Winnebago, Sioux, and other Indian tribes, with a Canadian contingent numbering about seven hundred and fifty, started from Mackinac. See R. G. Thwaites, _France in America_ (New York and London, 1905), p. 290; and "Papers from Canadian Archives," _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, xi, pp. 152-157.--ED. [105] Dangerous passes on the Mississippi were rendered doubly perilous to early navigators by the presence of bands of robbers. An incident occurred early in 1787, which led to a virtual extermination of these marauders. While ascending the river, Beausoliel, a wealthy merchant of New Orleans, was attacked near Cotton Wood Creek by the Culbert and Magilhay freebooters. After being captured, the merchants made good their escape through the strategy of a negro, killed many of their captors, and returned to New Orleans to report the state of affairs. The following year (1788) the governor issued a proclamation forbidding boats to proceed singly to St. Louis. Accordingly a fleet of ten boats ascended and destroyed the lair at Cotton Wood Creek, the remaining robbers having fled at their approach. This bloodless victory marks the close of the freebooting period. The year was afterwards known in local annals as _L'Annee des dix Bateaux_. See L. U. Reaves, _Saint Louis_ (St. Louis, 1875), pp. 21, 22; and Scharf, _St. Louis_, ii, p. 1092.--ED. [106] In 1805.--FLAGG. _Comment by Ed._ Every house save one was destroyed by fire on June 11, 1805. The memory of the disaster is preserved in the motto of the present seal of the city: _Resurget Cineribus_ (she arises from the ashes). [107] Lieutenant-Colonel Francisco Cruzat, who succeeded (May, 1775) Captain Don Pedro Piernas, the first lieutenant-governor of Upper Louisiana, followed the liberal policy of his predecessor and was highly esteemed by his people. He was followed in 1778 by Captain Fernando de Leyba, who was sadly lacking in tact and political ability; he was displaced for incompetency after the Indian attack of May 26, 1780. Cruzat was reappointed in September and served until November, 1787. One of the first acts of his second administration was to direct Auguste Chouteau to make plans for the fortification of St. Louis; see note 76, _ante_.--ED. [108] One, which occurred during the summer of the present year, was extensively felt. In the vicinity of this fortification, to the south, was an extensive burial-ground; and many of its slumbering tenants, in the grading of streets and excavating of cellars, have been thrown up to the light after a century's sleep.--FLAGG. [109] Colonel John O'Fallon (1791-1865), a nephew of George Rogers Clark, born near Louisville, served his military apprenticeship under General William Henry Harrison during the War of 1812-15. Resigning his position in the army (1818), he removed to St. Louis where he turned his attention to trade and accumulated a large fortune. He endowed the O'Fallon Polytechnic Institution, which was later made the scientific department of St. Louis University, contributed liberally to Washington University, and built a dispensary and medical college. It is estimated that he gave a million dollars for benevolent purposes.--ED. [110] This quotation is from the pen of an exceedingly accurate writer upon the West, and a worthy man; so far its sentiment is deserving of regard. I have canvassed the topic personally with this gentleman, and upon other subjects have frequently availed myself of a superior information, which more than twenty years of residence in the Far West has enabled him to obtain. I refer to the Rev. J. M. Peck, author of "Guide for Emigrants," &c.--FLAGG. [111] For recent scientific conclusions respecting the mounds and their builders, see citations in note 33, _ante_, p. 69. Mount Joliet, on the west bank of the Des Plaines River, in the southwestern portion of Cook County, Illinois; Mount St. Charles, in Jo Daviess County, Illinois; Sinsinawa, in Grant County, Wisconsin, and Blue Mounds, in Dane County, Wisconsin, are unquestionably of natural formation. For descriptions of the artificial mounds of Wisconsin, see I. A. Lapham, "Antiquities of Wisconsin," Smithsonian Institution _Contributions_, volume vii; Alfred Brunson, "Antiquities of Crawford County," and Stephen D. Peet, "Emblematic Mounds in Wisconsin," in _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, iii and ix, respectively.--ED. [112] About 1817, when the first steamboat arrived at St. Louis a sand-bar began forming at the lower end of the city; by 1837, this had extended as far north as Market street, forming an island more than two hundred acres in extent. Another sand-bar was formed at the upper end of the city, west of Blood Island. In 1833 the city authorities undertook the work of removal, and John Goodfellow was employed to plow up the bars with ox teams, in order that high waters might carry away the sand. After three thousand dollars had been expended without avail, the board of aldermen petitioned Congress (1835) for relief. Through the efforts of Congressman William H. Ashley, the federal government appropriated (July 4, 1836) fifteen thousand dollars--later (March 3, 1837) increased to fifty thousand dollars--for the purpose of erecting a pier to deflect the current of the river. The work was supervised by Lieutenant Robert E. Lee and his assistant, Henry Kayser. Begun in 1837, it was continued for two years, the result being that the current was turned back to the Missouri side and the sand washed out; but dikes were necessary to preserve the work that had been accomplished.--ED. [113] The dry floating dock was patented by J. Thomas, of St. Louis, March 26, 1834.--ED. [114] Three miles from the Mississippi, near the end of Laclede Avenue, St. Louis, is a powerful spring marking the source of Mill Creek (French, _La Petite Rivière_). Joseph Miguel Taillon went to St. Louis (1765), constructed a dam across this creek, and erected a mill near the intersection of Ninth and Poplar streets. Pierre Laclede Liguest bought the property in 1767, but at his death (1778), Auguste Chouteau purchased it at public auction and retained the estate until his own death in 1829. The latter built a large stone mill to take the place of Taillon's wooden structure, and later replaced it by a still larger stone mill. The mill to which Flagg probably refers was not demolished until 1863. Chouteau enlarged the pond formed by Taillon's dam and beautified it. This artificial lake, a half mile in length and three hundred yards in width, was long known as Chouteau's Pond, and a noted pleasure-resort. In 1853 it was sold to the Missouri Pacific Railroad, drained, and made the site of the union railway station and several manufacturing establishments.--ED. [115] N. M. Ludlow, assisted by Colonel Meriwether Lewis Clark and Colonel Charles Keemle, in 1835 secured subscriptions to the amount of thirty thousand dollars, later increased to sixty-five thousand, for the purpose of erecting a theatre on the southeast corner of Third and Olin streets. The first play was presented on July 3, 1837. Designed by George I. Barnett, the building was of Ionic architecture externally and internally Corinthian. It was used until July 10, 1851, when it was closed, the property having been purchased by the federal government as the site for a custom house; see Scharf, _St. Louis_, i, p. 970. The Planter's Hotel was probably the one Flagg referred to, instead of the St. Louis House. It was located between Chestnut and Vine streets, fronting Fourth street. The company was organized in 1836, the ground broken for construction in March, 1837, and the hotel opened for guests in 1841. Joseph Rosati (1789-1843) went to St. Louis in 1817 and was appointed bishop of the Roman Catholic diocese of St. Louis, created two years earlier. Active in benevolent work, he founded two colleges for men and three academies for young women, aided in establishing the order of Ladies of the Sacred Heart, and was the chief promoter in the organization of the Sisters' Hospital and the first orphan asylum. He was called to Rome in 1840, and at the Feast of St. Andrew, 1841, appointed Peter R. Kenrick as his coadjutor. Bishop Rosati died at Rome, in 1843.--ED. [116] John B. Sarpy and his two younger brothers, Gregoire B. and Silvestre D. came to America from France about the middle of the eighteenth century. After engaging in the mercantile business in New Orleans, John B. went to St. Louis (1766) and was one of its earliest merchants. After twenty years' residence there, he returned to New Orleans. His nephew of the same name, at the age of nineteen (1817) was a partner with Auguste Chouteau and was later a member of the firm of P. Chouteau Jr. and Company, one of the largest fur companies then in America. Pierre Menard (1766-1844) was in Vincennes as early as 1788. He later made his home at Kaskaskia, and held many positions of public trust in Illinois Territory. He was made major of the first regiment of the Randolph County militia (1795), was appointed judge of common pleas in the same county (1801), and United States sub-agent of Indian affairs (1813). He was also a member of several important commissions, notably of that appointed to make treaties with the Indians of the Northwest. His brothers, Hippolyte and Jean François, settled at Kaskaskia. The former was his brother's partner; the latter a well-known navigator on the Mississippi River. Michel Menard, nephew of Pierre, had much influence among the Indians and was chosen chief of the Shawnee. He founded the city of Galveston, Texas. Pierre Menard left ten children. Henry Gustavus Soulard, the second son of Antoine Pierre Soulard, was born in St. Louis (1801). Frederic Louis Billon, in his _Annals of St. Louis_ (1889), mentions him as the last survivor of all those who were born in St. Louis prior to the transfer of Louisiana to the United States (1803). For short sketches of the Chouteaus, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xvi, p. 275, note 127, and Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 235, note 168; for Pratte and Cabanné, see our volume xxii, p. 282, note 239, and p. 271, note 226, respectively.--ED. [117] Within six years after the founding of St. Louis, the first Catholic church was built. This log structure falling into ruins, was replaced in 1818 by a brick building. The corner-stone of the St. Louis cathedral (incorrectly written in Flagg as cathedral of St. Luke) was laid August 1, 1831, and consecrated October 26, 1834.--ED. [118] The painting of St. Louis was presented by Louis XVIII to Bishop Louis Guillaume Valentin Du Bourg, while the latter was in Europe (1815-17).--ED. [119] For the early appreciation of fine arts in St. Louis, see the chapter entitled "Art and Artists," written by H. H. Morgan and W. M. Bryant in Scharf, _St. Louis_, ii, pp. 1617-1627. Scharf, in speaking of the paintings in the St. Louis cathedral says, "of course the paintings of the old masters are copies, not originals."--ED. [120] In this outline of the Cathedral the author is indebted largely to a minute description by the Rev. Mr. Lutz, the officiating priest, published in the Missouri Gazetteer.--FLAGG. [121] In 1823, at the solicitation of the federal government, a band of Jesuit missionaries left Maryland and built a log school-house at Florissant, Missouri (1824) for educating the Indians. See sketch of Father de Smet in preface to this volume. The building was abandoned in 1828 and the white students transferred to the Jesuit college recently constructed at St. Louis. On December 28, 1832, the state legislature passed "an act to incorporate the St. Louis University." The faculty was organized on April 4, 1833.--ED. [122] We are informed by Rev. J. C. Burke, S.J., librarian of the St. Louis University, that the work referred to by Flagg is, _Atlas Major, sive, Cosmographia Blaviana, qua Solum, Salum, Coelum accuratissime describuntur_ (Amsterdami, Labore et Sumpibus Joannis Blaeu MDCLXXII), in 11 folio volumes. The _Acta Sanctorum_ (Lives of the Saints) were begun at the opening of the seventeenth century by P. Heribert Rosweyde, professor in the Jesuit college of Douai. The work was continued by P. Jean Bolland by instruction from his order, and later by a Jesuit commission known as Bollandists. Work was suspended at the time of the French invasion of Holland (1796) but resumed in 1836 under the auspices of Leopold I of Belgium. Volume lxvi was issued in 1902.--ED. [123] For accounts of General Henry Atkinson and of Council Bluffs, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 229, note 152, and p. 275, note 231, respectively.--ED. [124] The cave described here is Cliff or Indian Cave, more than two miles below Jefferson Barracks on the Missouri side.--ED. [125] River des Pères is a small stream rising in the central portion of St. Louis County, flowing southeast, and entering the Mississippi at the southern extremity of South St. Louis, formerly Carondelet.--ED. [126] This is an historical error. La Salle did not build a fort at this place, nor did he here take possession of Louisiana.--ED. [127] Pittsburg, laid out in 1836, is a hamlet in Cahokia Precinct, St. Clair County. A railroad six miles in length was constructed (1837) between Pittsburg and a point opposite St. Louis.--ED. [128] This group of Indian mounds, probably the most remarkable in America, is on the American Bottom, along the course of Canteen Creek, which rises in the southern portion of Madison County, Illinois, flows west, and enters Cahokia Creek. Monk, or Cahokia, Mound, about eight miles from St. Louis, is the most important of the group. William McAdams, who made a careful survey of this mound, wrote a good description of it in his _Records of Ancient Races in the Mississippi Valley_ (St. Louis, 1887); also E. G. Squier and E. H. Davis, "Ancient Monuments of the Mississippi Valley, comprising the Result of extensive original Surveys and Explorations," in Smithsonian _Contributions_, i.--ED. [129] The monastery of La Trappe was founded in 1122 (sometimes incorrectly given as 1140). Originally affiliated with the order of Fontrevault, it was made a branch of the Cistercian order (1148). Contrary to Flagg's account, La Trappe did not have a separate existence until the time of Rançe, who was made abbot in 1664. The account of Rançe's conversion given here by Flagg, is recognized by historians as merely popular tradition. See Gaillardin, _Les Trappistes_ (Paris, 1844), and Pfaunenschmidt, _Geschichte der Trappisten_ (Paderborn, 1873).--ED. [130] The Trappists went to Gethsemane, Nelson County, Kentucky, in 1805. Three or four years later they moved to Missouri, but almost immediately recrossed the Mississippi and built the temporary monastery of Notre Dame de Bon Secours on Cahokia Mound, given to them by Major Nicholas Jarrot. For a description of this establishment by an eye witness, see H. M. Brackenridge, _Views of Louisiana_ (Pittsburg, 1814), appendix 5. New Melleray, a Trappist monastery twelve miles southwest of Dubuque, Iowa, was commenced in 1849 and completed in 1875. For its history, together with a short account of the Trappists' activity, see William Rufus Perkins, _History of the Trappist Abbey of New Melleray_ (Iowa City, 1892).--ED. [131] Father Urbain Guillet is recorded as having officiated several times in the Catholic church at St. Louis.--ED. [132] Thomas Kirkpatrick, of South Carolina, made the first settlement on the site of Edwardsville (1805). During the Indian troubles preceding the War of 1812-15, he built a block-house, known as Thomas Kirkpatrick's Fort. When Madison County was organized (1812), Kirkpatrick's farm was chosen as its seat. He made the survey for the town plat in 1816, and named the place in honor of Ninian Edwards. See W. R. Brink and Company, _History of Madison County, Illinois_ (Edwardsville, 1882).--ED. [133] In May, 1838, it was entirely consumed by fire.--FLAGG. [134] John Adams later retired from business, and was elected sheriff on the Whig ticket. Flagg's account seems to be considerably overdrawn.--ED. [135] Collinsville was platted May 12, 1837. Augustus, Anson, and Michael Collins, three brothers from Litchfield, Connecticut, had settled here a few years earlier and built an ox-mill for grinding and sawing, a distillery, tanning yards, and cooper and blacksmith shops. The town was first named Unionville, and John A. Cook made the first settlement about 1816.--ED. [136] Upper Alton, two and a half miles from Alton, was laid out in 1817 by Joseph Meacham, of Vermont, who came to Illinois in 1811; see _History of Madison County_, p. 396. The origin of Shurtleff College was the "Theological and High School" commonly known as the Rock Spring Seminary, established (1827) by John M. Peck, D. D. The latter was closed in 1831, and opened again the following year at Alton, under the name of Alton Seminary. In March, 1832, the state legislature incorporated the institution as "Alton College of Illinois." For religious reasons the charter was not accepted until 1835, when the terms of incorporation had been made more favorable. In January, 1836, the charter was amended, changing its title to Shurtleff College, in honor of Benjamin Shurtleff, M. D., who had donated ten thousand dollars to the institution. Although from the first emphasizing religious instruction, a theological department was not organized until 1863. The school is still under Baptist influence.--ED. [137] Hillsboro, the seat of Montgomery County, twenty-eight miles from Vandalia, was platted in 1823.--ED. [138] In his description of the barrens, Flagg follows quite closely J. M. Peck, _Gazetteer of Illinois_ (Jacksonville, 1837), pp. 11, 12. The term barrens, according to the _Century Dictionary_, is "a tract or region of more or less unproductive land partly or entirely treeless. The term is best known in the United States as the name of a district in Kentucky, 'The Barrens,' underlaid by the subcarboniferous limestone, but possessing a fertile soil, which was nearly or quite treeless when that state began to be settled by the whites, but which at present where not cultivated, is partly covered with trees." See a good description in our volume iii, pp. 217-224.--ED. [139] According to the War Department's _List of Military Forts, etc., established in the United States from its Earliest settlement to the present time_ (Washington, 1902), a Fort Gaines was at one time located at Gainesville, Alachua County, Florida. The town is now the seat of East Florida Seminary, a military school. Among the numerous lakes in the vicinity, Alachua, the largest, occupies what was formerly Payne's Prairie. Through this prairie a stream issuing from Newman's Lake flowed to a point near the middle of the district, where it suddenly fell into an unfathomed abyss named by the Indians Alachua (the bottomless pit). The whites gave this name to the county, and called the abyss "Big Sink." This place became a favorite pleasure resort until 1875, when the sink refused longer to receive the water, and Payne's Prairie, formerly a rich grazing land, was turned into a lake. Numerous tales connected with Big Sink were circulated, and it seems probable that Flagg is referring to this locality.--ED. [140] For a sketch of Daniel Boone, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 43, note 16; and for a more complete account consult Thwaites, _Daniel Boone_ (New York, 1902). Simon Kenton (1755-1836) having, as he supposed, killed a neighbor in a fight, fled from his home in Virginia to the headwaters of the Ohio River. He served as a scout in Dunmore's War (1774) and in 1775 with Boone, explored the interior of Kentucky. Captured by the Indians (1778), he was condemned to death and taken to the native village at Lower Sandusky, whence he made his escape. Later he served with distinction in campaigns under George Rogers Clark, and was second only to Daniel Boone as a frontier hero. In 1784, Kenton founded a settlement near Limestone (Maysville), Kentucky. He took part in Wayne's Campaign (1793-94), and was present at the Battle of the Thames (1813). In 1820 he moved to Logan County, Ohio, and sixteen years later died there in poverty, although before going to Ohio in 1802 he was reputed as one of the wealthiest men in Kentucky. See R. W. McFarland, "Simon Kenton," in Ohio State Archæological and Historical Society _Publications_ (1904), xiii, pp. 1-39; also Edward S. Ellis, _Life and Times of Col. Daniel Boone ... with sketches of Simon Kenton, Lewis Wetzel, and other Leaders in the Settlement of the West_ (Philadelphia, 1884). Colonel William Whitley (1749-1813), born in Virginia, set out for Kentucky about 1775, and built in 1786 or 1787 one of the first brick houses in the state, near Crab Orchard, in Lincoln County. A noted Indian fighter, he participated in the siege of Logan's fort (1777), and Clark's campaigns of 1782, and 1786. He also led several parties to recover white captives--his best known feat of this character being the rescue of Mrs. Samuel McClure (1784). In 1794 he was the active leader of the successful Nickajack expedition, directed against the Indians south of Tennessee River. He fell at the Battle of the Thames (1813), whereat it was maintained by some of his admirers, he killed the Indian chief Tecumseh. See Collins, _Kentucky_, ii, pp. 403-410; but this doubtful honor was also claimed by others.--ED. [141] Alexander Spotswood (1676-1740) was appointed governor of Virginia (1710). Taking a lively interest in the welfare of the colonists, he attained among them high popularity. Quite early, he conceived the idea of extending the Virginia settlement beyond the mountains, to intercept the French communications between Canada and the Gulf of Mexico; but he failed to secure the aid either of his province or of the mother country. In the summer of 1716 he organized and led an expedition for exploring the Appalachian Mountains, named two peaks George and Spotswood, and took possession of the Valley of Virginia in the name of George I. On his return, he established the order of "Tramontane," for carrying on further explorations, whose members were called "Knights of the Golden Horseshoe," for the reason which Flagg gives. For a contemporary account of this expedition, see "Journal of John Fontaine" in Anna Maury, _Memoirs of a Huguenot Family_ (New York, 1853). Spotswood was displaced as governor in 1722, but was later (1730) appointed deputy postmaster of the colonies.--ED. [142] Macoupin Creek flows southwesterly through the county of the same name, westerly through Greene County, and empties into Illinois River at the southwestern extremity of the latter county. It is now believed that Macoupin is derived from the Indian word for white potatoes, which were said to have been found growing in abundance along the course of this stream. Carlinville, named for Thomas Carlin, governor of the state in 1834-42, was settled about 1833. Gideon Blackburn, a Presbyterian minister, laid a plan in 1835 for founding a college to educate young men for the ministry. He entered land from the government at the price of one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre, and disposed of it to the friends of his cause at two dollars, reserving twenty-five cents for his expenses and turning over the remaining fifty cents to the proposed college. By May, 1837, he had entered over 16,656 acres. The people of Carlinville purchased eighty acres from him for the site of the school. The enterprise lay dormant until 1857, when the state chartered the school under the title of Blackburn University, which was opened in 1859.--ED. [143] Others say the peninsula was discovered on Easter-day; _Pasqua florida_, feast of flowers; whence the name.--FLAGG. [144] "In the year 1538, _Ferdinand de Soto_, with a commission from the Emperor _Charles V._, sailed with a considerable fleet for America. He was a Portuguese gentleman, and had been with _Pizarro_ in the conquest (as it is called) of Peru. His commission constituted him governor of Cuba and general of Florida. Although he sailed from St. Lucar in 1538, he did not land in Florida[A] until May 1539. With about 1000 men, 213 of whom were provided with horses, he undertook the conquest of Florida and countries adjacent. After cutting their way in various directions through numerous tribes of Indians, traversing nearly 1000 miles of country, losing a great part of their army, their general died upon the banks of the Mississippi, and the survivors were obliged to build vessels in which to descend the river; which, when they had done, they sailed for Mexico. This expedition was five years in coming to nothing, and bringing ruin upon its performers. A populous Indian town at this time stood at or near the mouth of the Mobile, of which _Soto's_ army had possessed themselves. Their intercourse with the Indians was at first friendly, but at length a chief was insulted, which brought on hostilities. A battle was fought, in which, it is said, 2000 Indians were killed and 83 Spaniards."--_Drake's Book of the Indians_, b. iv., c. 3.--FLAGG. _Comment by Ed._ Consult Edward G. Bourne (Ed.), _Career of Hernando de Soto_ (New York, 1904). [A] "So called because it was first discovered by the Spaniards on Palm Sunday, or, as the most interpret, Easter-day, which they called _Pasqua-Florida_, and not, as Thenet writeth, for the flourishing verdure thereof."--_Purchas_, p. 769. [145] "After a long and fatiguing journey through a mountainous wilderness, in a westward direction, I at last, from the top of an eminence, saw with pleasure the beautiful land of Kentucky. * * * It was in June; and at the close of day the gentle gales retired, and left the place to the disposal of a profound calm. Not a breeze shook the most tremulous leaf. I had gained the summit of a commanding ridge, and, looking round with astonishing delight, beheld the ample plains, the beauteous tracts below. * * * Nature was here a series of wonders and a fund of delight. Here she displayed her ingenuity and industry in a variety of flowers and fruits, beautifully coloured, elegantly shaped, and charmingly flavoured; and I was diverted with innumerable animals presenting themselves continually before my view. * * * The buffaloes were more frequent than I have seen cattle in the settlements, browsing on the leaves of the cane, or cropping the herbage on these extensive plains, fearless because ignorant of man."--[Narrative of Colonel Daniel Boone, from his first arrival in Kentucky in 1769, to the year 1782.]--FLAGG. _Comment by Ed._ Boone's Narrative was actually written by John Filson, from interviews with the pioneer. The stilted style is of course far from being Boone's product. [146] George Herbert.--FLAGG. [147] Mungo Park, born in Scotland (1771), was engaged by the African Society (1795) to explore the course of the Niger, which he reached July 20, the following year. While on a subsequent tour he was drowned in that river (1805). See his _Travels in the interior district of Africa_ (London, 1816).--ED. [148] July 4.--FLAGG. [149] The Prairie.--FLAGG. [150] For an account of Vandalia, see Woods's _English Prairie_, in our volume x, p. 326, note 75.--ED. [151] The first number of the _Illinois Monthly Magazine_ was issued in October, 1830. Late in 1832 Hall removed to Cincinnati, when he soon began issuing the _Western Monthly Magazine_, or continuation of the former publication, whose subject matter was largely historical, dealing with the early settlement of the West. For an account of Judge James Hall see _ante_, p. 31, note 2.--ED. [152] Hall.--FLAGG. [153] Hurricane Creek rises near the line of Montgomery and Shelby counties, flows southerly through the western portion of Fayette County, and enters Kaskaskia River twelve miles below Vandalia. The banks of this creek were formerly heavily timbered, and the low bottoms were occasionally inundated. Flagg considerably exaggerated the actual condition of this region.--ED. [154] Carlyle, the seat of Clinton County, forty-eight miles east of St. Louis, was laid out in 1818. The Vincennes and St. Louis stage route passed through Lebanon, Carlyle, and Salem. At the last place, the road divided, one branch running south to Fairfield, the other passing through Maysville and both again uniting at Lawrenceville. Augustus Mitchell, in his _Illinois in 1837_ (Philadelphia, 1837), p. 66, says: "From Louisville, by the way of Vincennes to St. Louis, by stage, every alternate day, 273 miles through in three days and a half. Fare, seventeen dollars."--ED. [155] Lebanon was laid out by Governor William Kinney and Thomas Ray in July, 1825. Little Silver Creek rises in the northeastern portion of St. Clair County and flowing southwesterly joins Silver Creek two miles below Lebanon. The latter stream is about fifty miles in length, rises in the northern part of Madison County, runs south into St. Clair County, and enters Kaskaskia River.--ED. [156] _Tradition_ telleth of vast treasures here exhumed; and, on strength of this, ten years ago a company of fortune-seekers dug away for several months with an enthusiasm worthy of better success than awaited them.--FLAGG. _Comment by Ed._ Rock Spring was a mere settlement in St. Clair County, eighteen miles from St. Louis, on the Vincennes stage road, and about three miles southwest of Lebanon. Its name was derived from a series of springs issuing from a rocky ledge in the vicinity. John M. Peck selected this site (1820) for his permanent residence, and established the Rock Spring Theological Seminary and High School (1827), which four years later was transferred to Alton and made the foundation of Shurtleff College. In 1834 Rock Spring consisted of fourteen families. [157] Peter Cartwright is said to have suggested the idea of founding a Methodist college at Lebanon. After the citizens of the town had contributed $1,385, buildings were erected and instruction commenced in 1828. The college was named in honor of Bishop William McKendree, who made a liberal donation to the school (1830).--ED. [158] In March, 1814, a commission appointed by the state legislature the preceding year, selected the site of Belleville for the seat of St. Clair County. George Blair, whose farm was chosen as the site, platted and named the county seat. The town was incorporated in 1819. See _History of St. Clair County, Illinois_ (1881), pp. 183, 185.--ED. [159] For a brief history of the inception of St. Louis University, see _ante_, p. 169, note 121. At a meeting of the trustees on May 3, 1836, a commission was appointed to select a new site for the university. A farm of three hundred acres recently purchased, on the Bellefontaine road, three and a half miles from St. Louis, was chosen; plans were formulated, contracts made, and the foundations dug. On the death of the contractors, the enterprise was abandoned; but the land, sold a few years later, proved a valuable investment. See Scharf, _St. Louis_, i, pp. 860, 861.--ED. [160] For a note on Florissant, see Townsend's _Narrative_, in our volume xxi, p. 125, note 4.--ED. [161] This valley appears to have been the bed of an ancient lake.--FLAGG. [162] Bridgeton, still a village, about fifteen miles northwest of the St. Louis courthouse, was incorporated February 27, 1843. It was settled by French and Spanish families, about the time that St. Louis was established. A fort was built as a protection against the Indians, and William Owens was placed in command. In consequence the place was until the time of its incorporation generally known to the Americans as Owen's Station.--ED. [163] Until after the middle of the nineteenth century, St. Louis County ranked among the coal-producing districts of Missouri. Today no coal is mined there save for the fire-clay industry or other immediate local use. Dr. B. F. Shumard in his "Description of a Geological Section on the Mississippi River from St. Louis to Commerce," in Geological Survey of Missouri, _First and Second Annual Reports_ (Jefferson City, 1855), p. 176, describes _La Charbonnière_ mine; which appears to have been operated at that time. He reports the coal vein as being only about eighteen inches in thickness. On page 184 of the above report, an interesting map is given, showing the location of coal mines in St. Louis County.--ED. [164] For an account of St. Charles, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 39, note 9. For the Mandan villages, see Maximilian's _Travels_, in our volume xxii, p. 344, and note 316, and volume xxiii, p. 234, note 192.--ED. [165] The following extract from a letter dated September, 1819, addressed by Mr. Austin to Mr. Schoolcraft, respecting the navigation of the Missouri, well portrays the impetuous character of that river. It shows, too, the great improvements in the steam-engine during the past twenty years. "I regret to state that the expedition up the Missouri to the Yellow Stone has in part failed. The steamboats destined for the Upper Missouri, after labouring against the current for a number of weeks, were obliged to give up the enterprise. Every exertion has been made to overcome the difficulty of navigating the Missouri with the power of steam; but all will not do. The current of that river, from the immense quantity of sand moving down with the water, is too powerful for any boat yet constructed. The loss either to the government or to the contractor will be very great. Small steamboats of fifty tons burden, with proper engines, would, I think, have done much better. Boats like those employed, of twenty to thirty feet beam, and six to eight feet draught of water, must have _uncommon_ power to be propelled up a river, every pint of whose water is equal in weight to a quart of Ohio water, and moves with a velocity hardly credible. The barges fixed to move with wheels, worked by men, have answered every expectation; but they will only do when troops are on board, and the men can be changed every hour."--FLAGG. [166] For a sketch of Franklin, Missouri, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_ in our volume xix, p. 188, note 33.--ED. [167] The first settlement was made at St. Charles in 1769. La Chasseur Blanchette located the site, and established here a military post. The first mill in St. Charles County is said to have been built by Jonathan Bryan on a small branch emptying into Femme Osage Creek (1801). Francis Duquette (1774-1816), a French Canadian who came to St. Charles just before the close of the century, erected a mill on the site of the old round fort.--ED. [168] One year after the above was written, the author, on a visit to St. Charles, walked out to this spot. The willow was blasted; the relics of the paling were gone; the grave was levelled with the soil, but the old ruin was there still.--FLAGG. [169] For a description of Bloody Island, see _ante_, p. 115, note 77. The duel mentioned by Flagg is probably the one that occurred between Joshua Barton, United States district attorney, and Thomas Rector, on June 30, 1823. Barton had published in the _Missouri Republican_ a letter charging William Rector, surveyor general of Missouri, Illinois, and Arkansas, with corruption in office. The latter being absent, his brother Thomas issued the challenge. Barton's body was buried at St. Charles near the old round tower ruins. In the summer of 1817, Charles Lucas challenged Thomas H. Benton's vote at the polls. On the latter calling him an insolent puppy, Lucas challenged him to a duel. The affair took place August 12, 1817, and both parties were wounded. On September 27 of the same year, a second duel was fought, in which Lucas was mortally wounded. Joshua Barton was the latter's second. In the _Missouri Republican_ (St. Louis, March 15, 1882) there was printed an address by Thomas T. Gantt, delivered in Memorial Hall at St. Louis, on the celebration of the centennial birthday of Thomas H. Benton, in which the details of this deed were carefully reviewed. During the political canvass of 1830, a heated discussion was carried on in the newspaper press between Thomas Biddle and Spencer Pettis. Pettis challenged Biddle to a duel. Both fell mortally wounded, August 29, 1830.--ED. [170] Marais Croche (Crooked swamp) is located a few miles northeast of St. Charles, and Marais Temps-Clair (Clear-weather swamp), just southwest of Portage des Sioux. The former is often mentioned for its beauty.--ED. [171] "I cultivated a small farm on that beautiful prairie below St. Charles called 'The Mamelle,' or 'Point prairie.' In my enclosure, and directly back of my house, were two conical mounds of considerable elevation. A hundred paces in front of them was a high bench, making the shore of the 'Marais Croche,' an extensive marsh, and evidently the former bed of the Missouri. In digging a ditch on the margin of this bench, at the depth of four feet, we discovered great quantities of broken pottery, belonging to vessels of all sizes and characters. Some must have been of a size to contain four gallons. This must have been a very populous place. The soil is admirable, the prospect boundless; but, from the scanty number of inhabitants in view, rather lonely. It will one day contain an immense population again."--_Flint's Recollections_, p. 166.--FLAGG. [172] At the time Flagg wrote, St. Charles, like many other Western towns, entertained the hope that the Cumberland Road would eventually be extended thereto, thus placing them upon the great artery of Western travel. See Woods's _English Prairie_, in our volume x, p. 327, note 76. Also consult T. B. Searight, _The Old Pike_ (Uniontown, 1894), and A. B. Hulbert "Cumberland Road," in _Historic Highways of America_ (Cleveland, 1904). Boone's Lick Road, commencing at St. Charles, runs westward across Dardenne Creek to Cottleville, thence to Dalhoff post-office and Pauldingville, on the western boundary of the county. Its total length is twenty-six miles.--ED. [173] St. Charles College, founded by Mrs. Catherine Collier and her son George, was opened in 1836 under the presidency of Reverend John H. Fielding. The Methodist Episcopal church has directed the institution. Madame Duchesne, a companion of Mother Madeline Barral, founder of the Society of the Sacred Heart, started a mission at St. Charles in 1819; but the colony was soon removed to St. Louis. In 1828, however, she succeeded in establishing permanently at St. Charles the Academy of the Sacred Heart, with Madame Lucile as superior.--ED. [174] For sketches of the Potawotami, Miami, and Kickapoo, see Croghan's _Journals_, in our volume i, pp. 115, 122, 139, notes 84, 87, 111; for the Sauk and Fox, see J. Long's _Voyages_, in our volume ii, p. 185, note 85; for the Iowa, Brackenridge's _Journal_, in our volume vi, p. 51, note 13.--ED. [175] Flagg makes an error in speaking of Boone's Lick County, since there was none known by that name. He evidently had in mind Warren County, organized in 1833 from the western part of St. Charles County. Boone County created in November, 1820, with its present limits, named in honor of Daniel Boone, is in the fifth tier of counties west from Missouri River.--ED. [176] For an account of Daniel Boone and Boone's Lick, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, pp. 43, 52, notes 16, 24, respectively. Daniel Boone arrived at the Femme Osage district in western St. Charles County, in 1798. He died September 26, 1820 (not 1818).--ED. [177] There seems to be little or no foundation for this statement. Consult J. B. Patterson, _Life of Ma-Ka-Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak or Black Hawk_ (Boston, 1834), and R. G. Thwaites, "The Story of the Black Hawk War," in _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, xii, pp. 217-265.--ED. [178] For biographical sketch of General William Clark, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 254, note 143.--ED. [179] Obed Battius, M.D., is a character in James Fenimore Cooper's novel, _The Prairie_ (1826).--ED. [180] An Illinois legislative act approved January 16, 1836, granted to Paris Mason, Alfred Caverly, John Wyatt, and William Craig a charter to construct a railroad from Grafton, in Greene County, to Springfield, by way of Carrollton, Point Pleasant, and Millville, under the title of Mississippi and Springfield Railroad Company. The road was, however, not built.--ED. [181] For a description of Macoupin Creek, see _ante_, p. 226, note 142. Flagg draws his information concerning Macoupin Settlement from Peck, _Gazetteer of Illinois_. According to the latter the settlement was started by Daniel Allen, and John and Paul Harriford, in December, 1816. As regards Peck's statement that Macoupin Settlement was at the time of its inception the most northern white community in the Territory of Illinois, there is much doubt. Fort Dearborn (Chicago), built in 1804, and evacuated on August 15,1812, was rebuilt by Captain Hezekiah Bradley, who arrived with two companies on July 4, 1816, and a settlement sprang up here at once.--ED. [182] The first settler in Carrollton was Thomas Carlin, who arrived in the spring of 1819. In 1821 the place was chosen as the seat of Greene County, and surveyed the same year, although the records were not filed until July 30, 1825. See _History of Greene and Jersey Counties, Illinois_ (Springfield, 1885).--ED. [183] Apple Creek, a tributary of Illinois River, flows in a western trend through Greene County.--ED. [184] Whitehall, in Greene County, forty-five miles north of Alton, was laid out by David Barrow in 1832. Pottery was first made there in 1835, and has since become an important industry, contributing largely to the rapid progress of which Flagg speaks.--ED. [185] Manchester is in Scott County, midway between Carrollton and Jacksonville, being about fifteen miles from each. It was settled as early as 1828.--ED. [186] Diamond Grove Prairie, five miles in extent, is a fertile district in Morgan County, just south of Jacksonville. Diamond Grove was formerly a beautifully timbered tract situated in the middle of this prairie, two miles south of Jacksonville. It was some 700 or 800 acres in extent.--ED. [187] Illinois College was founded in 1829 through the effort of a group of Jacksonville citizens directed by the Reverend John M. Ellis and the Yale Band--the latter composed of seven men from that college who had pledged themselves to the cause of Christian education in the home missions of the West. The latter secured from the friends of the enterprise in the East a fund of $10,000. Late in 1829 the organization was completed and in December, 1830, Reverend Edward Beecher, elder brother of Henry Ward Beecher, was persuaded to leave his large church in Boston and accept the presidency of this institution. In 1903 the Jacksonville Female Academy, started in 1830, was merged with the Illinois College, which had from the first been dominated by the Presbyterian Church.--ED. [188] Jacksonville, the seat of Morgan County, was laid out in 1825 on land given to the county for that purpose by Thomas Armitt and James Dial. The town was largely settled by people from New England, who gave a characteristic tone to its society. Jacksonville is today the seat of several important state institutions.--ED. [189] In June, 1835, Ithamar Pillsbury, with two associates, sent out under the auspices of the New York Association, entered a large tract of land and selected a site for a town to be styled Andover, which was eventually platted in 1841, in the western portion of Henry County, fifty miles north and northwest of Peoria. The first settlers were principally from Connecticut, but soon several Swedish families migrated thither, and in time the settlement was composed primarily of that nationality. On returning East in the autumn of 1835, after planting the Andover colony, Pillsbury had an interview with Dr. Caleb J. Tenny, of Wethersfield, Connecticut. At the latter's instigation a meeting of Congregationalists was held, and a group of influential New Englanders organized themselves into the Connecticut Association. Shares were sold at $250 each, which entitled the holder to one hundred and sixty acres of prairie land, twenty acres of timber land, and a town lot in a proposed colony to be founded in Illinois. On May 7, 1836, the first entry was made by the committee of purchase. After the latter's return a new committee was sent out and the town of Wethersfield, in the southeastern corner of Henry County, was laid out in the spring of 1837. For an account of the founding of Andover and Wethersfield, and the names of persons serving on the various prospecting committees, see _History of Henry County, Illinois_ (Chicago, 1877), pp. 137-141, 524-526.--ED. [190] Since the above was written, the emigrants have removed.--FLAGG. [191] Joseph Duncan, born in Kentucky, was presented with a sword by Congress for his gallant defense of Fort Stephenson in the War of 1812-15. In 1818 he moved to Kaskaskia, was appointed major-general of the Illinois militia (1823), and elected state senator (1824). In 1827 he was sent to Congress by the Jacksonian Democrats. He resigned in 1834 to accept the governorship of Illinois, which he occupied until 1838. He is said to have erected the first frame building in Jacksonville. He moved to this place in 1829, dying there January 15, 1844.--ED. [192] Porter Clay (1779-1850), a brother of Henry Clay, was for many years a Baptist minister at Jacksonville.--ED. [193] Flagg is probably referring to William Weatherford, who served in the state senate (1834-38) from Morgan County.--ED. [194] The first settlement on the present site of Springfield was made by John Kelly (1819). In 1822 the lots were laid off, but not recorded until the following year, when the town was named. Soon after its incorporation in 1832, Abraham Lincoln, Stephen A. Douglas, and Edward Baker began agitating the question of moving the state capital to Springfield from Vandalia. After a severe struggle, complicated with the internal improvement policy, their efforts succeeded in 1837. The legislative act of that year went into effect July 4, 1839, and the general assembly commenced its first session at Springfield in the following December.--ED. [195] Sangamon River is formed by the union, six miles east of Springfield, of its north and south forks. The former, rising in Champaign County, flows through Macon and a part of Sangamon counties; the latter intersects Christian County. The main stream runs in an easterly direction, forms the boundary of Cass County, and joins the Illinois River nine miles above Beardstown. The river is nearly two hundred and forty miles in length, including the north fork, and was named in honor of a local Indian chief.--ED. [196] Mechanicsburg, fifteen miles east of Springfield, was laid out and platted in November, 1832, by William S. Pickrell.--ED. [197] "I will never, if possible, pass a night in any place where the graveyard is neglected." Franklin has no monument!--FLAGG. [198] Turgot.--FLAGG. [199] Decatur, surveyed in 1829, is the seat of Macon County, thirty-nine miles from Springfield. It was named for Commodore Stephen Decatur.--ED. [200] For a later description of the Mormon settlement in Missouri, and an account of their stay at Nauvoo, Illinois, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volume xx, pp. 94-99 and accompanying notes. For a psychological treatment of Joseph Smith and bibliography of Mormonism, see Isaac W. Riley, _Founder of Mormonism_ (New York, 1902).--ED. [201] Missourians.--FLAGG. [202] For a year after the above was written, the cause of Mormonism seemed to have received a salutary check. It has since revived, and thousands during the past summer have been flocking to their Mount Zion on the outskirts of Missouri. The late Mormon difficulties in Missouri have been made too notorious by the public prints of the day to require notice.--FLAGG. [203] Grand Prairie, as described by Peck in his _Gazetteer of Illinois_, was a general term applied to the prairie country between the rivers which flow into the Mississippi and those which empty into the Wabash. "It is made up of continuous tracts, with long arms of prairie extending between the creeks and smaller streams. The southern points of the Grand prairie are formed in the northeastern parts of Jackson county and extend in a northeastern course between the streams of various widths, from one to ten or twelve miles, through Perry, Washington, Jefferson, Marion, the eastern part of Fayette, Effingham, through the western portion of Coles, into Champaign and Iroquois counties, where it becomes connected with the prairies that project eastward from the Illinois River and its tributaries. Much of the longest part of the Grand prairie is gently undulatory, but of the southern portion considerable tracts are flat and of rather inferior soil."--ED. [204] Illinoisians.--FLAGG. [205] Shelbyville, selected as the seat of Shelby County (1827), was named in honor of Isaac Shelby, early governor of Kentucky. It is located about thirty-two miles southeast of Decatur, and was incorporated in May, 1839.--ED. [206] 1835.--FLAGG. [207] Eight families from St. Clair County settled (1818) in the vicinity of certain noted perennial springs in the southwestern corner of what was later organized into Shelby County. For some time the colony was known as Wakefield's Settlement, for Charles Wakefield, who had made the first land entry in the county in 1821. John O. Prentis erected the first store there in 1828, and shortly afterwards secured a post-office under the name of Cold Springs.--ED. [208] Philosophy, vol. i.--FLAGG. [209] Sidney Rigdon (1793-1876), after having been a Baptist pastor at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and later associated with the Disciples in Ohio, established a branch of the Mormon church with one hundred members at Kirtland, Ohio. Joseph Smith, who had founded the last-named church at Fayette, New York (April 6, 1830), went to Kirtland in February of the following year. Aided by Rigdon, Smith attempted to establish a mixed communistic and hierarchical organized community. Mormon tanneries, stores, and other enterprises were built, and the corner-stone of a $40,000 temple laid July 23, 1833. Through improvident financial management, the leaders soon plunged the community deeply in debt. The Kirtland Society Bank, reorganized as the Kirtland Anti-Bankers Company, after issuing notes to the amount of $200,000, failed, and Smith and Rigdon further embarrassed by an accumulation of troubles fled to Jackson County, Missouri, where Oliver Cowdery by the former's order had established the Far West settlement. Joseph Smith was assassinated by a mob (June 27, 1844) at Carthage, Illinois, and Brigham Young succeeded him. Sidney Rigdon, long one of Smith's chief advisers, and one of the three presidents of the Mormon church at Nauvoo, combated the doctrine of plurality of wives. He refused to recognize the authority of Young as Smith's successor, and returned to Pennsylvania, but held to the Mormon faith until his death in 1876. In 1848 the charter granted to the city of Nauvoo by the Illinois state legislature, was repealed. The Mormons thereupon selected Utah as the field of their future activity, save that a few members were left in Missouri for proselyting purposes. Alexander Campbell (1788-1866), educated at the University of Glasgow, came to the United States (1809) and joined the Presbyterian church. Refusing to recognize any teachings save those of the Bible, as he understood them, he and his father, Thomas Campbell, were dismissed (1812) and with a few followers formed a temporary union with the Baptist church. Disfellowshiped in 1827, they organized the Disciples of Christ, popularly known as the Campbellites. The son published the _Christian Baptist_, a monthly magazine, its name being changed (1830) to the _Millennial Harbinger_. He held several public offices in the state of Virginia, and in 1840 founded Bethany (Virginia) College.--ED. [210] Kirtland is now deserted, and the church is occupied for a school.--FLAGG. [211] See Woods's _English Prairie_, in our volume x, p. 327, note 76.--ED. [212] Or "_beef_."--FLAGG. [213] Salem, the seat of Marion County, was settled about 1823, when the county was organized.--ED. [214] Philosophy, b. i., chap. 1.--FLAGG. [215] Mount Vernon, a village seventy-seven miles southeast of St. Louis, was chosen as the seat of justice for Jefferson County, when the latter was organized in 1818.--ED. [216] Mud Creek rises in the northwestern part of Perry County, flows through the southwestern part of Washington and the southeastern part of St. Clair counties, and enters the Kaskaskia two miles below Fayetteville. In January, 1827, the state legislature in organizing Perry County appointed a commission to select a seat of justice to be known as Pinckneyville (Pinkneyville), its town site being located and platted in January, 1828.--ED. 
45558	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_. A caret (^) is used to indicate that the following character is printed as a superscript. The Table of Contents was not present in the original text and has been produced for the reader's convenience. The cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. [Illustration: COL. P. SIDNEY POST. LIEUT. COL. C. H. FREDRICK. LIEUT. COL. CLAYTON HALL. MAJ. J. M. STOOKEY. D^R. H. J. MAYNARD. ADJT. FRANK CLARK. CAPT. MINNETT. CAPT. J. C. HENDERSON. Lith. by W^m. BRADEN & C^o. Indianapolis.] THE HISTORY OF THE FIFTY-NINTH REGIMENT ILLINOIS VOLUNTEERS, OR A THREE YEARS' CAMPAIGN THROUGH MISSOURI, ARKANSAS, MISSISSIPPI, TENNESSEE AND KENTUCKY, WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY, TOWNS, SKIRMISHES AND BATTLES--INCIDENTS, CASUALTIES AND ANECDOTES MET WITH ON THE WAY; AND EMBELLISHED WITH TWENTY-FOUR LITHOGRAPHED PORTRAITS OF THE OFFICERS OF THE REGIMENT. BY DR. D. LATHROP. HALL & HUTCHINSON, PRINTERS AND BINDERS, INDIANAPOLIS, IND. 1865. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-five, BY DR. DAVID LATHROP, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the District of Indiana. HALL & HUTCHINSON, STEREOTYPERS, PRINTERS AND BINDERS. INTRODUCTION. Early in the month of May, 1861, C. H. Frederick and David McGibbon, two prominent citizens of St. Louis, Mo., called on General Lyon, and proffered to raise a regiment of infantry, to serve for three years, or during the war. C. H. Frederick, having previously served his country in a military capacity, and being familiar with military tactics, was deemed by General Lyon, a very suitable person to engage in the undertaking, and immediately authorized to recruit and organize a regiment, and to have command of the same. Colonel Frederick, at the breaking out of the rebellion, was engaged in a lucrative business in St. Louis, but at the call of his country he sacrificed his profitable interests, and gave his energies to the preservation of the Union. After an immense amount of difficulty, Colonel Frederick and his co-worker, Major McGibbon, working night and day, succeeded in enlisting enough loyal friends in and around St. Louis, to enable them to accomplish their purpose. By the middle of June three companies, and a nucleus of the fourth, was collected and rendezvoused at the St. Louis arsenal. Captains Hale, Renfrew, Veatch, and Elliott commanding. About this time Captain S. W. Kelly was induced to become a recruiting officer, to assist in filling up the regiment. By the 24th of June he had recruited seventy men in his own neighborhood, and on that day an election was held, and S. W. Kelly was unanimously elected Captain, John Kelly First Lieutenant, and H. J. Maynard Second Lieutenant. On the 6th day of August, 1861, Captain Kelly numbered on the muster roll of his company, (F,) at the St. Louis Arsenal, seventy-one men; and through his influence three other companies had joined in the organization of the regiment. Captain Stookey, of Belleville, Ill., had recruited a large company of men for the service, and was now induced to join this regiment, thus making nine companies in rendezvous at the Arsenal on the 6th day of August. As soon as the first three companies were formed, and before they were uniformed, they were sent down to Cape Girardeau, Mo., that place being threatened by the enemy, to assist in building fortifications. As soon as the next three companies were mustered in, and before they were uniformed, they were ordered to Pilot Knob, Mo. Here they underwent great hardship, not having uniforms or blankets, and scarcely anything to make them comfortable. The other three companies on their arrival at St. Louis, were sent with Colonel Frederick up the South-west branch of the Pacific railroad, to protect the bridges, etc., in order to keep that road open for the retreat of General Lyon's army after their defeat at Wilson's Creek, Mo. This work being accomplished, Colonel Frederick returned to St. Louis, and after overcoming many difficulties succeeded in getting the nine companies back to the arsenal. The next thing to be done, was to have them uniformed and drilled. This, also, was perseveringly and successfully attended to by the Colonel and Major McGibbon. The men and the officers with one or two exceptions, were sadly deficient in a knowledge of military tactics or drills, and Colonel Frederick consequently took upon himself the task of drilling the regiment daily. In a short space of time he succeeded in making them quite well acquainted with company and battalion drills. About the 1st of September 1861, Colonel Frederick and Major McGibbon, in order to promote the welfare of the regiment and secure good to the Union cause, tendered the command to Captain J. C. Kelton, then A.A.G. for General Fremont. Captain Kelton, after a time, accepted the command with the proviso that Frederick should have the Lieut. Colonelcy, and McGibbon the Majority. This arrangement was speedily confirmed by an election of the officers of the regiment, and the organization became complete,--one company only being required to make a full regiment. Upon Colonel Kelton assuming command, he procured the Tenth Company, viz. Company K, Captain Snyder, of Chicago, Ills., commanding, and this completed the Ninth Missouri, Volunteer Regiment. Company K, was organized in the city of Chicago in the month of September, 1861. A majority of the men were recruited by Lieutenant Abram J. Davids. It was originally intended as a company of sappers and miners, to be attached to Bissell's Engineer Regiment of the West. At least that was the inducement held out to the men. On the 5th of September the company was not quite full, and its services being needed immediately, forty-five men were taken from the Forty-Second Illinois, (then organizing at Chicago), and enrolled with the company on its muster into service on the 6th day of September, making an aggregate of ninety-seven men. Their camp equipage was drawn on the night of the 6th, and on the morning of the 7th marched under the command of Captain Henry N. Snyder, to the Chicago, Alton and St. Louis depot, and took the cars for St. Louis. They arrived at Illinoistown the evening of the same day, and in the morning crossed the Mississippi, and marched through St. Louis to Benton barracks; they here learned that they were to be attached to the Ninth Regiment Missouri Volunteer Infantry. It caused considerable dissatisfaction in the company, not that they had any objection to the regiment, but they wished to enter the arm of service for which they were recruited. Notwithstanding, there was no disobedience of orders. On the 2d of September they were armed with Harper's Ferry rifles, and well equipped throughout; no company in the service ever started out better supplied with ordnance and camp equipage. On the afternoon of the 22d of September they left Benton barracks, marched to the depot, and took the cars en route for Jefferson City, where they arrived the next evening. They joined the Ninth Missouri on the following morning, and embarked with them on the steamer War Eagle, September 30th, bound for Boonville. On the 22d of September, 1861, the regiment was ordered to Jefferson City, Mo., and on the 26th again ordered to Boonville, Mo. After remaining in camp a short time, Colonel Kelton was placed in command of a brigade, under General Pope. The brigade consisted of the Ninth Missouri, Lieut. Colonel Frederick, commanding; Thirty-Seventh Illinois, Colonel Julius White, commanding, and the Fifth Iowa, Colonel Worthington, commanding. While at the St. Louis Arsenal, two companies under the command of Lieut. Colonel C. H. Frederick, were sent by Colonel F. P. Blair, up the Mississippi river to Howell's Island, where he captured five valuable steamboats from the hands of the rebels, who were about to use them to cross their forces to the south side, to join the rebel General Price. The total value of property thus secured from the hands of the rebels, amounted to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He also skirmished over the island in search of a rebel camp, and by this movement it was effectually broken up. Those two companies were composed of picked men from the different companies of the regiment. Contents CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XXX. HISTORY OF THE FIFTY-NINTH REGIMENT, ILLINOIS VOLUNTEER INFANTRY. CHAPTER I. The Fifty Ninth Illinois Regiment entered the service of the United States, on the 6th day of September, 1861, under the cognomen of Ninth Missouri, at St. Louis, in that State. At that time the State of Illinois had filled her quota of volunteers, and would not receive the services of the patriotic young men who had collected themselves together for the purpose of preserving the glorious Union, then in danger of being severed. The call of the President for seventy-five thousand volunteers, as well as that for forty-two thousand, had been so speedily filled by men whose business engagements, and perhaps entire want of business, permitted to enter the service without much sacrifice on their part, excluded, for the time being, these noble men from entering the service in the name of their own State. Although disappointed, they were still determined to devote their services to their country in some useful field of labor. Missouri was the most convenient and available State for this purpose, and was willing to accept of their aid, and hence the companies were organized into the Ninth Regiment of Missouri Volunteers, on the 6th of September, 1861. General Fremont was in command of the department of Missouri, and as soon as the regiment was fully equipped, he ordered that it should report to General Pope, at Jefferson City, Mo. In the best of spirits the men left the old barracks and marched to the river for embarkation. The old and rickety steamer War Eagle lay in waiting, with steam up, to receive them. A very pleasant and lively time was passed in going up, and on their arrival at Jefferson City, a pretty camping ground received them, to await further orders. Here the regiment lay in camp until the 30th of September, when they were again embarked for farther up the river. At Jefferson City the regiment was joined by a pioneer company of ninety-seven men, and by a squad of twenty men recruited by Captain Kelly, of Company F, who fell into ranks as the regiment was re-embarking on the same old War Eagle, for "up the river." The embarkation of a regiment, was, at that early day of the war, an exciting scene. Never before had such scenes been witnessed by the citizens of our inland river towns, nor had the men of the regiment ever before exhibited themselves to the gaze of the populace in such a display as they now did. The regiment was first marched in column down to the wharf, and ordered to stack arms. Then, as the way was open, one company at a time was marched to the boat and took quarters as directed. The quarters of each soldier consisted of just room enough to stand, or sit upon his knapsack on the floor, selected somewhere within the region of his own company. The regiment as it marched to the landing, to the time of the fife and drum, attracted the notice of the whole city. Its appearance was really captivating. The uniform being all new and unsoiled, and consisting of a closely fitting jacket of fine gray cloth, and pants of the same material, looked exceedingly neat and pleasing to the eye, and their knapsacks, cartridge boxes and guns, all new, and glistering in the sunshine, caused a sensation indescribable. No regiment has ever entered the service with more éclat than the Ninth Missouri. The men, wagons, horses and mules, all being huddled indiscriminately on board, the bell rang, and the old boat steamed up the turbid Missouri. During the night the boat rounded to at Boonville, Mo., and the regiment went into camp here for fourteen days, for the purpose of collecting supplies and fitting up for a campaign into the interior. Boonville is a pretty town, of perhaps one thousand inhabitants, and is situated on the right bank of the Missouri River. It seems to be quite a flourishing place, and has something of an inland trade. The country in the vicinity is good and under good cultivation, and the improvements on the adjoining farms are excellent. The land is considerably broken, but very productive. It is a most splendid fruit country. No country in the world can produce larger and finer apples and peaches, than that around Boonville, as the soldiers of the Ninth can testify. It is also a fine grape region and can boast of many fine vineyards. Wine is made here to some extent, as the Ninth can also testify, for they had the pleasure of tasting some of it, as well as having plenty of fruit while in camp here. A majority of the citizens are professedly friends to the cause of the Union, and are disposed to treat the soldier kindly and with hospitality, so long, at least, as the Union army is in the neighborhood. There are some who turn the cold shoulder and show a disposition to insult and annoyance, but they are more numerous in the country than in town, and this is more to our liking than otherwise; for it is but little we need from the citizens in town, but from the country we need mules, horses and forage, and confiscation is now the order of the day. As soon as the regiment had comfortably arranged camp, a detail was made to go into the country prospecting for contraband stock. There were twelve or fifteen wagons to each regiment to be furnished with mules or horses, at the rate of six to a team. The boys were not many days in finding stock enough to supply the demand, and in doing so they found some amusement for themselves, and received many deep and bitter curses from the owners of the stock. Some four miles down the river, lived a wealthy old rebel sympathizer, who possessed several mules and some fine horses, which the boys took a fancy to, and concluded they must have. The old gentleman stubbornly refused to give them up, and made threats to shoot any one who attempted to interfere with his property. The prospecting party were too few in number to catch the mules and bring them off, so they started one of their number to camp after reinforcements, while the others remained to guard the stock, and amuse the old secesh with some of their Union arguments. The old man, at first, seemed very uneasy, but after a time quieted himself so as to apparently enjoy the society of the boys very much. Thus time passed until night approached, and supper was announced. The boys partook of the bounties of the table, and again engaged the old gentleman in conversation, and thus the hours went by till bed time. An invitation to retire was proffered them, which they politely refused, preferring rather to bunk it on the floor, where they were, than to indulge the luxury of sheets and feathers. If the old gentleman entertained any suspicions of roguery on the part of the boys, he gave no indications of the fact, but quietly wished them a good night's rest, and withdrew to his own apartment for the night. About three in the morning, the reinforcements arrived from camp, and quietly proceeded to let out and drive the mules off to town, while the boys on guard bridled and saddled four good horses and joined the detachment. Early in the morning, the old farmer presented himself to Colonel Kelton with his complaints. Patiently the Colonel listened to him, and then gave him vouchers for his confiscated property, to be paid if he should prove himself a faithful, good citizen of the United States. Thus, in the course of ten days, was the wagons all supplied with good teams. Other preparations for a campaign being nearly completed, the regiment was in daily anticipation of a move. The sick were sent to town to be left at hospital. Dr. H. J. Maynard, First Assistant Surgeon of the regiment, was assigned to the duty of fitting up quarters for their reception, and with energy of purpose and goodness of heart he performed the duty. Fifty of the regiment were unfitted to start on the campaign on account of sickness. There were many cases of measles. This disease had attacked some of the boys at Jefferson City; three of whom were left in hospital there. Many of the cases left in charge of Dr. Maynard, were critical, but by his kind care and good treatment, speedily recovered. The regiment was now in good condition for a march, and the boys all anxious to try the realities of a campaign. The weather was delightful and the roads good. Price and his army was somewhere in the country, and every one desired to be after him. Drilling had been faithfully practiced since coming to Boonville, and the men began to feel like old soldiers in military tactics, and were confident if they could overtake Price he would be defeated, and the war in Missouri would be speedily terminated. Orders finally came to march, and on the morning of the 12th of October, all was hurry and confusion in preparation for the start. Tents were to be struck and the wagons loaded. Knapsacks were to be packed and comfortably fitted to the back; haversacks to be filled with plenty of rations; wild mules to be caught from the corral and hitched to the wagons; and last, though not least, pretty apple girls and wash women to be settled with before leaving. All was accomplished in due time, and about noon the brigade moved out. Three regiments composed the brigade: the Ninth Missouri, the Fifth Iowa and the Thirty-seventh Illinois--three as good regiments as ever shouldered a musket. Colonel Kelton was in command of the brigade. While in camp here, two boys who had joined the regiment at St. Louis, deserted, and were never heard of. Their names are now forgotten, as they should be, and they themselves are now perhaps, if living, no more than wandering vagabonds. CHAPTER II. On Sunday, the 12th day of October, 1861, the brigade bid adieu to the attractions and comforts of civilized society, for the long period of three years or during the war. Little did they think, as they marched through the streets of Boonville, that it would require three years of sacrifice for the government of the United States to put down so insignificant a rebellion as that which was now raging through its borders. They doubted not of the ability of our armies now in Missouri, to drive Price from the State, and restore peace in a few months. Their confidence in Fremont, in their own commanders and in themselves was unbounded. Their belief that the rebels would not withstand an equal contest, was well founded and did not diminish their ardor or their hopes of a speedy termination of the rebellion. They looked forward to a campaign of a few months duration, and then to a return to their homes, with peace attending them on the way. But how sadly were they to be disappointed! They supposed the policy upon which the war was to be conducted was fully established, and that all there was to do was to whip out the rebels, who were at this time in arms against them. They did not anticipate that time, as it passed, would develop new schemes and new policies until the whole became entirely revolutionized, and magnified into the most terrible rebellion the world ever witnessed. They did not think that while they were going to battle with the enemy in their front, the Government at Washington was changing its policy, so that instead of one they would have ten rebels to fight, and instead of a six months campaign they would have a five years war. They had read the closing words of the President's inaugural address, to-wit: "Physically speaking, we can not separate. We can not remove our respective sections from each other, nor build an impassable wall between them. A husband and wife may be divorced and go out of the presence and beyond the reach of each other; but the different parts of our country can not do this. They can not but remain face to face; and intercourse, either amicable or hostile, must continue between them. Is it possible, then, to make that intercourse more advantageous or more satisfactory after separation than before? Can aliens make treaties easier than friends can make laws? Can treaties be more faithfully enforced between aliens, than laws can among friends? Suppose you go to war; you can not fight always, and when, after much loss on both sides, and no gain on either, you cease fighting, the identical questions, as to terms of intercourse, are again upon you. "To the extent of my ability I shall take care, as the Constitution itself expressly enjoins upon me, that the laws of the Union be faithfully executed in all the States. Doing this I deem to be only a simple duty on my part. I shall perfectly perform it, so far as is practicable, unless my rightful masters, the American people, shall withhold the requisition, or, in some authoritative manner, direct the contrary. I trust this will not be regarded as a menace, but only as the declared purpose of the Union, that it will constitutionally defend and maintain itself. In doing this there need be no bloodshed or violence, and there shall be none, unless it is forced upon the national authority. The power confided to me will be used to hold, occupy and possess the property and places belonging to the government, and collect the duties and imports. But _beyond what may be necessary for these objects, there will be no invasion--no using of force against or among the people anywhere_. "In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. You have no oath registered in Heaven to destroy the government: while I shall have the most solemn one to preserve, protect and defend it." And they had all confidence in the promises of the President, that the "laws of the Union should be faithfully executed in _all_ the States," and that the power confided to him would be used to "hold, occupy and possess the property and places belonging to the government, and collect the duties and imposts; but beyond what may be necessary for these objects, there will be no invasion--no using of force against or among the people anywhere." And they knew that Congress had voted, for the use of the President, one hundred thousand more men, and one hundred million more dollars than he had requested, to make the contest a short and decisive one," and they knew that that number of men was about "one-tenth, of those, of proper age, within the regions where apparently all are willing to engage," and that the "sum is less than a twenty-third part of the value owned by the men who seem ready to devote the whole." Knowing these things, the members of the Ninth Missouri marched out from Boonville with light hearts and heavy knapsacks, without a murmur. They knew that while they were under Fremont, they were entirely able to destroy every vestige of rebellion in Missouri. Over three hundred thousand soldiers, in other fields, were waiting orders from the Federal government, or were in active service; and that sixty odd vessels, with one thousand one hundred and seventy-four guns, were in commission, and twenty-three steam gun boats were on the stocks rapidly approaching completion, if not already completed. That sixty regiments of Federal troops were encamped near Washington, and that every armory in the land was at work night and day. Knowing all these things, why should they not anticipate a speedy termination to their soldier life, and enjoy in anticipation home society once more? Alas, little did they suppose that they themselves were to be the instruments in the hands of the President to work out the "salvation of the Almighty." It is said that Governor Yates, of Illinois, telegraphed to the President at a certain time, to "call out one million of men, instead of three hundred thousand, that he might make quick work of the rebellion." The President replied: "Hold on Dick; let's wait and see the salvation of the Almighty." Had the President deemed it policy to have adopted Dick's advice, the rebellion might have been quelled, but perhaps the cause would not have been removed; and our good, honest President has not only been aiming to quell the rebellion, but to remove the cause at the same time. Hence the instrumentality of the army in establishing the policy of the administration. As the army progressed in strength and military discipline, so did the views of the administration and people change in regard to what might be accomplished in the destruction of the _casus belli_. And hence the "military necessities." The brigade marched a few miles from town and bivouacked for the night. On the 13th and 14th it marched about twenty-eight miles, and went into camp near Syracuse. The country is here not so broken as at Boonville, and is under good cultivation, with neat and comfortable farm houses and barns dotting the whole landscape. The regiment lay in camp here on the 15th, and on the morning of the 16th, struck tents and took up the line of march for the rebel army. Price is reported to be about seventy-five miles to the south-west, erecting fortifications. Since leaving Boonville, some of those who were indisposed on starting, had become so sick as to be unable to proceed, and were consequently taken to Syracuse, and left there to be disposed of by the Medical Director in charge. From Syracuse they were sent to St. Louis, to the hospital. When leaving camp, the writer being detained until after the regiment had moved, came across a young man who had laid himself down by the road-side to die, as he said. He was taking the measles and was quite sick. The Surgeon of the regiment, Dr. Hazlett, had overlooked, or been deceived in the appearance of this young man at the morning examination, and had ordered him to march with the regiment. This he was unable to do, and would have been left by the road-side if he had not been accidentally discovered. With some difficulty he was conveyed to Syracuse and left in hospital. The commander of his company was subsequently notified of his death in the St. Louis hospital. CHAPTER III. From the 16th to the 23d of October, the regiment continued its line of march daily. It moved in a south-western direction, crossing the Pacific railroad at Otterville. Otterville is a small town on the railroad, near the right bank of the Lamoine river. It numbers from three to five hundred inhabitants, most of whom are very indifferent to the Union cause. No manifestations of rejoicing were shown on the approach of the noble men who were coming to protect them from the ravages of the rebel army; no stars and stripes were spread to the breeze as they came in sight, but every one manifested a coolness which indicated very distinctly in which direction their sympathies lay. The country still continues to be very good. The farming lands are here under good cultivation and well improved. The soil is productive, and gives liberally into the hands of the cultivator. Every one seems to be prospering but somewhat discouraged at this time, as Price's army made rather heavy draws on their granaries and larders as he passed through here, and the Union army is now claiming a share of what they have left. There is yet an abundance to supply all demands, and no one need to suffer. The brigade passes through Otterville without halting, and none but a few stragglers have any thing to say to the citizens, either to aggravate or soothe them. The direction taken is towards Warsaw, on the Osage river, where, it is rumored, Price is entrenching. The routine of a campaign is now fully commenced. Reveille is sounded at five o'clock in the morning--all hands must then turn out to roll call--breakfast is cooked, and at seven the bugle sounds to fall in for the march. Two hours steady march follows, and then a rest of ten minutes, and _thus_ until twelve or fifteen miles is passed over, when, if wood and water is convenient, camp is selected, tents are pitched, supper is provided, retreat is sounded, and all becomes quiet for the night. Thus it was with the Ninth, until their arrival at Warsaw. There is nothing to enliven the monotony of the march but the lively jokes and sallies of wit of the boys, and the change of scenery through which they pass. The distance from Otterville to Warsaw, by the roads the regiment moved, is perhaps seventy miles, and the face of the country is considerably variegated. For the most part it is a level, unbroken region until you approach the bluffs of the Osage. The land is however rolling and enough diversified with hills and elevated peaks, to make it interesting to the traveler. On the 23d of October, the regiment went into camp two miles north of Warsaw, to await the construction of a military bridge across the Osage river. The Osage at this point is about three hundred yards wide, with abrupt high banks and a deep swift current, so that it is impossible to cross an army in any other way than by means of a strong substantial bridge. On the arrival of the division, as many "sappers and miners" and laborers as could be profitably employed, were set to work, and in forty-eight hours the bridge was ready for crossing. It was a very rude structure, but answered every purpose. At Warsaw other troops came in from other directions, and swelled the forces which were to cross at this point to quite a large army. Some arrived in the morning before the Ninth, and about ten thousand passed the regiment after it had gone into camp. The weather continues delightful, and regiments coming in and passing, with their bright guns and accoutrements, present a splendid and most cheering spectacle. There was great disappointment manifested by the troops on their arrival here and finding that Price was still on the wing. Here is where madame rumor had strongly entrenched the rebel army, and the boys had confidently expected to have a battle with him at this point. Their chagrin was great when they learned that he had still two or three weeks the start of them towards Arkansas. They were consoled somewhat by a probability that he might stop at Springfield and give them battle. They now felt that after being reinforced by so vast an army as seemed to have joined them here, they could whip the whole southern confederacy, before breakfast, some bright morning, if it could be found. Although disappointed, they were not discouraged, but were very eager for the pursuit to recommence. While laying here those who could get passes, and some who could not, went over to town, and spent the day in making observations. Warsaw was the first town the boys had any leisure or opportunity to visit since leaving Boonville, and it was quite a treat for them to chat with the citizens, and partake of their hospitalities. A few of them came back to camp pretty blue,--something besides water having been found in Warsaw,--and a few did not return until the next morning, having found some other attractions to detain them. Although there was quite a number of men reporting to the surgeon at the morning sick call, there were but few serious cases of disease in the regiment at this time. The seeds of the measles had produced its fruits and disappeared, and now the regiment was comparatively healthy. While laying here, news was received of the death of Johnson Kyle, of Company D, at Jefferson City. He was one of the three left there sick with the Measles, when the regiment started for Boonville. His name heads the list of deaths to be recorded by the regiment, after leaving St. Louis. John Burk, of Co. F, very soon followed him, and occupies the second place in that honored list. CHAPTER IV. On the morning of the 25th of October, the troops commenced crossing the river, and about 11 o'clock, A.M., the Ninth Missouri landed on the opposite shore, and halted an hour for dinner, and for stragglers to come up from Warsaw. Although orders against straggling was very strict, and the punishment threatened, severe, many of the soldiers fell out of ranks, and slipped off to town. Warsaw is situated on the left bank of the Osage river, and is the largest town passed through since leaving Boonville. There being no towns of any size within many miles of it, it has quite an extended country trade, and boasts of several large stores and business houses of different kinds. The rebels while here, two weeks since, supplied themselves with goods to a large amount, from two or three Union Stores which were in the town. The merchants and citizens here are still undecided as to which cause they should give their influence. They are all, however, willing to be let alone. No demonstrations of satisfaction or the contrary, was manifested while the army remained here. At 1 o'clock, the bugle sounded, and the line of march was again taken up and continued until the 30th, when the army went into camp for a day or two, at Humansville. The direction from Warsaw to Humansville, is southward, and the fear of the men now was, that the rebels were making for Arkansas. Rumor again had it that they were fortifying somewhere between here and Springfield, Missouri; but the boys did not credit it. Nothing reliable could be obtained of their whereabouts, and Arkansas appeared to be the most inviting place for a fleeing army. At any rate, it was evident that they had so far, fled as fast as they had been pursued. The country from the Osage to this point is poor, broken and rocky. It seems as though nature intended this as the stone quarry for the universe. Here is stone enough to supply the United States with building material for centuries. The roads are all stone, the hills are solid rock, and the fields are stone. There is very little tillable lands south of the Osage, until within the vicinity of Humansville. There are a few farms, and occasionally a small town, but they are for the most part deserted. The inhabitants, perhaps, have gone south with Price. Quincy, the largest town on the road, is entirely deserted; the citizens all being rebels. The only incident of note, during the march from the Osage, to Humansville, was the return to the army of Major White and his Prairie Scouts. On the 30th of September, Price evacuated Lexington, and commenced a retreat to the south. He left a rebel guard there in charge of some Union prisoners. On the 15th of October, Major White, commanding a squadron of cavalry, called Prairie Scouts, with two and twenty men, made a forced march of nearly sixty miles, surprised Lexington, dispersed the rebels, captured sixty or seventy prisoners, took two steam ferry boats, and some other less valuable articles, secured the Union prisoners left there, and with a rebel captured flag, returned by another route to Warsaw, traveling with neither provisions nor transportation, and joining Fremont's forces south of the Osage. As characteristic of the energy of the men whom Gen. Fremont gathered about him, it is worth narrating, that Major White's horses being unshod, he procured some old iron, called for blacksmiths from the ranks, took possession of two unoccupied blacksmith's shop, and in five days made the shoes and shod all his horses. At another time, the cartridges being spoiled by rain, they procured powder and lead, and turning a carpenter's shop into a cartridge factory, made three thousand cartridges. Such men could march, if necessary, without waiting for army wagons and regular equipments. As the Major and his Prairie Scouts proceeded to Head Quarters, they were greeted with cheer after cheer by the soldiers. The rebel flag, being the first they had seen, was a great curiosity to the boys. In contrast with their own loved stars and stripes, it was an insignificant affair. Its stars and bars elicited the scorn and contempt of every one who saw it. The curses bestowed upon it were not loud, but they were deep and came from the heart. CHAPTER V. On the 30th of October, the Brigade went into camp, near Humansville. Humansville, is a small town in Hickory County, Mo., and is the only place where any demonstrations were made, in honor of the stars and stripes, between Boonville and Springfield. Here the soldiers of the Union were welcomed by the waiving of flags and the smiles of the women, and the kindly greetings of the citizens generally. A portion of Price's army had passed through this place, some three weeks before, and had carried off all the goods belonging to the merchants, and had mistreated the inhabitants of the town and vicinity to such a degree, that they were heartily tired of their presence, and were rejoiced at the approach of the Federal troops. The weather continues pleasant, and an opportunity is here offered the boys to wash up their clothing. This was rather an amusing task, as they had not as yet become accustomed to such work. Fires were started along the branches, and by the use of their camp kettles, they managed to hang out quite a respectable lot of clean _army linen_. Those having money and not being partial to the washing business, had their washing done by the women of the town, at the rate of ten cents per piece. When going into camp it was thought that, perhaps, several days would be spent here, to allow the men some rest and to ascertain the distance to, and position of the enemy; but about noon of the 31st, orders came to be ready to march at a moment's notice. The sick of the regiment, had been increasing for the last ten days, to such an extent, that now there was no means of conveying them any farther. Thus far, they had been transported in wagons, but it was now necessary to select such as could not, in a measure, provide for themselves, and leave them behind. The Surgeon, therefore, fitted up the Meeting-house in town, in the best possible manner, and removed the sick to it. A cook, some nurses, and several days rations, were left with them. Poor fellows! they all nearly starved to death before they could get away, and three did die from the effects of disease and want of proper nourishment. After the army left, the patriotism of the ladies and gentlemen of the town, oozed out at their fingers ends, and our sick boys could get nothing from them. One man, John Clemens, of Co. H, who was very sick when taken there, died on the 4th of November. Bromwell Kitchen, of Co. F, soon followed, and Nathaniel B. Westbrook, of Co. A, died on the 20th. The others eventually found their way to the regiment. At 4 o'clock orders were received to strike tents and move out. An hour was now spent in busy preparation for the march. No one had thought that there would be a move before morning, and all were taken by surprise at the order to march just as night was setting in. Conjectures flew thick and fast through camp, as to what caused the haste in moving. Some supposed that Price was not far away, and that they were going to surprise him by a night attack. Some supposed one thing and some another, but all was wrapped in uncertainty. At 6 o'clock, the bugle sounded to fall in, and the first night march of the regiment, now commenced. Camp was one and a half miles west of Humansville, and to get to the main road to Springfield, the regiment had to retrace its march back through the town. When therefore it commenced filing off in the direction it had come, the impression prevailed that they were on the retreat. Retreat! retreat, passed along the line, we are on the retreat--what does this mean, was the general inquiry. As soon, however, as they had passed through town, and struck the Springfield road, they found that they were not retreating, but were continuing their old line of march. This pleased them, and with alacrity they moved forward. The moon had not yet made its appearance, and the evening was quite dark. Several of the boys in going over the rough roads, fell and crippled themselves so as to be unable to proceed. The large stones which composed the road, would sometimes form steps of six inches in height, and in stepping, they would fall forward with serious results. The moon now makes her appearance, bright and fair, and the road becomes distinct so that marching becomes easy, and much more rapid progress is made. The march continued till near morning, when the troops bivouacked for a few hours rest. The bugle again sounds, and the march is continued. At 12 o'clock, a halt is again called, and an order is brought round to lighten baggage. All extra, useless and heavy baggage is ordered to be left, under guard, until brought forward by the wagon train. This is indicative of a forced march, or a going into battle. The latter is not probable, as no enemy is reported near. At 2 o'clock, the regiment moved out in light equipments. Shortly after starting, a rumor got afloat that Price was really making a stand at Springfield. This news was received with a shout, and a more rapid movement of the troops. From this time until its arrival at Springfield, the regiment had no other than absolutely needful rest. The nearer the approach to Springfield, the more confirmed became the report of the rebel army being in that vicinity. The regiment having made ten or twelve miles this afternoon, went into camp on the banks of a small creek, which happened to run in the right place for their convenience. Here an incident occurred which came very near terminating the life of one of the boys. He had gone to the creek to wash, and while there, walked out on a small log which projected from the bank over the water. His weight was too great for the support of the log; it gave way and he fell with his back across a log below him, and his head and shoulders into the water. He was badly hurt, and had there been no assistance near by, he would have drowned. He was unable to march for several days, so as to keep up with the regiment. The march from here to Springfield was uninterrupted, and on the night of the 3d of November, the regiment went into camp within easy distance of Springfield. On the morning of the 5th, the Ninth Missouri found itself encamped on the out skirts of a large army. Fremont had arrived with the greater portion of his army several days before, and driven Price from Springfield, and was now awaiting for the balance of his forces to come up. The Ninth had marched, in the last two days and nights, over fifty miles, to be in time for the anticipated advance, and they were now rejoiced that they had arrived in due season. A more happy set of men than those of the Ninth Missouri, could not have been found in the army. It had been on the march twenty days, with but little prospect of overtaking the enemy. Now the enemy were before them, and their march was perhaps terminated for the present. CHAPTER VI. On the approach of General Fremont, Price had fallen back to a chosen position, some ten miles south of Springfield, leaving a garrison of three or four hundred men to hold the place, until he could get thoroughly entrenched in his new position, and to give General McCulloch time to join him from below, with his Texas and Arkansas forces. General Fremont, in order to disperse this rebel garrison and get possession of the town, directed Major Zagonyi, commandant of General Fremont's body guard, to ride forward with a force of about three hundred, to make a reconnaissance, and, if practicable, capture or disperse the rebels, and take possession of the village. Major Zagonyi was a Hungarian officer, drawn to the western service by the fame of Fremont. He had himself recruited the body guard which he commanded. It consisted of three companies of carefully picked men, armed with light sabers and revolvers. The first company also carried carbines. One hundred and sixty of this guard, with one hundred and forty of Major White's Prairie Scouts, already spoken of, constituted his force. As he advanced, he learned that the rebel guard had been reinforced, and that over two thousand men were ready to receive him. They had also been warned of his approach, and surprise was impossible. Prudence would have dictated that he return for reinforcements. But Fremont's body guard had been a subject of much ridicule and abuse. He determined to make good its reputation for valor, at least. Perhaps by attacking the enemy in the rear, he might still secure the benefit of a surprise. This advantage he would gain, if possible. A detour of twelve miles around Springfield brought them to the rebel's position, but upon their south flank. They were strongly posted just west of the village, on the top of a hill, which sloped toward the west. Immediately in their rear was a thick wood, impenetrable by cavalry. Before they came within sight of the enemy, Zagonyi halted his men. Drawing them up in line, he addressed them in the following brief and nervous words: "Fellow-soldiers, this is your first battle. For our three hundred, the enemy are two thousand. If any of you are sick or tired by the long march, or if any think the number is too great, now is the time to turn back." He paused; no one was sick or tired. "We must not retreat," he continued. "Our honor, and the honor of our General, and of our country, tell us to go on. I will lead you. We have been called holiday soldiers for the pavements of St. Louis. To-day we will show that we are soldiers for the battle. Your watchword shall be 'Fremont and the Union!' Draw saber! By the right flank--quick trot--march!" With that shout--"Fremont and the Union!"--upon their lips, their horses pressed into a quick gallop, they turn the corner which brings them in sight of the foe. There is no surprise. In line of battle, protected in the rear by a wood which no cavalry can enter, the rebels stand, forewarned, ready to receive the charge. There is no time to delay--none to draw back. In a moment they have reached the foot of the hill. The rebel fire sweeps over their heads. The Prairie Scouts, by a misunderstanding of orders, become separated from their companions, and fail to join them again. Up the steep hill the hundred and sixty men press upon the two thousand of their foe. Seven guard horses fell upon a space not more than twenty feet square. But nothing can check their wild enthusiasm. They break through the rebel line. They drive the infantry back into the woods. They scatter the hostile cavalry on this side, and on that. They pursue the flying rebels down the hill again, and through the streets of the village. It seems incredible, yet it is sober history--not romance; in less than three minutes, that body-guard of a hundred and sixty men had utterly routed and scattered an enemy twenty-two hundred strong. Planting the Union flag upon the court house, they retire as night set in, that they may not be surprised in the darkness by new rebel forces. Their loss was sixteen killed and twenty eight wounded, out of the whole three hundred. This has been pronounced an unnecessary sacrifice. The charge, it is said, was ill judged. But the bravery surely merits the highest commendation, and the success sanctifies the judgment of Zagonyi, which directed the assault. Moreover, we needed the example of this chivalrous dash and daring, to wake up some of our too cautious generals, and to inspire that enthusiasm and that confidence of success, which are essential to great accomplishments. For let it not be forgotten, that this was an expedition, which, in its ultimate results, was designed to sweep the Mississippi to the Gulf. The ladies of Springfield, thus redeemed from rebel marauders, requested permission to present to their heroic deliver a Union flag. Will it be believed? When this body-guard returned to St. Louis, by peremptory orders from Washington, it was disbanded; the officers retired from service, and the men were denied rations and forage. It was deemed inexpedient that a corps should exist, so enthusiastically devoted to their chivalrous leader. In the order which came for their disbanding, they were condemned for "words spoken at Springfield." Condemned for that war-cry, which inspired to as glorious a charge as was ever made on battle field, "Fremont and the Union." Zagonyi, in his official report of the battle, says: "Their war-cry, 'Fremont and the Union,' broke forth like thunder. Half of my command charged upon the infantry, and the remainder upon the cavalry, breaking their line at every point. The infantry retired into the thick wood, where it was impossible to follow them. The cavalry fled in all directions through the town. I rallied and charged through the streets, in all directions, about twenty times, returning at last to the court house, where I raised the flag of one of my companies, liberated the prisoners, and united my men, who now amounted to seventy, the rest being scattered or lost. "From the beginning to the end, the body-guard behaved with the utmost coolness. I have seen battles and cavalry charges before; but I never imagined that a body of men could endure and accomplish so much in the face of such fearful disadvantage. At the cry of 'Fremont and the Union,' which was raised at every charge, they dashed forward repeatedly in perfect order, and with resistless energy. Many of my officers, non-commissioned officers and privates, had three, or even four horses killed under them. Many performed acts of heroism; not one but did his whole duty." On the 29th of October, General Fremont established his head-quarters at Springfield. From Boonville to Springfield he had invariably marched with the advance of his army. On the 30th, General Ashboth brought up his division, and General Lane, on the same day, appeared with his brigade of Kansas border men, and two hundred mounted Indians and negroes. And on the 2d and 3d of November, General Pope brought up the rear with his command, of which the Ninth Missouri formed a part. Since leaving Humansville, the health of the regiment continued good. Nearly all the men had been able to march up with the regiment. Those who gave out on the way were given passes by the Surgeon to fall back on the train and ride on the wagons. At this time there was but one ambulance allowed to each regiment, and this was used principally by the Surgeon for his own convenience, to the exclusion of the sick and disabled. Ambulances had been provided, to move in the rear of the regiments on a march, and to attend them in time of battle for the purpose of transporting those who became disabled on the march, and for hauling the wounded from the battle field; but the Surgeons did not seem to understand it in that light. They took it for granted that ambulances were an especial comfort provided for themselves, and appropriated them accordingly. Many an anxious look is cast at the lazy Doctor, riding in the ambulance, by the sick, sore-footed soldier. Many a sick, weary and worn-out soldier is allowed to fall by the wayside, or to climb on the top of a loaded lumbering old army wagon, and ride with the hot sun pouring his ardent rays upon him, until night, or until the march is ended; while the healthy, robust Surgeon takes his ease in the closely covered and nicely cushioned ambulance. The Surgeon is allowed two horses for his especial use, and now his lackey, detailed from the ranks, is riding one and leading the other behind the ambulance. The Surgeon has ridden on horse back during the cool of the morning, but now the heat is too oppressive and he retires to the shade of the vehicles, leaving his fat, sleek and magnificently caparisoned charger to be cared for by the unmanly soldier, who prefers being a lackey to wearing the honor and manhood of the man in the ranks. The staff officers, and those of the line also, are allowed by government eleven dollars per month to pay servants for attending them, but as a general rule, they manage to get a soldier from the ranks to do their work, at the expense of the government, and put the eleven dollars into their own pockets. There are some men who scorn to stoop to such trickery; but it is a notable fact, that there are many, wearing the insignia of high official stations, who take advantage of their oath for the pitiful sum of eleven dollars per month. And it is also a fact, that there are men who have voluntarily taken upon themselves an oath to serve their country as good soldiers, who willingly allow themselves to be placed upon a footing with the veriest colored slaves in the land. The language is not too harsh. A soldier has been seen washing the feet and trimming the toe-nails of his captain, and this not only once, but habitually. The appellation given to him, and those of his calling, was "Toe-Pick." CHAPTER VII. On the morning of the 5th the regiment moved quarters to within a mile of town, and pitched their tents in regular camp order. The whole country for miles around Springfield was now filled with tents, and soldiers were as thick as ants on an ant hill. The whole army of Fremont was now here, and was said to number seventy-two thousand--or, there was said to be seventy-two thousand rations issued. A more noble looking set of men were never gathered into an army. Filled with enthusiasm and confidence in their leader, this army could not have been defeated by any rebel force brought against it. The men were very anxious for a forward move toward the enemy, and rumor had it that in a day or two the enemy would be met. But, alas! for human calculations. No movement was at this time to be made against the foe; but, instead, an inglorious retreat. Shame, and deathless infamy, attend the instigators of the retrograde movement of this splendid army. On the 2d day of November General Fremont received notice of his recall to St. Louis to answer charges preferred against him, and of his being superseded in his command by General Hunter. Why was this retrograde movement to be made? Why was General Fremont removed from the command at this most auspicious moment? "Not until the secret _political_ history of the rebellion, which unmasks hearts and exhibits motives, shall be written, can these questions be fully answered." As soon as the intelligence that General Fremont was superseded by General Hunter spread through the camp, the wildest excitement everywhere prevailed. "Officers and men organized themselves into indignation meetings. Large numbers of officers declared their determination to resign. Whole companies threw down their arms." General Fremont consecrated all his personal influence, entreating the men to remain, like true patriots, at their posts. He sent immediately to General Hunter the intelligence of his appointment, and, without delay, issued the following beautiful and effective appeal to the army: "HEAD-QUARTERS WESTERN DEP'T., "SPRINGFIELD, MO., Nov. 2d, 1861. "SOLDIERS OF THE MISSISSIPPI ARMY:--Agreeably to orders this day received I take leave of you. Although our army has been of sudden growth, we have grown up together, and I have become familiar with the brave and generous spirits which you bring to the defense of your country, and which makes me anticipate for you a brilliant career. Continue as you have begun, and give to my successor the same cordial and enthusiastic support with which you have encouraged me. Emulate the splendid example which you have already before you, and let me remain, as I am, proud of the noble army which I had thus far labored to bring together. Soldiers, I regret to leave you. Most sincerely I thank you for the regard and confidence you have invariably shown to me. I deeply regret that I shall not have the honor to lead you to the victory which you are just about to win; but I shall claim to share with you in the joy of every triumph, and trust always to be fraternally remembered by my companions in arms. "J. C. FREMONT, "Major-General U.S.A." In the evening, one hundred and ten officers, including every brigadier-general in the army, visited General Fremont in a body. They presented him a written address, full of sympathy and respect, and earnestly urged him to lead them against the enemy. General Fremont replied to the address, that, if General Hunter did not arrive before morning, he would comply with their request. At eight o'clock in the evening he accordingly issued the order of battle. The enemy occupied the same ground as that which they had occupied in the battle of Wilson's Creek. General Lyon's plan of attack was to be substantially followed. The rebels were to be surrounded. Generals Sigel and Lane were to assail them in the rear, General Ashboth from the east, Generals McKinstry and Pope in front. The attack was to be simultaneous. Every camp was astir with the inspiriting news. Every soldier was full of enthusiasm. But at midnight General Hunter arrived. General Fremont informed him of the condition of affairs, advised him of his plans, and surrendered the command into his hands. The order for battle was forthwith countermanded, and orders were issued to the army to prepare to turn their backs upon the foe, and retrace their march to St. Louis. The next morning General Fremont and his staff left the camp. As he passed along the soldiers crowded the streets and the roadsides to witness his departure, and, as they returned to their quarters, each one asked himself the question: "Why has Fremont been removed?" No ground for his removal had ever been made known. It was suggested that he was too extravagant in the financial management of his department. But there was no more justice in charging him with extravagance than there would have been any other General in command of a department. "Wherever there is carrion the vultures flock." Wherever there is an opportunity for public plunder corrupt men greedily gather. They abounded in Washington, in New York, in St. Louis; but no definite charges could be made that General Fremont ever participated in any scheme to defraud the Government. The mystery lay in the fact that General Fremont was far in advance of the nation's representatives, either in the field or cabinet. "He realized that the rebels were in earnest. He realized that all attempts at pacification by timidity and concessions to traitors were unavailing, and would but add fuel to the flame. He realized that the only way to stop rebellion was to chastise rebels with the rod of justice." And, realizing these things, he issued the following proclamation, which gave great offense to the more timid officials: "HEAD-QUARTERS WESTERN DEP'T. "ST. LOUIS, MO., August 31st, 1861. "Circumstances, in my judgment, of sufficient urgency, render it necessary that the Commanding General of this Department should assume the administrative powers of the State. Its disorganized condition, the helplessness of the civil authority, the total insecurity of life, and the devastation of property by bands of murderers and marauders, who infest nearly every county in the State, and avail themselves of the public misfortunes and the vicinity of a hostile force, to gratify private and neighborhood vengeance, and who find an enemy wherever they find plunder,--finally demand the severest measures to repress the daily increasing crimes and outrages, which are driving off the inhabitants and ruining the State. In this condition, the public safety and the success of our armies require unity of purpose, without let or hindrance, to the prompt administration of affairs. "In order, therefore, to suppress disorder, to maintain, as far as now practicable, the public peace, and to give security and protection to the persons and property of loyal citizens, I do hereby extend, and declare established, martial law throughout the State of Missouri. The lines of the army of occupation in this State are, for the present, declared to extend from Leavenworth, by way of the posts of Jefferson City, Rolla and Ironton, to Cape Girardeau, on the Mississippi River. All persons who shall be taken with arms in their hands within these lines shall be tried by court martial, and, if found guilty, will be shot. The property, real and personal, of all persons in the State of Missouri who shall take up arms against the United States, and who shall be directly proven to have taken active part with their enemies in the field, is declared to be confiscated to the public use; and their slaves, if any they have, are hereby declared free men. "All persons who shall be proven to have destroyed, after the publication of this order, railroad tracks, bridges or telegraphs, shall suffer the extreme penalty of the law. All persons engaged in treasonable correspondence, in giving or procuring aid to the enemies of the United States, in fomenting tumult, in disturbing the public tranquility, by creating and circulating false reports or incendiary documents, are in their own interest warned that they are exposing themselves to sudden and sure punishment. "All persons who have been led away from their allegiance are required to return to their homes forthwith; any such absence without sufficient cause will be held to be presumptive evidence against them. "The object of this declaration is to place in the hands of the military authorities the power to give instantaneous effect to existing laws, and to supply such deficiencies as the conditions of war demand. But it is not intended to suspend the ordinary tribunals of the country, where the law will be administered by the civil officers in the usual manner, and with their customary authority, while the same can be peaceably exercised. "The Commanding General will labor vigilantly for the public welfare, and in his efforts for their safety, hopes to obtain not only the acquiescence but the active support of the loyal people of the country. "J. C. FREMONT, "Major-General Commanding." "An out-cry from all pro-slavery _partisans_, in all parts of the country, went up against the man who had first dared to proclaim liberty to the slaves of rebels." A demand was made for his removal. Fair means were not alone used for this end. The most strenuous efforts were secretly made to undermine him in the confidence of the Administration, and by bitter public attacks through the press to rob him of the confidence of the people. And success attended those efforts. The President, whose duty it was to hold a controlling influence in the councils of the nation, coincided with this intriguing faction against his better judgment, and submitted to this great injustice--injustice both to Fremont and the country. The proclamation of General Fremont was accordingly modified, and Fremont himself deprived of his command. On the reception of the President's letter, requesting him to modify his proclamation, Fremont replied: "If," said he, "your better judgment decides that I was wrong in the article respecting the liberation of slaves, I have to ask that you will openly direct me to make the correction. The implied censure will be received as a soldier always should receive the reprimand of his chief. If I were to retract of my own accord it would imply that I myself thought it wrong, and that I had acted without the reflection which the gravity of the point demanded. But I did not. I acted with full deliberation, and with the certain conviction that it was a measure right and necessary, and I think so still." General Fremont submitted to the modification, which was to confine the confiscation and liberation of only such slaves as had been actually employed by the rebels in military service. If they worked the guns they were to be free. If they only raised the cotton which enabled the rebels to buy the guns they were not to be free, but to be returned to their masters if they should escape to our lines in search of freedom. But this did not satisfy those who were even more anxious to treat the rebels with conciliation and have Fremont removed and his influence destroyed, than to strike the rebellion with heavy blows. Let Fremont be removed at all hazards. He was removed, and his army was recalled from Springfield, and in less than six months another army under General Curtis, pursuing the same plan which General Fremont had formed, and governed by the very policy recommended in his proclamation, marched over the same ground, under much more adverse circumstances, and met the enemy only after a tedious pursuit of one hundred and twenty miles farther off than the fall before. On the morning of the 4th of November Abraham C. Coats, of Company C, was brought into the regimental hospital in an entirely unconscious condition. He was taken in the night with what was supposed to be a congestive chill. Every means known to the Surgeon was resorted to to restore him to consciousness and preserve his life, but all were unavailing. He never spoke after being brought in, and died about noon of the next day. A _post mortem_ examination revealed nothing to indicate the cause of his death. Several of the boys were taken sick while in camp here, and when the regiment marched they were loaded into an army wagon to be transported to wherever the regiment might be destined. One of these died in the wagon the second night after leaving Springfield and was buried by the roadside. The others, after eight days' torture, arrived, more dead than alive, at Syracuse, where they remained in hospital all winter. CHAPTER VIII. On the morning of the 9th of November, with sad hearts and elongated countenances, the Ninth Missouri Volunteers took up the line of march, which they had so lately spun out in such glorious anticipations, to wind it back to the very place from whence they had started one month before. The weather still continued fine, but the roads had become so awful dusty, that suffocation threatened to be the fate of every one who traveled them. There had been no rain since leaving Boonville. Water was becoming scarce, excepting in the larger streams; although Missouri is usually abundantly supplied with that refreshing element. Abundant crystal streams of purest water; springs bubbling from many a creviced rock and wells of unfailing depths, are met with every where in southern Missouri. The regiment followed its old line of march, until after crossing the Osage, when it took the most direct road to Otterville. From Otterville it continued down the railroad to Syracuse, where it arrived on the 17th of November, having marched from Springfield in eight days, without rest. In its devious course from Boonville to Springfield, and from Springfield to Syracuse, the regiment had marched over three hundred miles. On arriving at Syracuse, it bivouacked on a common in town, in anticipation of taking the cars in a day or two for St. Louis. Rumor had it, that the troops were all going to St. Louis, either to go into winter quarters or to be sent South. No one thought of wintering at Syracuse. There was no enemy within one hundred and fifty miles of this place, and a necessity for stopping here did not exist. Yet, in this vicinity were they destined to lay in idleness for three long months. As the regiment passed Warsaw, on its return, some of the boys, who had learned the working of the wires on their previous visit, again slipped from the ranks and succeeded in getting their canteens filled with the ardent. Two of these, on coming into camp just in the dusk of the evening, caused quite a sensation. They had been "hale fellows well met," until whisky had got advantage of their better judgment, when they agreed to disagree, and the one using the breech of his gun, as the strongest argument he could think of, knocked the other over the head with so severe a blow as to cause insensibility. A crowd was soon collected, and the belligerent one was placed under guard, while the defunct was hurried to the hospital, to be placed in hands of the Surgeon. On examination, the Surgeon discovered something of a cut on the scalp, which was bleeding pretty freely; and having a little too much of the ardent in his own hat to see single, he pronounced the man mortally wounded, with a fractured skull. After having the bruise dressed, the Surgeon retired to his own quarters, leaving the impression that the man would not live through the night; in fact he gave it as his opinion, that he was in _articuls mortis_ at this moment. The commander of the regiment placed the one who gave the death-blow, under double guard, binding his hands and feet so as there should be no possibility of escape. By and by all retired to their quarters, and none, except the guard and the watchers by the side of the dying man, were awake in camp. The man lay very quiet until about eleven o'clock, when he was observed to draw a very heavy and prolonged inspiration. Soon another followed, and his eyes opened. For a moment they wandered restlessly over the tent, and then he sprung to his feet. "Well! where the hell am I? What does this mean? Say, what is the meaning of this? Is this the hospital? How is it that I am here? I'm not sick. There is nothing the matter with me; where is my quarters, say, I am not going to stay here, that's certain!" and off he started like a quarter horse for his company. The mystery was, that he was very much intoxicated when he was hit, and the blow only set him into a most profound drunken slumber. Early the next morning the Colonel released the prisoner, and the Surgeon passed the joke in good spirits, although his reputation in prognosis was somewhat impaired by the incident. CHAPTER IX. On the arrival of the regiment at Syracuse it was discovered that about fifty of the men were on the sick list. Some were quite sick from the effects of the continued jolting they had suffered in the wagons, while others were only worn down by hard marching. The Surgeon immediately took possession of the Planter House, a deserted hotel in town, and established his hospital in it. Straw was procured, and the men were as comfortably placed upon it over the floor as circumstances would admit. On the morning of the 18th the regiment was moved out two miles from town, and went into regular camp. As the men were marching through the town the rain descended in torrents, wetting them thoroughly. This was the first rain seen since leaving Boonville, and was received in high glee. Visions of St. Louis now began to grow dim in the eyes of some of the men, although many still believed that they were only waiting transportation. The Surgeon delayed, from day to day, making any provisions for the comfort of the sick, expecting orders to ship them for St. Louis. But orders never came, and it became a fixed fact that the regiment was to winter here. Newspapers were brought to Syracuse daily, and something of what was going on in the world could be learned from them. During the last month a newspaper had not been seen in the regiment. Some of the officers would occasionally get a paper, but the soldiers never. From these it was ascertained that the war was still progressing, and that the rebellion was assuming a magnitude of unexpected dimensions. Many of the soldiers were led to believe, by their withdrawal from Springfield, that their services would not much longer be required in the field, and that they would soon be allowed to go home, but on reading the papers they lay aside all such pleasing ideas. The weather was now becoming quite cool, and tents were more carefully pitched than usual--ditches were dug, and embankments thrown up, to keep the cold winds from blowing in under them. Good warm blankets were issued, and a new suit of clothing provided, so that, so far as possible, suffering might be prevented. Plenty of wood was provided, and on cold days large fires were burning in front of every tent. At night pans of living coals were taken into the tents as substitutes for stoves. Thus they managed to keep quite comfortable. Army rations were in abundance, and the citizens were liberal in their supply of cakes, pies and apples, at a moderate compensation, and sometimes without any pay whatever. Occasionally one would come into camp more greedy of gain than his neighbor, or, perhaps, tinctured a little with secession proclivities; in such cases "confiscation" was the word, and his load would soon disappear, without his being any the richer. The sick men, who were left at Boonville under the care of Doctor Maynard, now joined the regiment. Without an exception, the kind care and judicious treatment of this excellent Surgeon had restored all to good health, and they joined the regiment in good spirits, and were welcomed most cordially by their comrades. About the 10th of December the regiment broke camp here and moved out to the bottoms of the Lamoine river. The object of the move was the erection of fortifications for the defense of the railroad bridge across the Lamoine. Their camp was selected on some swamp-bottom lands on the left bank of the river. The boys were immediately set to work cutting the trees and cleaning off the grounds, while details were sent off to work on the fortifications on the opposite bank of the river. On the morning of the 14th marching orders were issued for the next day, and on the 15th, through a heavy snow storm, they marched to Sedalia, twenty-five miles distant. The roads were bad, and the marching very heavy, yet most of the men came into camp with the regiment. They were marched out for the purpose of cutting off recruits and a large supply train going to Price's army. When they arrived at Sedalia the work was being accomplished by another portion of the Division. A part of Davis' Division had taken another route, and had succeeded in overtaking and capturing some seventy wagons and one thousand one hundred prisoners, among whom was the son of the old General. The Ninth Missouri consequently had nothing to do but march back to its camp on the Lamoine. This it was two days in accomplishing. Thus marching fifty miles in three days. Thus making in all, since leaving Boonville, fully four hundred miles. Here the regiment remained until the 25th of January, 1862. When the regiment removed from Syracuse to the Lamoine, the Surgeon, Doctor Hazlett, went with them, leaving sixty sick men at Syracuse in charge of the Hospital Steward, without having made any preparations yet for their comfort. The building was very well calculated for an hospital, but needed renovating very badly, and should have had bunks built for the patients to lay on; but nothing of the kind had been attended to; and now, to attend to the wants of sixty sick men, only one nurse, one cook and the Steward, were to be had. Many of the men were desperately sick, and should have had better care taken of them; but, fortunately, only two cases proved fatal after the Surgeon left--Henry Rue, of Company F, on the 1st day of January, 1862, and John Rule, of Company D, on the 28th of the same month. Two also died while the Surgeon was in attendance--Boston Cherrington, of Company A, and McClenning, of Company E. At the Lamoine, Phillip Shindola, of Company B, James Edwards, Company C, George W. Lewis and William St. George, Company B, and William S. Gore, Company F, were taken sick, and died in January, 1862. The living at the Hospital consisted of beef, pilot-bread, sugar and coffee or tea. There was an hospital fund of money, accumulated by the commutation of rations belonging to sick men; but, as with the ambulances, the Surgeons are sometimes dishonest enough to appropriate this fund to their own use. The cooking facilities about the hospital consisted in a camp-kettle, (holding about five gallons,) for coffee or tea, and one of the same size for boiling beef, and a log fire out of doors. With these facilities the cook prepared the rations for sixty sick soldiers for over two months, rain, snow or shine, as the case might be. The manner of feeding the patients was thus: The kettle of coffee and soup is brought into the center of the room where the sick are, and tin-cups are filled and handed round, and a "shingle" (pilot cracker) is handed at the same time, with a piece of boiled beef on it. If the patient has had money he has perhaps provided himself with a biscuit or piece of light bread, purchased of some citizen. The men set around over the floor on their straw pallets, and eat, some swearing at the coffee, and some cursing the soup, and all making some remark or other about the fare. One, for instance, would like some potatoes or chicken soup; one some bread and milk, one some corn bread, and another would fancy mush and milk. Sometimes these things could be procured by paying their own money for them, and thus there would be a feast. Poor fellows! They deserve better things than these, but it is impossible for the Steward and attendants to provide anything more suitable. May God forgive those who should look after these things for neglecting their duty, or for being dishonest. The soldier in camp lives very similar to this: Messes are formed from the occupants of one tent, perhaps numbering four or five, or more; the rations are drawn, and all cooked in the same vessels. A small camp-kettle supplies them with coffee, and a larger one with boiled beef, bean-soup, etc. Then, with tin-cups, tin-plates, knives and forks, they pitch in, each one helping himself until he is satisfied. While eating he either stands or sits on the ground, as he may elect. Thus they live day after day and month after month and no variety unless they buy and pay for it them selves. Many of them _do_ spend all their wages in buying something to eat. It is amusing to look through the streets of Syracuse, and see the soldiers buying the _luxuries_ that the farmers' wives bring to town to sell. Here are several wagons, surrounded by soldiers, buying and trying to buy, sausage meat, fresh pork, chickens, butter, eggs, pies, cakes, corn-bread, milk, apples, etc. The argus eyes of the ladies are kept busy, or else they make small profits. While many are honestly paying for what they get, others are playing confiscation, and dishonestly getting what they do not pay for. Pies and cakes are in great demand; and such pies! The pie-crust is made by wetting some flour with water until it becomes pasty, some sour apples are then wrapped up in it, and it is then dried in a moderately heated oven. When it is sufficiently done it can't be broken, but must be twisted asunder and swallowed in mass; yet the soldiers pay a quarter for such pies, and consider them a luxury. The first case of bushwhacking known to the regiment occurred at Syracuse. A boy belonging to the Eighth Indiana Regiment was on his way to join his regiment, and stopping at the hospital to ascertain where he would find it, was induced to stay a day or two before going farther. The day following he walked out into the brush, about one hundred yards from the hospital, and was shot down by some unseen hand. The report of the gun was heard at the hospital, and in a few moments the body was found, laying on the snow, in a dying condition. There was an inch or two of snow on the ground, and it was thought the murderer might be found by his foot-prints in the snow. Several of the boys from the hospital started immediately in pursuit. The afternoon was spent in following foot marks through the woods, but nothing definite was ever learned of who committed the murder. One of the scouts reported on his return that "the scoundrel would never shoot another soldier," intimating that he had overtaken and shot the bushwhacker; but credit was not given to his story. Toward the latter part of January, 1862, a post hospital was established at Otterville, near the Lamoine, and Dr. Hazlett, Surgeon of the Ninth Missouri, was appointed Post Surgeon. Dr. Maynard, in consequence, was relieved at Boonville, and, greatly to the satisfaction of the boys, took charge of the regiment. The Regimental Hospital Steward being yet at Syracuse, Dr. Maynard requested the Colonel of the regiment to order him to report to him for duty, as his presence was more needed at the regiment than at the hospital. The patients at Syracuse were about being removed to Otterville. From this request of Doctor Maynard resulted a decision which may be of importance to many hospital stewards in the army. Many young men receive the appointment of hospital steward without knowing or inquiring to whom they are responsible for their good conduct, or whose orders they are in duty bound to obey. Hence they are imposed upon by the surgeons, and are made nothing less than menials for those vampires of the Government. On the request of Doctor Maynard, Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick, commanding the regiment, issued the order desired. On the same day Doctor Hazlett, Surgeon of the regiment, issued a similar order for the Steward to report to him at Otterville for duty. The decision in the case was, that "the Steward was subject only to the orders of the commanding officer of the regiment." This decision has since been confirmed. A hospital steward is not a surgeon's orderly. Rumor now prevailed that the regiment would leave the Lamoine in a short time, and outside movements tended very much toward confirming the rumor. The sick were all ordered to Otterville; the hospital stores were inspected and reported, and any deficiency in the supply was ordered to be filled. There was, however, no want of hospital supplies at this time, thanks to the ladies of Wisconsin. A delegation from those charitable ladies had, but a few days before, visited the army, with a large quantity of comforts, quilts, drawers, shirts, handkerchiefs, and magazines and newspapers, which they distributed to hospitals at the towns, and to the regiments, with liberal hands. God will abundantly bless the ladies of Wisconsin. When they have forgotten that their hands had prepared these inestimable presents for the soldier, his prayers will be ascending in their behalf. The death-bed of the soldier is made comfortable by the thoughtful liberality of these kind friends, and their hearts go out in thankful praises and gratitude to the fair donors. CHAPTER X. Orders were received by the regiment, on the morning of the 23d, to be ready to march at 8 o'clock, on the morning of the 25th, with three days rations in the haversack of each soldier. The morning of the 25th of January, 1862, made its appearance, clear and cold, and found the regiment in marching trim. Some of the boys would have preferred waiting a day or two, as they were expecting a large supply of good things, from home. Some companies had already received their boxes of pies, cakes, turkeys, butter and etceteras; but one or two other companies had failed to receive theirs, and were looking for them by every train. Letters had informed them of their being on the way, and the boys were starving to have them arrive; but there was no help for it, they must march and leave their 'goodies' for some one else to devour. It was too bad to so disappoint the kind good friends at home, and still worse to be so disappointed themselves. There was no use of lamentations. At 8 o'clock the bugle sounded to fall in, and the troops moved out. The direction taken, was down the railroad, towards Syracuse; but before night, Syracuse was left in the rear, and Tipton, a small town six miles farther east, was approached. Here the regiment went into camp for the night. Early the next morning, the regiment crossed the railroad, and moved in a southerly direction, leaving all hopes of going to St. Louis, at Tipton. While on this day's march, an amusing incident occurred, showing conclusively in which direction the feelings of the soldier inclines. One Moore, a citizen of Syracuse, with his overseer, came riding along by the regiments, in search of one of his slaves. The negro had disappeared from Syracuse, the day before, and old Moore had rightly suspected that he had joined the army. The Ninth Missouri, happened to be the regiment he was with. On discovering the boy, old Moore rode up to him, and ordered that he mount behind the overseer and ride back to town. The soldiers soon crowded around between the negro and his master, and ordered the latter to leave. The old gentleman did not incline to do so, without taking his negro with him. But the threats and threatening attitude of some of the boys, gave him to understand that he was not safe in remaining, and concluding that discretion was the better part of valor, he began an inglorious retreat, which at first was slow and reluctant; but as missiles of different kinds began to increase in thickness, his own speed increased accordingly, until him and his man Friday, disappeared under a sharp run of their horses. Nothing more was ever heard of old Moore, but his negro continued a good servant in the regiment, for more than a year. The march was now continued through a very wild and broken region of country, with very bad roads and stormy weather, until the 2d day of February, when the Osage river was again to be crossed. The regiment went into camp, on the left bank of the Osage, on the afternoon of the 2d, during a heavy snow storm. The weather had been stormy, ever since leaving Syracuse, and here it culminated in a cold driving snow storm. No one who has not experienced the trial, can imagine how disagreeable it is to go into camp under such circumstances as now surrounded the army. Rainy weather can be endured, and even enjoyed, as was proven on this march; but cold snowy weather is very trying to the nerves. One evening the regiment went into camp, on a low piece of meadow land, near the Gravoi creek, after marching in the rain all day. They were wet, muddy and hungry. Orders had been issued to burn no rails on this march, under severe penalties. But here there was no other wood convenient, and the question with the boys was, how are we to make coffee? Twilight was consumed in trying to find something to start a fire with, but without success. As soon as darkness became visible, the rails began to move from the fence enclosing the meadow, and in half an hour thereafter, most genial and glowing fires were burning in all directions. Owing to bad roads, the camp equipage did not come up till towards morning, consequently there was no tents to pitch, and the entire night was spent by many of the boys, in dancing and whooping around the fires, in seemingly the most perfect enjoyment, although it rained in torrents. The next morning disclosed the fact that the meadow was all out-doors. The question now arose, "how is the river to be crossed?" "Look yonder," says a boy pointing down the river. "Yonder's a steamboat." A steamboat on the Osage river! This was a surprise, no one had thought of crossing the river on a steamboat, but it seems that small boats had occasionally made their trips up to this point, and now one was here expressly to assist in crossing the army. She was just getting up steam, and pretty soon the troops commenced crossing. While the troops were crossing on the boat, the trains and artillery were crossing on a military bridge, constructed for the purpose. By noon of the 4th, the whole command was in camp, on the right bank of the river. The troops lay here on the 5th to rest. The town, at the mouth of Sinn creek, is mostly deserted, the citizens being mostly rebels. The wealthiest and most respected one among them, is a Union man, and has given his money and influence freely, in support of the Government. A few weeks ago, he had a very large store here, and was doing an extensive business, but a squad of rebel Jayhawkers, visited him, and nearly robbed his store of all its goods. A remnant only was left. These were purchased by 'our' boys, now, at their own price, which was not at a great profit to the owner. The owner is now absent, and our boys do their own clerking. Hats, caps, tobacco, and cigars, seem to be most ready sale. Here the boys also procured some excellent cherry-bounce, on which they had a real jollification. On the 6th, the line of march was taken up, and continued towards Lebanon, where the regiment arrived on the evening of the 7th. These were two days heavy marching, making fourteen miles on the 6th, and sixteen miles on the 7th, on very hilly and muddy roads. It is called seventy-five miles from here to Syracuse; but in coming, the regiment had marched some days twelve miles, and were at night, only five miles from the place of starting. Thus making at least, eighty-five miles in ten days marching, through the most inclement weather, and over the worst possible roads. The regiment went into camp, a few miles west of Lebanon, and lay by on the 8th and 9th, to await the arrival of more troops. While laying here, John Baker, of Company F, died, and was buried in the grave yard at Lebanon. The 9th, is the Sabbath day--a day appointed and established among christians for public worship, and as a day of rest from labor; but among the 5,000 men that are here, very few are aware that it is Sunday, or a day of rest. The fife and drums are playing and beating as lively, as on any week day, and the men are as busy drilling as they were through the week days, in regular camp. It is the first sunny day for two weeks, and hence the lively appearance of camp. A brass band is discoursing sweet music, over towards Lebanon, which can be heard very distinctly by the Ninth, and some of the boys are enjoying its melody, instead of participating in the hilarity of those around them. A sham battle is to be fought this afternoon, in anticipation of a real one, which is expected to be had with the enemy, in a few days. Price is reported to be fortifying himself, seventeen miles this side of Springfield, which is about thirty miles from here. The battle has been decided, and now preparations are being made for an early march in the morning. While laying here, a gentleman and lady, of African descent, who had been with the regiment since leaving St. Louis, concluded that they would retire from the army, to the shades of private life. The man had gained the confidence of the boys, and on leaving, they placed in his hands a considerable sum of money, to be given to their friends at home. One man gave him a good horse, to take for him, to St. Louis. He departed, and so the money and horse departed with him, and neither was ever heard of afterwards. The temptation was too great for a negro's cupidity. CHAPTER XI. On the morning of the 10th, the army was again on the move, the Ninth Missouri bringing up the rear of Jeff. C. Davis' division. The roads were very bad, but the weather was favorable, and the country more level than from Syracuse here. The sick and much extra baggage was left at Lebanon, to be brought up at a more convenient season. It was now anticipated that the enemy would be attempting to impede the advance of our army, but no indications of their presence was discovered until the evening of the 12th. About one o'clock, of the 12th, General Sigel's column, which was advancing on another road, some half mile to our left, came upon their out-posts pickets, and a sharp skirmish ensued. As soon, however, as a piece of artillery could be brought to bear upon them, they fled in confusion, leaving the road undisputed. This was the first firing of artillery the Ninth Missouri had ever heard, and it caused a general excitement. The army halted about four o'clock, in a good position, and several companies from the different regiments were sent out through the woods as skirmishers. Companies F and A of the Ninth, was ordered to scout the woods for a mile or two in front. They were very proud of the distinction, and elicited the envy of the other companies. With erect and martial step, those two companies--the one, (Company F,) commanded by Captain Kelly; the other, (Company A,) by Captain Hale--filed off into the woods in search of the hidden foe. The boys in camp listened anxiously for the report of fire arms, and soon, in the distance, several volleys of musketry announced that the enemy had been found. On the return of our skirmishers in the morning, they reported, that before they had advanced over half a mile, they heard firing in their front, and that Major Black, commanding the skirmishers, ordered an advance on double quick. The underbrush was thick and intensely dark, but by strenuous efforts the men succeeded in reaching an open space and getting into line of battle, just as the rebels began to disappear in an inglorious retreat. Some five hundred rebels had made a vigorous attack upon our cavalry pickets, (First Missouri,) but had been handsomely repulsed, with a loss of five killed and thirteen wounded, before the infantry could come up. Before going out, many of the boys took the precaution to leave their money and valuables in the hands of their friends, so that if they should be killed or captured, their effects would be safe. Early on the morning of the 13th, the army was again in motion. Springfield was now only seventeen miles distant, and no fortifications were yet discovered. Price is now known to be at Springfield, and he must either fight or run within the next forty-eight hours. The army proceeded to within five miles of Springfield without any indications of the enemy; but now coming to an open country the troops were halted, and a long line of battle was formed across a very large piece of meadow land. The line was formed in front of some heavy timber skirting the meadow, and the supposition was that the enemy was posted in the timber, ready for battle. The troops marched into line on double quick, and in splendid style. The Ninth Missouri, led by its noble commander, Lieut. Colonel C. H. Frederick, now had an opportunity of displaying its proficiency in rapidity of action, and fell into line with the precision of veterans. Very soon the whole line was formed, and the men standing on their arms awaiting further orders. General Curtis and staff now rode along the line, with the announcement that Springfield was in our possession. Price had evacuated without a fight. The news was received with a shout and the tossing of hats in the air, mingled with curses and maledictions. Although it was pleasing news, yet the disappointment in not getting satisfaction out of the infernal scoundrels, was great among the troops. The line of battle was now broken and the troops again formed into marching order. And now commenced the most wonderful retreat and pursuit of two opposing armies, that the world had ever witnessed. Price commenced the evacuation of Springfield on the 12th, and in four hours after the rear of his army had left the town, our advance was passing through in pursuit. It was said by the rebel sympathizers in town, that Price would make a stand at Wilson's Creek, ten miles below town; that he had twenty thousand fighting men, and would drive Curtis as he had General Lyon the summer before. It was more than probable that the rebel army numbered at least that many, if not more. Price had returned from Lexington to Springfield, on the 23d of December, 1861, with his whole army, and had been using all his energies to recruit and fill up his army until now. "He began to raise fifty thousand men for the Southern Confederacy, the object of which was to secure him the commission of Major General in the Southern Confederacy. He soon accomplished his object. The men are sworn into the service for twelve months. Several regiments of the State Guard were soon broken up; they went into it very readily, because they were made to believe that as soon as Price was promoted, he would have power to order troops from any of the Southern States, and that they would soon make a clean thing of it in Missouri, and also invade Kansas and leave it as the Lord made it, without a house to shelter Jayhawkers. These men felt confident that they would soon be let loose to accomplish this glorious work, and were highly delighted with the idea, but the poor fellows were badly fooled. General Curtis and his brave boys were now rather interfering with their glorious anticipations. The army made no delay in passing through town, but marched about three miles beyond, before going into camp. Camp was pitched on a large farm belonging to an old rebel, and his effects had now fallen into unsparing hands. The old gentleman had left a large, fine house, large barn and good log stable on his premises. The log stable was designed and worked up into quite a strong fort for the protection of the house and barn. Heavy timbers and earth were so thrown together as to be a perfect defence against musket balls, and port holes were opened for the use of the besieged. But they dare not use it at this time, and our boys soon made it untenable in the future. Soon after dark the house and barn afforded plenty of light to see to go to bed by, all over camp. Every thing about the premises was destroyed. The next morning ashes and embers alone marked the spot where the house and barn stood; and posts and bottom rails indicated where fences had been. On the 14th the march was continued to Wilson's Creek, for dinner, and several miles beyond for camp. Wilson's Creek is the scene of General Lyon's defeat and death, and the writer can do no better than transcribe, from Abbott's History of the Civil War in America, an account of the whole affair: Wilson's Creek is a tributary of White River. From the village of Springfield, there is one road leading to Fayetteville, Arkansas, running in a south-westerly direction. Another road pursuing a course nearly due west, conducts to Mount Vernon. Along the banks of Wilson's Creek there is a cross road, which connects the Fayetteville and the Mount Vernon roads. The valley of this creek is about twenty rods in width, bounded by gentle sloping hills, which are covered with scrub oaks a few feet high, except where the land is in cultivation. Upon this cross road about three miles in length, equally accessible from Springfield by either of the roads we have mentioned, the rebel camp was situated. Concealed by the shades of evening, on the 9th of August, General Lyon, with floating banners, but silent bands, emerged from the streets of Springfield, to attack by surprise, if possible, the foe, outnumbering him nearly three to one. His force was divided; one part under his own command, moved along the Mount Vernon road, to attack the enemy in front, while the other part, under the intrepid Colonel Sigel, with six pieces of artillery, two companies of cavalry, and several regiments of infantry, took the Fayetteville road, with instructions to attack the rebels in the rear. Precautions were taken, to render the surprise as complete as possible, and it was hoped that the rebels, distracted by the presence of an enemy, thus unexpectedly assailing them on both sides, and taken by surprise, might be effectually put to flight. It is proper to add, that the term of service of the Fifth Regiment of Missouri Volunteers, had expired; that Colonel Sigel, had gone to them, company by company, and by his personal influence, had induced them to re-enlist for eight days; that this re-enlistment expired on the 9th, the day before the battle; that many of the officers had gone home, and that a considerable part of Sigel's force, was composed of raw recruits. The morning of the 10th of August, was just beginning to dawn, when Colonel Sigel cautiously arrived within a mile of the rebel camp. So quietly did he advance, that some forty of the rebels going from their camp to get water and provisions, were taken prisoners without being able to give their commanders any warning of their danger. Silently the Union troops ascended the hills, which bordered the creek, and there beheld spread out before them, the tents of the foe. The rebels were at their breakfast. Colonel Sigel bringing his artillery into position, with a well directed shot into the midst of their encampment, gave the rebels the first intimation of his presence. They were thrown into utter disorder, by the suddenness of the surprise, and retreated in confusion down the valley. The infantry pursued, and quickly formed in the camp, so lately occupied by the rebels. The rebels, however, recovering from the first panic, were almost as quickly formed into line of battle, and Colonel Sigel found his little force opposed by one, three thousand strong. The artillerymen moved down into the valley, to co-operate with the infantry, and after a short fight, the enemy retired in some confusion. Meanwhile, the sound of heavy firing from the other end of the valley, was distinctly heard, and it was evident that Lyon was there, engaging the enemy in force. In order to aid Lyon, Colonel Sigel pressed forward his columns up the valley, selecting a position to cut off any attempted retreat of the enemy. He had already succeeded in taking over one hundred prisoners, when by a natural, but unfortunate mistake, his well-laid plans were overturned, and he was compelled to retreat. The firing in the north-west had ceased. He presumed that Lyon had been successful, and that his troops were in pursuit of the enemy. This was confirmed by the appearance to the east of him, of large bodies of rebels, apparently retreating to the south. Of course there could be no communications between him and Lyon, as the rebel force was directly between them. At this juncture, word was brought to Colonel Sigel, that Lyon's forces were advancing triumphantly up the road. His troops were told not to fire upon them, and with exultant hearts, they waved their flags, to those whom they supposed to be their victorious comrades. Suddenly from the advancing troops, there burst upon Sigel's little band, a point-blank destructive fire, which covered the ground with the dying and the dead. At the same moment, from the adjoining hills, where they had supposed that Lyon's victorious troops were pursuing the enemy, there came plunging down upon them shot and shell, from a rebel battery. The Unionists were thrown into utter confusion, for they still believed that the volleys which swept their ranks, came from their friends. The gloom of the morning, and the absence of all uniform, prevented the prompt detection of the error. The cry ran from mouth to mouth, "our friends are firing upon us." The soldiers could not be dissuaded from this belief, until many had fallen. Nearly all the artillery horses were shot down at their guns, and death was sweeping the ranks. Most of these young patriots, had recently came from their peaceful homes, and had never before heard the spiteful whistle of a hostile bullet. It is not strange that a panic should have ensued. Under these circumstances, it might have been expected in the best drilled army. Five cannon were abandoned in the disorderly retreat. The foe, exultant and with hideous yells, came rushing on. Colonel Sigel himself, in his efforts to arrest the rout, narrowly escaped capture. With anguish, he afterwards summed up, that, out of his heroic little band, he had lost, in dead, wounded and missing, eight hundred and ninety-two. Some popular complaints have been uttered against Colonel Sigel, for not having afterwards, with the remnant of his forces, formed a junction with General Lyon. But this was not possible. There were but two roads, by which he could gain access to Lyon's position, at the other end of the valley. One was the long circuitous route of twenty miles, by the way of Springfield. The other, was the valley road, then in full possession of the exultant rebel army. There was, therefore, nothing for Colonel Sigel to do, but to withdraw his shattered and bleeding ranks as safely as possible, from the field. General Lyon, meanwhile, having left Springfield at about the same time, with Colonel Sigel, arrived at one o'clock in the morning, in view of the enemy's campfires. Here his column lay, on its arms, till daylight, when it moved forward. The enemy had pickets thrown out at this point, and their surprise, was therefore, less complete than it had been in the rear. By the time Lyon reached the northern end of the camp, he found the enemy prepared to receive him. He succeeded, however, after a brief struggle, in gaining a commanding eminence at the north of the valley, in which the camp was situated. Captain Plummer, with four companies of infantry, protected his left flank. The battle was now commenced, by a fire of shot and shell from Captain Totten's battery, and soon became general. In vain did the rebel host endeavor to drive Lyon from his well chosen position. On the right, on the left, and in front, they assailed him, in charge succeeding charge, but in vain. His quick eye detected every movement, and successfully met and defeated it. The overwhelming number of the rebels, enabled them to replace, after each repulse, their defeated forces with fresh regiments, while Lyon's little band found no time for rest, no respite from the battle. The rebel host, surged wave after wave upon his heroic lines, as billows of the sea dash upon the coast. And as the rocks upon the coast beat back the flood, so did these heroic soldiers of freedom, with courage which would have ennobled veterans, and with patriotism which has won a nation's homage and love, hurl back the tireless surges of rebellion, which threatened to engulf them. It will be enough for any of these patriots to say. "I was at the battle of Wilson's Creek," to secure the warmest grasp of every patriot's hand. Wherever the missiles of death flew thickest, and the peril of the battle was most imminent, there was General Lyon surely to be found. His young troops needed this encouragement on the part of their adored leader, and it inspired them with bravery, which nothing else could have conferred. His horse had been shot under him; three times he had been wounded, and, though faint from the loss of blood, he refused to retire even to have his wounds dressed; in vain did his officers beseech him to avoid so much exposure. It was one of those eventful hours, which Gen. Lyon fully comprehended, in which there was no hope but in despair. Again and again had the enemy been repulsed, only to return again and again with fresh troops, to the charge. Colonels Mitchell, Deitzler and Andrews, were all severely wounded. All the men were exhausted with the long and unintermitted battle, and it seemed as though one puff of war's fierce tempest would now sweep away the thin and tremulous line. Just then the rebels again formed in a fresh and solid column for the charge. With firm and rapid tread, and raising unearthly yells, they swept up the slope. General Lyon called for the troops standing nearest him to form for an opposing charge. Undaunted, and ready for the battle as ever, they inquired: "Who will be our leader?" "Come on, brave men," shouted Gen. Lyon, "I will lead you." In a moment he was at their head. At the next moment they were on the full run; at the next a deadly storm of bullets swept their ranks, staggering, but not checking them in their impetuous advance; on, on they rushed for God and liberty, and in another moment the foe were dispersed like dust by the gale. The victory was entire. This division of the rebels could rally no more. The army was saved; _but Lyon was dead_! Two bullets had pierced his bosom. As he fell, one of his officers sprang to his side, and inquired anxiously: "Are you hurt?" "Not much," was his faint reply. They were his last words. He fell asleep, to wake no more. O! hateful pro-slavery rebellion! Such are the victims immolated upon thy polluted shrine. Indignation is blended with the tears we shed over such sacrifices, which we have been compelled to offer to the demon of slavery. A nation mourned the loss of Lyon, the true Christian knight, without fear and without reproach. His remains now repose in the peaceful graveyard of his native village. While passing this battle ground the soldiers picked up many human skulls and bones, which were scatted upon the earth, in the places, perhaps, where the soldiers to whom they belonged had fallen. On Friday evening, (the 16th,) after twenty-four hours' retreat from Springfield, the rebel army was encamped on Crane Creek, twenty-nine miles distant. The Federal army was five miles in the rear, preparing to make an early start in pursuit next day. Price had placed his train in his advance. About one hundred wagons contained supplies, which were brought into Springfield from Forsyth only a few hours before the retreat was ordered. He will have some advantage among the hills, and the rebel sympathizers here claim that he will be reinforced by twelve or fifteen regiments from Bentonville, under General Van Dorn. On Friday afternoon four officers and thirteen privates were captured by our forces and sent to Springfield. They were captured near the rebel outposts by a squad of the First Missouri Cavalry. They were looking up mules, and got into our advance, supposing they were rebel pickets. The same evening Lieutenant Bushnell advanced on the rebel pickets with his mountain howitzer, and threw four shells, scattering them like sheep. About six o'clock the army halted near Dug Springs, and prepared to bivouac for the night; but, before the preparations were completed, orders came to push forward. A messenger had announced that our cavalry was close upon the enemy, and desired that the infantry be sent forward in support. Hunger, fatigue, and all, were forgotten. Onward was the word, until twelve o'clock at night. The division of General Davis was in the advance, with the cavalry of Colonel Ellis and Major McConnell. The enemy had halted on Crane Creek, and, had not the night been so terribly dark, it is more than likely General Curtis would have attacked him immediately, but he was fearful of being drawn into an ambuscade. The troops lay on their arms awaiting the break of day. At an early hour February 15th, the column moved forward, but during the night Price had again fled, leaving a large portion of his camp equipage, and a number of wagons. During that day the chase was very exciting, there being constant skirmishing between our advance and his rear guard. The road was strewn with broken wagons, dead and dying mules and horses, and every conceivable kind of goods. At four o'clock in the afternoon the booming of cannon notified us that Price had made a stand. The Dubuque battery was pushed forward, and for an hour we had a fine artillery fight. By the time our infantry got up the enemy had precipitately fled. On the 16th instant we pushed on, finding many evidences of the hasty flight in that day's march. During the afternoon our cavalry again overtook the rebels at Cross Timbers, and here was made a gallant charge by Colonel Harry Pease and forty men. Coming on the enemy's picket, they drove it in, dashing at once in the very midst of his camp. One of our men, a lieutenant of cavalry, was wounded, and five or six horses killed. The enemy's loss was much greater. The charge was really one of the most brilliant things that occurred on the route. On the 17th instant we had several skirmishes, and at last discovered the enemy in position on the south side of Sugar Creek. Taking it altogether the flight of Price, and our pursuit, will form one of the most interesting passages in the history of the war. The valley through which Sugar Creek pursues its meandering course is nearly half a mile in width at Trott's Store. From the brows of the opposite ridges the distance is somewhat more, as the road winds. Skirmishing between the pickets of the two armies occurred during the morning, when Price moved out of sight beyond the brow of the south-western hills. His army, as was since ascertained, then formed in two lines on both sides of the road, and two Louisiana regiments, under command of Colonel Louis Herbert, which had arrived from Cross Hollows to reinforce Price, marched with their batteries, determined to give us a warm reception. Two of the enemy's cannon were planted on the brow of the hill, overlooking Sugar Creek, and their pieces were also ranged along the road, about two hundred yards apart, for half a mile or more. These pieces had prolongs attached, indicating that a running fight was intended in case of pursuit. In the meantime our cavalry formed on the opposite side of the valley, and marched across the creek to a point near Trott's Store, and halted. The enemy then opened fire from their batteries. One shot fell short, and a shell exploded over the heads of our men stationed on the opposite hill, doing no damage. Captain Hardin, of the Ninth Iowa Battery, answered the enemy's fire from the opposite bluff, throwing three shells from a howitzer with such good effect that the enemy were forced to fall back with their battery. General Curtis then ordered the cavalry to move up the hill and charge on the retreating foe. The order was gallantly obeyed by Colonel Ellis, in command of the First Missouri Cavalry, followed by Major Wright, leading his battalion, and Major McConnell, with the Third Battalion of the Third Illinois Cavalry. The whole force of our cavalry making the attack numbered some eight hundred. Gaining the brow of the hill, it was ascertained that they had fallen back over a mile to an open field, where their battery was again stationed, and the enemy in force, formed in line. Our cavalry, regardless of danger, plunged forward to the charge on the enemy's position, mostly screened by the intervening woods. Nothing could have withstood the impetuosity of such a charge, had not our advance, led by Colonel Ellis, when debouching from the woods into the open field, been met by a murderous fire poured in upon their ranks from behind the trees. Our loss was seven in killed and wounded at this point. Inevitable destruction, without a chance to resist so galling a fire, caused our brave men to recoil, when Colonel Ellis, with great coolness and presence of mind, ordered his men to right and left and scour the woods. The order was obeyed with telling effect on the enemy, many of whom were cut down behind their places of concealment, and the rest fled. Meantime Major McConnell, with his battalion, left the road, and, deploying to the left, advanced on the enemy's line, while Majors Wright and Boliver performed the same maneuver on the right. Two regiments of infantry arrived to support the cavalry, and formed in line. Colonel Phelps' regiment deployed on the left of the road, and Lieutenant-Colonel Herron, with the Ninth Iowa, deployed on the right. Captain Hayden, of the Dubuque battery, answered the enemy's batteries, which had opened upon our advancing columns, with a brisk fire. The cannonading was kept up for a few minutes, when the enemy precipitately fled, taking away most of his killed. Other regiments were coming into the field to take part in the ball. Among the latter was the Fourth Iowa. The men, anxious for the fray, had pulled off their coats and threw them aside. There is little doubt that if the rebels had been followed up closely the rout would have been complete, and no time would have been given them to burn their barracks at Cross Hollows. The Colonel Herbert who commanded the rebel brigade was the gentleman of California notoriety, who slew the waiter at Willard's Hotel, a few years since. The other Confederate Colonels under him in the fight were McRae and McNair. Among the badly wounded is J. A. Edwards, of Co. H, Eighth Indiana. He belonged to the infantry, but, getting possession of a horse, was the foremost in the fight, running the gauntlet of the leaden hail, which poured in upon him from the timber, without quailing. He got ahead of the cavalry, and was cut off by the enemy. The Hospital Steward of the Third Illinois cavalry (Baker) had his horse shot down. He fell with the horse, dismounted, and leaped upon another horse in the melee, and rushed forward on the enemy with renewed vigor. Like Edwards, he had no business in the fight, but nothing could keep him from pushing to the front and have a "hand" in. A man belonging to the Dubuque battery had his horse's head taken off by a cannon ball. He was leaning forward at the moment, and the ball passed just above him, doing no injury. The inhabitants along this route, from Cassville to this point, were told by Price's army that the Northern troops were marching down, and were burning all the houses, ravishing the women, and killing the children. These ignorant people, it seems, believed the silly tale, and the result is that a general stampede took place. Men procured teams, gathered up what little valuables could be carried along, and, taking their families aboard, deserted their homes. Only three men were found in Cassville when our army arrived. At Keitsville nearly all the inhabitants fled. From that point to Cross Hollows about two-thirds of the inhabitants on the road have deserted their dwellings. In several houses the tables were spread for breakfast, and in the hurry of flight were thus left. The wash-tub was seen filled with water on the back of the chair, indicating that the hegira occurred, as it actually did, on a "wash-day." The doors were ajar, the clock on the mantelpiece had ceased ticking, feather beds were piled in the center of the floor, all sorts of furniture were scattered about, and not a sound was heard but the mewing of a cat. An air of lonesome, heart-sick desolation prevailed. One large dwelling was recently burned down, and the ruins were still smoking. Surely the leaders in this cursed civil war will have much to answer for. Although strict orders forbid our boys from disturbing any private property, they, nevertheless, helped themselves to such things as they fancied. Clothing, quilts, dishes, cooking utensils, hams, lard, molasses, vinegar, meal, beans, and whatever else their hands inclined toward, was appropriated. Rations at this time were very small, owing to having outmarched the provision train, and the boys were very glad to have such opportunities of filling up. Coffee had been played out several days before, and many had been restricted to hominy and parched corn. But now the fleeing rebels had left enough to more than satisfy their hunger, and they were not disposed to treat their liberality with contempt. Some Indiana troops threatened mutiny, on the 16th, in consequence of not having their proper provisions. They positively refused to march any farther until they were supplied with rations. Appropriations supplied them. CHAPTER XII. After laying in camp two days on Sugar Creek, resting from the wearisome march it had undergone since leaving Springfield, the regiment again moved out in the pursuit. After making somewhat of a circuitous route by Osage Springs, it arrived in the neighborhood of Cross Hollows, and went into camp, on the 22d day of February--lacking three days of being one month since leaving Syracuse, Mo. During that time it had marched over two hundred and fifty miles. Cross Hollows, from which Price's army has just disappeared beyond pursuit, is on the Fayetteville road, eighteen miles from that place, and sixteen miles from the Arkansas line, in Benton county. The road passes due south at this point, along the bed of a deep valley with precipitous sides, covered with brush, and the eminences covered with forests of black-jacks and swamp-oaks. Two other ravines cut across this valley at right angels, the other obliquely in a south-east and north-west direction. The junction of these ravines is called "Cross Hollows." A cantonment of three thousand Arkansas infantry has been located here during the winter. An excellent spring gushes forth under one of the banks, giving origin to a creek. It was thought that the six bold promontories, which send their salient points into the valley, would constitute natural ramparts for placing cannon to enfilade the gorges and render the place impregnable, but it seems that the gorges were untenable in the face of the ardent troops of General Curtis. This is the last place at which it has been said by rebel sympathisers, that Price was going to give the Federal army battle. It is now said that he has fled to the mountains of Indian Territory, where it would be useless to undertake a pursuit. [Illustration: LIEUT. C. C. DOOLITTLE. LIEUT. JOHN KELLY. LIEUT. ANDERSON. LIEUT. MOSSMAN. LIEUT. R. D. IRVINE. LIEUT. SANDERSON. SERGT. T. J. MELVIN. SERGT. CH^s. SMITH. Lith. by W^m. BRADEN & C^o. Indianapolis.] Ben McCulloch arrived from Fort Smith the day before the fight at Sugar Creek, but did not participate in any part of the action, except the retreat. He insisted on making a stand at Cross Hollows, but Price objected. His habit of running has become a second nature to him. The stampede of the deluded people was exceeded only by the hurry of the rebel army to get away. Camp Benjamin, located in a beautiful place, three miles west of Cross Hollows, in the principal valley, had one hundred and eight commodious huts erected, with chimneys in the center. The rebels burned all but five, and in the hurry of their flight, left thirty game cocks: some of these brandished silver spurs. Their best fighting material was thus evidently left behind. A book containing the general orders, and a quantity of brass knuckles were also left behind by the chivalry. It is a wonder to our troops why the two grist mills at this point were not fired. As soon as the Federal army went into camp, many refugees returned to our lines, among whom were two intelligent women from their homes south of Fayetteville. They represented that their husbands were Union men, who fled to avoid being pressed into the rebel service. A threat was made that the wives of such who favored the Union cause would be hung, and many of these poor women were trying to make their way into the Federal lines to escape this threatened doom. The day before these women left home, there were two Union men hung at Hewit's Mills. These women were piloted through to our lines by an intelligent contraband--the trusty slave of their father. This negro says that the retreat of Price was preceded by dispatches sent ahead, calling every citizen to arms. A perfect reign of terror prevails; committees were appointed to hang every man refusing to join the rebel army. People were removing their provisions to the woods and burying them, and fleeing in large numbers to the mountains. By a recent act, no negro must be found beyond his master's premises, under pain of thirty-nine lashes, administered on the bare back. A few weeks since, five negroes caught fishing together in a stream, twelve miles from Fayetteville, were hung, and their bird-pecked carcass can be seen swinging in the air to this day, as a warning to others. The negros are told that the Northern Abolitionists are trying to get them in their power for the purpose of transporting them to Cuba. This negro says that the war has made the Southern men "mighty temperate;" none but the vilest corn whisky can be procured. The "quality" are suffering headaches from being deprived of their accustomed beverage, coffee. Sassafras tea, used as a substitute, sweetened with sorghum, was not generally relished. Coffee in Fayetteville held at sixty cents a pound, and none could be had even at that price. Sheeting and shirting was worth one dollar a yard. The negro made a statement to General Curtis, and gave the latter a plan showing the roads through the Boston Mountains. Full confidence is placed in his statement. The two women and negro were sent forward to Springfield. On the evening of the 24th, the head of a train on the way, five miles this side of Keitsville, and four wagons belonging to a Sutler of the Twenty-Second Indiana, were burned. The balance of the train, containing five days provisions, was several miles behind, and returned to Cassville. On the same evening, Captain Montgomery's command, of Wright's battalion, stationed at Keitsville, was attacked by eight hundred and fifty Texan Rangers, under Colonel Young. Montgomery and his men escaped to Cassville, with the loss of two killed, one wounded and one taken prisoner. Seventy-five horses were left in possession of the rebels. The enemy, it appears, came on our pickets in the dark. In reply to "who comes there?" the answer was, "a friend." The rebels then rushed forward, the pickets fired, but were overpowered. The enemy rushed into Keitsville and fired upon the house occupied by the cavalry. Captain Montgomery did not order a fire in the darkness and confusion, as his men and the enemy became undistinguishable. The rebels had two killed and one wounded. They said they were Texan Rangers, encamped on Sugar Creek, and had burned one of our trains and intended to destroy another. On the 21st, one of the First Missouri Cavalry ventured into Bentonville, the county seat of Benton county, five miles from Cross Hollows, alone; got into difficulty with some citizens, and was literally stoned to death. The next day, the company to which he belonged retaliated by burning several houses and razing the town generally. While laying here, the news came to camp, that the Ninth Regiment of Missouri Volunteers was no longer a Missouri regiment, but was now numbered among the honored regiments of its own State, and was hereafter to be known as the Fifty-Ninth Illinois Regiment. The news was received with acclamations of hearty satisfaction. Colonel Julius White, who now commanded the brigade, read the dispatch announcing the fact, and the Major of the regiment, P. Sidney Post, made some few, well chosen and congratulatory remarks, which were received with three hearty cheers. Three cheers for Colonel White; three for Colonel C. H. Frederick, and three times three for the State of Illinois. While at the Lamoine, some time in January, Captain S. W. Kelly, Captain Winters and Captain Elliott got up a petition to the Secretary of War, to have the regiment transferred from the Missouri to the Illinois service. Nine-tenths of the men in the regiment were from that State, and the feeling was almost universal in favor of the transfer. In order to add weight and influence to the petition, they procured the signatures of General Palmer and Colonel White, now commanding brigade, and, with one exception, all the line officers of the regiment. Colonel Frederick being a citizen of Missouri, and having used great exertions and made much personal sacrifice to recruit and organize the regiment for his own State, did not feel inclined to encourage the petition. Yet he most generously withheld any effort to prevent its free circulation and passage to the Secretary of War; and after the transfer, he withheld not his kindly feeling towards the regiment, nor spared any labor to promote its efficiency or welfare. Through the personal influence of General Palmer, the Adjutant General of Illinois, and Governor Yates became interested in the matter, and through their exertions the petition was acted upon. CHAPTER XIII. On the 24th, the regiment moved to a more pleasant situation, and anticipated going into regular camp for some time, as it was rumored that the campaign was now fully lengthened out, and that the tents and extra baggage that had been left at Lebanon was coming up. The army also needed rest. The grounds were accordingly measured off in military style, and tents pitched in systematic order. The weather is delightful, and if the men had plenty of rations, they would enjoy it hugely; but hunger is annoying. There was a scarcity of provisions, and for several days coffee had disappeared from camp. It was two hundred miles to our base of supplies, and mule teams are proverbially slow, especially in muddy roads and with lazy drivers. The country is scouted over by the boys, but they find little to compensate them for their trouble. The citizens have nothing left for themselves. Colonel Kelton was recalled to St. Louis, soon after returning from Springfield, in the fall, and placed on the staff of General Halleck. Major McGibbon had also returned to St. Louis, and in consequence, their positions were vacant in the regiment. Camp Halleck, where the regiment now lay, was the first since leaving the Lamoine, that afforded any leisure for consultations as to who should fill these important positions. The result of several night meetings of the officers of the regiment, was the election of P. Sidney Post to the position of Colonel, and Captain J. C. Winters to that of Major. P. Sidney Post left a promising law practice in Galesburg, Ill., and came to St. Louis with Captain Clayton Hale's company, (Company A,) and at the organization of the regiment received the appointment of Adjutant. This position he had filled with entire satisfaction to the regiment and credit to himself. And from this position had, deservedly, been promoted to the position of Major, and from Major _now_ to the Colonelcy. Lieut. Colonel C. H. Frederick had commanded the regiment ever since leaving Boonville, to the entire satisfaction of the men in the ranks; but being a strict disciplinarian, both as regarded men and officers, he had procured the ill will of some of the latter, and hence the election of the regimental Major to the position which rightfully belonged to him. Such injustice frequently occurs in the army. Captain J. C. Winters commanded a company, (G,) which he had recruited near White Hall, Ill., and was richly deserving the position of Major. He had served in the Mexican war, and was one of the first military men in the regiment. The regiment now lay basking in the sun shine for several days. Their time was spent in discussing rumors concerning the enemy, and in taking a retrospect of their previous hardships and long marches. The rumors to be discussed were that Price was now at Boston Mountains filling up and preparing his army for a return to give us battle, and drive the invaders from Arkansas and Missouri. The retrospect included the time spent in marches since leaving St. Louis up to the present at Camp Halleck. It was now only five months since leaving the arsenal at St. Louis, and the regiment had marched over seven hundred miles. Camp Halleck is six miles south of Bentonville, the county town of Benton county. Benton county is the north-west county of Arkansas. To get here, the regiment left Boonville, Mo., and marched to Syracuse; from thence to Otterville; thence to Sedalia, Warsaw, Bolivar, and Springfield. Then from Springfield through Warsaw back to Syracuse. Then from Syracuse to Sedalia and back to Otterville. From Otterville to Typton, thence by Lynn Creek Ferry across the Osage to Lebanon and on to Springfield. From Springfield through Cassville, Keitsville and Bentonville to Camp Halleck, Arkansas. Another matter of discussion is, "where to, next?" This is not known, but one thing is known, and that is, that a march of two or three hundred miles is before us. We are two hundred miles west of Cairo, three hundred or more from St. Louis, and these are the two points nearest home. If we go on south, it is eighty miles to the nearest steam boat landing, on the Arkansas River, and there is no probability of our riding on a steam boat, so that to do the very best we can, we have two hundred miles to march. And still another topic of conversation, is the probabilities of a speedy termination of the war. Those who have been home on furloughs, and are now returning, bring reports that the people at home and around St. Louis, are firmly in the belief that peace will soon be proclaimed. The soldier's heart expands with joy at these glad tidings. If all the armies of the Union have been as successful as _this_, the joy and hope is not delusive. May the hope of a speedy termination of the war be not as delusive as the anticipation that the Fifty-Ninth would have a long rest in Camp Halleck. On the morning of the 1st of March, General Davis' division broke up camp near Osage Springs, and fell back about ten miles, to a stronger position on Sugar Creek. The Fifty-Ninth Illinois Regiment going into camp on the summit of one of the small mountains of this region. This is not really a mountainous country, yet the hills are so gigantic that _mountain_ would not be an improper appellation. The hill on which the Fifty-Ninth is encamped is three hundred feet above the bed of Sugar Creek, in the valley below, and seems to be composed of millions of little rocks thrown together in one huge pile. Its surface is literally nothing else but fractional pieces of stone--and these the soldier must have for his bed. Yet he sleeps soundly. The second day of March came in cold, and during the day some snow fell, as did also on the 3d and 4th. This made it very disagreeable in camp. Short rations, thin clothing, and some with bare feet, caused a good deal of suffering and no little discontent among the troops. An incident, new and intensely interesting, occurred to the Fifty-Ninth on the afternoon of the 5th of March. Sometime in January, a slight difficulty had occurred between Captain ---- and one of his men, in relation to who should furnish the Captain's fire with wood. The Captain was inclined to have his fire supplied with wood at the expense of the dignity of this young private, and the young man was determined he should not, and hence came the charge of "disobedience of orders." Before, however, the thing was entirely settled some further difficulties occurred, and the young man was threatened with corporeal punishment; this he resisted with his knife, cutting the clothes of the Lieutenant of the company, and threatening to take his life. This added to the previous charge, one of still greater gravity. The young man was court-martialed, and sentenced to have his head shaved, his uniform taken from him, and to be drummed out of the service. On the afternoon of the 5th, this farce was played off, to the delight of some, and the disgust of many. The whole division was called out and formed in two lines across an open field in the valley, to witness the great show. At an appointed time, the young man made his appearance at one end of the amphitheater, with shaved head, uncovered, accompanied by two guards with fixed bayonets, and a fife and drum following in his rear. To the tune of the rogues march, he was thus paraded from one end of the line to the other, and back to the place of beginning. The farce was now over, and the young man supposed to be forever ruined. But not so. It only made him a hero and martyr in the eyes of the soldiers. Their sympathies were all excited in his favor. They saw in the act nothing but tyranny, on the part of the officers who pronounced the sentence, and folly in its execution. On returning to camp, a subscription was raised in his behalf, and quite a sum was donated to defray his expenses to parts unknown. He went to Cassville, and immediately enlisted in the Montgomery Guards, and about the time his hair had grown to a respectable length, he married one of the fairest maidens of the country. Rumors now began to thicken, that the enemy was really returning upon us. And in fact they were, for on the morning of the 6th, they made an attack upon General Sigel, at Bentonville, and drove him to the main lines at Sugar Creek. General Curtis, in anticipation of an attack, had erected some fortifications in and around the main crossing of Sugar Creek--which he prided himself very much with, but which, in fact, were small affairs. After General Sigel had safely placed his command in position, he reported to General Curtis in person. The General received him at the door, and before asking him in, inquired his opinion in regard to the fortifications he had erected. General Sigel merely glanced his eyes over the works, and without any remarks, inquired if General Curtis had anything to eat at his quarters, as he was almost starved to death, and alighting from his horse, walked into the tent without a word of the fortifications. He seemed to think that his supper was of more importance than General Curtis' fortifications. CHAPTER XIV. The morning of the 7th of March broke clear and pleasant over the hills and valley of Sugar Creek and Cross Timbers. The soldiers were everywhere, early on the alert, and camp presented a good deal the appearance of a bee-hive on a sunny morning. Better spirits than had been for several days seemed to prevail among the boys, and all was cheerful. There seemed to be no thought that before another morning should break on Cross Timbers, many who now felt so buoyant and full of hope would be numbered among the "brave boys slain." Little did they realize that this bright morning was the harbinger of such a bloody sun-set as closed this day, over the battle-ground of Pea Ridge. About seven o'clock orders were received at regimental head-quarters to strike tents immediately, and move out toward the right. The right, or, rather, rear of the army, lay at this time across the road leading to Cassville. The regiment, as soon as the tents and camp equipage could be loaded in the wagons, moved in a circuitous route, through the brush, until it struck the Cassville road, one mile north of Sugar Creek. Here it filed to the right, and halted, about fifty yards east of the road, apparently to wait further orders. It seemed as though the plan of the battle was yet undecided. An hour elapsed while in this position, and then the order came to "fall in." The regiment now retraced its steps to the road, and again stacked arms. In a short time thereafter, several horsemen were seen coming down the road from the right, at break-neck speed. Some had lost their hats, some their coats, some their guns, and nearly all of them had lost their wits. "The rebels--the rebels are coming in the rear!" was their war cry, as they charged along the road toward some place of safety. They received, and deserved, the jeers of the soldiers, as they passed. The rebels had made a slight attack on the rear as a feint, and these cowardly cavalry had fled to save their paltry carcasses from the rebel balls. Shame on such dastards! It was now eleven o'clock, and the enemy was attacking our left wing in earnest. Davis' division now moved forward on the double-quick, through Leetown, and half a mile beyond, where it formed in line as rapidly and judiciously as the brushy condition of the position would admit. On the road leading west from Leetown, and three-quarters of a mile distant, is an open field of, perhaps, twenty acres, with a cross fence through its center, and skirted with densely thick underbrush all around it. On the east side of this field the Fifty-Ninth and Thirty-Seventh Illinois were placed in line. When first gaining this position, no enemy were in sight, but very soon a column of men were seen filing through the timber, to the left of the field, and coming into line in our front. At first it was supposed to be a column of our own men, as the thickness of the underbrush prevented from distinguishing the motley uniforms of the rebels from our own. The mistake was soon discovered by some of the men, but the order to fire was withheld from our boys until a volley from the rebel column was poured into them. Then the fact that it was the enemy became too evident, and the fire was returned with double interest. The firing now became incessant. Volley after volley, in quick succession, was sent by our brave boys into the falling ranks of the enemy. For a long time it seemed as though no impression was being made upon the column of the enemy, although those who were not engaged could see men falling from their ranks by scores. They kept their ranks always full, by marching fresh regiments up to take the place of decimated ones. Thus one single, unrelieved line, stood and fought five different regiments, from one o'clock until darkness closed the scene. The first fire from the enemy killed and wounded several of the men of both regiments, but it created no panic, no confusion, in either. The Fifty-Ninth only replied with a more hearty good will. At one time their ammunition gave out, and they fell back to a safer position, until it could be replenished. They then advanced to their old position, and let into the rebels with increased energy. During the whole afternoon not a man flinched, not an officer wavered. One or two subordinate officers failed to share the honors of the battle, by being dilatory about going in, and a very few of the men; but those that were there did their whole duty, and more than prudence demanded of them. Companies K and F suffered more in killed and wounded than any other two companies, from their being in a more exposed position, on the left of the regiment. At the first fire several of their men fell. Captain Snyder, commanding Company K, and Captain Kelly, commanding Company F, by their coolness and good judgment, soon maneuvered their companies into such positions as was most destructive against the enemy, and most protective to themselves. During the whole action these two officers displayed a bravery and clearness of judgment worthy of all imitation. Captains Hale, Paine, Winters, Elliott, Veatch and Taylor, alike deserve honorable mention for their bravery and daring during the engagement. Each vied with the other in proper conduct and exemplary bravery. Colonel Frederick and Major Post were ever present where duty called, fearless of consequences. Although constantly exposed, Colonel Frederick escaped unharmed; not so with Major Post. About the middle of the afternoon, a minnie ball struck him on the arm, passing through the fleshy parts without injury to the bone, and yet making a severe wound. He retired to have his arm dressed, and then, only by the peremptory order of the Surgeon, was he prevented from going back into the fight. The Assistant Surgeon of the regiment, Doctor H. J. Maynard, now acting Surgeon, in the absence of Doctor Hazlett, established his head-quarters at Leetown, where the wounded were ordered to be brought for surgical attention. Very soon after the first volley the wounded began to arrive, and continued to come, as fast, and sometimes faster, than they could be attended to, the remainder of the day. Thirty-eight from the Fifty-Ninth alone were brought in. Doctor Maynard, assisted by his Hospital Steward, (the writer of these pages,) by his surgical skill and kindness of treatment, made these men as comfortable as the nature of their wounds would admit. The names of those brought from the field wounded are as follows: From Company K: James Yocum, Corporal Willard W. Sheppard, Corporal William Burns, John B. Bass, V. S. Hawk, Julius Hiederick, Emuel Herbert, James Higgins, Sergeant Peter Elliott, Patrick Powers, John J. Rue, and James Donathy, wounded. Michael D. Sullivan, of this company, was killed on the field. Thirteen wounded, and one killed. The wounded of Company F were: John W. Williams, Silas P. Kamer, Sergeant Samuel J. Spohn, Hiram Snearly, John Chittenden, William Welker, David Groves, and Davis L. Kelly. James H. Furgueson, of Company F, was killed on the field. Eight wounded, and one killed. Company B had two wounded, viz: Richard Ernest, and G. B. Finch, and one killed on the field--G. W. Evans. The wounded of Company H were: William H. Smith, John L. Ransom, William N. McGowan, John W. Hurst. Peter P. Goodman was killed on the field. Four wounded, and one killed. Company D lost three killed on the field, to wit: Eugene Cramball, Henry Spohn, and Isaac Palmer. Company I lost three killed--Alfred B. Blake, Henry Cramer, and William H. Cline. Company C, one wounded--James Murphy. There were a few whose names the writer has mislaid and forgotten. Toward evening the fire began to slacken, and by five o'clock had entirely ceased, both armies being willing to withdraw from the contest. The Fifty-Ninth fell back to the east of Leetown, a short distance, and lay on their arms till morning. On the morning of the 8th, just as the sun began to redden the eastern horizon, the booming of cannon was heard from the direction of Cassville. It was very soon ascertained that General Sigel had engaged with the enemy, on our right. The Fifty-Ninth was soon in motion toward the scene of action. Arriving on the ground, they were placed in position, again in front of the enemy, and similar to yesterday, with an open field between them. They remained in this position but a short time, when they were ordered to charge across the field, and rout the enemy from the woods beyond. This was accomplished without the loss of a man. The enemy were driven from the woods, and the Fifty-Ninth had played its part of this great tragedy. Their position, before making the charge, was behind a fence, in range of a rebel battery, and the shot from this battery was very annoying, although no one was hit by it. They lay on their stomachs, so that the shot, for the most part, passed over them. Occasionally one would fall short, and throw the dirt into their faces, through the cracks in the fence. One, in particular, struck so near to the head of one of the boys as to fill his eyes completely. "D--n the thing," said he, and, twisting himself around, until his other end was directed toward the enemy, he remarked that "now they might shoot, and be d--d." While making the charge, a musket-ball passed through the clothing of Captain Kelly, and dropped into his boot-leg. In the early part of the day, while Colonel Frederick was riding in front of the regiment, a twelve-pound cannon-ball passed so close to his head as to knock him from his horse, insensible. It was several hours before he could be restored to consciousness, and many days before he entirely recovered from the concussion. During the fight of the 7th, very many narrow escapes of the men occurred. One boy, while loading his gun, had the ram-rod knocked from his hand, by a musket ball from the enemy. Another one had his gun-barrel hit, and bent so bad as to be useless. One man had three bullets to pass through his hat, and many escaped with holes through different parts of their clothing. The great wonder is, that all were not killed--their escape can only be accounted for, on the principles that "God and right was on our side." An anecdote was told of the regimental hospital nurse, who is a "live Dutchman in a fight," and when not employed, was always in the front. Soon after the engagement commenced, he, with his gun, was standing near Davidson's battery, looking at the scene, when one of the battery-men discovered a rebel, in the distance, making preparations to shoot at him. The battery-man warned him of his danger, and pointed to the rebel; instantly the nurse raised his gun, and both guns cracked at the same time. The rebel fell, and Ebling was unharmed. During the night of the 7th, Dr. Maynard, had a sufficient number of tents pitched, to shelter comfortably all the wounded, and the morning of the 8th presented a sad, but lively appearance at Leetown. Cooks and nurses, were active in providing for and administering to the wants of the unfortunate heroes of the day before. Nothing that would tend to alleviate their sufferings, was neglected. Long will the wounded of Pea Ridge, remember Dr. H. J. Maynard. Sunday, the 9th, was a day of rest to the Fifty-Ninth. The enemy had disappeared, and all was quiet over the hills of Cross Timbers. The soldiers had nothing to do, but wander over the battle-field, and talk of the incidents of the two day's fight. And this was enough for one day. The dead and wounded were, many of them, still on the field. The rebel dead were all unburied, and many of their wounded were uncared for. Detachments from the rebel army were busy, under a flag of truce, in collecting and carrying their wounded to hospital, and in burying their dead. Many are hid away in the bushes, who will never have a burial. Years hence, their bones will be discovered bleaching in the sun. Such is the case on every battle field. Friend and foe alike, are left undiscovered. Some, perhaps, mortally wounded, crawl away to the shelter of a friendly thicket, that they may escape capture by the enemy, and here remain, until death claims them for his own. Months hence, they are discovered, and then the cry goes out, that the enemy is barbarous, because the dead were left unburied. The scene over this field of carnage, beggars all description. Sights calculated to chill the blood, and strike the mind with horror, meet you on every side. Here is a human body, with the mangled remnants of a head, which a cannon ball has torn to fragments. There lies another with both legs shot away. Here is one, the top of whose skull is gone, leaving the brain all exposed to the weather, and see! he is still alive. After twenty-four hours in this condition, he yet lives. Great is the tenacity of human life! Look yonder! there is one whose light of life has gone out, as a lighted lamp in a gentle wind. There is no disturbance of features, no marks of violence about him. He is sitting at the roots of a large tree, with his back supported by the trunk; his gun is resting in the bend of his arm; how natural! while sitting thus, a minnie ball had pierced his heart, and thus he died. The number on his cap denotes the regiment to which he belongs, which is now in another part of the field; thus accounting for his not having yet received burial. Ah! here comes two men with the same numbers on their caps that he has on his, and they are in search of him. How fortunate they are. They are his friends and were his mess-mates. How sad to find him thus, what news to send his friends at home! His mother! 'Twill break her heart; so loved was he, so loved by all who knew him. He had a premonition of his doom the morning of the battle, and told his friends so, told them he would be killed that day, and gave them all his letters and his pictures of the dear ones at home. Among them was a picture of his hearts beloved, his betrothed, an angel in beauty. These two friends weep, and we pass on. What is that fellow doing? That fellow in the dress of a Union soldier, what is he doing? He is rifling the pockets of the dead. Let's see what he has found in that man's pocket. A small pocket book, and a letter or two, pen knife and comb. The pocket book has two or three dollars of confederate script, for the dead man was a rebel, and a locket of hair, very fine silky hair, evidently clipped from the locks of some very young person, perhaps an infant daughter. How mean this Union soldier is, to rob the parent dead of this cherished memento of his lovely little daughter! Why not bury it with him? The man those men are lifting so carefully into the ambulance yonder, was wounded yesterday morning, and has been lying on the cold ground without any covering, ever since. His wound was not a mortal one, but now his limbs are all stiffened by the exposure, and his life is the sacrifice. Had he remained a short time longer in his exposed condition, he would have added one more to the number of these they are collecting for burial, over in that pleasant grove. The grave is being dug, and only seven have yet been found to fill it. It is large enough to hold at least a dozen. The Union soldier, when buried by his comrades, is generally buried in a civilized manner; but rebels are traitors together, while living, and are not separated in the grave, when dead. Such are a few of the many interesting sights that meet the eye, in passing over the battle ground of Pea Ridge, on this Sabbath morning. Sergeant Silas Carner, and private John Williams, of Company F, died in the hospital from the effects of their wounds on the 8th, and were buried with the honors of war. Wm. N. McGowan, of Company H, Samuel J. Spohn of Company F, and John W. Hurst of Company H, died, the two former on the 12th, and the latter on the 13th. Wm. N. McGowan was one of the musicians for the regiment. It was his duty to beat the drum, not to handle the musket; but when he saw his comrades marching to the battle, his brave heart spurned the idea of his remaining idle. He shouldered a musket, fell into ranks with his old company, and manfully assisted in repelling the foe. He remained on the field doing his duty, until towards the close of the day's battle, when a minnie ball struck him, and he was brought off mortally wounded. He lingered, under great suffering, but with a proud consciousness of the noble sacrifice he was making for his country, until the morning of the 12th, when he expired with the resignation of a hero. All honor to the brave! In this brave boy's pocket, was twenty dollars in money, which was placed in the hands of Captain ----, to be forwarded to his widowed mother, at Charleston, Illinois. Several months afterwards, the writer was informed, by letter received from this poor widow woman, that the money had never been given to her. Captain ---- resigned his commission soon after the battle of Pea Ridge, and it is to be hoped he found a resting place in some parts _unknown_ to anybody. Many a dollar, belonging to the dead soldier, has been thus appropriated. After a very stormy night, Monday morning came in clear and pleasant, and hundreds of idle soldiers were scattered over the battle field, to the west of Leetown, in search of whatsoever might be found there. General Davis' Division was lying to the east, and General Sigel's to the north of town. About eight o'clock, boom went a cannon, from the direction of Sigel's camp, and a shell went hurling over Leetown, in the direction of the battle field. Soon another followed, and at the same time a column of cavalry was seen approaching from the west, which was supposed to be rebel. "The rebels are coming, the rebels are coming," was shouted from mouth to mouth, over the field, and each one broke for his regiment. The attention of all in town, was attracted by the reports of the guns, and the street was soon lined by the curious, eager to know what was up. "The rebels are coming," came up the street, followed closely by scores of fleeing soldiers, some on horseback, but many more on foot, each vying with the other, as to who should get out of the way the quickest. "The rebels are coming, stop them!" cries a horseman, with hat off and hair flying in the wind. "What's up?" asks one of the boys of this valorous horseman. "The rebels are coming, and I am trying to stop these fellows--halt there!" and away he goes, more frightened than the rest. Pretty soon, General Sigel comes riding very deliberately up the road, by himself, and some one asks him the cause of the stampede. "Oh, nothing," said he, with a peculiar twinkle of the eye, "I was only making a few of my leetle arrangements." Discipline had become too loose to suit his military fancy, and he had arranged this scare for the purpose of putting the army on the _qui vive_. In five minutes after the first report, the whole army was under arms, ready for any emergency. The first shell fired, struck not far from a forage train that was bringing in corn, and the way they came into camp was a caution to all mule drivers. No one was hurt, only in feelings. CHAPTER XV. On the afternoon of the 10th, the regiment moved with the division, a few miles south of Leetown, and here the writer lost sight of it for several days, as he was detained at the hospital to assist in caring for the wounded. Nothing, however, of interest occurred during his absence, except the visit of the Paymaster, and a few changes of camp. By remaining at hospital, the writer escaped much hard fare, as the army was, for several days, entirely destitute of provisions, and subsisted solely on parched corn and _nothing else_. By very great exertions, Dr. Maynard succeeded in keeping a supply at the hospital, until the orders came to move all the wounded to Cassville, twenty miles farther north. On the 14th, the wounded were started for Cassville; some were too badly hurt to be handled so roughly, and were not sent. Among these were James Murphy and John L. Ransom, and John B. Bass, who had a leg amputated. James Murphy died on the 18th. The others were subsequently brought up. The writer was ordered to report at Cassville with the wounded, and here is an extract from a letter written to his daughter soon after his arrival: "Wednesday morning, the 19th. I am up pretty early this morning as usual. The sun is just beginning to tinge the horizon with his red beams, and the promise of a pretty day is written on the sky above him. The night has been a stormy one. It was raining when I spread my blankets, but now the sky is clear, the atmosphere pure and bracing, and indicates a few days of fine spring weather. Spring is opening earlier here than in Illinois, as we are farther south. If you will examine, you will find that Cassville is more than two hundred miles south of where you live, and of course the climate is more mild and the seasons earlier. We have had quite a number of warm, spring-like days, and the grass looks quite green. The buds on the trees will soon open out, and it will not be long till nature will all be clothed in its summer garb. "Cassville is situated in a pretty location. It is in a small valley, surrounded by hills of different magnitude. On the east are several ridges of considerable height, dotted on their sides with cedar trees in green, which are nature to the rocky hill sides of this region. At the foot of one of these ridges, a four story mill contrasts her white coating of paint with the green of the cedar, and produces a pleasing, romantic picture. A small stream meanders along at the base of those hills, with here and there a spring gushing from among the rocks, or boiling up from even the bed of the stream. On the west there are also hills of considerable height. The valley is a mile wide, and two or three miles long, or perhaps more. The soil is rich and productive. From my room I can look out over a field of wheat, which completely clothes the ground in living green. It is quite refreshing to sit here, and look upon a green spot of earth, after having contemplated only the sear and barren trunks of trees and brush for four long months of winter. From another window I can see a pretty little cottage, white as the driven snow, nestled in among the surroundings of a cultivated home. A large fine orchard, and all the out-buildings of comfort, and all deserted. Wounded soldiers are spread over the floors of the house, and soldiers' horses are tied to and destroying the fruit trees, and soldiers' fires have burned the rails and boards which inclose the premises. Dreadful are the ravages of war! Cassville is situated in the center of this valley, and was a thriving, pretty town before the war. There are about forty good dwelling houses, six store rooms, and a very decent little court house, besides blacksmith shops, &c. "When we came here, there were only four families remaining in town, and they were women and children, the men being in the army. Now, there are over four hundred wounded and sick soldiers quartered here; every house is full and some are in tents outside. The houses are being torn up, so as to be made more convenient for bedding the wounded. The fencing before the door yard is being torn down and burned, and anything which adds to the comfort and convenience of those here, is being appropriated without let or hindrance. "There is another pretty town, five miles from here, in precisely the same condition, filled with sick and wounded. These two towns are samples of all the towns in Missouri, where the armies have been. The citizens have fled and the soldiers have destroyed their property. Many fine houses have been burned on our march, and others entirely riddled, windows broken, doors torn from their hinges, &c. Both armies are engaged in destroying; what the enemy leaves, our men destroy. The enemy destroys Union property, and the Union troops destroy secesh property--and there being only the two kinds of property, it is ALL destroyed. "An express rider has just came in from the army, bringing news that Price is moving towards them again. We, here, can't tell what reliance can be given the report. If it is true, and he should continue to advance, there will be some more hard fighting. I do most sincerely hope that our regiment may not get into another engagement here. If it should, we, in the hospital, will not get away from here for two or three months to come, unless Price should be victorious and drive us out on double quick; for the wounded will be brought here, and of course will prolong our time as much longer as the difference between the time of the first fight and that which shall come off now. But it is not on account of that alone, that I am unfriendly to another battle. I have seen enough of the suffering attending the wounded of the last battle. Poor fellows! They bear it patiently, and make light of the most serious wounds. I do not suppose it would be very interesting to you to read a description of the wounds we have to dress every morning, or I would describe some of them. We have eighty different wounds to dress in our building, and you can imagine how great the variety. Some are about the head, some about the body, arms, legs, feet and hands; some are only slightly wounded, but the majority are badly hurt. One poor fellow died yesterday, from the effect of a ball through the lungs; and others will die from their wounds. Our men are well provided for here. They have all the attention from Surgeons and nurses that they require, and all the food and other comforts necessary for them. Dr. Clark, of the Thirty-Seventh Illinois Volunteers, is our Surgeon. Dr. Maynard was left with the regiment. I am in charge of the wounded from our regiment, and Thomas Kelly is with us as Warden. We two are the only ones of our acquaintances here, excepting Hiram Snearly, who is quite badly wounded, the ball passing through the arm, close to the shoulder, and into the side under the arm, and coming out below the shoulder blade behind. His wound seems to be doing well, yet it is difficult to tell what the result may be. I shall now retire from the desk, and finish this short epistle at some other sitting. "I am sleepy to-day, at three o'clock, because of not sleeping well last night. The floor, some how or other, was unusually hard last night, and caused me to be restless. I prophesied fair weather yesterday--this is the 20th--but was deceived by appearances. We are very often deceived by appearances. In an hour after I had made the prophesy, the sky was completely clouded over, and has remained so ever since; and now it is spitting snow. "Reports are still coming in of the advance of the enemy, and the retreat of our army. It is said that Price has been strongly reinforced, and now numbers more men than he did at first. We have also been reinforced to the number of one thousand men, but are still far inferior, as to number, to the enemy. It is probable, that our army will make a stand at or near Keitsville, eight miles from here, where, if the enemy comes upon them, they will have a hard fight. "The Fifty-Ninth and the Thirty-Seventh Illinois regiments, occupied the court house as an hospital. Dr. Clark, of the Thirty-Seventh Illinois, having the supervision of the whole. "On the 23d of March, it became evident that Johnson Kelly, of Company D, Fifty-Ninth Regiment Illinois Volunteers, would either have to undergo the operation of having his leg amputated, or lose his life--or perhaps both. Dr. Clark proceeded to the operation. Chloroform was administered in the usual manner, and the leg taken off without the knowledge of the patient. The amputation was very handsomely performed, but it proved to be useless. In four hours the patient was dead. Johnson Kelly was buried with the honors of war, on the 24th of March, 1862. Hiram Snearly lingered until the 22d of April, 1862, with the hope firmly fixed in his mind that he would get well. He was told by the Surgeon and by his friends, that he could not survive, but he believed them not. His spirits were buoyant to the very last hour of his existence. He died and was also buried with the honors of a soldier. "A day or two after coming to Cassville, Dr. Clark requested a detail from the Provost Marshall, to clean up around the court house. Captain Montgomery happened to have a squad of rebel prisoners at Cassville, at this time, and they were set to work picking up the rubbish in the court house yard--Captain Montgomery overseeing them himself. From the wrongs his family had received at their hands, his heart had become entirely callous to any pity. With the greatest apparent satisfaction, he rode round among these fellows very much like one of their own negro drivers, with whip in hand and bitter curses on his tongue; and if one ceased from his labor, whack went the whip and glib the tongue. "Among these prisoners was an intelligent Catholic priest, from Louisiana. This morning he was unwell, and entirely unaccustomed to picking up chips, his progress at work was rather slow. The Captain seemed to take special delight in tormenting him. 'Well,' says he, 'old fellow I pity you, indeed; but it can't be helped. You must take care in the future to be caught in better company. If you had kept out of the company of these imps of hell, you would not now be degrading yourself by manual labor--work away then my old priesty.'" CHAPTER XVI. On the 6th of April the Fifty-Ninth, with the balance of the Division, arrived at Cassville, en route for Forsyth, which is sixty miles east of here. After halting long enough to rest, and visit their wounded friends in hospital, they moved out some two miles to the east of the town, and encamped on Big Mill Creek. The march was continued on the seventh, through the most dreary and least inhabited portion of Missouri that the army had yet seen. For seven or eight miles east of Cassville the soil is arid, and covered with small white flint-stone, with here and there a miserably poor specimen of a black-jack, struggling for a scanty existence. From this upper plateau of the Ozark Mountains, the road drops down through a narrow defile, with hills two hundred feet high on either side, the base of the hills meeting so close at the foot as barely to admit the passage of a wagon, until it emerges into the Rock House Creek Valley. From this point the valley begins to widen to the south, where, as far as the eye can reach, the horizon is bounded by a low range of purple-colored hills. This beautiful valley has been the frequent scene of lawless incursions from the rebel outlaws, and the inhabitants, before the arrival of the Union army in the vicinity, were kept in a continued state of trepidation and alarm. The people are mostly Union in their sentiments, there being but three secesh in this whole region of country. Bands of outlaws frequently came down from Cassville, and would rob the Union men of everything in the house--blankets, bread and bacon. If they caught the owner, he would be taken under guard to Cassville, where he would be tried before a self-constituted vigilance committee. The head of this committee was the notorious "Joe Peevy," former Sheriff of Barry county. This Peevy was a terror to the whole country. He is resolute, brave, and a man of great and indomitable energy. He seems to have been governed in his actions by a spirit of rude justice, which he administered alike to friend and foe. His capture and imprisonment at Cassville, by our men, gave great satisfaction to the people everywhere. General Curtis, while passing through Keitsville, had planted a Union flag on one of the houses in town, and this man Peevy, a few days afterwards, took it down, and carried it off. In a few days, therefore, some of our boys came across him, in the timber, and brought him to Cassville, under guard. Joe Peevy came down through this valley, last summer, with a squad of his lawless jay-hawkers, and got a handsome drubbing by the hardy mountaineers, under Charles Galloway and "Old Jimmy Moore," at Clark's Mill, on Flat Creek. Only one Union man, by the name of Boyce, was killed, while twelve of the rebels were left on the field hors du combat. A man named Jeff. Hudson was waylaid, last week, by a party of secesh, and fired upon. He was hit in the toe, but returned the fire on his pursuers, while falling back, and made his escape. Another young man, named James Reeves, was shot at, while returning home, the other evening, near Jenkins' Creek. The farms through this valley, in the neighborhood of the main roads, are laid waste. Fences are burned up, and buildings are deserted, and torn to pieces. No preparations are being made for putting in spring crops by the few farmers yet remaining here. "To mute, and to material things, New life revolving summer brings; The gentle call dead nature hears, And in her glory re-appears. But O! this country's winter state, What second spring shall renovate." The evening of the 8th found the regiment encamped at a place called "Cape Fair," in Stone county, Missouri. It reached this "God-forsaken" place after having marched over a broken range of mountains, of some twenty-five miles, since morning. The direct distance would not exceed twelve miles, to the old camp, but, owing to the circuitous windings of the road, it was increased two-fold. No one can have an adequate idea of the picturesque scenery, and wild alpine views, which everywhere greets the eye of the traveler in this section of the State. The road passes along the winding crests of a successive range of mountains, frequently curving around, and doubling, so that, in many places, the head of the column seemed to be marching to the rear, and to be within speaking distance of the troops two or three miles behind. Occasionally the eye would overlook profound gorges, of seemingly impenetrable depth, anon broad valleys would appear on either side, and the blue tops of mist-covered mountains be seen away to the north, as far as Springfield, or shutting in the horizon, on the south, far beyond the Arkansas line, some sixteen miles distant. This noble scenery extorted frequent expressions of surprise and admiration from the most indifferent spectator of the sublime in natural scenery. We frequently saw those singular looking hills, often met in Missouri, covered with a white, flinty rock, as if sown broad-cast, giving the landscape an appearance as if whitened by a snow-storm, or a shower of ashes. We passed through a portion of the extensive "pinery," from which lumber of a fine quality is procured, and transported for building material to various parts of the State. The day was cloudy, and the melancholy murmur of the breeze through the "pine tree's wavy top," added to the sombre character of our march. Not a house was to be seen, nor did we meet with but one solitary passenger, who, of course, was taken in hand by each successive officer, and subjected to an ex-parte examination. The desolate condition of the region passed was hit off by a cavalry-man, who volunteered the opinion "that a blue-jay, in flying over, would have to carry a haversack, lashed to his wings, or starve." The assertion would certainly be true of a "blue-jayhawker." Cape Fair, where we are encamped, has a few windowless huts, situated in the bend of Flat Creek. The latter stream, which bubbles up out of the ground at Cassville, is here anything but flat. The stream, like the "arrowy Rhone," pours an angry, black volume past here, as it comes down from the mountains, and, at this period of the year, is swollen so as to be impassable, except to horses or boats. Flat Creek empties into James River, a mile below this point. The latter stream is so much swollen, by the recent freshets, that fording is impracticable, and the army, it is thought, will have to rest here several days, unless the stream, some three miles below, at Mr. Carr's, is fordable. Had Price been a few miles on the other side, it would not have taken the army long to have found a way of crossing over. In coming from Springfield the streams were not an impediment. The cavalry were invariably in the advance, with some mountain howitzers, and, whenever they could come within shelling distance of the enemy, they threw some shells at them. The report of the guns would come back over the hills to the column of infantry, and then the order would surely be sent along the line to double-quick. The column would move off, for a mile or two, on double-quick, and if a stream, large or small, was to be crossed, no halt would be made, but "forward" was the word, and the stream was crossed. This stream would have been crossed, in the same way, had the enemy been in the front. Fortunately there was no great emergency, as it was rather uncertain where the enemy would spring up. Rumors were unreliable, and positive information could not be had as to Price's whereabouts. A force was known to be at Forsyth, but how large, or of what importance, no one seemed to know; yet it was important that the army should be on the move, as this was an out-of-the-way place, and rations might soon become scarce. How was the river to be crossed? Some suggested one plan, and some another. But the ingenuity of some one suggested a bridge of wagons for the troops to march over on. Wagons were, therefore, placed in line, from one shore to the other, and boards laid over the tops of the wagon beds. This made an excellent bridge for footmen, and, by four o'clock of the 9th, the army was all over, and in camp on the opposite shore. The march was continued the next morning, and the evening of the 10th witnessed the camping of the army on the east bank of Big Bear River, forty-eight miles from Cassville. The streams in this country are most beautiful. They are not large, nor deep, but of very rapid current. Their waters, excepting after heavy rains, when they become thickened by the washings from the mountains, are as clear as the purest crystal. They are fed by springs from the mountain gorges, and these are so numerous as to increase the small rivulet to a good-sized stream, within the distance of a few miles. The march, at one time, was down a narrow ravine, at the head of which was issuing, from under an overhanging rock, a small spring. In following down the ravine, this stream was crossed several times, and each crossing developed a largely increased stream, when, at the last crossing, not five miles from the first little spring, the water was up to the axle-trees of the wagons, and at least twenty feet in width, and large fish were seen swimming beneath its pellucid surface. On the morning of the 11th, the regiment pitched tents at the foot of one of the rugged Ozark mounts, that overlook the small valley of Big Bear River. The camp is named "Good News," because here was received the news of the capture of Island Number Ten, by General Pope. It is ten miles from Forsyth, in Taney county, Missouri. An incident of exceeding interest occurred here on the afternoon of Sunday, the 13th. It was no less than the delivery of a sermon by the Chaplain of the regiment. Dr. Hazlett had returned to the regiment while it lay at Cassville, and was now in charge--Doctor Maynard being still detained with the wounded at Leetown. On the evening of the arrival in camp here, the wagons were not all up, in consequence of bad roads, and Doctor Hazlett was without blankets. Lieutenant Brasher, Quartermaster of the regiment, was a particular friend of the Doctor's, and proffered to lend him blankets for the night. The Doctor sent his orderly, and had a nice bed made. Being very tired, he soon fell asleep, and slept soundly for two or three hours. Something now seemed to disturb his slumbers; he became restless; a crawling sensation pervaded his skin, and the inclination to scratch was irresistible. From this time forward there was no more rest for the Doctor. Some two hours earlier than was his custom he arose from his couch, unrefreshed, and in bad humor. After sick-call he retired to ascertain the cause of his peculiar sensations. The fact soon became patent that he was literally covered with "body-guard," (army lice.) "Hell and furies, Chris., look at these blankets, and see what's on them!" was his immediate orders to Chris. An examination showed them full of body-lice. "Carry them out, and burn the d--d things!" and out the Doctor rushed, in search of the Quartermaster. "Brasher, did you know that those blankets you loaned me last night were filled with lice?" "Why, no; were they?" says Brasher, very innocently. "Well, now, maybe they were, for my negro has been using them for the last month." The Doctor's anger was great, but he manfully swallowed it, and received the joke, and a bottle of whisky, with the best grace possible. There was no man in the regiment who prided himself so much in having neat clothing, and a cleanly person, as Doctor Hazlett, and this, perhaps, was the only time he had ever been tormented by these "plebeian tormentors." CHAPTER XVII. On the morning of the 16th of April, the regiment broke camp on Bear River, re-crossed it, and filed off up its western bank, until it came to Bull Run, then up Bull Run fifteen miles, to Bull's Mills, when it again went into camp. In coming up the run, it was necessary for the boys to wade it nineteen times. One man in particular, was compelled to take it, deep or shallow, because of some previous misconduct. He was tied to the tail-gate of a wagon, and thus trudged all day "_nolens volens_." Tying men behind wagons, on the march, is a favorite way of punishing the soldier for trivial offenses. The encampment is now in a small valley, entirely shut in by mountains, excepting the narrow gorge through which Bull Run finds its way to Bear River. From where the writer sits, the view is beautiful. Many of the trees on the opposite mountain side, are clothed in their summer garb, and many are only putting on their vestments of green, with sear and yellow leaves exposed beneath. Here is one green as can be, just beyond, is another red with flowers of the red bud, and then another, as white as the driven snow, with dogwood blossoms. Now is a spot of green earth, and just above it hangs a heavy mass of moss-grown rock, threatening the destruction of this magnificent scenery, by its speedy fall. Flowers of many kinds, are blooming everywhere around. Sweet Williams, Johny-jump-up's and blue bells are abundant, and lend enchantment to the view. At the foot of this mountain slope, are the white tents of the regiments. The blue smoke of their camp fires, is apparently climbing the mountain, giving a peculiar shade to the picture. Soldiers are everywhere mingled in the scene, some are busy cooking, some sitting or lying down, some walking, and _there_ is an officer on horseback. To the right is the mill and the dwelling house of the miller. Close by the mill, are some soldiers, fishing, and they complete the scene, as presented on the 18th day of April, 1862. Some excitement was created in camp, on the morning of the 19th, by the appearance of three very indignant ladies from the country, seeking Colonel Frederick's head-quarters, for the purpose of entering complaint against two boys of the Fifty-Ninth, for creating a disturbance at their house the night before, and sleeping with two of these ladies "_nolens volens_." The other, the mother of the two younger ladies, was on the hunt of a cavalry man, who was guilty of some offense against her. These boys were arrested and court-martialed. Two were convicted and one acquitted. The two convicted ones, were summarily drummed out of service with shaved heads. The Division broke up camp again on the 20th, and moved out in the rain and over the muddiest roads imaginable. They marched this day twenty miles, without anything to eat from the time of starting, until going into camp, and many of the boys had no supper the night before. At West Plains, some fifty of the Fifty-Ninth, were detached to report under Captain Elliott, to the gun-boat fleet, then laying at Cairo, for duty. They left the regiment about, the 25th of April, from which time, they spent the remainder of their term of service on the water. From West Plains, the regiment proceeded to Sulphur Rock, arriving there on the 8th of May. On the 10th of May, the Fifty-Ninth Illinois, Twenty-Second Indiana, and the Twenty-Fifth and Thirty-Fifth Illinois regiments, being detached from General Curtis's command, started "en route" for Cape Girardeau, Missouri. After marching nine days out of ten, these regiments arrived at the Cape on the evening of the 20th of May; having marched two hundred and fifty miles in ten days, resting one. On the morning of the 20th, the Fifty-Ninth started in the rear of the column. They were some thirty-five miles from the Cape, and all very anxious to arrive at their destination. The Twenty-Second Indiana was next ahead of the Fifty-Ninth, and equally as eager to make the Cape that day. It was a hard march, and about sundown all the regiments had bivouacked, except the Twenty-Second and Fifty-Ninth. These pulled ahead and passed the others some mile or two, when the Twenty-Second caved in. The Fifty-Ninth pushed on and came out nearest the Cape, and went into camp, exultant over their grey-hound perseverance. These regiments, on their arrival at Cape Girardeau, presented a "war worn" and rugged appearance. Some were entirely destitute of shoes, some had no coats, some were without hats, and many possessed only the remnants of pantaloons. Teams were immediately sent off to town for clothing and rations, and by the next evening, the men scarcely knew themselves in their new uniform. The 23d was a bright fair day, and Colonel Frederick priding himself exceedingly on the fine appearance of his regiment, determined to exhibit them to the admiring gaze of the citizens of the Cape. At nine o'clock, they left camp and marched to town, arriving in town the band struck up a lively march, and the steady tramp of the boys, to the time of the music, attracted the attention of the multitude. After marching through several streets, the regiment stacked arms and proceeded by companies, to the Paymaster's office, to receive their pay. After getting paid, the regiment fell into line and marched to the landing, where a steamboat was in waiting, to take them on board. This was the first indications of a ride, since leaving the old War Eagle, at Boonville. Since then, the regiment had marched twelve hundred miles, and now to be transported was quite a treat. At five o'clock, on the 23d, the boat left the camp for Hamburg landing. When opposite Paducah, Governor Yates, of Illinois, from the guards of another boat, addressed a few congratulatory and cheering remarks to the Fifty-Ninth, "upon what had transpired while they were out in the wilderness." Arriving at Hamburg landing on the 25th, the regiment went into camp some two miles from the river, out towards Corinth. Hamburg is the landing for all of General Halleck's army supplies, at this time, and the scene about the landing, is a lively one. Boats are coming up and unloading their cargoes daily. Mules, horses, wagons, rations, &c., are everywhere lumbering up the bluffs. From the boats the supplies are loaded into wagons, and forwarded to the army now before Corinth. Here are still seen many of the effects of the late battle. Here are the bluffs from which it is said many of our brave boys threw themselves into the river, to escape from the pursuing enemy." "Brave boys were they." Here the regiment was furnished with a new outfit of camp equipage, wagons and horses. Corinth was now supposed to be their destination, and in confirmation, the march towards that place was commenced on the morning of the 27th. The country from Hamburg landing to Corinth, is an unbroken wild, level and swampy. After a march of sixteen miles, over a recently constructed military road, the regiment went into camp about three miles to the north of Corinth. After the battle of Pea Ridge, P. Sidney Post obtained leave of absence, until his wound should so far heal, as to permit of active service. _Here_ he rejoined the regiment as Colonel of the same, having received a commission during his absence. Lieut. Colonel C. H. Frederick, after having commanded the regiment for nine months, with honor to himself and credit to the regiment, now resigned his command to Colonel Post, and very soon, thereafter, received and accepted an appointment on General Jeff. C. Davis' staff. On the morning of the 28th, the regiment moved into position before the works of the enemy, leaving the tents standing, and the camp equipage all in camp. Some skirmishing was occurring occasionally, between our pickets and those of the enemy, but no fighting of any consequence. The evacuation of Corinth, by the rebels, commenced on the 28th, so at least it was reported around camp, and so it was believed by several of the Division commanders; but General Halleck either discredited it or did not wish to encourage such an idea. General Pope was satisfied of the fact, and solicited the privilege of moving his command into a position that would prevent their escape; but was refused the request, with the reply that they could not escape. Large trees in elevated positions, had been selected and trimmed, and "look outs" stationed on the tops of these, so that the movements of the rebels could be seen in Corinth. These "look outs" confirmed the reports of the evacuation. No efforts were, however, made to prevent it. General Halleck's army all lay quietly behind their breastworks, to the north of town, leaving the way for the enemy to escape, entirely open; whereas, a small force could have been sent to prevent it and with General Halleck's army, the whole rebel army could have been captured. This was seen and believed by nearly all the privates in the army; yet on the morning of the 30th, Corinth was in our possession without a fight, _and nothing else_. The vast army, that General Halleck had been for months collecting, from all parts of the country at an enormous expense, and the great amount of labor and suffering of this vast army had all been in vain--entirely useless. Corinth and the whole territory left in our possession, was entirely worthless. And all this because Beauregard would not remain in Corinth until Halleck could dig his way under his fortifications and blow him up. As soon as the rebels, with all their material, were out of danger from our troops, a forward movement was ordered. Great and universal disappointment was manifested by the whole army when the fact was known that the rebels were all gone. Many and bitter were the curses against General Halleck. Every man felt that it was by his incapacity, want of energy, or a good feeling towards the rebel army, that they escaped so easily. All confidence was lost in the capacity of General Halleck as a commander, and it has never been restored by any of his subsequent official acts. There has been two great errors committed by some body during this war. The one was the removal of Fremont from the command at Springfield, Mo., and the other is the placing Halleck in command of the army before Corinth. The fortifications about Corinth were found to be trivial, in comparison to what was expected. One line of breast works of weak construction, and nothing but a few slight embrasures comprised the whole thing. Such fortifications one year afterwards, would have been looked upon as no impediment to the advance of our army. On the 30th, the Fifty-Ninth Illinois again broke camp, and moved out ten miles below Corinth, where they awaited the reconstruction of a bridge, which the rebels had burned. Cannonading is occasionally heard in the distance, which indicates that our advance is skirmishing with the rear of the flying enemy. Camp is pitched near Boonville, Miss., and on the morning of the 2d of June, the regiment moves out on a scout, leaving every thing but their blankets and haversacks in camp. Those unable to march are left in charge of an officer, to guard the camp, and the sick are left in the care of the Hospital Steward. The regiment pursued the enemy about twenty miles without overtaking them, and then returned to camp. It now lay in camp ten days without molestation. The enemy had fled beyond pursuit for the time being, but was still in hearing distance of our scouts, and the anticipation of another move was daily increasing. Instead of pursuing the enemy, the regiment returned to within two miles of Corinth, on the 12th, and went into regular camp on Clear Creek. There having been no rain for two weeks, the roads were now very dusty, and the marching very disagreeable; consequently it was a pleasant thing to go into camp on the shady banks of a clear stream of running water. This weather is delightful; only when the sun is at the meridian, then it is a little too hot for comfort. The early morning in camp is delightful, especially. The sun is just peeping up through the tree-tops. The birds are singing their early matins, before the smoke of camp becomes too thick for their vocal organs. The mules are adding their musical braying for their feed of dry oats, and the drivers are aiding the mules with their morning notes of universal cursing. To arise these mornings and witness all this, is charming. The boys are now having easy, good times. They have plenty of leisure to lay in the shade, and write letters to their friends at home. Policing of camp grounds in the morning, is all that is required of them, and this is usually done by extra-duty men. These are lazy fellows who will not get up in the morning in time to answer to their names at roll call. As a punishment, they are used as scavengers for the benefit of the industrious ones. There is considerable sickness amongst the men at this time, owing, perhaps, to the hot, dry weather, and bad water of this region. There are some nice springs along Clear Creek, but as a general thing, the only drinking water the men have had since leaving the Tennessee River, has been obtained from the marshes which here abound. All this region of country around Corinth, is a low, swampy, worthless marsh. Why, in the name of common sense, the rebel army was ever molested in the peaceable possession of Corinth is more than can now be comprehended. Why not have left them here; that they might starve, or sicken and die after their own liking. There are some very noisy fellows in camp, and it seems as though they are always making the most noise when respect for others should keep them most quiet. There are two good brass bands in the immediate neighborhood of our regiment, which frequently dispense most delightful music--but many times these rude fellows are like the dog in the manger, they will neither listen themselves, or let any one else enjoy the music. They are just the kind of men for an army, though--for a "man who has no music in his soul, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils." The boys have many ways of amusing themselves while laying in camp, and some of these they put into practice here. The most profitable and interesting of all others, is the attendance on the prayer meetings, the Chaplain is now conducting in the regiment. The Rev. Shoemate has been with the regiment since its organization, and has preached some three times since leaving Boonville, and is now having the first prayer meetings. These sermons and meetings have only cost the government the moderate sum of two hundred and fifty dollars each. An active, energetic and christian Chaplain is of invaluable service to the army, but an unconverted Chaplain is a nuisance. If there is any place on God's fair earth, where wickedness "stalketh abroad in daylight," it is in the army. It is lamentable to hear and see the profanity and wickedness which every where and all the time meets the ear and eye. Ninety-nine men out of every hundred are profane swearers. Gambling is not quite so universal, yet there are hundreds of young men who devote all their leisure time to this nefarious practice. Walk through camp at almost any hour, and you will see squads of young men engaged in risking their money and their souls on the chance throw of the die. This game is called "chuck-a-luck." A faithful, working christian Chaplain, would, in a great measure, control these practices among the young men of the army. While at Cross Timbers, in Arkansas, Captain Kelly, of Company F, resigned his commission, on account of ill health, and returned to his home in Illinois. Captain Kelly was invariably inclined to be kind and generous towards his men, even to the sacrifice of his own comfort, and his departure was regretted by all. As a testimony of the regard and esteem which the officers of the regiment had for Captain Kelly, the following "expression" was handed to him by the Major, whose name heads the list of signers: "We, the officers of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois Volunteer Regiment, take this method of expressing our esteem of Captain S. W. Kelly, as an officer and as a gentleman. In camps and on the march, as his health and strength permitted, his duties were always promptly and faithfully attended to. On the battle field he was firm and unflinching. In retiring to private life, he bears with him our best wishes." Signed J. C. Winters, and by twenty other officers of the regiment. On the resignation of Captain Kelly, the command of Company F devolved on Lieutenant John Kelly. The Lieutenant had faithfully filled the position from that time until now, and was justly entitled to a commission as Captain of the company. This, however, he failed to receive. Lieutenant Curry, of Company C, of the same regiment, obtained the commission, and took command of the company after its arrival at Jacinto, Miss. By the resignation of Captain Taylor, of Company H, Lieutenant A. Anthony, was left in command of _that_ company. More fortunate than Lieutenant Kelly, he subsequently obtained a Captain's commission and commanded the company as such, until ill health compelled him also to resign. On the 20th of June, the regiment received orders to move out towards Jacinto, Miss., without tents or baggage, and to leave the sick, cripples and convalescents behind. It marched some twenty miles and bivouacked within two or three miles of Jacinto. Here they remained until the 28th. On the 26th, orders were received at camp to remove the sick to General Field hospital at Corinth, and bring forward the tents and other camp equipage to the regiment. This was accomplished in good order; the trains reporting to the regiment about eleven o'clock, on the 28th. While laying in camp, sickness had increased considerably, and now there was quite a number to be left at hospital. When the train arrived at the regiment, it was under marching orders and making preparations to move. Rations were being distributed to the men, and the Surgeons were drawing a supply of medicines and other hospital stores for their respective regiments. All the indications were that a long and rapid march was in contemplation, or else an engagement with the enemy. Old soldiers are not often deceived in their prognosis. CHAPTER XVIII. At three o'clock of the 28th, the regiment again started on the march. Rumor had it that the destination was Holly Springs, which is thirty-five miles south of Memphis. The roads were now in good condition. The dust was nicely settled by a previous rain, and the weather was not so excessively hot as it had been a few days before. The men were well rested, and in good health and spirits. The teams were in good condition, and all seemed propitious for a successful campaign. Passing through Jacinto, towards Rienzi, the regiment made eight miles, and went into camp. The next morning, starting early, it made fifteen miles, and went into camp one-half mile east of the town of Ripley. This is quite a pretty town, of, perhaps one thousand inhabitants. It is the county town of Tippah County, Mississippi, and is prettily situated in the best portion of the country the regiment had visited. This was Sunday, and the citizens were all at church when our army made its appearance. The minister was reading a hymn when our advance was first descried, and some one at the church door sang out, the "Yankees are coming!" It may be supposed that this created some alarm--perhaps as much as the cry of fire would have done. The congregation rushed for the door, and, as fast as they could get out of the house, skedaddled--some for their homes, but most of them for the timber, on double-quick. It can easily be believed that there was some tall running about this time. They were taken entirely by surprise. The rebel soldiers that had been there, a few days before, were all gone to some other point, and their withdrawal had caused the citizens to suppose that the town of Ripley was in perfect security; but now, of course, they expected, if caught, to be roasted, and eaten by the cannibal Yankees. Our army, however, marched through the town in perfect good order, molesting no one, nor touching a thing belonging to any one. A few negroes, three or four old men, and some children, were all that could be seen in the streets, as our soldiers passed. "Yah, yah, yah; Massa said you 'uns would neber come dis here way--yah, yah." Thus said an old darkey, as we passed him. "He was mistaken dat time, for here you is, sure 'nough--yah, yah." "Where is your master now?" asked one of our boys. "He's done gone. Wen you 'uns was seen comin', he broke for de brush--yah, yah." Monday being muster day, the army lay in camp until Tuesday morning, to allow time for making up the muster-rolls. The women, and some of the male citizens, had returned to their homes, as soon as they ascertained that the Yankees were not particularly fond of roasted rebels, and many of the officers became domesticated at their houses. At one of these houses an officer was talking with the lady, in the parlor, when a private stepped to the door, to make some inquiry. There was in the parlor at the time, quite a pretty, smart-looking girl, ten or twelve years old, who was attentively listening to the conversation. When the soldier came to the door, the mother pointed towards him, and said to the girl: "Look there, Eliza. There's a Yankee. You was just asking what kind of an animal they were." The girl looked at the soldier with astonishment, for a second, then, turning to her mother, said: "Why, mother, that's not a Yankee; that's a man." This poor girl had expected to see a wild animal of some kind. She had no idea that the Yankees were men. This is in kind with the ignorance of a young woman, whose husband was in the rebel army. She was, herself, a most rabid secesh. Some of our boys were telling her of the victories they had gained over the rebels, particularly the one at Pea Ridge, in Arkansas. "O, yes," said she, "you whipped us there; but you never could have done it if it hadn't been for the gun-boats." Gun-boats at Pea Ridge, more than ninety miles from water! What an idea! Ignorance is not always bliss. Tuesday morning, the army again moved out, passing back through Ripley, and on towards Holly Springs. Here Colonel P. Sidney Post came very near being captured. Many of the young "bloods" of the army were in the habit of leaving their commands, and taking up their quarters at citizens' houses whenever an opportunity of the kind offered, on the march, or while in camp. Colonel Post had here formed the acquaintance of some secesh ladies, and enjoyed himself hugely in their society. When the regiment left town, he remained behind a short time to have a parting word with the sweet charmers, and would, perhaps, have remained some time longer had not an acquaintance rode to the door, and urged him to go on with the command. The plot laid to capture him was just completed as he rode away. These fair ladies had made arrangements with some half-dozen rebels to come to the house, and lay in wait, until notified of the opportune moment for their purpose. One of these ladies left the presence of the Colonel for that object, just as the Colonel was urged to go to his command. Five minutes later, and he would have been a prisoner. Soon after leaving town, two of our boys, who were some distance in the rear of the regiment, on account of ill health, were unexpectedly ordered to halt. On looking around, they discovered some half-dozen guerrillas by the roadside, with guns pointing toward them, in threatening attitude. "Halt! you damned Yankee sons-of-bitches, or we'll blow your brains out," was the order of the rebs. The boys were in a ravine, with hills in front and rear; and, just at this time, there were none of our men in sight. There was no alternative but to surrender. This they did, with as good grace as possible. They were taken some distance from the road, and whatever of value they had was taken from them. A consultation was then held among the captors, to determine whether these two "Yanks" should be shot on the "spot," or taken to General Price, who was then at Tupelo. One or two were for shooting them at once, and thus save trouble; but the majority opposed it, and they were marched off in a southerly direction. They marched until nearly night, when they came to an encampment of rebels, near some small town, the name of which they did not learn. Here they were placed in an old deserted house, together with a number of other prisoners. The names of these two men were Joseph H. Sullivan and Jesse L. McHatton. They were soon joined by Moses T. Anderson, captured about the same time, and in the same manner. These three belonged to the Fifty-Ninth Regiment. The other prisoners were from different regiments. There was one prisoner there who had been captured at the siege of Corinth. He was Chaplain to some regiment, and was now under sentence of death, for being a spy. He was a Southern man, with Union sentiments, and hence the supposition that he was a spy for the Union army. He had just had his court-martial, and the sentence was to be put in execution on the morrow. During the evening he told his story to the boys of the Fifty-Ninth, and at once enlisted their sympathies in his behalf. A plan was soon devised, and suggested by Joseph Sullivan, by which he, perhaps, might make his escape. The night happened to be most favorable, and the plan succeeded admirably. There were no lights about the building, consequently all was in darkness as soon as the daylight disappeared. Before that time, however, Joseph Sullivan had noticed a comparatively loose board in the floor, and that the house was considerably raised from the ground, by being set on blocks at the corners. The plan then was, that the Chaplain should hold prayer-meeting, about nine or ten o'clock, and, while the praying and singing was attracting the attention of the guards, the board in the floor should be taken up, and the Chaplain pass through under the floor, and there remain until he should hear a slight thumping on the floor above him, when he should crawl out at the north-west corner, and make his escape. The Chaplain gave out the hymn from memory, offered up a most excellent and fervent prayer, asking forgiveness on his to-morrow's executioners, and pardon for the whole rebel Confederacy, and praying that they might soon see the error of their ways, and return to their allegiance, etc. He then gave out another hymn, and, while it was being sung, slipped through the opening to the ground beneath the floor. The board was carefully replaced, and all soon became quiet. In about an hour Joseph Sullivan and McHatton, leaving Anderson to give the signal on the floor, used some strategy to attract the attention of the guard, so that the Chaplain had an opportunity to pass out undiscovered. It is not known that he was ever re-captured. The supposition is that he made good his escape, and is now with his friends. The next morning the prisoners were started on for Tupelo. Arriving at Price's head-quarters, they were ordered to Mobile; from Mobile they were sent to Macon, Georgia, where they were kept until the 8th of October, when they were shipped to Richmond, Virginia, for exchange. While at Macon, Joseph Sullivan was granted the privilege of the city, that he might work at his trade. He was a shoemaker by trade, and made shoes for the benefit of the sick in hospital. The money he received for his work he expended for quinine, and other necessaries, for the sick prisoners. In this way he accomplished a great amount of good, and will ever be remembered by those thus benefitted with gratitude. These three men were reasonably well treated while prisoners, and returned, September 8, 1864, to their old regiment, in good health. The march of the regiment was continued, in the direction of Holly Springs, until late in the evening. Reveille at three, and march at five o'clock, is the order for the following morning. True to orders, at five o'clock the regiment is on the move. The march is continued all day, and until one o'clock at night. The men are very tired, and take no time to prepare coffee, but stretch themselves on the ground, and go to sleep. At four o'clock orders came to fall in. Most of the men are yet asleep, but the order must be obeyed, and slowly they fall into ranks. No supper, no breakfast, and yet must march. 'Tis hard, but "Forward, march!" The column moves out, and takes the back track. The enemy is threatening the rear, and will cut us off from our supplies. Hungry and weary, the men drag the march along all day, and go into bivouac ready to pull out again at a moment's notice. We are now not far from Rienzi, having made over sixty miles since the morning of the 1st. The men are on less than half rations, and the teams without forage. Many of the horses were without feed for forty-eight hours, and many of the men, for twenty-four hours, did not have a mouthful of nourishment. This is the heaviest marching the regiment has ever done. On the 4th the army went into camp at Jacinto, the Fifty-Ninth camping about two miles from town. Although the three days' marching had been very trying on the nerve and muscle of the men, the regiment came into camp at Jacinto in good condition. The health of the regiment was never better. There were very few who had failed to keep their places in the ranks. One man had been severely wounded by the upsetting of a wagon. He was riding on the wagon, asleep, when the driver, in going down a hill, upset his wagon, throwing the sleeper from the comfortable quarters he was enjoying to the earth. An axe being his companion on the wagon, struck his foot as he fell, making a severe wound. CHAPTER XIX. Jacinto is a pretty little town, twenty-five miles south of Corinth, in Nishamingo County, and is situated in a cultivated part of the country. As a general thing, this is an uncultivated region. From Corinth through Ripley to within a few miles of Holly Springs, wherever the regiment has marched, the country is comparatively a wilderness. In the immediate vicinity of Rienzi, Jacinto and Ripley, there are some small plantations under ordinary good cultivation. The land is poor and rather unproductive, yielding but small compensation for the labor required to till it. The appearances of the few women and children which are seen along the march, indicates the prevalence of agues and fevers during the spring and fall seasons of the year, and the many swamps and marshes seen in all directions, confirm the supposition that it is a very unhealthy country. The country around Jacinto and the other little towns is more elevated and broken, and affords some assurance of health. Jacinto is in a comparatively healthy location, and should the army remain here during the heat of summer, it may enjoy good health. The water is obtained from springs, and is much more healthy than the brackish water of the swamps, which the soldier was compelled to drink while on the march. It is now probable that active operations will be suspended till the hot season is over, and the troops are busy making preparations to enjoy a recuperative season in camp. They are determined to have camp as attracting as possible, and as comfortable as green shades and good bunks can make it. The camp grounds of the Fifty-Ninth has been judiciously selected on one of the small pine ridges which skirt the streams of this region, and is convenient to both fence rails and water. Fence rails make most excellent fires for cooking and the cool spring water is a luxury much to be prized during the hot days of this season of the year. The small pine shrubbery affords excellent material for the construction of shades and arbors to protect against the scorching rays of the sun. Some of the companies are taking great pains in the construction of arbors adjoining their tents. Company K has excelled all the others in artistic skill and ingenuity in the construction of these shades. All over camp these bowers are so constructed as to effectually shield from the scorching rays of Old Sol, and groups of hardy looking soldiers are now to be seen engaged in every conceivable pastime, unconscious of the oppressive heat outside. Some are discussing the conservative policy of General Halleck in pitying the rebels--guarding their property from molestation by our soldiers while on the march and while laying in camp, and in feeding the families of those in arms against us from our scant rations. A squad of men has just left camp to go a mile out, for the purpose of guarding a rebel family against intrusion by any of the soldiers. This, the majority of the disputants are opposed to, while some are in favor of the policy. Some of these boys have been compelled very much against their will, to stop while on the march, and stand guard at the gate of some fine mansion, whose owner was in the rebel army, while the families occupying the log houses along the road were left to the mercy of every straggler in the army. This is looked upon by those opposed to the policy as great injustice. Some are engaged in writing letters to their friends at home, and some in playing cards, some are reading, and here is a squad attracted by the exciting game of chuck-a-luck. Some are rubbing up their muskets and others are stretched upon their beds of pine, taking a nap. This will continue to be the daily camp scene until orders come to move out again. Soon after coming into camp, Dr. H. J. Maynard reported from Cassville, Mo., and again took charge of the sick. Dr. Hazlett assumed the duties of Brigade Surgeon, and located himself at Jacinto. As is always the case, while laying in camp, sickness now increases, so that a large hospital tent is required to shelter the patients. This field hospital is still continued at Corinth, and orders are to send all serious cases up there for treatment. The indications also point towards an early move, and it is not policy to have many sick men with the regiment. There had been an order for several days, to be ready to move at a moment's notice, but no move was made until the 4th of August. On the 4th, the regiment started out on a scout, as was supposed, leaving the camp standing, as is usual on such occasions. The 4th of August was, perhaps, the hottest day of the season, and the men suffered excessively from the heat. Quite a number fell from the ranks with "sun-stroke," and some expired from its effects. None of the Fifty-Ninth died, but two or three never fully recovered from its impression. On the 6th, the Acting Quartermaster, Lieutenant H. W. Hall, received orders to break up camp, and move his train to Iuka, Miss., some twenty miles farther east. The sick were all sent to general field hospital, and about noon the train moved out. Passing through Jacinto, it continued to move until nine o'clock, when it overtook the regiment, in bivouac, some six miles from Iuka. The regiment had thus far returned from its expedition, and bivouacked for the train to come up, so as to be safely escorted to Iuka. There were many guerrillas through the country, and it was unsafe to send the train without a strong guard. Early in the morning the march was continued to Iuka, where the regiment again went into regular camp. The regimental Sutler did not come through with the train, but waited until the next day. When coming through, on the 8th, with three wagons loaded with goods, and six splendid mules to each wagon, the guerrillas came upon him about five miles from Iuka, and captured two wagons and mules with their drivers, and also one man belonging to the ranks in the regiment. The Sutler, who was on horseback, made his escape, as did also one of the wagons. After taking as many of the goods as they could carry away with them, they set fire to the wagons and burned them. The mules and prisoners were taken to Tupelo. Besides the mules and wagons, the Sutler lost about two thousand dollars worth of goods. The prisoners were taken to General Price. Two of them being citizens, one the driver and the other the Sutler's clerk, were released on parole of honor. The soldier, William Workman, of Company F, was released by taking an oath of pseudo alliance to the Confederate government. As soon as it was known that these guerrillas had committed this outrage, a squad of cavalry was started in pursuit, but too late to overtake them. A short distance from where the wagons were burned, the rebels had taken breakfast that morning, and perhaps concealed themselves there the night before. The family at first denied any knowledge of the affair, but in looking around some of the Sutler's goods were discovered. This settled the matter to the satisfaction of our boys, and they immediately ordered the family to pack up such things as they wished to save from the flames, for their house should never harbor any more guerrillas. Soon the house was emptied of its contents, the Sutler's goods were retaken, and the house shared the fate of the wagons--nothing was left but the ashes. The regiment on leaving Jacinto, marched in a southern direction about twenty-five miles, to a place called Sand Springs. A large cotton factory and dry goods establishment was in operation there, and a camp of three or four hundred rebels in the vicinity. It was for the purpose of breaking up this establishment that the expedition was undertaken. Several regiments were detailed from the different brigades for that purpose, and General Robert Mitchell was in command. The first night out, the command bivouacked on an old rebel's plantation, some fifteen miles south of Jacinto. In the evening, General Mitchell, with his staff, rode forward in advance of the column to this old planter's house, and was most cordially received and welcomed by the old gentlemen, with true southern hospitality. The General soon discovered which way the wind blew with the old man, and encouraged him in his delusion. He informed the planter that he was General Price, of the Confederate army, and that he wished to camp some of his boys near by, and take up his own quarters at his house for the night. The old gentleman was highly delighted, and generously proffered his house and premises for the accommodation of General Price. By this time it had become the dusk of the evening, and our boys were coming into camp in good order. General Mitchell detained the old planter in conversation so closely that he had no opportunity to discover the difference between our boys and his friends, the rebels. After the General had pumped this old rebel to his entire satisfaction, he retired--but before doing so, had a guard placed around the house, with orders to let no one out or in. Before going to bed the old planter attempted to pass the guard, but was not allowed to do so. He thought rather strange of the proceedings, but submitted with a good grace, and retired to dream of the honor to his house in the entertainment of the great General Price, of the Confederate States army. He was up in the morning early, and again attempted to pass the guard, with no better success, however. It was now becoming light, and the uniform of the soldiers at the door attracted his attention. His suspicions were aroused. "Are you a Confederate soldier?" said he to the guard. "No, sir ee," replied the soldier. "What are you, then?" said the planter, "and how came you here?" "I am a Union soldier, and am here by the order of General Mitchell." "Who is General Mitchell, and where is he?" asked the planter, eagerly. "General Mitchell commands these regiments out here in your fields, and is now in your house." "And where are the soldiers of General Price?" inquired the old gentleman. "To hell, for all I know," replied the soldier, who, not understanding the matter, turned away and walked his beat. The old man re-entered his room, wondering how it all happened. Pretty soon General Mitchell made his appearance, and greeted the planter with a pleasant "good morning." "How is it, General, that I see so many Union soldiers out here?" "Those are my boys out there," says the General, "and I am General Mitchell of the Union army, and not General Price, as you was glad to believe last night. It is now time I was on the move, and you will prepare to go with me. I want you to guide me to the Sand Springs, and if you deceive me in one particular your life shall immediately pay the forfeit." The old planter was sold, and there was no help for it. Sullenly, but faithfully he obeyed orders, and when the expedition returned he was allowed to remain with his family. The rebels fled at our approach; the factory was destroyed; the store gutted, &c. CHAPTER XX. Iuka is a pretty little town twenty-five miles east of Jacinto, Mississippi, and is on the Memphis, and Charleston railroad. It is twenty miles south-east of Corinth, and is pleasantly located. The country is rather better than any we have seen in Mississippi, and the improvements are good. The town has some very fine buildings, for private residences, and one fine large hotel. It has several mineral springs in the neighborhood, which have obtained quite a notoriety for their curative properties. Iron, sulphur and salts, characterize the water of these springs. The chalybeate spring is highly impregnated with the medical properties of iron, and is no doubt admirably adapted to some cases of disease. The sulphur spring is also strongly tinctured with sulphur. On account of these springs, Iuka has been a favorite resort for invalid planters and their families, and perhaps, some day may become a noted "watering place." The regiment went into camp half a mile south of town, on a pleasant piece of ground, formerly used as a play ground for the scholars of an academy located there. The academy building was yet standing, but had been used as barracks for soldiers, and was very much abused. Doctor Maynard took possession of it now, for the use of the sick. The regiment had now marched in its advances and retreats, over two hundred miles since coming to the State of Mississippi, and the men were willing to rest for a short time at Iuka. Rumor now has it, that one Brigade is to remain here during the balance of the summer. The men are thereby encouraged to erect some more pleasant bowers, to protect themselves from the excessive heat. A day or two after coming here, two of our boys, while scouting through the country, stopped at a widow womans, and in genuine guerrilla fashion, proceeded to rob her of all the money she had, some forty or fifty dollars. The woman followed them to camp, and reported the affair to the Captain of the company. The boys were arrested, but what punishment they received, deponent saith not. Two other cases of a similar character, only on a much larger scale, and perhaps with more justice, occurred while laying here. A rich old planter, living about two miles from town, had the reputation of being a rebel, although he remained at home, and apparently minded his own business. General Mitchell, however, supposed him to be a fit subject for arrest, and to have the law of confiscation applied to his property. He, therefore, sent a squad of men, and brought the old man to town, together with horses, mules, wagons, cotton, and negroes, to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. All the property was taken for the benefit of the Government, and the old gentleman was held for the safety of the commonwealth. The other case was that of an old planter in Alabama, about twenty miles south of Iuka. He, too, was rich, with negroes, cotton, mules, etc., and was tainted with disunion sentiments. General Mitchell deemed it necessary to clip the wings of his riches, also, lest they should fly over to the rebel cause. Accordingly, a detachment of two or three regiments, the Fifty-Ninth included, were started out one evening, about sun-down, to make him a visit. After marching all night, they came to the plantation at sun-rise, or just before, but not early enough to catch the old planter. The negroes, cotton, mules, horses and wagons, were taken in possession. Other plantations were visited, and many bales of cotton were found hid away in the brush, the hiding places being pointed out by the negroes. The expedition returned, with ninety bales of cotton, besides other property, to the amount of several thousands of dollars. These three cases were somewhat similar, but with this difference: the one was in accordance with guerrilla warfare, the other according to the law of civilized warfare. The health of the regiment continued good while here, although some cases occurred from the excessive use of green corn, and other imprudent indulgences. One patient, (Nathan Logue, of Company B,) was taken sick on the morning of the 18th, was sent to town to general hospital on the morning of the 19th, and died that afternoon, at three o'clock. The First Lieutenant of Company F, (John Kelly,) was here compelled to leave his company, and attend solely to his own afflictions. For several months his eyes had been affected with severe inflammation, which now became almost insupportable. The Surgeon, (Doctor Maynard,) had frequently advised him to resign his commission, and leave the army, until he could get his eyes restored to a healthy condition. This he persistently refused to do. His love of country was above all considerations of self. Said he: "My country needs my services. I was, also, instrumental in getting the boys of Company F to enlist, and they were generous enough to give me the second position in the company, and now I will not desert them. I will share their toils and hardships as long as it is possible for me to do so." Now his eyes had become so much inflamed that he could not see. The pain was excessive, his whole system became deranged, fever set in, typhoid symptoms soon made their appearance, and he became prostrated. He was taken to a private house in town, was well nursed and medically attended; but nature could endure no longer, and, in August he was buried at Iuka, Mississippi. He was beloved by all belonging to his company, and highly respected by every officer and private in the regiment. His love of country was only excelled by his love of virtue. CHAPTER XXI. Orders came to the regiment on the morning of the 18th of August, to march at twelve o'clock. This order had been anticipated for a day or two, and did not create any surprise. Although the men had been expecting to remain some time longer at Iuka, they willingly proceeded to pull down arbors and strike tents. The Fifty-Ninth had been in service long enough to learn that orders were not rumors or suppositions, and that to obey with alacrity was characteristic of a contented soldier; and that, however much they might desire to stay at Iuka, the better policy was to leave without complaint. "Rumors, rumors; vague, contradictory! Surely, like the heath on which the witches in 'Macbeth' stirred their gruel, and summoned the spirits of many colors." As W. L. F. writes of Memphis, so Iuka is at this time--the gathering place of "black rumors and white, red rumors and grey." Every hour there is a new batch of them. One rumor says that General Buell is now in the Sequatchie Valley, east of Stevenson and north of the Tennessee River, nearly north of Chattanooga, with General Kirby Smith in his front, with Polk and Bragg in his rear, and with Forrest's cavalry on the north, which is large, and another formidable force on the south, leaving him a bare possibility of escaping with his command. Then comes another one on the same day, and tells that General Bragg was near Bolivar, with an army of twenty thousand men, and about to surround General Ross, who is in command at that place. And still another--that "Price is at Grand Junction," and is about to eat up the army of General Rosecranz, at Corinth. To the relief of some one of these points, the command of General Davis is now to be sent. Some suppose it will be back to Corinth, and some to relieve Buell. The latter proved to be the correct supposition, and hence the direction taken was towards Tennessee. At twelve o'clock, the command moved out. At one o'clock it commenced raining, and continued raining till the next morning. The command marched eight miles that afternoon, going into camp sometime after dark--and dark it was, too. Wet and hungry, the men had to lay that night without fire or tents. It was too dark to find wood, and the wagons did not come up in time to pitch tents. About day-light the rain ceased, and the sun came up bright and cheering, and disclosed to view the small town of Eastport, and the Tennessee River. Two steamboats were in waiting at the wharf to ferry the troops over. Eastport is on the left bank of the Tennessee River, in the north-east corner of the State of Mississippi. It is, altogether, a one-horse town, although some business in the way of shipping produce has been carried on here. The town is situated on one of those high, abrupt banks, which are everywhere met with along the Tennessee River. The view from the bluff just above town affords a most magnificent scenery. In the east the sun is lending a brilliancy to the dispersing rain-clouds of the night before. In the south the blue waters of the Tennessee, are seen emerging from a narrow avenue, among the heavy foliage of the forest trees, in the distance; and in the north the same waters are seen disappearing as they came, to find their level in the bosom of its rival--the Ohio. Beneath you lay the two steamboats, sending up their wreath of white, and their black columns of smoke. A line of soldiers are forming on the wharf to await the order for crossing. In the back-ground are the camps, with their thousand soldiers, in all conceivable attitudes, giving a lively finish to the picture. Soon after sun-rise the troops commenced crossing. At three o'clock the Fifty-Ninth crossed over, and went into camp about one mile from the river. The 20th was consumed in getting the trains over, and in fitting up rations, etc., for a continued march. While here the boys amused themselves bathing in the river, and washing up their dirty clothing. Here, too, Colonel Post again came very near being captured. He, with Doctor Maynard, who was ever ready for a scout, or a dash at the Johnny secesh, rode out beyond the lines in the evening, and called at a plantation, where two or three ladies detained them until after dark. Soon after starting for camp they were ordered to "halt" by some unseen foe; but, not being inclined to an ambush, they put spurs to their horses, and made their escape, although several shots were fired after them. On the morning of the 21st we again broke camp, and did not pitch tents until we reached Florence, Alabama. Florence is a beautiful town, of, perhaps, one thousand inhabitants. It is situated near the right bank of the Tennessee River, not far from the Tennessee State line. It seems to be a place of some business, but, to judge from appearances, it is principally occupied by wealthy citizens, who are destitute of employment. There is no other town so well calculated for the enjoyment of repose as Florence. The houses, for the most part, are set back some distance from the street, and the front yard is filled with most delightful shade trees. Many of these trees are quite large, indicating great age, but have been cut off at the top so as not to be of too great a height for ornament as well as shade. In riding along the street, in hot weather, the inclination to stop, and take a siesta under these cool shades, is almost irresistible. A glimpse of the white cottage, within, is only now and then obtained through the thick foliage of the trees in front. No wonder the citizens of Florence are opposed to the emancipation policy. To lay in the shade here, and have slaves to wait on you--what more could be desired? The regiment encamped near the river, not far from a railroad bridge that had been burned by General Sherman, a few months before. The tents, and all camp equipage, were now ordered to be left behind, and the men march with light knapsacks. From Florence the march was continued to Lawrenceburg, Tennessee; thence to Columbia, from Columbia to Franklin, and through Franklin to Murfreesboro', Tennessee. Here we lay in camp one day, and then moved out for Nashville. Starting late in the evening, we reached Nashville next afternoon at four o'clock, making over thirty miles in less than twenty four hours. The country, from Florence to Murfreesboro', is under good cultivation, and is the most productive of any the army has passed through since leaving Boonville, Missouri. The splendid plantations of General Polk and brothers are on this road, and are unsurpassed by any that we have ever seen. The buildings are of the most approved style of modern architecture, and the grounds are most beautifully arranged, after the English model. All that money, art and slave labor can accomplish is here displayed. The land is rich, and under a high state of cultivation. Columbia, Franklin and Murfreesboro' are interesting towns, of twelve or fifteen hundred inhabitants each. At Columbia is an obelisk, erected to the memory of the heroes who volunteered to leave their homes, and the town of Columbia, for the purpose of serving in the Mexican war. The inscriptions on this monument give the names, rank, age and time of death of these honorable heroes. It is quite an ornament to the public square of the town, and speaks volumes in praise of the good and patriotic citizens. The honor was due the Mexican heroes. The command passed through Franklin on Sunday. The citizens were consequently at leisure to meet on the streets and witness the soldiers as they marched through town. The soldier prides himself, at all times, on his soldierly appearance when in the ranks, but, when passing through these secesh towns, he more than takes delight in showing himself to good advantage. "Here's your Yankee soldier, you insignificant traitor, you--look at him, and tremble"--is the expression he wears on his countenance, and exhibits in his military step and bearing. The citizens of Franklin were much more numerous than had been seen in any of the towns hitherto passed through. There were, perhaps, more union people, and a less number who had fled at our approach. Five miles west of Franklin a large cotton factory is in operation, and, as the army passed, the factory girls, to the number of two or three hundred, came out to see it pass. The girls were neatly dressed in their holiday clothing, and presented a very interesting spectacle to the soldiers. Many months had passed since so many young ladies had been looked upon by these war-worn soldiers. Home and civilized society was brought to the memory, and many a sad thought forced itself through the mind, of the loved ones at home, who, to-day, were congregated at their places of Sunday gathering, in the country, to hear glad tidings from the preacher. Jests and repartees flew thick and fast between the girls and the soldier-boys, as the regiments moved by. Many of these girls were very pretty and intelligent, although they, more than likely, belonged to the families of the "poor white trash" of the South. When going into camp near Murfreesboro', two boys of the Fifty-Ninth left the regiment to visit a house half a mile from the road for the purpose of getting something for their supper. While there they were surprised by three or four guerrillas and taken prisoners. News of the affair soon came to camp and a squad was sent out after them, but without success. Arriving at Nashville on the 4th the regiment went into camp two miles south of the city, and lay there until the morning of the 6th, when it again moved out. Passing through the city it crossed the Tennessee river and encamped near Edgefield. Here General Davis lays in wait until the balance of Buell's army could come up and cross the river. General Jeff. C. Davis was detached from the army of General Rosecranz, at Iuka, with eight thousand men, and reported to General Buell at Murfreesboro'. The Fifty-Ninth Illinois was in his command and was among the first regiments that crossed the river at Nashville. The positions of General Buell's army at Battle Creek, Huntsville, and McMinnville, on account of the movements of General Bragg's rebel army, became untenable, and had to be evacuated. General Bragg massed his army at Chattanooga and Knoxville, Tennessee. One corps, under General Kirby Smith, had succeeded in a flank movement, and had already reached the borders of Kentucky. Two other corps under General Hardee and Leonidas Polk were about to succeed in joining Smith, thus forming an army of forty thousand men--sufficiently strong to threaten either Cincinnati or Louisville, and cut General Buell off from all his communications. These movements caused General Buell to move his army with all dispatch towards Louisville to secure his own safety and that of Louisville and Cincinnati. The crossing was effected on the 8th, and about sunset the Fifty-Ninth again pushed out. The evening was mild and pleasant, although somewhat lowering. Clouds were accumulating and thickening in the west, and appearances rather indicated rain. No rain had fallen since leaving Eastport, and the roads were getting very dry and dusty, and water very scarce. A rain would therefore be very acceptable at this time--but such a rain as fell that night was more than agreeable! The troops had hardly got under way, when it became dark, and continually growing darker. It finally became "darkness visible," and the rain commenced. The heavens opened and poured their floods of water in torrents; the lightning's vivid flash is blinding, and the thunder's roar exceeds the combined report of all earth's artillery. No mortal man could march in such a storm, and for half an hour the _mighty_ hosts of General Buell bent themselves submissively to the will of Him "who rides upon the whirlwind and controls the storm." When the storm moderated, the march was continued and kept up until two o'clock in the morning. After marching all night, the regiment lay here quietly in camp for over thirty-six hours, and then made another night march, and lay in camp a day. Why this night marching, and laying by through the day, is unaccountable to outsiders. The march now continues from day to day until the 27th of September, when the army encamps at Louisville. The route traversed by General Jeff. C. Davis' division, was from Nashville via Franklin, Dripping Springs, Cave City, to Bowling Green; from Bowling Green through Mumfordsville, Elizabethtown and West Point to Louisville. The distance from Nashville to Louisville, by the roads marched over, is over two hundred miles, and the time occupied in marching was fourteen days. The army having laid by four days and counter-marched one. At Dripping Springs the division encamped one night, and marched out early the next morning, and until twelve o'clock. A halt was called, the column faced about and marched directly back to the last night's camp. Buell was either a knave or a coward, or perhaps both. The probabilities are that if Buell had marched his army as a _General_ should and would have done from Nashville on, he would have saved the surrender of the four thousand brave men at Mumfordsville. But what time he could not loiter away, he took up in counter-marching his weary and half-fed troops. A division of only two brigades of Bragg's army under General Buckner, attacked our forces at Mumfordsville. This force consisted of the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Sixty-Seventh and Eighty-Third Indiana regiments, under Colonel Wilder. After being repulsed three times, with a loss of two or three hundred, they retire to await reinforcements. In a day or two they renew the attack with a largely increased force. After a desperate resistance, Colonel Wilder is compelled to surrender. The prisoners are paroled, and in a day or two they pass through our columns to the rear, without arms. Why was it that General Buell did not reinforce that bravely defended garrison? If, instead of counter-marching twenty miles and wasting two or three days in idleness, he had steadily advanced with his army, Mumfordsville would have been saved. Had he have been seen and known along the lines at the time those brave men were passing to the rear, his hide would never have held bran. When our army passed through the ground held by the rebels, during the attack, the dead were yet unburied. A rebel officer and private soldier, the one in splendid uniform, the other in rags, were side by side, awaiting the sexton's aid. From Mumfordsville to Louisville the march was continued unintermittingly, and on less than half rations and some days without water. Some of the men were without food for forty-eight hours. Without shoes, ragged and dirty, they arrive at Louisville, contrasting beautifully with the neatly uniformed recruits about the city, with their paper collars and blacked boots. General Jeff. C. Davis' division had now marched about three hundred and seventy-five miles since the 18th of August, and over six hundred miles since leaving Corinth, Miss. The sick and disabled were left in hospital at Bowling Green as the regiment came through, so that on its arrival at Louisville there was but one disabled man in the Fifty-Ninth, and he unfortunately became disabled by falling from the top of a loaded wagon and breaking his arm. While at Louisville, the boys, as a general thing, had the privilege of the city and enjoyed themselves very much. Some of them took "french leave," and visited their friends over the river. One man, William Rumsey, Company H, lost his life while here, in an unfortunate difficulty with a fellow soldier. Rumsey was a good soldier, and not at all inclined to be quarrelsome, but through some evil influence he enraged one of General Mitchell's body guard to such a degree that he drew his pistol and shot him. Here, also, the regiment met with a great loss by the transfer of Dr. H. J. Maynard to another department. Through the influence of some friends in Arkansas, he was commissioned First Surgeon of the First Arkansas Cavalry Regiment. This entitled him to a transfer, and he bid adieu to the Fifty-Ninth Illinois at Louisville. His withdrawal from the regiment was seriously regretted by all who had ever had any intercourse with him. As a man, he was affable and gentlemanly in his intercourse with the men, and as a Surgeon, he was courteous, kind and scientific. His liberality and goodness of heart endeared him to all in the regiment. He will ever carry with him the respect and gratitude of all those to whom he ministered while with the command. The most _striking_ incident which occurred while the regiment lay at Louisville, was the shooting of General Nelson by Jeff. C. Davis. It is to be hoped that the act was morally and legally justifiable. General Jeff. C. Davis was at home on leave of absence, which he obtained a short time before his division left the State of Mississippi, on a plea of ill health. When the alarm was raised in Louisville that the enemy were marching on that city, General Jeff. C. Davis, who could not reach his command under General Buell, then at Bowling Green, went to General Nelson and tendered his services. General Nelson gave him the command of the city militia, so soon as they were organized. General Davis opened an office and went to work in assisting in the organization. On Wednesday, General Davis called upon General Nelson in his room at the Gait House, in Louisville, when the following took place: General Davis said, "I have the brigade, General, you assigned me, ready for service, and have called to inquire if I can obtain arms for them." General Nelson--"How many men have you?" General Davis--"About twenty-five hundred men, General." General Nelson--roughly and angrily--"About twenty-five hundred! _About twenty-five hundred!_ By G--d! you a regular officer, and come here to me and report _about_ the number of men in your command. G--d d--n you, don't you know sir, you should furnish me the exact number?" Davis--"General, I didn't expect to get the guns now, and only wanted to learn if I could get them, and where, and having learned the exact number needed, would then draw them." Nelson--pacing the floor in a rage--"About two thousand five hundred. By G--d, I suspend you from your command, and order you to report to General Wright, and I've a mind to put you under arrest. Leave my room, sir." Davis--"I will not leave, General, until you give me an order." Nelson--"The h--l you won't. By G--d I'll put you under arrest, and send you out of the city under a provost guard. Leave my room, sir." General Davis left the room, and in order to avoid an arrest, crossed over the river to Jeffersonville, where he remained until the next day, when he was joined by General Burbridge, who had also been relieved by Nelson for a trivial cause. General Davis came to Cincinnati with General Burbridge, and reported to General Wright, who ordered General Davis to return to Louisville, and report to General Buell, and General Burbridge to remain in Cincinnati. General Davis returned on Friday evening, and reported to General Buell. Nothing further occurred until yesterday morning, when General Davis seeing General Nelson in the main hall of the Galt House, fronting the office, went up to Governor Morton and requested him to step up with him to General Nelson, and witness the conversation that might pass between Nelson and him. The Governor consented, and the two walked up to General Nelson, when the following took place: General Davis--"Sir, you seemed to take advantage of your authority the other day." General Nelson--sneeringly and placing his hand to his ear--"Speak louder, I don't hear very well." Davis--in a louder tone--"You seemed to take advantage of your authority the other day." Nelson--indignantly--"I don't know that I did, sir." Davis--"You threatened to arrest and send me out of the State under a provost guard." Nelson--striking Davis with the back of his hand twice in the face--"There, d--n you, take that." Davis--retreating--"This is not the last of it; you will hear from me again." General Nelson then turned to Governor Morton and said: "By G--d, did you come here also to insult me?" Governor Morton--"No, sir; but I was requested to be present and listen to the conversation between you and General Davis." General Nelson--violently to the bystanders--"Did you hear the d--d rascal insult me?" and then walked into the ladies' parlor. In three minutes General Davis returned with a pistol he had borrowed of Captain Gibson, of Louisville, and walking toward the door that Nelson had passed through, he saw Nelson walking out of the parlor into the hall separating the main hall from the parlor. The two were face to face, and about ten yards apart, when General Davis drew his pistol and fired, the ball entering Nelson's heart, or in the immediate vicinity. General Nelson threw up both hands and caught a gentleman near by around the neck, and exclaimed, "I'm shot." He then walked up the flight of stairs towards General Buell's room, but sank at the foot of the stairs, and was unable to proceed further. He was then conveyed to his room, and when laid on his bed, requested that Rev. Mr. Talbott, an Episcopal clergyman stopping at the house, might be sent to him at once. The reverend gentleman arrived in about five minutes. Mr. Talbott found General Nelson extremely anxious as to his future welfare, and deeply penitent about the many sins he had committed. He knew he must die immediately, and requested the ordinance of baptism might be administered, which was done. The General then whispered: "It's all over," and died in fifteen minutes after he was conveyed to his room. His death was easy, the passing away of his spirit as though the General had fallen into a quiet sleep. His remains lay in state two days, and his funeral was witnessed by many of the Fifty-Ninth and other regiments. General Davis immediately gave himself up to the military authorities to await a trial by court-martial. This is the first case of the kind that has ever occurred in the American army, and its effect both North and South, will be startling. Nelson, although rough, tyrannical and insulting to General Davis, yet in a military point of view, General Davis was unjustifiable in shooting. Davis, however, has the sympathies of the people, both in Louisville and in the army, and would undoubtedly be pardoned by the President had a court-martial found him guilty. A brief review of General Davis' military career may not be uninteresting. He was born in Indiana, and is now about thirty-four years of age. He was married about six month since, and his wife is living fourteen miles back of Jeffersonville. He went to Mexico as a private, when only sixteen years of age; and on June 17, 1848, entered the regular army as Second Lieutenant of Artillery. He was with Major Anderson at Fort Sumter, and fired the first gun on the rebels at that celebrated engagement. His services, as officer of the guard, are well known to the public. After the surrender of the fort, he sailed in the Baltic for New York, and was ordered to Indianapolis as Mustering Officer, Quartermaster and Commissary. Remaining in this duty three months, he was appointed Colonel of the Twenty-Second Indiana Regiment, and was ordered to Jefferson City, Mo., to command that post with twelve thousand men under him. It was here he held important correspondence with General Fremont, upon the necessity of reinforcing Colonel Mulligan, at Lexington. He was ordered to report himself on the Potomac, with other regular officers. Arriving at St. Louis, General Halleck ordered him to report by letter and remain with him. Davis was then sent to Tipton, and there moved in junction with the force of General Curtis to Lebanon, Springfield and Pea Ridge. At the latter place, in the great battle, General Davis commanded the third or center division. After the battle, the officers of his division petitioned the President to appoint him Major General. At Blackwater, Mo., General Davis captured one thousand three hundred prisoners, with two hundred and forty cavalry and three pieces of artillery. Among the number was Colonel Magoffin and three other Colonels, four Majors and a number of inferior officers. The President forwarded a commission for a Brigadier General, and he was ordered to Corinth, at which place he arrived with his command two days before the evacuation. He continued with General Halleck until at Jacinto, Miss., he obtained twenty days leave to return home. He was unable to return and join his command, and thus he was thrown into Louisville. General Nelson went from Kentucky into the navy as a Lieutenant, and with his movements and actions in the army in Kentucky, since the war broke out, every one is familiar. He was made a Brigadier General on the 16th of September, 1862, and afterwards promoted to the rank of Major General. He was formerly a resident of Maysville, and never was married. He has a large circle of relatives in the State, and a few residing in the East. He was also a relative of Mrs. Lincoln. CHAPTER XXII. After resting four days at Louisville, the regiment, on the morning of the 1st of October, received orders to pack up and be ready to move out at ten o'clock. The army was partially re-organized at Louisville, and the Fifty-Ninth Illinois, Twenty-Second Indiana, Seventy-Fifth Illinois and Seventy-Fourth Illinois regiments composed the Third Brigade of the Ninth Division of the army of the Ohio, with Colonel P. S. Post, of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois, commanding; and Brigadier General Jeff. C. Davis commanding the division. The command of the Fifty-Ninth now again devolved on the Lieutenant Colonel, C. H. Frederick. At ten o'clock the brigade moved out, and, passing through the city, took the Bardstown road. It was now known that General Bragg, with thirty-five thousand men, was at Bardstown, Kentucky, and the supposition was that General Buell would meet him at that place, where a general engagement would be had. Bardstown is thirty-five miles from Louisville and a forced march of twenty-four hours would bring the two armies together. The old troops were all anxious to overtake the rebel army and give it battle. They had marched from one point to another until they had lost all patience, and would rather fight the enemy, two to one, than follow him any further. The new troops were also willing to encounter the foe if necessary--but would as soon have remained at Louisville, with their paper collars and black boots, and their nice light bread and butter. The first day or two after leaving the city these green soldiers looked upon the war-worn veterans as dirty, lousy fellows, unfit for associates to such nice clean gentlemen as they were. Two or three days march, however, began to reverse the feeling and by the time their appetite for hard tack and sow-belly had become of full growth they looked upon the old regiments with some degree of reverence and a considerable amount of awe. While they were dragging their sore and weary feet along, the old soldier marched with ease and martial bearing, and while these poor fellows were mincing and making wry faces at fat bacon and pilot bread, and dreaming of butter and baker's bread, the veterans were delighting over their good fare, and resting well o' nights. And the lice preferring new fields of enterprise, left their old haunts and established new quarters on these fresh troops. Although two days easy marching would have taken the army to Bardstown, its advance did not arrive there until the fourth, and then only to find the town evacuated by the enemy. The Fifty-Ninth passed through Bardstown and encamped one mile east. Here the sick was selected from those able to march and sent back to hospital. Here, also, P. Sidney Post, commanding brigade, and Lieutenant Colonel Frederick, commanding regiment, remained behind, by order of the Surgeon, on account of ill health. The command of the regiment, in the absence of Frederick, devolved, of course, upon the Major, J. C. Winters. It was now rumored that the enemy would give battle either at Danville or some selected position this side. The three succeeding days were therefore taken up in reconnoitering and slow marching. On the morning of the 8th cannonading was heard some distance to the left, and the command, of which the Fifty-Ninth formed a part, was advanced some two or three miles in the direction of Perryville. The cannonading continued with only short intervals during the day. The Ninth Division changed positions slightly during the day, but did not get within striking distance of the enemy until just before the dusk of the evening and only one brigade of this division _then_ became engaged. The enemy had met the left wing of our army early in the morning, and the battle had raged along the line towards the center until the whole left wing had become engaged, and now, about four o'clock, the right of the left wing was being rapidly forced back by an overwhelming concentration of the rebel forces. To save his division from utter destruction, General McCook sent an urgent request that the Third Brigade of General Davis' division be immediately forwarded to the rescue. The Third Brigade is composed of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois, Twenty-Second Indiana, Seventy-Fourth and Seventy-Fifth Illinois. The Seventy-Fourth and Seventy-Fifth were new regiments, just from home. The distance to the point of danger was something less than a mile. It was now nearly sunset. Cheerfully the brigade marched out to meet the foe. The men had been held within hearing distance of the fearful carnage all day, with feelings akin to those of the chained lion when most eager for his prey. Many were the inquiries, "Why are all these thousands of soldiers kept here idle all the day so near the battle-field?" "Why not move them to the assistance of our brave boys on the left?" The General in command alone stands responsible to his country and his God for a satisfactory answer to these inquiries. Very many of those who witnessed the movement of the army at Perryville believe in their hearts that General Buell desired the destruction of his own army instead of that of Braxton Bragg's. The good generalship of his subordinates, and the bravery of the troops engaged, most gloriously defeated his designs. It is impossible to give a description of the part the Third Brigade played in this dreadful tragedy. The brigade was commanded by Colonel Goodin, of the Twenty-Second Indiana. The Colonel bravely conducted the regiments to the position assigned them, but before he could form them in battle array, the enemy opened fire with grape and cannister from their batteries, and poured volley after volley of musketry into his ranks. Nothing daunted, the brave men returned the fire with fatal effect for half an hour, each one loading and firing as rapidly as possible without order or system. The enemy at this point had massed their forces for the purpose of turning the right flank of the left wing, which, if accomplished, would have placed it entirely at their mercy, and numbered at least ten to one of our brigade. It was useless to attempt to resist this mighty host, and the order was therefore given for each one to provide for his own safety. Major Winters, of the Fifty-Ninth, repeated the order the third time before the men ceased firing, and then they most reluctantly left the field. Fortunately the ground on which the brigade was halted by the proximity of the enemy was most favorable. Owing to the dusk of the evening and the favorable formation of the ground many of the rebel bullets overshot the mark. Those on horseback were in the most danger. The escape, however, of any of the brigade seems almost a miracle. The slaughter of the rebels in that half hour was dreadful. The idea of cutting off and capturing the left wing of the "Yankee army," as one of the wounded prisoners remarked the next morning, was driven from "Braxton's cranium." That night they evacuated the field, leaving their dead to show the execution of the Third Brigade in thinning their ranks during that short contest. The ground was literally covered with the dead and wounded of both sides. The loss to the Third was heavy, but to the rebels enormous. Every shot from the patriot guns must have taken effect. The Fifty-Ninth, on going into the trap, numbered two hundred and ninety-one men, and on coming out brought off one hundred and eighty-three--leaving one hundred and eight on the field; twenty-three of whom were killed, sixty-two wounded, and twenty-three taken prisoners. Some of the other regiments lost more heavily. The wounded all lay on the field until next morning. The rebels holding the ground until daylight. As soon as it was ascertained that the enemy had retreated, the ambulances were sent out to gather up the wounded and convey them to hospital. The pen can convey no adequate conception of the scene presented on that small field that morning. In the approach to the ground, the ambulances pass through a lane leading from some thick-timbered land to the mansion of the plantation on which the trap was set. Leaving the timber, a small open field on each side of the lane is passed, and then a thinly-wooded pasture-field to the left, and open fields on the right, extending to and surrounding the house. The appearance of the field now shows that the rebels were advancing en mass, through these open fields, from the mansion towards the thinly-wooded field to the left, when the Third Brigade was marched in, directly in front of them, to the wooded pasture-field. The distance from the house to this field was less than half a mile. Through the lower side of this field a small ravine passed, and from it the ground gradually ascended towards the mansion. The Third was marched down this ravine, and in easy range of the rebel muskets. The ravine was not deep enough to protect entirely from the rebel bullets, but the rising ground in front caused the enemy to overshoot, to a great extent. In this little woods-pasture lay the dead and wounded of the Third, with now and then a rebel in the midst, showing that our boys had fired as they fell back, and killed some of their pursuers. The grounds between this and the house, to the right and left, was strewn with dead rebels. More than five to one of those in the field, belonging to the Third, was here stretched out, in full possession of their deserved Southern rights. The sixty-two wounded of the Fifty-Ninth were soon collected, and carefully transported to hospital, among whom was Adjutant Samuel West. Samuel West entered the service as a private, in Captain Hale's company (A.) He was appointed Sergeant-Major soon after the organization of the regiment, and, during the campaigns through Missouri and Arkansas, most satisfactorily performed the duties of that position. On the march he was daily seen with his knapsack on his back, keeping step with the men in the ranks, and in camp he was constantly engaged in doing his own legitimate business, as well as the principal part of that belonging to the commanding officer of the regiment. When Adjutant P. Sidney Post received his commission as Colonel of the regiment, West was promoted to the place of Adjutant. This position he has filled, with honor to himself and much benefit to the regiment, until now. At the battle of Pea Ridge, as Sergeant-Major, he gave that indication of bravery, and coolness in battle, which so clearly manifested itself at Perryville, while striving to preserve order and encourage the men to battle valiantly for their country. Very soon after coming in sight of the enemy, a ball hit him in the leg, above the knee, and soon another, and another, and yet another, and still another, which brought him from his horse, and he was carried from the field. Five times was the leaden messenger sent into his person, but, fortunately, at no vital point. Although so many times severely wounded, he eventually recovered, with the loss of only one eye. The loss was great, to be sure, but thankful, no doubt, was the Adjutant to escape with even so great a loss. Another of the severely wounded was Captain Charles F. Adams, commanding Company I. Captain Adams was promoted from First Lieutenant, soon after the resignation of the former Captain of the Company, (Captain James A. Beach,) and, by his gentlemanly manners and kind treatment of his men, had become very much endeared to them. He was mortally wounded, and died in hospital, on the 15th day of October, 1862. Company A lost one man killed--Francis W. Goff. Company B lost its First Lieutenant--A. R. Johnson--than whom no one was more highly esteemed. He had always been a faithful soldier, and a good officer. His manners and habits were those of a gentleman and a christian. The killed of Company C were Corporal F. C. Cherry, Henry Imel, William H. Blane, Thomas Loyd, James M. Jones, William H. Japaw. Of Company D, Thomas Abbott, Elias Walden. Company F: William H. Layman, Leander Reese, George W. Malatt. Company G: Sergeant William R. March, Harry M. Strickland, James Cade and Joseph Geering, who died on the 11th from the effects of his wounds. Company K, Christian Assmus. Doctor Hazlett, the Surgeon of the Regiment, was, also, numbered amongst the slain. He was shot through the neck while dressing the wound of a soldier. His remains were found the next morning, and through the instrumentality of Captain Snyder, of Company K, were respectably buried beneath the sheltering branches of an evergreen tree that stood close beside the spot where he was found. His boots had been stolen from his feet. A gold watch, and several hundred dollars in money, had been taken from his pockets. His hat, and a splendid case of instruments, were also gone. The Doctor rode a very fine horse, most splendidly caparisoned, and he, too, was gone. In Doctor Hazlett the regiment had lost a very fine gentleman, and a scholar. He was not so universally respected by the men of the regiment as he, perhaps, deserved. His position was one requiring peculiar abilities, which, in many respects, the Doctor was deficient in. Surgical skill will secure a full reputation at the operating table, but something more is required to secure the entire approbation of a regiment of indiscriminating soldiers. His head was covered with hair silvered o'er, not with age, but naturally, and some gave him the epithet of "Tow-head." His prescriptions consisted largely in quinine, and hence the name of "Quinine" was frequently applied. He, one time after a hard day's march, proposed to treat the regiment to a good "snort" of whisky. This was received with a hurrah by the men, but, on taking the "snort," it was so bitter with quinine that the wry faces along the line were universal. Captain Clayton Hale, who was now acting Major, had his horse shot from under him while in advance of the regiment, transmitting orders to the men. He soon, however, procured another, and with it made his escape. Colonel Goodin, commanding the brigade, was captured, and, with the other prisoners, taken to General Bragg's head-quarters, where they were paroled, and sent back into the Union lines. The 9th was principally occupied in burying the dead and providing for the wounded. The regiment, however, moved about one mile farther to the right, and lay in that position until noon of the 10th, when it again moved some four miles in the opposite direction, going into camp near the point where the battle first commenced, on the morning of the 8th. Here were many indications of the severity of the contest. Dead rebels were everywhere met with, through the woods, as yet unburied. Two of them lay within twenty steps of the regiment for twenty-four hours after its arrival there, and would have rotted above ground had not some friends of theirs scattered dirt over them. Not that the Fifty-Ninth was unfeeling or inhuman, but it was not their business to kill, and then bury traitors. Close by was a small open field, in which were three hundred muskets, apparently thrown down by some regiment that had been camped there. CHAPTER XXIII. On the morning of the 12th, the regiment again moved out in pursuit of the enemy. Passing through Danville on the 13th, and through Lancaster on the 14th, it arrived in the neighborhood of Crab Orchard, on the evening of the 15th, and went into camp on the bank of Dix River, Ky., two miles from Crab Orchard, on the morning of the 16th, or rather the army went into bivouac, for the tents and camp equipage were yet in Louisville. An order, however, was immediately sent back to have them brought up. The distance marched since leaving Louisville, is one hundred and thirty miles. And here and thus ends Don Carlos Buell's campaign in Kentucky. A campaign which should have resulted in the capture or annihilation of the rebel hordes, but which will hereafter be regarded as one of the most miserable failures in the military history of the country. True, the State of Kentucky is now rid of the insolent, thieving foe, but this was not the task assigned the commander of the army of the Ohio. He was expected to utterly destroy them, and he had the men and the opportunities to do so; but instead, he permitted the enemy to fall upon, in force, and almost destroy a wing of his army, when fifty thousand men were in easy supporting distance; and then, as if to complete his work of imbecility or treachery, allowed them to escape, when their retreat might still have been cut off. It is said that the army in Flanders swore terribly, and there is no doubt of that fact. Most armies do. But if any one had been fond of profanity, and wished to hear vigorous denunciations, in unmistakable Saxon, they should have heard the army of the Ohio, on the merits of the arch traitor, Don Carlos Buell. The third great error of the war was now most clearly demonstrated--that of continuing Don Carlos in command, after his arrival at Louisville, Ky. Here is an extract from a soldier's letter, written to his boy at home, after losing his summer's harvest by the excessive high waters of that season, showing in what the thoughts of the soldier frequently consist while idle in camp: "DANVILLE, KY., October 22, 1862. "DEAR SON:--For the first time since the 28th of September, I am sitting in a tent, writing. We came here yesterday, and are indebted to the report that some rebel cavalry are following us up pretty closely, for the purpose of picking up stragglers or capturing some of our train, for our leisure day. Our army is moving back to Lebanon, which is on the Louisville and Nashville railroad, and our brigade is the rear guard. "We left Crab Orchard, Monday morning, and got this far, when we were halted, and two regiments, the Twenty-Second Indiana and Seventy-Fourth Illinois, were sent back to attend to the rebels. We will, perhaps, only remain here until these regiments return, and then move on. "This is a beautiful day, and causes me to think of home. I would delight, above all things, to be with you this pleasant afternoon. I should like to look around with you, and see what you have left after your year's hard work. I know it is not much, but perhaps what you have is worth looking at. You have two or three nice 'shoats' in the pen, which you are feeding for your winter's meat. They are doing finely--will make fine, tender, juicy ham, such as we in the army are not accustomed to. Their spare-ribs will be most delicious, and the sausage meat you can get from them will repay you for the trouble of making it. Chickens you have, I see, in abundance--ah! yes, they are very nice. One fried now and then is not bad in a small family like yours, or even made into a pot-pie, is not hard to take--decidedly better than a dose of rhubarb. I see one there, now, that would do either for a fry or a stew--that one with the plump breast and yellow legs. Yes, chickens are a great help to a family, but an army has no use for chickens. The individual soldier sometimes finds use for them, as the people living along the line of march have learned to their sorrow. "I see that you have a milch cow or two. Well, I reckon you make that which some people call butter, from the milk of the cow. Butter, if I remember rightly, is a yellow greasy substance which people sometimes spread on bread or hot biscuit, which, as they fancy, adds materially to their relish. I suppose it is quite necessary to those who have learned to use it, judging from the longing of the new recruits after it on leaving Louisville; but we in the army have no use for such stuff, and consequently a cow would be of no service to us, while alive, at any rate. If she had been starved a few weeks, and then skinned, we, perhaps, could make use of her bones for making soup, as we understand _that_. Ah, ha, you have one horse left too. Well, that's better than some folks I know of down here in Dixie. The less stock you have the less feed it takes, and the more time you have to spare for something else. And then there is another consolation about it--your taxes will not be so great next year. And then also you will not be called up o' nights to see if your horses haven't got loose in the stable and gone to kicking each other in the dark. I think it is a blessed thing to have nothing. Now, when we left Bowling Green, Kentucky, on our march from Nashville to Louisville, our wagons were all left behind, and all the knapsacks and trunks left with them. Our young officers had lots of fine clothes, etc., in their trunks, and our soldiers had pants, coats, etc., in their knapsacks, which were all left and consequently lost, and now they are lamenting their heavy losses. _I_ had nothing of the sort. The clothes on my back--two shirts and two or three pair of socks--was all I had, and of course I brought them with me and lost nothing; consequently didn't care a snap about the wagons, and now one little handkerchief will hold all my worldly goods, and I am as happy as--a fish on dry land. So I say, blessed be nothing." On the morning of the 26th the brigade moved out for Lebanon; passing through Lebanon, it took the direct road for Bowling Green, where it arrived on the morning of the 4th of November. In the meantime General Rosecranz, succeeding Buell in command, had arrived at Bowling Green, and was personally inspecting and forwarding the different divisions on towards Nashville as fast as they arrived. General Jeff. C. Davis, having been released from arrest, for shooting General Nelson, also arrived here and assumed command of his division. Here, too, the Fifty-Ninth received an unlooked for acquisition, in the shape of an Assistant Surgeon from Knoxville, Illinois. Charles Bunce reported himself for duty as a commissioned Surgeon of the Fifty-Ninth Regiment Illinois Volunteers, somewhat to the astonishment of the men, as no intimation of his appointment had ever reached them. It would naturally be supposed that the men of a regiment would be more deeply interested in the selection of a proper person to look after the health than any others, and in most regiments they have the selection of their own Surgeon, but in the Fifty-Ninth it seems to have been taken for granted that the men were mere automatons, only fit to be looked after as a lot of mules should be in corral. It is a universally admitted fact that many more men die in the army from other causes, than those produced by the shot and shell of the enemy. Some would fain believe that disease alone is chargeable with this fatality, but it is not so. A large majority of the fatal cases in the army are, _without a doubt_, produced by the malpractice of ignorant young men, who, through the influence of some personal friend, receive a commission as Surgeon. Very culpable is that man who recommends to the position of Surgeon a man entirely unfitted for the place, merely because he is a personal friend or relative. There are many young men who are now tampering with the lives of the noble soldier, whose qualifications are only such as they have acquired in attendance behind the counter of some one-horse drug store, or such as is obtained by taking care of some eminent doctor's horses. There is no other position in the army having so great a weight of responsibility attached as that of Surgeon, and there is no other position filled with so little regard to qualification as this one. It is to be hoped that more care may be bestowed by those in authority in ascertaining the qualifications of those sent to preserve the health and lives of the soldiers. Leaving Bowling Green the regiment passes over the same road it had traversed about a month before, and arrives at Edgefield on the evening of the 7th of November, 1862. The only incident of note on the march was the burning, by the "Louisville Legion," of two large residences, from the windows of which they had been shot at while passing towards Nashville on their former visit, and the capturing of eleven prisoners, by our advanced skirmishers, on the morning of the 6th. The distance from Crab Orchard to Nashville, via the route marched, is one hundred and fifty-six miles. CHAPTER XXIV. The morning of the 8th of November broke clear and frosty over the tired and sleepy soldiers of the army of the Cumberland. The town clock of Nashville failed to wake them at the proper time for reveille, and the fife and drum kept silence until the sun had sent his piercing rays into many a sleepers face. Anon the drums begin to sound the signal for the morning roll call, and now the scene is changed. Men are seen in all directions creeping out from under blankets, wet with melting frost--some in full uniform, having slept all night in full dress; some half undressed, and some old veterans falling in for roll call with coat and pants both off. The custom in camp is to put on extra duty all who fail to answer at roll call. Early in the forenoon, Colonel Frederick, who has regained his health and is now with the regiment, received orders to establish his regiment in camp. Colonel Frederick delighted in having order and neatness through his camping grounds, and consequently always superintended the pitching of tents and policing the camps himself. The ground on which the tents were to be pitched, was a rolling piece of land, belonging to an old secesh, and delightfully situated for a camp. It was about half a mile from Edgefield, which is on the right bank of the Cumberland River, immediately opposite the city of Nashville, was well shaded by several large forest trees, and covered nicely by a good coating of blue grass. The river affords a good supply of water, and several springs are close at hand. The tents are pitched something after military regulations, but not exact. The Colonel selecting the position of the tents to suit his fancy. The soldiers' tents are pitched in line by companies. First is Company A, at the right of the regiment; next in order is company B; next, C, and so on down to company K, on the left. The company tents are set in line, one behind the other, with a space of thirty feet between the companies. In front of these are the tents of the commanders of companies; each Captain thirty feet in front of his company. Thirty feet in front of these again, are the tents of the field and staff officers. When regularly pitched, and with clean white tents, the appearance is quite pretty. Each regiment has its own separate grounds, in connection with its own brigade. A brigade consists of four regiments and a battery, and covers several acres. Now, then, what is the daily occupation of the inhabitants of these tents? Persons not in the secret might suppose that there was nothing to do but eat and sleep, and amusement generally. But not so. In the morning at four or five o'clock, reveille is sounded by the drums and fife. This notifies the sleeper that he must get up and answer to his name at roll call. The Orderly Sergeant calls the roll, in the presence of some one of the commissioned officers of the company. Fires are now kindled, and each one prepares his own breakfast. After breakfast the "sick call" is sounded. The Orderly Sergeant then reports all the sick men in his company to the Doctor. Sometimes there are twenty or thirty brought to him for examination and medicine. Those who are really sick, the Doctor excuses from doing any duty that day, so that he may lay around at his leisure and get well; or, perhaps, he is retained at the hospital, where he can be nursed and have medicine given him. At eight o'clock comes guard mounting--that is, placing guards around the camp, so that soldiers can't leave camp without a pass or written permit from the Colonel. These guards are stationed all around camp at certain intervals, and must continually walk back and forth from one station to the other, so that they can see any one who tries to pass out. One man walks two hours, then another relieves him. This set of guards remain on duty for twenty-four hours. New guards are mounted every morning. After guard mounting, extra-duty men are usually set to work sweeping the grounds. By the time this is done, dinner is to be prepared. In the afternoon, the men are taken out on battalion drill, usually from two o'clock until four. Then supper. After this comes dress parade. At sun-down the drums beat retreat. At eight, tattoo; and at nine, all becomes quiet--the day's work is done. This is the daily employment of the soldier in camp. But there is some other work that has to be attended to, such as going out on picket, for instance, one company or a part of a company, is sent out a mile or two from camp, to stay for twenty-four hours, so that an enemy may not make a surprise on the camp. There is, also, other work to be done, such as drawing rations, getting wood, washing clothes, &c. The soldier's life is not an idle one. While the regiment lay at Florence, Ala., several contrabands came to camp and engaged themselves as servants to the officers; amongst them were two females. One of these soon donned the habiliments of a soldier. In this garb she marched with the regiment until now. On the evening of the 7th, when coming into camp, she incidentally passed through the yard of the planter, close to the chicken roost. The guard stationed there supposed that she was after some of the feathered tribe, and ordered her to halt. Not supposing the order addressed to her, she paid no attention to it, and was passing on, when the guard fired, shooting her in the "seat of honor." The guard did not suspect he was shooting a woman; but supposed her to be some thieving buck negro. She was taken to camp, and now Dr. Bunce had the opportunity of performing his first surgical operation. The wound was merely a flesh wound, and the most difficult part of the operation was the examination, in the presence of several unfeeling witnesses. The Doctor soon applied the dressing--very neatly, considering the circumstances--and then left nature to perform the healing. On the 30th the Division crossed the river, and pitched tents again, south of Nashville. An extract from the author's diary, of the 5th December, says: "We are still in camp, four miles south of town, and nothing, as yet, indicating a move. Our pleasant weather has gone, 'glimmering among the dream of things that were,' and now we are wrapping our blankets and over-coats around us to keep out the chilling north winds, and to protect us from the driving snow. To-day the snow has been filling the air with its downy flakes, and covering the earth and trees with a beautiful garment of white. This is the second time since last winter that the earth has been clothed in a symbol of purity. There are, however, but slight indications of its continuing in that gait long, for even now rents are perceivable, through which its nakedness is manifest. The warmth of the ground is too great for the snow's frail fabric, and not long can it resist the heating influence. Perhaps by to-morrow's eve it will have returned to its native element, and disappeared. Snow in the Northern States, when the ground is hard frozen, is a great benefit to the farmer in protecting his small grain; but in the South, where it falls one day and disappears the next, is of little profit, yet it is not without its use, as there is no providential occurrence without some good result." The diary continues: "6th--Another morning has dawned, bright and cold. After the snow-storm, yesterday, the clouds passed away, and the night set in with a clear sky and brilliant moon, and stars innumerable. This morning the snow is crackling under feet, and glistening in the sun-beams splendidly. It is the coldest morning of the season, but old Sol will soon warm the atmosphere to a pleasant temperature. The woodman's axe is ringing merrily in all directions. The soldiers are busy cutting down the trees for wood, that they may have warm fires to stay by these cold mornings. In a very short time this noble grove will be all destroyed. 'Woodman, spare that tree,' is not the motto here. The delight of the soldier seems to be, to lay the monarch of the forest low, in this secesh country. "One old lady, on whose premises we camped one day, exclaimed: "'Good Lord! are they going to cut _all_ our trees?'" "Her husband was in the rebel army, and her trees were not spared. Before the army left, stumps alone remained to tell the fate of that splendid grove--a grove, of which the old lady had been proud for many years, and with which she was very loth to part. Her children, and her grand children, had delighted her old heart many times with their childish gambols, under those noble shade-trees; but, alas, and alack! they are gone now; and the grass that is now so green and bright will be all withered and browned by the scorching rays of the sun. The next generation will have to play in the sunshine, or seek some other grove in which to sport. It will not be so bad for the little woolly-headed darkies, as their complexion is but little affected by the tanning influence of the sun; but the fair skin of the white children will suffer. "7th December, 1862--This is a cold, bright Sabbath. Winter is here in earnest. We in camp are well prepared for cold weather. The boys have plenty of good, warm clothing, and blankets, over-coats and tents, and, if they suffer, it will be because they will not get wood for their fires. "December 8th--The snow has all disappeared, but the weather is still cold. The paymaster has been paying off a part of the regiment to-day. Company F fails to get pay because of having no pay rolls. Captain Currie, who has lately been transferred to the gun-boat service, left the regiment a few days ago, and carried the rolls along with him, very much to the inconvenience of the company. Lieutenant Maddox is now in command of the company. "December 9th--It yet continues most charming winter weather. In fact it more resembles early spring than winter. "Something is now going on four or five miles from here. What it is we do not know; but the reports from secesh cannon indicate a skirmish with the enemy, some foraging party being resisted in their depredations. The regiment is going out on a scout of a few hours, and will ascertain, perhaps, what that cannonading means. I think it is quite time that Rosecranz was doing something. One month has passed since we arrived at Nashville, and no advance has yet been made. Why remain idle so long? The men are all anxious to move forward, and do something towards terminating the war. Better die fighting the enemy than linger out a miserable existence in camp. "8 o'clock--The regiment has just returned to camp, without learning anything of the cannonading. They bring no spoils of victory, except one or two contraband hogs, and a few chickens. "December 10th--Reveille sounded in the old camp this morning at two o'clock, and at five we moved out on the march. Our course was taken due east from camp, as could be known by the redness of the horizon, indicating the point at which the 'God of day' would first make his appearance. The morning was cool and bracing, and the boys put out with a will, being also encouraged by a prospect of a fight with the enemy, as it was rumored that that was the object of the march. The march continued about five miles, and terminated by our going into camp here. We are, perhaps, a little nearer the enemy than we were this morning, but have only changed our position in relation to Nashville. We are now more directly between Nashville and Murfreesboro'--four miles from the former, and twenty-six from the latter--about two miles west of the pike leading to Murfreesboro. This State, as well as Kentucky, is abundantly supplied with macadamized roads. Stone is easily procured, and has been unsparingly used for road purposes. "It is now about four o'clock on the morning of the 11th of December. 'Early to bed and early to rise' is an example set by all who have ever made any great progress in the world, and this morning I have followed it. Early rising is pretty generally practiced in the army, especially by the privates; the officers, having attained to all they desire, sleep till surfeited. "This is a lovely morning, just such an one as would suit me at home. Oh, how much I would enjoy home this morning! The christian, who has resigned his claim to all earthly things, and transferred his treasures to the 'better land,' alone can tell the feelings of a soldier when he _indulges_ in the thoughts of home. Home, to the soldier, is as the treasure-house above to the christian, for where the treasures are there will the heart be also. 'Home, sweet home, there is no place like home.' 'Oh, dark is how my heart grows weary, far from my good old home.' Shall I never more behold it? Never again look upon the bright and cheerful faces of those I left behind me there? Yes, I fancy that I shall, but the time seems long--seems very long. "Well, I have just returned from a walk I have been taking, out beyond the camp, and there the birds bid me be of good cheer. They sang, 'When the spring time comes,' you may with us go back to your northern home, and we'll spend the summer together there. I blessed the little songsters, and came back to camp more resigned and cheerful. _Now_ the day is numbered amongst those that were before the flood, and a 'wee bit' candle is all the light I have to see by. "About half a mile from camp is a large cane brake, or cane thicket. The cane stands so thick on the ground that a hare could not pass between them, only in places where they had been cut or broken down. They are from fifteen to twenty feet in length; they are now in thick foliage; the leaves are as green as in the summer time; it is quite cheering to look at them. The little birds come from miles away to sleep among the thick leaves; it is so much warmer for them than on the branches of the big leafless trees of the forest. Here the cold wind or the sharp frost can not penetrate; but the innocent little creatures had better run the risk of being frozen than seek shelter here at this time, for every night hundreds of them are sacrificed to the rapacity of the ruthless soldier. The boys take candles and torches, and by dazzling their eyes with the bright light, pick them from their perches without difficulty, or knock them off with sticks do they try to escape. The birds are principally the red-breasted robin, but there are other smaller ones of different kinds. Pot-pie is a common dish in camp now. "December 12th--The mail comes regularly to camp now, bringing letters from the dear ones at home. Good, kind, cheering letters some of them are too. I just had the pleasure of reading one from a good old mother in Illinois to her noble boy in the army. Such loving, cheering words--such good advice. The boy's heart was softened, ennobled, elevated. There is no danger of his becoming wicked so long as that kind mother continues her controlling influence over him. Would that there were more such mothers in Illinois! If there were there would be much less wickedness manifested in the army of the Cumberland. No one can estimate the restraining influence of an affectionate letter from a beloved mother, or a kind friend, to the young soldier. I fancy that I can go through our regiment and point out every young man who has a good family at home, or a pious loving mother who devotes a portion of her time in writing to her soldier boy in the army. Richly will she be rewarded for labor thus spent. The soldier is constantly exposed to peculiar temptations, and needs all the restraining influences that can be thrown around him, and there can be none more restraining than the admonitions of an absent, loving mother. "December 22d--The weather continues most delightful. We are under marching orders. The tents are all struck and loaded in the wagons. The sick have all been sent back to Nashville to remain in hospital until their health becomes restored, or they are transported to that bourne from whence no traveler returns. "Mason Campbell, of Company B, was under treatment at the regimental hospital three days before being sent to Nashville. The most energetic treatment was pursued in his case--about five grains of calomel being given him every three hours for three days, making, in all, one hundred and twenty grains, and no motion from the bowels during the time; with all this he was sent to Nashville and died. "December 25--Here we are in camp again. After loading our traps in the wagons we lay around promiscuously until yesterday noon, when we marched about five miles towards Nolensville, right about faced, and marched back again to the very spot we started from. "Strategy, my boy!" "Occasional reports from artillery have been heard out in front to-day, and I shouldn't wonder if they were the harbingers of a battle shortly to take place. "One of the boys deserted from the regiment last night, and it is supposed he has gone over to the rebels. He was tied up yesterday for leaving camp without first getting a pass. He slipped the guards and visited Nashville, where he remained all night. When he came back he was arrested by the Captain of his company and tied by both hands to the lower limbs of a tree, where he was kept some two hours or more. This morning he is missing. There are various ways of punishing men in the army. Some are tied up, either with their arms encircling the trunk of a large tree, or with their hands high above their heads. Some are made to pack rails on their shoulder with a guard following them, for two or three hours at a time. "One young man was paraded through camp one day with both hands tied fast to a single-tree, hitched behind a mule; a man was riding the mule; two guards with fixed bayonets marching beside the captive, and the fife and drum beating the rogues march behind. "Sometimes the punishment consists in having a board strapped to the back, with large letters in chalk, stating the offense, and being marched around through camp. "In some cases it seems to be necessary not only to bind the hands but to tie the tongue also. This is done by forcing some substance into the mouth so as to keep the jaws separated. The practice of this sort of punishment by one of the officers gave him the name of 'Buck and Gag.'" CHAPTER XXV. On the morning of the 27th, every thing being in readiness, the division moved out, taking the direction of Nolensville, which is nine miles from camp. The day was not so pleasant as was desirable, but the men were willing to march, and did not mind the rain and mud to be encountered. Lieut. Colonel Frederick started out with the regiment in the morning, but having poor health, soon fell back to an ambulance and returned to Nashville. Major Winters was at home, on leave of absence, and Captain Hale, the ranking Captain in the regiment, was also absent. The command, therefore, fell to the lot of Captain Paine, of Company B. Captain Paine was a strict disciplinarian, and commanded one of the best drilled companies in the regiment. His strict discipline and peculiar way of punishing his men, had procured for him the name of "Buck and Gag." Captain James M. Stookey, being the next ranking Captain assumed the position of Major. By this arrangement, Company B was left to the command of First Lieutenant J. R. Johnson, and Company E, to the command of Lieutenant Goodin. Soon after leaving camp, the Fifty-Ninth was sent in advance as skirmishers. They soon came across the rebel pickets and began skirmishing. As the Fifty-Ninth advanced, the rebels in front of them fell back to the town of Nolensville, where it seems they intended to more severely contest the ground. Here they had a battery planted, and threw several shells at our men before they could get one in position to reply. As soon, however, as a shot or two was fired from a twelve pounder, placed in range, the rebels withdrew on double quick, and the Fifty-Ninth took possession of the town. As the regiment was advancing across an open common, between the woods and town, a volley was fired at one of the companies from the windows of a large frame house, in front of them, without doing any injury. Colonel Pease, of General Davis' staff, saw the shooting, and being close to one of our guns, ordered the cannoneer to plant a shell into the house. This gun had been instrumental in silencing the rebel battery, and was within good range of the house. The first shell exploded within one of the upper rooms, doing wonderful execution among the furniture and tearing the plastering and casing into a thousand fragments. This brought the rebs to light, and a volley from the company sent them howling to the woods. The second shell passed through the hen house, scattering chickens and feathers in all directions, and continuing on its course, burst in the rear of the fleeing rebels. The town was now in possession of the Fifty-Ninth, but to the right heavy skirmishing continued, and the regiment passed on in that direction. Heavy skirmishing continued until the enemy were driven to the opposite side of "Big Gap," about four miles south of Nolensville. Darkness now prevented any further pursuit, and the army went into bivouac. The loss in the division was light, the Fifty-Ninth not having a man hurt. Several of the enemy were killed and a few taken prisoners. Colonel Pease, while setting on his horse, directing the cannoneer, was hit on the leg by a minnie ball, which passed through his pants, just creasing the flesh. "That's pretty close," remarked the Colonel, and continued his directions without any farther notice of the flying missiles. The regiment here lost another man by desertion, or rather gained the room and rations of a worthless, thieving Frenchman. He was a member of Company G, and had frequently offended by disobeying orders in regard to straggling, particularly in times of danger. There are a few men in all regiments who, whenever there is a prospect of a fight "play off" either by feigning sickness, or by slipping from the ranks on some trivial pretense, and dropping to the rear, there to remain until the danger is all over. This fellow of a Frenchman, had practiced this habitually, and now the Captain determined to punish him. This he did by tying him up. In a short time thereafter, the fellow managed to loosen the cords that bound him and make his escape. Pursuit was immediately made and an exciting chase resulted in the defeat of the pursuers. It is supposed the fellow fled to the rebel lines, and it is to be hoped that all sneaks who will fall back to the rear, to places of safety, when their friends and companions in arms are in danger, will follow his example, and cast their lot with traitors. The morning of the 27th was so murky, that an enemy could not be seen at any distance, and consequently the troops did not move until the fog had disappeared in rain drops. About nine o'clock, the skirmishers were advanced and continued moving forward until evening, without meeting with any serious resistance. The Fifty-Ninth followed in regular marching order for six or eight miles, and went into bivouac. The 28th being Sunday, the army lay in camp all day. General Rosecranz was religiously opposed to moving his army on the Sabbath, unless unavoidable. All honor and praise to him for setting such a noble example. Success will ever attend the General who pays due respect to the command, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy." This morning the Acting Adjutant, Hale Phillips--Adjutant West being on Colonel Post's brigade staff--and the Commissary Sergeant, Thomas J. Melvin, obtained permission to return to Nashville on business. On their way they overtook the train a few miles from Nashville. With the train was Captain Clayton Hale and Lieutenant Fred. Brasher, Quartermaster; the former returning to the regiment from a leave of absence, and the latter in charge of the train. Very soon after the Adjutant and Commissary arrived at the train, and before they had dismounted from their horses they were surrounded by a large squad of rebel cavalry and all taken prisoners. Resistance was useless, as there was no guard with the train, and consequently they surrendered without an effort to escape. They were treated very kindly by their captors--paroled and allowed to proceed to Nashville. From Nashville they visited their homes, and had a good time of it generally, until they were exchanged. On Monday morning, December 29th, the army was again put in motion. General Davis, taking the advance of General McCook's corps, with his division, turned from the Nolensville pike, in an easterly direction, towards Murfreesboro'. The writer was fortunate enough to witness the passing of this corps, as it proceeded to the lane at which it left the pike. First came General Jeff. C. Davis and staff, immediately followed by a body guard of one company of cavalry. Next followed Colonel P. Sidney Post, commanding brigade, with his staff, and then the four regiments of his brigade, closely followed by a six gun battery. Then followed the other brigades in the same order. While the column was passing, General McCook and staff came dashing by in magnificent style. They came, they were seen, and they were gone. General McCook is a good commander, but like most of his rank, he prides himself on _being_ General McCook. While looking at this well appointed corps, the heart swelled with emotions of pride, to think that there were so many noble-hearted men willing and eager to meet in deadly contest the enemy who were attempting to destroy their country. The 29th and 30th were spent in reconnoitering and skirmishing with the enemy, General Davis' Division terminating its movements by getting into position Tuesday evening, on the left of McCook's command, near Wilkerson's Creek. The Fifty-Ninth Illinois Regiment occupied the left of Colonel P. Sidney Post's brigade, and the extreme left of the right wing of the army. The enemy had fallen back to their chosen position, about two miles from Murfreesboro', and the Fifty-Ninth Illinois lay on the ground all Tuesday night, within five hundred yards of their line of battle. The night was quite cold, and the ground saturated with water. Without blankets or fires, the men shivered through the night. Company G, commanded by Captain Starkey, was stationed to the right of the regiment, and somewhat in advance, as picket-guard. This continued the position of the regiment until the rebels made the attack, Wednesday morning. General Rosecranz marched from Nashville, with forty-five thousand men, and one hundred and two pieces of artillery, and skirmished all the way to the battle field, the enemy resisting bitterly. The whole of Tuesday was spent in reconnoitering. The enemy was found strongly posted, with artillery, in a bend of Stone River, his flanks resting on the west side of Murfreesboro'. The center also had the advantage of high ground with a dense growth of cedar masking them completely. Their position gave them the advantage of a cross fire, and General McCook's Corps closed in their left on Wilkerson's Creek. Negley, of Thomas' Corps, worked, with great difficulty, to the front of the rebel center. Rousseau's Division was in reserve. Crittenden's Corps was posted on the comparatively clear ground on the left, Palmer's and Van Cleve's Divisions in front, in the woods, and held in reserve. A battle was expected all day Tuesday, but the enemy merely skirmished and threw a few shells, one of which killed Orderly McDonald, of the Fourth United States Cavalry, not ten feet from General Rosecranz. That afternoon the Anderson Pennsylvania Cavalry, on McCook's flank, was drawn into an ambuscade, and its two Majors (Rosengarten and Ward) were killed. Crittenden's Corps lost four killed and two wounded that day, including Adjutant Elliott, of the Fifty-Seventh Indiana, severely wounded. McCook's loss was about fifty. The same day the rebel cavalry made a dash on our rear, at Lavergne, burned a few wagons, and captured thirty-five prisoners. That night dispositions were made to attack the enemy in the morning. After dark the enemy were reported massing upon McCook, obviously to strike our right wing. This corresponded with the wishes of General Rosecranz, who instructed General McCook to hold him in check stubbornly, while the left wing should be thrown into Murfreesboro', behind the enemy. At daybreak, of the last day of December, everything appeared working well. Battle had opened on our right, and our left wing was on hand at seven o'clock. Ominous sounds indicated that the fire was approaching on the right. Aides were dispatched for information, and found the forests full of flying negroes, with some straggling soldiers, who reported whole regiments falling back rapidly. Meantime one of McCook's aides announced to General Rosecranz that General Johnson had permitted the three batteries of his division to be captured by a sudden attack of the enemy, and that that fact had somewhat demoralized the troops. This was obvious. The brave General Sill, one of our best officers, was killed, General Kirk severely wounded, and General Willich killed or missing, besides other valuable officers. General Rosecranz sent word, pressing General McCook to hold the front, and he would help him. It would all work right. He now galloped to the front of Crittenden's left, with his Staff, to order the line of battle, when the enemy opened a full battery and emptied two saddles of the escort. Van Cleve's Division was sent to the right, Colonel Beatty's Brigade in front. The fire continued to approach on the right with alarming rapidity, extending to the center, and it was clear that the right was doubling upon the left. The enemy had compelled us to make a complete change of front on that wing, and were pressing the center. General Rosecranz, with splendid daring, dashed into the fire, and sent his Staff along the lines, started Beatty's Brigade forward, some six batteries opened, and sustained a magnificent fire. Directly a tremendous shout was raised along the whole line. The enemy began to fall back rapidly. The General himself urged the troops forward. The rebels, thoroughly punished, were driven back fully a mile. The same splendid bravery was displayed in the center, and the whole line advanced. Meantime the enemy made formidable demonstrations on our left, while they prepared for another onslaught on our right. Meantime orders had been issued to move our left upon the enemy. Before they had time to execute it, they burst upon our center with awful fury, and it began to break. Rousseau's Divisions were carried into the breach magnificently by their glorious leader, and the enemy again retreated hastily into the dense cedar thickets. Again they essayed our right, and again were driven back. This time the number of our stragglers was formidable, and the prospect was discouraging, but there was no panic. The General, confident of success, continued to visit every part of the field, and, with the aid of Thomas, McCook, Crittenden, Rousseau, Negley and Wood, the tide of battle was again turned. Early in the day we were seriously embarrassed by the enterprise of rebel cavalry, who made some serious dashes upon some of McCook's ammunition and subsistence trains, capturing a number of wagons, and artillery ammunition was alarmingly scarce. At one time it was announced that not a single wagon-load of it could be found. Some of our batteries were quiet, on that account. This misfortune was caused by the capture of McCook's trains. About two o'clock the battle had shifted again, from right to left, the rebels discovering the impossibility of succeeding in their main design, and suddenly massed his forces on the left, crossing the river, or moving under high bluffs, from his right, and for about two hours the fight raged with unremitting fury. The advantage was with the enemy for a considerable length of time, when they were checked by our murderous fire, of both musketry and artillery. The scene at this point was magnificent and terrible. The whole battle was in full view, the enemy deploying right and left, bringing up their batteries in fine style, our own vomiting smoke and missiles upon them with awful fury, and our gallant fellows moving to the front with unflinching courage, or lying flat upon their faces to escape the rebel fire, until the moment for action. There was not a place on the field that did not give men a satisfactory idea of the manner of hot fire, solid shot, shell and minnie balls, which rattled around like hail. Rosecranz himself was incessantly exposed--it is wonderful that he escaped. His Chief of Staff (noble Lieutenant-Colonel Garesche) had his head taken off by a round shot, and the blood spattered the General and some of the Staff. Lieutenant Lyman Kirk, just behind him, was lifted clear out of his saddle by a bullet, which shattered his left arm. Three Orderlies, and the gallant Sergeant Richmond, of the Fourth United States Cavalry, were killed within a few feet of him, and five or six horses in the staff and escort were struck. Between four and five o'clock the enemy, apparently exhausted by his rapid and incessant assault, took up a position not assailable without abundant artillery, and the fire on both sides slackened, and finally ceased at dark, the battle having raged eleven hours. The loss of life on our side is considerable. The field is comparatively limited. The whole casualty list that day, excluding captures, did not exceed, perhaps, one thousand and five hundred, of whom not more than one-fourth were killed. This is attributed to the care taken to make our men lie down. The enemy's loss must have been more severe. But among our losses we mourn such noble souls as General Sill, General August Willich, Colonel Garesche, Colonel Minor Millikin, First Ohio Cavalry; Colonel Hawkins, Thirteenth Ohio; Colonel McKee, Third Kentucky; Colonel Gorman, Fifteenth Kentucky; Colonel Kell, Second Ohio; Lieutenant-Colonel Shepherd, Eighteenth Regulars; Major Carpenter, Nineteenth Regulars; Captain Edgarton, First Ohio Battery, and his two Lieutenants, and many more. When the battle closed, the enemy occupied ground which was ours in the morning, and the advantage theirs. Their object in attacking was to cut us off from Nashville; they almost succeeded. They had played their old game. If McCook's corps had held more firmly against Hardee's corps and Cheatham's, when he fought, Rosecranz's plan of battle would have succeeded. At dark they had a heavy force on our right, leading to the belief that they intended to pursue. Their cavalry, meantime, was excessively troublesome, cutting deeply into our train behind us, and we had not cavalry enough to protect ourselves. The Fourth Regulars made one splendid dash at them, capturing sixty-seven and releasing five hundred prisoners they had taken from us. The enemy took a large number. "General Rosecranz determined to begin the attack this morning and opened furiously with our left at dawn. The enemy, however, would not retire from our right, and the battle worked that way. At eleven o'clock matters were not flattering on either side. At twelve o'clock our artillery, new supplies of ammunition having arrived, was massed, and a terrible fire opened. The enemy began to give way, General Thomas pressing on their center, and Crittenden advancing on their left. The battle was more severe at that hour than it had been, and the result was yet doubtful. Both sides were uneasy, but determined. General Rosecranz feels its importance fully. If he is defeated it will be badly, because he will fight as long as he has a brigade. If he is victorious, the enemy will be destroyed. At this hour we are apprehensive. Some of our troops behaved badly, but most of them were heroes. The enemy seem to number as many as we, and perhaps more. General Joe Johnson and General Braxton Bragg are in command." Thus writes a correspondent of the Cincinnati Commercial. When the enemy surprised General Johnson, the Fifty-Ninth Illinois was under arms and ready for the conflict. Had the attack been made on General Davis instead of Johnson the ground would have been held and the inglorious stampede of the right wing prevented. The attack was made at the only point in the Union lines where the rebels would not have met with a warm reception. Some of the boys were captured while at the Springs after water; some at their fires while cooking, and some of the artillery-men were surprised while watering their horses. The attack was manfully resisted in front of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois until Johnson's Division had doubled back in confusion on Davis, and the enemy was forcing Davis' right so as to threaten the rear of Post's Brigade, when Colonel Post ordered a retreat. Reluctantly and in good order the regiment moved back, occasionally throwing a volley into the ranks of the pursuing enemy, which held them in check until General Rousseau's command came to the rescue. On its retreat it passed the point where our brigade battery had been in position. One gun of the battery had been left behind still in position, for the want of horses to pull it off the field, some of these having been killed. The men, by permission, left the ranks and soon run it out of danger of falling into the hands of the enemy. As soon as reinforcements arrived the Fifty-Ninth ceased its retreat and advanced again upon the enemy. They were driven back and the regiment went into bivouac north of the Murfreesboro' and Nashville Pike. Of all the regiments belonging to Johnson or Davis' divisions the Fifty-Ninth came off the field with the most men and in the best order. James A. Howser, Company F, Sergeant John J. Hatham and Andrew J. Watts, Company D, James H. Sheets, Company C, Patrick Reynolds, Company H, Jas. R. Dennis, Company B, Sergeant Alfred B. Barber and Corporal Reuben Cummins, Company G, and Thos. I. Hopper, Company A, were left on the field killed. Jefferson Slusser and James Slusser were left on the field wounded, and fell into the hands of the rebels. They were taken to Murfreesboro', and kept there until retaken by our forces on the evacuation of the town. On the 1st day of January, 1863, the regiment advanced to Stone River to within two miles of Murfreesboro', and General Davis being ordered to charge across and dislodge some of the enemy who were on the opposite side, the Fifty-Ninth waded the stream on double-quick, charged up the bank and took possession of the ground, the rebels retreating before their glittering bayonets without resistance. Here they lay under fire, and returning shot for shot until after dark, when they silently withdrew, crossing back to their old position. The battle continuing through the 2d and 3d days of January; the regiment was constantly kept under arms, frequently changing position so as to always be in front of the enemy. During the stampede on Wednesday the rebel cavalry broke through our lines and made a dash on the train. The hospital wagon of the Fifty-Ninth Regiment was halted by one of the Texan Rangers, and the driver was ordered to drive his team off in an opposite direction. "Certainly, certainly," said the driver, but in the meantime made his calculations, and sprang from the wagon on the other side. Some fleeing soldier had thrown away his loaded musket; this fortunately was seen by Foster--the driver's name was Albert Foster--who picked it up. Passing rapidly to the rear and around his wagon he shot the rebel from his horse, mounted it and joined our cavalry, which was now charging back on the greasy scoundrels, and assisted in driving them to the woods. After chasing them until pursuit was useless he returned to his team with his spoils of victory. The horse was a valuable one, and was well equipped with a good saddle and bridle, a pair of pistols in the holsters, and saddle-bags containing some clothing and corn bread. A few more such heroic drivers would save many a government wagon from the torch of the guerrilla. The rebels retreated from Murfreesboro' on the night of the 3d, and on the 4th General Rosecranz established his headquarters there. The army moved on through town and went into camp two or three miles below. The trains were soon ordered up with tents and all necessary camp equipage, and in a few days the troops were comfortably resting from the excessive toil and exposure of the last two weeks' campaign. Eight days constant exposure without rest or sleep had tried the muscle and nerve of the brave men of the army to the extent, almost, of endurance. Nobly had they endured the hardships, and now they are entitled to all the comforts that is possible to be provided. They had driven the rebels from their comfortable winter quarters at Murfreesboro', and had made the prospect for a termination of the war much more flattering than when lying idly in camp at Nashville, and they were satisfied. Their hardships were soon forgotten, and in a very few days they would have been willing to have made another advance. CHAPTER XXVI. The Fifty-Ninth pitched tents to the right of the pike leading from Murfreesboro' to Shelbyville, three miles south of town. Stone River ran a short distance from camp on the right, and in front lay the large plantation of ex-senator Bell, recent candidate for Vice President of the United States, but now a traitor. The splendid mansion of this arch traitor is now occupied by General Johnson, of the Union Army. The owner of this plantation fled with the rebel army on its retreat from the battle of Stone River, and General Johnson took possession and encamped his division on the premises the day following. The house is most delightfully situated on an elevated spot overlooking the whole plantation, and near the banks of Stone River. From the portico in front of the mansion, may be seen the pure, blue waters of the river, as it winds its tortuous course along its rock-bound channel, for two miles above and below. The negro cabins, and the slaves at work any where on the plantation, can be seen from the piazza, or could have been a few days ago; but now the white tents of the soldier has taken the place of the slave at his work. The Fifty-Ninth was not allowed to enjoy a lengthy repose in camp, but was soon sent with a part of the division to reinforce the command at Franklin, Tenn., thirty miles west of Murfreesboro'. Leaving all but such things as they could carry in their knapsacks, they reached Franklin the second day after leaving camp. Here they lay in bivouac about ten days. They then returned to camp, bringing with them three or four prisoners and a few extra horses. The three prisoners and three horses were captured by two of our boys. Wm. Ebling and Samuel Wambroth; the one the hospital nurse, and the other a cook; being both mounted on extra horses, were a short distance from the road, when they saw three rebel horsemen riding across an open field towards a house in the distance. These two boys put spurs to their horses and made pursuit. On coming within hailing distance they shouted to the rebs to halt, which they did, surrendering themselves prisoners of war. The boys, proud of their capture, marched them off to General Davis, and they were handed over to the provost guard. This same William Ebling, while scouting over the battle ground of Stone River the day after the battle terminated, came across a citizen dressed in butternut clothing, and supposing him to be a rebel, arrested him. Ebling had just before passed a sutler establishment and bought a bottle of whisky. Although he was death on rebels, he freely shared his whisky with his prisoner, and when he presented his captive to General Davis, they were both pretty tight. The man was a good Union man, and was hunting over the field for a missing relative. General Davis amused himself at their expense a short time, and sent them, the one to his quarters and the other to his home. A few days after going into camp here, Lieut. Colonel C. H. Frederick returned to the regiment for the purpose of settling up his affairs and to bid the command "good bye." While at Nashville, he resigned his commission and was now a private citizen. His departure was witnessed with regret by the whole command. He had ever been a good, faithful officer, and a kind, good friend to the men of the regiment. Major J. C. Winters, having returned from his leave of absence, now assumed command of the regiment, and Captain Paine, that of Major. Captain Stookey again taking command of his company. After the capture of Adjutant Phillips, Lieutenant Minnett, of Company D, was appointed Adjutant. While the regiment lay at Murfreesboro', the following young men were deservedly promoted to the rank of First Lieutenant: Reuben Maddox, Company F, I. M. Vanosdel, Company K, Charles Doolittle, Company I, A. Sanderson, Company B, S. Eleric, Company A, and Hiram Wendt, Company G. To that of Second Lieutenant: ---- Curtis, Company C, H. C. Baughman, Company F, D. L. Korhammer, Company I, Fred. N. Boyer, Company H, ---- Irwin, Company D, and ---- Anderson, Company B. To that of Captain: Hamilton W. Hall, Company F, Adjutant Minnett, Company D, Henry Wiley, Company H, S. L. Burris, Company G, I. Henderson, Company C, D. Bagley, Company A, Samuel West, Company I. These young men, with one or two exceptions, were enlisted as privates in the ranks. They have all been faithful soldiers, doing their duty manfully, both in time of battle and in camp. At Pea Ridge, at Perryville and Stone River they were among the bravest of the brave. After laying in camp a few days, the regiment again moved out towards Franklin, but not so far as before. The enemy was now threatening another point in our lines, between Murfreesboro' and Franklin, and to strengthen this point General Davis moved out with his Division. No serious attack was made, and the regiment returned to camp. The lines were now shortened, and the camp all moved up nearer town. As soon as the camps were arranged, the regiments were set to work building fortifications. Until the 24th of June, work at the fortifications and picket duty was all that was required of the Fifty-Ninth. In building forts, and digging entrenchments, one-third or one-half the regiment was employed at a time. In doing picket duty, the whole regiment moved out to the lines, and remained there from five to ten days at a time. One day, while on picket, Walter C. Wyker, of Company K, was standing guard at his post, near the pike bridge across Stone River, some rebel cavalry came in sight, a mile or two down the pike, and, to get a better view of them, Wyker stepped upon a large rock near by, and, in bringing his gun up after him, struck the lock against the rock, and fired it off, the load lodging in his bowels, killing him in a few seconds. He was brought to camp, and buried with the honors of war. He was a faithful soldier, and an agreeable mess-mate, and was universally respected by the members of his company. Here, for the first time since leaving Boonville, Missouri, the regiment had the privilege of attending church regularly every Sabbath, and frequently during the week. The writer's diary of the 17th of May, has the following: "I have just returned from hearing an excellent sermon, spoken by the Reverend Colonel Granville Moody. Colonel Moody was my favorite preacher, of the Methodist Church in Oxford, Ohio, more than twenty-five years ago. I have never seen him, from that day till this. It may well be believed that his appearance brought to mind many pleasant thoughts of old times. I was again sitting in the old familiar seat, in the old brick church, of my boyhood days. Although the preacher's head has now become silvered o'er with age, his voice and looks are but little changed. His sermon was to me a 'feast of reason and a flow of soul.' His text was: 'Choose ye this day whom ye will serve. If the Lord is God, serve him.' His remarks were listened to with the most wrapped attention, and, I think, made quite an impression on the soldiers. I would that there were more such preachers in the army. Colonel Moody commands an Ohio regiment, and is a fighting Colonel. His regiment was in the thickest of the fight at Stone River, and did good execution. While he was speaking, I could not help but think of the vast amount of good he has been the instrument, in the hands of God, in doing in the world. For thirty years his words of entreaty have been spoken to thousands of anxious hearers, every Sabbath, to turn from the evil of their ways, and seek the paths of righteousness and peace. Can he be otherwise than happy?--happy in the consciousness of having done his duty towards God and man. His sermon was preached in one of the block houses inside a fort. It was a novel sight to see the preparations for dealing death and destruction to our fellow beings, surrounding the minister of peace on earth and good will to men. "When I came back to camp I found that an order had been issued to turn over to the Quartermaster all extra baggage belonging to the men--such as blankets, clothing, etc.,--leaving them only one blanket each, one suit of clothes, an extra pair of drawers, an extra pair of socks, and an extra shirt. This looks towards an early move of some kind--an advance, perhaps, towards the enemy." Lieutenant J. H. Knight is now Acting Quartermaster of the regiment, Lieutenant Brasher not having, as yet, returned from his parole. David Thompson, of Company K, returned to the regiment, from Nashville, on the 16th of April. He was reported to the Surgeon the next morning at sick call. On the following day he was sent to the general field hospital, with well-developed symptoms of smallpox, and on the 21st he expired. James Slusser, of Company F, was brought to the hospital, with dysentery, about the middle of June. He soon became convalescent, with a very good prospect of soon returning to his company in good health; but, when the regiment marched, on the 24th, he was yet unfit for duty, and was, consequently, left at the general field hospital. A relapse soon followed, and he, also, died. In the latter part of April, one Doctor Kelly reported himself to Major Winters, with a commission as First Surgeon of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois Regiment. He was an entire stranger to all concerned, but his commission gave him authority to remain and take charge of the sick men of the regiment. He soon proved himself qualified for the position, and the boys were well pleased with the imposition. CHAPTER XXVII. On the 15th of June the regiment went out on picket to remain ten days. Their picket post was on the Shelbyville Pike, about two miles south of Stone River. On the 23d of June orders were received at camp to strike tents, and move out with the train on the 24th. Consequently, on the morning of the 24th, the train moved down the pike to where the regiment had been standing picket. The regiment was already gone, and the train followed after, taking the direction of Liberty Gap. The day was very disagreeable; a drizzling rain had set in early in the morning and continued all day, wetting everything and everybody completely. In this plight the men lay on their arms all night. They were now in the neighborhood of the Gap, and it was reported that the enemy had a strong force there. The morning of the 25th was dark and cloudy, but the troops were early astir, and soon on the advance towards the Gap. About noon the enemy were observed in force immediately in front. A disposition was speedily made of our forces, and the Fifty-Ninth was sent out as flankers, or rather as advanced skirmishers, on the right flank of the Division. Fortunately for the Fifty-Ninth, this move kept them from entering the engagement, only as skirmishers, as the fighting was all done in another part of the field. The regiment, however, skirmished pretty lively with the enemy all the afternoon. Some of the rebels were hit by our balls, as the boys could see them fall, or crawl from their hiding places badly wounded. The trees behind which the boys concealed themselves were frequently hit by the balls from the rebel guns, but none of the regiment was injured. On other parts of the Pass there was heavy fighting until evening, when the enemy fell back and gave our men possession. [Illustration: CAPT. HENRY WILEY. CAPT. J. JOHNSON. LIEUT. H. C. BAUGHMAN. LIEUT. D. L. KORHAMMER. LIEUT. FRED. N. BOYER. LIEUT. J. VANOSDELL. LIEUT. HIRAM WENT. LIEUT. JOS ELERIC. Lith. by W^m. BRADEN & C^o. Indianapolis.] The command held the ground until about three in the morning, when it was silently withdrawn and marched on towards Tullahoma. It was said that the enemy withdrew about the same time, neither army having any desire to renew the contest. The march now continued daily until the 3d day of July, when the Division again went into camp at Winchester, Tennessee. The march from Murfreesboro' to Winchester was very fatiguing. It rained almost incessantly, keeping the men continually wet, and making the roads very muddy and the streams high. The rebels, on their retreat, destroyed the bridge across Elk River, and in consequence our army was compelled to wade it. At the point where the Fifty-Ninth crossed, the water was waist deep to the men and the current very swift. Two or three of the boys would lock arms, and by assisting each other would succeed in forcing their way over. Several who braved the flood single-handed were swept away and carried a considerable distance down stream before they could effect a landing. The enemy continued to retreat from Liberty Gap, through Tullahoma, Manchester, Winchester, and Stevenson, Alabama, towards Chattanooga; so that our infantry did not overtake them before going into camp at Winchester. The brigade of Colonel Post went into camp one mile east of the town, and in advance of any troops belonging to the corps. The Fifty-Ninth, as usual, being the picket regiment. This was pleasing to the boys, as it gave them the privilege of the country, and an easy access to blackberries, peaches, potatoes, etc. The camp is pleasantly situated, and if the weather becomes fair the boys can enjoy themselves. Soon after arriving here, Lieutenant Brasher, Quartermaster, and Captain Clayton Hale, (now Major Hale,) returned to the regiment. After the resignation of Lieutenant Colonel Frederick, Major Winters was promoted to the position of Lieutenant Colonel, and Clayton Hale to that of Major. Frank Clark, of Company A, now received the appointment of Adjutant. The routine of camp life now commenced in earnest; policing, guard and picket duty, foraging and amusements of various kinds occupies the time of the regiment. The history of one day is the repetition of the preceding one, and so on. Winchester is ninety-five miles south of Nashville, and is an old dilapidated place of perhaps eight hundred inhabitants, mostly secesh. The country around is very well improved and quite productive, but thinly populated at this time, as the citizens have, many of them, gone with the rebel army. There are several families remaining in town, but the men folks have disappeared, leaving only the women and children. Of the former there are quite a number, and many of them are young and good looking. These are an attraction for the young bloods of the army, and those of the Fifty-Ninth are very attentive. The tediousness of camp life is very much relieved by a few hours spent in the society of interesting young ladies now and then. After a few days of idleness in camp, the boys get very mischievous, and if there is any whisky to be had the monotony is broken by some serious termination to the pranks being played. One evening, after imbibing pretty freely, the boys were about getting into a general engagement, when Sergeant ----, of Company E, supposing it to be his duty to keep the peace, interfered. This proceeding was resented, and in the melee the Sergeant was severely cut with a knife, in the hands of one Davis, of another company. Davis immediately fled, and was never heard of afterwards. The Sergeant was taken to the hospital, to have his wound attended to. The wound was inflicted by a sharp instrument, and penetrated through the muscles of the back, into the lower lobe of the right lung. The cut on the surface was about four inches in length, and on the surface of the lung half an inch in length, deep enough to afford a full breathing surface. At every motion of the lungs the air rushed in and out of this opening as through the mouth of a bellows. When brought to the tent, the man was in a dying condition. His life was rapidly going out at the opening in the lung. The old Hospital Steward was in favor of immediately closing the wound by sewing the lips together, but the two young Assistant Surgeons, Doctors Bunce and Gaston, (Gaston had a few days before been commissioned from the ranks of the One Hundred-and-Second Illinois Regiment, to the position of Second Assistant Surgeon of the Fifty-Ninth,) overruled the idea, under the impression that by closing the wound the blood would have no egress, and by its accumulation inwardly, cause injury to the patient. The man was dying, as every one could see. His pulse was failing rapidly, and a few hours would undoubtedly finish his career. Doctor Kelly, who was in town, was sent for--came, and for appearance sake, as he said, put a couple of stitches in the wound. By this time the pulse had entirely disappeared from the wrist, and the Doctors left the tent, not doubting but that the man would soon be dead. As soon as the Surgeons left, the Steward carefully closed the wound with a compress, and caused the man to lay on that side so as to keep the compress to its place. As soon as this was done the breathing passed through the natural channel--the mouth--and in an hour the pulse could be distinctly felt at the wrist, and in the morning the Doctors were surprised to find the Sergeant, not only still living, but bright and cheerful. In ten days the man was well. Ignorance is bliss, but not always safe for the patient. Doctor Kelly here resigned his commission as Surgeon, and Doctor Bunce immediately applied for and received a commission in his stead. Indications now point strongly towards another move. A general inspection of the troops and trains almost always precedes a forward movement of the army, and this is now going on in this department. The next move will be across the Cumberland Mountains, and the trains must all be in good condition, or they will never stand the trip. It is only about three miles to the foot of these mountains in a direct course from here, but it is said that we must pass through Cowen before we can climb them, which is ten or twelve miles away. Cowen is a station on the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad, and is near the entrance of the tunnel which here runs through the mountain. On the 17th of August, the army evacuated Winchester, and camped at the foot of the mountain, to be in readiness for crossing on the following morning. The 18th was spent in getting the artillery and trains to the top of the mountain--the regiments having to assist in dragging the heavy cannon and heavy loaded wagons over the most difficult places. The 19th completed the crossing, and the troops bivouacked at the eastern foot of the mountain until morning. The march was continued on the 20th, until a convenient camp was reached near Stevenson, Alabama. Stevenson is a small town at the junction of the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad with the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. It is twenty-five miles from Chattanooga, and three miles from the Tennessee River. It is one hundred and twenty miles by rail from Nashville. The camp of the Fifty-Ninth is one mile from town, near the right bank of the famous Battle Creek, and within about the same distance of a high conical-shaped mountain, at the foot of which nestles the little town of Stevenson. On the 28th the First and Second Brigades of Davis' Division moved out, and the probability was that the Third would soon follow. This the men were willing for, as they usually enjoy the march, in pleasant weather, better than much laying in camp. After a few days in camp the routine of camp life becomes tiresome, and the men wish for a change. Sickness usually increases in proportion to the length of time spent in lying idle in camp, showing that it is more agreeable to be moving occasionally. In camp there are many more indulgences in the way of gormandizing, to be sure, than on the march; but the mind, also, has its influence in preserving the health of the soldier. On the march the mind is withdrawn from brooding over the sacrifices made, and a longing for the return of those home comforts and associations which have been so long left behind. The anticipations of coming events, the changes of scenery, both of a natural and artificial character, such as hills and dales, valleys and mountains, rivers and creeks, springs and rivulets, large plantations, with their fine mansions and negro cabins, beautiful groves and lawns, or the isolated log hut of the native forester--all tending to relieve the mind of "brooding melancholy," preserve the health, and restore the convalescent, by their ever-changing attractions to the soldier, as he passes them on the march. The sick were now sent to the general field hospital, at Stevenson, and, on the morning of the 30th, the regiment struck tents, and moved out. Passing through Stevenson, it proceeded, by a short and direct road, to the Tennessee River. Here it bivouacked till a pontoon bridge was in readiness for crossing upon. About four o'clock in the evening the brigade crossed over, and went into camp one mile distant from the river. The 30th of August was a beautiful day, and, while awaiting the opportunity to cross, the boys amused themselves bathing in the river. The river here was three-quarters of a mile wide, and many of the men swam from one shore to the other, apparently without much difficulty. It was very amusing to stand on the bank and witness the feats of agility performed by these aquatic actors. After witnessing this lively scene, the writer and Lieutenant Sanderson, of Company A, seated themselves in the shade, near the pontoons, to witness the activity of the scene in that vicinity. Just below the bridge was the only place where the mules could be taken to water, and here the hundreds of mules and horses belonging to the trains were now being brought. Each driver brought six mules, fastened together, so that, by riding one, the others could be led without difficulty. On coming to the water there was such a crowd of them that a great deal of trouble was sometimes required to get them out without becoming considerably entangled. Swearing is a universal practice amongst M.D.'s, and now it was remarkable. It seemed as though each one tried to do more of it than any one else could. The writer had noticed that not one had left the water without leaving many curses resting on the "souls" of his poor mules. He finally remarked to the Lieutenant that he believed all mule-drivers, without an exception, would swear. "It seems so," said the Lieutenant, "but yonder is a fellow who has been trying to disentangle his mules for some time, and he has not yet used an oath." Patiently the fellow worked for sometime longer, but to no purpose. The mules were very stubborn, and resisted all entreaty to come to shore in order. Patience now ceases to be a virtue, and he let out--and, of all the swearing that had been heard that day, his was most satanic--'twas awful. The Lieutenant gave it up, and acknowledged that all M.D.'s would swear. Colonel Post's brigade was now constituted rear guard to the corps train, and was, of course, the last to cross the river, and will be the last to cross the Sand Mountain, which now looms up before us. The crossing will be most difficult. The road is said to be very rugged, and in many places so steep that it will be impossible for the teams to pull the wagons up. The passage of the Alps, in miniature, is before us, and Colonel Post, in size and stature, as he directs the men in their labors, brings to mind the "Little Corporal," as he is represented in the "passage of those alpine heights." Early in the morning the ascent of the train commences. The four regiments of the brigade have gone on, and been distributed along the ascent by detachments, so as to be in readiness to assist any of the teams that should be unable to make the "riffle." The road, in its tortuous course, was frequently obstructed by huge flat rock, broken square, so that the wagon-wheels would have to be lifted twelve or fifteen inches perpendicularly to get over them. At such places, as many men as could get near the wagon would lay hold and hoist it, and then the mules could again proceed. About two o'clock the trains succeeded in reaching the top of the mountain, and the brigade then moved on for two or three miles, and took up quarters for the night. The descent was almost as difficult as the ascent, and the brigade was again stationed at the difficult places, as before. Where the declivity was steep large ropes were fastened to the rear of the wagons, and grasped by as many soldiers as was necessary to keep the wagon from rushing upon and crushing the mules in front. The crossing of Sand Mountain was accomplished, and the brigade again went into quarters. From the 2d day of September until the 6th, the trains were moved by easy stages towards the foot of Lookout Mountain, at a point called Valley Head. Here they went into corral to await the movements of the army in the front. The brigade, of course, also went into quarters. Valley Head is about forty miles from Chattanooga, and about the same distance from Rome, Ga. It is enclosed by Sand Mountain on the west, and Lookout Mountain on the east. It extends between these mountains from this point up to the Tennessee River. It is a very narrow valley, and is poorly improved. An occasional plantation only being met with. Here, at Valley Head, are two or three good plantations, but very much impaired by the depredations of the soldier, both rebel and Union. Here the fences had been burned from many of the fields, and some buildings destroyed by the rebels before the Union soldiers came to the neighborhood. The plantation on which the brigade was now camped, was in a measure destroyed by the rebel soldiers. Major Winston, the owner of the plantation, had been opposed to the war, and had suffered these depredations in consequence. On the 10th, the trains were again in motion. They moved to the foot of the mountain, and again went into corral. The Fifty-Ninth Regiment moved to the top of the mountain, and bivouacked about two miles in advance of the wagons. Here it lay until the 13th, when it was again moved down to the foot of the mountain. The road up the Lookout Mountain is here very good, and offers no great obstructions to the passage of the trains. It winds around all the steep acclivities, and misses all the large rock that project from the sides of this mountain. Huge masses of rock are everywhere hanging from the top and sides of this mountain; in some places affording "look out" points, from which may be seen the valley beneath, and the mountains around as far as vision can extend. It is from these points that the mountain derives its name of "Lookout." A few rods from the road is one of these projections, allowing a full view of Valley Head with all its surroundings. On the 18th, the brigade again ascended the mountain, and made a forced march of about twenty-five miles towards Chattanooga, going into camp sometime after night, not far below Dug Gap, and near the eastern summit of the mountain. The 19th was spent in camp, with orders to be ready to move at a moment's warning. A battle was now momentarily expected to take place in the valley below, and the boys were very restless. Not far from camp was a famous "look out," and hundreds of the soldiers visited it through the day for the purpose of viewing the "landscape o'er." From this point, the whole of Lookout, or Chattanooga Valley could be seen. For miles the valley is spread out to the view in all its variegated loveliness. Plantations, with their white mansions visible, here and there are seen, nestled as it were, in dark, deep forests; wreaths of smoke ascending from the depths of other clumps of dark, dense foliage, indicates the habitations of other dwellers in the valley, yet no house is seen. Nearer by, the open fields, with their herds of cattle and their flocks in pasture, as yet undisturbed by the ruthless soldier, and close by the planter's house and negro cabins. These may be seen with the naked eye. With a field glass or telescope, another feature is added to the scene. Soldiers, both cavalry and infantry could be seen marching in the distance, far over towards the Chickamauga. From this deep valley, now comes up the booming of distant cannon, adding deep interest to the scene. The armies are as yet only feeling for each others weakness--to-morrow they will try each others strength. All day the point was crowded with eager eyes, looking over that vast field of vision. And in the morning, as early as the light permitted, some returned to see what change the night might have produced, and they were well satisfied with their early visit. Before the sun began to shed his rays above the horizon, the scene presented in the valley below reminded one of an ocean of water. The smoke and fog had settled through the night on all the lower lands of the valley, and resembled in appearance the blue of the deep waters of the ocean. The ridges in the valley elevated the tops of the trees growing upon them, above this canopy of smoke, and gave them the appearance of islands in the ocean. As soon as the god of day began to pencil the horizon with his rays, the oceanic illusion vanished. At first a faint tinge of red appeared, and from this the redness gradually increased and grew broader and deeper until his whole broad face was visible. Redder and more fiery than any living coal was his appearance. It was not the white heat of noon-day, but the most brilliant red imaginable. The sight was most magnificent--most sublime. The setting sun, as witnessed from the "point" on the opposite side of the mountain was most beautiful--but this was most sublime. At seven o'clock the order came to march. At eight the brigade was in motion, and in an hour it was wending its way across the valley towards the battlefield of Chickamauga. About twelve o'clock it had reached the "Crawfish Springs," and formed in position to resist an expected attack from the enemy. Before getting to the Springs rebels had been seen hovering on the flank of our command, and one or two shots had been fired at our advanced skirmishers. On arriving at the Springs it was ascertained that the enemy had intercepted our march with too heavy a force for our brigade to advance against, and that he was also throwing a large force upon our right and rear. This was more than had been anticipated, and it became evident that there was now only one course to pursue, and that was to get away from the Springs in the best way possible. The only way to do this was to take the road towards Chattanooga immediately--this was done. The train moved on in advance, and the regiments followed. The command bivouacked about five miles from Chattanooga, and lay on their arms that night. The next day it moved two miles farther towards town, and on the morning of the 22d continued the retreat until it reached the lines at Chattanooga. When within about one mile of the lines the enemy began to throw shells into the ranks. The battery nearest the command from the lines in town, being apprised of the approach of the rebels, now came out and replied so vigorously to the rebel battery that it soon withdrew and the brigade marched in unhurt. In coming from the mountain to the Springs several stragglers were taken prisoners by the rebels. The Fifty-Ninth lost three or four men in this way. Had the brigade been one hour later in coming up to Chattanooga it would have been cut off and captured. The army had all fallen back the day before, and Post's command was the only one outside of the strong position in front of town. The position was now so well chosen, and our lines so compact, that the enemy dare not attack it. The campaign for the summer was now over, and the army intrenched itself at Chattanooga. Works were immediately constructed sufficient in strength and magnitude, to resist any attempt on the part of the enemy to take the town, and the army quietly awaited further developments. The campaign had been a severe and tedious one. The men were worn out and needed rest. Their clothing was becoming thin and the weather disagreeable, so that they began to suffer for the want of comfortable covering to protect them from the storm and against the cold and chilly nights. It was fully time they were also better supplied with food as well as clothing. Rations were becoming very short. One half rations of bread and one quarter rations of bacon was all the most of the men could get, and some of them, for a time, did not get even so much as that. For about ten days after the occupation of Chattanooga the men of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois Regiment received five crackers each for three days' rations, with about the same proportion of bacon. This was a near approach to starvation. The enemy now invested Chattanooga closely; artillery firing was practiced daily, and many a laugh was had at the expense of the rebel shells. Thousands of shells were thrown at Chattanooga during the siege, without doing any damage of any kind, except, perhaps, in one case. It was said that a negro man, while bringing water from the spring, was shot through by a solid six-pound ball. This, however, is doubted. One of the boys of Company K, of the Fifty-Ninth, was frying his ration of bacon one morning when a twelve pounder struck his pan and knocked it into the "middle of next week," and the boy lost his bacon. The Fifty-Ninth lay behind breast-works on the left bank of Chattanooga Creek, and the rebel pickets were stationed on the opposite bank, not over two hundred yards distant. The water from the creek supplied both parties, and meetings would frequently take place between the boys and the rebels, when they would have a friendly chat and a tobacco or newspaper trade. An understanding was had between the parties that there should be no shooting at each other. These friendly relations continued until the regiment was removed to another part of the field. The month of October was a very wet, rainy month, and caused some sickness in the regiment. Several of the men were compelled to give up doing duty and go to hospital, amongst whom was Sergeant William Curtis, of Company K, David M. Minard, of Company A, Sergeant Marcus D. Leigh, of Company F, and John B. Forester, of Company F. These were all young men of exemplary reputations for good moral conduct and soldierly behavior in all their intercourse with the regiment. They had undergone all the hardships, and endured all the exposure and fatigue of all the marches and campaigns, and been in all the battles the regiment had experienced since being in the service. The friends and relations of these young men have now to mourn them as numbered among the honored dead. Sergeant Curtis died at Chattanooga on the 26th of October, 1863, William M. Minard on the 2d of December, 1863, Sergeant Leigh died at Nashville on the 26th of December, 1863, soon after being removed from Chattanooga, and John B. Forester on the 7th day of January, 1864, at Louisville, Kentucky. About the middle of October the regiment crossed the Tennessee River, and went up into the Sequatchie Valley, with a train, after forage. It was gone three days, and had a good time of it. In the Valley the boys found plenty of hogs, chickens, honey, and other luxuries, which were unsparingly appropriated. An order to go foraging was always hailed with delight, as it promised better living than was usually to be had in camp. The question is frequently discussed in camp, "Why are we not better provided for--why are we compelled to live on hard bread and old bacon?" We are fighting our own battles, at our own expense, and we are able and willing to pay for good living. Why do we not get it? Is the question an unreasonable one? Can any one satisfactorily explain the reason why our soldiers are restricted to a certain kind of food? and such food, too, as no man thinks of living on at home. The expense of providing good palatable diet--such as bread, with salt and shortening in it, instead of that which is so hard and tasteless--with potatoes, beans, fruit, etc., etc.,--would be more than saved by preserving the health of the men, and thereby keeping them on duty, instead of having them become scorbutic and worthless to the Government, and not only worthless, but a useless expense. After the scurvy is established in the system of the soldier, a more generous diet is resorted to for the removal of the disease. Why not provide the diet as a preventive to the disease? CHAPTER XXVIII. On the 25th of October, the brigade left Chattanooga for Shell Mound. Early in the morning, before the sun had risen, the Fifty-Ninth broke camp and marched down to the river. The other regiments of the brigade were crossing over on the pontoon bridge below town, and the Fifty-Ninth fell into column at the proper time and crossed over. The bridge at this point is about three hundred yards long, and requires fifty-two pontoons to float it. A few nights before the regiment crossed, the rebels sent a large raft, made of heavy timber, down the river, which striking the bridge, stove it into pieces. It did not take long to repair it, and very little damage was done by this sharp trick. After crossing, the command took the road leading down through the river bottom lands for five miles, when it reached the foot of the Sequatchie Mountain. Here it rested a short time, and the men refreshed themselves with a hard tack and a slice of bacon. Before them now looms up a mountain, around the side of which winds a road four miles long, which they must climb. The bugle sounds, and the march up the mountain commences. Had there been nothing to attract attention on the way, the march would have been a toilsome one, but as it was, the men did not think of getting weary. The road in many places was marked by objects of much interest on the side of the road next the mountain. Masses of rock of all shapes and of every dimension meet the view. Some of these appeared just ready to fall, and crush the column as it passed. Here was one forming a perpendicular wall, of a hundred feet in height, and three hundred in length; and then another of as large dimensions, in appearance like to an old ancient castle set in the side of the mountain. Here is another, with an opening to a cave within, of unknown extent. There issues a stream of limpid water large enough to turn the wheels of fortune; and not far from this, a beautiful jet of pure, cold water bursts, as it were, from out the solid rock, and trickles along, way down the mountain, in pearly drops. At the foot of the mountain, the Tennessee River urges its way through its narrow rock-bound channel, in billowy grandeur. It is only now and then that its waters can be seen from the line of march, but when they are, it is only to cause a frequent turning of the eye in that direction to get another glimpse. In this passage up the mountain, there is one place, of half a mile in length, which is called the "Narrows." From the high bluffs, on the opposite side of the river, a minnie ball may be thrown against the rocks above the road, on the Sequatchie Mountain. Several mules and one or two men had been killed while passing these narrows by rebel sharp shooters, from the bluffs across the river. Two or three shots were fired at the column now passing, but no one was hit. About one o'clock the regiment arrived at the summit of the mountain, and there halted for dinner. After dinner and an hour's rest, the march was continued. The road now taken is called the Old Ridge Road. It leads along the summit of this ridge for twenty miles. Sometimes the ridge is just broad enough for the passage of a single wagon, and at these places you can look down, down, down, until your head swims. There are some very good "look out" points on this ridge. The regiment went into camp on the evening of the 26th, near one of these points, and had the pleasure of witnessing the departure of Old Sol, as he disappeared below the horizon. It was a pretty sight. During the twilight they had an opportunity of looking up and down the Sequatchie Valley, as it lay in the depths below. It had the appearance of being a very rich and finely cultivated country. Farms and farm houses were quite numerous and seemed snug and inviting. The descent from this mountain summit commenced early on the morning of the 27th, and after ascending and descending innumerable acclivities and declivities, the regiment went into camp on the bank of the Tennessee River. Here it was expected that the command would be ferried across the river, at what was called Brown's Ferry, but after about two hours in quarters, the order came to march. It was still about seven miles to Shell Mound, and this was the distance now to be marched. The sun was setting, as the regiment moved out, and about nine o'clock it crossed the river at Shell Mound, and went into camp again. Shell Mound is seven miles above Bridgeport, and twenty-one below Chattanooga. To get from Chattanooga here, the command had marched sixty-miles. Shell Mound derives its name from the innumerable quantity of shells that is piled up there. The entire mound is composed of muscle shell, as though they had been hauled there and tilted from the cart. Their number is most astonishing. It might be supposed that all the muscles from the first creation to the present time had made this their charnel house. If some shrewd Yankee should ever take it into his head to load a few flat-boats with these shells, and have them pulverized and barreled up, he could make a fortune by selling the powder as a fertilizer for Northern farms. This bed of shells is ten feet deep at the river brink, and covers several acres, in some places to a greater depth. At this place is another great curiosity--the "Negro Jack Cave," as it is called by the natives. The entrance to this cave is large--perhaps twenty feet wide, and fifteen feet to the arch above. The arch is most beautifully turned, smooth and regular. The smoke from the fires which have been kindled under this arch has given it a cloudy appearance, which is very pretty. This is a saltpetre cave, and the rebels have had very extensive works through it. Around the entrance, on the outside, are furnaces and kettles; on the inside are hundreds of filterers, or hoppers, for filtering the clay, which holds the saltpetre. On penetrating fifty or sixty feet within, the light disappears, and it is necessary to use torches or candles to see the way over the slimy hillocks of mud and broken stone, which fill the passages. The cave is said to be fifteen miles in length. There is a large stream of water running through it, which has been ascended by canoes for ten miles, from the entrance. This stream flows out from an opening a short distance to the right of the mouth of the cave, in size sufficient to turn a large grist mill. It is crossed on a plank bridge, about five hundred feet from the mouth of the cave. The water can not be seen, but a stone dropped from the bridge can be heard as it plunges into the water far below. The walls, in some places, are very rough, and in others quite smooth. Some distance, after crossing the river, you come to a small chamber, which is very pretty. It is, perhaps, twenty feet square. The ceiling is ornamented with stalactites, resembling icicles, and the walls are perpendicular and smooth. The corners and the edges of the ceiling are as though they had been ornamented by some master workman. There are many different passages leading from the main entrance, and great attention is required, or you lose your way. When Buell's army was here some of his boys got lost in this cave, and were three days in finding the way out, and would not then if a band of music had not went in, and blowed their instruments, which were heard by the wanderers, and thus discovered to them the direction they ought to take. While seeking their way out, these boys came across the body of a Lieutenant, who had lost his way, and thus perished. This cave received the name of "Negro Jack" because of its having been the hiding place of an old negro by that name, in an early day. There had been a small town at Shell Mound, and the railroad depot was yet standing when our boys got there, but the next morning it was torn down to make shelters and fires for the men. It was a nice brick depot, and its destruction ought not to have been allowed. It was the last of Shell Mound City. The saltpetre works are all destroyed, and there is nothing here now of interest but the pontoon bridge across the river. The regiments lay at Shell Mound two days, and then moved up to Whitesides, seven miles nearer Chattanooga. Here the brigade went into winter quarters. Whiteside Station is fourteen miles below Chattanooga, and is at the foot of Raccoon Mountain, in Marion County, Tennessee. Camp is situated on the side of the mountain, just above the railroad, and is within protecting distance of the "Falling Waters" railroad bridge, now in course of reconstruction. This bridge was destroyed by the rebels on the approach of Buell's army. It was a fine structure, and cost ninety-five thousand dollars. It was five hundred feet in length, and ninety-five feet in height. The mountain summit is at least a thousand feet above camp. Near the top is a large ledge of rock, and just below this ledge is an opening to a coal mine. These mountains are full of coal, and there are several mines within a short distance of camp. The chute from the one above the depot, deposits the coal near where it is loaded upon the cars for shipment. These chutes are square tunnels, made of boards. By putting the coal in at the top, it is conducted, with the rapidity of a cannon ball, to the bottom. The boys are now amusing themselves by throwing large stones into this chute, and watching them come out at the bottom. Below camp runs a small mountain stream called the "Falling Waters." On the opposite side of this stream rises another mountain, to the height of two thousand feet. The Ninth Indiana Regiment is stationed on the summit of this mountain. While at Chattanooga, the army was reorganized, and, instead of four regiments, there were now eight in a brigade. Colonel Post was now acting as President of a Board of Claims, and Colonel Gross, of the Thirty-Sixth Indiana, was in command of the brigade. The brigade consisted of the Fifty-Ninth Illinois, Seventy-Fifth Illinois, Eightieth Illinois, Ninth Indiana, Thirty-Sixth Indiana, Ninety-Sixth Ohio, and Eighty-Fourth Illinois Regiments. The eighth regiment had not yet joined the brigade. Colonel P. Sidney Post, on relinquishing the command of the First Brigade of General Davis' old division, which was consolidated in the new organization, issued the following order: "HEADQU'RS 1ST BRIG., 1ST DIV., 20TH ARMY CORPS, "Chattanooga, Oct. 16, '63. "_General Order No. 51._--In the organization of the army, this brigade will lose its identity, and be transferred to another division and corps. Organized on the banks of the Ohio more than a year ago, it has traversed Kentucky and Tennessee, scaled the mountains of Northern Alabama and Georgia, and now terminates its existence on the south bank of the Tennessee. The year during which it has remained intact will ever be remembered as that in which the gallant armies of the West rolled back the advancing hosts of the rebellion, and extinguished the Confederacy in the valley of the Mississippi. In accomplishing this glorious achievement, you--soldiers of the First Brigade--have performed no mean part. On the laborious march you have been patient and energetic, and in the skirmish and battle second to none in stubborn valor and success. In one year you lost upon the battle-field eight hundred and fifty heroic comrades. Baptised in blood at Perryville, this brigade led the army in pursuit of the retreating foe, and again attacks him at Lancaster, whence he fled from Kentucky. In the mid-winter campaign it opened the battle at Stone River, by attacking and driving the enemy from Nolensville, on the memorable 31st of December, together with the rest of the Twentieth Army Corps valiantly met the attack of the concentrated opposing army. At Liberty Gap, and in the late battle of Chickamauga, it performed well the part assigned it, and finishes its honorable career weaker in number but strong in the confidence and discipline of invincible veterans. For the able and hearty co-operations its commander has received from the officers, and for the cheerful support yielded by its gallant men, he returns his sincere thanks. No petty jealousies, no intrigue or demoralizing influences, have ever disgraced and paralyzed our efforts for the country's cause; and the commander unites in the just pride which all feel in the history of, and in their connection with, the First Brigade, First Division, Twentieth Army Corps. "P. SIDNEY POST, "Colonel Commanding Brigade." CHAPTER XXIX. On the morning of the 23d of November, the brigade broke up camp at Whitesides and took up the line of march towards Chattanooga. About six o'clock that evening it went into quarters at the foot of Lookout Mountain. The anticipation was that the command would cross the river the next morning and join General Sherman, who was about engaging the enemy above Chattanooga. This anticipation was not realized. Early on the morning of the 24th the men were under arms and facing the Lookout. Soon the column commenced moving, and now the object of the move became apparent--which was no less than the storming of Lookout Mountain. Is it possible that these men are to march up that rugged mountain side in the face of a relentless foe above, who are prepared to hurl destruction down upon them from the height. Nothing daunted by the formidable task assigned them, the troops moved boldly forward. The enemy resisted stubbornly, but could not withstand the onward move of our brave men. The fight was terrific for about five hours. The Third brigade acted nobly, and the Fifty-Ninth Illinois added new laurels to her war-worn banner. Not a man wavered, but each vied with the other in urging on the advance. Those who witnessed the maneuvering of the men--and every move could be seen from Chattanooga and the adjacent hills--expressed the greatest admiration at the masterly manner in which the regiments made their charges. The Fifty-Ninth retained an unbroken line during the whole of this arduous contest. General Hooker, who witnessed the whole affair, remarked that he never saw a more perfect line of battle maintained by any regiment, during successive charges, than was here maintained by the Fifty-Ninth Illinois. The regiment lost but one killed and three wounded. The rebels invariably over-shot us. James Medford, of Company G, was killed while in the act of shooting at the enemy. The morning of the 25th revealed to all in the valley below the glorious flag of the Union floating over the point of Lookout. Early on the morning of the 25th our brigade again advanced and skirmished with the enemy all the way across Chattanooga Valley to Missionary Ridge. Here the enemy attempted to make another stand. With a shout our men charged upon them with fixed bayonets and again put them to flight. In this charge the Fifty-Ninth was in the advance, and was the first regiment to reach the summit of the Ridge. Although the charge was a most dangerous one, only one man of the regiment was wounded. The regiment lay on the Ridge that night, and at sunrise continued the pursuit. On the morning of the 28th, the command reached Ringgold, eighteen miles from Chattanooga. At this place the rebels made another stand, and the battle raged most furiously all the forenoon, but terminated in the complete rout of the enemy. The Fifty-Ninth was on the field and in line of battle, but did not become engaged. After the battle, the Third Brigade was ordered to move five miles down the railroad towards Tunnel Hill, and ascertain how far the rebs had gone. About four miles from town a line of battle was discovered in our front, and the brigade was halted. Here it remained 'till after dark, when many fires were kindled as if it was intended to remain all night, but the men silently withdrew behind the lights and returned to town. On the afternoon of the 30th, the brigade started on its return to Whitesides. The division returned through the Chickamauga battle field, and spent all the 1st day of December in burying the dead that had been left unburied by the rebs. After over two months' exposure, there was nothing left of the bodies but bones to bury. Hundreds of these were found and covered. They had buried their own dead, but the Union soldier was left to moulder where he fell. On the 6th day of December the regiment again went into winter quarters, in their old camp at Whitesides. There was now a fair prospect of remaining in camp for some time, and the boys went to work in earnest to prepare themselves comfortable shanties. In a few days they were all comfortably housed, and ready for all kinds of mischief. Corporal William A. Gilbert was left in hospital at Whitesides when the regiment marched, and soon after its return he departed this life. He was buried with the honors of war, on a pleasant spot above camp, on the side of Raccoon Mountain. The regiment, on this expedition, was commanded by Major Clayton Hale, Lieutenant Colonel Winters having resigned and gone home, a short time before the regiment moved. Captain James H. Stookey was Acting Major. These two officers, soon afterwards, received a promotion--the one, Major Hale, received a commission as Lieutenant-Colonel; the other, Captain Stookey, a commission as Major of the Fifty-Ninth Regiment Illinois Volunteers. Captain Stookey's promotion was highly pleasing to the men of the regiment. By his unassuming manners, and kindly disposition, he had obtained the good will and esteem, not only of the men belonging to his own company, but of the whole regiment. He had proven himself a brave, good officer, and one of the best tacticians in the regiment. His promotion was richly merited. Major Hale had never taken any pains to conciliate the feelings of the men towards himself, but had ever been reticent in his manners towards the private soldier, and, consequently, had lost that feeling of regard which friendly communings, and social manners, always engenders. CHAPTER XXX. While the regiment lay at Ringgold, an order was received at head-quarters authorizing the enlistment of veteran volunteers, to serve for three years, or during the war, with the proviso that those who had been in service for two years would be accepted, and none others; and that each should receive a bounty of four hundred and two dollars, and a thirty days furlough; and, also, that their old term of service should expire, and their new term commence, on the day of enlistment. Some fifteen or twenty re-enlisted immediately, and, after returning to Whitesides, some two hundred and fifty others entered their names for the veteran service. This, according to an act of the War Department, constituted the Fifty-Ninth a veteran regiment. It, therefore, now lost its identity as the Fifty-Ninth Regiment Illinois Volunteers, and assumed the name of Fifty-Ninth Veteran Volunteer Infantry Regiment of Illinois. The men were mustered on the 5th day of January, 1864, as veterans, and, on the 13th of February, arrived at Springfield, Illinois, to receive their promised furloughs. On their arrival, Adjutant-General Fuller addressed to them the following beautiful expression of welcome and regard: "I congratulate you on your soldierly appearance, and the favorable auspices under which you have returned to fill up your decimated ranks. The liberal bounties offered by the Government, and the almost universal liberal policy adopted by the several counties of the State to aid and encourage enlistments, together with the high character which your regiment has deservedly acquired, will, doubtless, attract to your ranks hundreds of our patriotic and loyal young men who have awaited the return of our veteran regiments to identify their destinies and unite their fortunes with them. "On the 21st of September, 1861, you took the field as undisciplined recruits. You now return a regiment of veteran _volunteers_, and as such are entitled to wear the badge of honor--the mark of distinction--the evidence of recognition of your country for past meritorious service. "So great was the rush to arms in this State, in the early stages of the rebellion, you were unable to obtain admission as the Ninth Missouri. At that time our sister State of Missouri was undergoing the throes of a revolution within her own borders, and nothing but the strong arm of military power prevented her from throwing off her allegiance to the General Government, and openly espousing the cause of her enemies. Your services, and that of other Illinois regiments, did much to rescue her from the abyss of ruin into which she was plunging. "Though you went to the field, and have returned from it unheralded, your history is not unknown, nor have your services been unnoticed. Without disparagement to others, all of whom have done so well, I can truly say that in no Illinois regiment has the State authorities and the people of the State taken a stronger interest, or felt a greater pride, than in the Fifty-Ninth. Why should they not? The rapidity of your long marches, your patient endurance, and your daring dash in battles, have rarely, if ever, been excelled. The Polish Lancers were not more fleet, nor the French Hussars more daring, nor the English veterans more unyielding, than you. And, while you have been making the circuit of Western battle-fields, as this, the general officers under whom you have served, testify of you. "We hear of you on the 22d of September, 1861, embarking on transports at St. Louis for Jefferson City. At Jefferson City on that day, we hear of you at Otterville, on the 1st of October; at Syracuse on the 14th; at Warsaw, on the 24th; crossing the Osage on the 25th; by forced marches, at Springfield on the 3d of November; at Syracuse again on the 17th of November; at Lamoine Bridge preparing winter quarters, December 7th; at Lamoine Bridge again on the 15th; breaking camp again and marching in mud, and rain, and snow, with scanty camp and garrison equipage and half rations, for Lebanon; leaving Lebanon on the 10th of February for Springfield, as a part of General Curtis' army, to fight the rebels under Price, at that place. You arrive on the 13th, and find the enemy fled; pursuing and fighting the rear guard, you bring him to battle and fight and whip him at Dry Springs; crossing the Arkansas line on the 19th; at Cross Hollows on the 22d; and at Pea Ridge, on the 7th and 8th of March, shoulder to shoulder, with the Twenty-Fifth, Thirty-Seventh, Davidson's Battery, and other Illinois troops, you fight and win one of the most stubborn and well-contested battles of the war. "Without rest after this terrible struggle, and the enemy leaving their dead Generals behind, and fleeing across the Ozark Mountains, you leave Pea Ridge on the 10th, and we hear of you at Cross Timbers, April 6th; at Bull Creek, April 20th; at Sulphur Rock, May 10th; and at Cape Girardeau, almost in sight of your homes, May 20th; en route to reinforce General Halleck's army at Pittsburg Landing, stopping at Paducah a short time, on the 24th; you hear from Governor Yates, who there addressed you cheering words upon what had transpired while you were in the "wilderness;" you proceed to Hamburg Landing, and participate in the engagement of the 30th of that month. On the 3d of June we again hear from you at Boonville, Miss., in pursuit of the enemy; at Ripley, Miss., on the 30th; at Jacinto, Miss., on the 4th of July; at Iuka, Ala., on the 15th of August; at Florence, on the 24th; at Murfreesboro', September 2d; at Nashville, September 4th; at Bowling Green, on the 17th; at Louisville, on the 26th; and entering the fight at Perryville, on the 7th of October, with three hundred and sixty-one men, and coming out of it with less than two-thirds that number. "The distance actually marched, from the time you left Boonville, Mo., until you bivouacked at Franklin, Tenn., was two thousand five hundred and forty-seven miles. With such a record of marches and counter marches, of skirmishes and battles, you have indeed merited the compliment paid you by one of your Generals, as the 'grey hound, or fleet-footed fighting regiment of Illinois.' "I have no time to dwell upon the honorable and brilliant part you bore in the subsequent battles of Stone River, Chickamauga and Chattanooga. Nine hundred and fifty-seven men have entered your regiment, at and since its organization. Two hundred and sixty-seven have re-enlisted as veterans. These figures tell the tale, and are more eloquent of your praise than any words which I could utter. You will be furloughed for thirty days, and at the expiration of that time, rendezvous here for re-organization. The good people of Coles, Cumberland, Edgar, Greene, Knox, Madison, McDonough, St. Clair and Warren, who have an especial interest in your fame and welfare, will welcome you with loving words and open arms. Return then, to families and friends, and receive a soldier's welcome and your country's gratitude. "But in your thankfulness to a kind Providence which has permitted you to return to receive your children's love, your brother's friendship, and your parent's blessings, forget not to console the bereaved. Bleeding hearts await you to learn the last tidings of those who have wasted away by disease, or been stricken down by your sides. Comfort bereaved ones by the assurance that your fallen comrades maintained the fair fame of a Union soldier while living, and died while manfully battling for their country and their country's cause. "General White, in whom I recognize a true gentleman, a gallant officer and an old friend, and under whom you served on many long marches, and at the memorable battle of Pea Ridge, I feel assured can not resist the temptation to address his old comrades, now impatient to hear him." General White then said: "Fellow soldiers of the Fifty-Ninth. The language usually employed at the meeting of friends, does not express the emotion experienced by me on this occasion. In you I recognize not only patriots, who have devoted themselves to the rescue of our country from the hands of traitors, but men with whom it was my fortune to share the toils, privations and dangers of the soldiers' life in camp, on the march and on the battle-field. The bond of affection thus created is well known to officers and soldiers; and may it never be broken." After a few further remarks, the General retired and the men, on the reception of their furloughs, dispersed to their beloved homes, until duty again called them to the field. On the departure of the "veterans" for Springfield, those who did not re-enlist, to the number of eighty, were assigned to duty with the Seventy-Fifth Illinois Regiment. Here they remained until the Fifty-Ninth returned to the field, when they rejoined it and continued in their old companies until their term of service terminated, which was on the 6th day of September, 1864, three years and one month after being mustered in at St. Louis. Their three years' service really expired on the 6th day of August, but by some chicanery or other they were compelled to serve one month beyond that time, and even then did not get their discharge papers until about the 15th of September, being kept in idleness and suspense for ten days after being relieved from duty. The last month of their service, which was the month of their conscription, was the most arduous and most dangerous of any during their three years' servitude. It was the last month of General Sherman's campaign against Atlanta. On the last day of their term of service, the 6th of September, they made one of the most desperate charges on the rebel line of works that had ever been made by any other regiment during the campaign. Several of the veterans were killed and many wounded; and one of the non-vets, Jacob Rader, of Company F, whose term of service, according to an original act of the War Department, had expired on the 24th of June, over two months previous, that being the day of his enlistment, was severely if not mortally wounded. Another one, James Rowsey, of the same company, was mortally wounded in the head, and died in a few days afterwards. His term expired on the 6th of August, one month previous, but his life was sacrificed to the unjust conscription now being practiced upon those who could not consistently re-enlist as veterans. Whether this injustice was due to any act of the War Department, or to the neglect or inhuman feelings of the commanders in the army is left for others than the writer to decide. One Donathy, of Company K, also a non-veteran, was killed on the 4th day of July, while making a charge on the enemy's lines. The remainder of the non-veterans finally left the army on the 12th day of September, and, after much difficulty and great risk, arrived at Louisville, Kentucky, where they were paid, and received an honorable discharge, and were now permitted to return to their homes. Long may they live to enjoy the peace and comfort they so richly deserve! May their lives be prolonged on the earth until the last enemy of the free institutions of this glorious Union be called hence, to render up the final accounts to Him who judgeth the quick and the dead. "Cheers, cheers, for our heroes! Not those who wear stars; Not those who wear eagles, And leaflets, and bars; We know they are gallant, And honor them too, For bravely maintaining The Red, White, and Blue!" "But cheers for our soldiers, Rough, wrinkled and brown; The men who make heroes, And ask no renown; Unselfish, untiring, Intrepid and true, The bulwark surrounding The Red, White, and Blue!" "Our patriot soldiers! When treason arose, And Freedom's own children Assailed her as foes; When anarchy threatened And order withdrew, They rallied to rescue The Red, White, and Blue!" "Upholding our banner, On many a field, The doom of the traitor They valiantly sealed; And worn with the conflict, Found vigor anew, Where victory greeted The Red, White, and Blue." "Yet, loved ones have fallen-- And still when they sleep, A sorrowing nation Shall silently weep; And Spring's fairest flowers, In gratitude, strew, O'er those who have cherished The Red, White, and Blue!" "But glory, immortal, Is waiting them now, And chaplets unfading Shall bind every brow, When called by the trumpet, At Time's great review, They stand, who defended The Red, White, and Blue." THE END. 
44574	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by HathiTrust Digital Library (http://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library) Note: Images of the original pages are available through HathiTrust Digital Library. See http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.b3750786;view=1up;seq=495 THE MISSOURI OUTLAWS by GUSTAVE AIMARD Author of "Prairie Flower," "Indian Scout," etc., etc. Translated by Percy B. St. John London John And Robert Maxwell Milton House, Shoe Lane, Fleet Street and 35, St. Bride Street, Ludgate Circus. 1877 NOTICE. Gustave Aimard was the adopted son of one of the most powerful Indian tribes, with whom he lived for more than fifteen years in the heart of the prairies, sharing their dangers and their combats, and accompanying them everywhere, rifle in one hand and tomahawk in the other. In turn squatter, hunter, trapper, warrior, and miner, Gustave Aimard has traversed America from the highest peaks of the Cordilleras to the ocean shores, living from hand to mouth, happy for the day, careless of the morrow. Hence it is that Gustave Aimard only describes his own life. The Indians of whom he speaks he has known--the manners he depicts are his own. PREFACE Very few of the soul-stirring narratives written by GUSTAVE AIMARD are equal in freshness and vigour to "The Missouri Outlaws," hitherto unpublished in this country. The characters of the Squatter, the real, restless, unconquerable American, who is always going ahead, and of his wife and daughter, are admirably depicted, while his eccentric brother is a perfect gem of description. The great interest, however, of the narrative is centred in Tom Mitchell, the mysterious outlaw, whose fortunes excite the readers' imagination to the utmost. There can be no doubt he is one of the most original characters depicted by the versatile pen of the great French novelist. In addition to being a story of adventure, "The Missouri Outlaws" is also a love tale, and abounds in tender pathos, the interest of which is well sustained in "The Prairie Flower" and in its sequel, "The Indian Scout." PERCY B. ST. JOHN. London: _February, 1877._ CONTENTS I. THE GOOD SHIP PATRIOT II. SAMUEL DICKSON GIVES ADVICE TO HIS BROTHER III. A QUEER CUSTOMER IV. AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE V. A GREAT MEDICINE COUNCIL VI. SAMUEL DICKSON HUNTS A MOOSE DEER VII. JOSHUA DICKSON BECOMES MASTER OF THE VALLEY VIII. DIANA DICKSON AND HER FOE IX. THEY MAKE AN ACQUAINTANCE X. WHO THE STRANGER WAS XI. EXPLANATIONS XII. HOW THE THREE TRAVELLERS WENT TO GEORGE CLINTON'S XIII. TOM MITCHELL XIV. SAMUEL AND JOSHUA XV. NEW CHARACTERS XVI. TOM MITCHELL AS REDRESSER OF WRONGS XVII. A DIPLOMATIC CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO RASCALS XVIII. THE PRISONER XIX. IN WHICH TOM MITCHELL DISCOVERS THAT HONESTY IS A GOOD SPECULATION XX. A STRANGE CHASE XXI. CAPTAIN TOM MITCHELL, THE AVENGER XXII. A DESPERATE STRUGGLE THE MISSOURI OUTLAWS CHAPTER I. THE GOOD SHIP PATRIOT. On the 4th of August, 1801, a little after eight o'clock at night, just as the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the heights of Dorchester, gilding as they did so the summits of certain islands scattered at the entrance to Boston Bay, some idlers of both sexes, collected on Beacon Hill, at the foot of the lighthouse, saw a large vessel making for the harbour. At first it seemed as if the ship would be compelled to desist from her design, as the wind was slightly contrary; but, by a series of skilful manoeuvres, it at last passed by the danger which threatened, the sails were one by one taken in and furled, and finally the anchor was cast beside one of the many vessels in port. A few minutes later nothing was to be seen on deck save one man walking up and down doing duty as watch for the time being. The vessel had, under cover of a dense fog, escaped from Brest, slipped past the English cruisers, and finally, after many dangers, reached its destination. Descending into the cabin, we find two men seated at a table upon which were glasses, bottles, pipes, and tobacco, conversing and smoking. These were Captain Pierre Durand, a young man, with regular but rather effeminate features, and yet a look of frank honesty, to which his sparkling eyes, his broad forehead, his long waving hair, gave an appearance of singular energy. Though every inch a sailor, there was a refinement about him not generally found in his class. His companion was a handsome and haughty young man, of about two-and-twenty, of moderate height, but with very broad shoulders; he was evidently of powerful make, with nerves of steel. His complexion was olive; his hair long wavy black; his eyes were large and bold; the expression of his countenance sombre and thoughtful, while at this early age many a wrinkle caused by thought or suffering was to be observed. There had evidently been a warm discussion, for the captain was walking up and down, a frown upon his brow. Suddenly, however, he reseated himself and held out his hand across the table. "I was wrong. Do not be vexed," he said. "I am not angry, my good Pierre," he answered. "Then why sulk with your friend?" "I do not sulk, heaven knows; I am simply sad. You have reopened a wound I thought forever closed," the other added with a sigh. "Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us talk about something else--and above all, let us drink. This old rum is a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend." Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued. "Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?" "You remember our conversation at Brest?" "I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea. We had dined rather copiously." "We were very sober. There were two bottles on the table, one empty and the other nearly full. I then told you that though I had only just returned to France after an absence of ten years, I was compelled to leave at a moment's notice, and to leave without raising any suspicion. I wanted to depart without anyone being able to obtain the slightest clue; you remember," he added. "I do, and I told you that I would run the blockade that very night, if the weather turned out as bad as I expected. Did I keep my promise?" "With all the loyalty of your honest heart. I also told you I intended remaining in America." "It is to that madcap resolution I object," said the captain emphatically. "Why not stay with me? You are an excellent sailor--you shall be my chief officer." "No, my friend. I can accept nothing which can ever tempt me to return to France," he answered. "How you suffer!" sighed his friend. "Horribly. Come, my friend, as we shall part for ever tomorrow, I will tell you my history." "Not if it makes you suffer." "I will be brief. Sad as my story is, it is not very long." "Go on," replied Captain Durand, filling up two more glasses of rum, and lighting a fresh cigar for himself. "I will not sermonise, but begin at the beginning. I was born in Paris, but might be English, German, or even Russian, for all I know. I am simply aware that my birthplace was Paris, in the house of a doctor, where my mother took refuge. It was in the Rue St. Honoré I first saw the light but, as soon as I could be removed, was sent to the Foundling. There I remained four years, until a loving young couple, who had lost their only child, adopted me. They were poor, and lived on the third floor of a wretched old house, in the Rue Plumet, where, I must own, I had enough, but of very coarse, food." "One day, however, fortune knocked at the door. My adopted mother was, and still is, one of the handsomest women in Paris. By accident an old friend, a distant relation, a man of high position, found her out. He at once procured a lucrative appointment for my supposed parent, and we moved to a splendid residence in the Faubourg du Roule. The friend, who lived close by, at once began to visit us every evening, and, by a curious coincidence, the husband always found business which required his absence. He never returned until a quarter of an hour after the other had left." "Accommodating husband," sneered Durand. "Just so. But, unfortunately for me, I became older, curious, was always turning up when not wanted, and saying things which were not required. It was decided that I was an incorrigible scamp, and must be sent away." "My adopted mother had relations at Dunkirk, and I was packed off to them to be sent to sea as cabin boy. Then only did I discover that these people were not my parents. My supposed mother coldly kissed me, told me to be a good boy and gave me ten sous; my father, who escorted me to the ramshackle vehicle which traded between Paris and Calais, told me to remember this, that society never having done anything for me, I was to do nothing for society; the only virtues to which men ever owed success were, he said, selfishness and ingratitude. He further added, 'Good-bye, we shall never meet again.'" "He turned his back and left me. This was my first young sorrow, and I felt it very much." "I feel for you," said the captain; "your story is very much like my own." "These people, knowing me then to be very delicate, hoped that the hardy profession they had selected for me would kill me. They were mistaken." "As I see," answered Durand. "I was first boy on board a herring boat, where I had to endure the brutality and insolence of a low drunkard, who never spoke except with an oath from his mouth, accompanying it with a blow from his cane. My apprenticeship was one long terror. Sometimes a whaler, sometimes a cod fisher, sometimes a slaver. I have been five or six times round the world; abandoned on the wildest coast of America, I was a long time prisoner; shipwrecked on an island in the Pacific, I wonder I did not die of misery and despair." "Poor Oliver!" "But bad as was my life, I everywhere in savage lands found some friend; but in France, from which I was ignominiously expelled eleven years ago, I found on my return two implacable foes--Calumny and Hatred. I was a very sharp boy, and trusted wholly to strangers. I could not help hearing many things I should not have heard. I discovered the secret of my birth, who were my father and mother, their exact names, and their position in society. One day, in a moment of frenzy--and you know I am extremely violent--I was foolish enough to let out the fact that I knew all. From that day a vow was made to accomplish my ruin; the most calumnious reports pursued me; I was accused behind my back and in the dark of the most horrible crimes. It is to me still a wonder how I have escaped all the ambushes laid for me. My foes hesitated at nothing. They tried to assassinate me. Is it not horrible? Well, having failed in the ordinary way, they bribed the captain of a ship I had joined to maroon me on the coast of New Mexico, where dwell the most ferocious Indian tribes." "And the captain did this?" "Pardieu!" cried Oliver; "He was a poor man, and the father of a family. I was cast on shore stupefied by laudanum. When I recovered the ship was already out of sight. I expected to be killed by the savages or to die of hunger. How neither happened is too long a story to tell now. But the end of all is, I have determined on an eternal exile. Never again will I place myself in the power of my foes, who live rich, happy, and respected in France." "You will establish yourself in Boston?" "No! I have done with civilised life; I shall now try that of the desert. It is my intention to bury myself in the wilds until I find an Indian tribe that will welcome me. I will ask them to receive me as a warrior. I thoroughly understand the manners and customs of the aborigines, and shall easily make friends." "I believe," observed the captain, "that you are right in this particular. You are young, brave, and intelligent; therefore you will succeed even in this mad project. But mark my word, you may live five, perhaps ten years with the Indians; but at last you will weary of this existence--what will you do then?" "Who knows? Experience will have ripened my reason, perhaps killed my grief, even deadened the hatred which burns within my heart. I may even learn to forgive those who have made me suffer. That in itself is a sort of vengeance." "But you will never come to that," said his friend. The young man rose without making any reply, and went on deck. Next day, as soon as the usual formalities had been gone through, the captain landed in his boat with his young friend. Both were silent before the sailors. Very soon they were threading their way along the crowded quays. Boston was by no means the really magnificent town which now excite universal admiration, but it was already a very busy and important commercial emporium. The Americans, with their restless activity, had hastened to clear away all signs of the War of Independence; the town had grown quite young again, and assumed that gay and lively physiognomy which belongs to great commercial centres, where almost everybody can find the means of living. As soon as they were alone the captain spoke. "When, my friend, do you propose to start?" he said. "Tonight, two hours before the setting of the sun. I burn with a fierce desire to breathe the air of the great savannahs, to feel free from the trammels of civilisation," he answered. "Well, my friend, I must leave you now, but promise to wait breakfast for me, and to do nothing until you have seen me again," insisted the captain. "I was about to ask you to join me. Where shall we breakfast?" The captain indicated a hotel at no great distance, after which he hurried away to wait on the consignees. "What on earth can Pierre mean," muttered Oliver to himself, "by my doing nothing until we meet again? Probably he will try once more to change my resolution. He ought to know that once I make up my mind I never falter. He is a good fellow, the only man who has ever been my sincere and devoted friend--the only being in the world I am sorry to part from." Musing thus Oliver strolled about, looking listlessly at the streets, the shops, and particularly selecting those which, by-and-by, he would have to visit for the purpose of his outfit, which he would have to purchase after breakfast. An hour later the two men met in front of the hotel. Both were exact to a minute. They ordered breakfast in a private room. As soon as they had finished the captain opened the ball. "Now let us chat," he said. "With the greatest of pleasure," replied Oliver. "Nothing is more agreeable after a meal than to enjoy a cigar, a cup of coffee, and a friend's company." "And yet you have determined to deprive yourself of these luxuries forever," replied Durand. "Man is ever insatiable. The unknown always did and always will attract him. He will ever quit the substance for the shadow. The fable is right. But let us talk of something else. Serious conversation after eating is folly," observed Oliver. "You are quite right--some more rum in your coffee? It is an excellent thing. What do you think I have been doing since I saw you?" "It is impossible for me to guess," cried Oliver. The captain rose, went to the window, and gave a short whistle. After this, he returned to his seat, Oliver staring at him while he sipped his coffee. Five minutes elapsed, and then in came several men, carrying various packets, which they placed on a side table, and went out without speaking. "What does it mean?" cried Oliver, in comic astonishment. "Then something can rouse you?" cried Durand, smiling. "No, only I wondered." "Never mind. You still intend going off tonight?" asked the captain. "Certainly," said Oliver rising; "that reminds me--" "One moment. We are old friends, and there should be no secrets between us," urged Durand. "There shall be none," answered Oliver. "Have you much money?" asked Durand. "Do you want to lend me any?" cried Oliver. "No matter if I did. But still I want an answer," urged Durand. "I have eleven thousand francs in gold sewn in my belt, and in a bag fastened round my neck diamonds worth a hundred and twenty thousand more. Besides this I have about eighty guineas in English money for immediate expenses. Are you satisfied?" "Perfectly," said the captain laughing, "and now listen to me." "Then it appears you are not quite satisfied?" cried Oliver, in his turn surprised. "Don't be in a hurry. I wish to interest you if I can." "I will wait your pleasure," observed Oliver, smiling at the other's hesitation. "It is useless," said Durand, "for me to feign a gaiety I do not feel. I feel more like weeping than laughing. The mere idea of this long, perhaps eternal, separation makes my heart bleed. I think that the hand now in mine I shall never shake again." "Don't be downhearted. Perhaps we may meet sooner than either of us expect," retorted Oliver. "I hope you may be a true prophet. Still I cannot help shuddering at the thought of your starting off amidst people whose language you do not even know." "There you are mistaken," responded Oliver; "as well as French, I speak English, Spanish, and Dutch, with about five Indian dialects, which I picked up at different times." "It is a wonder," mused the other, "that, placed as you have been, you should have had the time." "Before I became a cabin boy I could read and write a little. After a time I spent every moment of leisure in study." "I remember," sighed Durand, "I never met you without you were reading. What will you do for books now?" "What book is more interesting than that in which God has written on the plains, on the mountains, on the minutest blade of grass?" replied Oliver with enthusiasm. "Believe me, my friend, the sacred book of Nature has pages too interesting to ever weary us; from them you always find consolation, hope, encouragement. But," he added with a smile, "I have two books with me which, in my opinion, epitomise all great human thoughts, make man better, and even restore his courage, when bowed down by the heavy weight of misfortune. I have these books by heart, and yet I read them over again." And he laid on the table two books bound in black morocco. "What!" cried the amazed captain, "'The Imitation of Jesus Christ' and 'Montaigne'!" "Yes. 'The Imitation of Jesus Christ' and 'Montaigne,' the most complete and sincere books ever written, for they tell the story of doubt and belief. They tell the rival story of all the philosophers who have existed since the creation of the world. With these two books and the magnificent spectacle of Nature around me have I not a whole library?" "I cannot make you out. You overwhelm me," said the captain; "but I have not the courage to contradict you. You are too much for me. Go forth, seek the unknown, for alone that will comprehend you. You are one of those whom adversity purifies and renders great; you will often feel inclined to fall by the way in the gigantic combat you are about to undertake against the world. But fail is not a word in your dictionary. Even death, when it comes, will not conquer you." "All the more that death is but a transformation, a purification of brutal matter by Divine agency. But," he remarked with a smile, "I think we are talking about very serious matters very foreign to our subject. Let us return to business, for the hour of our departure is rapidly approaching." At this moment the tramp of horses was heard, and the captain again ran to the window. "Hilloa!" cried the young man; "Another of your mysterious walks! Do explain yourself." "All right," he replied, reseating himself, "there is no reason for circumlocution between friends. The truth must be told. I had hoped to lend you money, and I know that had you have required it, you would have borrowed it." "Certainly, without hesitation, my friend." "Of course, as I find you are very much better off than myself, I withdraw the proposition; but I had already provided your outfit." "What can you mean? Provided my outfit!" "Yes! I mean to say that there is not a single thing required for your journey that is not ready. Look!" And both rising, the captain opened the parcels which had been left on a side table. "Look here," said the captain; "this is a real Kentucky rifle, the only gun fit for a hunter; I have tried it. This is a ball pouch, with mould and everything necessary to make others when needed; this is your powder horn, which is full, while here are two small canisters to replenish with; this is a 'necessary,' as we sailors call it, containing spoon, fork, cup, knife, and other trifles; this is a leather belt; this is a game bag, with gaiters, riding boots, a cloak, and four rugs." "My dear friend," said Oliver, deeply moved, "you have been ruining yourself." "Get out of that and wait a little longer. As you seriously wish to adopt savage life, at all events you must be rigged out accordingly," he added, laughing. "This is a hunting knife, which you put in your belt; these pistols are to be placed in the holsters; that sword is perhaps one of the best cavalry swords I have ever seen. What, more! Oh, yes. This portmanteau, which is neither too large nor too small, in which you will find shirts and other necessaries. Then some pipes, tobacco, flint and steel, and a dozen boxes of preserves, in case you may someday be short of provisions. I think, on my honour, that is all. No, I had forgotten: paper, pens, ink, and pencils. And now my watch as a last remembrance." "This I must refuse. Your watch is too useful to yourself." "My friend, every time you look at it you will think of me," said the captain. And the two Frenchmen embraced. "I accept," replied Oliver, with deep emotion. "Now I know," continued the captain, "you are really my friend; and now let me see you dressed up as a true traveller, while I put the other things back into their parcels." "But before I don my new prairie costume, I have something else to buy," cried Oliver. "What!" cried the captain, "I thought surely I had forgotten nothing." "Do you think, my dear friend, that I am going to carry all this on my back. I don't want to look like a comic Robinson Crusoe, and, besides, it is more than I could do. I must have a horse." The captain burst out laughing. "Look out of window, my dear friend," he said, "and then you shall decide whether or not I forgot anything." Oliver approached the window, and saw two magnificent horses admirably caparisoned. "What do you think of those animals?" asked the captain. "They are both splendid; above all, the black one--a true horse of the prairies--a mustang." "You seem to know all about it." "I have seen them often enough," replied the young man; "the owner of this one should be proud." "It is yours," said Durand. "What do you mean?" "I bought it for you," was the simple reply. "Pierre! Pierre! I repeat, you are ruined." "Hush; I may as well add that under the saddles I have placed double pockets, which contain many things I have forgotten." "But there are two horses," he cried. "One for you and one for myself. At all events, I must see you fairly on your way." Oliver made no reply, but turned away to dress in order to hide his emotion. When he was in full costume his friend burst out laughing, and told him he looked like a Calabrian bandit. "And now which way do we go?" asked the captain. "Straight forward," replied Oliver. "Yes," cried the captain, "just so, as you are going round the world." In two hours, after a hearty and warm shake of the hand, they parted. They were too deeply moved to speak. CHAPTER II. SAMUEL DICKSON GIVES ADVICE TO HIS BROTHER. On the same day on which the _Patriot_ anchored in the Bay of Massachusetts an interesting event took place between seven and eight in the morning in a pretty village named Northampton, at no great distance from Boston. Everybody was excited. A crowd of men, women, and children pressed around a number of waggons, each drawn by six horses. They stood in front of a brick house, the only inn of the village. Four magnificent saddle horses, with very handsome harness, were held by a young intelligent-looking Negro, who at the same time smoked a short pipe. The crowd was very excited, but very decorous and quiet--as a New England crowd always is--waiting simply for an explanation. Suddenly the sharp trot of a horse was heard at the entrance of the street. This served to create a new sensation in the crowd. "Samuel Dickson!" cried the people; "At last he has come. Now he will make them listen to reason." The new arrival was a man of middle age, with a pleasant countenance, delicate and intelligent features, clothed in the dress of a rich farmer, and in those parts was looked up to as a most important individual. He made his way carefully through the crowd, bowing on either hand, and rather puzzled at the ovation he was receiving. "Ah! Ah! That is you, massa," said a Negro, with a chuckle, as he approached the inn door. "Sandy, is that you? Then I suppose the others are inside," he remarked, as he dismounted and handed him the bridle. "Yes, Massa Samuel, dem all dere." "I am glad of it," he replied, "for I have come a long way to see them. Look after my horse, he is rather fresh." Then, bowing once more to the crowd, Samuel Dickson entered the inn, closing the door behind him. In a large and comfortable room six persons, two women and four men, were seated at one of those copious breakfasts which are never seen to such perfection as in America. Upon benches round the room sat about twenty persons in a humbler station in life, amongst others two coloured young women, who were eating from bowls and plates placed on their knees. Those at the table were the members of the family--father, mother, daughter, and three sons. Those around were the servants. Joshua Dickson, the head of the family, was in reality a man of fifty-five, not, however, looking more than forty. He was a man of rude manners, but frank, honest expression. He was six feet high, as powerful as Hercules, a true type of those hardy pioneers who opened up the forests of the New World, drove back the Indians, and founded stations in the desert, which in time became rich and flourishing towns. His sons were named Harry, Sam, and Jack, aged respectively thirty, twenty-eight, and twenty-six. They were all three as tall as their father, and about as Herculean--true Americans, with no thought of the past, only looking to the future. Susan Dickson, the mother of this trio of giants, was a woman of about fifty--small, elegant, but extremely active, with delicate features and a pre-possessing physiognomy. She looked much younger than she really was--thanks to her really admirable complexion and the singular brightness of her eyes. She must have been rarely beautiful in her youth. Diana, the child of her old age, as she loved to call her, was scarcely sixteen, was the idol of the family, the guardian angel of the fireside; her father and brothers actually worshipped her. It was something wonderful to see their rude natures bending like reeds before the slightest wish of this delicate child, and obeying her most fantastic orders without a murmur. Diana was a charming brunette, with blue and dreamy eyes, slight and flexible form; she was pale; a look of profound melancholy was to be remarked on her countenance, giving to her physiognomy that angelic expression rarely found except in the Madonnas of Titien. This sadness, which all the family saw with sorrow, had only been in existence a few days. When questioned on the subject, even by her mother, she had no answer to give. "It is nothing at all," she said, "only a slight feeling of sickness, which will soon pass away." Hearing this, all had ceased to question her, though all felt uneasy, and slightly annoyed at her reticence. Still, as she was the spoiled child of the family, no one had the heart to blame her or pester her with questions. They had seduced her to govern them unquestioned that it appeared hard now to want to curb her will. The entrance of the stranger into the hall where the emigrants were breakfasting like persons who knew the value of time, caused no small stir; they ceased eating, and, glancing at one another, whispered amongst themselves. The stranger, leaning on his riding whip, looked at them with an odd kind of smile. The chief of the family, though himself somewhat surprised, was the first to recover himself. He rose, held out his hand, and spoke in what he intended should be a jovial tone. The attempt was a failure. "My good brother," he said, "this is indeed a surprise. I really did not expect to see you; but sit down beside my wife and have some breakfast." "Thank you; I am not hungry." "Then excuse me if I finish my meal," continued the emigrant. "Brother," presently said Samuel, "for a man of your age you are acting in an extraordinary manner." "I don't think so," replied the other. "Let me ask you where are you going?" "Northward, to the great lakes." "What is the meaning of this?" "My friend, I am told there is good land to be had but for the taking." "May I ask who put this silly idea in your head?" "No one. It is a splendid country, with splendid forests, water in abundance, a delicious climate, though rather cold, and land for nothing." "Have you seen this beautiful country?" "No; but I know all about it." "Do you?" sneered the other; "Well, beware of the creeks." "Never you fear. Wherever there is water there are bridges." "Of course; and now may I ask, what have you done with your magnificent southern property?" the other asked. "I have sold it, slaves and all, keeping only such as were willing to follow me. I brought away all that could travel--my wife, my sons, my daughter, my furniture, my horses, all I wanted." "May I without offence ask you this question: Were you not very well where you were? Did you not find the land excellent?" "I was well off, and the land was excellent." "Were you unable to sell your produce?" "I had an admirable market," was the answer. "Then," cried Samuel, angrily, "what in the devil's name do you mean by giving it up and going to a land where you will find nothing but wild beasts, brutal savages, and a hard and rigorous climate?" The bold adventurer, driven into his last intrenchment, made no reply, only scratching his head in search of a reply. His wife here interfered. "What is the use," she said, smiling, "asking for reasons which do not exist? Joshua is going for the love of change--nothing more. All our lives, as you well know, we have been roaming hither and thither. As soon as we are once comfortably settled anywhere, then we begin to think it time to be off." "Yes! Yes! I know my brother's vagabond habits. But when he is in one of his mad fits, why do you not interfere?" he cried, impetuously. "Brother, you don't know what it is to be married to a wanderer," she said. "Good!" cried Joshua, laughing. "But if you don't find this beautiful country?" asked Samuel. "I will embark on one of the rivers." "And where will you land?" "I have not the slightest idea. But there, do not be uneasy, I shall find a place." "Then," said Samuel, gazing at him with perfect amazement in his looks, "you are determined?" "I am determined." "Then, as we shall never meet again, come and spend a few days at my house," urged Samuel. "I am very sorry to decline, but I cannot go back. If I were to waste a day, it would be a serious loss of time and money. I must reach my new settlement in time for the sowing." Samuel Dickson, putting his hands behind his back, walked across the room with great strides, backwards and forwards, watching his niece curiously under his eyes. He several times struck the ground with his riding whip, muttering to himself all the time. Diana sat with her hands crossed on her knees, the teardrops falling from her eyes. Suddenly the farmer appeared to have made up his mind. Turning round, he laid his heavy hand on his brother's shoulder. "Joshua!" he said, "It is clear to me that you are mad, and that I alone in the family possess any common sense; never, God forgive you, did more crooked notion enter the head of an honest man. You won't come to my house? Very good. I will then ask you one thing, which, if you refuse, I shall never forgive you." "You know how much I love you." "I know you say so; but this is the favour I ask: don't start until you see me again." "Hem! But--" "I must get home on important business at once. My house is but twenty miles distant; I shall soon be back." "But when?" cautiously asked the emigrant. "Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest." "That is a long delay," continued Joshua. "I do not deny it. But as your paradise, your El Dorado, your beautiful country will not probably run away, you are bound to reach it sooner or later. Besides," urged Samuel, "it is important, very important, we should meet again." "As you will, my brother," sighed Joshua; "I give you my word to wait until the day after tomorrow at seven o'clock in the morning--no later." "That will suit me admirably," cried the farmer; "so good-bye for the present." And with a bow to all, and a smile to Diana, he hurried out of the room. The crowd still patiently surrounded the inn and received him with a loud shout. He, however, took no notice, but rode off. "We could not very well refuse, Susan," said the farmer to his wife. "He is your brother," she replied. "Our only relative," murmured Diana. "True. Diana is right. Children, unharness the animals: we will stop here tonight." And, to the great surprise of the gaping crowd, who hung about after the fashion of idlers, the horses of the emigrants were unyoked and taken to a shed, the waggons placed under cover, without the curious knowing the reason why. On the morning of the second day Joshua Dickson, shortly after sunrise, was overlooking the horses being fed by his sons and servants, when a great noise was heard in the street, as of many waggons, and then there was a sharp knocking at the door of the inn. Joshua hastily left the stables and took his way to the great room of the hotel. He came face to face with Samuel Dickson, who had just been admitted by the sleepy innkeeper. "Hilloa!" cried Joshua, "Is that you, my brother?" "Who else do you suppose it is?" cried Samuel. "Well, but I did not expect you so early." "Well," said Samuel, drily, "I was afraid you might give me the slip, so I came early." "An excellent idea, brother," said Mrs. Dickson, who now entered. "And knowing how anxious my brother is to reach the promised land, I would not keep him waiting." "Quite right," coolly replied Joshua; "and now about this important business?" "Look out of window," drily answered Samuel. Joshua obeyed, and saw five heavily-laden waggons, drawn each by horses, with about twelve hired men. "Well," coolly observed Joshua, "what may be the meaning of all this?" "It means," answered the farmer, "that as you have found yourself such a fool, it becomes my duty, as your elder brother, to come and look after you. I have sold up everything, and invested part, as you see." "Oh, my brother!" cried Joshua, with tears in his eyes. "Am I not your only relative? Wherever you go, I shall go--only there will now be two fools, but I am the bigger of the two. I talk like a wise man and act like a foolish child." Uncle Samuel was adored by all the family, everyone was delighted, while Diana was radiant. "Oh, my good uncle," she said, warmly embracing him, "it is for me you do this." "Do you think," he whispered, "I ever meant to desert my niece?" Two hours later the double caravan started on its way. CHAPTER III. A QUEER CUSTOMER. It was the beginning of the month of October, and some sharp frosts had rid the land of mosquitoes and gnats, which during the hot season abound in myriads near watercourses and beneath the leafy arches of the virgin forest, being one of its worst scourges. A few minutes after the rising of the sun a traveller, mounted on a magnificent horse, wearing the costume of a prairie hunter, and whose general appearance indicated a white man, emerged at a walking pace from a high thicket, and entered upon a vast prairie, at that day almost unknown to the trappers themselves, those hardy explorers of the desert--and which was not far from the Rocky Mountains, in the centre of the Indian country, and nearly two thousand miles from any settlement. This traveller was Oliver. He had, we see, already travelled a long distance. Two months only had elapsed, during which, going always straight before him, he had traversed all the provinces of the young American republic, never stopping except to rest himself and horse; then he had passed the frontier and entered the desert. Then he was happy. For the first time in his life he was free and unfettered, having cut himself off forever, as he thought, from the heavy trammels of civilisation. Oliver had at once begun his apprenticeship as a hunter, and a rude apprenticeship it is, causing many of the boldest and bravest to retreat. But Oliver was no ordinary man; he was young, of rare vigour and address, and, above all, possessed that iron will which nothing stops, and which is the secret of great deeds; that leonine courage which laughs at danger, and that indomitable pride which made him, he thought, the equal of any living being. He therefore considered nothing impossible, that is to say, he felt he could not only do what anyone else had ever done, but even more, if he were called upon by extraordinary circumstances to try. During two months he had met with numerous adventures. He had fought many a battle, and braved dangers before which the bravest might have retreated--perils of all kinds, from man, beast, and Nature herself. A victor in every case, his audacity had increased, his energy had redoubled. His apprentice days were over, and he now felt himself a true runner of the woods, that is to say, a man whom no appalling sight, whom no dreadful catastrophe, would terrify--in fact, one who was only to be moved by the majestic aspect of nature. He had paused as he left the thicket to examine the scene. Before him was a valley through which flowed two rivers, which after some time joined and fell into the Missouri, whose vast lake surface appeared like a white vapoury line on the distant horizon. Upon a promontory projecting into the first river was a superb bosquet of palms and magnolias; the latter, shaped like a perfect cone, stood in lustrous verdure against the dazzling whiteness of the flowers, which, despite the season, were still blooming. These flowers were so large that Oliver could see them a mile off. The great majority of these magnolias were over a hundred feet high; many were very much more. To the right was a wood of poplars, overrun with vines of enormous size, which wholly concealed the trunks. They then ran to the top of the tree, then redescending along the branches, passed from one tree to another, mixing up with piquot, a kind of creeper which hung in garlands and festoons from every bough. The young man could not take his eyes off the magnificent spectacle. Suddenly he started, as he made out a thin column of smoke rising from the centre of the magnolia thicket. Now the presence of smoke denotes fire, and fire indicates human beings. In nine cases out of ten, in the desert, such human beings are enemies. It is a harsh word, but it is certain that the most cruel enemy of man in the desert, his most terrible adversary, is his fellow man. The sight of this smoke roused no excited feelings in the bosom of our adventurer; he simply saw that his weapons were in order, and rode straight for the magnolia valley. As it happened, a narrow path led exactly in that direction. No matter whether he was to meet friends or foes, he was not sorry to see a human face; for a week, not a white man, Métis, or Indian had fallen across his path, and, despite himself, this complete silence and absolute solitude began to tell upon him, though he would not own it even to himself. He had passed over about one-third of the distance which separated him from the thicket, and was only a pistol shot away, when he suddenly stopped, under the influence of strange emotion. A rich and harmonious voice rose from amidst the trees, singing with the most perfect accent a song with French words. These words came clear and distinct to his ears; the surprise of the young man may be conceived when he recognised the "Marseillaise." This magnificent work, sung in the desert by an invisible being, amidst that grand scenery, and repeated as it were by the echoes of the savannah, assumed to him gigantic proportions. Despite himself, Oliver felt the tears come to his eyes; he pressed his hand upon his chest, as if to repress the wild beatings of his heart; in a second all his past came rushing tumultuously before him. Once more he saw in his mind's eye that France from which he believed himself forever separated, and felt how vain must ever be the effort to repudiate one's country. Led on by the irresistible charm, he entered the thicket just as the singer gave forth in his rich and stentorian voice the last couplets. He pushed aside some branches that checked his progress, and found himself face to face with a young man, who, seated on the grass by the riverside, near a glowing fire, was dipping biscuit in the water with one hand, while with the other, in which he held a knife, he dipped into a tin containing sardines. Lifting up his head as the other approached, the unknown nodded his head. "Welcome to my fireside, my friend," he said in French, with a gay smile; "if you are hungry, eat; if you are cold, warm yourself." "I accept your offer," replied Oliver, good-humouredly, as he leaped from his horse, and removing the bridle, hoppled him near the unknown. He then seated himself by the fire, and opening his saddlebags, shared his provisions with his new friend, who frankly accepted this very welcome addition to his own very modest repast. The unknown was a tall young fellow about six feet high, well and solidly built; his colour, which was very dark, arose from his being of a mixed race, called from the colour of their skin Bois brulé, under which general appellation we have half-castes of all kinds. The features of this young man, rather younger if anything than our hero, were intelligent and sympathetic with a very open look; his open forehead, shaded by curly light chestnut hair, his prominent nose, his large mouth, furnished with magnificent teeth, his fair rich beard, completed a physiognomy by no means vulgar. His costume was that of all the trappers and hunters of high northern latitudes: mitasses of doeskin, waistcoat of the same, over which was thrown a blouse of blue linen, ornamented with white and red threads; a cap of beaver fur, and Indian moccasins and leggings reaching to the knee; from his belt of rattlesnake skin hung a long knife, called langue de boeuf, a hatchet, a bison powder horn, a ball bag, and a pipe of red-stone clay with a cherrywood tube; such was the complete costume of the person upon whom Oliver had so singularly fallen. Close to his hand on the grass was a Kentucky rifle and game bag, which doubtless he used to carry his provisions in. "Faith," cried the adventurer, when his appetite was satisfied, "I have to thank fortune for meeting you in this way, my friend." "Such meetings are rare in the desert. And now allow me to ask you a question." "Ten if you like--nay, fifty." "Well, then, how was it that the moment you saw me you addressed me in French?" he asked. "For a very simple reason. In the first place, all the runners of the woods, trappers, and prairie hunters, are French, or at all events, ninety-five out of every hundred," he answered. "Then of course you are French?" "And Norman as well. My grandfather was born at Domfront. You know the proverb, Domfront, city of evil. You enter it at twelve, and are hung before one." "I am also French," said Oliver. "So I perceive. But to continue. My grandfather was, as I have said, from Domfront, but my father was born in Canada, as I was, so that I am a Frenchman born in America. Still we have the old country on the other side of the water, and all who come from it are received with open arms by us poor exiles. There are brave and noble hearts in Canada; if they only knew it in France they would not be so ungrateful and disdainful towards us, who never did anything to justify their cruel desertion." "True," said Oliver, "France was very much in the wrong after you had shed so much blood for her." "Which we would do again tomorrow," replied the Canadian. "Is not France our mother, and do we not always forgive our mother? The English were awfully taken in when the country was handed over to them; three-fourths of the population emigrated, those who remained in the towns persisted in speaking French, which no Englishman can speak without dislocating his jaws, and all would insist upon being governed by their old French laws.[1] You see, therefore, that the insulars are merely nominally our masters, but that in reality we are still free, and French." "Our country must have been deeply rooted in your hearts to cause you to speak thus," said Oliver. "We are a brave people," cried the stranger. "I am sure of it," responded Oliver. "Thank you," replied the stranger, "you cause me great pleasure." "Now that we know one another as countrymen, suppose we make more intimate acquaintance?" "I ask nothing better. If you like, I will tell you my history as briefly as possible." "I am attention," said Oliver. "My father was a baby when Canada was definitively abandoned in 1758 by the French, an act which was perpetrated without consulting the population of New France. Had the mother country have done so, it would have been met by a flat refusal. But I will avoid politics, and speak only of my family." "Good. I hate politics." "So do I. Well, one day my grandfather Berger, after being absent a week, came to his home in Québec in company with an Indian in his full war paint. The first thing he saw, standing by the side of the cradle in which lay my father, was my grandmother, her arms raised in the air, with a heavy iron-dog, with which she was menacing an English soldier; my grandmother was a brave and courageous woman." "So it seems." "A true daughter of Caudebec, handsome, attractive, and good, adored by her husband, and respected by all who knew her. It appears that the English soldier had seen her through the open door. He at once entered with a conquering air, and began to make love to the pretty young person he had noticed performing her maternal office. It was an unfortunate idea for him. My grandfather lifted him up and threw him through the window on to the stones outside. He was dead. My grandfather then turned round and spoke of something else." "A tough old gentleman!" "Pretty solid. He even had Indian blood--" "You spoke of Domfront." "Yes; but his father, having come to America with Comtesse de Villiers, married in Canada. He shortly after returned to France with his wife. There she died, unable to bear the climate!" "Very natural," said Oliver. "Before dying she made her husband promise to send his son to Canada." "But," continued Oliver, "the finale of your history." "As soon as that matter was settled, my grandfather embraced his wife, offered the Indian a seat, and began smoking his pipe. He then explained that he meant to leave Canada." "'This,' he said, 'is Kouha-hande, my mother's brother, the first sachem of his nation. He has offered me a shelter with his warriors, and has come with some of his warriors to escort us. Will you remain a Frenchwoman and follow me, or will you stay here and become an Englishwoman?'" "'I am your wife, and shall follow you wherever you go, with my little one on my back,' she answered." "'My sister will be loved and respected in our tribe as she deserves to be,' remarked the Indian, who had hitherto smoked his pipe in silence." "'I know it, my cousin,' she said." "No further words passed. My grandmother began at once to pack up. Two hours later the house was empty; my grandparents had left without even shutting the door behind them. Before sunset they were making their way up the Lawrence, in the canoes of Kouha-hande." "The river was crowded with fugitives. After a journey of four days my grandfather reached the tribe of the Hurons-Bisons, of which our relative Kouha-hande was the first sachem. Many other Canadians sought refuge in the same place, and were hospitably received by the Indians. I need say nothing more save that we have lived there ever since." "And your grandfather?" "Still lives, as does my father, though I have recently lost my mother and grandmother. I have a sister much younger than myself. She remains in the village to nurse my grandfather. My father is at this moment with the Hudson Bay Company." At this moment there was a peculiar rustling in the bushes at no great distance. "Be quiet," whispered the Canadian in the ear of his new friend, and before the other could in any way interfere with him, he seized his gun and disappeared in the high grass, crawling on his hands and knees. Then a shot was heard. [1] This is history as told by a Frenchman. As a matter of fact, the French Canadians remained where they were, until they became the most loyal subjects the British Crown possesses.--Editor. CHAPTER IV. AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE. Hearing this unexpected shot, Oliver was in the act of rushing to assist his friend, whom he supposed attacked by some wild beast, when the hearty and joyous voice of the Canadian was heard. "Don't disturb yourself, my friend," he cried, "I have only been providing our dinner." And next minute he reappeared, carrying on his back a doe, which he hung to one of the lower branches of the magnolia, and then began to open. "Handsome beast, is it not?" he said. "I believe the rascal was listening. He paid dear for his curiosity." "A fine beast and cleverly killed," replied Oliver, helping to skin the animal. "It is a pity to spoil a good skin. I am a pretty good shot, but you should see my father shoot a tiger in the eye." "That," cried Oliver, "seems extraordinary." "I have seen him do it twenty times, and still more difficult things," said the other. "But such deadly certainty is pure habit. We live by our guns--but to finish my story." "Go on, my friend." "My father was a child when we left Canada. He is now about forty-eight. My grandfather taught him to be a hunter, and to bind him to the tribe he married him when very young to a charming young Indian, a relative of Kouha-hande, and my mother in consequence. We are mere children. I am only twenty, and my sister but fifteen, lovely as the breath of dawn, and whose real name is Angela, my father's wish. But the Indians call her Evening Dew. That is all. I am a hunter. I hate the English and the North Americans, who are worse than John Bull himself, and I love the French, whose countryman I am." "You are quite right. Few native-born Frenchmen are such strong patriots as you. But now for your name." "Have I not told you? My name is Pierre Berger, but the Indians, in their mania for such names, call me Bright-eye, I hardly know why." "Of course because of your admirable power of shooting." "Well, perhaps you are right. I am a pretty good hand," said the young man, modestly. "And now, my friend, I have to add that I reached here yester evening at sundown, and that I am waiting for a friend, who will be here shortly. It is now your turn to tell me your history, unless, indeed, you have any motives for remaining silent, in which case a man's secrets are his own." "I have no secrets, especially from you, my dear Bright-eye, and the proof is that if you will listen, I will tell you who I am and why I came into this country." "I shall be delighted to hear your story," cried the Canadian, with evident delight. From the very first moment when he saw the hunter and came to speak to him, Oliver felt himself attracted towards him by one of those movements of attraction or irresistible sympathy which spring from intuition of the heart. He had therefore, during his conversation, determined if possible to make him a friend. He thereupon told him his story in its most minute details, the Canadian listening with the most profound and sustained attention, without interrupting him by a single remark. He appeared sincerely interested in the numerous incidents of a life wretched from its commencement, and yet which the young man told frankly and simply, without bitterness, but with an impartiality which indicated the grandeur and nobility of his nature. "Sad story, indeed," he cried, when the other had concluded; "how you must have suffered from the unjust hatred of these people! Alone in the world, without any to interest himself in you; surrounded by hostile or indifferent people; compelled to suffer from dark and insidious foes; capable of great things--young, strong, and intelligent, yet reduced to fly into the desert, and separate yourself from your fellows. Pardon if my cruel curiosity has reopened the wound which long since should have been cauterised." He paused, keenly watching the other's face. "Will you be my friend?" he suddenly cried. "I already feel for you an affection I can scarcely explain." "Thanks," cried Oliver, warmly, "I accept your offer with delight." "Then it is agreed: from henceforth we are brothers." "I swear it," resumed Oliver. "We shall henceforth be two to fight the battle of the world." "I thank heaven we have met." "Never to part again. You have no family. I will find you one, brother, and this family will love you," he added. "Heartily accept my thanks, Bright-eye," exclaimed Oliver; "life already seems changed, and I feel as if happiness were yet possible in this world." "There can be no doubt about it. Believe me, it depends on yourself. Look upon the past only as a dream, and think only of the future." "I will do so," returned Oliver, with a sigh. "And now to business. Young as I am, you will soon find that I enjoy a certain amount of reputation among the Indians and trappers. Very few would dare to attack me. I was educated in an Indian village, and, as I believe I have already told you, I am here to keep an appointment with a young Indian, my friend and relative. This Indian I now expect every moment, and I shall introduce you to him. Instead of one friend, you will have two devoted brothers. Now then," he added, laughing, "are you not fortunate?" "I am convinced of it," said Oliver. "When we have finished our business in these parts--and you may help us in this business--we will return to my tribe, of which you shall become a member." "I am wholly in your hands, Bright-eye," he said; "I make no resistance. I only thank you." "No thanks. I am useful to you today; you may be as useful, or more so, tomorrow." "Very well. But what is the affair that detains you here, to which you just alluded?" asked Oliver. "I must say that I do not know, though frankly I have my own suspicions. My friend has not thought proper to explain as yet, but simply gave me a rendezvous here, saying that I might prove useful. That was enough for me, and, as you see, I am here. It would be an act of indiscretion on my part to tell you anything I had not been directly told. Besides, I may be mistaken, and speak to you of a wholly different matter from the true one." "You are quite right." "To pass the time I will prepare supper." "And while doing so tell what manner of man your friend is." "He is a young man like ourselves, grandson of Kouha-hande. He is himself a chief, and a noted brave. Though young, his reputation is immense. He is tall, athletic, and even elegant of face. His features are handsome, even to effeminacy. His glance, gentle in repose as that of a dove, is, when his anger is aroused, so terrible that few can face it. His physical force is stupendous, his cunning sublime. But you will soon judge for yourself. His enemies call him Kristikam-Seksenan, or Black Thunder; his friends call him Numank-Charake, the brave man, in consequence of his mighty deeds." "You have simply been describing a hero," said Oliver. "You shall judge for yourself," smiled the other. "I am extremely anxious to do so." "You will soon have the opportunity. It is now five o'clock. In a few minutes he will be here." "What, after making an appointment so long ago, you expect him to keep it to the minute!" "Yes; it is the politeness of the desert, from which nothing absolves but death." "A summary excuse, truly," said Oliver. "Listen," cried Bright-eye. Oliver listened, and distinctly heard in the distance the trampling of a horse, which suddenly ceased, to be followed by the cry of the goshawk. Bright-eye responded with a similar cry, and with such perfection that the Frenchman mechanically raised his head in search of the bird. Then the sound of a horse galloping recommenced, the bushes parted violently, and a horseman bounded into the clearing, checking his steed so artistically that next moment he stood like a centaur rooted to the ground. The rider was very much as Bright-eye had described him. There was about him, moreover, an air of grandeur, a majesty which inspired respect without repelling sympathy. One glance sufficed to fix him as a man of superior nature. It was the first time Oliver, since his journey on the prairies, had seen an Indian so near, and under such favourable circumstances. He at once formed a friendly opinion of him. The chief bowed, and then pointed to the sun gilding the summits of the trees. "It is five o'clock. Here is Numank-Charake." "I say welcome, chief. I know your extreme punctuality. Supper is ready." "Good," said the chief, alighting from his horse with one bound. Bright-eye then placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Let my brother listen. The hunter is my friend." "Numank-Charake has read it in the eyes of Bright-eye," replied the Indian, turning to Oliver; "I put my hand on my heart, what will my brother give me in return?" "My hand and my heart; that is," he added, with a smile, "all that is not Bright-eye's." "I accept my share; henceforth we are three in one, one in three. Numank-Charake was once the Bounding Panther. Let that name be the name of my brother." They shook hands. All was done. According to the customs of the country they were brothers, and held everything in common. Almost on the threshold of his desert life, Oliver found himself associated with two men noted as the most honest and doughty champions of the prairie. CHAPTER V. A GREAT MEDICINE COUNCIL. For some time the three men, of such different birth, race, and manners, remained silent. It was a solemn moment. Their meeting appeared to them providential. Above all was the young Frenchman absorbed in his reflections. Alone an hour or two ago, he was now one of a formidable trio. All the time the Canadian went on with his cooking, while the chief gave fodder to the horses. "Supper is ready," suddenly cried Bright-eye, laughing, "let us eat." And all three seated themselves around a magnificent roast leg of venison _à la boucanière._ We must hasten to remark that nearly all Indian tribes on the borders of Canada understand and speak French, at all events, they did at the time of which we speak. This was the more fortunate as Oliver did not know one word of Huron. The guests did honour to the feast, that is to say, they left nothing but the bones. The meal, which was washed down by several draughts of French brandy, was merry, enlivened by jokes and witticisms. The Indians are always thus among themselves. It is only when in the presence of the whites, whom they hate, that they are grave, silent, and sullen, never unbending except under the influence of drink, when their conduct is that of beings under the influence of delirium tremens. Brandy, or rather spirit in every shape and form, is doing the work of extermination for the American. As soon as the repast was finished, they began to smoke, speaking of indifferent things. It was the design neither of Bright-eye nor Oliver to hurry the young chief. Indian etiquette is excessively severe on this point. It is a proof of intense ill breeding to question a chief, or even a simple warrior, when he appears anxious for silence. And yet the sun had disappeared from the horizon; night had spread over the desert, blotting out the landscape, and mixing up forms in the most fantastic and strange manner. The sky, of a deep blue, was dotted with stars. The moon, in its second quarter, began to show itself above the trees, floating in ether, and spreading on every side its silvery rays, that lit the prairie here and there with fantastic gleams. The night wind shivered through the branches of the trees producing plaintive and melodious sounds, like those of the Æolian harp. The sombre dwellers in the desert, roused by the setting of the sun, moved slowly about in the darkness, breaking the silence occasionally by their wild brays, their sharp barks, and their deep roars. Under every blade of grass murmured the never silent world of grasshoppers. The night was cold. It was the period of the great autumn hunts. Several white frosts had already cooled the earth, soon the temperature would be below zero. The rivers and streams would be frozen, and snow would cover the desert as with a shroud. The adventurers, after throwing on an armful of dry wood to revive the flame, had wrapped themselves in their ponchos, and, sheltered by the trees, continued smoking silently. "This is the hour of the second watch," suddenly observed Numank, drawing from his belt the medicine calumet, which is only used by chiefs in council; "the blue jay has sung twice, all rests around us. Will my pale friends sleep or listen to the voice of a friend?" "Sleep is for women and children," replied Bright-eye; "men remain awake when a friend desires to speak of serious things. Speak." "We listen," added Oliver, bowing. "I will speak, since my friends desire it; but as what I have to say is grave, it will not be a talk but a medicine council." "Let it be so," said Bright-eye. Numank rose, bowed to the four cardinal points, speaking some indistinct words; then he seated himself on his hams again, stuffed his calumet with moriche, a kind of sacred tobacco only used in great ceremonies. Then having burnt some in the fire as an oblation, he took a medicine stick, and with it lifted a burning coal to the bowl of the calumet. The chief then gave several puffs, and then, still holding the bowl in his hand, presented the stem to Bright-eye. The hunter gave several puffs, as did Oliver in his turn; it then came back to the chief, this going on until the last morsel of tobacco was consumed. Then Numank-Charake rose, bent again to the four cardinal points of the heavens, shook the ashes into the fire, and spoke. "Wacondah, master of life," he said, "you who know all, inspire my words." This formality over he replaced his calumet and sat down. Some minutes elapsed, during which he remained wrapped in deep thought. Then he raised his head, before bowed on his chest, bowed to his audience, and began. "Eight moons ago," he said, "I had just returned from an expedition against the Piekanns. After presenting the scalps taken by myself and young men to the sachems, and receiving their thanks, I was going to my wigwam to visit my father, detained at home by old wounds, when I suddenly saw a young girl leaning against the ark of the first man. The young girl was about fifteen, tall, elegant, and beautiful. I had long loved her without ever revealing the secret of my heart. On this occasion she seemed to wait for me, and saw me approach with a melancholy glance." Bright-eye's eyes glistened, despite his self-control. "When I was near her the young girl spread out her arms towards me, and then made a step forward. I paused, and waited. 'Numank is a great warrior,' she said, modestly lowering her eyes; 'his hut is lined with the scalps of his foes, he has rich skins of every kind of beast, his ball never misses; happy will be the woman whom he loves.'" "On hearing these words, I was deeply moved, and seizing the hand of the young girl, 'Onoura--beautiful child,' I said in her ear, 'I have a little bird in my heart which is always singing and repeating your name. Does this bird sing in your heart?' She smiled, looked at me from under her eyelashes, and murmured, 'Night and day he whispers tender words in my ear, and repeats the name of the warrior who loves me. Does not Numank-Charake find his hut very solitary during the long winter nights, when the wind howls in the forest and the snow covers the earth?' 'My heart has long flown out to you,' I cried, warmly, 'from the first hour that I saw you amidst your companions. Do you love me?' 'For life,' she said, blushing deeply. 'Good,' said I, 'then I will attempt a new expedition to win the marriage presents, and ask you of your father. You will wait for me, Onoura?' 'I will wait for you, Numank. Am I not your slave for life?' and she gently pressed my hand. I then took a wampum off my neck, and placed it on hers. She kissed it, her eyes full of tears, and taking a gold ring from the thumb of her left hand, she placed it on one of my fingers. I allowed her to do so with a smile. 'You love me,' she said; 'nothing shall ever separate us,' and before I could say another word she fled as does the gazelle before the hunter. I followed her with my eyes as long as I could, and then when she had disappeared round a corner I thoughtfully took my way to my father's hut." The chief paused. After a few minutes the Canadian, finding that the other was not disposed to continue, touched him gently on the arm. "Why did Numank-Charake show such want of confidence in his brother?" asked the Canadian, reproachfully. "What does my brother Bright-eye mean?" asked the chief, with slight embarrassment. "My brother knows what I mean," said the Canadian, with great animation. "Born almost the same day, brought up together, having made our first trails together on the prairies, as also our first expedition against the Sioux and Piekanns, our hearts melted into one, I thought we had no secrets. I know who is the woman whom my brother loves, but why let me guess all about it, instead of telling me? Have I done anything to offend?" "Oh, Bright-eye, don't think that," cried the young man, eagerly; "but love delights in mystery." "And yet it likes to confide its sorrows and its joys to the heart of a friend. On that very same night when she had this interview with the chief, Evening Dew--Nouma Hawa--on her return to her hut, told her brother all. Her heart overflowed with joy, and she could not repress her feelings." "Then Evening Dew owned her love to Bright-eye?" "Am I not her brother, and your best friend?" "True. Let my brother forgive me; I was wrong not to place confidence in him. Perhaps I was fearful he might disapprove of it." "On the contrary, it carries out my dearest wishes, and binds us more and more to one another." "My brother is better than I am, his heart is better; he will pardon the weakness of a friend." "On one condition," said the hunter, laughing; "that Numank-Charake has no more secrets." "I promise you," continued the chief, in a low, sad tone; "what I have now to say is very terrible. But the friends of Numank-Charake must know all. Two moons had elapsed since I and Evening Dew had spoken. I had not been able to carry out my projects. One day I again met her near the ark of the first man. 'The chief has forgotten his promise,' she said. 'No,' I replied; 'tomorrow I will keep it.' I left her with only a few more words. Next day I began to carry out my promise. I prepared everything, even the usual ceremonies were carried out--those you know so well." "One moment," interrupted Oliver. "Bright-eye, brought up in your villages, knows all about them, but I, as a mere stranger, know not what you mean. As I mean to live with you, I should like to know a little." "My brother is right," said the chief; "I will tell him the whole expedition. Before starting, the turf was taken off a considerable square of earth, the mould being made soft and pliable with the hands. It was then surrounded by stakes. When all was ready I went in and sat at the end opposed to the direction in which the enemy lived. After singing and praying, I put on the edge of the open space two little white stones." "After waiting half an hour in prayer, asking the Wacondah to guide me right, the village crier, or hachesto, approached. I gave him my orders. He turned and invited all the great warriors to smoke; then in their turn the inferior warriors were invited. After all had smoked, everyone examined the result of the ko-sau-ban-zich-egass. The white stones had fallen in the direction of a well-known path." "And what was the result?" asked Bright-eye. "The Wacondah favoured his children. The path led towards the land of our hereditary foes, the Sioux of the West." "Good," said the hunter. "Our party consisted of a hundred and fifty warriors, the picked men of the nation, armed with guns. Every man carried the offerings to be cast away on the field of battle, and hidden, if possible, in the entrails of our foes." "A pious custom," said Bright-eye. Oliver looked at the Canadian, wondering whether he spoke seriously or not. But there was no doubt of his good faith. "Two days later we started. A small band of twenty presently joined us, commanded by Tubash-Shah, the Cheat. My brother knows this restless and ambitious chief. I offered to yield the command to him. My warriors would not consent. Misunderstandings soon arose. Crossing some vast prairies, we began to feel great thirst, and Tubash at once violated the laws of war. I knew that water was not far off. The greater number of the elder warriors, who had to walk, were exhausted by heat and fatigue. Tubash sent out mounted scouts, and private signals were agreed on. Soon a small river was discovered. Those who got first to it fired guns, but before the detachments and the laggers had got up to the river, the sufferings of most of us were excessive. Some vomited blood, others were delirious. The expedition was a failure. Next day desertions began among the warriors of Tubash, he setting the first example. Soon I had only five-and-twenty men left. They offered to follow me to the end of the world. But what could I do? With despair in my soul I turned homeward. Halfway our scouts gave the alarm. An hour later we were engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict with the Sioux. Their party, six times as numerous as ours, was luckily composed chiefly of young warriors on their first warpath. Our defence was so desperate, that the Sioux yielded and fled. We were masters of the field, but out of four-and-twenty only ten were alive, and these were badly wounded." "It would be too terrible to tell the story of our sufferings on the way home. We found that all was known about the expedition. But all the sachems acclaimed us, the more that I brought back the scalps of eighteen Sioux who had fallen on the field of battle. But if my honour was safe, my happiness was lost. Evening Dew was gone." "My sister abducted?" cried Bright-eye. "No," said the other, sadly, "not abducted. She went away of her own accord." "Of her own accord?" repeated the hunter. "During the absence of Bright-eye and myself, a paleface came to the village. This man, it appears, for your father and grandfather refused any explanation, is a relative of my brother. After remaining a week he went away, accompanied by your father. Evening Dew followed, weeping bitterly. Still she offered no resistance to the orders of her father. Three days after your father returned to his tribe. He was alone. What had become of the lovely young girl none could tell me. I made the most minute inquiries without any result. Not knowing what else to do, I then sent a warrior to my brother to appoint a meeting. Here I am, my friend--what am I to do?" "I tell you, chief, that your extraordinary story is inexplicable to me. I cannot advise." "Allow me to speak," said Oliver, "I am wholly disinterested in the matter. I can therefore speak with that calmness which suits neither of you at this moment." "Speak!" cried the two young men. "My advice is, to start at daybreak for the village. The father of Bright-eye may have reasons for refusing explanations to the chief. Family matters are sacred. But the brother of Evening Dew has a right to demand a full explanation. I am certain it will be given to him by his father, who can have no reason for being mysterious with him. Let us then away to the village. Successful or not, we shall know what to do. In every case, my dear friend and brother, count on me." "What says the chief?" asked Bright-eye. "The chief thanks Bounding Panther," replied the young man, warmly; "his heart is loyal, and his soul generous. His advice is good and should be followed. With two such friends, the redskin warrior is certain of success." The conversation then continued for some time on a subject always interesting to a lover and a brother. Then, after throwing a pile of dry wood on the fire, the three men rolled themselves in their blankets, and lay down on the ground. The two wood rangers lay face downwards, according to Indian custom. As for Oliver, he lay on his side with his feet to the fire. At the first hoot of an owl--the first bird which announces the rising of the sun--the chief wakened his companions, and ten minutes later they started on their journey. CHAPTER VI. SAMUEL DICKSON HUNTS A MOOSE DEER. The traveller who for the first time reaches the Rocky Mountains is amazed at the pile of hills above hills, called by the early discoverer the Sierra of the River of the Wind, that immense reservoir whence flows so many great streams, some flowing into the Atlantic, others into the Pacific. We now transport our readers to a fork formed by a rather extensive stream, flowing from the Mountains of the Wind, just before it joins the Missouri, in the centre of a vast and delicious valley. This charming spot, enchanting in its aspect, was covered by scattered thickets, young trees, fat pasturages, and watered by many rills, which fell in all directions in silver cascades from the mountains, and finally lost themselves in the Missouri. This unknown Eden, buried in the mountains, had been discovered by a hardy explorer, and already the hand of man was at work destroying its savage grandeur. In a word, the squatters were at work. Squatters are generally men of restless habits, greedy of exertions, no matter what they may be, impatient of control, and sworn enemies of the peaceful and regular life of the great centres of population. Gifted with the courage of a lion, of a will--or, rather, obstinacy--which nothing can conquer, these men of indomitable energy, in whose hearts ferment the most violent passions, are the true pioneers of the desert and the vanguard of civilisation in the New World. Accustomed to place themselves above the law, as soon as the tide of civilisation always rising reaches them, they abandon without regret all they possess--houses and land--and snatching up their hatchets, bury themselves gaily still further in the desert, until they find another suitable site, on which they squat. There is no one to contest their claim. At all events, to do so would be a rather imprudent enterprise, for they at once appeal to their rifle, and make that the legal arbitrator. Joshua Dickson was a true specimen of a squatter; his whole life had been one long pilgrimage across the States of the Union. Weary of rambling within the purlieus of civilisation, where he always felt uneasy, one day, as we have already recorded, he came to a final resolution, and, abandoning all that he possessed, he started with his family and servants in search of a land where none before had ever set their foot. We cannot relate all the incidents of his journey without guide or map. They would fill a volume. We come to the point. One night they had fixed their camp near a very narrow and wooded gorge. It appearing to be rather a difficult spot to travel in the dark, and there being no hurry, they had halted by a small stream, in the midst of a green prairie, which offered admirable pasturage for their beasts and horses. Before daybreak, while his companions still slept, Samuel Dickson rose, took his rifle, and advanced in the direction of the defile, with the double object of examining the locality and of shooting, if possible, two or three head of game for the morning repast, provisions being rare in camp, so much so that the night before they had gone to bed almost without supper. Harry Dickson, who acted as sentry, alone saw him go out, but as his uncle did not speak, he did not venture to make any observation. Samuel Dickson went away with his rifle on his shoulder, whistling "Yankee Doodle," and shortly after disappeared in the tall grass without his nephew being able to make out in what direction he had gone. Seen by the light of morn the defile was not so choked up by trees and bushes as it had seemed in the dusk of the evening; the entrance only was marked by a curtain of young trees, which would easily succumb to a few blows of a hatchet. The American pushed forward, cutting a passage with his bowie knife, resolved to reach the extremity of the defile, in order to examine it thoroughly and report to his brother. Suddenly a moose deer bounded across his path. "There is a demon who does not suffer from rheumatism. How he runs! But remember, my friend, that's your breakfast." With which words he took to his heels, and, catching sight of the deer, followed him up through the dense undergrowth, without being able to get a shot at him. This went on for about twenty minutes, during which, his rifle at full cock, he never looked to the right or left. Suddenly the moose deer stood still, as if he sniffed another enemy in the direction in which he was going. The American lost no time, but took steady aim for a second or two and fired. The stricken deer bounded into the air, and then once more took to its heels. But the hunter was determined not to lose him. Unhappily, however, in his eagerness, he did not look before him, and just as he thought the deer began to droop, while he increased his speed his foot slipped and he went head over heels, falling a height of about fifteen feet, to alight upon a kind of pavement of hard flint stones. The fall was so heavy that the American not only was bruised all over, but fainted. A feeling of coolness suddenly came over him, and caused him to open his eyes. He looked wildly around him, and saw a young man of about seven-and-twenty, in the costume of a trapper, his handsome face bent over him with a look of deep solicitude, while he bathed his face with a handkerchief soaked with water. "Are you better, Mr. Samuel?" said the other. "Hem!" cried the American; "Am I mad?" "Not in the least, Master Samuel, at least, that I am aware of," was the reply. "But what has happened?" cried the other, with an awful grimace. "A very simple thing: you shot a deer, and in your eagerness to catch him you did not notice that you were on the summit of an eminence, and so rolled over, to the detriment of your bones." "A very simple thing!" groaned the other; "You speak very complacently, Master George. Is anything broken?" "Nothing. I examined you carefully--nothing but bruises, of that I am sure." "Cursed deer! If I only had secured it. But the brute escaped me after all." "No, my friend. You are too good a shot to miss your aim. There lies your game, quite dead." "Thank goodness! That is lucky. But oh! Oh! I feel as if I had received a severe beating. Help me up." "But had you not better rest a while?" "Go to the deuce. I am not a whining sniggler, like my niece," he began; "by the way," he added, "that puts me in mind! Young man--" "Allow me to help you up--take my arm. I am strong; so lean as heavily as you like. There, you are all right. Your rifle will serve you as a staff." Thanks to the assistance of the young man, the American contrived to stand on his legs, making horrible grimaces and groaning all the time. "I wish my brother had been anywhere, with his mad notion of emigration," he said, grumbling; "but that is not the immediate question. Will you answer me?" "I am quite ready. You cannot carry the deer--shall I hang it up in safety until you send for it?" "Will you answer me?" cried Samuel, ferociously. "You have not yet asked me any question," said the young man, gently. The American looked at him with considerable anger in his glance; then his muscles relaxing, he burst out laughing. "Forgive me, George," he said, offering his hand. "I am an old fool. I am trying to get up a quarrel with you, instead of thanking you for your kindness. In truth, I believe you have saved my life." "You exaggerate, Mr. Samuel," replied the other. "Between you and me, I don't think so. What would have become of me, fainting in the desert?" "Chance brought me here." "Oh, yes! Chance has very broad shoulders," answered the American: "I suppose it brought you out here." The young man held down his head and blushed. "Well, well, I won't tease you, George," cried Samuel; "you are a noble and generous fellow, and I loved your father." "As you do his son," responded the other. "I suppose it is so. But this being understood, let us talk like two old friends." "I am at your command." "Always the same eternal chorus. Now I do not want to dive into your secrets, but without going beyond the limits of politeness, allow me to ask you one simple question," said Samuel. "Ask; and if it be in my power, I will answer truthfully," replied the other. "Hem! You are confoundedly close. First let us sit down. I am all aches and pains." The young man gently led him to a soft mound of turf, helped him to be seated, and followed his example. "Now I am good for an hour. Let us chat." "I am your most obedient servant to command." "How is it, Mr. George Clinton," began the old man, with a sly look, "that three months ago I left you at Boston at the head of a large house of business, and that I now find you dressed like a runner of the woods, hundreds of miles from the nearest settlement, just ready to save my life." "If my journey served me no other purpose, I am thankful--still I own there is another motive." "I am glad to hear you say so. May I ask its nature?" "Well, Master Samuel," began Clinton, "I am young, vigorous, and passionately fond of field sports; I am a good shot, and very much inclined for a free and independent life. Many times while at Boston chance brought me in contact with persons who have accomplished wonderful journeys into the almost unknown interior of our vast continent, and who brought back astounding accounts of what they saw; my curiosity was aroused, and I felt within myself a strong desire to attempt one of these expeditions in search of the unknown." "Or the ideal," smiled the American. "If you like it. As long as my father was alive I kept my ideas to myself, but as soon as my actions were quite free my old ideas were revived. An opportunity presented itself which I eagerly embraced. Confiding my house of business to a trustworthy partner, I started." "You had a definite object, I suppose?" "No; I went wherever chance or my feelings urged me," the other answered. "My young friend," said Dickson, laughing, "chance plays too great a part in all this. You will excuse me if I don't believe a word of your story." "You are not generous, sir." "I am not generous?" "You will not believe that a young man could give way to his adventurous instincts; and yet you, a wise man, very much older than I am, you, whose position was settled, I find you here, without being able to give the slightest explanation of your conduct." "Well answered, George. You hit me hard, but you know I am an old fool. I am so, as sure as fate. Yes, my friend, I am mad enough for a straitjacket. But at the same time, I can see that you will not make me your confidant." "I assure you--" began Clinton. "What is the use of holding out any longer? You must rely on me in the end; but when you do come to me with the truth, it will be my turn." "You are not angry with me?" "No, my boy: keep your secrets; but remember I am your friend. Keep your own counsel then, if you will--it concerns only yourself. But remember, whenever you want me, I am ready," he answered. "I know not how to thank you." "What nonsense! You owe me nothing. It is I who am your debtor. But it is getting late, and I must return to the camp, where they must be getting anxious. Thanks to my rest I feel not only able to walk, but to carry the confounded deer." "Wait, however, while I clean and skin him. It will then be easier." "You are quite right. Be quick, as we are short of food." "But the country is enormously rich in game, and what a beautiful spot!" "It certainly is," replied Samuel, after which his young friend soon prepared the game so as to be easily carried. "And now take my arm while I lead you through the defile, which is the only way out of the valley." And so they started, Samuel walking much better than he expected, though suffering much. "One favour," said the young man, after a time. "What is it, my friend?" asked Samuel. "Say not one word of our meeting." "Since you wish it, I will be strictly silent on the subject. Like other people I know, I will invent some sort of story--it is not difficult." The young man smiled, and shook him heartily by the hand. Then Samuel Dickson walked away in the direction of the camp, while George busied himself in the valley. CHAPTER VII. JOSHUA DICKSON BECOMES MASTER OF THE VALLEY. After Samuel had walked some distance he found that he had miscalculated his strength. He was very weak about the ankle, and the way being rude and his load heavy, he could scarcely get along at all. Still he would not abandon the deer, knowing as he did how short of provisions they were in the camp. Wiping the cold perspiration off his brow, the brave American resumed his journey. The sufferings he endured it would be impossible to describe; at length he became scarcely able to drag one foot before the other; every now and then he had to stop, as the blood rushed to his head and myriad sparkles flashed before his eyes. He seemed to have the vertigo, his mouth was parched, his chest panting, his temples throbbing, and his eyes almost starting from his head. When he had staggered to within five hundred feet of the camp he was utterly exhausted, and fell insensible on the grass, where he remained inert and motionless for a quarter of an hour. Luckily, as he roused himself, he found a small rivulet flowing at his feet. In this he bathed his hands and face, and felt better. But he could walk no farther; that he knew was impossible. He, however, suspected they were looking for him, and if they heard him would come to his assistance. His voice was powerless to reach them. There remained his rifle. Still seated on the ground, he loaded and fired three times in succession. He had not long to wait before he saw his brother and nephews running towards him. He was too weak to enter upon any explanations, but one nephew taking up the deer and the other their uncle, they at once made for the camp, where Mrs. Dickson and Diana anxiously awaited them. When they saw the hunter they believed him dead. Joshua had a great deal of difficulty in persuading them that he had only fainted, and was in no danger. The Americans, especially the hunters and trappers, have great experience in wounds and bruises. The sick man was at once carried to a covered waggon, placed upon a mattress, and stripped. "Heavens!" cried Joshua, as he examined the numerous black bruises, "Poor Samuel has indeed had a bad fall. I wonder he was not killed outright." "Fortunate nothing is broken," said the eldest son. "So it is," replied the father; "and now let us do the best we can for him while your mother cooks the deer meat for breakfast. It was for us poor Sam risked his life. Get the camphorated brandy and some wool, and don't forget to tell your mother to cook the game. She is rather apt to burn venison, which does not improve its flavour. While you are about it bring the rum bottle--a little poured down his throat will do him good. Above all, be quick." Having given these orders, Joshua bathed his brother's forehead with cold water, passed burnt feathers under his nose, and did everything which could be done under the circumstances. Still the sick man never moved. "Let us try the rum," he said, as his son returned. And as he spoke, he forced open the other's teeth with the blade of his knife, and putting the neck of the bottle to his mouth, let the liquor slip through. Samuel smacked his lips and opened his eyes. "That is something like. And now to work." The two men then, dipping the wool in camphorated brandy, began to rub the bruises. Such a remedy, so roughly employed, was very soon quite efficacious. The sick man sat up, howling furiously, and trying to escape from their clutches. But the two men, believing in the remedy, continued, and, despite all their victim could say, despite his prayers, howls, and curses, he finally had to submit to the treatment for half an hour. "There you are," cried Joshua; "now try and sleep." "Go to old Nick!" roared Samuel; "I'm skinned alive." "You are as fussy as a woman. We scarcely touched you. Tonight we shall do it again perfectly, and tomorrow you will be quite well," said Joshua. Samuel shuddered, but said nothing; shortly after he, however, slept soundly. At night the two men came again, and, despite his lamentations, protestations, and prayers, continued to rub him as before, with all the vigour of which their hands and arms were capable. Then Joshua told his brother to go to sleep, promising if in the morning he was not quite well to give him one more dose. But Samuel was up first, and when they came to find him, he was dressed, singing "Yankee Doodle." His brother was delighted, and while wishing him joy, highly eulogised his remedy, the very mention of which caused Samuel to shudder. He was then questioned as to his adventure, which he related, leaving out all mention, however, of George Clinton. They were at breakfast, and everyone listened with avidity. The ladies especially, who were weary of their journey, heard the description of the beautiful valley with extreme delight. "To conclude, I beg to remark," Samuel wound up by saying, "that I never saw a spot better suited for a settlement." "We shall see," drily remarked Joshua. Samuel knew his brother well, and was well aware how he should be treated. "As for myself," he added, with indifference, "I don't care where or when we stop. As we have gone so far in the desert, what matters fifty leagues more or less? Let us then go ahead. Push on by all means, even as far as the Bay of Hudson." "I don't want to go as far as that," cried Joshua; "if the valley's anything like what you say, perhaps we may stop." "Well, perhaps it may not suit you. Everybody, you know, to their taste," continued Samuel. "I shall judge for myself," replied Joshua. "If we are to stop here all day," Samuel urged, quite satisfied, "I and Harry will fetch the deerskin." "Why not go with me?" said his brother. "I shall be delighted with your company." "Then, by Jove, we'll all go. It will be a walk. Harry, Sam, Jack, tell Sandy to be ready for a start. Let the camp be raised. Tonight we will camp in the valley and examine it at our ease." "You raise the camp for so small a journey?" said Mrs. Dickson. "Does it displease you, mistress?" "No. But it is a useless fatigue for horses and men." "I shall do as I think proper," said the squatter, drily, as he went to hurry his men. Samuel Dickson and the ladies smiled. They knew now they would stop in the valley. An hour later the whole caravan took its way in the direction of the defile, preceded by a dozen of the hired men and others with hatchets, to act as pioneers. Though he declared his health was quite restored, Samuel Dickson, instead of riding on horseback, clambered into a waggon with his sister-in-law and niece, with whom he gaily discoursed. Every now and then the old farmer looked sideways at the countenance of his pale and thoughtful niece, smiled to himself, and rubbed his hands with intense satisfaction. Neither mother nor daughter could make out his pantomime, but after a few trials they knew it was useless to question him, and so let him chuckle to himself. Joshua Dickson, without allowing it to be seen, had been very much struck by what his brother had said. Instead, therefore, of riding beside the caravan as usual, he had gone on in front. Presently, as if no longer able to resist the impulse of curiosity which was devouring him, he signed to his three sons to follow, and next minute the four men were off at a hard gallop and were soon lost in the defile. "The fish is in the net," said Samuel Dickson, with a hearty laugh. "Is the valley so beautiful as you say?" asked Mrs. Dickson. "Much more so. It is simply a terrestrial paradise. If you were to hunt for months you would never find a more agreeable or advantageous position. Everything is to be found in abundance, wood, water, pasture, and above all, game." "If Joshua would only settle." "A good deal depends on you." "I have not the influence you suppose over my husband. You know his vagabond humour." "He will remain here if you wish him to." "I hope you are right," replied the wife, with a sigh. "Chut! Here he comes. Attention, this is the decisive moment," whispered Samuel, as Joshua came up. "Holloa!" he cried, "I have come from the valley." "Did you find the deerskin I left behind?" "Deerskin be--" was the excited answer; "I had no time to think of it. But what a delicious valley! I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life." "It is certainly pretty fair, but not worthy of such frantic eulogy," said Samuel. "What a man you are!" cried Joshua; "You must always disagree with me. The moment I like a thing you must depreciate it." "Do you then mean to make some stay in the valley?" asked Mrs. Dickson, innocently enough. "Some stay, mistress!" cried the husband; "What are you dreaming about? I mean to take the whole valley. It belongs to no one now. It shall therefore be ours--that is, mine and my brother's." "I want very little," said Samuel. "You shall have your right share, no more and no less. Do you think I would cheat you?" "Far from me be such a thought." "But, my dear," said the wife, "pray think." "I have thought," he replied, abruptly; "and my resolution is irrevocable. So thoroughly have I made up my mind that I have come back alone, leaving the children at work." "At work!" cried Samuel. "Yes; they are cutting down trees and clearing the ground. This will be so much gained, as the season is far advanced, and we have not a moment to lose if we would have our settlement quite ready for the winter." All this while the caravan was advancing, and by degrees had got halfway through the defile. "This narrow way might easily be stopped," said Joshua. "Very useful idea, as many redskins are about." "But we are very numerous." "Yes; but if we are attacked we have no neighbours to help us, and must count only on ourselves alone." "We shall be sufficient," drily responded Joshua. "I hope so, and yet I doubt if the Indians leave us in peaceable possession if game is as abundant as I believe." "Bah! Who cares? If the Indians come we will give them such a reception as shall astonish them." "Who lives longest will see the most. It is best to be prudent," responded Samuel. The squatter, half angry at his brother's manner, gave up the conversation, and, spurring his horse, disappeared. "Now," said Samuel, with a smile, as the other rode off, "you may be satisfied. Joshua is sufficiently annoyed at my opposition to become seriously obstinate. Nothing will make him change his mind now." "Perhaps you went a little too far." "Not a bit, I only stimulated him." "But what you said about the Indians made me seriously uneasy. Are there any about?" "I suppose so, as we are in the very centre of their territory. They may not attack us if let alone." "But this valley may belong to them." "Then we shall have to negotiate with the tribe to which the place belongs. We shall buy it of the redskins--a thing done every day." "You ought to know Joshua better by this time. He will take the land, and refuse all compromises." "I know him; but should the contingency come, we must make him listen to reason. But look, we are entering on the confines of this garden of Eden, which henceforth will be all our own," cried Samuel. "What a magnificent country!" cried the squatter's wife. Miss Diana, despite her sadness and habit of concentrated thought, could not restrain an exclamation of surprise at the sight of the grand spectacle before her. "Don't be too enthusiastic," said Samuel. "Here is Joshua." A hundred paces off Joshua had halted, his sons beside him on horseback, gun in hand. The squatter held the American flag in his right hand. As soon as all the waggons were in the valley he signed to everybody to advance. All the serving men and women surrounded the squatter. His wife, daughter, and Samuel remained in the waggon. The squatter, making his horse prance, waved the American flag over his head, then he planted the staff in the earth, and cried in a loud firm voice: "I take possession of this wild territory by the right of the first occupant I proclaim myself its sole lord and master, and if anyone, white or black, dares to claim it, I will defend myself to the last gasp." "Hurrah! Long live America!" cried all. "My friends," continued the trapper, "we are now at home. This valley which we shall soon cultivate and bring to prosperity and civilisation, is the Valley of the Deer." "Long live the Valley of the Deer!" cried all. The squatter then headed the caravan, and led it to the spot he had selected for a settlement. It was twelve o'clock. At a little after two the ancient trees were falling beneath the axes of the Americans. CHAPTER VIII. DIANA DICKSON AND HER FOE. The activity of the North Americans is prodigious; they have a peculiar way of handling the axe which is marvellous. Their mode of procedure is almost incomprehensible, and goes beyond anything the imagination can conceive. Fifty American woodmen will in a month clear the whole of a vast forest tract. They always begin with the idea, a very logical one, though a proud one, that the modest plantation they commence may in time become an important town, and they act accordingly. The land is divided into lots, paths traced by the axe stand for streets, large open spaces represent squares, while notched trees indicate where the houses, shops, workshops, and other buildings are to be. As soon as this is all settled they go to work with feverish haste, and trees of vast dimensions fall with a rapidity which is simply amazing. Then they build the stables and sheds, then the blacksmith's forge, the carpenter's shop, and the water sawmill, of which the workmen at once take possession. The earth, still encumbered by the roots of trees, is dug up and sown at once. Everything goes on at the same time with the utmost regularity and industry. In a few days the landscape is completely changed, and there, where had existed a virgin forest, with all its deep and impenetrable mysteries, suddenly arises, as if by means of the enchanted wand, the embryo of a town, which ten years later will be a rich flourishing emporium of commerce, and of which the population, coming from all parts of the world, will perhaps be fifty or sixty thousand. But the squatter, the founder of the new city, will have disappeared, without leaving a trace behind. Nobody knows anything about him, not even his name. His work done, he will have taken his melancholy departure, frightened to see the desert so populated, and that civilisation from which he had fled so near; he probably has fled out West in search of a new virgin land, which he will transform like the first, without deriving any more advantage from it, finally to end his days, shot in some miserable Indian ambuscade, or killed by the claws of a grizzly, or perhaps dies of misery and hunger in some unknown corner of the prairie. Joshua Dickson did not act differently from his fellows; after dividing the valley into two, and handing over half to his brother, he fixed his residence near the fork of the two rivers. Samuel Dickson fixed his residence at the other end of the valley, near the river called the Deer River. Everybody then set to work, and with such rapidity that before three weeks were over the principal buildings were finished. The houses, built with trees from the trunks of which the bark had not been removed, piled one upon the other, and fastened together by iron clamps and long wooden nails, looked comfortable with their glass windows furnished inside with strong shutters, and their mud and brick chimneys from which the smoke already escaped in a bluish cloud. All the servants and hired men had erected themselves, not exactly houses, but bark huts. They were, however, only temporary residences, soon to be replaced by more solid and eligible residences. The ordinary means of defence so necessary in an Indian country had not been neglected; a solid double stockade of young trees surrounded the camp; the centre of this rampart was occupied by a ditch ten feet wide and fifteen deep. There were several drawbridges, which were raised every night, by means of which only could the settlement be reached; near every one of these was a redoubt of stone, surmounted by stakes, behind which, in case of attack, the garrison could place themselves. All the houses were moreover loopholed. Every night some twenty formidable dogs of the race formerly used by the Spaniards to hunt down the Indians, and until lately kept to track Negro slaves by the Americans, that is to say, bloodhounds, were let loose. One morning, shortly after sunrise, Miss Diana, accompanied by her own enormous and favourite dog, quitted the Point, her father's habitation, for the residence of Samuel Dickson. Very busy each about their own affairs, the brothers were often two days without seeing each other, the more so that their respective residences were quite three miles apart. Joshua Dickson, whose activity was immense, struck with amazement at sight of the magnificent waterpower at his door, and which he little suspected was the Missouri, had asked himself one day where these waters flowed to. He came at last to the conclusion that on its way to the sea it must run through some state of the Union. Then, imbued with that commercial spirit which is innate in the Americans, he at once saw the value of the river as available for the carriage of his produce, as well as to obtain supplies for the colony. He therefore resolved to make a journey down the river, and reach the first settlement, and this as soon as the heavier labours were over. Now with the squatter to resolve was to act, and even before anything else was finished he had set to work to construct a canoe sufficiently large to carry four persons, with victuals for a long journey, and strong enough to bear a voyage of some hundreds of miles. The boat had been finished the night before, and Joshua Dickson, eager to begin his journey, had sent his daughter over to Dickson Point, to confer with his brother as to what was to be done in his absence. But neither Samuel nor Diana knew anything of Joshua's projects. Joshua was one of those men who, without being deceitful, was very reticent, and never told his thoughts. Diana, like a true heroine, traversed the faintly traced paths which led to her uncle's house, a hunting knife in her belt, and light gun in her hand. For further safety she was accompanied by Dardar, a large black and white dog, something between a wolf and a Newfoundland, terribly ferocious, and of mighty strength, as tall as a good-sized donkey, and who would have tackled a bear in defence of his mistress, whom he obeyed with the docility of a child. With such a guardian Diana had nothing to fear from man or beast; moreover, the country was too little known to the squatters to allow a young girl to go out quite unprotected in the country, however short the distance. Contrary to her usual mood, the young girl was quite joyous; her freedom, which allowed her to give free vent to her thoughts, had driven away the tinge of sadness which generally clouded her beautiful face. She went along careless and dreaming through the fields, playing with Dardar, who, proud of the charge he was set to guard, ran wildly before her, dashing into the bushes and thickets with an intelligent glance that was almost human. The young girl soon reached the river, where a kind of ferryboat had been provided by means of which to cross the river, here neither broad nor deep. In a few minutes Diana was across and within sight of her uncle's residence. Inside the log hut, which was extensive, were seated two men, with a bottle of whisky before them. These were Samuel Dickson himself and George. Two horses, still saddled and smoking, were fastened in the court. They must have been on a long journey. "You are a pretty fellow to make me gallop about in this way in search of you. I am not very handsome, but I am not ugly enough to frighten you." "I simply did not see you." "No nonsense. Do you think to keep me in ignorance of your motive in coming this way?" The young man blushed deeply. "Do you know my brother Joshua?" asked Samuel. "I met him once or twice in Boston, but I do not think he ever noticed me," said George Clinton. "Shall I introduce you to him?" said Samuel. "He has his faults, but he is a very worthy man." "I don't think it would be wise just now." "I don't think," continued the American, "that you have waited to be introduced to my niece." "Sir," cried the young man, dropping his glass. "Ah, ah!" cried the American, laughing, "That is the way you break my crockery. These lovers, these lovers. Do you think to cheat an old opossum like me? You love my pretty niece, which is very natural; you are a good fellow, and together will make an excellent couple." "I regret to say it cannot be so," sighed George. "Why so?" cried Samuel. "I see you are so good, I can no longer refuse to enlighten you." "That is right. Confess, for I am your true friend." "What I have to say," began George, "is not much. I met Miss Diana at Boston at Mrs. Marshall's, where your niece stayed for some months last year. I was on very good terms with your relative." "Yes, yes; my cousin," said Samuel. "Need I say that from the first moment I saw her I loved your niece? My visits to Mrs. Marshall, once only occasional, became so frequent that the lady began to have suspicion of my intentions. She at once called me on one side, and while giving me every credit for loyalty and worth, she told me not to prosecute my attentions, as Diana's father would never consent to our marriage. Despite all my entreaties, however, she would give me no reason, until at last, yielding to my earnest entreaties, she explained that many years before there had been such a quarrel between my father and Joshua Dickson that any alliance between our families must ever prove impossible." Samuel listened with extreme anxiety. "You see yourself that I am right," said the young man. "You are mistaken," cried the other; "the matter is rather serious, I allow. I really had forgotten that old affair. But don't ask me any questions; all I say is, have courage. Circumstances will probably alter, and believe me that in Samuel Dickson you will have a sincere friend." "I should be only too glad to help." "When I am on your side nothing is difficult. Now to breakfast. But how did you know of my brother's coming out here?" suddenly cried Samuel. "Miss Diana told me herself." "Oh, oh! Then I wonder no longer. To breakfast." "I hope, Master Samuel, you will excuse me," began the other, taking up his hunter's cap. "Sit down; if my niece were here you would not go." "Can I come in?" suddenly said a soft voice at the door, a voice that made George start. This sudden coincidence utterly overcame the old man's gravity, and, throwing himself back in his chair, he screamed with laughter, while Diana stood transfixed in the doorway, and George Clinton simply turned his cap round in his hand without being able to articulate a word. It was Dardar who ended the scene. The dog had remained outside for a moment or two, and then, seeing the door open, had rushed right into the middle of the room; seeing George Clinton he rushed at him, wagging his tail first, and then, leaping up, his paws on either shoulder, he licked his face with a joyous whine. "By heavens!" cried the squatter, "The fellow is lucky. Everyone likes him, even that precious Dardar, and yet he despairs. Come in, Sly Boots, and kiss your uncle." She did not require twice asking. "You are welcome, mademoiselle," he said, with mock politeness. "I suppose I need not introduce you to yonder tall young fellow?" "I have known the gentleman some time," replied the young girl, holding out her hand, which George took and kissed. "That's right," cried Samuel, rubbing his hands; "all goes well. And now once more I say, to breakfast. I am dying with hunger. We can talk while we eat, and you, Diana, can explain your early visit. I suppose you have not come three miles in the dew to kiss your old uncle?" "Why not?" she said, with a smile. "And you expected to meet nobody," he answered. But seeing that Diana blushed, he continued, "But no more delay," and seated himself. The beginning of the meal was rather constrained, from the peculiar position of the young people. But the ice was soon broken; the squatter was merry and humorous; he avoided any pointed allusions, and the conversation, at first very meagre, soon became very pleasant. When Samuel heard the object of Diana's visit, he promised to go over in the evening, and then questioned George as to his travels. George at once proceeded to tell his story with so much wit and humour as to amuse uncle and niece. "Now," said Samuel, when breakfast was over, "listen to me. You are two charming young people, whom I love, and whose happiness I desire. But you must let me act in my own way. I know my brother well, and can do as I like with him. Look upon me as an ally, but commit no imprudence. Instead now of going with my niece, you must stop here. If you were seen together, we cannot say what might happen. At all times my house is open to you. Come as often as you like, but remember, courage and prudence, Diana, kiss me again, and then farewell." "My darling uncle," she cried, embracing him. "Oh, yes, very dear, because I do what you like." "Au revoir, George," she continued. "But when shall I see you again? Time appears so long." "Already he grumbles," cried Samuel. "Pardon me, but I love her so much." "And do I not love you?" she said, naively. "I am mad," he answered, tenderly, kissing her hand a second time as he spoke. Then Diana went out, guarded by Dardar. "Now," said Samuel, as soon as they were alone, "you must enter into fuller explanations, and explain where you have pitched your tent. I hope you are in no difficulty." "Be easy on that point. I have a hut in a charming situation about twelve miles off. Will you come and see it?" added George Clinton. "At once, if you like," cried Samuel. "At once let it be, I am not alone; I have two faithful servants and a Canadian hunter, whom I engaged in Boston. I have books, arms, horses, dogs--everything that a man can wish for." "Delighted to hear it. Let us start." Five minutes later they were galloping through the forest. CHAPTER IX. THEY MAKE AN ACQUAINTANCE. That part of the valley towards which they were going had undergone no change. The squatters had had no time to visit it, and it retained all its original beauty and primitive majesty. George Clinton appeared fully to know his way, entering at full gallop on the most out-of-the-way and rugged paths, followed by Samuel Dickson, who was in a charming humour, and appeared delighted to explore this part of his domains, for all on that side of the valley was his present from his brother. "You ride as if you had known the country ten years at least," he said. "I came here about a month before you, but I have been everywhere with Charbonneau." "Who may Charbonneau be?" "My hunter, a great big Canadian, as long as a fishing rod, as thin as a nail, and as honest as a Newfoundland dog. I got him out of a very great scrape, and he has been devoted to me ever since." "Lucky for you." "More than you think. This fellow was brought up in an Indian tribe; his life has been spent more or less in the desert. He has friends everywhere with trappers, with white and half-caste hunters; speaks all the most difficult redskin dialects, and despite his youth--he is not more than three-and-twenty--enjoys a great reputation on the prairie. He is called Keen-hand, because of his prodigious dexterity." "An excellent servant," said Samuel. "And a capital companion--always gay and contented; whichever way things go, he is always so philosophical I cannot but admire him. He is a perfect study. As an instance, he declared some time ago no squatter would ever see this place and go further." "He was not far wrong. He is a sharp youth." "You are right; but you shall judge for yourself." "Then he has told you all about this country?" asked Samuel. "In what way?" said George. "I suppose he described the situation of the valley--its distance from all habitations?" "Don't you know?" cried George. "I know nothing. We have been travelling in the dark, and should all be glad of information." "In the first place, two rivers cross the valley; that near you flows from the mountains of the Wind; the other, into which it discharges its waters, is the Missouri." "Heavens! The Missouri! Then it runs through part of the United States. We are at home." "Very nearly, though you are surrounded by red men, who, though very warlike, are generally friendly to the whites. Still, if you know the redskins you will not depend on them." "Too true; and what nations are they?" he asked. "Sioux and Dakotas, Piekanns, Crows, Hurons of the great lakes, with some Assiniboins and Mandans. A few others of no account are scattered about," he answered. "A pretty lot; and no help near." "Help is nearer than you think. About fifty miles distant is a fort belonging to one of the great fur companies. It has a garrison of fifty whites--Americans and Canadians, soldiers and hunters." "Fifty miles is nothing," said Samuel. "In a civilised country, yes; but in the desert it is as bad as fifty leagues," responded Clinton. "I did not think of that," granted the squatter; "well, then, on the other side, what neighbours have we?" "Some squatters, like yourselves, who have been two years on the Missouri. You are halfway between the two." "Have these squatters much cultivated land?" "They have been going ahead lately. It is already almost a village; soon it will be a town. But anyway, on one side or the other you are separated from men of your own colour by several Indian nations, whose villages it would be dangerous to visit, except in large numbers. In fact your only open route is the Missouri." "That is something; but, if easy to go down, it is hard to ascend." "Besides, both sides swarm with redskins." "Hum! My dear George, that spoils all. What could put it into the mad head of my brother to bring us here? He is a lunatic; for the matter of that, so am I." George could not help laughing. "Laugh away, you young rascal," said the squatter; "but if we have to leave our bones here?" "I hope it will not be so," replied George. "Jehoshaphat! So do I. Your information is not pleasant; still I thank you. It is best to know the worst." While speaking they kept on at as rapid a pace as the state of the ground allowed. They had left the forest, and had come out upon a green prairie, when suddenly they heard a gun fired. "What is that?" cried the squatter. "Charbonneau. I know the sound. Wait a minute." And Clinton fired his rifle in the air. Next instant there was a rush from out of a thicket, and two magnificent dogs of the same breed as Dardar came rushing out of a thicket, and, leaping at the young man to beg a caress, continued at the same time to growl at the squatter. "Down, dogs, down!" cried the young man. "Down, I say, Nadeje, miss, and you the same, Drack; don't be mischievous. This gentleman, my fine fellows, is a friend; go and welcome him, to show what brave and intelligent beasts you are." As if they had understood what their master said, the two dogs ceased to growl, and, going straight to Samuel Dickson, leaped up at him in the most friendly way. The squatter, a great dog fancier, was very much struck by their beauty, and at once caressed them with many a word of praise, which pleased both, but especially Miss Nadeje; she was a magnificent animal, with an almost pure white skin, spotted only here and there with black, and at once took the squatter under her guardianship. Almost at the same moment a man appeared in the full costume of a hunter, a man with rather angular but very intelligent features; in his hand was the still-smoking gun. He bowed, and called off the dogs. "Pardieu!" he cried, "That was a lucky shot of mine." "Were you hunting?" asked the other, shaking hands. "At this hour it were folly, and I am not yet mad. Sport is only good morning and evening, is it not?" "That is my opinion," replied the squatter. "Mr. Samuel Dickson, one of my best friends," said George, "and I hope soon one of yours." "I hope so; I like his looks," laughed Charbonneau. "Thank you," said the squatter. "It is quite unnecessary, only I don't say the same to everybody. But I have known you some time." "If not hunting, what were you doing?" asked George. "Something has happened at the wigwam. Three travellers, two white hunters and an Indian chief, have reached your house, and demanded hospitality," he replied. "Of course you did not refuse?" "Of course I did not. Besides, two of the hunters are my friends, and the other is likely to become so." "You know you are welcome to act; still, why look for me?" "Well, I did not exactly look for you, but I wanted to give you warning; of course, I knew where you had gone." The young man blushed, while the old man laughed. "Now, then," cried Clinton, "let us go home." "Wait one moment. About fifty yards in my rear the dogs opened cry. I ran and found--" "A bear?" exclaimed the squatter. "No, I would not have minded that. It was not a bear, but a man. He was lying insensible on the ground, his skull split open from a heavy fall, and a shot wound in his left arm. His horse was grazing close by. He appeared to be a traveller traitorously shot by an Indian. I thought I heard an explosion; at all events, the wretch fled before the dogs, just as he was about to rob the unfortunate." "You assisted him?" "How could I help it? I could not let him die like a skunk on the road; and yet it would have been wiser." "Charbonneau!" cried the young man, "Is that really you?" "You know me well, Master George. Well, despite myself, I don't like the look of this man, though he is handsome enough. He has a terrible expression, and you know it takes something to move me. Still, I feel an invincible repugnance for this man, whom I never saw before. The dogs were like myself; I had the greatest difficulty to prevent them tearing him to pieces. Nadeje was like a mad creature; she wanted to strangle him. Do you know, Master George, dogs never make a mistake?" "A very good thing," said George Clinton; "but the man is wounded, likely to die. We are bound to succour him." "I know it, and have done so. I have seen to him as I would to myself or one of my dogs. Still, Master George, mark my words, it is a bitter foe you shelter under your roof." "It may be so, but we must do our duty." "As you please. Still I shall watch him." "Where is he?" "Just under yonder cluster of oaks, which you see from here. It was after dressing his wound I fired a shot on chance." "Did he say nothing?" asked George. "He is still quite insensible." "Let us join him, and if the dogs are so ill-disposed towards the stranger, watch them carefully." "All right, Master George. Be quiet, dogs," said the hunter, turning back, followed by the two great dogs, the others making up the rear. The cluster of oaks was soon reached; the wounded man still lay without life; the dogs howled, but, at a sign from Keen-hand, they stood back silent. George and Samuel alighted, and examined the man. He was a tall, well made, even elegant man of about thirty or thirty-five; he was deadly pale; his features were well chiselled and delicate; his long, jet black hair fell in waving curls on his shoulders; a black crisp beard hid the lower part of his face; his mouth, large and slightly open, showed magnificent teeth of dazzling whiteness; his strong and aquiline nose gave a terribly hard expression to his face, while his eyes, far too close together, and which were shut, were shaded by long lashes, and crowned by heavy eyebrows that almost touched. The very sight of the man inspired instinctive repulsion, something like a chill, that sensation of terror and disgust which one feels at the sight of a reptile; still the man was handsome and elegant; he was well dressed, and his weapons were superior; his horse was extremely valuable. He was, to all appearance, a prince among adventurers. "Hum!" muttered Samuel Dickson, who was the first to speak; "I don't like his look at all." "No more do I," said George; "still, we cannot let him die." "Certainly not, since Providence has sent him here. Are we far from your hut?" replied Samuel. "Not far off, are we, Charbonneau? But, then, how can we carry him?" continued George; "I don't see anything except a litter." "Too long. Leave all to me. I will mount his horse; you can hand him up to me; I will then carry him in my arms to the wigwam--what say you?" "Admirable!" cried George, as Charbonneau mounted and stood still, awaiting his burden. George and Samuel then placed him before the guide. Charbonneau pressed his head against his chest, and started. Going slowly, they were an hour on the journey. The wigwam, as the hunter called it, was a charming habitation built of wood, upon the summit of an eminence, round which ran a silver stream, lined with well-constructed palisades. "Your house is delicious," said Samuel Dickson, examining the residence. "You should be very comfortable." "My good friend, I want for nothing except happiness." "Are you going to have the blues again?" said Samuel. "You know I hardly dare hope," replied George. "You are very foolish. When you are rich, young, and loved, Master George, you ought to hope for the best." "You are very cruel to joke with me." "I do not joke, I only try to inspire you with courage. But, look, here are your guests coming to meet you, while your servants seem to me to be rather muddled and mixed," observed Samuel. "It is the first time they have ever seen strangers." "Then," said Samuel, laughing, "they will have a change today." Three persons were advancing in the direction of the advancing troop. They were Bright-eye, Numank-Charake, the Huron chief, and Oliver. They bowed ceremoniously to Clinton, who renewed the invitation given by Charbonneau; and then alighting, the wounded man was carried by Bright-eye and Oliver to the best bedroom, placed on the master's own couch, and at once attended to by one of the domestics, who knew something of medicine. "What a disagreeable face!" murmured Oliver. "He does not look pleasant," said Bright-eye. "'Tis the face of a traitor," said the Indian chief, sententiously; "he should have been allowed to die." "Hum!" cried Keen-hand; "There are others of my opinion." "Let my brother watch carefully," remarked the Indian. "Be not uneasy," smiled Charbonneau. "In my opinion," said Bright-eye, "this man is one of the outlaws of the desert. I have seen him somewhere before. I must not only think over the matter, but put the master of the house on his guard." Meanwhile the four men rejoined Clinton and Samuel Dickson in the drawing room, where copious refreshments awaited them. CHAPTER X. WHO THE STRANGER WAS. As soon as the farmer had taken some slight refreshment and assured himself as to the comfortable position in which he was placed, he took his leave. The day was far advanced, and he had to meet his brother on a matter of business. On leaving George, the squatter bent low on his horse, and after one last glance at the hut: "Beware, my friend," he said, "of the wounded man. I think him an unmitigated rascal. Get rid of him." "I will take your advice. I do not like him myself, and as soon as he can travel he shall surely go." And, after mutual promises to meet again, the two friends parted, and Samuel rode off in hot haste. George watched him until he was quite out of sight. He then sighed. The departure of Samuel had broken the last link between the charming events of the morning and the more matter-of-fact events of the evening. He now gloomily turned on his heel, and found himself face to face with the three travellers accompanied by Keen-hand. "You are not going?" he cried. "No," answered Bright-eye; "on the contrary, if you will allow us, we intend remaining some little time." "You will give me great satisfaction," continued Clinton, "use my house entirely as your own." The hunters bowed courteously. "We have come to meet you," said Oliver, "because, having something to say, we prefer the open air." "Yes," continued Bright-eye, "though the wounded man whom you have so generously entertained is as yet incapable of listening, your servants--" "Are discreet and devoted," observed Clinton. "We know that, and have taken no precautions against them." "You would have been very unwise to do so. Morris and Stephen knew me from my birth. They love me as if I were a child of their own. I have no secrets from them and should be sorry to wound their feelings." "I was prepared for that objection," said Keen-hand, "and was therefore careful to warn them." "You have done well, Charbonneau, as I would not for the world offend those worthy fellows. And now, gentlemen, follow me, and I will take you where you can speak openly without fear of being overheard." Saying which George moved away from the house and led them to a hillock, wholly without trees, overlooking the river, and whence he could see a long way. "This is my observatory," he said, smiling. "Admirably well chosen," replied Oliver. On the invitation of Clinton everyone seated himself on the grass, and lit his pipe; then Bright-eye, who appeared general spokesman, addressed their host. "We have learned from Keen-hand that you have not long left the cities of the United States to visit for a time the prairies of the Far West." "I have no reason for making any secret of the matter." "Everyone is master of his own actions," continued Bright-eye, "and we have no right to inquire in any way into your affairs. We only desire to indicate you as new to prairie customs." "I am not very learned in the matter, and am therefore wholly guided by my hunter, who, despite his youth, is an old runner of the woods. But as I see no motive for this conversation, I should be glad if it were abridged." "One question first--Are you prepared as a dweller in the desert to submit to its habits and customs?" asked Bright-eye. "As long as they are just and reasonable," said the other, "I pledge my word to be guided by them." "We find that your friend here described you well." "Still you must be aware that you are keeping me waiting." "Two words will explain," said Bright-eye; "we demand the body of the wounded man yonder." "What to do?" cried Clinton. "To apply Lynch law to him," coldly replied the hunter. The young man shuddered, a livid pallor spread over his countenance; he looked at the hunters, who nodded their heads, with a glance of horror. "What do you mean, gentlemen?" he cried; "Do you intend to torture this man, whose life hangs on a thread?" "It is our right and our duty, not to torture him, but to try him, and execute the sentence, whatever it may be, at once." "This is terrible!" cried the young man. "You do not know him. If, for reasons best known to ourselves, we feigned not to know him, now that your friend has left we will tell you who the wretch is." "No matter who he is," cried Clinton, fiercely, "all I know is that he is wounded and under the protection of my roof." "Your sentiments of humanity do you honour," said Bright-eye, ironically; "they are well suited to civilised society, where the law defends you. In the desert they have no meaning. Every moment menaced with death, you must cut down your murderous foes without mercy." "Better be victim than executioner," said George. "If you like to present your breast to the enemies, that is your lookout; we beg to differ from you." "But, gentlemen--" said Clinton, haughtily. "You made a promise. Do you or do you not intend to be bound by it?" asked Bright-eye. "This is your return for my hospitality." "You are unjust, sir; we are but the instruments of public opinion, about to accomplish a painful duty, guided by our conscience and our sense of right. Do you give this man up to us, yes or no?" he continued. "Take him, if you insist; but as on your private authority you judge this man, I will defend him." "We are delighted to hear it." "When do you intend trying this man who is dangerously wounded and nearly insensible?" "He is not so ill as he pretends to be," replied Bright-eye; "and we intend trying him at once." "Come, then, for the matter is getting wearisome," said George. All returned to the house. Oliver and Numank had not spoken, but their firm step, their knitted brows, their flashing eyes, sufficiently indicated that they fully agreed with Bright-eye in his intentions. When they entered the room where the wounded man lay he was quite conscious; his face, of an earthy pallor, had two red spots on the cheeks; the pearly sweat fell heavily from his brow; his eyes were half closed, but he could clearly see through his lashes. His attitude was that of a tiger at bay, unaware from what side danger was likely to come. Bright-eye looked at him with such pertinacity that after a time he was compelled to open his eyes. The Canadian smiled, whispered to Keen-hand, who nodded his head, and soon left the hut. "Gentlemen," said Bright-eye in a loud tone, "we will at once proceed to instal the head of the court of Judge Lynch." "You are the chief," said the others. "I accept. You will be the accusers. I shall at once take my seat, as we are here to judge this man." "You forget I am here to defend him," remarked Clinton. "You are quite right," replied Bright-eye; "pray therefore attend carefully to the accusations I am about to make against him; you can then undertake his defence, if, indeed, when you know all, you care to do so." The wounded man had appeared motionless and insensible to all around him, but on hearing the generous words of the young man, spoken in a gentle voice, he seemed to shiver all over, and, raising himself a little, looked keenly at George Clinton, with a glance of gratitude. Bright-eye meanwhile reflected a moment, folded his arms, and throwing back his head spoke: "Prisoner," he said, "you are before a terrible tribunal. Judge Lynch has been appointed to condemn you if guilty, to absolve you if innocent. Prepare yourself to hear and answer the charges made against you." "I do not acknowledge the jurisdiction of Judge Lynch," said the man; "you are a tribunal of assassins." "As you please," replied the Canadian; "but your silence will be treated as a confession of guilt." The accused shuddered. "Why, instead of leaving me to die in the prairie, was I brought here?" he asked; "Is hospitality a mere trick?" "The man is right," cried George; "I cannot suffer such things to pass under my roof. I protest, in the name of humanity, against all that is being done. You dishonour me by acting in this manner here." "The jurisdiction of Judge Lynch is universal in the desert," was the cold reply; "none can check it. This man is an outlaw of the prairies, a man of blood and crime. Louis Querehard, Paul Sambrun, Tom Mitchell, and half a dozen aliases--you see we know you well--eleven days ago you basely attacked an old man in charge of a young girl; you killed the old man from behind at the Elk's Leap. Where is the young girl?" "Base calumny," cried the wounded man, sitting up suddenly; "I know not what you mean. I killed no old man." "I repeat that you killed the old man and stole away the girl. I have the proofs," he answered. The wounded man sat biting his lips with rage. "This morning," continued Bright-eye, "you quarrelled with one of your accomplices, while crossing this valley, and fell from the treachery of your fellow bandit." "Falsehood!" cried the wounded man. "We shall soon see," said the Canadian, coldly, and putting his fingers to his lips he uttered a shrill whistle. A noise was heard and several men entered. These were Keen-hand, two servants of Clinton, and a prisoner--a man of wretched, mean, and ignoble appearance. "This is your accomplice," said Bright-eye. "I don't know him," replied the wounded man. "You don't know me?" cried the other; "Really now, have you already forgotten poor Camotte?" "You declare this man unknown to you?" said the judge. "Well, be it so. Now, fellow," to the man Camotte, "will you confess?" "Caray, yes," said the prisoner, "anything you like." "Speak then," responded Bright-eye: "we wait." "Miserable wretch," asked the wounded man, "are you a traitor?" "My good sir, I object to be hung," he answered. "It is useless to question that rascal," said the wounded man. "I will tell you all you want to know; but before we go any further it must be on one condition." "We decline to accept conditions," was the reply. "Then beware. I alone know where the young girl is concealed. Refuse my conditions and my secret dies with me." "It is true," said Camotte, in answer to a look from Bright-eye. "What are your conditions?" resumed the judge. "My life, liberty, and three hours' start," said the outlaw; "also the company of my friend Camotte yonder," he added, with a sneer, as that individual shivered; "further, I require my horse, arms, and my valise. On these conditions you shall have the young girl: I swear it." "Anything else?" continued the judge. "One moment," observed George; "I ask for him eight days to recover from his wound, during which time he shall remain here under my guardianship and yours." "We consent," said Bright-eye, gloomily; "now speak." "The girl is concealed twelve miles away, in the Cavern of the Elk. I was going there with food when I was shot. Make haste." Scarcely had he finished ere Oliver and the chief disappeared. "Beware of my vengeance," cried Bright-eye, "if you have spoken falsely." "I have spoken the truth," said the wounded man, and fainted. CHAPTER XI. EXPLANATIONS. We must go back a little in order to explain how the three hunters were driven to seek hospitality in the hut of George Clinton, and what were the motives of the deadly hatred they had vowed against the wounded, almost dying, man. At the time of which we write nearly the whole American continent, north and south, was owned by Spain, which ruled her provinces with a yoke of iron, closed to all other nations with as much jealousy as ever was shown by China. The United States alone stood free, independent. The newly enfranchised people were, however, well aware that as long as the rest of the land was not free their work was unfinished. Besides, it became necessary to give employment to the restless spirits let loose by the close of the war. The Government at once set to work. The territory of the new republic was already immense, but thinly peopled, almost unknown, and occupied in many instances by wandering Indian tribes. These must first be got rid of. The activity of the Americans is known. They rushed off into the desert, they erected forts to awe the redskins; hardy pioneers traversed the prairies and established settlements in the very heart of the Indian country. Every encouragement was given to emigrants from Europe, who were received most hospitably. The Government was favoured by circumstances; it was a rising power while Spain was falling to pieces. The American Government at once offered to buy Louisiana of France, and meanwhile sent out small companies of free corps to attack the frontier of the Spanish colonies. But alongside those recognised by the authorities were other bands, men isolated from all civilisation, having no control to fear, recruited from the scum which froths up during troublous times; these bands made war on their own account, pillaged friend and foe, burned haciendas, and allied themselves with the redskins, taking their dress in order the more readily to carry out their nefarious designs. Among these bands was one more formidable than all the others of sad and monstrous celebrity. This troop of two hundred desperadoes, called themselves outlaws, and, it was believed, though no one exactly knew their headquarters, were established on the Missouri, whence they carried their depredations far and near. Powerfully organised, submitting to strict discipline, this band had spies in every direction, who kept them well informed, not only as to the number and strength of caravans about to cross the desert, with their destination, but as to the expeditions sent out by Government against themselves. By these means they were always on their guard and never taken by surprise. The chief of this terrible band was said to have only been six years in America, and yet he knew all the secrets of the desert; he was as clever as the most cunning and astute runner of the woods, quite equal to any redskin in deceit. He was supposed to be a Frenchman, though he spoke English, Spanish, and many Indian languages equally well. He was called Querehard, Sambrun, Magnaud, Tom Mitchell, and various other names. But none knew his real one, though some did whisper that he was the chief of a certain fearful band who had played so terrible a part during the Reign of Terror. Many asserted that he was not so bad as he was painted--that, in fact, though chief of this fearful crew, he always tried to prevent bloodshed, that he never allowed women and children to be ill-treated. He was said to be very generous, and had as many friends as enemies. Whatever the truth, Tom Mitchell was a kind of hero; the American and Spanish Governments had placed a price upon his head; but no one ever ventured to try for the reward of ten thousand dollars. After the medicine council we have recorded, Numank-Charake and his two friends continued their journey. On the seventh day, an hour before the setting of the sun, they reached a village built in the fork of two rivers. The village was surrounded by lofty palisades, with a ditch full of water, and drawbridges. The travellers came up just as these were being removed. They were warmly received by an eager crowd. Since his landing in America this was the first time Oliver had entered a real village of redskins. He was surprised to find it so superior to what he expected. Instead of ordinary bison tents, or huts made with hurdles, mud, and thatch, it consisted of admirably constructed Canadian cabins. These cabins stood in rows, with small gardens in front, while here and there were some real Indian wigwams. Those Canadians who had retreated with their families to the tribe of Bison Hurons had introduced these habits. Hence the rather hybrid character of the village, which was half Canadian and half Indian. Reaching the centre of the village Numank left his companions, while Bright-eye pointed out a most comfortable looking cabin and declared it to be his home. At the entrance stood two men leaning on their rifles. One, nearly a centenarian, but still robust and very tall, had a large white beard; his eyes still shone brightly, his complexion was the colour of brick, while his ropy muscles could be seen through his parchment skin. His expression was gentle and full of courage. This was the grandfather of the hunter, an old soldier of Montcalm. The second was Bright-eye's father, whom he resembled in every particular except age and height. "They indeed appear a noble couple," whispered Oliver. "Come with me," was the laconic reply. In a few minutes they were at the door of the cabin. Bright-eye dismounted and took off his fur cap. "I am back after a long absence. Give me your blessing." "Take it with all our hearts," cried the two old men. They then shook hands cordially, Oliver looking on with a deep sigh of envy and regret. "He at all events has a family," he said. "Come nearer, my friend," cried Bright-eye; and when Oliver stood beside him, he added, "this is Oliver, my friend. Eight days ago we met in the savannah, and we have never parted since. He loves me and I love him; he is a brave man and a most excellent hunter; our friend, the redskin, calls him Bounding Panther." "He is welcome," said the old man; "all Frenchmen are our brothers; as long as he chooses to remain there is a hut to shelter him and a quarter of venison for his food." "Well spoken, father," said his son, shaking hands with the young Frenchman; "we are French here. Welcome." "Messieurs," replied Oliver, with a bow and a smile, "it is not with words we answer such words, but by acts." "We welcome you as a second son; come in." The horses were now taken away by a young Indian, and the whole party entered the house. The hut, which was built with logs, was whitewashed both in and out, and had four windows. Oliver entered a rather large hall, lit by two of the windows, with a plank flooring, and a roof supported by heavy beams; at one end was a large chimney, near the kitchen a table, some seats and chairs, two oaken dressers covered by utensils in brown earthenware, and a large old-fashioned clock composed the furniture. Two doors led, one into the kitchen, the other into the guests' room, which was pointed out to Oliver. There were three other rooms, one occupied by the two old men, one by Bright-eye, and one by his sister when at home. All were furnished alike; a bed, a little table, several boxes, two or three chairs; some hideously coloured prints from Epinal were fixed on the walls, also pipes of all sorts and sizes, a French long gun, a powder horn, lead pouch, game bag, hatchet, a knife with its deerskin belt, that was all. It was one floor, except a large loft above. Behind the house there was stabling for six horses, a yard with fowls, a rather large garden, well enclosed and full of choice vegetables. It was the old man who took care of the garden as child's play. When, having made some slight change in his toilette, Oliver returned to the hall dinner was on the table. "Have you had good hunting lately?" asked Bright-eye. "Not very good. Game gets scarce. Still I made three hundred and seventy dollars in a fortnight," he replied. "Pretty fair; and what was your game?" "The blue fox, near Hudson's Bay," continued the other; "I have been home three weeks. But you say nothing of your sister." "I am not in the habit of questioning you, father." "The boy is right," said the old man; "it is your place to speak." "I suppose," cried the hunter, "Angela is in the village." "No, my son, she is absent," continued the old man, "and I am sorry for it, as she was the joy of the house." "Where is she then, father?" asked Bright-eye. "About five days' march, with our cousin Lagrenay, the squatter of the Wind River. His wife has been ill, he is alone; having no one to take care of her, he came here and asked for Angela to stay a few days." "My dear father, our cousin Lagrenay's settlement is a long way off, in the heart of the Indian country." "You are right," said his father; "I fear I have acted with too great haste. I will fetch her home tomorrow." "I will go with you, father." "It is unnecessary. Your health, sir," addressing Oliver; "is it long since you left France?" "Many thanks. I have been in America two months." "Though so far off news is welcome. How is the king?" "There is no longer any king," said Oliver, gravely; "France is now a republic like America." While the stupefaction which this news caused was still at its height Numank-Charake entered. "Welcome; be seated and eat," said the old man. "I came neither to eat nor to drink," replied the young Indian, sadly. "I came to tell you that your child, Evening Dew, has been carried off by Tom Mitchell, the outlaw, and that we must at once save her." CHAPTER XII. HOW THE THREE TRAVELLERS WENT TO GEORGE CLINTON'S. This terrible revelation fell like a thunderclap upon the four personages who sat at table. There was for some minutes a silence caused by perfect stupor. "You are indeed a sinister messenger, chief," said the old man, bitterly; "whence do you get this news?" "Perhaps you are mistaken," gasped the father. "Listen," said the chief, sadly, "and you shall hear what has passed in a few words." "First sit down and break bread," cried the old man; "we are friends and relatives, and this awful catastrophe affects you as well as us." "You say truly," responded the young chief, seating himself. "Eat and drink," said the old man; "then we will talk." The meal continued, to the great astonishment of Oliver. He could not understand the calm and sang-froid of these four men in presence of such an awful event. He was half inclined to accuse them even of coldness of heart. He knew nothing of that Indian etiquette, more severe than that of any other country, which requires this apparent coldness. He soon, however, discovered how much he was mistaken, and how deeply all these brave and loyal hearts were wounded by the fatal incident. The repast was sad and gloomy. Nobody spoke. They ate as if it were a duty which must be done. After the hasty repast was over there was silence. "You have come, sir," said the old man, addressing Oliver, "at an unfortunate moment; pardon us if we seem rude and inhospitable. But evil has fallen on us." "You told me, sir," replied the young man, "that I was to become a member of your family. Let me, then, share your sorrows as well as your joys. I feel more on the subject than you think, being Bright-eye's brother." "Thank you; you are one of us," said the old man. "You are my second son," cried the father. "I thank you, and hope to prove myself deserving." Everybody now rose from table, filled his pipe and lighted it, and then, the repast having in the meantime been cleared away, seated themselves by the fire. "Chief," said the old man, "the time has come. We are ready to listen to you with the deepest attention." Rising and bowing to all, the chief, who affected stoical gravity, but who had great difficulty in controlling his voice, spoke-- "Lagrenay's wife was never ill. Evening Dew was carried off by Tom Mitchell from the squatters." "Are you quite positive?" asked the grandfather. "I am positive. The news was brought to me just now by a courier in whom I have every confidence. He saw all that happened without himself being seen." A deep silence prevailed. None interrupted the old man. "Allow me," he said, "to speak frankly to you, chief. You are my relative; I remember your birth, and love you." "My father is good, and knows I love him," replied the chief. "I know it; but pardon me if I speak very plainly. There is a hesitation in your words which alarms me excessively. I am sure you have not told us all you think." The chief bowed his head. "I knew I was right," cried the old man; "you know far more than you choose to say." "No skin covers my heart, my blood runs red and clear in my veins; the Wacondah sees and judges me. Let my father explain himself frankly. I ought only to speak after him. His head is white with the snows of wisdom. He is wise." "Good, Numank-Charake, you are a great brave, despite your youth. Soon you will be renowned in council. I know the motives which shut your mouth. You love her." The young man started. "Do not deny it," said the old man. "I know it, as does my son, and we rejoice both of us. She will be happy with one who is both strong and brave. Not knowing our sentiments towards you, you have nobly hesitated to accuse a near relative. You have acted well. But time presses, and not a moment is to be lost. We know our cousin as well, or perhaps better, than you do. We know also that falsehood never soiled your lips. To keep further silence would be to commit a bad action--to make yourself almost the accomplice of the ravishers. Speak out, then, like a man." "I obey," replied the young man, respectfully. "And hide nothing, I pray," added François Berger. "I will tell you everything," he said, "as you know my heart is given to Evening Dew. I love her; her love is my joy, her voice my happiness. On my return to the village, after my unfortunate expedition, Evening Dew was no longer in her father's wigwam. I asked news of everybody; I even ventured to ask you. Your answer filled me with discouragement. I returned to my hut heartbroken with despair. My grandfather had pity on me. Kouha-hande loves me, and spoke like a wise man. 'Go,' he said, 'find Bright-eye at the spot agreed on; he is the brother of Evening Dew; he will grieve with you, and perhaps give you good advice. During his absence I will watch. If necessary, I will go to the hut of the white man on the Wind River. Adieu, my son, and may the Wacondah accompany you,' I obeyed my father. I put on my travelling moccasins, took my gun, provisions, all that a hunter requires, and started. But my soul was sorrowful; a sad presentiment froze me to the marrow of my bones; Wacondah sent it." "Courage, child," said the old man, kindly. "Wacondah is powerful and just; He tries those whom He loves." "Two hours ago I returned to the village of my nation. I was very sad and uneasy. Without a word I left my comrades and friends, and rushed to my wigwam. My father's father awaited me. He was gloomy and thoughtful, and rose as I entered. I guessed at once what I had to expect. This is what I learned. Kouha-hande is a sachem whose words are not to be doubted. For two days, hid in the thickets, he watched the hut of the squatter of the River of the Wind. The second day, before the rising of the moon, there was a sharp whistle near the habitation, and a man appeared. He was very pale, wore the costume of the hunter of the prairies, and carried a rifle. At the distance the sachem could not make out his features. Almost immediately, however, a second person appeared on the scene, coming from the inside of the hut, and this was the squatter himself." "Are you sure of what you say?" asked the old man. "Kouha-hande knew him," replied the chief. "Go on," gloomily remarked old Berger. "The two men approached each other, spoke for a long time in a low tone, and then separated, after exchanging one phrase, which the sachem heard distinctly. This phrase, which seemed to summarise their conversation, was--" "'You swear upon your honour that she will be quite safe and respected in every way,' said the squatter." "'As if she were my own sister or daughter, I swear unto you,' replied the hunter." "The two men then parted. That was all. Two hours passed away. Just about the time when the blue jay begins its first song, the sachem, who had remained still in his hiding place, his eye and ear on the strain, heard a noise approaching rapidly, like that of a number of people who, fearing no surprise, thought it useless to take any precautions. They soon came in sight. They were no less than thirty palefaces, armed with rifles. They surrounded the hut and attacked it on all sides." "The squatter and his servants defended themselves like people taken by surprise--that is, feebly." "The assailants soon entered the hut. My grandfather now heard a great tumult inside. But he was alone, could do no good, and therefore remained in his hiding place. At the end of an hour the men came out, escorting a fainting female, who was wrapped in a frazada. Satisfied with the result of their expedition, they went off without even closing the doors behind them. Kouha-hande waited some little time, and then, convinced that the assailants had departed, went into the wigwam." "All was in disorder. The furniture was overthrown and broken; the squatter, his wife, and servants, tied and gagged, lay on the floor. The sachem hastened to stir up the fire, then he lighted some torches, after which he set all the people at liberty. Even then for some time they were unable to move or speak." "The squatter's wife wept, wrung her hands, and bitterly reproached her husband with his cowardice, which had been the cause of the abduction of her niece." "And what did he say?" asked Berger. "Nothing," said the chief; "he was overwhelmed, appeared struck by stupor, remaining utterly motionless. Presently he seemed to recover his spirits. Kouha-hande then offered to start in pursuit of the ravishers, but the squatter refused, alleging that the trail was no doubt by this time so cleverly concealed as to render pursuit impossible. He left the punishment of the villains in the hands of God. The sachem, seeing plainly that he was not wanted, went away. But Kouha-hande was determined to reach to the bottom of the dark scheme; instead of returning to his village, he followed the abductors." "These, having apparently no fear of pursuit, had left ample traces of their passage in the forest, and took not the slightest precaution to conceal their route in a straight line through the forest. It led direct to the Missouri. The sachem at once saw through the whole thing. These hunters, the sachem declared, could only be the redoubtable outlaws commanded by the extraordinary chief before whom all trembled, white and red, in the prairie." "Tom Mitchell," groaned the old man. "Himself," said the chief. "The sachem, after exploring the two banks of the river for many miles, came back to the village of his nation, and told me what he had seen. This is my story. Have I well said?" "You have," cried François Berger; "but let me speak. I am the only one person in fault. I should never have separated from my daughter. It is my duty to go in search of her. I will find her or perish in the attempt." He attempted to rise, but Oliver checked him. "Pardon me, sir," he said, gently, "if I interfere in so delicate and grave a matter. The friendship I bear your son, the cordial way in which you have received me, compel me to feel as if I were personally concerned in the matter. May I therefore be allowed to speak a few words?" "Speak," said the old hunter. "Sir," replied the young man, modestly, "I have listened to every word as recorded by the chief, and I believe every word as recorded by him. It appears to me, therefore, in examining the facts, that the attack of the hunters, arranged with the squatter himself, his repugnance and refusal to pursue them, point either to treachery or a strange mystery, which it would be wise to clear up." "Unfortunately," said the old man, "we share your opinion. The treachery is too flagrant to be doubted." "You believe in treachery," urged Oliver. "Base and cowardly treachery," cried Berger, striking the table. "Be assured, then," continued Oliver, "and you will be a better judge of the correctness of my opinion than I am, your enemies, whoever they may be, have spies around you, spies employed to watch your movements, and to report them at once. You Will not have been ten minutes on the trail of the ravishers ere they would be on your track." "Quite true," said the old man; "what is to be done?" "A very simple thing, and one which I am very much surprised you have not thought of before. We have only reached the village two hours ago; I, as a stranger, am unknown to anybody, nobody troubles himself in any way about me. Whither I go matters to no one. With your permission, at nightfall I will start in company with Bright-eye. If our early departure is noticed, we can easily give some reason. It is you who are watched, and no one else. None, knowing the indomitable energy of your character, will believe that you have allowed anyone else to go in search of your daughter. We shall be three men, two of whom know the desert well. The trail of one man is easy to follow, but not of three wary hunters ever on their guard, at all events, without the spies be discovered and killed. This is my opinion, and, frankly, I think it good." "You have spoken well," repeated the grandfather; "what you say is just. We are proud to have you for a friend, and we thank you. It is not necessary to reflect long without owning you are right. It would be folly to contest the matter, my son, and I, therefore, gladly confide to you the task of finding our child. Go, as you propose, this evening at the setting of the moon, my grandson, the chief, and yourself." "And you will succeed," said the father. "I hope so, sir," responded the Frenchman; "rely upon it, I shall do all I can for my new sister." "My son was fortunate to meet you. God bless you all." The two young people simply thanked Oliver by looks. It was eleven o'clock at night when they started, without being noticed. We already know how they met the outlaw. CHAPTER XIII. TOM MITCHELL. The sun had long since gone down, the night was dark and cloudy, not a star shone in the sky. George Clinton, seated on a bench before his door, awaited the return of Keen-hand and his two dogs, who had accompanied the three travellers a short distance; the two serving men had gone to bed. George Clinton, half an hour before, had satisfied himself that his wounded guest slept soundly. His eyes fixed on vacancy, the young man was dreaming, giving way to soft and melancholy reverie; his soul, borne on the wings of fancy, was far away; it was wandering in the realms of space after the beloved, after the idolised young girl, for whom he had sacrificed and abandoned everything, and the mention of whose name made him quiver with delight. Suddenly he was awakened from his Elysian dream by an almost superhuman cry of anguish. The young man started as if he had received an electric shock; he turned pale, clutched the barrel of his rifle, and then listened, trying in vain to pierce the intense darkness which wrapped all nature as in a winding sheet. Some minutes passed, during which there was not a breath in the air, not the slightest sound. George Clinton breathed more freely, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Heaven be praised," he said, "I was mistaken." Scarcely had he uttered these words, which he hardly believed, when the same frightful cry was repeated. "It is a terrible warning," he cried; "some fearful crime is being accomplished. I cannot hesitate." And, without another thought, he darted off in the direction whence came the lugubrious sound. Almost ere George had quite disappeared in the darkness a shrill whistle, modulated in a certain way, was twice repeated; then a heavy black mass appeared crawling on the earth; this dark mass stopped at short intervals, and then again advanced. This strange phenomenon was soon followed by a second, a third, another, in all ten. In a few minutes all were round the hut. Then a second whistle was heard, a signal of course, as they all rose and revealed ten armed men. They were ferocious-looking beings, with sinister features--true bandits of the prairies. "We are the masters," said one; "the serving men sleep, the master is away, let us waste no time." "Do you know where he is?" asked a second. "I pretty well guess. The place is familiar to me. But let us be careful. I don't want to be caught." "Be satisfied; Versenca and Jonathan never left their post, and Paddy is on the watch. All is safe." "I am not more timid than another, but I like to be sure." "We are losing time, and should act." "Quite so, Sleepy; but I want to know why the captain, who must have heard our signal, is still quiet?" "But you know the captain is wounded." "True, but he is no puling girl to be affected for long by a wound. Let us go in and find him." "'Tis useless, I am here," said a grave voice. And a man leaning on his rifle and walking with some difficulty appeared before them in the doorway. "The captain!" they all cried. "Silence, boys," with an imperious gesture; "I am happy to see that you have not forgotten me." "Forgotten you!" cried Versenca, boldly; "Do we not follow wherever you go? Are we not devoted to you body and soul?" "Quite right," said the captain, with a bitter smile; "let us say no more about it. I am here, and all is well." "And now, captain, we await your orders." "Right! And how many are here?" "Ten here ready to obey--three on the watch." "Have you horses?--but of course, I need not ask. Bring them up and let us be off." "With empty pockets?" cried Sleepy. "What do you want?" asked the captain. "Want!" exclaimed Sleepy, shrugging his shoulders; "Why, is not this wigwam very rich, and the owner absent? There can be no two opinions as to what should be done." "Comrades," said Tom Mitchell, "the owner of this home found me wounded in the prairie and took me in." "We know that--what then?" "What then! Not only did George Clinton shelter me beneath his roof, but saved my life from the lynchers." "Thank goodness," said Versenca, "that induced him to leave the hut by the exercise of cunning." "Without violence, I hope," said Tom. "Quite so; sent him on a false trail, that is all." "Then you are agreed with me--no pillage." "No pillage!" cried all; "Let us go." None had entered the house, and now, on the order of the chief, they turned to go. George Clinton was before them. "Gentlemen," he cried, standing resolutely before them, "what is the meaning of this visit in my absence?" "Confound the fools who did not warn us." "I was never far. I have heard nearly all." "Much good may it do you; and now let us pass." "On the contrary; I decline to let you pass," said Clinton. "Good!" said Sleepy, rubbing his hands together; "After all there will be some broken bones here." "Perhaps," continued Oliver, clutching his rifle. "Ah! Ah! So the fun is going to begin," said the outlaw. "Silence," cried the captain, sternly; "silence, and fall back." As soon as they had obeyed he advanced to Clinton. "As you have heard our conversation," he said, "why do you try and oppose our free departure?" "Because, as you know, I am answerable for your person. I promised you should not leave my house until you were quite cured of your wounds." "Your solicitude for my health is charming," said the captain, ironically, "and I really know not how to thank you." "I take little interest in you. My honour is concerned." "You are not polite, while I try to be courteous. I will therefore simply remark that strength is on my side. Still I should be sorry to proceed to extremities." "Menaces are useless. Will you return to the house?" "The demand is ridiculous," cried the captain. "How so?" said a voice, and at the same time two magnificent dogs bounded to where Clinton stood. There was a moment of profound stupefaction on the part of the outlaws, who saw this succour arrive. Tom Mitchell, however, stooped towards Sleepy and whispered a few words in his ear. The man nodded, turned away and disappeared. "Beware!" said the captain; "I have hesitated to attack one man. But if blood is shed it is your fault." "We shall see," said Keen-hand, appearing beside his master, "you are ten and we are five. What do you think?" "Nothing," replied the chief, laughing; "but you seem to forget that we have the advantage of the situation. If we like we can take possession of the hut, whence I fancy my good friend will find it difficult to dislodge us." "Without counting that we are master of the person of the owner of the wigwam," cried Versenca, triumphantly. It was true. Assisted by the sentinels whom the outlaw had brought up behind, he had been seized. He was at once taken inside and then secured with his servants, whom the noise had at last aroused. But even this had not been done without a struggle. The two splendid dogs on seeing their master attacked had flown at the throats of the bandits, had knocked two down and throttled them in a minute; then, obedient to a whistle from Charbonneau, they had darted into a thicket, whence came a discharge of firearms. The three young men had returned. The outlaws retreated into the hut, prepared to defend themselves to the last gasp. Battle was imminent. "Stop," cried the voice of Oliver, "stop, for heaven's sake," and rushing forward he added, "Captain Tom Mitchell, I demand safety for myself and friends, and a truce until this unfortunate affair can be settled amicably. Speak." "I consent at once," said the captain, frankly; "what has happened was not of my doing. Down with your arms. Let all retain their positions. As for you, sir, you may advance, you are entirely under the protection of my honour." "I am here," replied Oliver, advancing. The two men went into the house and seated themselves at a table near an open window. "I am prepared to listen," said the captain; "I suppose you think I deceived you, or the young girl was gone." "It was our opinion, sir." "Don't be in the least uneasy," said the captain, "I only secured the girl as a hostage for my own safety." "A hostage!" replied Oliver. "Yes. I have an important question to treat of with her tribe. But let us speak of our own affairs." "I don't understand you." "I will explain, and you will find that all that has taken place today has been caused by yourself." "Really," cried Oliver, "I understand you less and less." "I have no doubt you are astonished," said the captain; "but we can come to an explanation in a few words, M. Oliver." "You know my name." "And a great many other things besides, as you will soon know," continued the other, coldly; "but let me explain. For reasons which it is unnecessary to mention, I had deep interest in making acquaintance with two new arrivals in this country, you, sir, and Mr. George Clinton. My plan of introduction was rough. My wound, which I inflicted on myself, and which is only a scratch, deceived you all. I am now personally acquainted with you both, and I am delighted. Still, things looked ugly for me--but what is the use of a battle in which half of us would be massacred? I want nothing of the kind. I have important business to transact and must go. In this instance I count wholly on you." "On me, sir! By what title?" "I cannot explain. I have promised to restore Evening Dew, and I will keep my promise. Just now she serves as a hostage. She is treated with the utmost deference and respect. Now let me pass at once. Delay is useless." "But, sir--can I--" stammered Oliver. "Save an outlaw, a man with a price on his head!" said the other, bitterly; "But I am not what I seem. One day--" But Oliver was thinking, and, after some minutes of reflection, said, "It shall be as you wish." "Thank you; and now away to your friends and take George Clinton with you," said the captain. Oliver went out with the young American and soon returned. "You are free to return with your companions," he said, on re-entering the hut; "I give you my word." "Farewell until we meet again. We part friends." "I have no hatred against you, but I sincerely hope we shall never meet again." "It shall be as Providence wills," was the reply. Five minutes later the outlaws were galloping away, and soon disappeared in the darkness. "Who is this man?" murmured Oliver, sadly; "Is he one of those enemies who pursue me everywhere?" At that moment his friends came up and his thoughts went into a different channel. Still he did not easily forget his interview with that extraordinary man, who seemed to know him, and by whom he was really fascinated. CHAPTER XIV. SAMUEL AND JOSHUA. After leaving George Clinton, Samuel Dickson went at once to the residence of his brother Joshua. The sun was still high in the heavens when he reached the settlement; his brother was in sight, galloping towards him. "Come along," he cried, shaking hands; "I was so impatient to see you, I really could not wait any longer." "I hope there is nothing wrong, brother," said Samuel. "Nothing at all. Everything is going for the best." "I am glad to hear it. I was rather uneasy." "I am sorry to hear that. But why are you so late?" "I had to go on a small journey. There was no hurry." "You are wrong, Sam. But here you are, and all is well. But had you come sooner it would have been better." "Well, here I am, so out with the news." "I have to speak of important things, and I have to ask your advice, who are wisdom itself." "Awfully wise," cried Samuel, laughing, "when in the end I only carry out all your insane ideas." "True! But still you were generally right. The fact is, if you speak words of wisdom, and then act a little the other way, it is simply out of love for me. I know it, my brother. I am not ungrateful, and love you dearly." "I don't doubt your affection. But you alarm me." "Why?" said Joshua, laughing. "Whenever you talk like this, I smell a rat, in the shape of some awful scheme, some diabolical plot." "I see you are not to be easily deceived," said Joshua; "but come in, let us eat, and then talk. The matter of which I wish to speak is of general interest." "As you will; but still I am monstrously afraid." "I know you are a great coward," cried Joshua. At this moment they reached the house, alighted, and, giving the horses to the servants, entered the parlour, escorted by Dardar, who had come to meet them. The two ladies received Samuel cordially. "Here he is at last, Susan," said her husband. "He has been anxious about you all day," cried Susan. "Then he has some mad scheme. But we shall see presently. Good evening, Diana, my dear. You look well." "A truce to compliments," cried Joshua; "to supper." They now entered the dining room, where the whole household was collected, men, women, and children. Of course, enormous quantities of meat, bread, and vegetables adorned the board. The repast was truly Homeric. After dinner the servants retired, and the ladies would have done the same, but Joshua detained them. The ladies seated themselves with a rather uneasy glance. He poured out a stiff glass for himself and brother and drank his off. "Thank heaven!" he began, "We are now solidly established in our new dwelling, and it is time to speak of business." "Hilloa! Talk business now? It is late. Why can we not put off our business arrangements until tomorrow?" "You forget, my brother, I sent for you on purpose--" "I remember--well, go on, I am at your orders." "Harry, have you obeyed my orders?" asked Joshua. "Yes, father," replied the young man. "All right," continued the squatter, refilling his glass. "Your health, all of you. In an hour, I'm off." "Off!" cried the ladies, in great alarm. "Hem!" said Samuel; "If you are not satisfied here, I am." "I don't want to drag you into my affairs," replied Joshua, coolly. "But I shall not be long away. It is only a journey." "I thought," exclaimed Samuel, "he was as mad as ever; will you explain the object of this journey or exploration?" "One which you will highly approve, my brother," he went on. "I desire to open up commercial relations." "Very good idea. But what is your precise motive?" "I have said enough. I think my object serious." "Well, if you have no more to say, stop at home." "Will you tell me why?" asked Joshua. "Because your voyage is utterly useless. All the information you can desire to obtain I can give you in ten minutes." "You!" cried Joshua, wildly. "Certainly!" said Samuel, modestly; "I can, and will do so, if you will be good enough to listen to me." "I shall only be too happy. Still I don't understand!" "That is unnecessary. You must know that I have obtained my information from hunters and redskins." "Hunters! Redskins!" cried Joshua. "Don't you know they swarm about here? I never go out without meeting some of them. So I say stop at home." "Explain yourself, brother," said Joshua, sulkily. "Well, you think yourself very far from all white folk. You are very much mistaken. Learn, then, that though we are in the centre of the most warlike tribes of Indians, you have new forts not very far off, including a fur station." "Can it be possible?" exclaimed Joshua. "And my friend and brother, are you aware what magnificent river runs at your own door? The Missouri!" Joshua bowed his head on his chest and was silent, while Samuel rubbed his hands and smiled slyly. "What do you think of the information?" he said at last. "If you are certain of what you say, it is excellent." "Then you give up the idea of your journey?" "Certainly not. Admitting that all you tell me be true, it is of the highest importance for me to visit the fur station and all other settlements above and below us on the river, in order to become friendly, and prevent rivalry." "What rivalry?" half screamed Samuel. "Any that might arise. Of course they will soon know all about me and might interrupt my commercial speculations." "A fool will have his own way," cried his brother. "Abuse is not argument, my brother," said Joshua. "I apologise; but you are determined to go. I see you are; then heaven protect all in your absence." "Will you take no advice?" ventured Susan. "I have made up my mind," he replied; "I never alter." "But, father," cried Diana, "what are we to do during your absence? You leave us wholly undefended." "Silence, daughter," said the squatter, smiling; "don't be so tragical. I do not leave you undefended, as you say. Your uncle will watch over you. Your brother Henry commands in my absence. You have a fort. What more is wanted?" "How do you mean to travel?" asked Susan. "In the boat I launched today, with Sam, Jack, and two servants. I do not take away many defenders." "But you are not here to lead." "That is enough," he cried; "I have decided. Besides, it would be absurd not to visit my new neighbourhood." No more was said. The squatter was escorted by all to the riverside. He bade them all adieu, kissed his wife and daughter, shook hands with his brother, gave his son Henry some last directions, entered the boat, and was off in a very few minutes, whistling "Yankee Doodle," perhaps in reality to hide his strong emotion from his two sons. CHAPTER XV. NEW CHARACTERS. We now visit a beautiful gold-sanded strand on the right banks of the Missouri, about fifty miles from the new settlement in Moose Deer Valley, and about equidistant from the strong fort already established by the fur company. This strand, which was only reached by a narrow defile between two perpendicular mountains, was exactly opposite an island of which it was impossible to make out the dimensions, which, however, were very considerable. Lights shone like will-o'-the-wisps in a fog; the island, which was thickly wooded, communicated with the mainland by means of a dangerous ford, full of holes and whirlpools. It was too dangerous to be adventured in by any but those who knew it. The island, moreover, was guarded by two eminences overlooking the ford, and which commanded the approach against any enemy if well defended. On the other side the island was inaccessible. This island was the refuge, the fortress of the terrible outlaws of the Missouri, with whom we have made acquaintance. Originally it had been selected by the Government as an outpost, but the partisans had first taken it and made it impregnable. As the outlaws rarely interfered with citizens of the United States, generally very poor in those regions, the Government, well aware of its impotence to dislodge the pirates, pretended to look upon them as irregular troops doing service. But the outlaws knew that if the authorities only had the chance they would be exterminated. But that part of America was little peopled, and few except trappers and wanderers knew anything of its capacities. The outlaws, therefore, to a certain extent, were pretty certain of impunity for all their actions for the time. A hundred horsemen were camped on the strand of which we have spoken; their horses were picketed near their fodder, around the campfires numerous groups were talking or sleeping, while on every hand walked sentinels. In a hut composed of whittled boughs and mud, a man sat on a buffalo's head, consulting papers from a large pocketbook. Another man stood respectfully by him, awaiting his orders. The first man was Captain Tom Mitchell, the other was Camotte. A sentinel kept guard in front of the cabin. It was about four o'clock in the morning. The stars were beginning to pale in the sky, the sky was covered by fleecy white clouds. Day was at hand; a fog rose from the river, and covered the camp as with a funeral pall. It was cold. "I say," cried Tom, "I am frozen. Are you asleep, Camotte?" "No, my lord." "Then shove some wood on the fire, it's nearly out." Camotte threw on some dry wood, which flared up. "Something like," said Mitchell; "and now let us talk, Camotte. By the way, I may as well ask you, are you very tired?" "I am never too tired to serve you, Excellency," said the other. "I knew you would say that," cried Mitchell; "true, I saved your life twice, but we have been quits long ago." "And yet I want to ask a favour." "Anything, except leave me," replied Tom Mitchell. "Never; it is something else. It is simply this; don't, your lordship, give me such another mission. Whatever you may think, my master," cried Camotte, warmly, "it is not pleasant to play the part of a traitor and scoundrel." "I think you did it very cleverly," laughed Tom; "there, you are an old fool. Whom else could I trust? Having settled that very important fact, any news on the island?" "Evening Dew frets. You should send her home--all the more that it makes some people talk," he added. "Who has dared?" said Tom Mitchell, frowning. "Stewart. But don't worry; I settled him by blowing his brains out, and no one else has since made an observation." "All right. What about the river?" "Five men went down in a canoe yesterday. It was the squatter of the valley, his two sons, and black servants." "Where on earth could he be going to?" mused Tom. "Well, we can find out by stopping him on his return." "I'll see about it. Anything else?" "Hum! You have had Major Ardenwood's letter asking an interview today? Oh, yes! There are some Frenchmen at the fort, at all events, one of them. Still I am aware that three strangers will accompany the major." "Whom did you send out to inquire?" "Tête de Plume. I could not send Versenca; in the first place, because he was drunk; secondly, because I don't like him." Then, after a pause, Tom whispered to Camotte, who listened with deep and almost religious attention. "And now," said Tom, "that you understand me, away." Camotte went out. The worthy Mexican was the devoted friend, the alter ego, and moreover the lieutenant of Tom Mitchell, who wholly confided in him. Despite of events we have described before, Camotte was worthy of his trust. The chief of the outlaws quietly made some alterations in his toilette, which was a little out of order from his long journey. He had just come off a distant expedition. The booty had been at once transferred to the island. Having done this he drew the curtain that served as a door. The camp no longer looked the same. The fire was out. The two eminences were guarded by sharpshooters. A detachment of twenty men guarded the entrance to the defile. The rest of the troop were ready to mount at a sign. Tom Mitchell looked about him with an air of satisfaction. Camotte had executed all his orders faithfully. At this moment the sun rose. It was like a theatrical scene. Light fell suddenly upon everything. "Oh!" cried the captain as a bugle sounded in the distance from the defile, "I was just in time." He stood erect in front of his hut, leaning on his cavalry sword, and waited with sublime tranquillity. After some few words had passed, four strangers, one in the uniform of a major of the American army, came out from the defile, led by Camotte, who walked respectfully in front of them, and made their way in the direction of the captain. "Good day, Captain Mitchell," said the major. "You did me the honour to write," observed Mitchell. "Well, I have some important business to talk about; but first allow me to present to you these two gentlemen. They are French, and consequently I cannot pronounce their names. Oh, I assure you they are worthy gentlemen." And the fat major laughed heartily. The captain bowed to the two Frenchmen without speaking. One was a man of about fifty, still young, and with apparently polished manners and rather haughty mien; the other, much younger, was bronzed by the sun, strong, and rather rough. "This gentleman," continued the major, "is our own countryman, Mr. Stoneweld, of Boston city." "I think you know me," observed the apoplectic speaker. "Who does not know Master Stoneweld, of the house of Stoneweld, Errard, and Co., the richest shipowner in all Boston?" The stout man smiled with an air of satisfaction. "It seems you know one another," cried the major. "I am glad of it, because everything will go smoothly." "How so?" cried Tom Mitchell. "My dear captain, these gentlemen want you; they came to me for that purpose. Certainly their business must indeed be of an important character," he added, "to induce them to make such an awful journey, lasting over a month." "It must be serious business," said the captain. "The two French gentlemen bring letters from the Home Secretary." "Indeed!" "And Master Stoneweld one from General Jackson," added the major, "So now I expect you will do the best you can." "Have no fear." "Of course not, though I know you are rather hot at times. As for myself, I am choked with fog and hoarseness," he added. "I am at the orders of these gentlemen," replied the captain. "I shall be happy to do all in my power for them." "Spoken like a man," said the major in a fidgety way. "But this seems hardly the place for a serious conversation." "I am sorry for it," replied Tom Mitchell coldly. "I was not told until the last minute, and you must take me in the rough." "Why not go over to the island?" suggested the major. "I dare say we should be more at our ease--eh, captain?" "I am sorry, major, but it would take too much time. Besides, I have already provided refreshments here, if you will accept." "With the greatest of pleasure," cried the major, coughing behind his hand; "and yet these gentlemen have important matters to discuss, very important matters," he added, complacently. "What matter, major? Breakfast first, business afterwards." "As you will," said the major, following him into the hut. By the orders of Camotte, during this conversation a very copious breakfast had been prepared. It was almost wholly composed of venison; but flanking the solids were a number of long-necked bottles that at once showed their Bordeaux and Burgundian origin, to say nothing of some brands of Champagne so dear to Americans. The major was so delighted that he said "Hum!" no less than three times, and then spoke to the outlaw chief. "Let them say what they like," he cried, "you are a man." "I am proud to hear it," cried Tom. "Let us be seated." The Frenchmen had hitherto said nothing. The elder now spoke. As the captain invited them to commence breakfast, he said: "Above all, sir, allow me to observe that before commencing business you offer us bread and salt." "You are my guests, gentlemen," said the captain, gravely; "you are under the safeguard of my honour, that is enough." "The major has indicated that we each wish to see you alone." "Which means?" asked the outlaw. "That I desire, as these conversations may probably be of very long duration, to see you quite alone," he added. "Sit down and eat," replied the outlaw. "After the repast you and your companions will follow me to the island. Once more, are you not satisfied?" "Of course," cried the major; "if not, I go bail for you." "Thank you, major; and now eat, drink, and be merry." CHAPTER XVI. TOM MITCHELL AS REDRESSER OF WRONGS. The ice once broken, through the instrumentality of the Burgundy, Bordeaux, and Champagne, all went on swimmingly. Major Ardenwood, who, perhaps, alone of all those present had nothing to conceal, and who was naturally a bon vivant, did all in his power to make himself the convivial leader of this improvised party, composed of so many various elements. He was warmly supported by the captain, who showed all the best qualities of a true amphitrion, and treated his guests with a generosity and courtesy which quite charmed them. Of course not a word was said of the object for which they had met. In fact, the subject was carefully avoided. The major was the first to rise. "The best of friends," he said, "must part. I am wanted at the fort, and with your permission will retire." "I thought," observed the captain of the outlaws, "your intention was to wait for these gentlemen here." "No; on reflection," replied the major, laughing, "I should only be in their way. I will wait at the fort." "I will escort them myself," said Tom Mitchell. "That will be the better plan," continued the major. "Thanks for your hospitality. The wines were excellent." "I will send you a few baskets, major." "Many thanks," cried the American, shaking hands, and then departing under the guidance of Camotte. "We can now go to the island," said the captain. "On foot, on horseback, or do we swim?" said the young Frenchman. "You will see. Follow me, gentlemen," replied Tom. They did so, and found a boat ready for their reception. On the invitation of the captain they all seated themselves. "Now, gentlemen," said Tom Mitchell, with a smile, "you must pardon me, but I must blindfold you. Fear nothing," he added, as he saw them start. "It is the custom. No stranger has ever entered the island in any other way. Besides, you are not obliged; only if you refuse you must return." "Do as you like," cried the elder Frenchman. Some men who held pocket handkerchiefs now approached, and deftly bound their eyes. The boat then started. In a few minutes they felt the boat strike against another shore, and received a slight shock as it did so. "Don't touch your bands," cried the captain; "wait a while." They were then lifted up with every precaution by several men, who soon put them down, removing the bandages. Looking round, they found themselves in a vast chamber, furnished with every regard to comfort and elegance. The captain was alone, the men having left. "Welcome, gentlemen," he said. "I hope the frank and cordial hospitality I shall offer you will make you excuse this precaution." The strangers merely bowed. "I need not remind you, gentlemen," continued Tom Mitchell, "that you are at home; but, in order not to detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary, let us to business. Will you follow me, sir, first?" This was said to the younger Frenchman. As he spoke he opened a door and the two passed out together. The two other strangers remained alone. The Frenchman, with a frown, began to walk up and down whistling; the American sat down. As soon as Tom Mitchell had the other alone, he cried-- "Sir, tell me at once if I am mistaken." "I see you have a good memory," replied the other, "and yet it is a very long time ago since we met." "Then I am not mistaken?" cried Tom Mitchell. "Monsieur Maillard, my name is Pierre Durand." "Who saved the life of myself and father," said Tom, shaking him by the hand, "even though you knew--" "I knew that your father an hour before had sat as president of the grim tribunal of the Abbaye," replied the young Frenchman. "I knew the intense hatred which was felt towards you; still, I drew you more dead than alive from the river." "You did more--you hid us and helped us to escape." "It was tit for tat; your father once saved my life." "But you paid your debt with usury. When I parted from you at New York--I was sixteen then--I said, 'Whatever happens, my life, my fortune, my honour is at your disposal.' I am ready to fulfil my promise, so speak." "I knew you would do all in your power," said Pierre Durand; "therefore I have come. How is your father?" "He has become an Indian, and wholly broken with everything in the shape of civilisation," said Tom. "Is he happy?" asked Durand. "Yes. He was a man of conviction. His faults--his crimes if you like--during the Reign of Terror were caused by his extreme sincerity. In that time of awful and terrible commotion," continued Tom, "he acted wholly conscientiously." "I believe it, and therefore do not presume to be his judge. I am but a weak and ordinary man," cried Durand; "when the time comes God will judge these Titans of the revolution according to their merits and convictions." "Doubtless. I shall let him know of your coming; but why?" "A question of life and death in connection with my best friend, a man I love as a brother," cried Durand. "Say no more. An express shall start at once." "Have you received any letters signed '_An old friend_'?" "Many! I presume, then, that you are that friend; but why not avow yourself?" "I could not." "If all you tell me in those letters be true, it is an odious and infamous action," cried Tom Mitchell. "I know it is, and I have counted on you and your father to see that justice be done," continued Durand. "Count on me," said Tom. "I have seen your friend, and though he does not like me, he won my heart at once." "He will change his mind." "But what can my father do in the matter?" "Everything. You must now understand, my friend, that if I have abandoned my ship in New York to the care of my mate, if I, who hate dry land, have started on a journey through the desert, it must be for powerful reasons." "Doubtless. May I ask what they are?" "Because, my friend, here in there is his most implacable, most ruthless foe," cried Durand. "Here!" exclaimed Tom. "Yes--here, in this island, in that room," replied Pierre Durand, pointing to the one they had left. "Are you sure of his identity?" asked Mitchell. "I have watched him for five years, followed in his track, known every movement he has made," said Durand. "And he does not know you?" cried Tom. "He knows me very well. He came over in my ship; we are the best of friends; he tried to buy me over." "This is incredible," observed the outlaw. "Yet true. I am his confidante, his devoted servant; I enter into all his views, and he counts on me as a slave." Both young men burst out laughing. "Then you have come from New York together?" "Not at all. We met at the fort two days ago, and as I am no longer disguised," said Pierre Durand, "despite all his cunning, he knew me not." "Well, the matter is settled," said Tom Mitchell, in a whisper; "we have our man here; he shall never leave." "My friend," said Pierre Durand, gravely, "that is not the game we have to play. He is as slippery as an eel." "I don't think, if I made up my mind," said the outlaw chief, with a sinister smile, "he would ever escape me." "Well, there is a time for everything. In the first place, learn his projects, so that we may unmask him. This will be all the more easy," said the sea captain, "in that we know who he is, while he is ignorant of our designs." "There is one thing worth mentioning," said the outlaw; "I, too, know him well. He will be rather surprised presently." "Be careful. One word might put him on his guard." "Is not my whole life passed," continued the outlaw, sadly, "in outdoing others in cunning and diplomacy?" "True. I leave, then, everything to you." "And now learn, my friend, that you are free as air, and absolute master of my domains," he added, laughing. Then he picked three flowers, and placing them in his buttonhole, said, "This will give you free passage everywhere you like. Now for your two travelling companions. But follow me." He opened a door opposite that by which they had entered, and, crossing several apartments, at last came to a room which overlooked a charming and elegant garden. "Here you are at home," he said; "come, go, do just as you like. At the end of the garden you will find a door opening on the woods. We shall dine at six. Be back by that time, and you will find the table laid here. We can then explain all." With these words the outlaw left his friend. As soon as he had returned to his private room, Tom Mitchell, or Maillard, son of the terrible judge of the Reign of Terror, sat down before a table, wrote a few lines, sealed the letter carefully, and then struck a gong. At once Camotte appeared and took the letter. "Send this letter to my father by express," he said; "let him kill his horse, but let me have the answer." "He shall be gone in five minutes." "And now," continued Tom Mitchell, with a sarcastic smile, "send that fat American in here." Camotte bowed and retired. Next moment the great American shipowner came in puffing and blowing. "Sit down, sir," said Tom Mitchell. The fat man obeyed with a grunt. "I think it rather hard that a man like me--" "Pardon me," said the captain, coldly; "allow me to remark, before you go any further, that I have no need of you, and did not send for you. You it is who, in the company of several other gentlemen, have come to me. All of you have, I dare say, serious reasons for taking this extraordinary step. I have in no way solicited the honour. All I can do is to listen to each in his turn. I have seen one and settled with him; if you have anything to say to me, speak." This speech, pronounced in a clear, bold tone, not unmixed with sarcasm, at once, as if by enchantment, calmed the irritation of the fat man. At all events, it compelled him to dissimulate it. After, therefore, mopping his head and face several times with a pocket handkerchief, and coughing once or twice behind his hand, he spoke-- "I was angry, sir," he said, "and own it freely." "Be pleased, sir, to come at once to business," continued Tom Mitchell; "another person waits." "You are, I believe, well acquainted with me?" "I have known you a long time," remarked Tom. "Sir, I have a nephew; he is the son of my wife's brother," began the other, "a very near relative." "Well, sir?" "This nephew, though a charming youth," cried Stoneweld, "is mad, utterly, hopelessly mad, sir." "Really, sir," said the captain, "and have you come all this way to tell me this piece of news?" "Pardon me, sir. When I say that he is mad, I believe I exaggerate. I should rather say that his intense folly has taken the form of monomania. This charming young man, as I have the honour to tell you, is in love, sir." "A very natural matter at his age." "But, sir," cried the shipowner, "he is in love with a young person in no way suited to his station." "Perhaps he does not think so." "Of course, sir, it is not his opinion. But it is mine. I am a serious man; I feel a great interest in him. Now that his father is dead I am his legal guardian--though he repudiates me. Now, sir, would you believe it," cried the fat man, "I had arranged with his aunt, my wife, the most delicious marriage for him with a young girl--I may as well be frank, a niece of my own?" "And he wouldn't have her," said Tom. "No, sir, he actually would not have her. Do you understand such folly on his part?" cried the other. "Well, it is strange. But what have I to do with it?" "I will explain if you will allow me." "I really should feel much obliged," urged Tom. "After refusing contemptuously this eligible alliance, which united every condition of age and fortune and position, what did the fool do? Excuse me if in my anger I speak thus of a nephew I love. One fine morning, without saying a word to anybody, he left his business to a partner, and started off, sir--what for?" "Well, how can I say?" asked Tom. "In pursuit of this wretched girl without family or fortune, whose parents had emigrated to the Indian frontier." "Oh, oh!" said the captain, who began to feel interested, and who listened with a gloomy frown. "Yes, sir," said the fat man, too wrapped up in his narrative to notice the other's looks, "so that my nephew must be somewhere here about this neighbourhood, looking after his beauty, neglecting his affairs and fortune Tor a girl he will certainly never marry." "How do you know, sir?" "At all events I will do everything in my power to prevent it," cried the irate citizen of Boston. "How will you set about it?" "Sir, I have been told that you were the only man in these parts capable of arresting a fugitive." "You do me too much honour." "I have a number of unclosed accounts, needless to explain, with his father. Arrest the young man, sir!" cried the Bostonian; "Arrest him and place him safely in my hands, and the sum of one thousand guineas is yours." As he spoke, the worthy shipowner pulled out an enormous pocketbook from his coat and opened it. "Excuse me, sir," said the captain, "do not let us be in quite such a hurry. You have not quite finished." "How so?" cried the American. "You have forgotten," said the captain with simple frankness, "to tell me the name of your foolish nephew." "George Clinton, sir, a very fine lad, though I say it." "I know him," retorted the captain, coldly. "You know him!" exclaimed the shipowner, "Then the affair is settled. You will have him arrested." "Perhaps," said Tom Mitchell; "I will reflect on the affair, which is not so easy as you may suppose." "To you, the chief of the outlaws?" "George Clinton is not alone. He has many and powerful friends on the frontier." "But I have plenty of money." "I tell you, I will reflect. You will now return to the fort under escort. In two days you shall have my answer." "But allow me to pay you a deposit," cried the other. "Keep your money for the present," said Tom, and striking a gong, Camotte appeared as if by magic. "But--" blustered the rich merchant. "Not another word, sir. Wait patiently for my reply. I am your most obedient servant." And led away by Camotte, the rich shipowner of Boston went out spluttering and perspiring as before. "Now," said the captain to himself, with a sarcastic smile, "let us see what the other fellow is made of." He went to the door, and, entering the cavern, bowed to the Frenchman, who was still walking up and down. "Will you be good enough to come this way, Monsieur Hebrard," he said, with an engaging smile. The Frenchman looked at him with astonishment, but on a repetition of the invitation went in. The captain chuckled to himself at this evidence of the other's utter surprise and bewilderment. It was as if he had scored one. CHAPTER XVII. A DIPLOMATIC CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO RASCALS. The two men looked at one another for some minutes in silence, just as two clever duelists might have done before venturing on the attack. But though each tried to read the other, their faces were like marble. At a mute invitation from the outlaw, the stranger took a seat, and at once commenced the conversation. "Sir," he said, "it is a matter of surprise, that you, a perfect stranger, should address me by a name--" "Which is or has once been yours, monsieur," answered the outlaw chief, with freezing politeness. "That is quite possible. I do not deny it. When one travels in foreign parts on important business, incognito--" "Is adopted, I am aware, which only deceives fools and dupes," said the outlaw, speaking slowly. "What do you mean, sir?" cried the other. "I recollect a certain Count de Mas d'Azyr, an excellent gentleman of Languedoc, who had this mania." The stranger shivered all over, and a lightning flash darted from beneath his dark and heavy eyebrows. "Well," continued the outlaw, with imperturbable sang-froid, "his noble manners so thoroughly denounced him, despite the plebeian names he chose to assume, that he was compelled at the end of a few minutes to give up this absurd acting." "Really, sir," cried the stranger, "I do not see the meaning or relevance of your allusions." "I permit myself no allusions," said the outlaw, with the utmost suavity. "Very far from it. What matters it to me, I ask, whether you call yourself Hebrard, Count de Mas d'Azyr, Philippe de Salnam, Jean Lerou, or take any other alias?" "Sir!" cried the other. "Allow me, I pray, to conclude. In you I only recognise a person who is very warmly recommended to me, who has need of my services, and at whose disposition I therefore place myself at once--ready to serve him if possible," he continued; "at all events we can talk, and I should be glad to know in what way I can be of use." "Sir," said the stranger, smiling, "you are agreeable and witty. I find that people make mistakes in their idea of you." "I am obliged by your high consideration," continued the outlaw; "still this does not explain to me--" "Who I am," cried the other, with feigned candour; "well, sir, considering you have mentioned so many names--" "You allow, then, that I was right." "Certainly; you were quite right," answered the other, quickly; "I therefore sincerely beg your pardon." "It is not at all necessary." "There is, however, one thing that I must confess puzzles me very much," continued the envoy. "May I, without offence, ask what that is?" "No offence. I should certainly be only too glad to have an explanation with you on the subject." "If it depends upon me," the other said. "It depends absolutely on you. I always thought I had a good memory. I believe myself to be a very good physiognomist, but really I have no recollection of you." The outlaw burst into a roar of laughter. "Which only proves," he added, when he recovered himself, "that I am much more clever at incognito than you." "Which means--" "That not only have we met, monsieur, but that we have carried on a long connection," said Tom. "Many years ago?" "Not at all, sir. I speak of very recent times, though I will allow that our acquaintance commenced long ago." "You astonish me," said the Frenchman. "The matter is very easily explained. We have found ourselves connected at different times, under four different names: I have told you yours, I will now tell mine. Do you remember Louis Querehard? Do you recollect François Magnaud, Paul Sambrun, and Pedro Lopez?" "Perfectly," cried the other. "Well, sir, those four individuals you now see present under the name of Tom Mitchell, your very humble servant; though," he added, with exquisite politeness, yet with a tint of irony, "I have several others available on occasion." "Well, sir," cried the stranger, "you have indeed taken me in. I was a fool not to recognise you." "Sir!" cried the outlaw. "Let us call things by their names. It is by far the best plan. I am indeed not to be forgiven for being taken in like any novice. I deserve to be dismissed from the service of the Government which employs me, and which believes me to be worthy of credit, as possessing a certain amount of wit and diplomatic ability. Well, it is useless to discuss the matter any longer. Give me your hand, sir," he cried; "you are my master. We bear no malice." "I only wanted to prove--" said the outlaw. "That I was a fool--and I must say you have done so to my entire satisfaction," he added, in a tone of complete good humour. "But however unpleasant the shock is to my self-love, I am delighted at what has happened." "How so?" asked the outlaw, in the same tone. "Because the ice is broken between us, and we can come to an understanding; the more readily," he added, "that the matters I have to speak of are the same as before." "If that be so," said the outlaw, "we can easily come to terms." "Is it not so? Now here is the affair in two words. The revolution is over in France. Beneath the hand of the mighty man of genius whose talent and patriotism have raised him to power, Government has recovered its strength, society begins to breathe, the nation is once more rising to its proper position amidst the people; New France has entire faith in the man whose every step has hitherto been marked by victory, which has definitively declared on his side." "I presume," said the outlaw, quietly, "that you are speaking of the General Bonaparte." "Of no other. This great, this extraordinary man has, with his mighty hand, put down the Jacobins and the mob, driving them back to their original nothingness. He has chained forever the awful hydra of revolution. You have, then, heard of him?" "Most certainly," said the son of Maillard, coldly. "I am glad to hear it. This great man, who is as mighty a politician as he is a successful general, has followed, while slightly modifying it, the line traced by the national convention of execrable memory with regard to the Spanish colonies." "Sir," said the son of the regicide, "you are hard upon fallen men, upon vanquished enemies, who, if they were guilty of faults--of crimes if you will--did very great and glorious things, giving the first signal for social regeneration over the world." "It is useless, sir," said the envoy, "to discuss that matter. My convictions are very strong." "Well, sir, if that be so," replied the outlaw, "let us return to the General Bonaparte, and pray explain to me his new plans with regard to the Spanish possessions in America." "They are no new plans," observed the envoy; "only the old ones modified to a certain extent." "Modified in what way?" "There are two capital points. In the first place he wishes a cordial and frank alliance with the President of the United States, who cordially approves the policy of the French Government, which will, in the end, be to the advantage of America. Then he has given extensive powers to numerous sure and accredited agents, who, though, are not openly known because of the temporary Franco-Spanish alliance. Large sums of money have been provided by means of which to overthrow that species of Chinese wall with which Spain has surrounded its frontiers, which none ever cross and return." "Sir," said the outlaw, with a smile, "I have crossed them many a time and oft, and yet here I am." "It is precisely because of that fact that I am here." "Ah! Ah!" said the outlaw, with a laugh; "After all, despite your denials, you had seen through my incognito." "Well, it is useless to deny it. I have long known you to be a man of heart and action. I also know that by means of your vast connections no one can more readily help us to revolutionise the colonies. Besides, you are a Frenchman." "I am of no country," replied the other. "What, then, do you call yourself?" "An outlaw," answered the chief, "and king of this island," drily; "an outlaw, and nothing more." "Well, be it so, sir. Still you are exactly the man I want. I have need, for the execution of my plans, for the carrying out of my projects, of a man who is bound by no locality, by no social consideration. In fact, an outlaw." The other bowed ironically. "Now are you disposed to be the man?" "First," said Tom Mitchell, "let me know what you want of me. I will then give a decisive answer." "Well, then," replied the envoy, "let us put diplomacy on one side, and speak frankly and openly." The outlaw leaned back and assumed something like the attitude of a tiger about to spring. "Sir," he said, with a most singular smile, "I was about to make the very same proposition." "Very good," replied Monsieur Hebrard; "that shows that we are beginning to understand one another." The captain bowed, without speaking. "The Spanish colonies," continued M. Hebrard, "are already beginning to feel the germs of revolutionary fermentation. Some devoted and enterprising men, yourself among others, have gone into the cities and towns of Mexico." "All this I know; a truce to flattery." "They have seen the zealous patriots, who are, however, but ill prepared as yet for the revolution we ardently desire." "Ill prepared indeed," cried Tom Mitchell. "But overtopping all others is a man who has immense influence with the Indian races. You know him." "Ah, ah!" exclaimed Tom; "You mean Dolores, the priest." "I mean no other. He is the only man upon whom we can count. We must enter into serious relations with him." "For what purpose?" asked the outlaw. "In order that when the hour comes he may be ready to raise the standard of revolt," cried the other, "and ready to draw the population after him against Spanish despotism." "Very good, sir. But it is a long way to Dolores, where lives the curé Hidalgo. The road is one of the most dangerous I know. I doubt if any agent, however clever, can reach him. Will you allow me to give you sincere advice?" "Speak; I am deeply interested." "My own opinion is that it would be much better to despatch a light vessel, schooner or brig, into the Gulf of Mexico. This vessel could cruise along the coast, and, when opportunity offered, land a confidential agent." "You are quite right, sir," said the envoy, "I must say this means has been tried with success." "Well, what then?" "The secret was betrayed by a traitor; in consequence, the Spanish authorities are always on their guard." "Hence you conclude--" "That on reflection, and having experience as a guide, the difficult road you describe is the best." "Hum!" said the outlaw, and relapsed into silence. The real meaning, the interesting point, of this conversation, so long, had not been touched upon. The captain knew it well, and kept himself in reserve. M. Hebrard was for some time afraid to enter upon a frank and true explanation. There was a deep silence; at last the captain determined to fire the train, if he were blown up. "Then you think I must go by land," he said. "There is no choice," responded Hebrard. "The conditions?" remarked Tom. "One hundred thousand francs, not in notes, but in golden ounces, stamped with the effigy of the King of Spain." "That is tolerable, for a beginning." "Then there will be as much more for the negotiations, or, as I see you hesitate, at first one hundred and fifty thousand." "Why at first?" asked Tom. "Because your mission will be divided into two distinct parts," replied the envoy, quietly. "Let us thoroughly understand the first," continued the outlaw; "we will talk of the second presently." "Another hundred thousand on your return with despatches," continued the diplomatist, warmly. "Hum!" said Tom; "That makes--" "Three hundred and fifty thousand francs (£14,000) for only the first part of your mission," said Hebrard. "It is very liberal. Now for the second mission," said Tom Mitchell, watching the diplomatist with his wary eye. He knew that the real thing was coming now; he was satisfied of this from the other's uneasy manner. "Hum!" said M. Hebrard, as if speaking to himself; "Three hundred and fifty thousand francs is a pretty sum." "Well, for the first part of the mission which you have explained to me I don't say no. It is," he added, "a tough job, that I know. Still, nothing risk, nothing have. Now for the second part." The diplomatist assumed an air of genial frankness that made the outlaw shudder. He was at once on his guard. "The Spaniards, as I have said," observed M. Hebrard, jauntily, "are forever on the watch. No one, no matter what his position, is safe on the frontiers. To go in or out is simply impossible." "Diable!" cried Tom; "What you say is not calculated to give me much confidence or hope." "Excuse me, monsieur," said Hebrard, "we are playing a frank and open game, I do not desire in any way to conceal the dangers that may await you. I am only speaking in a general kind of way, certain that whatever obstacles occur you will be right." All this was verbiage; M. Hebrard was evidently only trying some method of putting his real thoughts into words. The outlaw, who expected what was coming, smiled. "Unfortunately," said the diplomatist, who did not know what to say, "the real danger is not on the other side." The outlaw started up. "You may well be surprised; the danger is here." "What do you mean?" cried the outlaw. "I will explain myself, if you will allow me. Of course," said M. Hebrard, "the Spaniards are no more fools than we are." "I was always of that opinion." "They have started a countermine!" "A countermine!" cried Tom. "What do you mean?" "You will soon see. Knowing something of our designs, they have covered the American frontiers with spies." "It is certainly very clever," said the outlaw. "Very clever," said the diplomatist, in a husky voice; "but then, clever as they are, we know all about it, every detail." "You do not mean to say so?" cried Tom Mitchell. "Yes. And more than that, we know the chief of the whole gang of spies," added Hebrard. "And much more than that, we know all his secrets, cunning as he is." "That is something," said Tom; "but now what you want is to catch him." "Yes," said Hebrard, "that is the very thing; you yourself must see the necessity of catching him before you start." "I should think so; it is as plain as running water; but," added Tom Mitchell, "it is not very easy to snap up such a rascal in the desert, which simply is as full of such rogues and vagabonds as an anthill is full of ants." "Don't be uneasy on that point," cried Hebrard; "I shall easily put you on his track." "All right. Then all we have to do is to catch him?" "Exactly so," said the other, with a sigh. "And you will pay for this capture?" "Very heavily, my excellent friend." "Oh! Oh! Then you are very anxious to secure him?" "Yes," continued the other, gloomily; "dead or alive; it matters not. I should say, for information's sake, dead rather than alive." "I like plain speaking. He is very much in your way?" "Very much more than I can explain." "And how much will you pay for this mission?" "Alive, twenty-five thousand; dead, fifty thousand francs." "It appears to me you prefer him dead. But never mind, give me the information. His name and address." "He is a Frenchman, who has taken the name of Oliver. In appearance he is a hunter, a trapper, anything that comes uppermost. For greater safety he has connected himself with an Indian tribe, and is to be found about the Missouri." "It is a very long way from the Mexican frontiers," observed the outlaw, in a coldly sarcastic voice. "True. But the fellow is cunning; his safety requires him to be extremely cautious. Do you accept?" "I accept on one condition," replied the other. "It is fully understood that he is to be dead, mind." "No matter, so that we have him." "Well, then, we are agreed on four hundred thousand francs (£16,000)? I shall want half down." "I have the money in gold in my valises. I will pay it to you this evening," replied the envoy. "And now that this is settled, you are in no hurry?" "None whatever." "Well, I know pretty well where to find the man you are in search of. I must say that, without suspecting the odious part he has been playing, I have on the several occasions we have met him felt the greatest repulsion." "This is extraordinary." "Well, you see, on the desert everybody knows everybody. But as I wish to make no mistake, to commit no error in so grave and important a matter, I should like you to be present at his arrest. Besides, it would be more regular." "Hum!" cried the other, with a look of considerable annoyance; "The idea of further voyage in the desert--" "Is not pleasant, I know," interrupted Tom; "but that is not necessary. You shall remain quietly here." "Then I consent. When do you expect to catch him?" "In less than a week, unless I am very unfortunate." "Then I can wholly depend on you?" cried Hebrard. "I swear to you on my honour that it will not be my fault if at the end of the time you are not face to face." "I thank you in advance," said the envoy. "There is nothing to be grateful for," replied the outlaw, with an odd expression and smile. CHAPTER XVIII. THE PRISONER. That same day, about nine o'clock in the evening, the outlaw was seated face to face with Captain Pierre Durand at a table covered with dishes, plates, and empty bottles, which testified to the appetite of the two men, and to the rude attack they had made upon everything in order to satisfy it. The two men were now smoking excellent cigars, while sipping, like true amateurs, some mocha, served in real Japanese cups. Close at hand, in addition, were bottles containing every conceivable kind of liquors and spirits. They had reached that precise period in the repast so prized by gourmets, when, the mind elevated and the brain excited by succulent food and generous libations, one feels a kind of happy state of being that is simply charming. For one whole quarter of an hour neither of the two men had spoken or cared to speak. It was the outlaw who first broke the charm. "You are aware, my dear captain," he said, "that in half an hour I must leave you and be off." "Excuse me," cried Pierre Durand, starting, "if I believe a single word of such a mad assertion." "Yes, I am truly sorry to say, it is the exact fact. Doubtless you know as well as I do, business before all." "I have not the remotest idea of interfering with your affairs," cried the sea captain, glumly. "Then what do you mean?" "That you are not going to leave me in the lurch." "Still, when I tell you I must go," said the outlaw. "All I mean is this, that if you go I go," cried Pierre. "What! A night journey like this?" asked Tom. "Night journey, day journey, it is all the same to me. I am an old sailor," growled Pierre Durand; "and every kind of locomotion is equally indifferent to me. Besides, I have known you a very long time, haven't I? And I know what sort of trade you carry on," he added. The outlaw kept his countenance. "Of course, I shall not be surprised or scandalised at anything I see. All I know is that here I should be bored to death, having nothing to do. It would be a nice little change to join you in one of your filibustering expeditions." All this was said in a joking kind of way that excluded all idea of giving offence. "Well," said Tom Mitchell, smiling, "any way, you would find yourself utterly disappointed." "How is that?" "I am not going to plunder, but to restore. Of course I don't pretend it is my usual custom," said Tom. "Very well," cried Pierre; "I think that will be much more funny. I should like to join in the good work." "But, my friend--" urged the outlaw. "There is no but about it. I am a Breton, that is to say, as obstinate as several mules," continued Pierre Durand; "and I mean to come, unless, indeed, you tell me that my demand is in reality offensive and intrusive." "By no means," cried Tom; "come then. Who can resist anyone so obstinate as you are, my friend?" "You are a delightful fellow. I am ready." "Not quite; there are conditions; at least, one." "Pray let me know what it is." "You must profit by the few minutes that remain to us to disguise yourself, so as to be unrecognisable." "To what purpose, in a country where nobody knows me?" cried Pierre Durand; "Will you tell me a reason?" "That is my secret. Will you consent? That is right. Now go there, and you will find all things necessary." Pierre Durand was about to leave the room, but the outlaw indicated where everything was ready. "There is another favour I must ask of you." "Go ahead, nothing surprises me," said the captain, who, with magnificent sang-froid had commenced his work. "In case chance should bring us face to face with people we know," he said, earnestly, "you will still keep up your incognito, even if you happen to see among these the face of the friend whom you have travelled so far to see." The captain, who was blacking his beard with soot and fat, having already darkened his eyebrows, gave a start. "Will he be there?" he asked. "I do not say so. It is more than probable that he will not be there. Still, I wish to exercise every precaution." "Hum, still it appears very hard." "Still, do you consent? Yes or no." "I repeat what you just said. I suppose I must," said Pierre; "and as I see you are in earnest, I promise, on my honour." "Enough; then make haste." After rendering his features and countenance utterly unrecognisable, the captain threw off his outer clothes, and assumed the costume of a planter of the frontier. "What languages do you speak?" asked Tom. "Nearly all civilised ones as easily as I do French," replied Durand; "but, above all, English and Spanish." "Very good," continued Tom; "then during our excursion I shall always call you Don José Remero." "Don José Remero be it." "You must recollect that you are a captain in the Spanish navy, fled from home after a fatal duel." "All right," grinned Pierre. "Do not forget to take weapons. I can strongly recommend this tison. It is a perfect and choice rapier," said Tom; "have this long and pointed knife in your right boot. You may want it when you least expect. Do you ride?" "Like a centaur," laughed the Frenchman. "I am very glad to hear it; and now secure this carbine and this pair of pistols," continued Tom. "Why, I shall look like an arsenal." "My friend, it is the custom of the country," said Tom; "no one thinks of travelling in any other way." "One does at Rome as Rome does. I'm your man," cried Pierre, laughing; "what do you think of me?" "Unrecognisable. I should not know you anywhere. You are clever; even your accent is changed." "That is always the first thing to be thought of," said Pierre Durand; "and now what is the nature of the restitution?" "We are going," replied the outlaw, with a smile, "to restore a young girl to her friends and relatives." "A young girl?" cried Durand. "Yes--a most charming and interesting maiden, whom I captured the other day. I can no longer resist her tender sorrow." "Bah!" said the young sailor, with a grin. "I swear to you, upon my honour," cried the outlaw, warmly, "that she has been treated with the most profound respect and even tenderness." "Spoken like an honest man," said the captain, warmly. "But may I ask with what object you took her away?" "I had a motive, which I fear me exists no longer. I even fear," he said, gloomily, "I have entered upon a bad speculation. But it is useless to discuss the matter anymore. Soon there shall be no mysteries for you. Be seated again." "Why?" asked the captain, puzzled at all these mysteries. "She comes, and it is rather important I should say a few words to her before we start on our journey." "I am your humble servant to command." Tom Mitchell struck a gong, and Camotte appeared. "Have my orders been executed?" asked the outlaw. "Yes, captain. The stranger is watched carefully, and yet without creating suspicion," replied the lieutenant. "Where is he now?" "In his own room." "If tomorrow he asks after me," said Tom Mitchell, "you will give him the answer already agreed on." "Yes, captain." "What about the detachments?" "Those have started within the hour, I shall start with the last as soon as the moon rises," replied Camotte. "Remember," said Tom, thoughtfully, "that tomorrow morning at sunrise, if not before, you must be back." "Be easy as to that, captain," said the other, significantly; "I shall not leave the island without a chief just now." "Humph!" observed the captain, suspiciously, "Is there anything fresh in the air?" "Nothing in appearance, much in reality." "You can speak out here," said Tom Mitchell; "if you have anything to say, say it without hesitation." "About an hour ago, when I was going my round," said the matter-of-fact and faithful Camotte, "I met that fellow Versenca at the water's edge; he was wet through, and had evidently been swimming. When he saw me he was utterly confounded, and then when I questioned him as to his conduct he gave me a lot of silly reasons a child of five would have seen through." The captain reflected with a dark frown. "Redouble your vigilance, my good Camotte," he said at last. "On the first suspicion arrest him until I come back." "For greater safety, captain," replied Camotte, "I shall take him with me tonight, I can watch him." "Mind he does not give you the slip. A traitor would be dangerous just now. He is as cunning as an opossum." "I know it, but two can play at the same game." "Good. I leave it to you. Have Black Athol and Goliath saddled for us, and Miss Lara for the prisoner, if safe." "She is quite a lady's horse--an ambler. She will quite suit her rider," replied Camotte. "Mind you," continued Tom, "let the three be harnessed for war--victuals, holsters, ammunition, and pistols." "As a matter of course. When Black Athol and Goliath go out, I know you are bent on mischief. What absence?" "Three days at most," replied the captain; "and during that time never leave the island." "And you go alone?" asked Camotte, anxiously. "With the gentleman, as I have already said." "I think you should take Tête de Plume," said Camotte. "Will you tell me why?" asked the captain, smiling. "No one ever knows on an expedition what may happen," drily replied the lieutenant, "and two are better than one." "But I have told you, we are two already." "Very good," he continued, "but you would be three." "I tell you what it is, Camotte," said the captain, laughing, "you do just as you like with me. Let him come." "I thank you heartily," cried the delighted lieutenant. "Above all, whatever happens, keep my absence a secret," said Tom Mitchell; "that is above all essential." "Your orders shall be obeyed in all things." "And now bring in the prisoner," continued Tom. "By the way, have you said anything to her?" "Captain, you know I am no babbler," observed Camotte. "Very true," said Tom, and then turning to Pierre, he added, laughing, "that fellow does not put too much confidence in me." "His manner is strange. Perhaps he distrusts me." "No; Camotte is a bulldog for fidelity and discretion; but, like bulldogs, he is both suspicious and jealous," replied Tom. "I bear him no malice for his jealousy," said Pierre; "besides, I myself always like those kind of men." "Yes, they are indeed very precious," continued Tom; "unfortunately, you have to give way to them a little." "Well, when it is from pure devotion, nothing can be said." At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered the room, effectually checking the conversation. This young girl was Angela, or Evening Dew, whichever it may please the reader to call her. She gave a graceful curtsy, and then remained with downcast eyes before the outlaw chief. The two men rose from their seats and bowed respectfully. "My sister is welcome," said the outlaw, smiling, and speaking in the Indian tongue; "be seated." "Evening Dew is a slave, and presumes not to sit down in the presence of her master," responded the young girl, in a voice as melodious as the song of a bird, but the tone of which was firm and distinct. "I have said." Evening Dew was a delicious child of seventeen at most, in whom the two races, white and red, of both which she was the issue, seemed to have vied which should produce the most wondrous chef d'oeuvre. Her elegant and slight form, slightly bent forward with that serpentine undulation which belongs to American women, her long hair, black as the raven's wing, fell almost to her feet, and when loosened, might have served her as a cloak. Her complexion had the golden tint of the daughters of the sun; her great blue and dreamy eyes were fringed by long velvet lashes; her mouth, revealing her vermilion lips, and a row of dazzling white teeth, gave to her physiognomy that rare expression scarcely ever found except in some virgin of Titian. The sailor was dazzled at the really marvellous beauty of the young girl. He had no idea that the whole continent of America could have produced such a fairy. The captain smiled at her reply. "Evening Dew has no master here. She is with friends who will protect her," he said, heartily. "Friends!" she cried, clasping her hands together, while the pearly tears went down her cheeks; "Is it possible?" "I swear to you, young girl," he continued, "that what I say is true. I have sent for you to apologise for what has happened, to demand forgiveness for your cruel abduction." "Oh, sir," she cried, in excellent French, "oh, sir, can I really believe my ears! Is it true?" "You would insult me by disbelieving," he replied, in the same language; "tomorrow you will be with your friends." "Thank you, sir, from my soul," she sobbed forth. And before the captain could prevent her--before he suspected her intention, the was on her knees kissing his hand. Tom Mitchell respectfully raised her from the ground and led her to the chair she had once refused. "Then you are very unhappy here?" he asked. "Oh, yes," she cried, "I have indeed been very unhappy; how, in fact, could I be otherwise?" "And yet," said the captain, with a frown, "I have given the most strict orders with regard to your treatment." "I beg most earnestly to acknowledge, sir, that I have been treated in the most honourable fashion, that I have been surrounded by the most delicate attentions. But oh, sir, I was a prisoner, alas! Far away from those I love, and whom my absence plunges, like myself, in utter despair." "Pardon me, miss," said the chief, "my wrong towards you will soon be repaired, I promise you." "Then you are good indeed!" "Tomorrow," he added, with considerable emotion, "you shall be restored to the bosom of your family." "Do that, sir," she cried, "and I will love you. Ever after you shall be as a brother to me." "I will endeavour to merit the title, Miss Angela," he said, softly; "henceforth you will no longer curse me." "Curse you who give me back to those I love! No, I will bless you from the bottom of my heart," she cried, earnestly, "and, believe me, God will amply reward you." "I have a strong conviction that way myself," he said, smiling; "even heaven could scarcely be deaf to your prayer." The girl coloured deeply at these words, which were uttered with such earnest conviction as caused her to bow her head. The captain simply smiled softly. "Are you tolerably strong, miss?" he asked. "Why do you ask me this question?" she said. "Because," he answered, "we have a very long journey to go before we find your friends." "What matters about fatigue, sir? I am already strong. The very idea has restored my vigour." "We shall have to undertake a long night journey," he continued, "through the prairies, by very rough ways." She clapped her pretty hands together joyously; a charming smile lightened up her physiognomy, and then she cried out in a delighted and proud accent-- "I have Indian blood in my veins, sir," she cried; "I am the daughter of a brave Canadian hunter. Fear nothing for me. I am not a woman of the towns, who, I am told, can neither walk nor run." "They are very much like it," growled Pierre. "Try me, put me to any proof, and you will see of what I am capable to get back to my friends." "Come, I see, at all events, that you are as brave and noble a woman as you are beautiful. Come, it is time." "Do we go directly?" she cried. "Yes," was his smiling answer. "One moment," she said; "give me time to thank God for having touched your heart. Let me pray." "Do as you wish," he replied, respectfully. The young girl folded her arms across her breast, raised her looks heavenward with an inspired air for some minutes. One could see by her thoughtful brow, from the compression of her coraline lips, that she was praying. Her face was radiant, her eyes were full of tears. She seemed transfigurated. The two men, despite their rude aspect and rough natures, stood respectfully beside her, utterly cowed, overcome, crushed under the weight of her purity and innocence. They stood before her hat in hand. When her short and ardent prayer was over, the girl turned to them with an ineffable smile. "Now, gentlemen," she said, bowing to the two men who she saw were henceforth her slaves, "I am quite ready." The outlaw and his companion bowed and followed behind as she led the way outside. Camotte was there, as was also the valorous Tête de Plume, holding the horses. Tom Mitchell led Miss Angela to the mare Lara, which he had ordered to be saddled, and held the stirrup respectfully. "Mount," he said, just as if he had been speaking to a princess in her own right. Then, as soon as the outlaw had given some last whispered directions to Camotte, they started, Tom Mitchell riding at the head of the little band. By the time the ford was passed over in safety the moon had risen in the sky above the trees. The four travellers were now safe on terra firma. "Now, Miss Angela," said Tom Mitchell, gallantly, "place yourself between this gentleman and myself. Good. And now, Tête de Plume, my boy, take the rearguard, and, whatever you do, look out." The four cavaliers dashed off at a hand gallop, and soon disappeared in the windings of the defile. CHAPTER XIX. IN WHICH TOM MITCHELL DISCOVERS THAT HONESTY IS A GOOD SPECULATION. We now direct our steps to one of the most savage and abrupt sites in all the desert, before the rising of the sun. Five men are crossing a narrow gorge in the mountains, the tops of which are rocky and bare or covered with snow. Just now they are rendered almost invisible by the dense fog which the sun's rays cannot dissipate. These five travellers came from the interior of the mornes, as the hilly plains are called, and were bound for the plains, which they began to make out a short distance before them, traversed, or rather cut in two, by the extensive stream of the Missouri, the sandy waters of which were half concealed by high grass, willow, and the cottonwood trees that lined its shores. The five wayfarers of whom we have spoken walked painfully over the flints that paved the gorge, the dried-up bed of a torrent, which itself had suddenly disappeared during one of the cataclysms so common in that region. Having reached the extremity of the gorge, they stopped, looked around, and gave a sigh of satisfaction. Their task had been a rude one. For far more than three hours they had been stumbling in the midst of a whirlpool, nothing else, of flint stones, which, at every step they took, slid under their feet like mountain shingle. Four of these men were whites, wearing the costume of hunters of the prairies; the fifth was an Indian. They were George Clinton, Oliver, Bright-eye, Keen-hand, and Numank-Charake, the chief. Now, then, let us ask how it came about that these five men should be there at that early hour in a place so far from their home--a hundred miles, in fact, from the regions they were in the habit of frequenting, and why were George Clinton and Keen-hand members of this singular and perhaps fortuitous group. Of course we shall as soon as possible satisfy the legitimate curiosity of our friend the reader. "Oh!" said Keen-hand, "It is my opinion, friends and companions, that the wisest thing to be done is to stop here." "Why stop here?" cried Bright-eye, in far from a pleasant tone of voice; "Explain yourself." "For a hundred reasons, every one of which is better than the other," resumed Keen-hand. "I should like to know the first," said the Canadian. "Well, it is a very excellent one, I think. You and I and the chief are used to these diabolical roads, which is far from being the case with our companions, which you ought to have observed without telling a very long time ago." Both Oliver and Clinton tried to protest. "No! No!" cried Bright-eye, in his frankest manner. "I am a brute. So say no more about it, as I proclaim it myself. Let us camp at once." "Here is an excellent place," cried Keen-hand. The hunters had halted under a grove of gigantic gumtrees. A fire was lighted, and each one, resting himself, prepared for the morning meal. "Well, to tell the truth," said Oliver, gaily, "I will now confess that I needed repose; I was simply done up." "I could scarcely put one foot before the other," observed George Clinton, who was stretched out on the grass. "There!" cried Keen-hand; "Was I not right?" "Well, considering that I have owned I was a brute," growled Bright-eye, "are you not satisfied?" "Perfectly!" said the guide. Numank-Charake had in the meantime undertaken the office of cook, an office he filled effectively. A few minutes later all were eagerly devouring slices cut from a quarter of venison which had been broiled upon the hot embers. Then the gourds were opened and passed joyously from hand to hand. These brave young men had walked all night through impracticable paths which only hunters could overcome. They were literally famished. But now they entered into the spirit of the thing rarely. Soon everything had disappeared. All was eaten. When the last mouthful had been washed down, and the very last drop of brandy absorbed, each man in his turn gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. "Now, then," remarked Bright-eye, looking obliquely at his companions, "I think we may talk." "Well, I am of opinion," said Keen-hand, gaily, "that after a hearty meal, two things are agreeable--a pipe and talk." This declaration, the justice and opportuneness of which everybody at once recognised, was like a signal; instantly, pipes in red clay, with cherry tree tubes, were drawn from their belts, stuffed, lighted, and soon a cloud of blue smoke surrounded the head of every guest like a glory. "Now, then, Bright-eye," said Oliver, gaily, between two puffs, "fire away as soon as you like." "Messieurs, my friends," replied Bright-eye, "my heart is very sad. Despite all I can do, I feel a kind of presentiment that this man, in whom we have so trusted, is deceiving us." Numank-Charake lifted up his head. "I know the paleface chief," he said, in his guttural tones, shaking his head in a way to give more emphasis to his words; "he is a man whose tongue is not forked. His word is as gold--and my brother, Bright-eye, is wrong." "In the name of heaven, is it you who speak in that way, chief?" asked the astonished hunter; "You, of all men in the world, so deeply interested." "Numank-Charake is a chief in his nation," quickly interrupted the redskin, his words, which swelled his bosom, coming directly from his heart; "the man who despises his enemies is not a brave warrior, but exposes himself to the reproach of only vanquishing cowards." "Well spoken, chief," said Keen-hand. "The Grey Bear, the paleface chief, is ferocious, cruel, and a thief, but he is brave and truthful." Oliver and Clinton stared. "What he has said he will do, he will do. What he has offered he will give. Did we go openly to him? No! We hunted him like a wild beast Wounded, dying, we wished to kill him. He escaped; thanks not to cunning, but to audacity. He is a great chief." The whites exchanged glances. "Nothing would have been more easy for him than to laugh at our menaces and to conceal himself from us. Instead of that, he has sent us a collar--letter--in which he invites us to an interview, for the purpose of ending the troubles which divide us." "This may be a trick," said Oliver. "No! It is neither the act of a false nor of a double-faced man. No! It is the act of a brave and loyal warrior. That is my opinion. Whatever may happen during the next few hours, I am convinced that if we have confidence in him I shall be found right. I have said." The chief relighted his pipe, which had gone out during his speech, and from that moment he appeared to take no further part in the conversation. Still he listened to what the others said. "As far as I am concerned," observed Oliver, "I think the chief has spoken well. I agree with him on every point. As far as I can judge, this pirate or this outlaw, whichever you choose to call him, is not a man like other men. There is something in him which is not at all ordinary. In one word, he may, it is true, be a brigand, but, certainly, his is a very lofty nature. Until further events, I, for one, shall believe in his word." "All this is very possible," observed Bright-eye, shaking his head doubtingly, "but no one can deny that he is the captain of a monstrous set of brigands." "What does that prove?" said Oliver. "Nothing that I know of. Still I am decidedly of opinion that his word is not to be trusted." "Then allow me to observe," said George Clinton, drily, "why are we here?" "Why, because one always lives in hope, despite our better reason. Still we ought to be prudent." "Though I am not quite of the opinion of Bright-eye," said Charbonneau, "I think we should be wise not to rush headlong into a possible trap which the bandits may be preparing for us. He is right as to the wisdom of prudence." "I, too, am an advocate for prudence," said George Clinton; "nothing can be more wise than to take all proper precautions. That I fully agree with. But do not act in such a way as to cause our loyalty to be suspected, or our confidence in the man's word." "That can be easily arranged, my friends," said Charbonneau, with a cunning smile "let me alone, and, believe me, all will go well." "My worthy friend, act just as you think proper. You, perhaps, more than anyone, have experience of the desert, and nobody objects to your taking every precaution." "The best precaution," said the Indian chief, again speaking, "when you deal with a loyal enemy is to have every faith in his word; to have no suspicion of any kind in your mind." "Very good, chief. It is very likely after all that you are right. I will not discuss the matter with you, though I repeat I am very much surprised to hear you speak thus. I only ask of you one thing--that is, to remain neutral in this affair until the actual moment of action has come." "Numank-Charake loves Bright-eye; he is his brother. He will do whatever the hunter wishes; still regretting that he is constrained to act against his wishes," he answered. "I take all the blame on myself," said Bright-eye; "and shall be the first to own my error, if indeed I am found to be in error. A man can say no more, even if he were speaking to his father." The Indian said no more, but bowed his head in token of acquiescence. But he smiled with such a keen and subtle irony that the hunter was so deeply moved as to blush. "I fear nothing for myself," he cried. "Eh, what!" exclaimed Charbonneau, stretching out his arm towards the river, "What is going on?" Every eye was fixed upon the spot indicated by the hunter's sudden exclamation. "It is a canoe," said George Clinton. "Manned by two men," observed Charbonneau. "And those two men," said the chief, after one glance from his eagle eye, "are two palefaces. He knows them well. One is the old hunter called Sharpear, the other the son of my nation--Leave-no-trail." "My father and my grandfather!" cried Bright-eye, in utter surprise. "Surely, chief, you must be mistaken. Why should they come here?" "Very likely," observed Oliver, gently, "the same motive leads them here that has led us." Meanwhile the canoe, impelled by vigorous arms, approached with extreme rapidity, and soon was at no very great distance from the camp of the hunters. Then it turned rapidly towards the shore, and its bow was soon stuck in the sand. Two men landed. Numank-Charake had been right. These two men were indeed the father and grandfather of the young hunter. They were coming to the encampment. The five adventurers all leaped up, and eagerly rushed to meet the two old men. After the first compliments had passed and welcomes had been exchanged with effusion between the newcomers and their friends, the Canadians seated themselves by the fire, and, upon the invitation given, ate some mouthfuls of fresh-cooked venison and drank some brandy. "We have been to see our relative, Lagrenay, the squatter of the Wind River," said the old man. "It appears he had received a very pressing message from Tom Mitchell, the outlaw." "Yes," said Bright-eye, "we were there when it was delivered. We know all about it. But, as far as I am concerned, I am afraid--" "Of what are you afraid, my son?" asked François Berger, in a rather imperious tone of voice. "That all this pretended facility and frankness on the part of the pirate chief hides a snare." The two old hunters exchanged a smile. "Child, you are very much mistaken," said the grandfather. "Tom Mitchell means exactly what he says. He has no intention, no motive for laying any unworthy trap." "I am certain of it," added the son. Bright-eye had nothing to say to so positive an assertion. He silently bowed his head. "We have done all in our power to come here quickly, knowing we should meet you," went on François Berger; "we are only too happy to be in time." "In time to do what?" asked Oliver. "We will explain," said the elder of the two men; "when Tom Mitchell comes we shall receive him." "But that is our business?" cried Bright-eye. "I know the message was addressed to you," said his father; "I am well aware of it that it is our business, and, in fact, it is more proper it should be so. At all events we have decided that it is to be so, so that you will keep out of sight until the affair is finished." "But," said Bright-eye, with considerable hesitation, "supposing there was treachery?" "My son," sententiously observed the old man, "prudence is wise, but suspicion in certain cases is an insult. Think of that. Believe me when I say that your father and I know better what we are about than you do." "We shall certainly obey you," said Oliver, in the name of all. "We shall remain at a distance during the interview, and only interfere when called upon." "I thank you cordially," said the old man; "everything will go rightly, I promise you." And he waved his hand as if to dismiss them. The five young men rose, bowed respectfully to the two old men, and watched them as they walked slowly down to the banks of the river. About two gunshots distance from the camp, or thereabouts, was a rather thick wood, composed of oaks and gumtrees. The hunters entered the wood, and soon afterwards disappeared under the forest. Remaining alone, the old hunters lifted their Indian calumets and began to smoke, without exchanging one single word. This went on for about three-quarters of an hour--incessant smoking. Suddenly, François Berger let fall his pipe, fell flat on his face, put his ear to the ground, and listened. "They come," he said, rising. "I have heard them coming for some time," quietly replied the old grandfather. "How many?" "Not more than four." "Just as I expected. He has acted in perfect good faith," said the old man. "Then you are quite determined?" "Yes. The Indians are not in want of it, and I should not like to see the Yankees or English profit by it." "You are the master. You are the one to whom it belongs to a certain extent," said the son. "Yes; it is today my property. Besides, it should be kept up for the support of a great cause. Tom Mitchell is a very different man from what he appears," added the old man, gravely. "That, of course, I know." "Besides, I have another very strong motive for acting as I do, and that is the establishment, on the very spot I allude to, of the Yankee squatter." "Yes. And, between you and me, father, these Yankees have very sharp noses. They will find it out before long." "Exactly so, my son. For my part, I prefer that Frenchmen should derive the advantage." At this moment a distant gunshot was heard. "Here they come," said François Berger. He then rose, placed his hand over his mouth like a funnel, and twice imitated, with marvellous dexterity and perfection, the cry of the water hawk. A similar cry came in response, and almost immediately afterwards four cavaliers, well mounted, appeared galloping through the high grass and trees, and coming directly towards them. The Canadians held their rifles in their hands, while the newcomers showed no apparent arms. They had left their pistols in the holsters, their sabres were in their scabbards, their rifles by their sides. On coming within a short distance of the two old men the strangers exchanged a few words in a low tone of voice, two of them slackened their pace, while the others rushed forward with the rapidity of the gazelle. In another instant Angela, for it was herself, was in the arms of the friends, answering by cries of joy and tears of happiness the sweet caresses of her relatives and friends. Tom Mitchell and his companions stood apart discreetly, and then, when they saw that the first transports were over or becoming calmer, approached. "Welcome," said the old man, "welcome, gentlemen," holding out his two hands. "Have I kept my promise?" asked Tom Mitchell. "Nobly; I solemnly declare it, and I thank you," cried Berger, with deep emotion. "You have worthily made up for the act you had done. Let us forget the past," said the old man; "what can we do for you?" "Nothing," he said, quietly. "You exact no ransom whatever?" "Why should I exaggerate, old hunter? I was drawn into committing a bad action by a man whose name I will not mention. Though a pirate, I am not so bad as I am painted. I have therefore sought to condone the evil." "Admirably spoken," said François Berger, again embracing his daughter. "Go, darling, to your brother yonder." "Allow me first to thank Captain Mitchell," she said, "for his extreme kindness during my captivity." "You bear me no malice?" "None whatever," she said, "but eternal gratitude. You deserve it and you have it." Then with a gesture of adieu and a sweet smile on her adorable lips she ran off in the direction of the forest. The men waited until she was out of sight. "I will now take my leave," said the outlaw. "One moment," replied the old man; "the recompense which you refuse I must force upon you." He pulled forth a large folded parchment. "This is the ransom of my daughter," he said: "it is a regular deed of gift of the Valley of the Deer." "What!" cried the outlaw, with singular emotion. "Yes, and here on the map is a red mark, indicating the spot where what you know of is concealed." "Accept without scruple, captain," said François Berger; "it is ours and ours alone to give." "Since you wish it, gentlemen. I should show but ill grace to refuse, the more that I value your gift highly." "I only ask one thing in return," said the old man. "I shall be ready to promise anything." "You will use what I have given you only with an honourable--" he said, with some hesitation. "It shall be so, I promise you." "And so we part friends; captain, your hand." "Friends, yes," said the pirate; "and I hope the day may come when you may try my friendship." "Who knows? The day may come sooner than we expect." "I shall be ready to shed the very last drop of my blood to defend or avenge you or yours." CHAPTER XX. A STRANGE CHASE. We know that Joshua Dickson had taken his departure from the valley, leaving it in charge to Harry. Harry was a fine young man, strong and intelligent, in whom his father had every confidence. He was the complete juvenile type of the American squatter and pioneer, up to Indian devilries, riding like a centaur, and able to put a ball in the eye of a panther at a hundred yards. His great passion was life in the open air, and the pleasures of the chase in the forest or field. One fine morning Harry, soon after the rising of the sun, galloped off into the forest. He was bent on a journey to see a fine cutting that was going to create meadows, and make room for sawmills on the banks of the great Missouri. He had nearly reached the spot, when he was startled by a whistle of a peculiar kind, at no great distance. At the same moment a horseman came in sight--a man of fifty, tall, thin and gaunt, with parchment skin. The horse was as bony as his master. The man was dressed after the fashion of the ordinary American farmer, and apparently carried no arms. "Eh, eh," cried he, "you are out early. Were you looking for me?" "No, M. Lagrenay; I was not even thinking of you." "That is not polite. Why did you stop when I whistled?" "Because I thought it the whistle of a serpent," he retorted. "But no nonsense, I was looking for you." "I was certain of it." "Yes, I wanted to see you. I made your acquaintance I know not how. You talk to me of things which do not please me, because they suggest evil thoughts. I have come to say that henceforth we are strangers. Never speak to me again." "I suppose you will give me a reason for this odd decision." "Think what you please. I have said my say." "Then I assume that you reject my offers." "Think and assume what you like," cried the young man, angrily; "only keep out of my path." "Then you have no passion for gold?" sighed the other. "You take me for a ninny, old squatter. Gold does not grow in the fields like mushrooms. Besides, you would have found it long ago if real." "I tell you the map indicating the exact spot," cried the old man, "was stolen from me by the outlaws." "You want to persuade me that you have known of this vast treasure for years, and yet require a stranger to help you." "I knew nothing of your having camped on the spot, and only offer you a share in consequence." "Go to the devil with your offers." "Yes, you have my secret, and can use it yourself." "Old man," cried the young giant, with rage in his eye, "beware how you try my patience too much." "Well, well, let us end this conversation. You will not listen to me. Well and good. Only, before we part, remember this, when it is too late, my friend," he added, with a sinister laugh, "you will repent. That is all I say." And turning round, he rode off. "He is a pretty rascal," said the young man, as he rode off; "I believe he has some villainy in hand." At this moment a strong hollow grunting was heard, followed by another at no great distance. "There are jaguars about," said the American, in a low tone, stroking his horse's ears to keep him quiet. At that moment there was a fearful, a horrible cry, that rent the air, a desperate shriek for assistance. "The old squatter, and he is without arms," he cried; "the tigers have doubtless attacked him." And he set spurs to his horse, which, neighing and smarting with pain, dashed in the desired direction. In the centre of a clearing crossed by a narrow stream the squatter knelt behind his horse, haggard with terror. Close to him, on the branch of a gigantic gumtree, was a mighty jaguar, licking his tongue before leaping. "Save me," shrieked the agonised squatter. "I will try," said Harry, dismounting, letting his horse loose, and then going close up to the trembling wretch. The tiger had not moved. He was watching his victim with a feline glance. "A noble beast," said the young man, with a smile; "I hope not to spoil his beautiful skin." Suddenly a further grunting was heard in the thicket. The jaguar, without turning his head, responded in the same tone. "By heavens! There are two of them. It seems almost a pity to part so loving a couple," he said. At the same moment the tiger leaped. As he did so he turned a somersault. He was dead, shot in the eye. "One," said the young man, drawing out his bowie knife. At the same moment the second jaguar burst out, and with one bound seized on the flanks of the horse. Harry flew at her, knife in hand. The two rolled for a moment on the ground. Then the man stood erect. "That job's over," said the young man; "what a couple of noble beasts! Get up. Heavens! He's fainted." Then he took him in his arms, and carried him to the stream, where he bathed his face until he recovered. But he was then so ill, and his horse so lean, that it seemed impossible he should ever reach home. In this strait Harry acted with his usual generosity. He took the man up behind him, and carried him home. He then turned to go without a word. "Young man," cried the squatter, "wait one moment. You have been my friend. Now take my advice, keep good watch. I dare say no more, but be ever on your guard." Harry moved pensively away, but soon forgot the hint. CHAPTER XXI. CAPTAIN TOM MITCHELL, THE AVENGER. The marriage of Evening Dew with Numank-Charake was to be celebrated with unusual splendour. Invitations had been sent in all directions, and, two days before the ceremony was to take place, numerous deputations from all the tribes were collected around, and were received with the splendid hospitality essential in such a case. At least five hundred strange warriors had come. Some hours later a new troop appeared on the verge of the plain; it was very numerous, three hundred men at least, in the picturesque costume of Mexican rancheros, all armed to the teeth, and admirably mounted. Four cavaliers rode in front; these were Tom Mitchell, Pierre Durand Camotte, and Tête de Plume. It was the full force of the outlaws. On nearing the village two other men were seen; these were Clinton and Charbonneau. Nothing was omitted to give _éclat_ to such a reception. The most renowned of the sachems, with the three Canadians, Bright-eye, and Oliver, advanced to meet them, and give them a most cordial and sincere welcome. Captain Pierre Durand, who had given up his disguise, kept a little in the background. Having exchanged compliments, Tom ordered his men to camp outside, and entered the village with the others. As soon as all were collected in the hut of the Canadians, Tom Mitchell closed the door carefully. "Gentlemen," he said, in a low and solemn tone, "I owe you no explanation for coming, but for coming in such force." "You owe no explanation. You are welcome." "Listen. Not a moment is to be lost. Spies are on all hands. You are surrounded by treachery and traitors. You are all to be made the victims of an execrable plot concocted by two wretches, Lagrenay and Tubash-Shah." All were stupefied. While the other spoke, Pierre Durand slipped into Bright-eye's own room to rest. "Yes. Tubash-Shah hates Numank; but that is not all. He loves your gentle daughter, Evening Dew." "Horrible!" cried the old man. "The capture of Miss Angela was a thing arranged between Lagrenay and Tubash-Shah, who thought to get her from me." "Thanks to you, the plot is exploded." "He still hopes to kill his rival, steal his wife, become possessor of the treasure you know of," cried Tom Mitchell, "and become chief of the tribe. With these schemes in their heads, Lagrenay and Tubash-Shah are allies." "It is a horrible plot. How did you discover it?" "No matter; my spies have served me well. I knew the plan of the conspirators, and hence have come in such force. I shall be able to thwart them. Do you now attend to the immediate safety of the chiefs of this nation and people." "I will take measures at once." "Above all, be cautious. You have to deal with desperate and cunning rascals," urged Tom Mitchell. The three Canadians, grandfather, father, and son, went out, leaving behind only George Clinton and his friend. "Now, Mr. Clinton," said the outlaw, "though we met under unpleasant circumstances, we are friends." "I see no reason why we should not be," he replied. "I am happy to hear it," continued Tom Mitchell; "but before we go any farther, allow me to say a word to this young Frenchman. In that room you will find a friend." "A friend!" cried Oliver; "Impossible! You know I have only recently reached this country." "Take my advice," said the outlaw, with a smile. Oliver shrugged his shoulders, as if yielding to a foolish whim, and went in to find himself face to face with Durand. "Now," said the outlaw, "I have not told all; I have left out certain matters which personally concern yourself. One moment, and you shall judge for yourself. Excuse me if I have to touch upon a very tender topic--that of love." "Captain!" cried George. "Pardon me. You love a charming girl, whom you have followed into the desert with as much devotion as men show in the search of gold. To this I have only to add that the girl is as beautiful and as good as an angel." George bowed his head to hide his confusion. "Her father is against you, I know. But the important fact is that a terrible calamity threatens her and you." "Pray explain yourself," George cried. "Do you think the redskins are blind? You forget them in your calculation of future happiness." "Explain yourself," continued the young man. "I cannot at present. You are young in the desert, but you have clever and devoted friends. Above all, you have Bright-eye, honest, devoted, intelligent. Tell him all I have said, and to work. You have not a moment to lose to save her." At this moment the three Canadians came in at one door, Oliver and Captain Durand at the other. Before anyone else could speak, Oliver rushed forward. "Captain," he said to the outlaw, "I can never thank you enough. I know all. Command me in every way." "I shall remind you of your promise." "And my wretched persecutor--you will bring him to me?" "Yes; and place in your hands papers to confound him," cried the outlaw; "papers which prove your rank." The conversation now became general. The two Canadians had been at work, and warned all the sachems. But everything had been done without exciting suspicion. All went on just as usual in the village. The preparations for the marriage continued. The Canadians entertained their friends at a great banquet that night, at which Numank was present, grave and proud, seated beside Angela, who was charming, though blushing with downcast eyes, and never speaking a word. The formal ceremony of betrothal had taken place in the morning, so that this was rather a friendly meeting than anything else. There was, however, a magnificent exchange of presents. Next day, just before the final ceremony, Tom Mitchell went off with a hundred of his most resolute men. Camotte remained in command of the others. According to invariable Indian custom, the man who takes a wife takes her seemingly by force; he snatches her up, puts her behind him, darts off, and two days later comes back, slays a mare that has never foaled, and all is over. Numank, of course, would do the same. At night the hut was surrounded by a party of Indians, and Angela carried off, after a feeble resistance. Then some shots were fired, and away sped Numank with his wife surrounded by a powerful Indian escort. This escort was almost wholly composed of strangers with Tubash. The abductors had scarcely departed when Bright-eye came out of the hut and whistled. He was at once surrounded by warriors. "On," he said, in a menacing voice; "there is no time to lose." And they darted away like a whirlwind, riding for some hours in the direction taken by the bridal party. Suddenly they were startled by flashes of light, followed by the report of guns. A terrible combat was going on. With a tremendous war cry the troop led by Bright-eye dashed in the direction of the fight. It was time. Numank-Charake, holding his wife on one arm, was fighting, surrounded by the few warriors faithful to him. Ten only of these could stand, and must have succumbed in five minutes but for the unlooked-for succour. The carnage was fearful. All fought desperately in silence. At last every one of the treacherous escort was dead. Tubash Shah escaped in the confusion. Numank-Charake was more like a corpse than a live man, and had to be carried on a litter. They reached the village next day, from which all the rival tribes had departed, leaving behind a bundle of arrows dipped in blood. It was a formal declaration of war. We turn elsewhere for a time. It was night at the hut of the squatter Lagrenay. Everybody slept except himself. Seated by the dying fire in a cane chair, his head in his two hands, his elbows on the table, the squatter appeared at least to be reading. His huge and savage dog lay at his feet, listening for the faintest sound from without. Every now and then the old man looked at a clock, and then appeared to read again until a sharp whistle was heard. The dog and man leaped up, but suddenly Lagrenay bade the animal be quiet, and went himself to open the door. He started back as two men entered, strangers. "I am Joshua Dickson," said the first, "and this is my brother Samuel. You sent for my son; we have come in his place." The old man professed to be glad to see his neighbours, and bade them be seated. After some time wasted in circumlocution, he began to speak of real business. "You have established yourselves in the Valley of the Moose Deer," he said, "a magnificent settlement." "Well, what then?" "That valley belongs to one of the most powerful tribes on the whole of the Missouri," continued Lagrenay. "No matter. Virgin soil belongs to the first comer." "Perhaps. But that is not the question. This tribe have other lands of which they take no account," went on the squatter, "and will probably never claim, but they have special reasons for keeping the Valley of the Deer sacred." "Explain yourself," cried both. "In that valley is buried the treasure of the nation." "What treasure? Old shooter of muskrats!" cried Joshua; "There is no treasure like mother earth." "I mean a real treasure--gold, ingots, diamonds," said the old man, "to the extent of many millions." "So much the better," replied Joshua; "it is mine." "Take care! The struggle will be terrible. Your adversaries are many and brave; they have allied themselves with the outlaws of the desert, and, moreover, have taken as their chief a fellow countryman, who dearly covets your possessions." "May I ask the name of my countryman?" inquired Samuel, in a bantering tone of voice. "His name is George Clinton," said Lagrenay. "George Clinton!" exclaimed Joshua, amazed. "You lie, miserable wretch!" said Samuel Dickson, rising; "George Clinton is an honourable man, not a--" "I have spoken the truth. Do as you please." Then the door was burst open, and two men entered pushing forward a third with blows of musket butts. "Miserable wretch!" said one, seizing him by the throat, "I am George Clinton, and you lie in your teeth." Rock attempted to fly at the assailants, but Charbonneau brained him with the butt end of his gun. Lagrenay rose rifle in hand, but the two Americans disarmed him, and forced him to reseat himself. The prisoner brought in was Tubash-Shah. Behind the three men appeared the dogs Nadeje and Drack. "Gentlemen, we arrive in time. Thank heaven, we have brought with us this wretch, who now will tell the truth." And he looked at the Indian with a glance that made him shudder to the marrow of his bones. The two Americans were exceedingly surprised, while Lagrenay thought in vain of some new subterfuge. Roused by the noise made on the entrance of the three men, the wife of Lagrenay had risen in haste, and, without waiting to dress, had rushed into the room. She entered without being seen, and tremblingly ensconced herself behind her husband. Inside there was silence, but without the sound of many men. None spoke for some time; everyone's breathing seemed oppressed. Lagrenay, his teeth chattering, at last spoke. "Will you explain this outrage?" he began. "Silence!" cried George Clinton, in a terrible voice; "Speak only when called upon for your defence. All I hope is that when you have heard of what you are accused you may be able to give a satisfactory reply to the charge." "Accused--defend myself!" cried the old man. "Yes, before Judge Lynch, who will decide between us," said Clinton, coldly. "Listen, here come your judges." As he spoke several men entered. Lagrenay felt himself lost. He was in the hands of implacable foes. Tubash-Shah, erect against the wall, appeared utterly indifferent. But his every thought was intent on escape. The sudden appearance of George Clinton had very much surprised Joshua Dickson. All his rage was revived, and he was prepared to treat him with severity and hatred. The idea of treason still rankled in his mind. Two men had now seized upon the squatter, and, despite the cries of his wife, were trying to carry him out. At that moment Louis and François Berger entered. "My cousins!" cried Lagrenay, "They would murder me!" "Save my old man!" said the wife, pitifully. "My friends and brothers," said Louis Berger, raising his hand, "this man is my relative. Give him to me. Justice shall be done." The squatter was released, and hid himself behind his two Canadian cousins, trembling, nearly dead. "Sirs," said Louis to the Americans, "you are the new squatters established in the Moose Deer Valley?" "We are," replied Joshua, rather doggedly. "Then I have business with you. In the first place, by what right have you squatted in that place?" "Really, except that you have force on your side, I should not answer so singular a question. Because I found it." "I beg to inform you that it is private property. You are by no means the first occupier." "And who may he be?" asked Joshua, furiously. "Myself. It was given me by the chiefs of the Huron tribe. A deed, perfectly legal, exists." "Can a man find no free land on earth?" he cried, "On the face of the earth? You claim it, then?" At this moment, when all were busy, Tubash saw his opportunity, and ran. Two or three pursued, but the rest remained. "Then," said Joshua, presently, "there is some truth in the story of the gold treasure in the valley?" "Yes, and I have recently ceded all my rights to Tom Mitchell, chief of the outlaws." "Then all I have to do is to go?" urged Joshua. "I think the matter might be arranged," observed Louis. "Here is a young man who loves your child. George Clinton, is it not so?" "It is useless my persuading Joshua Dickson." "By heavens!" cried Samuel, "But you shall. Here is a noble, young, rich, brave--" "But," cried Joshua, "what has that to do with it?" "Sole owner of the Valley of the Deer," continued Louis Berger, drily; "he bought it this morning." "But--" still hesitated Joshua. "To arms!" cried Tom Mitchell, rushing in, "To arms! Pardieu! You have fallen into the trap." "What is the matter?" cried the brothers. "While you are wasting your time here, your plantation is attacked by Indians," he responded, "who are burning and destroying all. Soon there will be only ruins and ashes." This terrible revelation fell like a thunderbolt upon all present in that room. Tom Mitchell--his dress torn, his face covered by powder and blood, holding a smoking gun--summoned them. George Clinton, without waiting a minute, darted away, followed by Charbonneau and his dogs. Above all, he would save her he loved from the fearful peril she was in of falling into the hands of redskins. "What is to be done?" cried Joshua. "Never despair," said the outlaw. "Your sons and servants are fighting like lions. We must join them." "Come along," cried Samuel. "Oh! Oh!" said Joshua, brandishing his rifle, "The rascally redskins shall pay for this." "Come, in the name of God!" cried the outlaw; "I have with me a party ready for any amount of redskins." At these words everybody mounted, and dashed through the darkness like a legion of phantoms. Four persons only remained in the silent and deserted hut--the two old Canadians, Lagrenay, and his wife. The old squatter had, during these exciting scenes, recovered his equanimity. He believed himself saved. As soon as they were alone, he and his wife began to place refreshments on the table for their guests. The two Canadians remained standing, leaning on their rifles, and not noticing even the preparations. "My dear relations," said Lagrenay, in an insinuating voice, "will you honour me by accepting refreshments?" "What does the man say?" asked François Berger. "You have a long journey to go," continued Lagrenay, "you must be extremely tired and want rest." "What matter?" said the old man. "Will you not empty a cup of whisky?" began the woman. "Silence!" cried the hunter, striking the butt of his rifle on the ground, "And listen." The old man shuddered. "Lagrenay," he went on, in a hollow voice, "I dragged you from the hands of Judge Lynch, because I did not wish to see my cousin hanged; you have dishonoured not only the name you bear, but the family to which you belong; that family, poor as it has always been, has known how to preserve its honour intact. That honour you have soiled, from the base love of gold. Prepare to die." "To die!" he murmured. "My cousins, my dear cousins, you will not have the heart to kill my poor old man," said his wife, clasping her hands and weeping; "thirty years we have lived together. What shall I do when he is gone? Who will support my miserable existence? Have mercy, in the name of the Lord. If you kill him, I shall die." "You shall not die," said François Berger; "my cousin will take care of you for life." "I," she said, with a gesture of horror, "accept the protection of the murderers of my husband, eat the bread of assassins! I should choke myself at the first mouthful. Have mercy, then, and shoot us together." Louis Berger turned away his head. Even the inflexible old judge of the reign of terror was moved. Then he made a sign to his son, and both cocked their rifles. "Stop!" said Lagrenay, in a firm and solemn voice; "I know your inflexible will too well to ask my life of you. You have decided on my death. Good. But I will not die at your hands. You say the honour of the family requires that justice should be done. Well, it shall be done. Still I could not die like a dog. Give me ten minutes to pray. You will not refuse this?" "Heaven forbid!" said the old man, "And may heaven have mercy on you for all your sins." "Thanks, cousins and friends," cried the squatter, "and now, wife, on your knees. Let us beg forgiveness of our sins." The two old men went out, tears in their eyes, and almost inclined to be merciful. Stern will prevailed. Five minutes later, a double shot was heard. They rushed in. Both lay dead upon the floor. Justice was done. The two hunters kneeled down beside the bodies, and said a silent prayer over them. Then, in the room itself, they dug a grave, and, after some little time, interred the husband and wife. Then, dragging away by main force the wounded dog, they collected a lot of brushwood and other fuel. This they piled against the house and then fired. In a few minutes the whole was in flames. The dog got away, and plunged into the burning pile. When all was over and nought remained but cinders and ashes, the two men wiped away a tear and retired. CHAPTER XXII. A DESPERATE STRUGGLE. Tom Mitchell had told the truth. The plantation of Joshua Dickson had been attacked by a numerous party. This is how it had come about. Tubash-Shah and the squatter, Lagrenay, excited by a common hatred, had come to an understanding. The old wretch, whose whole thoughts were bent on the vast treasure concealed in the valley, had promised the Indian, not only his share of the gold, but the possession of a beautiful white girl, at least as beautiful as Evening Dew. He further suggested that as Numank-Charake would be sure to join Clinton, he could kill him too. He would then have the two most beautiful wives on the prairie. The Indian was easily seduced by this radiant project, which the old squatter fluttered before his eyes. An alliance defensive and offensive was struck up. It was Tubash-Shah who suggested the treacherous visit of the redskins on the occasion of the great marriage. In order to facilitate the attack on the settlement, old Lagrenay sent a secret message to the squatters, who fell into the trap prepared for them. Tubash-Shah was outside, waiting to take them, when he himself was made prisoner. This nearly spoiled all. But, after only half an hour's detention, Tubash escaped. He joined his expectant companions, and the plantation was at once attacked on all sides by Indians. But the Americans were on the watch, and received the redskins in a way that rather surprised them. Tom Mitchell, warned by his spies, had given them sufficient hints, while himself preparing. One hundred and fifty outlaws, under the orders of Tête de Plume, had been secretly sent into the fort by George Clinton. He had then, with Charbonneau, gone and concealed himself near Lagrenay's hut. Camotte had been sent to the village of the Huron Bisons to Numank-Charake, and Bright-eye, to ask for the assistance of all the warriors of the tribe who could be spared. On the other hand, Tom Mitchell, at the head of his most daring companions, had placed himself in a position to be at hand at anytime. But if the defence had been well arranged, the attack was most fierce and desperate; the redskins fought like demons; brave, well armed, and counting on the vast superiority of their numbers, the Indians rushed to the charge against the intrenchments with a ferocity quite unusual. These intrenchments had been hastily thrown up, and could not long resist such an attack. Tubash-Shah, at the head of a picked band of warriors, did wonders. He was a host in himself. The struggle became at one time so desperate that Tom Mitchell himself began to despair; then it was that he dashed off to the hut of Lagrenay, and called to arms all who were collected together in deliberation. Then he started again at the head of the reinforcement, like a storm cloud on the wing. Again the combat seemed desperate. The war cry of the American Indians and the hurrahs of the whites were mixed with the fusillade. Then a rush of horse was heard, an awful war whoop, and three hundred warriors, led by Numank-Charake, Bright-eye, and Camotte, appeared on the scene. Tom Mitchell gave a cry of joy. He divided his terrible cavaliers into three detachments, one commanded by Numank and Bright-eye, gave half his outlaws to Oliver, and took the rest under his own immediate orders. Then at a given signal, the three troops rushed, with horrible yells and cries, upon the astonished assailants. Though taken aback, the brave redskins fronted both ways, and made a most terrible defence. Samuel Dickson and his brother meantime contrived to enter the settlement, amid joyous acclamations. It was time; the palisades and intrenchments were giving way, and the Indians were rushing in. The combat became now gigantic in its proportions. The redskins, led by Tubash-Shah, fought with desperate valour. He kept the _élite_ of his men together, and worked his way towards the interior of the settlement. Presently he drew forth his human thighbone whistle and darted for the house. He had seen Diana. The young girl, seeing the demon covered by blood and powder, brandishing his hatchet, and forcing, with a hideous cry, his horse towards the women, gave a desperate shriek of agonised terror. "Ah, ah!" cried Tubash-Shah, in triumph; "The paleface girl. At last she is mine." He urged forward his horse, which reared with abject terror, and threw his master heavily. Dardar, the faithful dog, always in attendance on Diana, had seized the warhorse by the nostrils. He then let him go, and caught the Indian himself by the throat. "Good dog," shouted George Clinton, as he ran up with Charbonneau, Drack, and Nadeje. The battle was over. The few Indians who were left threw down their arms in despair. "My daughter, oh, my daughter!" cried Joshua, who came rushing from the inside of the house. "She is here, sir," said Clinton. "And her abductor?" he continued. "Is dead," he answered, pointing to the corpse, which the dog was worrying as he would have done a rat. "My son, I thank you," said Joshua; "what do I not owe to you? Take her." * * * * * Two days after M. Hebrard returned to the fort a wiser man. Oliver proved his rank, name, and right to fortune, to the satisfaction of everybody. "Tell my relatives," he said, "that as long as they leave me alone, I shall be quiet. Go, and let us never meet again." A week later, after the marriage of George and Diana, Tom Mitchell, Bright-eye, Oliver, and Captain Durand, started on the dangerous expedition undertaken by the outlaw, and of which, probably, we shall give some account at a future time. [For further adventures of Bright-eye, see the "Prairie Flower," and the "Indian Scout," same publishers.] 
490	----	LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CALAMITY JANE BY HERSELF My maiden name was Marthy Cannary. I was born in Princeton, Missourri, May 1st, 1852. Father and mother were natives of Ohio. I had two brothers and three sisters, I being the oldest of the children. As a child I always had a fondness for adventure and out-door exercise and especial fondness for horses which I began to ride at an early age and continued to do so until I became an expert rider being able to ride the most vicious and stubborn of horses, in fact the greater portion of my life in early times was spent in this manner. In 1865 we emigrated from our homes in Missourri by the overland route to Virginia City, Montana, taking five months to make the journey. While on the way the greater portion of my time was spent in hunting along with the men and hunters of the party, in fact I was at all times with the men when there was excitement and adventures to be had. By the time we reached Virginia City I was considered a remarkable good shot and a fearless rider for a girl of my age. I remember many occurrences on the journey from Missourri to Montana. Many times in crossing the mountains the conditions of the trail were so bad that we frequently had to lower the wagons over ledges by hand with ropes for they were so rough and rugged that horses were of no use. We also had many exciting times fording streams for many of the streams in our way were noted for quicksands and boggy places, where, unless we were very careful, we would have lost horses and all. Then we had many dangers to encounter in the way of streams swelling on account of heavy rains. On occasions of that kind the men would usually select the best places to cross the streams, myself on more than one occasion have mounted my pony and swam across the stream several times merely to amuse myself and have had many narow escapes from having both myself and pony washed away to certain death, but as the pioneers of those days had plenty of courage we overcame all obstacles and reached Virginia City in safety. Mother died at Black Foot, Montana, 1866, where we buried her. I left Montana in Spring of 1866, for Utah, arriving at Salt Lake city during the summer. Remained in Utah until 1867, where my father died, then went to Fort Bridger, Wyoming Territory, where we arrived May 1, 1868, then went to Piedmont, Wyoming, with U.P. Railway. Joined General Custer as a scout at Fort Russell, Wyoming, in 1870, and started for Arizona for the Indian Campaign. Up to this time I had always worn the costume of my sex. When I joined Custer I donned the uniform of a soldier. It was a bit awkward at first but I soon got to be perfectly at home in men's clothes. Was in Arizona up to the winter of 1871 and during that time I had a great many adventures with the Indians, for as a scout I had a great many dangerous missions to perform and while I was in many close places always succeeded in getting away safely for by this time I was considered the most reckless and daring rider and one of the best shots in the western country. After that campaign I returned to Fort Sanders, Wyoming, remained there until spring of 1872, when we were ordered out to the Muscle Shell or Nursey Pursey Indian outbreak. In that war Generals Custer, Miles, Terry and Crook were all engaged. This campaign lasted until fall of 1873. It was during this campaign that I was christened Calamity Jane. It was on Goose Creek, Wyoming, where the town of Sheridan is now located. Capt. Egan was in command of the Post. We were ordered out to quell an uprising of the Indians, and were out for several days, had numerous skirmishes during which six of the soldiers were killed and several severely wounded. When on returning to the Post we were ambushed about a mile and a half from our destination. When fired upon Capt. Egan was shot. I was riding in advance and on hearing the firing turned in my saddle and saw the Captain reeling in his saddle as though about to fall. I turned my horse and galloped back with all haste to his side and got there in time to catch him as he was falling. I lifted him onto my horse in front of me and succeeded in getting him safely to the Fort. Capt. Egan on recovering, laughingly said: "I name you Calamity Jane, the heroine of the plains." I have borne that name up to the present time. We were afterwards ordered to Fort Custer, where Custer city now stands, where we arrived in the spring of 1874; remained around Fort Custer all summer and were ordered to Fort Russell in fall of 1874, where we remained until spring of 1875; was then ordered to the Black Hills to protect miners, as that country was controlled by the Sioux Indians and the government had to send the soldiers to protect the lives of the miners and settlers in that section. Remained there until fall of 1875 and wintered at Fort Laramie. In spring of 1876, we were ordered north with General Crook to join Gen'ls Miles, Terry and Custer at Big Horn river. During this march I swam the Platte river at Fort Fetterman as I was the bearer of important dispatches. I had a ninety mile ride to make, being wet and cold, I contracted a severe illness and was sent back in Gen. Crook's ambulance to Fort Fetterman where I laid in the hospital for fourteen days. When able to ride I started for Fort Laramie where I met Wm. Hickock, better known as Wild Bill, and we started for Deadwood, where we arrived about June. During the month of June I acted as a pony express rider carrying the U.S. mail between Deadwood and Custer, a distance of fifty miles, over one of the roughest trails in the Black Hills country. As many of the riders before me had been held up and robbed of their packages, mail and money that they carried, for that was the only means of getting mail and money between these points. It was considered the most dangerous route in the Hills, but as my reputation as a rider and quick shot was well known, I was molested very little, for the toll gatherers looked on me as being a good fellow, and they knew that I never missed my mark. I made the round trip every two days which was considered pretty good riding in that country. Remained around Deadwood all that summer visiting all the camps within an area of one hundred miles. My friend, Wild Bill, remained in Deadwood during the summer with the exception of occasional visits to the camps. On the 2nd of August, while setting at a gambling table in the Bell Union saloon, in Deadwood, he was shot in the back of the head by the notorious Jack McCall, a desperado. I was in Deadwood at the time and on hearing of the killing made my way at once to the scene of the shooting and found that my friend had been killed by McCall. I at once started to look for the assassian and found him at Shurdy's butcher shop and grabbed a meat cleaver and made him throw up his hands; through the excitement on hearing of Bill's death, having left my weapons on the post of my bed. He was then taken to a log cabin and locked up, well secured as every one thought, but he got away and was afterwards caught at Fagan's ranch on Horse Creek, on the old Cheyenne road and was then taken to Yankton, Dak., where he was tried, sentenced and hung. I remained around Deadwood locating claims, going from camp to camp until the spring of 1877, where one morning, I saddled my horse and rode towards Crook city. I had gone about twelve miles from Deadwood, at the mouth of Whitewood creek, when I met the overland mail running from Cheyenne to Deadwood. The horses on a run, about two hundred yards from the station; upon looking closely I saw they were pursued by Indians. The horses ran to the barn as was their custom. As the horses stopped I rode along side of the coach and found the driver John Slaughter, lying face downwards in the boot of the stage, he having been shot by the Indians. When the stage got to the station the Indians hid in the bushes. I immediately removed all baggage from the coach except the mail. I then took the driver's seat and with all haste drove to Deadwood, carrying the six passengers and the dead driver. I left Deadwood in the fall of 1877, and went to Bear Butte Creek with the 7th Cavalry. During the fall and winter we built Fort Meade and the town of Sturgis. In 1878 I left the command and went to Rapid city and put in the year prospecting. In 1879 I went to Fort Pierre and drove trains from Rapid city to Fort Pierre for Frank Wite then drove teams from Fort Pierce to Sturgis for Fred. Evans. This teaming was done with oxen as they were better fitted for the work than horses, owing to the rough nature of the country. In 1881 I went to Wyoming and returned in 1882 to Miles city and took up a ranch on the Yellow Stone, raising stock and cattle, also kept a way side inn, where the weary traveler could be accommodated with food, drink, or trouble if he looked for it. Left the ranch in 1883, went to California, going through the States and territories, reached Ogden the latter part of 1883, and San Francisco in 1884. Left San Francisco in the summer of 1884 for Texas, stopping at Fort Yuma, Arizona, the hottest spot in the United States. Stopping at all points of interest until I reached El Paso in the fall. While in El Paso, I met Mr. Clinton Burk, a native of Texas, who I married in August 1885. As I thought I had travelled through life long enough alone and thought it was about time to take a partner for the rest of my days. We remained in Texas leading a quiet home life until 1889. On October 28th, 1887, I became the mother of a girl baby, the very image of its father, at least that is what he said, but who has the temper of its mother. When we left Texas we went to Boulder, Colo., where we kept a hotel until 1893, after which we travelled through Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, then back to Montana, then to Dakota, arriving in Deadwood October 9th, 1895, after an absence of seventeen years. My arrival in Deadwood after an absence of so many years created quite an excitement among my many friends of the past, to such an extent that a vast number of the citizens who had come to Deadwood during my absence who had heard so much of Calamity Jane and her many adventures in former years were anxious to see me. Among the many whom I met were several gentlemen from eastern cities who advised me to allow myself to be placed before the public in such a manner as to give the people of the eastern cities an opportunity of seeing the Woman Scout who was made so famous through her daring career in the West and Black Hill countries. An agent of Kohl & Middleton, the celebrated Museum men came to Deadwood, through the solicitation of the gentleman who I had met there and arrangements were made to place me before the public in this manner. My first engagement began at the Palace Museum, Minneapolis, January 20th, 1896, under Kohl and Middleton's management. Hoping that this little history of my life may interest all readers, I remain as in the older days, Yours, Mrs. M. BURK BETTER KNOWN AS CALAMITY JANE 
59500	----	NARRATIVE OF WILLIAM W. BROWN, A FUGITIVE SLAVE. WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. ------------Is there not some chosen curse, Some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, Red with uncommon wrath, to blast the man Who gains his fortune from the blood of souls? COWPER. SECOND EDITION, ENLARGED. BOSTON: PUBLISHED AT THE ANTI-SLAVERY OFFICE, No. 21 Cornhill. 1848 [Illustration: Wm. W. Brown. Eng.d at 66 State St. from a Dag.tp of Chase R. Andrews Print.] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, BY WILLIAM W. BROWN, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. Stereotyped by GEORGE A. CURTIS; NEW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERY. TO WELLS BROWN, OF OHIO. Thirteen years ago, I came to your door, a weary fugitive from chains and stripes. I was a stranger, and you took me in. I was hungry, and you fed me. Naked was I, and you clothed me. Even a name by which to be known among men, slavery had denied me. You bestowed upon me your own. Base, indeed, should I be, if I ever forget what I owe to you, or do anything to disgrace that honored name! As a slight testimony of my gratitude to my earliest benefactor, I take the liberty to inscribe to you this little narrative of the sufferings from which I was fleeing when you had compassion upon me. In the multitude that you have succored, it is very possible that you may not remember me; but until I forget God and myself, I can never forget you. Your grateful friend, WILLIAM WELLS BROWN. NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION. The first edition, of three thousand copies, of this little work was sold in less than six months from the time of its publication. Encouraged by the rapid sale of the first, and by a demand for a second, edition, the author has been led to enlarge the work by the addition of matter which, he thinks, will add materially to its value. And if it shall be instrumental in helping to undo the heavy burdens, and letting the oppressed go free, he will have accomplished the great desire of his heart in publishing this work. LETTER FROM EDMUND QUINCY, ESQ. DEDHAM, JULY 1, 1847. TO WILLIAM W. BROWN. MY DEAR FRIEND:--I heartily thank you for the privilege of reading the manuscript of your Narrative. I have read it with deep interest and strong emotion. I am much mistaken if it be not greatly successful and eminently useful. It presents a different phase of the infernal slave-system from that portrayed in the admirable story of Mr. Douglass, and gives us a glimpse of its hideous cruelties in other portions of its domain. Your opportunities of observing the workings of this accursed system have been singularly great. Your experiences in the Field, in the House, and especially on the River in the service of the slave-trader, Walker, have been such as few individuals have had;--no one, certainly, who has been competent to describe them. What I have admired, and marvelled at, in your Narrative, is the simplicity and calmness with which you describe scenes and actions which might well "move the very stones to rise and mutiny" against the National Institution which makes them possible. You will perceive that I have made very sparing use of your flattering permission to alter what you had written. To correct a few errors, which appeared to be merely clerical ones, committed in the hurry of composition under unfavorable circumstances, and to suggest a few curtailments, is all that I have ventured to do. I should be a bold man, as well as a vain one, if I should attempt to improve your descriptions of what you have seen and suffered. Some of the scenes are not unworthy of De Foe himself. I trust and believe that your Narrative will have a wide circulation. I am sure it deserves it. At least, a man must be differently constituted from me, who can rise from the perusal of your Narrative without feeling that he understands slavery better, and hates it worse, than he ever did before. I am, very faithfully and respectfully, Your friend, EDMUND QUINCY. PREFACE. The friends of freedom may well congratulate each other on the appearance of the following Narrative. It adds another volume to the rapidly increasing anti-slavery literature of the age. It has been remarked by a close observer of human nature, "Let me make the songs of a nation, and I care not who makes its laws;" and it may with equal truth be said, that, among a reading people like our own, their books will at least give character to their laws. It is an influence which goes forth noiselessly upon its mission, but fails not to find its way to many a warm heart, to kindle on the altar thereof the fires of freedom, which will one day break forth in a living flame to consume oppression. This little book is a voice from the prison-house, unfolding the deeds of darkness which are there perpetrated. Our cause has received efficient aid from this source. The names of those who have come from thence, and battled manfully for the right, need not to be recorded here. The works of some of them are an enduring monument of praise, and their perpetual record shall be found in the grateful hearts of the redeemed bondman. Few persons have had greater facilities for becoming acquainted with slavery, in all its horrible aspects, than WILLIAM W. BROWN. He has been behind the curtain. He has visited its secret chambers. Its iron has entered his own soul. The dearest ties of nature have been riven in his own person. A mother has been cruelly scourged before his own eyes. A father--alas! slaves have no father. A brother has been made the subject of its tender mercies. A sister has been given up to the irresponsible control of the pale-faced oppressor. This nation looks on approvingly. The American Union sanctions the deed. The constitution shields the criminals. American religion sanctifies the crime. But the tide is turning. Already, a mighty under-current is sweeping onward. The voice of warning, of remonstrance, of rebuke, of entreaty, has gone forth. Hand is linked in hand, and heart mingles with heart, in this great work of the slave's deliverance. The convulsive throes of the monster, even now, give evidence of deep wounds. The writer of this Narrative was hired by his master to a "_soul-driver_," and has witnessed all the horrors of the traffic, from the buying up of human cattle in the slave-breeding states, which produced a constant scene of separating the victims from all those whom they loved, to their final sale in the southern market, to be worked up in seven years, or given over to minister to the lust of southern _Christians_. Many harrowing scenes are graphically portrayed; and yet with that simplicity and ingenuousness which carries with it a conviction of the truthfulness of the picture. This book will do much to unmask those who have "clothed themselves in the livery of the court of heaven" to cover up the enormity of their deeds. During the past three years, the author has devoted his entire energies to the anti-slavery cause. Laboring under all the disabilities and disadvantages growing out of his education in slavery--subjected, as he had been from his birth, to all the wrongs and deprivations incident to his condition--he yet went forth, impelled to the work by a love of liberty--stimulated by the remembrance of his own sufferings--urged on by the consideration that a mother, brothers, and sister, were still grinding in the prison-house of bondage, in common with three millions of our Father's children--sustained by an unfaltering faith in the omnipotence of truth and the final triumph of justice--to plead the cause of the slave; and by the eloquence of earnestness carried conviction to many minds, and enlisted the sympathy and secured the coöperation of many to the cause. His labors have been chiefly confined to Western New York, where he has secured many warm friends, by his untiring zeal, persevering energy, continued fidelity, and universal kindness. Reader, are you an Abolitionist? What have you done for the slave? What are you doing in his behalf? What do you purpose to do? There is a great work before us! Who will be an idler now? This is the great humanitary movement of the age, swallowing up, for the time being, all other questions, comparatively speaking. The course of human events, in obedience to the unchangeable laws of our being, is fast hastening the final crisis, and "Have ye chosen, O my people, on whose party ye shall stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandal shakes the dust against our land?" Are you a Christian? This is the carrying out of practical Christianity; and there is no other. Christianity is _practical_ in its very nature and essence. It is a life, springing out of a soul imbued with its spirit. Are you a friend of the missionary cause? This is the greatest missionary enterprise of the day. Three millions of _Christian_, law-manufactured heathen are longing for the glad tidings of the gospel of freedom. Are you a friend of the Bible? Come, then, and help us to restore to these millions, whose eyes have been bored out by slavery, their sight, that they may see to read the Bible. Do you love God whom you have not seen? Then manifest that love, by restoring to your brother whom you have seen his rightful inheritance, of which he has been so long and so cruelly deprived. It is not for a single generation alone, numbering three millions--sublime as would be that effort--that we are working. It is for HUMANITY, the wide world over, not only now, but for all coming time, and all future generations:-- "For he who settles Freedom's principles, Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny." It is a vast work--a glorious enterprise--worthy the unswerving devotion of the entire life-time of the great and the good. Slaveholding and slaveholders must be rendered disreputable and odious. They must be stripped of their respectability and Christian reputation. They must be treated as "MEN-STEALERS--guilty of the highest kind of theft, and sinners of the first rank." Their more guilty accomplices in the persons of _northern apologists_, both in Church and State, must be placed in the same category. Honest men must be made to look upon their crimes with the same abhorrence and loathing with which they regard the less guilty robber and assassin, until "The common damned shun their society, And look upon themselves as fiends less foul." When a just estimate is placed upon the crime of slave-holding, the work will have been accomplished, and the glorious day ushered in-- "When man nor woman in all our wide domain, Shall buy, or sell, or hold, or be a slave." J. C. HATHAWAY. _Farmington, N. Y., 1847._ [Illustration: The author caught by the bloodhounds. (See p. 21.)] NARRATIVE. CHAPTER I. I was born in Lexington, Ky. The man who stole me as soon as I was born, recorded the births of all the infants which he claimed to be born his property, in a book which he kept for that purpose. My mother's name was Elizabeth. She had seven children, viz.: Solomon, Leander, Benjamin, Joseph, Millford, Elizabeth, and myself. No two of us were children of the same father. My father's name, as I learned from my mother, was George Higgins. He was a white man, a relative of my master, and connected with some of the first families in Kentucky. My master owned about forty slaves, twenty-five of whom were field hands. He removed from Kentucky to Missouri when I was quite young, and settled thirty or forty miles above St. Charles, on the Missouri, where, in addition to his practice as a physician, he carried on milling, merchandizing and farming. He had a large farm, the principal productions of which were tobacco and hemp. The slave cabins were situated on the back part of the farm, with the house of the overseer, whose name was Grove Cook, in their midst. He had the entire charge of the farm, and having no family, was allowed a woman to keep house for him, whose business it was to deal out the provisions for the hands. A woman was also kept at the quarters to do the cooking for the field hands, who were summoned to their unrequited toil every morning at four o'clock, by the ringing of a bell, hung on a post near the house of the overseer. They were allowed half an hour to eat their breakfast, and get to the field. At half past four a horn was blown by the overseer, which was the signal to commence work; and every one that was not on the spot at the time, had to receive ten lashes from the negro-whip, with which the overseer always went armed. The handle was about three feet long, with the butt-end filled with lead, and the lash, six or seven feet in length, made of cow-hide, with platted wire on the end of it. This whip was put in requisition very frequently and freely, and a small offence on the part of a slave furnished an occasion for its use. During the time that Mr. Cook was overseer, I was a house servant--a situation preferable to that of a field hand, as I was better fed, better clothed, and not obliged to rise at the ringing of the bell, but about half an hour after. I have often laid and heard the crack of the whip, and the screams of the slave. My mother was a field hand, and one morning was ten or fifteen minutes behind the others in getting into the field. As soon as she reached the spot where they were at work, the overseer commenced whipping her. She cried, "Oh! pray--Oh! pray--Oh! pray"--these are generally the words of slaves, when imploring mercy at the hands of their oppressors. I heard her voice, and knew it, and jumped out of my bunk, and went to the door. Though the field was some distance from the house, I could hear every crack of the whip, and every groan and cry of my poor mother. I remained at the door, not daring to venture any further. The cold chills ran over me, and I wept aloud. After giving her ten lashes, the sound of the whip ceased, and I returned to my bed, and found no consolation but in my tears. Experience has taught me that nothing can be more heart-rending than for one to see a dear and beloved mother or sister tortured, and to hear their cries, and not be able to render them assistance. But such is the position which an American slave occupies. My master, being a politician, soon found those who were ready to put him into office, for the favors he could render them; and a few years after his arrival in Missouri he was elected to a seat in the legislature. In his absence from home everything was left in charge of Mr. Cook, the overseer, and he soon became more tyrannical and cruel. Among the slaves on the plantation was one by the name of Randall. He was a man about six feet high, and well-proportioned, and known as a man of great strength and power. He was considered the most valuable and able-bodied slave on the plantation; but no matter how good or useful a slave may be, he seldom escapes the lash. But it was not so with Randall. He had been on the plantation since my earliest recollection, and I had never known of his being flogged. No thanks were due to the master or overseer for this. I have often heard him declare that no white man should ever whip him--that he would die first. Cook, from the time that he came upon the plantation, had frequently declared that he could and would flog any nigger that was put into the field to work under him. My master had repeatedly told him not to attempt to whip Randall, but he was determined to try it. As soon as he was left sole dictator, he thought the time had come to put his threats into execution. He soon began to find fault with Randall, and threatened to whip him if he did not do better. One day he gave him a very hard task--more than he could possibly do; and at night, the task not being performed, he told Randall that he should remember him the next morning. On the following morning, after the hands had taken breakfast, Cook called out to Randall, and told him that he intended to whip him, and ordered him to cross his hands and be tied. Randall asked why he wished to whip him. He answered, because he had not finished his task the day before. Randall said that the task was too great, or he should have done it. Cook said it made no difference--he should whip him. Randall stood silent for a moment, and then said, "Mr. Cook, I have always tried to please you since you have been on the plantation, and I find you are determined not to be satisfied with my work, let me do as well as I may. No man has laid hands on me, to whip me, for the last ten years, and I have long since come to the conclusion not to be whipped by any man living." Cook, finding by Randall's determined look and gestures, that he would resist, called three of the hands from their work, and commanded them to seize Randall, and tie him. The hands stood still;--they knew Randall--and they also knew him to be a powerful man, and were afraid to grapple with him. As soon as Cook had ordered the men to seize him, Randall turned to them, and said--"Boys, you all know me; you know that I can handle any three of you, and the man that lays hands on me shall die. This white man can't whip me himself, and therefore he has called you to help him." The overseer was unable to prevail upon them to seize and secure Randall, and finally ordered them all to go to their work together. Nothing was said to Randall by the overseer for more than a week. One morning, however, while the hands were at work in the field, he came into it, accompanied by three friends of his, Thompson, Woodbridge and Jones. They came up to where Randall was at work, and Cook ordered him to leave his work, and go with them to the barn. He refused to go; whereupon he was attacked by the overseer and his companions, when he turned upon them, and laid them, one after another, prostrate on the ground. Woodbridge drew out his pistol, and fired at him, and brought him to the ground by a pistol ball. The others rushed upon him with their clubs, and beat him over the head and face, until they succeeded in tying him. He was then taken to the barn, and tied to a beam. Cook gave him over one hundred lashes with a heavy cow-hide, had him washed with salt and water, and left him tied during the day. The next day he was untied, and taken to a blacksmith's shop, and had a ball and chain attached to his leg. He was compelled to labor in the field, and perform the same amount of work that the other hands did. When his master returned home, he was much pleased to find that Randall had been subdued in his absence. CHAPTER II. Soon afterwards, my master removed to the city of St. Louis, and purchased a farm four miles from there, which he placed under the charge of an overseer by the name of Friend Haskell. He was a regular Yankee from New England. The Yankees are noted for making the most cruel overseers. My mother was hired out in the city, and I was also hired out there to Major Freeland, who kept a public house. He was formerly from Virginia, and was a horse-racer, cock-fighter, gambler, and withal an inveterate drunkard. There were ten or twelve servants in the house, and when he was present, it was cut and slash--knock down and drag out. In his fits of anger, he would take up a chair, and throw it at a servant; and in his more rational moments, when he wished to chastise one, he would tie them up in the smoke-house, and whip them; after which, he would cause a fire to be made of tobacco stems, and smoke them. This he called "_Virginia play_." I complained to my master of the treatment which I received from Major Freeland; but it made no difference. He cared nothing about it, so long as he received the money for my labor. After living with Major Freeland five or six months, I ran away, and went into the woods back of the city; and when night came on, I made my way to my master's farm, but was afraid to be seen, knowing that if Mr. Haskell, the overseer, should discover me, I should be again carried back to Major Freeland; so I kept in the woods. One day, while in the woods, I heard the barking and howling of dogs, and in a short time they came so near that I knew them to be the bloodhounds of Major Benjamin O'Fallon. He kept five or six, to hunt runaway slaves with. As soon as I was convinced that it was them, I knew there was no chance of escape. I took refuge in the top of a tree, and the hounds were soon at its base, and there remained until the hunters came up in a half or three quarters of an hour afterwards. There were two men with the dogs, who, as soon as they came up, ordered me to descend. I came down, was tied, and taken to St. Louis jail. Major Freeland soon made his appearance, and took me out, and ordered me to follow him, which I did. After we returned home. I was tied up in the smoke-house, and was very severely whipped. After the major had flogged me to his satisfaction, he sent out his son Robert, a young man eighteen or twenty years of age, to see that I was well smoked. He made a fire of tobacco stems, which soon set me to coughing and sneezing. This, Robert told me, was the way his father used to do to his slaves in Virginia. After giving me what they conceived to be a decent smoking, I was untied and again set to work. Robert Freeland was a "chip of the old block." Though quite young, it was not unfrequently that he came home in a state of intoxication. He is now, I believe, a popular commander of a steamboat on the Mississippi river. Major Freeland soon after failed in business, and I was put on board the steamboat Missouri, which plied between St. Louis and Galena. The commander of the boat was William B. Culver. I remained on her during the sailing season, which was the most pleasant time for me that I had ever experienced. At the close of navigation I was hired to Mr. John Colburn, keeper of the Missouri Hotel. He was from one of the free states; but a more inveterate hater of the negro I do not believe ever walked God's green earth. This hotel was at that time one of the largest in the city, and there were employed in it twenty or thirty servants, mostly slaves. Mr. Colburn was very abusive, not only to the servants, but to his wife also, who was an excellent woman, and one from whom I never knew a servant to receive a harsh word; but never did I know a kind one to a servant from her husband. Among the slaves employed in the hotel was one by the name of Aaron, who belonged to Mr. John F. Darby, a lawyer. Aaron was the knife-cleaner. One day, one of the knives was put on the table, not as clean as it might have been. Mr. Colburn, for this offence, tied Aaron up in the wood-house, and gave him over fifty lashes on the bare back with a cow-hide, after which, he made me wash him down with rum. This seemed to put him into more agony than the whipping. After being untied he went home to his master, and complained of the treatment which he had received. Mr. Darby would give no heed to anything he had to say, but sent him directly back. Colburn, learning that he had been to his master with complaints, tied him up again, and gave him a more severe whipping than before. The poor fellow's back was literally cut to pieces; so much so, that he was not able to work for ten or twelve days. There was, also, among the servants, a girl whose master resided in the country. Her name was Patsey. Mr. Colburn tied her up one evening, and whipped her until several of the boarders came out and begged him to desist. The reason for whipping her was this. She was engaged to be married to a man belonging to Major William Christy, who resided four or five miles north of the city. Mr. Colburn had forbid her to see John Christy. The reason of this was said to be the regard which he himself had for Patsey. She went to meeting that evening, and John returned home with her. Mr. Colburn had intended to flog John, if he came within the inclosure; but John knew too well the temper of his rival, and kept at a safe distance:--so he took vengeance on the poor girl. If all the slave-drivers had been called together, I do not think a more cruel man than John Colburn--and he too a northern man--could have been found among them. While living at the Missouri hotel, a circumstance occurred which caused me great unhappiness. My master sold my mother, and all her children, except myself. They were sold to different persons in the city of St. Louis. CHAPTER III. I was soon after taken from Mr. Colburn's, and hired to Elijah P. Lovejoy, who was at that time publisher and editor of the "St. Louis Times." My work, while with him, was mainly in the printing office, waiting on the hands, working the press, &c. Mr. Lovejoy was a very good man, and decidedly the best master that I had ever had. I am chiefly indebted to him, and to my employment in the printing office, for what little learning I obtained while in slavery. Though slavery is thought, by some, to be mild in Missouri, when compared with the cotton, sugar and rice growing states, yet no part of our slave-holding country is more noted for the barbarity of its inhabitants than St. Louis. It was here that Col. Harney, a United States officer, whipped a slave woman to death. It was here that Francis McIntosh, a free colored man from Pittsburg, was taken from the steamboat Flora and burned at the stake. During a residence of eight years in this city, numerous cases of extreme cruelty came under my own observation;--to record them all would occupy more space than could possibly be allowed in this little volume. I shall, therefore, give but a few more in addition to what I have already related. Capt. J. B. Brant, who resided near my master, had a slave named John. He was his body servant, carriage driver, &c. On one occasion, while driving his master through the city--the streets being very muddy, and the horses going at a rapid rate--some mud spattered upon a gentleman by the name of Robert More. More was determined to be revenged. Some three or four months after this occurrence, he purchased John, for the express purpose, as he said, "to tame the d----d nigger." After the purchase he took him to a blacksmith's shop, and had a ball and chain fastened to his leg, and then put him to driving a yoke of oxen, and kept him at hard labor, until the iron around his leg was so worn into the flesh, that it was thought mortification would ensue. In addition to this, John told me that his master whipped him regularly three times a week for the first two months:--and all this to "_tame him_." A more noble-looking man than he was not to be found in all St. Louis, before he fell into the hands of More; and a more degraded and spirit-crushed looking being was never seen on a southern plantation, after he had been subjected to this "_taming_" process for three months. The last time that I saw him, he had nearly lost the entire use of his limbs. While living with Mr. Lovejoy, I was often sent on errands to the office of the "Missouri Republican," published by Mr. Edward Charless. Once, while returning to the office with type, I was attacked by several large boys, sons of slave-holders, who pelted me with snow-balls. Having the heavy form of type in my hands, I could not make my escape by running; so I laid down the type and gave them battle. They gathered around me, pelting me with stones and sticks, until they overpowered me, and would have captured me, if I had not resorted to my heels. Upon my retreat they took possession of the type; and what to do to regain it I could not devise. Knowing Mr. Lovejoy to be a very humane man, I went to the office and laid the case before him. He told me to remain in the office. He took one of the apprentices with him and went after the type, and soon returned with it; but on his return informed me that Samuel McKinney had told him he would whip me, because I had hurt his boy. Soon after, McKinney was seen making his way to the office by one of the printers, who informed me of the fact, and I made my escape through the back door. McKinney not being able to find me on his arrival, left the office in a great rage, swearing that he would whip me to death. A few days after, as I was walking along Main street, he seized me by the collar, and struck me over the head five or six times with a large cane, which caused the blood to gush from my nose and ears in such a manner that my clothes were completely saturated with blood. After beating me to his satisfaction he let me go, and I returned to the office so weak from the loss of blood that Mr. Lovejoy sent me home to my master. It was five weeks before I was able to walk again. During this time it was necessary to have some one to supply my place at the office, and I lost the situation. After my recovery, I was hired to Capt. Otis Reynolds, as a waiter on board the steamboat Enterprise, owned by Messrs. John and Edward Walsh, commission merchants at St. Louis. This boat was then running on the upper Mississippi. My employment on board was to wait on gentlemen, and the captain being a good man, the situation was a pleasant one to me;--but in passing from place to place, and seeing new faces every day, and knowing that they could go where they pleased, I soon became unhappy, and several times thought of leaving the boat at some landing-place, and trying to make my escape to Canada, which I had heard much about as a place where the slave might live, be free, and be protected. But whenever such thoughts would come into my mind, my resolution would soon be shaken by the remembrance that my dear mother was a slave in St. Louis, and I could not bear the idea of leaving her in that condition. She had often taken me upon her knee, and told me how she had carried me upon her back to the field when I was an infant--how often she had been whipped for leaving her work to nurse me--and how happy I would appear when she would take me into her arms. When these thoughts came over me, I would resolve never to leave the land of slavery without my mother. I thought that to leave her in slavery, after she had undergone and suffered, so much for me, would be proving recreant to the duty which I owed to her. Besides this, I had three brothers and a sister there--two of my brothers having died. My mother, my brothers Joseph and Millford, and my sister Elizabeth, belonged to Mr. Isaac Mansfield, formerly from one of the free states, (Massachusetts, I believe.) He was a tinner by trade, and carried on a large manufacturing establishment. Of all my relatives, mother was first, and sister next. One evening, while visiting them, I made some allusion to a proposed journey to Canada, and sister took her seat by my side, and taking my hand in hers, said, with tears in her eyes-- "Brother, you are not going to leave mother and your dear sister here without a friend, are you?" I looked into her face, as the tears coursed swiftly down her cheeks, and bursting into tears myself, said-- "No, I will never desert you and mother!" She clasped my hand in hers, and said-- "Brother, you have often declared that you would not end your days in slavery. I see no possible way in which you can escape with us; and now, brother, you are on a steamboat where there is some chance for you to escape to a land of liberty. I beseech you not to let us hinder you. If we cannot get our liberty, we do not wish to be the means of keeping you from a land of freedom." I could restrain my feelings no longer, and an outburst of my own feelings caused her to cease speaking upon that subject. In opposition to their wishes, I pledged myself not to leave them in the hand of the oppressor. I took leave of them, and returned to the boat, and laid down in my bunk; but "sleep departed from mine eyes, and slumber from mine eyelids." A few weeks after, on our downward passage, the boat took on board, at Hannibal, a drove of slaves, bound for the New Orleans market. They numbered from fifty to sixty, consisting of men and women from eighteen to forty years of age. A drove of slaves on a southern steamboat, bound for the cotton or sugar regions, is an occurrence so common, that no one, not even the passengers, appear to notice it, though they clank their chains at every step. There was, however, one in this gang that attracted the attention of the passengers and crew. It was a beautiful girl, apparently about twenty years of age, perfectly white, with straight light hair and blue eyes. But it was not the whiteness of her skin that created such a sensation among those who gazed upon her--it was her almost unparalleled beauty. She had been on the boat but a short time, before the attention of all the passengers, including the ladies, had been called to her, and the common topic of conversation was about the beautiful slave-girl. She was not in chains. The man who claimed this article of human merchandise was a Mr. Walker--a well known slave-trader, residing in St. Louis. There was a general anxiety among the passengers and crew to learn the history of the girl. Her master kept close by her side, and it would have been considered impudent for any of the passengers to have spoken to her, and the crew were not allowed to have any conversation with them. When we reached St. Louis, the slaves were removed to a boat bound for New Orleans, and the history of the beautiful slave-girl remained a mystery. I remained on the boat during the season, and it was not an unfrequent occurrence to have on board gangs of slaves on their way to the cotton, sugar and rice plantations of the south. Toward the latter part of the summer Captain Reynolds left the boat, and I was sent home. I was then placed on the farm, under Mr. Haskell, the overseer. As I had been some time out of the field, and not accustomed to work in the burning sun, it was very hard; but I was compelled to keep up with the best of the hands. I found a great difference between the work in a steamboat cabin and that in a corn-field. My master, who was then living in the city, soon after removed to the farm, when I was taken out of the field to work in the house as a waiter. Though his wife was very peevish, and hard to please, I much preferred to be under her control than the overseer's. They brought with them Mr. Sloane, a Presbyterian minister; Miss Martha Tulley, a niece of theirs from Kentucky; and their nephew William. The latter had been in the family a number of years, but the others were all newcomers. Mr. Sloane was a young minister, who had been at the South but a short time, and it seemed as if his whole aim was to please the slaveholders, especially my master and mistress. He was intending to make a visit during the winter, and he not only tried to please them, but I think he succeeded admirably. When they wanted singing, he sung; when they wanted praying, he prayed; when they wanted a story told, he told a story. Instead of his teaching my master theology, my master taught theology to him. While I was with Captain Reynolds my master "got religion," and new laws were made on the plantation. Formerly we had the privilege of hunting, fishing, making splint brooms, baskets, &c., on Sunday; but this was all stopped. Every Sunday we were all compelled to attend meeting. Master was so religious that he induced some others to join him in hiring a preacher to preach to the slaves. CHAPTER IV. My master had family worship, night and morning. At night the slaves were called in to attend; but in the mornings they had to be at their work, and master did all the praying. My master and mistress were great lovers of mint julep, and every morning, a pitcher-full was made, of which they all partook freely, not excepting little master William. After drinking freely all round, they would have family worship, and then breakfast. I cannot say but I loved the julep as well as any of them, and during prayer was always careful to seat myself close to the table where it stood, so as to help myself when they were all busily engaged in their devotions. By the time prayer was over, I was about as happy as any of them. A sad accident happened one morning. In helping myself, and at the same time keeping an eye on my old mistress, I accidentally let the pitcher fall upon the floor, breaking it in pieces, and spilling the contents. This was a bad affair for me; for as soon as prayer was over, I was taken and severely chastised. My master's family consisted of himself, his wife, and their nephew, William Moore. He was taken into the family when only a few weeks of age. His name being that of my own, mine was changed for the purpose of giving precedence to his, though I was his senior by ten or twelve years. The plantation being four miles from the city, I had to drive the family to church. I always dreaded the approach of the Sabbath; for, during service, I was obliged to stand by the horses in the hot, broiling sun, or in the rain, just as it happened. One Sabbath, as we were driving past the house of D. D. Page, a gentleman who owned a large baking establishment, as I was sitting upon the box of the carriage, which was very much elevated, I saw Mr. Page pursuing a slave around the yard with a long whip, cutting him at every jump. The man soon escaped from the yard, and was followed by Mr. Page. They came running past us, and the slave, perceiving that he would be overtaken, stopped suddenly, and Page stumbled over him, and falling on the stone pavement, fractured one of his legs, which crippled him for life. The same gentleman, but a short time previous, tied up a woman of his, by the name of Delphia, and whipped her nearly to death; yet he was a deacon in the Baptist church, in good and regular standing. Poor Delphia! I was well acquainted with her, and called to see her while upon her sick bed; and I shall never forget her appearance. She was a member of the same church with her master. Soon after this, I was hired out to Mr. Walker, the same man whom I have mentioned as having carried a gang of slaves down the river on the steamboat Enterprise. Seeing me in the capacity of a steward on the boat, and thinking that I would make a good hand to take care of slaves, he determined to have me for that purpose; and finding that my master would not sell me, he hired me for the term of one year. When I learned the fact of my having been hired to a negro speculator, or a "soul driver," as they are generally called among slaves, no one can tell my emotions. Mr. Walker had offered a high price for me, as I afterwards learned, but I suppose my master was restrained from selling me by the fact that I was a near relative of his. On entering the service of Mr. Walker, I found that my opportunity of getting to a land of liberty was gone, at least for the time being. He had a gang of slaves in readiness to start for New Orleans, and in a few days we were on our journey. I am at a loss for language to express my feelings on that occasion. Although my master had told me that he had not sold me, and Mr. Walker had told me that he had not purchased me, I did not believe them; and not until I had been to New Orleans, and was on my return, did I believe that I was not sold. There was on the boat a large room on the lower deck, in which the slaves were kept, men and women, promiscuously--all chained two and two, and a strict watch kept that they did not get loose; for cases have occurred in which slaves have got off their chains, and made their escape at landing-places, while the boats were taking in wood;--and with all our care, we lost one woman who had been taken from her husband and children, and having no desire to live without them, in the agony of her soul jumped overboard, and drowned herself. She was not chained. It was almost impossible to keep that part of the boat clean. On landing at Natchez, the slaves were all carried to the slave-pen, and there kept one week, during which time several of them were sold. Mr. Walker fed his slaves well. We took on board at St. Louis several hundred pounds of bacon (smoked meat) and corn-meal, and his slaves were better fed than slaves generally were in Natchez, so far as my observation extended. At the end of a week, we left for New Orleans, the place of our final destination, which we reached in two days. Here the slaves were placed in a negro-pen, where those who wished to purchase could call and examine them. The negro-pen is a small yard, surrounded by buildings, from fifteen to twenty feet wide, with the exception of a large gate with iron bars. The slaves are kept in the buildings during the night, and turned out into the yard during the day. After the best of the stock was sold at private sale at the pen, the balance were taken to the Exchange Coffee-House Auction Rooms, kept by Isaac L. McCoy, and sold at public auction. After the sale of this lot of slaves, we left New Orleans for St. Louis. CHAPTER V. On our arrival at St. Louis I went to Dr. Young, and told him that I did not wish to live with Mr. Walker any longer. I was heart-sick at seeing my fellow-creatures bought and sold. But the Dr. had hired me for the year, and stay I must. Mr. Walker again commenced purchasing another gang of slaves. He bought a man of Colonel John O'Fallon, who resided in the suburbs of the city. This man had a wife and three children. As soon as the purchase was made, he was put in jail for safe keeping, until we should be ready to start for New Orleans. His wife visited him while there, several times, and several times when she went for that purpose was refused admittance. In the course of eight or nine weeks Mr. Walker had his cargo of human flesh made up. There was in this lot a number of old men and women, some of them with gray locks. We left St. Louis in the steamboat Carlton, Captain Swan, bound for New Orleans. On our way down, and before we reached Rodney, the place where we made our first stop, I had to prepare the old slaves for market. I was ordered to have the old men's whiskers shaved off, and the grey hairs plucked out where they were not too numerous, in which case he had a preparation of blacking to color it, and with a blacking brush we would put it on. This was new business to me, and was performed in a room where the passengers could not see us. These slaves were also taught how old they were by Mr. Walker, and after going through the blacking process they looked ten or fifteen years younger; and I am sure that some of those who purchased slaves of Mr. Walker were dreadfully cheated, especially in the ages of the slaves which they bought. We landed at Rodney, and the slaves were driven to the pen in the back part of the village. Several were sold at this place, during our stay of four or five days, when we proceeded to Natchez. There we landed at night, and the gang were put in the warehouse until morning, when they were driven to the pen. As soon as the slaves are put in these pens, swarms of planters may be seen in and about them. They knew when Walker was expected, as he always had the time advertised beforehand when he would be in Rodney, Natchez, and New Orleans. These were the principal places where he offered his slaves for sale. When at Natchez the second time, I saw a slave very cruelly whipped. He belonged to a Mr. Broadwell, a merchant who kept a store on the wharf. The slave's name was Lewis. I had known him several years, as he was formerly from St. Louis. We were expecting a steamboat down the river, in which we were to take passage for New Orleans. Mr. Walker sent me to the landing to watch for the boat, ordering me to inform him on its arrival. While there I went into the store to see Lewis. I saw a slave in the store, and asked him where Lewis was. Said he, "They have got Lewis hanging between the heavens and the earth." I asked him what he meant by that. He told me to go into the warehouse and see. I went in, and found Lewis there. He was tied up to a beam, with his toes just touching the floor. As there was no one in the warehouse but himself, I inquired the reason of his being in that situation. He said Mr. Broadwell had sold his wife to a planter six miles from the city, and that he had been to visit her--that he went in the night, expecting to return before daylight, and went without his master's permission. The patrol had taken him up before he reached his wife. He was put in jail, and his master had to pay for his catching and keeping, and that was what he was tied up for. Just as he finished his story, Mr. Broadwell came in, and inquired what I was doing there. I knew not what to say, and while I was thinking what reply to make he struck me over the head with the cowhide, the end of which struck me over my right eye, sinking deep into the flesh, leaving a scar which I carry to this day. Before I visited Lewis he had received fifty lashes. Mr. Broadwell gave him fifty lashes more after I came out, as I was afterwards informed by Lewis himself. The next day we proceeded to New Orleans, and put the gang in the same negro-pen which we occupied before. In a short time the planters came flocking to the pen to purchase slaves. Before the slaves were exhibited for sale, they were dressed and driven out into the yard. Some were set to dancing, some to jumping, some to singing, and some to playing cards. This was done to make them appear cheerful and happy. My business was to see that they were placed in those situations before the arrival of the purchasers, and I have often set them to dancing when their cheeks were wet with tears. As slaves were in good demand at that time, they were all soon disposed of, and we again set out for St. Louis. On our arrival, Mr. Walker purchased a farm five or six miles from the city. He had no family, but made a housekeeper of one of his female slaves. Poor Cynthia! I knew her well. She was a quadroon, and one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. She was a native of St. Louis, and bore an irreproachable character for virtue and propriety of conduct. Mr. Walker bought her for the New Orleans market, and took her down with him on one of the trips that I made with him. Never shall I forget the circumstances of that voyage! On the first night that we were on board the steamboat, he directed me to put her into a state-room he had provided for her, apart from the other slaves. I had seen too much of the workings of slavery not to know what this meant. I accordingly watched him into the state-room, and listened to hear what passed between them. I heard him make his base offers, and her reject them. He told her that if she would accept his vile proposals, he would take her back with him to St. Louis, and establish her as his housekeeper on his farm. But if she persisted in rejecting them, he would sell her as a field hand on the worst plantation on the river. Neither threats nor bribes prevailed, however, and he retired, disappointed of his prey. The next morning poor Cynthia told me what had passed, and bewailed her sad fate with floods of tears. I comforted and encouraged her all I could; but I foresaw but too well what the result must be. Without entering into any further particulars, suffice it to say that Walker performed his part of the contract at that time. He took her back to St. Louis, established her as his mistress and housekeeper at his farm, and before I left, he had two children by her. But, mark the end! Since I have been at the North, I have been credibly informed that Walker has been married, and, as a previous measure, sold poor Cynthia and her four children (she having had two more since I came away) into hopeless bondage! He soon commenced purchasing to make up the third gang. We took steamboat, and went to Jefferson City, a town on the Missouri river. Here we landed, and took stage for the interior of the state. He bought a number of slaves as he passed the different farms and villages. After getting twenty-two or twenty-three men and women, we arrived at St. Charles, a village on the banks of the Missouri. Here he purchased a woman who had a child in her arms, appearing to be four or five weeks old. We had been travelling by land for some days, and were in hopes to have found a boat at this place for St. Louis, but were disappointed. As no boat was expected for some days, we started for St. Louis by land. Mr. Walker had purchased two horses. He rode one, and I the other. The slaves were chained together, and we took up our line of march, Mr. Walker taking the lead, and I bringing up the rear. Though the distance was not more than twenty miles, we did not reach it the first day. The road was worse than any that I have ever travelled. [Illustration: The slave-trader Walker and the author driving a gang of slaves to the southern market.] Soon after we left St. Charles the young child grew very cross, and kept up a noise during the greater part of the day. Mr. Walker complained of its crying several times, and told the mother to stop the child's d----d noise, or he would. The woman tried to keep the child from crying, but could not. We put up at night with an acquaintance of Mr. Walker, and in the morning, just as we were about to start, the child again commenced crying. Walker stepped up to her, and told her to give the child to him. The mother tremblingly obeyed. He took the child by one arm, as you would a cat by the leg, walked into the house, and said to the lady, "Madam, I will make you a present of this little nigger; it keeps such a noise that I can't bear it." "Thank you, sir," said the lady. The mother, as soon as she saw that her child was to be left, ran up to Mr. Walker, and falling upon her knees, begged him to let her have her child; she clung around his legs, and cried, "Oh, my child! my child! master, do let me have my child! oh, do, do, do! I will stop its crying if you will only let me have it again. "When I saw this woman crying for her child so piteously, a shudder--a feeling akin to horror--shot through my frame. I have often since in imagination heard her crying for her child:-- "O, master, let me stay to catch My baby's sobbing breath, His little glassy eye to watch, And smooth his limbs in death, And cover him with grass and leaf, Beneath the large oak tree: It is not sullenness, but grief-- O, master, pity me! The morn was chill--I spoke no word, But feared my babe might die, And heard all day, or thought I heard, My little baby cry. At noon, oh, how I ran and took My baby to my breast! I lingered--and the long lash broke My sleeping infant's rest. I worked till night--till darkest night, In torture and disgrace; Went home and watched till morning light, To see my baby's face. Then give me but one little hour-- O! do not lash me so! One little hour--one little hour-- And gratefully I'll go." Mr. Walker commanded her to return into the ranks with the other slaves. Women who had children were not chained, but those that had none were. As soon as her child was disposed of she was chained in the gang. The following song I have often heard the slaves sing, when about to be carried to the far south. It is said to have been composed by a slave. "See these poor souls from Africa Transported to America; We are stolen, and sold to Georgia-- Will you go along with me? We are stolen, and sold to Georgia-- Come sound the jubilee! See wives and husbands sold apart, Their children's screams will break my heart;-- There's a better day a coming-- Will you go along with me? There's a better day a coming, Go sound the jubilee! O, gracious Lord! when shall it be, That we poor souls shall all be free? Lord, break them slavery powers-- Will you go along with me? Lord, break them slavery powers, Go sound the jubilee! Dear Lord, dear Lord, when slavery'll cease, Then we poor souls will have our peace;-- There's a better day a coming-- Will you go along with me? There's a better day a coming, Go sound the jubilee!" We finally arrived at Mr. Walker's farm. He had a house built during our absence to put slaves in. It was a kind of domestic jail. The slaves were put in the jail at night, and worked on the farm during the day. They were kept here until the gang was completed, when we again started for New Orleans, on board the steamboat North America, Capt. Alexander Scott. We had a large number of slaves in this gang. One, by the name of Joe, Mr. Walker was training up to take my place, as my time was nearly out, and glad was I. We made our first stop at Vicksburg, where we remained one week and sold several slaves. Mr. Walker, though not a good master, had not flogged a slave since I had been with him, though he had threatened me. The slaves were kept in the pen, and he always put up at the best hotel, and kept his wines in his room, for the accommodation of those who called to negotiate with him for the purchase of slaves. One day, while we were at Vicksburg, several gentlemen came to see him for that purpose, and as usual the wine was called for. I took the tray and started around with it, and having accidentally filled some of the glasses too full, the gentlemen spilled the wine on their clothes as they went to drink. Mr. Walker apologized to them for my carelessness, but looked at me as though he would see me again on this subject. After the gentlemen had left the room, he asked me what I meant by my carelessness, and said that he would attend to me. The next morning he gave me a note to carry to the jailer, and a dollar in money to give to him. I suspected that all was not right, so I went down near the landing, where I met with a sailor, and, walking up to him, asked him if he would be so kind as to read the note for me. He read it over, and then looked at me. I asked him to tell me what was in it. Said he, "They are going to give you hell." "Why?" said I. He said, "This is a note to have you whipped, and says that you have a dollar to pay for it." He handed me back the note, and off I started. I knew not what to do, but was determined not to be whipped. I went up to the jail--took a look at it, and walked off again. As Mr. Walker was acquainted with the jailer, I feared that I should be found out if I did not go, and be treated in consequence of it still worse. While I was meditating on the subject, I saw a colored man about my size walk up, and the thought struck me in a moment to send him with my note. I walked up to him, and asked him who he belonged to. He said he was a free man, and had been in the city but a short time. I told him I had a note to go into the jail, and get a trunk to carry to one of the steamboats; but was so busily engaged that I could not do it, although I had a dollar to pay for it. He asked me if I would not give him the job. I handed him the note and the dollar, and off he started for the jail. I watched to see that he went in, and as soon as I saw the door close behind him, I walked around the corner, and took my station, intending to see how my friend looked when he came out. I had been there but a short time, when a colored man came around the corner, and said to another colored man with whom he was acquainted-- "They are giving a nigger scissors in the jail." "What for?" said the other. The man continued, "A nigger came into the jail, and asked for the jailer. The jailer came out, and he handed him a note, and said he wanted to get a trunk. The jailer told him to go with him, and he would give him the trunk. So he took him into the room, and told the nigger to give up the dollar. He said a man had given him the dollar to pay for getting the trunk. But that lie would not answer. So they made him strip himself, and then they tied him down, and are now whipping him." I stood by all the while listening to their talk, and soon found out that the person alluded to was my customer. I went into the street opposite the jail, and concealed myself in such a manner that I could not be seen by any one coming out. I had been there but a short time, when the young man made his appearance, and looked around for me. I, unobserved, came forth from my hiding-place, behind a pile of brick, and he pretty soon saw me, and came up to me complaining bitterly, saying that I had played a trick upon him. I denied any knowledge of what the note contained, and asked him what they had done to him. He told me in substance what I heard the man tell who had come out of the jail. "Yes," said he, "they whipped me and took my dollar, and gave me this note." He showed me the note which the jailer had given him, telling him to give it to his master. I told him I would give him fifty cents for it--that being all the money I had. He gave it to me and took his money. He had received twenty lashes on his bare back, with the negro-whip. I took the note and started for the hotel where I had left Mr. Walker. Upon reaching the hotel, I handed it to a stranger whom I had not seen before, and requested him to read it to me. As near as I can recollect, it was as follows:-- "DEAR SIR:--By your direction, I have given your boy twenty lashes. He is a very saucy boy, and tried to make me believe that he did not belong to you, and I put it on to him well for lying to me. "I remain "Your obedient servant." It is true that in most of the slave-holding cities, when a gentleman wishes his servants whipped, he can send him to the jail and have it done. Before I went in where Mr. Walker was, I wet my cheeks a little, as though I had been crying. He looked at me, and inquired what was the matter. I told him that I had never had such a whipping in my life, and handed him the note. He looked at it and laughed;--"And so you told him that you did not belong to me?" "Yes, sir," said I. "I did not know that there was any harm in that." He told me I must behave myself, if I did not want to be whipped again. This incident shows how it is that slavery makes its victims lying and mean; for which vices it afterwards reproaches them, and uses them as arguments to prove that they deserve no better fate. Had I entertained the same views of right and wrong which I now do, I am sure I should never have practised the deception upon that poor fellow which I did. I know of no act committed by me while in slavery which I have regretted more than that; and I heartily desire that it may be at some time or other in my power to make him amends for his vicarious sufferings in my behalf. CHAPTER VI. In a few days we reached New Orleans, and arriving there in the night, remained on board until morning. While at New Orleans this time, I saw a slave killed; an account of which has been published by Theodore D. Weld, in his book entitled "Slavery as it is." The circumstances were as follows. In the evening, between seven and eight o'clock, a slave came running down the levee, followed by several men and boys. The whites were crying out, "Stop that nigger! stop that nigger!" while the poor panting slave, in almost breathless accents, was repeating, "I did not steal the meat--I did not steal the meat." The poor man at last took refuge in the river. The whites who were in pursuit of him, run on board of one of the boats to see if they could discover him. They finally espied him under the bow of the steamboat Trenton. They got a pike-pole, and tried to drive him from his hiding place. When they would strike at him he would dive under the water. The water was so cold, that it soon became evident that he must come out or be drowned. While they were trying to drive him from under the bow of the boat or drown him, he would in broken and imploring accents say, "I did not steal the meat; I did not steal the meat. My master lives up the river. I want to see my master. I did not steal the meat. Do let me go home to master." After punching him, and striking him over the head for some time, he at last sunk in the water, to rise no more alive. On the end of the pike-pole with which they were striking him was a hook, which caught in his clothing, and they hauled him up on the bow of the boat. Some said he was dead; others said he was "_playing possum_;" while others kicked him to make him get up; but it was of no use--he was dead. As soon as they became satisfied of this, they commenced leaving, one after another. One of the hands on the boat informed the captain that they had killed the man, and that the dead body was lying on the deck. The captain came on deck, and said to those who were remaining, "You have killed this nigger; now take him off of my boat." The captain's name was Hart. The dead body was dragged on shore and left there. I went on board of the boat where our gang of slaves were, and during the whole night my mind was occupied with what I had seen. Early in the morning I went on shore to see if the dead body remained there. I found it in the same position that it was left the night before. I watched to see what they would do with it. It was left there until between eight and nine o'clock, when a cart, which takes up the trash out of the streets, came along, and the body was thrown in, and in a few minutes more was covered over with dirt which they were removing from the streets. During the whole time, I did not see more than six or seven persons around it, who, from their manner, evidently regarded it as no uncommon occurrence. During our stay in the city I met with a young white man with whom I was well acquainted in St. Louis. He had been sold into slavery, under the following circumstances. His father was a drunkard, and very poor, with a family of five or six children. The father died, and left the mother to take care of and provide for the children as best she might. The eldest was a boy, named Burrill, about thirteen years of age, who did chores in a store kept by Mr. Riley, to assist his mother in procuring a living for the family. After working with him two years, Mr. Riley took him to New Orleans to wait on him while in that city on a visit, and when he returned to St. Louis, he told the mother of the boy that he had died with the yellow fever. Nothing more was heard from him, no one supposing him to be alive. I was much astonished when Burrill told me his story. Though I sympathized with him I could not assist him. We were both slaves. He was poor, uneducated, and without friends; and, if living, is, I presume, still held as a slave. After selling out this cargo of human flesh, we returned to St. Louis, and my time was up with Mr. Walker. I had served him one year, and it was the longest year I ever lived. CHAPTER VII. I was sent home, and was glad enough to leave the service of one who was tearing the husband from the wife, the child from the mother, and the sister from the brother--but a trial more severe and heart-rending than any which I had yet met with awaited me. My dear sister had been sold to a man who was going to Natchez, and was lying in jail awaiting the hour of his departure. She had expressed her determination to die, rather than go to the far south, and she was put in jail for safekeeping. I went to the jail the same day that I arrived, but as the jailer was not in I could not see her. I went home to my master, in the country, and the first day after my return he came where I was at work, and spoke to me very politely. I knew from his appearance that something was the matter. After talking to me about my several journeys to New Orleans with Mr. Walker, he told me that he was hard pressed for money, and as he had sold my mother and all her children except me, he thought it would be better to sell me than any other one, and that as I had been used to living in the city, he thought it probable that I would prefer it to a country life. I raised up my head, and looked him full in the face. When my eyes caught his he immediately looked to the ground. After a short pause, I said, "Master, mother has often told me that you are a near relative of mine, and I have often heard you admit the fact; and after you have hired me out, and received, as I once heard you say, nine hundred dollars for my services--after receiving this large sum, will you sell me to be carried to New Orleans or some other place?" "No," said he, "I do not intend to sell you to a negro trader. If I had wished to have done that, I might have sold you to Mr. Walker for a large sum, but I would not sell you to a negro trader. You may go to the city, and find you a good master." "But," said I, "I cannot find a good master in the whole city of St. Louis." "Why?" said he. "Because there are no good masters in the state." "Do you not call me a good master?" "If you were you would not sell me." "Now I will give you one week to find a master in, and surely you can do it in that time." The price set by my evangelical master upon my soul and body was the trifling sum of five hundred dollars. I tried to enter into some arrangement by which I might purchase my freedom; but he would enter into no such arrangement. I set out for the city with the understanding that I was to return in a week with some one to become my new master. Soon after reaching the city, I went to the jail, to learn if I could once more see my sister; but could not gain admission. I then went to mother, and learned from her that the owner of my sister intended to start for Natchez in a few days. I went to the jail again the next day, and Mr. Simonds, the keeper, allowed me to see my sister for the last time. I cannot give a just description of the scene at that parting interview. Never, never can be erased from my heart the occurrences of that day! When I entered the room where she was, she was seated in one corner, alone. There were four other women in the same room, belonging to the same man. He had purchased them, he said, for his own use. She was seated with her face towards the door where I entered, yet she did not look up until I walked up to her. As soon as she observed me she sprung up, threw her arms around my neck, leaned her head upon my breast, and, without uttering a word, burst into tears. As soon as she recovered herself sufficiently to speak, she advised me to take mother, and try to get out of slavery. She said there was no hope for herself--that she must live and die a slave. After giving her some advice, and taking from my finger a ring and placing it upon hers, I bade her farewell forever, and returned to my mother, and then and there made up my mind to leave for Canada as soon as possible. I had been in the city nearly two days, and as I was to be absent only a week, I thought best to get on my journey as soon as possible. In conversing with mother, I found her unwilling to make the attempt to reach a land of liberty, but she counselled me to get my liberty if I could. She said, as all her children were in slavery, she did not wish to leave them. I could not bear the idea of leaving her among those pirates, when there was a prospect of being able to get away from them. After much persuasion I succeeded in inducing her to make the attempt to get away. The time fixed for our departure was the next night. I had with me a little money that I had received, from time to time, from gentlemen for whom I had done errands. I took my scanty means and purchased some dried beef, crackers and cheese, which I carried to mother, who had provided herself with a bag to carry it in. I occasionally thought of my old master, and of my mission to the city to find a new one. I waited with the most intense anxiety for the appointed time to leave the land of slavery, in search of a land of liberty. The time at length arrived, and we left the city just as the clock struck nine. We proceeded to the upper part of the city, where I had been two or three times during the day, and selected a skiff to carry us across the river. The boat was not mine, nor did I know to whom it did belong; neither did I care. The boat was fastened with a small pole, which, with the aid of a rail, I soon loosened from its moorings. After hunting round and finding a board to use as an oar, I turned to the city, and bidding it a long farewell, pushed off my boat. The current running very swift, we had not reached the middle of the stream before we were directly opposite the city. We were soon upon the Illinois shore, and, leaping from the boat, turned it adrift, and the last I saw of it it was going down the river at good speed. We took the main road to Alton, and passed through just at daylight, when we made for the woods, where we remained during the day. Our reason for going into the woods was, that we expected that Mr. Mansfield (the man who owned my mother) would start in pursuit of her as soon as he discovered that she was missing. He also knew that I had been in the city looking for a new master, and we thought probably he would go out to my masters to see if he could find my mother, and in so doing, Dr. Young might be led to suspect that I had gone to Canada to find a purchaser. We remained in the woods during the day, and as soon as darkness overshadowed the earth, we started again on our gloomy way, having no guide but the NORTH STAR. We continued to travel by night, and secrete ourselves in the woods by day; and every night, before emerging from our hiding-place, we would anxiously look for our friend and leader--the NORTH STAR. And in the language of Pierpont we might have exclaimed, "Star of the North! while blazing day Pours round me its full tide of light, And hides thy pale but faithful ray, I, too, lie hid, and long for night. For night;--I dare not walk at noon, Nor dare I trust the faithless moon, Nor faithless man, whose burning lust For gold hath riveted my chain; No other leader can I trust But thee, of even the starry train; For, all the host around thee burning, Like faithless man, keep turning, turning. In the dark top of southern pines I nestled, when the driver's horn Called to the field, in lengthening lines, My fellows, at the break of morn. And there I lay, till thy sweet face Looked in upon my 'hiding place,' Star of the North! Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth, Shall set me free." CHAPTER VIII. As we travelled towards a land of liberty, my heart would at times leap for joy. At other times, being, as I was, almost constantly on my feet, I felt as though I could travel no further. But when I thought of slavery, with its democratic whips--its republican chains--its evangelical blood-hounds, and its religious slave-holders--when I thought of all this paraphernalia of American democracy and religion behind me, and the prospect of liberty before me, I was encouraged to press forward, my heart was strengthened, and I forgot that I was tired or hungry. On the eighth day of our journey, we had a very heavy rain, and in a few hours after it commenced we had not a dry thread upon our bodies. This made our journey still more unpleasant. On the tenth day, we found ourselves entirely destitute of provisions, and how to obtain any we could not tell. We finally resolved to stop at some farm-house, and try to get something to eat. We had no sooner determined to do this, than we went to a house, and asked them for some food. We were treated with great kindness, and they not only gave us something to eat, but gave us provisions to carry with us. They advised us to travel by day and lie by at night. Finding ourselves about one hundred and fifty miles from St. Louis, we concluded that it would be safe to travel by daylight, and did not leave the house until the next morning. We travelled on that day through a thickly settled country, and through one small village. Though we were fleeing from a land of oppression, our hearts were still there. My dear sister and two beloved brothers were behind us, and the idea of giving them up, and leaving them forever, made us feel sad. But with all this depression of heart, the thought that I should one day be free, and call my body my own, buoyed me up, and made my heart leap for joy. I had just been telling my mother how I should try to get employment as soon as we reached Canada, and how I intended to purchase us a little farm, and how I would earn money enough to buy sister and brothers, and how happy we would be in our own FREE HOME--when three men came up on horseback, and ordered us to stop. I turned to the one who appeared to be the principal man, and asked him what he wanted. He said he had a warrant to take us up. The three immediately dismounted, and one took from his pocket a handbill, advertising us as runaways, and offering a reward of two hundred dollars for our apprehension and delivery in the city of St. Louis. The advertisement had been put out by Isaac Mansfield and John Young. While they were reading the advertisement, mother looked me in the face, and burst into tears. A cold chill ran over me, and such a sensation I never experienced before, and I hope never to again. They took out a rope and tied me, and we were taken back about six miles, to the house of the individual who appeared to be the leader. We reached there about seven o'clock in the evening, had supper, and were separated for the night. Two men remained in the room during the night. Before the family retired to rest, they were all called together to attend prayers. The man who but a few hours before had bound my hands together with a strong cord, read a chapter from the Bible, and then offered up prayer, just as though God had sanctioned the act he had just committed upon a poor, panting, fugitive slave. [Illustration: The author and his mother arrested and carried back into slavery.] The next morning a blacksmith came in, and put a pair of handcuffs on me, and we started on our journey back to the land of whips, chains and Bibles. Mother was not tied, but was closely watched at night. We were carried back in a wagon, and after four days' travel, we came in sight of St. Louis. I cannot describe my feelings upon approaching the city. As we were crossing the ferry, Mr. Wiggins, the owner of the ferry, came up to me, and inquired what I had been doing that I was in chains. He had not heard that I had run away. In a few minutes we were on the Missouri side, and were taken directly to the jail. On the way thither, I saw several of my friends, who gave me a nod of recognition as I passed them. After reaching the jail, we were locked up in different apartments. CHAPTER IX. I had been in jail but a short time when I heard that my master was sick, and nothing brought more joy to my heart than that intelligence. I prayed fervently for him--not for his recovery, but for his death. I knew he would be exasperated at having to pay for my apprehension, and knowing his cruelty, I feared him. While in jail, I learned that my sister Elizabeth, who was in prison when we left the city, had been carried off four days before our arrival. I had been in jail but a few hours when three negro-traders, learning that I was secured thus for running away, came to my prison-house and looked at me, expecting that I would be offered for sale. Mr. Mansfield, the man who owned mother, came into the jail as soon as Mr. Jones, the man who arrested us, informed him that he had brought her back. He told her that he would not whip her, but would sell her to a negro-trader, or take her to New Orleans himself. After being in jail about one week, master sent a man to take me out of jail, and send me home. I was taken out and carried home, and the old man was well enough to sit up. He had me brought into the room where he was, and as I entered, he asked me where I had been? I told him I had acted according to his orders. He had told me to look for a master, and I had been to look for one. He answered that he did not tell me to go to Canada to look for a master. I told him that as I had served him faithfully, and had been the means of putting a number of hundreds of dollars into his pocket, I thought I had a right to my liberty. He said he had promised my father that I should not be sold to supply the New Orleans market, or he would sell me to a negro-trader. I was ordered to go into the field to work, and was closely watched by the overseer during the day, and locked up at night. The overseer gave me a severe whipping on the second day that I was in the field. I had been at home but a short time, when master was able to ride to the city; and on his return he informed me that he had sold me to Samuel Willi, a merchant tailor. I knew Mr. Willi. I had lived with him three or four months some years before, when he hired me of my master. Mr. Willi was not considered by his servants as a very bad man, nor was he the best of masters. I went to my new home, and found my new mistress very glad to see me. Mr. Willi owned two servants before he purchased me--Robert and Charlotte. Robert was an excellent white-washer, and hired his time from his master, paying him one dollar per day, besides taking care of himself. He was known in the city by the name of Bob Music. Charlotte was an old woman, who attended to the cooking, washing, &c. Mr. Willi was not a wealthy man, and did not feel able to keep many servants around his house; so he soon decided to hire me out, and as I had been accustomed to service in steamboats, he gave me the privilege of finding such employment. I soon secured a situation on board the steamer Otto, Capt. J. B. Hill, which sailed from St. Louis to Independence, Missouri. My former master, Dr. Young, did not let Mr. Willi know that I had run away, or he would not have permitted me to go on board a steamboat. The boat was not quite ready to commence running, and therefore I had to remain with Mr. Willi. But during this time, I had to undergo a trial for which I was entirely unprepared. My mother, who had been in jail since her return until the present time, was now about being carried to New Orleans, to die on a cotton, sugar, or rice plantation! I had been several times to the jail, but could obtain no interview with her. I ascertained, however, the time the boat in which she was to embark would sail, and as I had not seen mother since her being thrown into prison, I felt anxious for the hour of sailing to come. At last, the day arrived when I was to see her for the first time after our painful separation, and, for aught that I knew, for the last time in this world! At about ten o'clock in the morning I went on board of the boat, and found her there in company with fifty or sixty other slaves. She was chained to another woman. On seeing me, she immediately dropped her head upon her heaving bosom. She moved not, neither did she weep. Her emotions were too deep for tears. I approached, threw my arms around her neck, kissed her, and fell upon my knees, begging her forgiveness, for I thought myself to blame for her sad condition; for if I had not persuaded her to accompany me, she would not then have been in chains. She finally raised her head, looked me in the face, (and such a look none but an angel can give!) and said, "_My dear son, you are not to blame for my being here. You have done nothing more nor less than your duty. Do not, I pray you, weep for me. I cannot last long upon a cotton plantation. I feel that my heavenly Master will soon call me home, and then I shall be out of the hands of the slave-holders!_" I could bear no more--my heart struggled to free itself from the human form. In a moment she saw Mr. Mansfield coming toward that part of the boat, and she whispered into my ear, "_My child, we must soon part to meet no more this side of the grave. You have ever said that you would not die a slave; that you would be a freeman. Now try to get your liberty! You will soon have no one to look after but yourself!_" and just as she whispered the last sentence into my ear, Mansfield came up to me, and with an oath, said, "Leave here this instant; you have been the means of my losing one hundred dollars to get this wench back"--at the same time kicking me with a heavy pair of boots. As I left her, she gave one shriek, saying, "God be with you!" It was the last time that I saw her, and the last word I heard her utter. I walked on shore. The bell was tolling. The boat was about to start. I stood with a heavy heart, waiting to see her leave the wharf. As I thought of my mother, I could but feel that I had lost "------the glory of my life, My blessing and my pride! I half forgot the name of slave, When she was by my side." The love of liberty that had been burning in my bosom had well-nigh gone out. I felt as though I was ready to die. The boat moved gently from the wharf, and while she glided down the river, I realized that my mother was indeed "Gone--gone--sold and gone, To the rice swamp, dank and lone!" After the boat was out of sight I returned home; but my thoughts were so absorbed in what I had witnessed, that I knew not what I was about half of the time. Night came, but it brought no sleep to my eyes. In a few days, the boat upon which I was to work being ready, I went on board to commence. This employment suited me better than living in the city, and I remained until the close of navigation; though it proved anything but pleasant. The captain was a drunken, profligate, hardhearted creature, not knowing how to treat himself, or any other person. The boat, on its second trip, brought down Mr. Walker, the man of whom I have spoken in a previous chapter, as hiring my time. He had between one and two hundred slaves, chained and manacled. Among them was a man that formerly belonged to my old master's brother, Aaron Young. His name was Solomon. He was a preacher, and belonged to the same church with his master. I was glad to see the old man. He wept like a child when he told me how he had been sold from his wife and children. The boat carried down, while I remained on board, four or five gangs of slaves. Missouri, though a comparatively new state, is very much engaged in raising slaves to supply the southern market. In a former chapter, I have mentioned that I was once in the employ of a slave-trader, or driver, as he is called at the south. For fear that some may think that I have misrepresented a slave-driver, I will here give an extract from a paper published in a slave-holding state, Tennessee, called the "Millennial Trumpeter." "Droves of negroes, chained together in dozens and scores, and hand-cuffed, have been driven through our country in numbers far surpassing any previous year, and these vile slave-drivers and dealers are swarming like buzzards around a carrion. Through this county, you cannot pass a few miles in the great roads without having every feeling of humanity insulted and lacerated by this spectacle, nor can you go into any county or any neighborhood, scarcely, without seeing or hearing of some of these despicable creatures, called negro-drivers. "Who is a negro-driver? One whose eyes dwell with delight on lacerated bodies of helpless men, women and children; whose soul feels diabolical raptures at the chains, and hand-cuffs, and cart-whips, for inflicting tortures on weeping mothers torn from helpless babes, and on husbands and wives torn asunder forever!" Dark and revolting as is the picture here drawn, it is from the pen of one living in the midst of slavery. But though these men may cant about negro-drivers, and tell what despicable creatures they are, who is it, I ask, that supplies them with the human beings that they are tearing asunder? I answer, as far as I have any knowledge of the state where I came from, that those who raise slaves for the market are to be found among all classes, from Thomas H. Benton down to the lowest political demagogue who may be able to purchase a woman for the purpose of raising stock, and from the doctor of divinity down to the most humble lay member in the church. It was not uncommon in St. Louis to pass by an auction-stand, and behold a woman upon the auction-block, and hear the seller crying out, "_How much is offered for this woman? She is a good cook, good washer, a good obedient servant. She has got religion!_" Why should this man tell the purchasers that she has religion? I answer, because in Missouri, and as far as I have any knowledge of slavery in the other states, the religious teaching consists in teaching the slave that he must never strike a white man; that God made him for a slave; and that, when whipped, he must not find fault--for the Bible says, "He that knoweth his master's will and doeth it not, shall be beaten with many stripes!" And slaveholders find such religion very profitable to them. After leaving the steamer Otto, I resided at home, in Mr. Willi's family, and again began to lay my plans for making my escape from slavery. The anxiety to be a freeman would not let me rest day or night. I would think of the northern cities that I had heard so much about;--of Canada, where so many of my acquaintances had found a refuge. I would dream at night that I was in Canada, a freeman, and on waking in the morning, weep to find myself so sadly mistaken. "I would think of Victoria's domain, And in a moment I seemed to be there! But the fear of being taken again, Soon hurried me back to despair." Mr. Willi treated me better than Dr. Young ever had; but instead of making me contented and happy, it only rendered me the more miserable, for it enabled me better to appreciate liberty. Mr. Willi was a man who loved money as most men do, and without looking for an opportunity to sell me, he found one in the offer of Captain Enoch Price, a steamboat owner and commission merchant, living in the city of St. Louis. Captain Price tendered seven hundred dollars, which was two hundred more than Mr. Willi had paid. He therefore thought best to accept the offer. I was wanted for a carriage driver, and Mrs. Price was very much pleased with the captain's bargain. His family consisted besides of one child. He had three servants besides myself--one man and two women. Mrs. Price was very proud of her servants, always keeping them well dressed, and as soon as I had been purchased, she resolved to have a new carriage. And soon one was procured, and all preparations were made for a turn-out in grand style, I being the driver. One of the female servants was a girl some eighteen or twenty years of age, named Maria. Mrs. Price was very soon determined to have us united, if she could so arrange matters. She would often urge upon me the necessity of having a wife, saying that it would be so pleasant for me to take one in the same family! But getting married, while in slavery, was the last of my thoughts; and had I been ever so inclined, I should not have married Maria, as my love had already gone in another quarter. Mrs. Price soon found out that her efforts at this match-making between Maria and myself would not prove successful. She also discovered (or thought she had) that I was rather partial to a girl named Eliza, who was owned by Dr. Mills. This induced her at once to endeavor the purchase of Eliza, so great was her desire to get me a wife! Before making the attempt, however, she deemed it best to talk to me a little upon the subject of love, courtship, and marriage. Accordingly, one afternoon she called me into her room--telling me to take a chair and sit down. I did so, thinking it rather strange, for servants are not very often asked thus to sit down in the same room with the master or mistress. She said that she had found out that I did not care enough about Maria to marry her. I told her that was true. She then asked me if there was not a girl in the city that I loved. Well, now, this was coming into too close quarters with me! People, generally, don't like to tell their love stories to everybody that may think fit to ask about them, and it was so with me. But, after blushing a while and recovering myself, I told her that I did not want a wife. She then asked me if I did not think something of Eliza. I told her that I did. She then said that if I wished to marry Eliza, she would purchase her if she could. I gave but little encouragement to this proposition, as I was determined to make another trial to get my liberty, and I knew that if I should have a wife, I should not be willing to leave her behind; and if I should attempt to bring her with me, the chances would be difficult for success. However, Eliza was purchased, and brought into the family. CHAPTER X. But the more I thought of the trap laid by Mrs. Price to make me satisfied with my new home, by getting me a wife, the more I determined never to marry any woman on earth until I should get my liberty. But this secret I was compelled to keep to myself, which placed me in a very critical position. I must keep upon good terms with Mrs. Price and Eliza. I therefore promised Mrs. Price that I would marry Eliza; but said that I was not then ready. And I had to keep upon good terms with Eliza, for fear that Mrs. Price would find out that I did not intend to get married. I have here spoken of marriage, and it is very common among slaves themselves to talk of it. And it is common for slaves to be married; or at least to have the marriage ceremony performed. But there is no such thing as slaves being lawfully married. There has never yet a case occurred where a slave has been tried for bigamy. The man may have as many women as he wishes, and the women as many men; and the law takes no cognizance of such acts among slaves. And in fact some masters, when they have sold the husband from the wife, compel her to take another. There lived opposite Captain Price's, Doctor Farrar, well known in St. Louis. He sold a man named Ben, to one of the traders. He also owned Ben's wife, and in a few days he compelled Sally (that was her name) to marry Peter, another man belonging to him. I asked Sally "why she married Peter so soon after Ben was sold." She said, "because master made her do it." Mr. John Calvert, who resided near our place, had a woman named Lavinia. She was quite young, and a man to whom she was about to be married was sold, and carried into the country near St. Charles, about twenty miles from St. Louis. Mr. Calvert wanted her to get a husband; but she had resolved not to marry any other man, and she refused. Mr. Calvert whipped her in such a manner that it was thought she would die. Some of the citizens had him arrested, but it was soon hushed up. And that was the last of it. The woman did not die, but it would have been the same if she had. Captain Price purchased me in the month of October, and I remained with him until December, when the family made a voyage to New Orleans, in a boat owned by himself, and named the "Chester." I served on board as one of the stewards. On arriving at New Orleans, about the middle of the month, the boat took in freight for Cincinnati; and it was decided that the family should go up the river in her, and what was of more interest to me, I was to accompany them. The long looked for opportunity to make my escape from slavery was near at hand. Captain Price had some fears as to the propriety of taking me near a free state, or a place where it was likely I could run away, with a prospect of liberty. He asked me if I had ever been in a free state. "Oh yes," said I, "I have been in Ohio; my master carried me into that state once, but I never liked a free state." It was soon decided that it would be safe to take me with them, and what made it more safe, Eliza was on the boat with us, and Mrs. Price, to try me, asked if I thought as much as ever of Eliza. I told her that Eliza was very dear to me indeed, and that nothing but death should part us. It was the same as if we were married. This had the desired effect. The boat left New Orleans, and proceeded up the river. I had at different times obtained little sums of money, which I had reserved for a "rainy day." I procured some cotton cloth, and made me a bag to carry provisions in. The trials of the past were all lost in hopes for the future. The love of liberty, that had been burning in my bosom for years, and had been well-nigh extinguished, was now resuscitated. At night, when all around was peaceful, I would walk the decks, meditating upon my happy prospects. I should have stated, that, before leaving St. Louis, I went to an old man named Frank, a slave, owned by a Mr. Sarpee. This old man was very distinguished (not only among the slave population, but also the whites) as a fortune-teller. He was about seventy years of age, something over six feet high, and very slender. Indeed, he was so small around his body, that it looked as though it was not strong enough to hold up his head. Uncle Frank was a very great favorite with the young ladies, who would go to him in great numbers to get their fortunes told. And it was generally believed that he could really penetrate into the mysteries of futurity. Whether true or not, he had the _name_, and that is about half of what one needs in this gullible age. I found Uncle Frank seated in the chimney corner, about ten o'clock at night. As soon as I entered, the old man left his seat. I watched his movement as well as I could by the dim light of the fire. He soon lit a lamp, and coming up, looked me full in the face, saying, "Well, my son, you have come to get uncle to tell your fortune, have you?" "Yes," said I. But how the old man should know what I came for, I could not tell. However, I paid the fee of twenty-five cents, and he commenced by looking into a gourd, filled with water. Whether the old man was a prophet, or the son of a prophet, I cannot say; but there is one thing certain, many of his predictions were verified. I am no believer in soothsaying; yet I am sometimes at a loss to know how Uncle Frank could tell so accurately what would occur in the future. Among the many things he told was one which was enough to pay me for all the trouble of hunting him up. It was that I _should be free_! He further said, that in trying to get my liberty I would meet with many severe trials. I thought to myself any fool could tell me that! The first place in which we landed in a free state was Cairo, a small village at the mouth of the Ohio river. We remained here but a few hours, when we proceeded to Louisville. After unloading some of the cargo, the boat started on her upward trip. The next day was the first of January. I had looked forward to New Year's day as the commencement of a new era in the history of my life. I had decided upon leaving the peculiar institution that day. During the last night that I served in slavery I did not close my eyes a single moment. When not thinking of the future, my mind dwelt on the past. The love of a dear mother, a dear sister, and three dear brothers, yet living, caused me to shed many tears. If I could only have been assured of their being dead, I should have felt satisfied; but I imagined I saw my dear mother in the cotton-field, followed by a merciless taskmaster, and no one to speak a consoling word to her! I beheld my dear sister in the hands of a slave-driver, and compelled to submit to his cruelty! None but one placed in such a situation can for a moment imagine the intense agony to which these reflections subjected me. CHAPTER XI. At last the time for action arrived. The boat landed at a point which appeared to me the place of all others to start from. I found that it would be impossible to carry anything with me but what was upon my person. I had some provisions, and a single suit of clothes, about half worn. When the boat was discharging her cargo, and the passengers engaged carrying their baggage on and off shore, I improved the opportunity to convey myself with my little effects on land. Taking up a trunk, I went up the wharf, and was soon out of the crowd. I made directly for the woods, where I remained until night, knowing well that I could not travel, even in the state of Ohio, during the day, without danger of being arrested. I had long since made up my mind that I would not trust myself in the hands of any man, white or colored. The slave is brought up to look upon every white man as an enemy to him and his race; and twenty-one years in slavery had taught me that there were traitors, even among colored people. After dark, I emerged from the woods into a narrow path, which led me into the main travelled road. But I knew not which way to go. I did not know north from south, east from west. I looked in vain for the North Star; a heavy cloud hid it from my view. I walked up and down the road until near midnight, when the clouds disappeared, and I welcomed the sight of my friend--truly the slave's friend--the North Star! As soon as I saw it, I knew my course, and before daylight I travelled twenty or twenty-five miles. It being in the winter, I suffered intensely from the cold; being without an overcoat, and my other clothes rather thin for the season. I was provided with a tinder-box, so that I could make up a fire when necessary. And but for this, I should certainly have frozen to death; for I was determined not to go to any house for shelter. I knew of a man belonging to Gen. Ashly, of St. Louis, who had run away near Cincinnati, on the way to Washington, but had been caught and carried back into slavery; and I felt that a similar fate awaited me, should I be seen by any one. I travelled at night, and lay by during the day. On the fourth day my provisions gave out, and then what to do I could not tell. Have something to eat I must; but how to get it was the question! On the first night after my food was gone, I went to a barn on the road-side and there found some ears of corn. I took ten or twelve of them, and kept on my journey. During the next day, while in the woods, I roasted my corn and feasted upon it, thanking God that I was so well provided for. My escape to a land of freedom now appeared certain, and the prospects of the future occupied a great part of my thoughts. What should be my occupation, was a subject of much anxiety to me; and the next thing what should be my name? I have before stated that my old master, Dr. Young, had no children of his own, but had with him a nephew, the son of his brother, Benjamin Young. When this boy was brought to Dr. Young, his name being William, the same as mine, my mother was ordered to change mine to something else. This, at the time, I thought to be one of the most cruel acts that could be committed upon my rights; and I received several very severe whippings for telling people that my name was William, after orders were given to change it. Though young, I was old enough to place a high appreciation upon my name. It was decided, however, to call me "Sandford," and this name I was known by, not only upon my master's plantation, but up to the time that I made my escape. I was sold under the name of Sandford. But as soon as the subject came to my mind, I resolved on adopting my old name of William, and let Sandford go by the board, for I always hated it. Not because there was anything peculiar in the name; but because it had been forced upon me. It is sometimes common, at the south, for slaves to take the name of their masters. Some have a legitimate right to do so. But I always detested the idea of being called by the name of either of my masters. And as for my father, I would rather have adopted the name of "Friday," and been known as the servant of some Robinson Crusoe, than to have taken his name. So I was not only hunting for my liberty, but also hunting for a name; though I regarded the latter as of little consequence, if I could but gain the former. Travelling along the road, I would sometimes speak to myself, sounding my name over, by way of getting used to it, before I should arrive among civilized human beings. On the fifth or six day, it rained very fast, and froze about as fast as it fell, so that my clothes were one glare of ice. I travelled on at night until I became so chilled and benumbed--the wind blowing into my face--that I found it impossible to go any further, and accordingly took shelter in a barn, where I was obliged to walk about to keep from freezing. I have ever looked upon that night as the most eventful part of my escape from slavery. Nothing but the providence of God, and that old barn, saved me from freezing to death. I received a very severe cold, which settled upon my lungs, and from time to time my feet had been frostbitten, so that it was with difficulty I could walk. In this situation I travelled two days, when I found that I must seek shelter somewhere, or die. The thought of death was nothing frightful to me, compared with that of being caught, and again carried back into slavery. Nothing but the prospect of enjoying liberty could have induced me to undergo such trials, for "Behind I left the whips and chains, Before me were sweet Freedom's plains!" This, and this alone, cheered me onward. But I at last resolved to seek protection from the inclemency of the weather, and therefore I secured myself behind some logs and brush, intending to wait there until some one should pass by; for I thought it probable that I might see some colored person, or, if not, some one who was not a slaveholder; for I had an idea that I should know a slaveholder as far as I could see him. The first person that passed was a man in a buggy-wagon. He looked too genteel for me to hail him. Very soon another passed by on horseback. I attempted to speak to him, but fear made my voice fail me. As he passed, I left my hiding-place, and was approaching the road, when I observed an old man walking towards me, leading a white horse. He had on a broad-brimmed hat and a very long coat, and was evidently walking for exercise. As soon as I saw him, and observed his dress, I thought to myself, "You are the man that I have been looking for!" Nor was I mistaken. He was the very man! On approaching me, he asked me, "if I was not a slave." I looked at him some time, and then asked him "if he knew of any one who would help me, as I was sick." He answered that he would; but again asked, if I was not a slave. I told him I was. He then said that I was in a very pro-slavery neighborhood, and if I would wait until he went home, he would get a covered wagon for me. I promised to remain. He mounted his horse, and was soon out of sight. After he was gone, I meditated whether to wait or not; being apprehensive that he had gone for some one to arrest me. But I finally concluded to remain until he should return; removing some few rods to watch his movements. After a suspense of an hour and a half or more, he returned with a two-horse covered wagon, such as are usually seen under the shed of a Quaker meeting-house on Sundays and Thursdays; for the old man proved to be a Quaker of the George Fox stamp. He took me to his house, but it was some time before I could be induced to enter it; not until the old lady came out, did I venture into the house. I thought I saw something in the old lady's cap that told me I was not only safe, but welcome, in her house. I was not, however, prepared to receive their hospitalities. The only fault I found with them was their being too kind. I had never had a white man to treat me as an equal, and the idea of a white lady waiting on me at the table was still worse! Though the table was loaded with the good things of this life, I could not eat. I thought if I could only be allowed the privilege of eating in the kitchen I should be more than satisfied! Finding that I could not eat, the old lady, who was a "Thompsonian," made me a cup of "composition," or "number six;" but it was so strong and hot, that I called it "_number seven_!" However, I soon found myself at home in this family. On different occasions, when telling these facts, I have been asked how I felt upon finding myself regarded as a man by a white family; especially just having run away from one. I cannot say that I have ever answered the question yet. The fact that I was in all probability a freeman, sounded in my ears like a charm. I am satisfied that none but a slave could place such an appreciation upon liberty as I did at that time. I wanted to see mother and sister, that I might tell them "I was free!" I wanted to see my fellow-slaves in St. Louis, and let them know that the chains were no longer upon my limbs. I wanted to see Captain Price, and let him learn from my own lips that I was no more a chattel, but a man! I was anxious, too, thus to inform Mrs. Price that she must get another coachman. And I wanted to see Eliza more than I did either Mr. or Mrs. Price! The fact that I was a freeman--could walk, talk, eat and sleep, as a man, and no one to stand over me with the blood-clotted cow-hide--all this made me feel that I was not myself. The kind friend that had taken me in was named Wells Brown. He was a devoted friend of the slave; but was very old, and not in the enjoyment of good health. After being by the fire awhile, I found that my feet had been very much frozen. I was seized with a fever, which threatened to confine me to my bed. But my Thompsonian friends soon raised me, treating me as kindly as if I had been one of their own children. I remained with them twelve or fifteen days, during which time they made me some clothing, and the old gentleman purchased me a pair of boots. I found that I was about fifty or sixty miles from Dayton, in the State of Ohio, and between one and two hundred miles from Cleaveland, on Lake Erie, a place I was desirous of reaching on my way to Canada. This I know will sound strangely to the ears of people in foreign lands, but it is nevertheless true. An American citizen was fleeing from a democratic, republican, Christian government, to receive protection under the monarchy of Great Britain. While the people of the United States boast of their freedom, they at the same time keep three millions of their own citizens in chains; and while I am seated here in sight of Bunker Hill Monument, writing this narrative, I am a slave, and no law, not even in Massachusetts, can protect me from the hands of the slaveholder! Before leaving this good Quaker friend, he inquired what my name was besides William. I told him that I had no other name. "Well," said he, "thee must have another name. Since thee has got out of slavery, thee has become a man, and men always have two names." I told him that he was the first man to extend the hand of friendship to me, and I would give him the privilege of naming me. "If I name thee," said he, "I shall call thee Wells Brown, after myself." "But," said I, "I am not willing to lose my name of William. As it was taken from me once against my will, I am not willing to part with it again upon any terms." "Then," said he, "I will call thee William Wells Brown." "So be it," said I; and I have been known by that name ever since I left the house of my first white friend, Wells Brown. After giving me some little change, I again started for Canada. In four days I reached a public house, and went in to warm myself. I there learned that some fugitive slaves had just passed through the place. The men in the bar-room were talking about it, and I thought that it must have been myself they referred to, and I was therefore afraid to start, fearing they would seize me; but I finally mustered courage enough, and took my leave. As soon as I was out of sight, I went into the woods, and remained there until night, when I again regained the road, and travelled on until next day. Not having had any food for nearly two days, I was faint with hunger, and was in a dilemma what to do, as the little cash supplied me by my adopted father, and which had contributed to my comfort, was now all gone. I however concluded to go to a farm-house, and, ask for something to eat. On approaching the door of the first one presenting itself, I knocked, and was soon met by a man who asked me what I wanted. I told him that I would like something to eat. He asked me where I was from, and where I was going. I replied that I had come some way, and was going to Cleaveland. After hesitating a moment or two, he told me that he could give me nothing to eat, adding, "that if I would work, I could get something to eat." I felt bad, being thus refused something to sustain nature, but did not dare tell him that I was a slave. Just as I was leaving the door, with a heavy heart, a woman, who proved to be the wife of this gentleman, came to the door, and asked her husband what I wanted. He did not seem inclined to inform her. She therefore asked me herself. I told her that I had asked for something to eat. After a few other questions, she told me to come in, and that she would give me something to eat. I walked up to the door, but the husband remained in the passage, as if unwilling to let me enter. She asked him two or three times to get out of the way, and let me in. But as he did not move, she pushed him on one side, bidding me walk in! I was never before so glad to see a woman push a man aside! Ever since that act; I have been in favor of "woman's rights!" After giving me as much food as I could eat, she presented me with ten cents, all the money then at her disposal, accompanied with a note to a friend, a few miles further on the road. Thanking this angel of mercy from an overflowing heart, I pushed on my way, and in three days arrived at Cleaveland, Ohio. Being an entire stranger in this place, it was difficult for me to find where to stop. I had no money, and the lake being frozen, I saw that I must remain until the opening of the navigation, or go to Canada by way of Buffalo. But believing myself to be somewhat out of danger, I secured an engagement at the Mansion House, as a table waiter, in payment for my board. The proprietor, however, whose name was E. M. Segur, in a short time, hired me for twelve dollars a month; on which terms I remained until spring, when I found good employment on board a lake steamboat. I purchased some books, and at leisure moments perused them with considerable advantage to myself. While at Cleaveland, I saw, for the first time, an anti-slavery newspaper. It was the "_Genius of Universal Emancipation_," published by Benjamin Lundy; and though I had no home, I subscribed for the paper. It was my great desire, being out of slavery myself, to do what I could for the emancipation of my brethren yet in chains, and while on Lake Erie, I found many opportunities of "helping their cause along." It is well known that a great number of fugitives make their escape to Canada, by way of Cleaveland; and while on the lakes, I always made arrangement to carry them on the boat to Buffalo or Detroit, and thus effect their escape to the "promised land." The friends of the slave, knowing that I would transport them without charge, never failed to have a delegation when the boat arrived at Cleaveland. I have sometimes had four or five on board at one time. In the year 1842, I conveyed, from the first of May to the first of December, sixty-nine fugitives over Lake Erie to Canada. In 1843, I visited Malden, in Upper Canada, and counted seventeen in that small village, whom I had assisted in reaching Canada. Soon after coming north I subscribed for the Liberator, edited by that champion of freedom, William Lloyd Garrison. I had heard nothing of the anti-slavery movement while in slavery, and as soon as I found that my enslaved countrymen had friends who were laboring for their liberation, I felt anxious to join them, and give what aid I could to the cause. I early embraced the temperance cause, and found that a temperance reformation was needed among my colored brethren. In company with a few friends, I commenced a temperance reformation among the colored people in the city of Buffalo, and labored three years, in which time a society was built up, numbering over five hundred out of a population of less than seven hundred. In the autumn, 1843, impressed with the importance of spreading anti-slavery truth, as a means to bring about the abolition of slavery, I commenced lecturing as an agent of the western New York Anti-Slavery Society, and have ever since devoted my time to the cause of my enslaved countrymen. From the Liberty Bell of 1848. THE AMERICAN SLAVE-TRADE. BY WILLIAM WELLS BROWN. Of the many features which American slavery presents, the most cruel is that of the slave-trade. A traffic in the bodies and souls of native-born Americans is carried on in the slave-holding states to an extent little dreamed of by the great mass of the people in the non-slave-holding states. The precise number of slaves carried from the slave-raising to the slave-consuming states we have no means of knowing. But it must be very great, as forty thousand were sold and carried out of the State of Virginia in one single year! This heart-rending and cruel traffic is not confined to any particular class of persons. No person forfeits his or her character or standing in society by being engaged in raising and selling slaves to supply the cotton, sugar, and rice plantations of the south. Few persons who have visited the slave states have not, on their return, told of the gangs of slaves they had seen on their way to the southern market. This trade presents some of the most revolting and atrocious scenes which can be imagined. Slave-prisons, slave-auctions, hand-cuffs, whips, chains, bloodhounds, and other instruments of cruelty, are part of the furniture which belongs to the American slave-trade. It is enough to make humanity bleed at every pore, to see these implements of torture. Known to God only is the amount of human agony and suffering which sends its cry from these slave-prisons, unheard or unheeded by man, up to His ear; mothers weeping for their children--breaking the night-silence with the shrieks of their breaking hearts. We wish no human being to experience emotions of needless pain, but we do wish that every man, woman, and child in New England, could visit a southern slave-prison and auction-stand. I shall never forget a scene which took place in the city of St. Louis, while I was in slavery. A man and his wife, both slaves, were brought from the country to the city, for sale. They were taken to the rooms of AUSTIN & SAVAGE, auctioneers. Several slave-speculators, who are always to be found at auctions where slaves are to be sold, were present. The man was first put up, and sold to the highest bidder. The wife was next ordered to ascend the platform. I was present. She slowly obeyed the order. The auctioneer commenced, and soon several hundred dollars were bid. My eyes were intensely fixed on the face of the woman, whose cheeks were wet with tears. But a conversation between the slave and his new master attracted my attention. I drew near them to listen. The slave was begging his new master to purchase his wife. Said he, "Master, if you will only buy Fanny, I know you will get the worth of your money. She is a good cook, a good washer, and her last mistress liked her very much. If you will only buy her how happy I shall be." The new master replied that he did not want her, but if she sold cheap he would purchase her. I watched the countenance of the man while the different persons were bidding on his wife. When his new master bid on his wife you could see the smile upon his countenance, and the tears stop; but as soon as another would bid, you could see the countenance change and the tears start afresh. From this change of countenance one could see the workings of the inmost soul. But this suspense did not last long; the wife was struck off to the highest bidder, who proved not to be the owner of her husband. As soon as they became aware that they were to be separated, they both burst into tears; and as she descended from the auction-stand, the husband, walking up to her and taking her by the hand, said, "Well, Fanny, we are to part forever, on earth; you have been a good wife to me. I did all that I could to get my new master to buy you; but he did not want you, and all I have to say is, I hope you will try to meet me in heaven. I shall try to meet you there." The wife made no reply, but her sobs and cries told, too well, her own feelings. I saw the countenances of a number of whites who were present, and whose eyes were dim with tears at hearing the man bid his wife farewell. Such are but common occurrences in the slave states. At these auction-stands, bones, muscles, sinews, blood and nerves, of human beings, are sold with as much indifference as a farmer in the north sells a horse or sheep. And this great American nation is, at the present time, engaged in the slave-trade. I have before me now the Washington "UNION," the organ of the government, in which I find an advertisement of several slaves to be sold for the benefit of the government. They will, in all human probability, find homes among the rice-swamps of Georgia, or the cane-brakes of Mississippi. With every disposition on the part of those who are engaged in it to veil the truth, certain facts have, from time to time, transpired, sufficient to show, if not the full amount of the evil, at least that it is one of prodigious magnitude. And what is more to be wondered at, is the fact that the greatest slave-market is to be found at the capital of the country! The American slave-trader marches by the capitol with his "coffle-gang,"--the stars and stripes waving over their heads, and the constitution of the United States in his pocket! The Alexandria Gazette, speaking of the slave-trade at the capital, says, "Here you may behold fathers and brothers leaving behind them the dearest objects of affection, and moving slowly along in the mute agony of despair; there, the young mother, sobbing over the infant whose innocent smile seems but to increase her misery. From some you will hear the burst of bitter lamentation, while from others, the loud hysteric laugh breaks forth, denoting still deeper agony. Such is but a faint picture of the American slave-trade." _Boston, Massachusetts._ THE BLIND SLAVE BOY. BY MRS. BAILEY. Come back to me mother! why linger away From thy poor little blind boy the long weary day! I mark every footstep, I list to each tone, And wonder my mother should leave me alone! There are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee, But there's no one to joy or to sorrow with me; For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share, And none for the poor little blind boy will care. My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast Once more let thy poor little blind boy be pressed; Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek, And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak. O mother! I've no one to love me--no heart Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part, No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind, Oh! none like a mother can cherish the blind! Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear, No mother can hasten to banish thy fear; For the slave-owner drives her o'er mountain and wild, And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child; Ah, who can in language of mortals reveal The anguish that none but a mother can feel. When man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod On her child, who is stricken or smitten of God! Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone, She hears in her anguish his piteous moan; As he eagerly listens--but listens in vain-- To catch the loved tones of his mother again! The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall On the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall, And his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy, Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy! APPENDIX. In giving a history of my own sufferings in slavery, as well as the sufferings of others with which I was acquainted, or which came under my immediate observation, I have spoken harshly of slaveholders, in church and state. Nor am I inclined to apologize for anything which I have said. There are exceptions among slaveholders, as well as among other sinners; and the fact that a slaveholder feeds his slaves better, clothes them better, than another, does not alter the case; he is a slaveholder. I do not ask the slaveholder to feed, clothe, or to treat his victim better as a slave. I am not waging a warfare against the collateral evils, or what are sometimes called the abuses, of slavery. I wage a war against slavery itself, because it takes man down from the lofty position which God intended he should occupy, and places him upon a level with the beasts of the field. It decrees that the slave shall not worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience; it denies him the word of God; it makes him a chattel, and sells him in the market to the highest bidder; it decrees that he shall not protect the wife of his bosom; it takes from him every right which God gave him. Clothing and food are as nothing compared with liberty. What care I for clothing or food, while I am the slave of another? You may take me and put cloth upon my back, boots upon my feet, a hat upon my head, and cram a beef-steak down my throat, and all of this will not satisfy me as long as I know that you have the power to tear me from my dearest relatives. All I ask of the slaveholder is to give the slave his liberty. It is freedom I ask for the _slave_. And that the American slave will eventually get his freedom, no one can doubt. You cannot keep the human mind forever locked up in darkness. A ray of light, a spark from freedom's altar, the idea of inherent right, each, all, will become fixed in the soul; and that moment his "limbs swell beyond the measure of his chains," that moment he is free; then it is that the slave dies to become a freeman; then it is felt that one hour of virtuous liberty is worth an eternity of bondage; then it is, in the madness and fury of his blood, that the excited soul exclaims, "From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly; For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?" The rising of the slaves in Southampton, Virginia, in 1831, has not been forgotten by the American people. Nat Turner, a slave for life,--a Baptist minister,--entertained the idea that he was another Moses, whose duty it was to lead his people out of bondage. His soul was fired with the love of liberty, and he declared to his fellow-slaves that the time had arrived, and that "They who would be free, themselves must strike the blow." He knew that it would be "liberty or death" with his little band of patriots, numbering less than three hundred. He commenced the struggle for liberty; he knew his cause was just, and he loved liberty more than he feared death. He did not wish to take the lives of the whites; he only demanded that himself and brethren might be free. The slaveholders found that men whose souls were burning for liberty, however small their numbers, could not be put down at their pleasure; that something more than water was wanted to extinguish the flame. They trembled at the idea of meeting men in open combat, whose backs they had lacerated, whose wives and daughters they had torn from their bosoms, whose hearts were bleeding from the wounds inflicted by them. They appealed to the United States government for assistance. A company of United States troops was sent into Virginia to put down men whose only offence was, that they wanted to be free. Yes! northern men, men born and brought up in the free states, at the demand of slavery, marched to its rescue. They succeeded in reducing the poor slave again to his chains; but they did not succeed in crushing his spirit. Not the combined powers of the American Union, not the slaveholders, with all their northern allies, can extinguish that burning desire of freedom in the slave's soul! Northern men may stand by as the body-guard of slaveholders. They may succeed for the time being in keeping the slave in his chains; but unless the slaveholders liberate their victims, and that, too, speedily, some modern Hannibal will make his appearance in the southern states, who will trouble the slaveholders as the noble Carthaginian did the Romans. Abolitionists deprecate the shedding of blood; they have warned the slaveholders again and again. Yet they will not give heed, but still persist in robbing the slave of liberty. "But for the fear of northern bayonets, pledged for the master's protection, the slaves would long since have wrung a peaceful emancipation from the fears of their oppressors, or sealed their own redemption in blood." To the shame of the northern people, the slaveholders confess that to them they are "indebted for a permanent safe-guard against insurrection;" that "a million of their slaves stand ready to strike for liberty at the first tap of the drum;" and but for the aid of the north they would be too weak to keep them in their chains. I ask in the language of the slave's poet, "What! shall ye guard your neighbor still, While woman shrieks beneath his rod, And while he tramples down at will The image of a common God? Shall watch and ward be 'round him set, Of northern nerve and bayonet?" The countenance of the people at the north has quieted the fears of the slaveholders, especially the countenance which they receive from northern churches. "But for the countenance of the northern church, the southern conscience would have long since awakened to its guilt: and the impious sight of a church made up of slaveholders, and called the church of Christ, been scouted from the world." So says a distinguished writer. Slaveholders hide themselves behind the church. A more praying, preaching, psalm-singing people cannot be found than the slaveholders at the south. The religion of the south is referred to every day, to prove that slaveholders are good, pious men. But with all their pretensions, and all the aid which they get from the northern church, they cannot succeed in deceiving the Christian portion of the world. Their child-robbing, man-stealing, woman-whipping, chain-forging, marriage-destroying, slave-manufacturing, man-slaying religion, will not be received as genuine; and the people of the free states cannot expect to live in union with slaveholders, without becoming contaminated with slavery. They are looked upon as one people; they _are_ one people; the people in the free and slave states form the "American Union." Slavery is a national institution. The nation licenses men to traffic in the bodies and souls of men; it supplies them with public buildings at the capital of the country to keep their victims in. For a paltry sum it gives the auctioneer a license to sell American men, women, and children, upon the auction-stand. The American slave-trader, with the constitution in his hat and his license in his pocket, marches his gang of chained men and women under the very eaves of the nation's capitol. And this, too, in a country professing to be the freest nation in the world. They profess to be democrats, republicans, and to believe in the natural equality of men; that they are "all created with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." They call themselves a Christian nation; they rob three millions of their countrymen of their liberties, and then talk of their piety, their democracy, and their love of liberty; and, in the language of Shakspeare, say, "And thus I clothe my naked villany, And seem a saint when most I play the devil." The people of the United States, with all their high professions, are forging chains for unborn millions, in their wars for slavery. With all their democracy, there is not a foot of land over which the "stars and stripes" fly, upon which the American slave can stand and claim protection. Wherever the United States constitution has jurisdiction, and the American flag is seen flying, they point out the slave as a chattel, a thing, a piece of property. But I thank God there is one spot in America upon which the slave can stand and be a man. No matter whether the claimant be a United States president, or a doctor of divinity; no matter with what solemnities some American court may have pronounced him a slave; the moment he makes his escape from under the "stars and stripes," and sets foot upon the soil of CANADA, "the altar and the god sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, that burst from around him; and he stands redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal emancipation." But slavery must and will be banished from the United States soil: "Let tyrants scorn, while tyrants dare, The shrieks and writhings of despair; The end will come, it will not wait, Bonds, yokes, and scourges have their date; Slavery itself must pass away, And be a tale of yesterday." But I will now stop, and let the slaveholders speak for themselves. I shall here present some evidences of the treatment which slaves receive from their masters; after which I will present a few of the slave-laws. And it has been said, and I believe truly, that no people were ever found to be better than their laws. And, as an American slave,--as one who is identified with the slaves of the south by the scars which I carry on my back,--as one identified with them by the tenderest ties of nature,--as one whose highest aspirations are to serve the cause of truth and freedom,--I beg of the reader not to lay this book down until he or she has read every page it contains. I ask it not for my own sake, but for the sake of three millions who cannot speak for themselves. From the Livingston County (Alabama) Whig of Nov. 16, 1845. "NEGRO DOGS.--The undersigned having bought the entire pack of Negro Dogs, (of the Hays & Allen stock,) he now proposesto catch runaway Negroes. His charge will be three dollars per day for hunting, and fifteen dollars for catching a runaway. He resides three and a half miles north of Livingston, near the lower Jones' Bluff road. "WILLIAM GAMBREL. "Nov. 6, 1845." The Wilmington [North Carolina] Advertiser of July 13, 1838, contains the following advertisement: "Ranaway, my Negro man Richard. A reward of $25 will be paid for his apprehension, DEAD or ALIVE. Satisfactory proof will only be required of his being killed. He has with him, in all probability, his wife Eliza, who ran away from Col. Thompson, now a resident of Alabama, about the time he commenced his journey to that state. "D. H. RHODES." The St. Louis Gazette says-- "A wealthy man here had a boy named Reuben, almost white, whom he caused to be branded in the face with the words 'A slave for life.'" From the N. C. Standard, July 28, 1838. "TWENTY DOLLARS REWARD.--Ranaway from the subscriber, a negro woman and two children; the woman is tall and black, and _a few days before she went off_ I BURNT HER ON THE LEFT SIDE OF HER FACE: I TRIED TO MAKE THE LETTER M, _and she kept a cloth over her head and face, and a fly bonnet over her head, so as to cover the burn_; her children are both boys, the oldest is in his seventh year; he is a _mulatto_ and has blue eyes; the youngest is a black, and is in his fifth year. "MICAJAH RICKS, Nash County." "One of my neighbors sold to a speculator a negro boy, about 14 years old. It was more than his poor mother could bear. Her reason fled, and she became a perfect _maniac_, and had to be kept in close confinement. She would occasionally get out and run off to the neighbors. On one of these occasions she came to my house. With tears rolling down her cheeks, and her frame shaking with agony, she would cry out, '_Don't you hear him--they are whipping him now, and he is calling for me!_' This neighbor of mine, who tore the boy away from his poor mother, and thus broke her heart, was a _member of the Presbyterian church_."--_Rev. Francis Hawley, Baptist minister, Colebrook, Ct._ A colored man in the city of St. Louis was taken by a mob, and burnt alive at the stake. A bystander gives the following account of the scene:-- "After the flames had surrounded their prey, and when his clothes were in a blaze all over him, his eyes burnt out of his head, and his mouth seemingly parched to a cinder, some one in the _crowd_, more compassionate than the rest, proposed to put an end to his misery by shooting him, when it was replied, that it would be of no use, since he was already out of his pain. 'No,' said the wretch, 'I am not, I am suffering as much as ever,--shoot me, shoot me.' 'No, no,' said one of the fiends, who was standing about the sacrifice they were roasting, 'he shall not be shot; I would sooner slacken the fire, if that would increase his misery;' and the man who said this was, we understand, an _officer of justice_."--_Alton Telegraph._ "We have been informed that the slave William, who murdered his master (Huskey) some weeks since, was taken by a party a few days since _from the sheriff_ of Hot Spring, and _burned alive_! yes, tied up to the limb of a tree and a fire built under him, and consumed in a slow lingering torture."--_Arkansas Gazette, Oct. 29, 1836._ _The Natchez Free Trader_, 16th June, 1842, gives a horrible account of the execution of the negro Joseph on the 5th of that month for murder. "The body," says that paper, "was taken and chained to a tree immediately on the bank of the Mississippi, on what is called Union Point. The torches were lighted and placed in the pile. He watched unmoved the curling flame as it grew, until it began to entwine itself around and feed upon his body; then he sent forth cries of agony painful to the ear, begging some one to blow his brains out; at the same time surging with almost superhuman strength, until the staple with which the chain was fastened to the tree, not being well secured, drew out, and he leaped from the burning pile. At that moment the sharp ring of several rifles was heard, and the body of the negro fell a corpse to the ground. He was picked up by two or three, and again thrown into the fire and consumed." "ANOTHER NEGRO BURNED.--We learn from the clerk of the Highlander, that, while wooding a short distance below the mouth of Red river, they were _invited to stop a short time and see another negro burned_."--_New Orleans Bulletin._ "We can assure the Bostonians, one and all, who have embarked in the nefarious scheme of abolishing slavery at the south, that lashes will hereafter be spared the backs of their emissaries. Let them send out their men to Louisiana; they will never return to tell their sufferings, but they shall expiate the crime of interfering in our domestic institutions by being BURNED AT THE STAKE."--_New Orleans True American._ "The cry of the whole south should be death, instant death, to the abolitionist, wherever he is caught."--_Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle._ "Let us declare through the public journals of our country, that the question of slavery is not and shall not be open for discussion: that the system is too deep-rooted among us, and must remain forever; that the very moment any private individual attempts to lecture us upon its evils and immorality, and the necessity of putting means in operation to secure us from them, in the same moment his tongue shall be cut out and cast upon the dunghill."--_Columbia (S. C.) Telescope._ From the St. Louis Republican. "On Friday last the coroner held an inquest at the house of Judge Dunica, a few miles south of the city, over the body of a negro girl, about 8 years of age, belonging to Mr. Cordell. The body exhibited evidence of the most cruel whipping and beating we have ever heard of. The flesh on the back and limbs was beaten to a jelly--one shoulder-bone was laid bare--there were several cuts, apparently from a club, on the head--and around the neck was the indentation of a cord, by which it is supposed she had been confined to a tree. She had been hired by a man by the name of Tanner, residing in the neighborhood, and was sent home in this condition. After coming home, her constant request, until her death, was for bread, by which it would seem that she had been starved as well as unmercifully whipped. The jury returned a verdict that she came to her death by the blows inflicted by some persons unknown whilst she was in the employ of Mr. Tanner. Mrs. Tanner has been tried and acquitted." A correspondent of the N. Y. Herald writes from St. Louis, Oct. 19: "I yesterday visited the cell of Cornelia, the slave charged with being the accomplice of Mrs. Ann Tanner (recently acquitted) in the murder of a little negro girl, by whipping and starvation. She admits her participancy, but says she was compelled to take the part she did in the affair. On one occasion she says the child was tied to a tree from Monday morning till Friday night, exposed by day to the scorching rays of the sun, and by night to the stinging of myriads of musquitoes; and that during all this time the child had nothing to eat, but was whipped daily. The child told the same story to Dr. McDowell." From the Carroll County Mississippian, May 4th, 1844. "Committed to jail in this place, on the 29th of April last, a runaway slave named Creesy, and says she belongs to William Barrow, of Carroll county, Mississippi. Said woman is stout built, five feet four inches high, and appears to be about twenty years of age; she has a band of iron on each ankle, and a trace chain around her neck, fastened with a common padlock. "J. N. SPENCER, Jailer. "May 15, 1844." The Savannah, Ga., Republican of the 13th of March, 1845, contains an advertisement, one item of which is as follows:-- "Also, at the same time and place, the following negro slaves, to wit: Charles, Peggy, Antonnett, Davy, September, Maria, Jenny, and Isaac--levied on as the property of Henry T. Hall, to satisfy a mortgage fi. fia. issued out of McIntosh Superior Court, in favor of the board of directors of the _Theological Seminary of the Synod of South Carolina and Georgia_, vs. said Henry T. Hall. Conditions, cash. "C. O'NEAL, Deputy Sheriff, M. C." In the "Macon (Georgia) Telegraph," May 28, is the following: "About the first of March last, the negro man RANSOM left me, without the least provocation whatever. I will give a reward of $20 dollars for said negro, if taken DEAD or ALIVE,--and if killed in any attempt an advance of $5 will be paid. "BRYANT JOHNSON. "Crawford Co., Ga." From the Apalachicola Gazette, May 9. "ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS REWARD.--Ranaway from my plantation on the 6th inst., three negro men, all of dark complexion. "BILL is about five feet four inches high, aged about twenty-six, _a scar on his upper lip_, also _one on his shoulder_, and has been _badly cut on his arm_; speaks quick and broken, and a venomous look. "DANIEL is about the same height, chunky and well set, broad, flat mouth, with a pleasing countenance, rather inclined to show his teeth when talking, no particular marks recollected, aged about twenty-three. "NOAH is about six feet three or four inches high, twenty-eight years old, with rather a down, impudent look, insolent in his discourse, with a large mark on his breast, _a good many large scars_, caused by the whip, on his back--_has been shot in the back of his arm_ with small shot. The above reward will be paid to any one who will KILL the three, or fifty for either one, or twenty dollars apiece for them delivered to me at my plantation alive, on Chattahoochie, Early county. "J. MCDONALD." From the Alabama Beacon, June 11, 1845. "Ranaway, on the 15th of May, from me, a negro woman named Fanny. Said woman is twenty years old; is rather tall, can read and write, and so forge passes for herself. Carried away with her a pair of ear-rings, a Bible with a red cover, is very pious. She prays a great deal, and was, as supposed, contented and happy. She is as white as most white women, with straight light hair, and blue eyes, and can pass herself for a white woman. I will give five hundred dollars for her apprehension and delivery to me. She is very intelligent. "JOHN BALCH. "Tuscaloosa, May, 29, 1845." From the N. O. Commercial Bulletin, Sept. 30. "TEN DOLLARS REWARD.--Ranaway from the subscribers, on the 15th of last month, the negro man Charles, about 45 years of age, 5 feet 6 inches high; red complexion, has had the _upper lid of his right eye torn_, and _a scar on his forehead_; speaks English only, and stutters when spoken to; he had on when he left, _an iron collar, the prongs of which he broke off before absconding_. The above reward will be paid for the arrest of said slave. W. E. & R. MURPHY, "132 Old Raisin." From the N. O. Bee, Oct. 5. "Ranaway from the residence of Messrs. F. Duncom & Co., the negro Francois, aged from 25 to 30 years, about 5 feet 1 inch in height; the _upper front teeth are missing_; he had _chains on both of his legs_, dressed with a kind of blouse made of sackcloth. A proportionate reward will be given to whoever will bring him back to the bakery, No. 74, Bourbon street." From the N. O. Picayune of Sunday, Dec. 17. "COCK-PIT.--_Benefit of Fire Company No. 1, Lafayette._--A cock-fight will take place on Sunday, the 17th inst., at the well-known house of the subscriber. As the entire proceeds are for the benefit of the fire company, a full attendance is respectfully solicited. ADAM ISRANG. "_Corner of Josephine and Tchoupitolas streets, Lafayette._" From the N. O. Picayune. "TURKEY SHOOTING.--This day, Dec. 17, from 10 o'clock, A. M., until 6 o'clock, P. M., and the following Sundays, at M'Donoughville, opposite the Second Municipality Ferry." The next is an advertisement from the New Orleans Bee, an equally popular paper. "A BULL FIGHT, between a ferocious bull and a number of dogs, will take place on Sunday next, at 4¼ o'clock, P. M., on the other side of the river, at Algiers, opposite Canal street. After the bull fight, a fight will take place between a bear and some dogs. The whole to conclude by a combatbetween an ass and several dogs. "Amateurs bringing dogs to participate in the fight will be admitted gratis. Admittance--Boxes, 50 cts.; Pit, 30 cts. The spectacle will be repeated every Sunday, weather permitting. "PEPE LLULLA." EXTRACTS FROM THE AMERICAN SLAVE CODE. The following are mostly abridged selections from the statutes of the slave status and of the United States. They give but a faint view of the cruel oppression to which the slaves are subject, but a strong one enough, it is thought, to fill every honest heart with a deep abhorrence of the atrocious system. Most of the important provisions here cited, though placed under the name of only one state, prevail in nearly all the states, with slight variations in language, and some diversity in the penalties. The extracts have been made in part from Stroud's Sketch of the Slave Laws, but chiefly from authorized editions of the statute books referred to, found in the Philadelphia Law Library. As the compiler has not had access to many of the later enactments of the several states, nearly all he has cited are acts of an earlier date than that of the present anti-slavery movement, so that their severity cannot be ascribed to its influence. The cardinal principle of slavery, that the slave is not to be ranked among _sentient beings_, but among things--is an article of property, a chattel personal--obtains as undoubted law in all the slave states.[1]--_Stroud's Sketch_, p. 22. The dominion of the master is as unlimited as is that which is tolerated by the laws of any civilized country in relation to brute animals--to _quadrupeds_; to use the words of the civil law.--_Ib._ 24. Slaves cannot even contract matrimony.[2]--_Ib._ 61. LOUISIANA.--A slave is one who is in the power of his master, to whom he belongs. The master may sell him, dispose of his person, his industry and his labor; he can do nothing, possess nothing, nor acquire anything, but what must belong to his master.--_Civil Code_, Art. 35. Slaves are incapable of inheriting or transmitting property.--_Civil Code_, Art. 945; also Art. 175, and _Code of Practice_, Art. 103. _Martin's Digest_, Act of June 7, 1806.--Slaves shall always be reputed and considered real estate; shall be as such subject to be mortgaged, according to the rules prescribed by law, and they shall be seized and sold as real estate.--_Vol. I._, p. 612. _Dig. Stat._ Sec 13.--No owner of slaves shall hire his slaves to themselves, under a penalty of twenty-five dollars for each offence.--_Vol. I._, p. 102. Sec. 15.--No slave can possess anything in his own right, or dispose of the produce of his own industry, without the consent of his master.--p. 103. Sec. 16.--No slave can be party in a civil suit, or witness in a civil or criminal matter, against any white person.--p. 103. _See also Civil Code_, Art. 117, p. 28. Sec. 18.--A slave's subordination to his master is susceptible of no restriction, (except in what incites to crime,) and he owes to him and all his family, respect without bounds, and absolute obedience.--p. 103. Sec. 25.--Every slave found on horseback, without a written permission from his master, shall receive twenty-five lashes.--p. 105. Sec. 32.--Any freeholder may seize and correct any slave found absent from his usual place of work or residence, without some white person, and if the slave resist or try to escape, he may use arms, and if the slave _assault_[3] and strike him, he may _kill_ the slave.--p. 109. Sec. 35.--It is lawful to fire upon runaway negroes who are armed, and upon those who, when pursued, refuse to surrender.--p. 109. Sec. 38.--No slave may buy, sell, or exchange any kind of goods, or hold any boat, or bring up for his own use any horses or cattle, under a penalty of forfeiting the whole.--p. 110. Sec. 7.--Slaves or free colored persons are punished with _death_, for wilfully burning or destroying any stack of produce or any building.--p. 115. Sec. 15.--The punishment of a slave for striking a white person, shall be for the first and second offences at the discretion of the court,[4] but not extending to life or limb, and for the third offence _death_; but for grievously wounding or mutilating a white person, _death_ for the first offence; provided, if the blow or wound is given in defence of the person or _property of his master_, or the person having charge of him, he is entirely justified. _Act of Feb. 22, 1824_, Sec. 2.--A slave for wilfully striking his master or mistress, or the child of either, or his white overseer, so as to cause a bruise or shedding of blood, _shall be punished with death_.--p. 125. _Act of March 6, 1819._--Any person cutting or breaking any iron chain or collar used to prevent the escape of slaves, shall be fined not less than two hundred dollars, nor more than one thousand dollars, and be imprisoned not more than two years nor less than six months.--p. 64 of the session. _Law of January 8, 1813_, Sec. 71.--All slaves sentenced to death or perpetual imprisonment, in virtue of existing laws, shall be paid for out of the public treasury, provided the sum paid shall not exceed $300 for each slave. _Law of March 16, 1830_, Sec. 93.--The state treasurer shall pay the owners the value of all slaves whose punishment has been commuted from that of death to that of imprisonment for life, &c. If any slave shall _happen_ to be slain for refusing to surrender him or herself, contrary to law, or in unlawfully resisting any officer or _other person_, who shall apprehend, or endeavor to apprehend, such slave or slaves, &c., such officer or _other person so killing such slave as aforesaid_, making resistance, shall be, and he is by this act, _indemnified_, from any prosecution for such killing aforesaid, &c.--_Maryland Laws, act of 1751, chap_ xiv., § 9. And by the negro act of 1740, of South Carolina, it is declared: If any slave, who shall be out of the house or plantation where such slave shall live, or shall be usually employed, or without some white person in company with such slave, shall _refuse to submit_ to undergo the examination of _any white_ person, it shall be lawful for such white person to pursue, apprehend, and moderately correct such slave and if such slave shall assault and strike such white person, such slave may be _lawfully killed_!!--_2 Brevard's Digest_, 231. MISSISSIPPI. _Chapt._ 92, Sec. 110.--Penalty for any slave or free colored person exercising the functions of a minister of the gospel, thirty-nine lashes; but any master may permit his slave to preach on his own premises, no slaves but his own being permitted to assemble.--_Digest of Stat._, p. 770. _Act of June 18, 1822_, Sec. 21.--No negro or mulatto can be a witness in any case, except against negroes or mulattoes.--p. 749. _New Code_, 372. Sec. 25.--Any master licensing his slave to go at large and trade as a freeman, shall forfeit fifty dollars to the state for the literary fund. Penalty for teaching a slave to read, imprisonment one year. For using language having a _tendency_ to promote discontent among free colored people, or insubordination among slaves, imprisonment at _hard labor_, not less than three, nor more than twenty-one years, or DEATH, at the discretion of the court.--_L. M. Child's Appeal_, p. 70. Sec. 26.--It is _lawful_ for _any_ person, and the duty of every sheriff, deputy-sheriff, coroner and constable to apprehend any slave going at large, or hired out by him, or herself, and take him or her before a justice of the peace, who shall impose a penalty of not less than twenty dollars, nor more than fifty dollars, on the owner, who has permitted such slave to do so. Sec. 32.--Any negro or mulatto, for using abusive language, or lifting his hand in opposition to any white person, (except in self-defence against a wanton assault,) shall, on proof of the offence by oath of such person, receive such punishment as a justice of the peace may order, not exceeding thirty-nine lashes. Sec. 41--Forbids the holding of cattle, sheep or hogs by slaves, even with consent of the master, under penalty of forfeiture, half to the county, and half to the _informer_. Sec. 42--Forbids a slave keeping a dog, under a penalty of twenty-five stripes; and requires any master who permits it to pay a fine of five dollars, and make good all damages done by such dog. Sec. 43--Forbids slaves cultivating cotton for their own use, and imposes a fine of fifty dollars on the master or overseer who permits it. _Revised Code._--Every negro or mulatto found in the state, not able to show himself entitled to freedom, may be sold as a slave.--p. 389. The owner of any plantation, on which a slave comes without written leave from his master, and not on lawful business, may inflict ten lashes for every such offence.--p. 371. ALABAMA.--_Aiken's Digest._ Tit. _Slaves, &c._, Sec. 31.--For _attempting_ to teach any free colored person, or slave, to spell, read or write, a fine of not less than two hundred and fifty dollars, nor more than five hundred dollars!--p. 397. Sec. 35 and 36.--Any free colored person found with slaves in a kitchen, outhouse or negro quarter, without a written permission from the master or overseer of said slaves, and any slave found without such permission with a free negro on his premises, shall receive fifteen lashes for the first offence, and thirty-nine for each subsequent offence; to be inflicted by master, overseer, or member of any patrol company.--p. 397. _Toulmin's Digest._--No slave can be emancipated but by a _special_ act of the Legislature.--p. 623. Act Jan. 1st, 1823--Authorizes an agent to be appointed by the governor of the state, _to sell for the benefit of the state_ all persons of color brought into the United States and within the jurisdiction of Alabama, _contrary to the laws of congress prohibiting the slave trade_.--p. 643. GEORGIA.--_Prince's Digest._ Act Dec. 19, 1818.--Penalty for any free person of color (except regularly articled seamen) coming into the state, a fine of one hundred dollars, and on failure of payment to be sold as a slave.--p. 465. Penalty for permitting a slave to labor or do business for himself, except on his master's premises, thirty dollars per week.--p. 457. No slave can be a party to any suit against a white man, except on claim of his freedom, _and every colored person is presumed to be a slave, unless he can prove himself free_.--p. 446. Act Dec. 13, 1792--Forbids the assembling of negroes under pretence of divine worship, contrary to the act regulating patrols, p. 342. This act provides that any justice of the peace may disperse any assembly of slaves which _may_ endanger the peace; and every slave found at such meeting shall receive, _without trial_, twenty-five stripes!--p. 447. Any person who sees more than seven men slaves without any white person, in a high road, may whip each slave _twenty_ lashes.--p. 454. Any slave who harbors a runaway, may suffer punishment to _any extent_, not affecting life or limb.--p. 452. SOUTH CAROLINA.--_Brevard's Digest._--Slaves shall be deemed sold, taken, reputed, and adjudged in law to be _chattels personal_ in the hands of their owners and possessors, and their executors, administrators, and assigns, _to all intents, constructions and purposes whatever_.--Vol. ii., p. 229. Act of 1740, in the preamble, states that "_many_ owners of slaves and others that have the management of them do confine them _so closely to hard labor_, that they have _not sufficient time for natural rest_," and enacts that no slave shall be compelled to labor more than _fifteen_ hours in the twenty-four, from March 25th to Sept. 25th, or _fourteen_ in the twenty-four for the rest of the year. Penalty from £5 to £20.--Vol. ii., p. 243. [Yet, in several of the slave states, the time of work for _criminals_ whose _punishment_ is hard labor, is eight hours a day for three months, nine hours for two months, and ten for the rest of the year.] A slave endeavoring to entice another slave to run away, if provision be prepared for the purpose of aiding or abetting such endeavor, shall suffer _death_.--pp. 233 and 244. Penalty for cruelly scalding or burning a slave, cutting out his tongue, putting out his eye, or depriving him of any limb, a fine of £100. For beating with a _horse_-whip, cow-skin, switch or small stick, or putting irons on, or imprisoning a slave, _no penalty or prohibition_.--p. 241. Any person who, not having lawful authority to do so, shall beat a slave, so as to disable him from _working_, shall pay fifteen shillings a day _to the owner_, for the slave's lost time, and the charge of his cure.--pp. 231 and 232. A slave claiming his freedom may sue for it by some friend who will act as guardian, but if the action be judged groundless, said guardian shall pay _double_ costs of suit, and such damages to the owner as the court may decide.--p. 260. Any assembly of slaves or free colored persons, in a secret or confined place, for mental instruction, (even if white persons _are_ present,) is an unlawful meeting, and magistrates must disperse it, breaking doors if necessary, and may inflict _twenty lashes_ upon each slave or colored person present.--pp. 254 and 255. Meetings for religious worship, before sunrise, or after 9 o'clock, P. M., unless a majority are white persons, are forbidden; and magistrates are required to disperse them.--p. 261. A slave who lets loose any boat from the place where the owner has fastened it, for the first _offence shall receive thirty-nine lashes, and for the second shall have one ear cut off_.--p. 228. _James' Digest._--Penalty for _killing_ a slave, on _sudden heat of passion_, or by _undue correction_, a fine of $500 and imprisonment not over six months.--p. 392. NORTH CAROLINA.--_Haywood's Manual._--Act of 1798, Sec. 3, enacts, that the killing of a slave shall be punished like that of a free man; _except_ in the case of a slave _out-lawed_,[5] or a slave _offering to resist_ his master, or a slave _dying under moderate correction_.--p. 530. Act of 1799.--Any slave set free, except for meritorious services, to be adjudged of by the county court, may be seized by any freeholder, committed to jail, _and sold to the highest bidder_.[6]--p. 525. Patrols are not liable to the master for punishing his slave, unless their conduct clearly shows malice _against the master_.--_Hawk's Reps._, vol. i., p. 418. TENNESSEE.--_Stat. Law_, Chap. 57, Sec. 1.--Penalty on master for hiring to any slave his own time, a fine of not less than one dollar nor more than two dollars a day, _half_ to the informer.--p. 679. Chap. 2, Sec. 102.--No slave can be emancipated but on condition of immediately removing from the state, and the person emancipating shall give bond, in a sum equal to the slave's value, to have him removed.--p. 279. _Laws of 1813._ Chap. 35.--In the trial of slaves, the sheriff chooses the court, which must consist of three justices and twelve _slaveholders_ to serve as jurors. ARKANSAS.--_Rev. Stat._, Sec. 4, requires the patrol to visit all places suspected of unlawful assemblages of slaves; and sec. 5 provides that any slave found at such assembly, or strolling about without a pass, _shall receive_ any number of _lashes_, at the discretion of the patrol, not exceeding twenty.--p. 604. MISSOURI.--_Laws, I._--Any master may commit to jail, there to remain, at _his pleasure_, any slave who refuses to obey him or his overseer.--p. 309. Whether a slave claiming freedom may even commence a suit for it, may depend on the decision of a single judge.--_Stroud's Sketch_, p. 78, note which refers to Missouri laws, I., 404. KENTUCKY.--_Dig. of Stat._, Act Feb. 8, 1798, Sec. 5.--No colored person may _keep_ or _carry_ gun, powder, shot, _club_ or _other weapon_, on penalty of _thirty-nine lashes_, and forfeiting the weapon, which any person is authorized to take. VIRGINIA.--_Rev. Code._--Any emancipated slave remaining in the state more than a year, may be sold by the overseers of the _poor_, for the benefit of the _literary fund_!--Vol. i., p. 436. Any slave or free colored person found at any school for teaching reading or writing, by day or night, may be whipped, at the discretion of a justice, not exceeding twenty lashes.--p. 424. _Suppl. Rev. Code._--Any white person assembling with slaves, for the _purpose_ of teaching them to read or write, shall be fined, not less than 10 dollars, nor more than 100 dollars; or with free colored persons, shall be fined not more than fifty dollars, and imprisoned not more than two months.--p. 245. By the revised code, _seventy-one_ offences are punished with _death_ when committed by slaves, and by nothing more than imprisonment when by the whites.--_Stroud's Sketch_, p. 107. _Rev. Code._--In the trial of slaves, the court consists of five justices without juries, even in capital cases.--I., p. 420. MARYLAND.--_Stat. Law_, Sec. 8.--Any slave, for rambling in the night, or riding horses by day without leave, or running away, may be punished by whipping, cropping, or branding in the cheek, or otherwise, not rendering him unfit for labor.--p. 237. Any slave convicted of petty treason, murder, or _wilful burning of dwelling houses_, may be sentenced _to have the right hand cut off, to be hanged in the usual manner, the head severed from the body, the body divided into four quarters, and the head and quarters set up in the most public place in the country where such fact was committed_!!--p. 190. Act 1717, Chap. 13, Sec. 5--Provides that any free colored person marrying a slave, becomes a slave for life, except mulattoes born of white women. DELAWARE.--_Laws._--More than six men slaves, meeting together, not belonging to one master, unless on lawful business of their owners, may be whipped to the extent of twenty-one lashes each.--p. 104. UNITED STATES.--_Constitution._--The chief pro-slavery provisions of the constitution, as is generally known, are, 1st, that by virtue of which the slave states are represented in congress for three-fifths of their slaves;[7] 2nd, that requiring the giving up of any runaway slaves to their masters; 3rd, that pledging the physical force of the whole country to suppress insurrections, i. e., attempts to gain freedom by such means as the framers of the instrument themselves used. Act of Feb. 12, 1793--Provides that any master or his agent may seize any person whom he claims as a "fugitive from service," and take him before a judge of the U. S. court, or magistrate of the city or county where he is taken, and the magistrate, on proof, in support of the claim, to his satisfaction, must give the claimant a certificate authorizing the removal of such fugitive to the state he fled from.[8] DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA.--The act of congress incorporating Washington city, gives the corporation power to prescribe the terms and conditions on which free negroes and mulattoes may reside in the city. _City Laws_, 6 and 11. By this authority, the city in 1827 enacted that any free colored person coming there to reside, should give the mayor satisfactory evidence of his freedom, and enter into bond with two freehold sureties, in the sum of five hundred dollars, for his good conduct, to be renewed each year for three years; or failing to do so, must leave the city, or be committed to the workhouse, for not more than one year, and if he still refuse to go, may be again committed for the same period, and so on.--_Ib._ 198. Colored persons residing in the city, who cannot prove their title to freedom, shall be imprisoned as absconding slaves.--_Ib._ 198. Colored persons found without free papers may be arrested as runaway slaves, and after two months' notice, if no claimant appears, must be advertised ten days, and sold to pay their jail fees.[9]--_Stroud_, 85, note. The city of Washington grants a license to _trade in slaves_, for profit, as agent, or otherwise, for four hundred dollars.--_City Laws_, p. 249. Reader, you uphold these laws _while you do nothing for their repeal_. You _can do_ much. You can take and read the anti-slavery journals. They will give you an impartial history of the cause, and arguments with which to convert its enemies. You can countenance and aid those who are laboring for its promotion. You can petition against slavery; you can refuse to vote for slaveholders or pro-slavery men, constitutions and compacts; can abstain from products of slave labor; and can use your social influence to spread right principles and awaken a right feeling. Be as earnest for freedom as its foes are for slavery, and you can diffuse an anti-slavery sentiment through your whole neighborhood, and merit "the blessing of them that are ready to perish." The following is from the old colonial law of North Carolina: Notice of the commitment of runaways--viz., 1741, c. 24, § 29. "An act concerning servants and slaves." Copy of notice containing a full description of such runaway and his clothing.--The sheriff is to "cause a copy of such notice to be sent to the clerk or reader of each church or chapel within his county, who are hereby required to make publication thereof by setting up the same in some open and convenient place, near the said church or chapel, on every Lord's day, during the space of two months from the date thereof." 1741, c. 24, § 45.--"Which proclamation shall be published on a Sabbath day at the door of every church or chapel, or, for want of such, at the place where divine service shall be performed in the said county, by the parish clerk or reader, immediately after divine service; and if any slave or slaves, against whom proclamation hath been thus issued, stay out and do not immediately return home, it shall be lawful for any person or persons whatsoever to kill and destroy such slave or slaves by such way or means as he or she shall think fit, without accusation or impeachment of any crime for the same." It is well known that slavery makes labor disreputable in the slave states. Laboring men of the north, hear how contemptibly slaveholders speak of you. Mr. Robert Wickliffe of Kentucky, in a speech published in the Louisville Advertiser, in opposition to those who were averse to the importation of slaves from the states, thus discourseth: "Gentlemen wanted to drive out the black population that they may obtain WHITE NEGROES in their place. WHITE NEGROES have this advantage over black negroes, they can be converted into voters; and the men who live upon the sweat of their brow, and pay them but a dependent and scanty subsistence, can, if able to keep ten thousand of them in employment, come up to the polls and change the destiny of the country. "How improved will be our condition when we have such white negroes as perform the servile labors of Europe, of old England, and he would add now of _New England_, when our body servants and our cart drivers, and our street sweepers, are _white negroes_ instead of black. Where will be the independence, the proud spirit, and chivalry of the Kentuckians then?" "We believe the servitude which prevails in the south far preferable to that of the _north_, or in Europe. Slavery will exist in all communities. There is a class which may be nominally free, but they will be virtually _slaves_."--_Mississippian, July 6th, 1838._ "Those who depend on their daily labor for their daily subsistence can never enter into political affairs, they never do, never will, never can."--_B. W. Leigh in Virginia Convention, 1829._ "All society settles down into a classification of capitalists and laborers. The former will _own_ the latter, either collectively through the government, or individually in a state of domestic servitude as exists in the southern states of this confederacy. If LABORERS ever obtain the political power of a country, it is in fact in a state of REVOLUTION. The capitalists north of Mason and Dixon's line have precisely the same interest in the labor of the country that the capitalists of England have in their labor. Hence it is, that they must have a strong federal government (!) _to control_ the labor of the nation. But it is precisely the reverse with us. We have already not only a right to the proceeds of our laborers, but we OWN a _class of laborers_ themselves. But let me say to gentlemen who represent the great class of capitalists in the north, beware that you do not drive us into a separate system, for if you do, as certain as the decrees of heaven, you will be compelled to _appeal to the sword to maintain yourselves at home_. It may not come in your day; but your children's children will be covered with the blood of domestic factions, and _a plundering mob contending for power and conquest_."--_Mr. Pickens, of South Carolina, in Congress, 21st Jan., 1836._ "In the very nature of things there must be classes of persons to discharge all the different offices of society from the highest to the lowest. Some of these offices are regarded as _degraded_, although they must and will be performed. Hence those manifest forms of dependent servitude which produce a sense of superiority in the masters or employers, and of inferiority on the part of the servants. Where these offices are performed by _members of the political community_, a DANGEROUS ELEMENT is obviously introduced into the body politic. Hence the alarming tendency to violate the rights of property by agrarian legislation which is beginning to be manifest in the older states where UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE _prevails without_ DOMESTIC SLAVERY. "In a word, the institution of domestic slavery supersedes the _necessity_ of AN ORDER OF NOBILITY AND ALL THE OTHER APPENDAGES OF A HEREDITARY SYSTEM OF GOVERNMENT."--_Gov. M'Duffie's Message to the South Carolina Legislature, 1836._ "We of the south have cause now, and shall soon have greater, to congratulate ourselves on the existence of a population among us which excludes the POPULACE which in effect rules some of our northern neighbors, and is rapidly gaining strength wherever slavery does not exist--a populace made up of the dregs of Europe, and the most worthless portion of the native population."--_Richmond Whig, 1837._ "Would you do a benefit to the horse or the ox by giving him a cultivated understanding, a fine feeling! So far as the MERE LABORER has the pride, the knowledge or the aspiration of a freeman, he is unfitted for his situation. If there are sordid, servile, _laborious_ offices to be performed, is it not better that there should be sordid, servile, laborious beings to perform them? "Odium has been cast upon our legislation on account of its forbidding the elements of education being communicated to slaves. But in truth what injury is done them by this? _He who works during the day with his hands_, does not read in the intervals of leisure for his amusement or the improvement of his mind, or the exception is so very rare as scarcely to need the being provided for."--_Chancellor Harper, of South Carolina._--_Southern Lit. Messenger._ "Our slave population is decidedly preferable, as an orderly and laboring class, to a northern laboring class, that have just learning enough to make them wondrous wise, and make them the most dangerous class to well regulated liberty under the sun."--_Richmond (Virginia) Enquirer._ FOOTNOTES: [1] In accordance with this doctrine, an act of Maryland, 1798, enumerates among articles of property, "_slaves, working beasts, animals of any kind, stock, furniture, plate, and so forth_."--_Ib._ 23. [2] A slave is not admonished for incontinence, punished for adultery, nor prosecuted for bigamy.--_Attorney General of Maryland, Md. Rep. Vol. I._ 561. [3] The legal meaning of assault is to _offer_ to do personal violence. [4] A court for the trial of slaves consists of one justice of the peace, and three freeholders, and the justice and one freeholder, i. e., _one half the court, may convict, though the other two are for acquittal_.--_Martin's Dig., I._ 646. [5] A slave may be out-lawed when he runs away, conceals himself, and, to sustain life, kills a hog, or any animal of the cattle kind.--_Haywood's Manual_, p. 521. [6] In South Carolina, _any_ person may seize such freed man and keep him as his property. [7] By the operation of this provision, twelve slaveholding states, whose white population only equals that of New York and Ohio, send to congress 24 senators and 102 representatives, while these two states only send 4 senators and 59 representatives. [8] Thus it may be seen that a _man_ may be doomed to slavery by an authority not considered sufficient to settle a claim of _twenty dollars_. [9] The prisons of the district, built with the money of the nation, are used as store-houses of the slaveholder's human merchandize. "From the statement of the keeper of a jail at Washington, it appears that in five years, upwards of 450 colored persons were committed to the national prison in that city, for safekeeping, i. e., until they could be disposed of in the course of the _slave trade_, besides nearly 300 who had been taken up as runaways."--_Miner's Speech in H. Rep._, 1829. 
61119	----	DANGEROUS QUARRY BY JIM HARMON One little village couldn't have a monopoly on all the bad breaks in the world. They did, though! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] They say automation makes jobs, especially if "they" are trying to keep their own job of selling automation machines. I know the Actuarvac made one purple passion of a job for me, the unpleasantly fatal results of which are still lingering with me. Thad McCain, my boss at Manhattan-Universal Insurance, beamed over the sprawling automatic brain's silver gauges and plastic toggles as proudly as if he had just personally gave birth to it. "This will simplify your job to the point of a pleasant diversion, Madison." "Are you going to keep paying me for staying with my little hobby?" I asked, suspiciously eyeing my chrome competitor. "The Actuarvac poses no threat to your career. It will merely keep you from flying off on wild-goose chases. It will unvaryingly separate from the vast body of legitimate claims the phony ones they try to spike us for. Then all that remains is for you to gather the accessory details, the evidence to jail our erring customers." "Fine," I said. I didn't bother to inform him that that was all my job had ever been. McCain shuffled his cards. They were cards for the machine, listing new individual claims on company policies. Since the two-month-old machine was literate and could read typewriting, the cards weren't coded or punched. He read the top one. "Now this, for instance. No adjuster need investigate this accident. The circumstances obviously are such that no false claim could be filed. Of course, the brain will make an unfailing analysis of all the factors involved and clear the claim automatically and officially." McCain threaded the single card into the slot for an example to me. He then flicked the switch and we stood there watching the monster ruminate thoughtfully. It finally rang a bell and spit the card back at Manhattan-Universal's top junior vice-president. He took it like a man. "That's what the machine is for," he said philosophically. "To detect human error. Hmm. What kind of a shove do you get out of this?" He handed me the rejected claim card. I took it, finding a new, neatly typed notation on it. It said: Investigate the Ozark village of Granite City. "You want me to project it in a movie theater and see how it stands it all alone in the dark?" I asked. "Just circle up the wagon train and see how the Indians fall," McCain said anxiously. "It's too general. What does the nickel-brained machine mean by investigating a whole town? I don't know if it has crooked politics, a polygamy colony or a hideout for supposedly deported gangsters. I don't care much either. It's not my business. How could a whole town be filing false life and accident claims?" "Find that out," he said. "I trust the machine. There have been cases of mass collusion before. Until you get back, we are making no more settlements with that settlement." * * * * * Research. To a writer that generally means legally permissible plagiarism. For an insurance adjuster, it means earnest work. Before I headed for the hills, or the Ozark Mountains, I walked a few hundred feet down the hall and into the manual record files. The brain abstracted from empirical data but before I planed out to Granite City I had to find the basis for a few practical, nasty suspicions. Four hours of flipping switches and looking at microfilm projections while a tawny redhead in a triangular fronted uniform carried me reels to order gave me only two ideas. Neither was very original. The one that concerned business was that the whole village of Granite City must be accident-prone. I rejected that one almost immediately. While an accident-prone was in himself a statistical anomaly, the idea of a whole town of them gathered together stretched the fabric of reality to the point where even an invisible re-weaver couldn't help it. There was an explanation for the recent rise in the accident rate down there. The rock quarry there had gone into high-level operation. I knew why from the floor, walls, ceiling border, table trimmings in the records room. They were all granite. The boom in granite for interior and exterior decoration eclipsed earlier periods of oak, plastics, wrought iron and baked clay completely. The distinctive grade of granite from Granite City was being put into use all over the planet and in the Officer's Clubs on the Moon and Mars. Yet the rise in accident, compared to the rise in production, was out of all proportion. Furthermore, the work at the quarry could hardly explain the excessive accident reports we had had from the village as far back as our records went. We had paid off on most of the claims since they seemed irrefutably genuine. All were complete with eye-witness reports and authenticated circumstances. There was one odd note in the melodic scheme: We had never had a claim for any kind of automobile accident from Granite City. I shut off the projector. It may be best to keep an open mind, but I have found in practice that you have to have some kind of working theory which you must proceed to prove is either right or wrong. Tentatively, I decided that for generations the citizens of Granite City had been in an organized conspiracy to defraud Manhattan-Universal and its predecessors of hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars in false accident claims. Maybe they made their whole livelihood off us before the quarry opened up. I used my pocket innercom and had my secretary get me a plane reservation and a gun. After so many profitable decades, Granite City wasn't going to take kindly to my spoil-sport interference. * * * * * The Absinthe Flight to Springfield was jolly and relatively fast. Despite headwinds we managed Mach 1.6 most of the way. My particular stewardess was a blonde, majoring in Video Psychotherapy in her night courses. I didn't have much time to get acquainted or more than hear the outline of her thesis on the guilt purgings effected by The Life and Legend of Gary Cooper. The paunchy businessman in the next lounge was already nibbling the ear of his red-haired hostess. He was the type of razorback who took the girls for granted and aimed to get his money's worth. I gave Helen, the blonde, a kiss on the cheek and began flipping through the facsimiles in my briefcase as we chute-braked for a landing at the Greater Ozarks. It took me a full five minutes to find out that I couldn't take a copter to Granite City. Something about downdrafts in the mountains. Since that put me back in the days of horsepower, I trotted over to the automobile rental and hired a few hundred of them under the hood of a Rolls. That was about the only brand of car that fit me. I hadn't been able to get my legs into any other foreign car since I was fifteen, and I have steadfastly refused to enter an American model since they all sold out their birthrights as passenger cars and went over to the tractor-trailer combinations they used only for cargo trucks when I was a boy. Dragging around thirty feet of car is sheer nonsense, even for prestige. It was a tiresome fifty-mile drive, on manual all the way after I left the radar-channel area of the city. Up and down, slowing for curves, flipping into second for the hills. The whole trip hardly seemed worth it when I saw the cluster of painted frame buildings that was Granite City. They looked like a tumble of dingy building blocks tossed in front of a rolled-up indigo sports shirt. That was Granite Mountain in the near foreground. But I remembered that over the course of some forty years the people in these few little stacks of lumber had taken Manhattan-Universal for three quarters of a megabuck. I turned off onto the gravel road, spraying my fenders with a hail of a racket. Then I stepped down hard on my brakes, bracing myself to keep from going through the windscreen. I had almost sideswiped an old man sitting at the side of the road, huddled in his dusty rags. "Are you okay?" I yelled, thumbing down the window. "I've suffered no harm at your hands--or your wheels, sir. But I could use some help," the old man said. "Could I trouble you for a lift when you leave town?" I wasn't too sure about that. Most of these guys who are on the hobo circuit talking like they owned some letters to their names besides their initials belonged to some cult or other. I try to be as tolerant as I can, and some of my best friends are thugs, but I don't want to drive with them down lonely mountain roads. "We'll see what we can work out," I said. "Right now can you tell me where I can find Marshal Thompson?" "I can," he said. "But you will have to walk there." "Okay. It shouldn't be much of a walk in Granite City." "It's the house at the end of the street." "It is," I said. "Why shouldn't I drive up there? The street's open." The old man stared at me with red-shot eyes. "Marshal Thompson doesn't like people to run automobiles on the streets of Granite City." "So I'll just _lock_ the car up and walk over there. I couldn't go getting tire tracks all over your clean streets." The old man watched as I climbed down and locked up the Rolls. "You would probably get killed if you did run the car here, you know," he said conversationally. "Well," I said, "I'll be getting along." I tried to walk sideways so I could keep an eye on him. "Come back," he said, as if he had doubts. * * * * * The signs of a menacing conspiracy were growing stronger, I felt. I had my automatic inside my shirt, but I decided I might need a less lethal means of expression. Without breaking stride, I scooped up a baseball-size hunk of bluish rock from the road and slipped it into my small change pocket. I have made smarter moves in my time. * * * * * As I approached the house at the end of the lane, I saw it was about the worse construction job I had seen in my life. It looked as architecturally secure as a four-year-old's drawing of his home. The angles were measurably out of line. Around every nail head were two nails bent out of shape and hammered down, and a couple of dozen welts in the siding where the hammer had missed any nail. The paint job was spotty and streaked. Half the panes in the windows were cracked. I fought down the dust in my nose, afraid of the consequences of a sneeze to the place. My toe scuffed the top porch step and I nearly crashed face first into the front door. I had been too busy looking at the house, I decided. I knocked. Moments later, the door opened. The lean-faced man who greeted me had his cheeks crisscrossed with razor nicks and his shirt on wrong side out. But his eyes were bright and sparrow alert. "Are you Mr. Marshal Thompson, the agent for Manhattan-Universal Insurance?" I put to him. "I'm _the_ marshal, name of Thompson. But you ain't the first to take my title for my Christian name. You from the company?" "Yes," I said. "Were you expecting me?" Thompson nodded. "For forty-one years." * * * * * Thompson served the coffee in the chipped cups, favoring only slightly his burned fingers. Catching the direction of my glance, he said, "Company is worth a few scalds, Mr. Madison." I accepted the steaming cup and somehow it very nearly slipped out of my hands. I made a last microsecond retrieve. The marshal nodded thoughtfully. "You're new here." "First time," I said, sipping coffee. It was awful. He must have made a mistake and put salt into it instead of sugar. "You think the claims I've been filing for my people are false?" "The home office has some suspicions of that," I admitted. "I don't blame them, but they ain't. Look, the company gambles on luck, doesn't it?" "No. It works on percentages calculated from past experience." "But I mean it knows that there will be, say, a hundred fatal car crashes in a day. But it doesn't know if maybe ninety of them will be in Iowa and only ten in the rest of the country." "There's something to that. We call it probability, not luck." "Well, probability says that more accidents are going to occur in Granite City than anywhere else in the country, per capita." I shook my head at Thompson. "That's not probability. Theoretically, anything can happen but I don't--I can't--believe that in this town everybody has chanced to be an accident prone. Some other factor is operating. You are all deliberately faking these falls and fires--" "We're not," Thompson snapped. "Or else something is causing you to have this trouble. Maybe the whole town is a bunch of dope addicts. Maybe you grow your own mescalin or marijuana; it's happened before." Thompson laughed. "Whatever is going on, I'm going to find it out. I don't care what you do, but if I can find a greater risk here and prove it, the Commission will let us up our rates for this town. Probably beyond the capacity of these people, I'm afraid." "That would be a real tragedy, Mr. Madison. Insurance is vital to this town. Nobody could survive a year here without insurance. People pay me for their premiums before they pay their grocery bills." I shrugged, sorrier than I could let on. "I won't be able to pay for my own groceries, marshal, if I don't do the kind of job the company expects. I'm going to snoop around." "All right," he said grudgingly, "but you'll have to do it on foot." "Yes, I understood you didn't like cars on your streets. At least not the cars of outsiders." "That doesn't have anything to do with it. Nobody in Granite City owns a car. It would be suicide for anybody to drive a car, same as it would be to have a gas or oil stove, instead of coal, or to own a bathtub." I took a deep breath. "Showers," Thompson said. "With nonskid mats and handrails." I shook hands with him. "You've been a great help." "Four o'clock," he said. "Roads are treacherous at night." "There's always a dawn." Thompson met my eyes. "That's not quite how we look at it here." II The quarry was a mess. I couldn't see any in the way they sliced the granite out of the mountain. The idea of a four-year-old--a four-year-old moron--going after a mound of raspberry ice cream kept turning up in my mind as I walked around. The workmen were gone; it was after five local time. But here and there I saw traces of them. Some of them were sandwich wrappers and cigarette stubs, but most of the traces were smears of blood. Blood streaked across sharp rocks, blood oozing from beneath heavy rocks, blood smeared on the handles and working surfaces of sledge hammers and tools. The place was as gory as a battlefield. "What are you looking for, bud?" The low, level snarl had come from a burly character in a syn-leather jacket and narrow-brimmed Stetson. "The reason you have so many accidents here," I said frankly. "I'm from the insurance company. Name's Madison." "Yeah, I know." I had supposed he would. "I'm Kelvin, the foreman here," the big man told me, extending a ham of a fist to be shook. "Outside, doing my Army time, I noticed that most people don't have as many slipups as we do here. Never could figure it out." "This rock is part of it--" "What do you mean by that!" Kelvin demanded savagely. "I mean the way you work it. No system to it. No stratification, no plateau work..." "Listen, Madison, don't talk about what you don't know anything about. The stuff in these walls isn't just rock; it isn't even plain granite. Granite City exports some of the finest grade of the stone in the world. And it's used all over the world. We aren't just a bunch of meatheaded ditch diggers--we are craftsmen. We have to figure a different way of getting out every piece of stone." "It's too bad." "What's too bad?" "That you chose the wrong way so often," I said. Kelvin breathed a virile grade of tobacco into my face. "Listen, Madison, we have been working this quarry for generations, sometimes more of us working than other times. Today most of us are working getting the stone out. That's the way we like it. We don't want any outsider coming in and interfering with that." "If this quarry has anything to do with defrauding Manhattan-Universal, I can tell you that I will do something about that!" As soon as my teeth clicked back together, the sickening feeling hit me that I shouldn't have said that. * * * * * The general store was called a supermarket, but it wasn't particularly superior. I took a seat at the soda fountain and took a beer, politely declining the teen-age clerk's offer of a shot of white lightning from the Pepsi-Cola fountain syrup jug for a quarter. Behind me were three restaurant tables and one solitary red-upholstered booth. Two men somewhere between forty and sixty sat at the nearest table playing twenty-one. Over the foam of my stein I saw the old man I had almost run down in the road. He marched through the two-thirds of the building composed of rows of can goods and approached the fat man at the cash register. "Hello, Professor," the fat man said. "What can we do for you?" "I'd like to mail a letter," he said in an urgent voice. "Sure, Professor, I'll send it right off on the facsimile machine as soon as I get a free moment." "You're sure you can send it? Right away?" "Positive. Ten cents, Professor." The professor fumbled in his pants' pocket and fished out a dime. He fingered it thoughtfully. "I suppose the letter can wait," he said resignedly. "I believe I will buy a pair of doughnuts, Mr. Haskel." "Why not get a hamburger, Professor? Special sale today. Only a dime. And since you're such a good customer I'll throw in a cup of coffee and the two sinkers for nothing." "That's--kind of you," the old man said awkwardly. Haskel shrugged. "A man has to eat." The man called "the professor" came over and sat down two stools away, ignoring me. The clerk dialed his hamburger and served it. I stayed with my beer and my thoughts. More and more, I was coming to believe that Granite City wasn't a job for an investigative adjuster like myself but a psychological adjuster. Crime is a structural flaw in a community, yes. But when the whole society is criminal, distorted, you can't isolate the flaw. The whole village was meat for a sociologist; let him figure out why otherwise decent citizens felt secure in conspiracy to defraud an honored corporation. I didn't feel that I was licked or that the trip had been a failure. I had merely established to my intuitive satisfaction that the job was not in my field. I glanced at the old man. The proprietor of the store knew him and evidently thought him harmless enough to feed. "I think I can make it down the mountain before dark, Old Timer," I called over to him. "You can come along if you like." The acne-faced kid behind the counter stared at me. I looked over and caught the bright little eyes of Haskel, the proprietor, too. Finally, the old professor turned on his stool, his face pale and his eyes sad and resigned. "I doubt very much if either of us will be leaving, Mr. Madison," he said. "Now." * * * * * I took my beer and the professor his coffee over to the single booth. We looked at each other across the shiny table and our beverage containers. "I am Doctor Arnold Parnell of Duke University," the professor said. "I left on my sabbatical five months ago. I have been here ever since." I looked at his clothes. "You must not have been very well fixed for a year's vacation, Professor." "I," he said, "have enough traveler's checks with me to paper a washroom. Nobody in this town will cash them for me." "I can understand why you want to go somewhere where people are more trusting in that case." "They know the checks are good. It's _me_ they refuse to trust to leave this place. They think they _can't_ let me go." "I don't see any shackles on you," I remarked. "Just because you can't see them," he growled, "doesn't mean they aren't there. Marshal Thompson has the only telephone in the village. He has politely refused to let me use it. I'm a suspicious and undesirable character; he's under no obligation to give me telephone privileges, he says. Haskel has the Post Office concession--the Telefax outfit behind the money box over there. He takes my letters but I never see him send them off. And I never get a reply." "Unfriendly of them," I said conservatively. "But how can they stop you from packing your dental floss and cutting out?" "Haskel has the only motor vehicle in town--a half-ton pick-up, a minuscule contrivance less than the size of a passenger car. He makes about one trip a week down into the city for supplies and package mail. He's been the only one in or out of Granite City for five months." It seemed incredible--more than that, unlikely, to me. "How about the granite itself? How do they ship it out?" "It's an artificial demand product, like diamonds," Professor Parnell said. "They stockpile it and once a year the executive offices for the company back in Nashville runs in a portable monorail railroad up the side of the mountain to take it out. That won't be for another four months, as nearly as I can find out. I may not last that long." "How are you living?" I asked. "If they won't take your checks--" "I do odd jobs for people. They feed me, give me a little money sometimes." "I can see why you want to ride out with me," I said. "Haven't you ever thought of just _walking_ out?" "Fifty miles down a steep mountain road? I'm an old man, Mr. Madison, and I've gotten even older since I came to Granite City." I nodded. "You have any papers, any identification, to back this up?" Wordlessly, he handed over his billfold, letters, enough identification to have satisfied Allen Pinkerton or John Edgar Hoover. "Okay," I drawled. "I'll accept your story for the moment. Now answer me the big query: Why are the good people of Granite City doing this to you? By any chance, you wouldn't happen to know of a mass fraud they are perpetrating on Manhattan-Universal?" "I know nothing of their ethical standards," Parnell said, "but I do know that they are absolutely _subhuman_!" "I admit I have met likelier groups of human beings in my time." "No, understand me. These people are literally subhuman--they are inferior to other human beings." "Look, I know the Klan is a growing organization but I can't go along with you." "Madison, understand me, I insist. Ethnologically speaking, it is well known that certain tribes suffer certain deficiencies due to diet, climate, et cetera. Some can't run, sing, use mathematics. The people of Granite City have the most unusual deficency on record, I admit. Their _psionic_ senses have been impaired. They are completely devoid of any use of telepathy, precognition, telekinesis." * * * * * "Because they aren't supermen, that doesn't mean that they are submen," I protested. "I don't have any psionic abilities either." "But you do!" Parnell said earnestly. "Everybody has some psionics ability, but we don't realize it. We don't have the fabulous abilities of a few recorded cases of supermen, but we have some, a trace. Granite City citizens have _no_ psionic ability whatsoever, not even the little that you and I and the rest of the world have!" "You said you were Duke University, didn't you?" I mused. "Maybe you know what you are talking about; I've never been sure. But these people can't suffer very much from their lack of what you call psi ability." "I tell you they do," he said hoarsely. "We never realize it but we all have some power of precognition. If we didn't, we would have a hundred accidents a day--just as these people _do_. They can't foresee the bump in the road the way we can, or that that particular match will flare a little higher and burn their fingers. There are other things, as well. You'll find it is almost impossible to carry on a lengthy conversation with any of them--they have no telepathic ability, no matter how slight, to see through the semantic barrier. None of them can play ball. They don't have the unconscious psionic ability to influence the ball in flight. All of us can do that, even if the case of a 'Poltergeist' who can lift objects is rare." "Professor, you mean these people are holding you here simply so you won't go out and tell the rest of the world that they are submen?" "They don't want the world to know _why_ they are psionically subnormal," he said crisply. "It's the _granite_! I don't understand why myself. I'm not a physicist or a biologist. But for some reason the heavy concentration and particular pattern of the radioactive radiation in its matrix is responsible for both inhibiting the genes that transmit psi powers from generation to generation _and_ affecting those abilities in the present generation. A kind of psionic sterility." "How do you know this?" "We haven't the time for all that. But think about it. What else _could_ it be? It's that granite that they are shipping all over the world, spreading the contamination. I want to stop that contamination. To the people of Granite City that means ruining their only industry, putting them all out of work. They are used to this psionic sterility; they don't see anything so bad about it. Besides, like everybody else, they have some doubts that there really are such things as telepathy and the rest to be affected." "Frankly," I said, hedging only a little, "I don't know what to make of your story. This is something to be decided by somebody infallible--like the Pope or the President or Board Chairman of Manhattan-Universal. But the first thing to do is get you out of here. We had better get back to my car. I've got good lights to get down the mountain." Parnell jumped up eagerly, and brushed over his china mug, staining the tabletop with brown caffeine. "Sorry," he said. "I should have been precognizant of that. I try to stay away from the rock as much as possible, but it's getting to me." I should have remembered something then. But, naturally, I didn't. * * * * * It was the time when you could argue about whether it was twilight or night. In the deep dusk, the Rolls looked to be a horror-flicker giant bug. I fumbled for the keys. Then the old man made me break stride by digging narrow fingers into my bicep. Marshal Thompson and the bulky quarry foreman, Kelvin, stepped out of the shadow of the car. "First, throw away that gun of yours, Mr. Madison," the marshal said. I looked at his old pistol that must have used old powder cartridges, instead of liquid propellants, and forked out my Smith & Wesson with two fingers, letting it plop at my feet. "I'm afraid we can't let you spread the professor's lies, Mr. Madison," Thompson said. "You planning on killing me?" I asked with admirable restraint. "I hope not. You can have the run of the town, like the professor. I'll tell your company you are making a _thorough_ investigation. Then maybe in a few weeks or months I can arrange so it looks like you were killed--someplace outside." "We don't aim to let any crazy fanatic like Parnell ruin our business, our whole town," Kelvin interjected bitterly. I took a pause to make abstractions on the situation. I glanced at the little man at my right. "Parnell, my car is our only chance of getting out of here. If they stop us from getting in that car, we'll be bums here on town charity for the rest of our lives." "_No!_" Parnell gave a terrier yell and charged the gun in the old marshal's hand. It seemed as if it would take me too long to recover my gun from the dirt, but almost instinctively I felt the rock in the pocket of my pants. I scooped out the sample of granite and heaved it at the head of the old cop. But my control seemed completely shot. It missed the old man's head with an appalling gap and hit the roof of the Rolls. Fortunately, the granite radiations didn't influence non-human-oriented factors of chance. The stone bounced off the car and struck the marshal's gun hand. Thompson dropped his gun and I reached for mine in the dust, vaguely aware of Kelvin pumping toward me. I straightened up. He led with his right, of all damn things. I blocked it with my gun hand and let him have my left in the midst of his solar plexus. He crumpled prettier than a paper doll. When the dust cleared, Professor Parnell was sitting on Thompson's chest. "Hooray," I said, "for our side." * * * * * The people had made one mistake. They thought people would believe us. Parnell and I broke the story to some newspaper friends of mine. They gave it a play in the mistaken belief the professor and I were starting our own cult, and the equal-time law is firm. But nobody paid any more attention to us than to the Hedonists, the Klan, the Soft-shelled Baptists or the Reformed Agnostics. I tried to get Thad McCain to realize all the money this cursed granite was costing us in accident claims, but it wasn't easy. Manhattan-Universal owned stock in Granite City Products, Inc. And we had spent a quarter of a megabuck modernizing our offices with granite only months before. "McCain," I said earnestly, "will you just let me feed the new data we've got from Parnell into the Actuarvac? It's infallible. See what it says." "Very well," McCain said with a sigh. He let me feed the big brain the hypothesis I had got from Parnell. It chattered to itself for some minutes and at last flipped a card into the slot. I dug the pasteboard out and read it. It said: No such place as Granite City exists. "The rock has got to the machine," I screamed. "Chief, this brain is stoned. It's made a _mistake_. We _know_ there is such a place." "Nonsense, my boy," McCain said in a fatherly way. "The Actuarvac merely means that no such place as you erroneously described could possibly exist. Why don't you try one of our Hedonist revival meetings tonight?" * * * * * Things have got steadily worse since then. So far nobody has made the big mistake of dropping an H-bomb on anyone, but that's probably because all the governments made so many smaller mistakes the people made the mistake (or was it?) of kicking them out for almost absolute anarchy. But the individuals are doing worse than the governments...if that's possible. People have given up going anywhere except by foot, for the most part. Granite City granite is still as widely disbursed and almost as highly prized as South African diamonds. I hope we will find some way out of our current world crisis, although I can't imagine what it will be. Meanwhile, I hope you will excuse any typographical errors. It seems as if I just can't seem to hit the right keys on my typewriter any more, as my--and all of our--psionic sterility increases. I ask hugh--wear wall it owl end? 
7100	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 1. NOTICE PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance. EXPLANATORY IN this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. THE AUTHOR. HUCKLEBERRY FINN Scene: The Mississippi Valley Time: Forty to fifty years ago CHAPTER I. YOU don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly--Tom's Aunt Polly, she is--and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before. Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round --more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back. The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them,--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better. After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people. Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't scrunch up like that, Huckleberry--set up straight;" and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But I never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good. Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't think much of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together. Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider. I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees --something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me. CHAPTER II. WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. Then he says: "Who dah?" He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says: "Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore--and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, Jim would happen in and say, "Hm! What you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Niggers would come from all around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches. Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore. We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't a noticed that there was a hole. We went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom says: "Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood." Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. And nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off of the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever. Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said, some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it. Some thought it would be good to kill the FAMILIES of boys that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says: "Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?" "Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer. "Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more." They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think of anything to do--everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I offered them Miss Watson--they could kill her. Everybody said: "Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in." Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper. "Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of this Gang?" "Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said. "But who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--" "Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't burglars. That ain't no sort of style. We are highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "Must we always kill the people?" "Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them--except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "Ransomed? What's that?" "I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "Why, blame it all, we've GOT to do it. Don't I tell you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how to do it to them? --that's the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon it is?" "Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead." "Now, that's something LIKE. That'll answer. Why couldn't you said that before? We'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get loose." "How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?" "A guard! Well, that IS good. So somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. I think that's foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?" "Because it ain't in the books so--that's why. Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't you?--that's the idea. Don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing to do? Do you reckon YOU can learn 'em anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regular way." "All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool way, anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?" "Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn't let on. Kill the women? No; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that. You fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more." "Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't take no stock in it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers. But go ahead, I ain't got nothing to say." Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to be a robber any more. So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets. But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people. Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next Sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper second captain of the Gang, and so started home. I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. My new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and I was dog-tired. CHAPTER III. WELL, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way. I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the widow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole? Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was too many for me, but she told me what she meant--I must help other people, and do everything I could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. This was including Miss Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't see no advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about Providence in a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all down again. I judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence, but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery. Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him no more. He used to always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though I used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. They said he was floating on his back in the water. They took him and buried him on the bank. But I warn't comfortable long, because I happened to think of something. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. So I was uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn't. We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned. All the boys did. We hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom Sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. But I couldn't see no profit in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. He never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs, but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn't no Spaniards and A-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. It warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-class at that. We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. I didn't see no di'monds, and I told Tom Sawyer so. He said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and elephants and things. I said, why couldn't we see them, then? He said if I warn't so ignorant, but had read a book called Don Quixote, I would know without asking. He said it was all done by enchantment. He said there was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he called magicians; and they had turned the whole thing into an infant Sunday-school, just out of spite. I said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a numskull. "Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say Jack Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church." "Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to help US--can't we lick the other crowd then?" "How you going to get them?" "I don't know. How do THEY get them?" "Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. They don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man." "Who makes them tear around so?" "Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. If he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from China for you to marry, they've got to do it--and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand." "Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flat-heads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that. And what's more--if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp." "How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd HAVE to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not." "What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right, then; I WOULD come; but I lay I'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in the country." "Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don't seem to know anything, somehow--perfect saphead." I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I would see if there was anything in it. I got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an Injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that all that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but as for me I think different. It had all the marks of a Sunday-school. CHAPTER IV. WELL, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. I had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway. At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I played hookey, and the hiding I got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to school the easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. Living in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather I used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but I was getting so I liked the new ones, too, a little bit. The widow said I was coming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. She said she warn't ashamed of me. One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. I reached for some of it as quick as I could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. She says, "Take your hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" The widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so I never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. There was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around, but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said: "Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?" "No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?" "Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night--over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all --nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to take it; I want to give it to you--the six thousand and all." He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says: "Why, what can you mean, my boy?" I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it --won't you?" He says: "Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?" "Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me nothing--then I won't have to tell no lies." He studied a while, and then he says: "Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me--not give it. That's the correct idea." Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a dollar for you. Now you sign it." So I signed it, and left. Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. So I went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (I reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I got from the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. He said he would split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before, but I had forgot it. Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. This time he said the hair-ball was all right. He said it would tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball talked to Jim, and Jim told it to me. He says: "Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. One is rich en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap--his own self! CHAPTER V. I HAD shut the door to. Then I turned around and there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. I reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken--that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after I see I warn't scared of him worth bothring about. He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. There warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl--a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As for his clothes--just rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. His hat was laying on the floor--an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By and by he says: "Starchy clothes--very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug, DON'T you?" "Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says. "Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll take you down a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say--can read and write. You think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? I'LL take it out of you. Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?--who told you you could?" "The widow. She told me." "The widow, hey?--and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?" "Nobody never told her." "Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here--you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what HE is. You lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. None of the family couldn't before THEY died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't the man to stand it--you hear? Say, lemme hear you read." I took up a book and begun something about General Washington and the wars. When I'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He says: "It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. I won't have it. I'll lay for you, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll tan you good. First you know you'll get religion, too. I never see such a son." He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy, and says: "What's this?" "It's something they give me for learning my lessons good." He tore it up, and says: "I'll give you something better--I'll give you a cowhide." He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says: "AIN'T you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor--and your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a son. I bet I'll take some o' these frills out o' you before I'm done with you. Why, there ain't no end to your airs--they say you're rich. Hey?--how's that?" "They lie--that's how." "Looky here--mind how you talk to me; I'm a-standing about all I can stand now--so don't gimme no sass. I've been in town two days, and I hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard about it away down the river, too. That's why I come. You git me that money to-morrow--I want it." "I hain't got no money." "It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it. I want it." "I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he'll tell you the same." "All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle, too, or I'll know the reason why. Say, how much you got in your pocket? I want it." "I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to--" "It don't make no difference what you want it for--you just shell it out." He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all day. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when I reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if I didn't drop that. Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him. The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. So Judge Thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business. That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd cowhide me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise some money for him. I borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a week. But he said HE was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for HIM. When he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. So he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. And when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says: "Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. You mark them words--don't forget I said them. It's a clean hand now; shake it--don't be afeard." So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old man he signed a pledge--made his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. Then they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before they could navigate it. The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way. 
7101	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 2. CHAPTER VI. WELL, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I didn't want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That law trial was a slow business--appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then I'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. Every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time he raised Cain he got jailed. He was just suited--this kind of thing was right in his line. He got to hanging around the widow's too much and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using around there she would make trouble for him. Well, WASN'T he mad? He said he would show who was Huck Finn's boss. So he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was. He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. Every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. The widow she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till I was used to being where I was, and liked it--all but the cowhide part. It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time. I didn't want to go back no more. I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again because pap hadn't no objections. It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dreadful lonesome. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. I was scared. I made up my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but I couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. I got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out--big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting towards the end of it when I heard pap's gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. Pap warn't in a good humor--so he was his natural self. He said he was down town, and everything was going wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it. And he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. Then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing. He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; I reckoned I wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance. The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I thought it all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I run away. I guessed I wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. I judged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would. I got so full of it I didn't notice how long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or drownded. I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. While I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. A body would a thought he was Adam--he was just all mud. Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment, this time he says: "Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for HIM and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call THAT govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I TOLD 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I says look at my hat--if you call it a hat--but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. Look at it, says I --such a hat for me to wear--one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights. "Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio--a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane--the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he could VOTE when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me --I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger--why, he wouldn't a give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold?--that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now--that's a specimen. They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the State six months. Here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and--" Pap was agoing on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of language--mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. He hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick. But it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. He said so his own self afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but I reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe. After supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium tremens. That was always his word. I judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then I would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other. He drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't run my way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open all I could do, and so before I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the candle burning. I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek--but I couldn't see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "Take him off! take him off! he's biting me on the neck!" I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. I could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low: "Tramp--tramp--tramp; that's the dead; tramp--tramp--tramp; they're coming after me; but I won't go. Oh, they're here! don't touch me --don't! hands off--they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!" Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear him through the blanket. By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me, and then I couldn't come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who. So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow and still the time did drag along. CHAPTER VII. "GIT up! What you 'bout?" I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where I was. It was after sun-up, and I had been sound asleep. Pap was standing over me looking sour and sick, too. He says: "What you doin' with this gun?" I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so I says: "Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him." "Why didn't you roust me out?" "Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge you." "Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. I'll be along in a minute." He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I noticed some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so I knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I would have great times now if I was over at the town. The June rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts--sometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill. I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along. Well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. I shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. I just expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It was a drift-canoe sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the old man will be glad when he sees this--she's worth ten dollars. But when I got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I was running her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, I struck another idea: I judged I'd hide her good, and then, 'stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I'd go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on foot. It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man coming all the time; but I got her hid; and then I out and looked around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So he hadn't seen anything. When he got along I was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. He abused me a little for being so slow; but I told him I fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet, and then he would be asking questions. We got five catfish off the lines and went home. While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he says: "Another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? That man warn't here for no good. I'd a shot him. Next time you roust me out, you hear?" Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but what he had been saying give me the very idea I wanted. I says to myself, I can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me. About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. By and by along comes part of a log raft--nine logs fast together. We went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half-past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that night. I waited till I reckoned he had got a good start; then I out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. Before he was t'other side of the river I was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder. I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then I done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd; I took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took fish-lines and matches and other things--everything that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there wasn't any, only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I was done. I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so many things. So I fixed that as good as I could from the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the sawdust. Then I fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there. It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn't left a track. I followed around to see. I stood on the bank and looked out over the river. All safe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting around for some birds when I see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie farms. I shot this fellow and took him into camp. I took the axe and smashed in the door. I beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. I fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down on the ground to bleed; I say ground because it was ground--hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it--all I could drag--and I started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. You could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer was there; I knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom Sawyer in such a thing as that. Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the axe in the corner. Then I took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till I got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. Now I thought of something else. So I went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. I took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on the place --pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes--and ducks too, you might say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, I don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. The meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again. It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They won't ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. All right; I can stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good enough for me; I know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up things I want. Jackson's Island's the place. I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed I was asleep. When I woke up I didn't know where I was for a minute. I set up and looked around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and miles across. The moon was so bright I could a counted the drift logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and SMELT late. You know what I mean--I don't know the words to put it in. I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when I heard a sound away over the water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was--a skiff, away across the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me I see there warn't but one man in it. Think's I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close I could a reached out the gun and touched him. Well, it WAS pap, sure enough--and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars. I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the river, because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry landing, and people might see me and hail me. I got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. I laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before. And how far a body can hear on the water such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they said, too--every word of it. One man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. T'other one said THIS warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned--and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone. The first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman--she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After that the talk got further and further away, and I couldn't make out the words any more; but I could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson's Island, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy timbered and standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat without any lights. There warn't any signs of the bar at the head--it was all under water now. It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then I got into the dead water and landed on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a deep dent in the bank that I knowed about; I had to part the willow branches to get in; and when I made fast nobody could a seen the canoe from the outside. I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. I watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say, "Stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast. CHAPTER VIII. THE sun was up so high when I waked that I judged it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. I could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. I was powerful lazy and comfortable--didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up--about abreast the ferry. And there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. I knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning--so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current set in the closest to the shore--I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes another one, and this time I won. I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's bread"--what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing --that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the current, and I allowed I'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where I fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. Where the log forked I could peep through. By and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could a run out a plank and walked ashore. Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. I hope so, anyway." "I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. I could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out: "Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I reckon they'd a got the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, I didn't hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet a while. They turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. I crossed over to that side and watched them. When they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the Missouri shore and went home to the town. I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after me. I got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so the rain couldn't get at them. I catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I started my camp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for breakfast. When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars and drift logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it. And so for three days and nights. No difference--just the same thing. But the next day I went exploring around down through the island. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know all about it; but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. They would all come handy by and by, I judged. Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I warn't far from the foot of the island. I had my gun along, but I hadn't shot nothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game nigh home. About this time I mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and I after it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bounded right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still smoking. My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along another piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half, too. When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and I put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a tree. I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing--I only THOUGHT I heard and seen as much as a thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at last I got down, but I kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast. By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and dark I slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank--about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would stay there all night when I hear a PLUNKETY-PLUNK, PLUNKETY-PLUNK, and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got everything into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I hadn't got far when I hear a man say: "We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. Let's look around." I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in the canoe. I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every time I waked up I thought somebody had me by the neck. So the sleep didn't do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't live this way; I'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on the island with me; I'll find it out or bust. Well, I felt better right off. So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I was most down to the foot of the island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. I see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run across that camp fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for it, cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most give me the fantods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight now. Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I was glad to see him. I says: "Hello, Jim!" and skipped out. He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "Doan' hurt me--don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for 'em. You go en git in de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz awluz yo' fren'." Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lonesome now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says: "It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp fire good." "What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that what you live on?" "I couldn' git nuffn else," he says. "Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?" "I come heah de night arter you's killed." "What, all that time?" "Yes--indeedy." "And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?" "No, sah--nuffn else." "Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?" "I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de islan'?" "Since the night I got killed." "No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn en I'll make up de fire." So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish, too, and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him. When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By and by Jim says: "But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn't you?" Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what I had. Then I says: "How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you get here?" He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. Then he says: "Maybe I better not tell." "Why, Jim?" "Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me ef I uz to tell you, would you, Huck?" "Blamed if I would, Jim." "Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I--I RUN OFF." "Jim!" "But mind, you said you wouldn' tell--you know you said you wouldn' tell, Huck." "Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it. Honest INJUN, I will. People would call me a low-down Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum--but that don't make no difference. I ain't a-going to tell, and I ain't a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le's know all about it." "Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus--dat's Miss Watson--she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. De widder she try to git her to say she wouldn' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you. "I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. Sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now. "I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track. "I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de Illinois side. "But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't--bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right." "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah--watched um thoo de bushes." Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He says: "Mighty few--an' DEY ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?" "What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?" "Well, are you rich?" "No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "What did you speculate in, Jim?" "Well, fust I tackled stock." "What kind of stock?" "Why, live stock--cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n' died on my han's." "So you lost the ten dollars." "No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?" "Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank mysef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no money." "What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?" "Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' Balum--Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say, en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "Well, what did come of it, Jim?" "Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef I could git de ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de money, I wouldn' want no mo'." CHAPTER IX. I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet? So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner. We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest--FST! it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs--where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." "Well, you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben for Jim. You'd a ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile." The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. The water was three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it was a good many miles wide, but on the Missouri side it was the same old distance across--a half a mile--because the Missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs. Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. We went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. Well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles--they would slide off in the water. The ridge our cavern was in was full of them. We could a had pets enough if we'd wanted them. One night we catched a little section of a lumber raft--nice pine planks. It was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches--a solid, level floor. We could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight. Another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house down, on the west side. She was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. We paddled out and got aboard --clumb in at an upstairs window. But it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight. The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. Then we looked in at the window. We could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor, and there was clothes hanging against the wall. There was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. So Jim says: "Hello, you!" But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says: "De man ain't asleep--he's dead. You hold still--I'll go en see." He went, and bent down and looked, and says: "It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. Come in, Huck, but doan' look at his face--it's too gashly." I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him. There was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe--it might come good. There was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was broke. There was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. The way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. We got home all safe. CHAPTER X. AFTER breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how he come to be killed, but Jim didn't want to. He said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. That sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing I knowed who shot the man, and what they done it for. We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. Jim said he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd a knowed the money was there they wouldn't a left it. I said I reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim didn't want to talk about that. I says: "Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in the snake-skin that I found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands. Well, here's your bad luck! We've raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, Jim." "Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't you git too peart. It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you, it's a-comin'." It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after dinner Friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some, and found a rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled him up on the foot of Jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd be some fun when Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all about the snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket while I struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him. He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another spring. I laid him out in a second with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down. He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. That all comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. Jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it. I done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him. He made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. He said that that would help. Then I slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for I warn't going to let Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it. Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so I judged he was all right; but I'd druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky. Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all gone and he was around again. I made up my mind I wouldn't ever take a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what had come of it. Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time. And he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that way myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool. Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned I would slip over the river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a girl; and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better. I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl. 
7102	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 3. CHAPTER XI. "COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer." I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "What might your name be?" "Sarah Williams." "Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?' "No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and I'm all tired out." "Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something." "No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?" "No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet." "No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeared of the dark." She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says: "Who done it? We've heard considerable about these goings on down in Hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed Huck Finn." "Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people HERE that'd like to know who killed him. Some think old Finn done it himself." "No--is that so?" "Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But before night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim." "Why HE--" I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never noticed I had put in at all: "The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there's a reward out for him--three hundred dollars. And there's a reward out for old Finn, too--two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. Before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. So then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old Finn, and went boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year he'll be all right. You can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in Huck's money as easy as nothing." "Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?" "Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him." "Why, are they after him yet?" "Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? Some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. I'm one of them--but I hain't talked it around. A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they. I didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see --him and another man. He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago." I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. I put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested --and I was, too--and says: "Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going over there to-night?" "Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. They'll go over after midnight." "Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?" "Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got one." "I didn't think of that." The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says" "What did you say your name was, honey?" "M--Mary Williams." Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn't look up--seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. But now she says: "Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?" "Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary." "Oh, that's the way of it?" "Yes'm." I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet. Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right about the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. She showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. But she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. I held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's matters. But she broke off to say: "Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy." So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "Come, now, what's your real name?" "Wh--what, mum?" "What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?--or what is it?" I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But I says: "Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll--" "No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you, nuther. You just tell me your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help you. So'll my old man if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it. You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she musn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so I took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was why I struck out for this town of Goshen. "Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you this was Goshen?" "Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. He told me when the roads forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to Goshen." "He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong." "Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen before daylight." "Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat. You might want it." So she put me up a snack, and says: "Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? Answer up prompt now--don't stop to study over it. Which end gets up first?" "The hind end, mum." "Well, then, a horse?" "The for'rard end, mum." "Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?" "North side." "If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?" "The whole fifteen, mum." "Well, I reckon you HAVE lived in the country. I thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. What's your real name, now?" "George Peters, mum." "Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's George Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old calico. You do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the other things just to make certain. Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I can to get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. The river road's a rocky one, and your feet'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon." I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then. When I was about the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. When I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow, though I was most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot. Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go. I landed, and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. I roused him out and says: "Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose. They're after us!" Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. By that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. We put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that. I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around I couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never saying a word. CHAPTER XII. IT must a been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. If a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the Illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things. It warn't good judgment to put EVERYTHING on the raft. If the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp fire I built, and watched it all night for Jim to come. Anyways, they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't no fault of mine. I played it as low down on them as I could. When the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in a big bend on the Illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth. We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the Illinois side, and the channel was down the Missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. I told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog. Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog? Jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy, we would be in that same old town again. So I said I didn't care what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't. When it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next. Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. Every night now I used to slip ashore towards ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. Pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway. Mornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more--then he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. But towards daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. I was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet. We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. Take it all round, we lived pretty high. The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I, "Hel-LO, Jim, looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting straight down for her. The lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would a felt when I see that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. I wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. So I says: "Le's land on her, Jim." But Jim was dead against it at first. He says: "I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. Like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And besides," I says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and THEY don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket; I can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure--that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it? --wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd think it was Christopher C'lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer WAS here." Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by Jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder! Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but just then I heard a voice wail out and say: "Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!" Another voice said, pretty loud: "It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way before. You always want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've said it jest one time too many. You're the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country." By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so I won't either; I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So I dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying: "I'd LIKE to! And I orter, too--a mean skunk!" The man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "Oh, please don't, Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell." And every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say: "'Deed you AIN'T! You never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet you." And once he said: "Hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd a killed us both. And what FOR? Jist for noth'n. Jist because we stood on our RIGHTS--that's what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more, Jim Turner. Put UP that pistol, Bill." Bill says: "I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?" "But I don't WANT him killed, and I've got my reasons for it." "Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit you long's I live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started towards where I was there in the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says: "Here--come in here." And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I come. Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see them, but I could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed me because I didn't breathe. I was too scared. And, besides, a body COULDN'T breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest. Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says: "He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him NOW it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn State's evidence; now you hear ME. I'm for putting him out of his troubles." "So'm I," says Packard, very quiet. "Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it." "Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the thing's GOT to be done. But what I say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. Ain't that so?" "You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it this time?" "Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickins we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own self. I reckon that's a considerble sight better 'n killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I right?" "Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she DON'T break up and wash off?" "Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?" "All right, then; come along." So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "Jim !" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says: "Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put ALL of 'em in a bad fix--for the sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick--hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and--" "Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF'? Dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone I--en here we is!" CHAPTER XIII. WELL, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn't no time to be sentimentering. We'd GOT to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. So we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too--seemed a week before we got to the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any further--so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!" He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice: "All ready--shove off!" I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says: "Hold on--'d you go through him?" "No. Didn't you?" "No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet." "Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along." So they got out and went in. The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner was. Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry about the men--I reckon I hadn't had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would I like it? So says I to Jim: "The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes." But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. The rain poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it. It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. So I said I would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the light. As I got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by I found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: "Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the trouble?" I says: "Pap, and mam, and sis, and--" Then I broke down. He says: "Oh, dang it now, DON'T take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. What's the matter with 'em?" "They're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?" "Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "I'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich as old Jim Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places with him; for, says I, a sailor's life's the life for me, and I'm derned if I'D live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I--" I broke in and says: "They're in an awful peck of trouble, and--" "WHO is?" "Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--" "Up where? Where are they?" "On the wreck." "What wreck?" "Why, there ain't but one." "What, you don't mean the Walter Scott?" "Yes." "Good land! what are they doin' THERE, for gracious sakes?" "Well, they didn't go there a-purpose." "I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! Why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?" "Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--" "Yes, Booth's Landing--go on." "She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-her I disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so WE saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple--and oh, he WAS the best cretur !--I most wish 't it had been me, I do." "My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And THEN what did you all do?" "Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash for it, and Miss Hooker she said if I didn't strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'What, in such a night and such a current? There ain't no sense in it; go for the steam ferry.' Now if you'll go and--" "By Jackson, I'd LIKE to, and, blame it, I don't know but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going' to PAY for it? Do you reckon your pap--" "Why THAT'S all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, PARTICULAR, that her uncle Hornback--" "Great guns! is HE her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you out to Jim Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. And don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. Tell him I'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself, now; I'm a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer." I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would a done it. I wished the widow knowed about it. I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in. Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! A kind of cold shiver went through me, and then I struck out for her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't much chance for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for I reckoned if they could stand it I could. Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and when I judged I was out of eye-reach I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the wreck for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her uncle Hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and I laid into my work and went a-booming down the river. It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. By the time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people. CHAPTER XIV. BY and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and three boxes of seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. I told Jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. He said that when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with HIM anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would sell him South, sure. Well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger. I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says: "I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. How much do a king git?" "Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them." "AIN' dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?" "THEY don't do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around." "No; is dat so?" "Of course it is. They just set around--except, maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war. But other times they just lazy around; or go hawking--just hawking and sp--Sh!--d' you hear a noise?" We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back. "Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads off. But mostly they hang round the harem." "Roun' de which?" "Harem." "What's de harem?" "The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had about a million wives." "Why, yes, dat's so; I--I'd done forgot it. A harem's a bo'd'n-house, I reck'n. Mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En I reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. I doan' take no stock in dat. Bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin' all de time? No--'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet DOWN de biler-factry when he want to res'." "Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self." "I doan k'yer what de widder say, he WARN'T no wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways I ever see. Does you know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?" "Yes, the widow told me all about it." "WELL, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's de stump, dah--dat's one er de women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill's de chile. Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill DO b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? No; I take en whack de bill in TWO, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat's de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?--can't buy noth'n wid it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million un um." "But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile." "Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n I knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. De 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de rain. Doan' talk to me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back." "But I tell you you don't get the point." "Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de REAL pint is down furder--it's down deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. HE know how to value 'em. But you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. HE as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. Dey's plenty mo'. A chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to Sollermun, dad fatch him!" I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there warn't no getting it out again. He was the most down on Solomon of any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let Solomon slide. I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there. "Po' little chap." "But some says he got out and got away, and come to America." "Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?" "No." "Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne to do?" "Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk French." "Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?" "NO, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single word." "Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?" "I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of a book. S'pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy--what would you think?" "I wouldn' think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat." "Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you know how to talk French?" "Well, den, why couldn't he SAY it?" "Why, he IS a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's WAY of saying it." "Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it." "Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?" "No, a cat don't." "Well, does a cow?" "No, a cow don't, nuther." "Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?" "No, dey don't." "It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?" "Course." "And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from US?" "Why, mos' sholy it is." "Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a FRENCHMAN to talk different from us? You answer me that." "Is a cat a man, Huck?" "No." "Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow a man?--er is a cow a cat?" "No, she ain't either of them." "Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?" "Yes." "WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he TALK like a man? You answer me DAT!" I see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to argue. So I quit. CHAPTER XV. WE judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River comes in, and that was what we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of trouble. Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. I see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn't come. I was in such a hurry I hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to untie her, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do anything with them. As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. That was all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of it I shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which way I was going than a dead man. Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll run into the bank or a towhead or something; I got to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. I whooped and listened. Away down there somewheres I hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. The next time it come I see I warn't heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. And the next time I was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much either, for I was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was going straight ahead all the time. I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly I hears the whoop BEHIND me. I was tangled good now. That was somebody else's whoop, or else I was turned around. I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and I knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and not some other raftsman hollering. I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog. The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the currrent was tearing by them so swift. In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and I reckon I didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred. I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was an island, and Jim had gone down t'other side of it. It warn't no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide. I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon. I was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think of that. No, you FEEL like you are laying dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don't think to yourself how fast YOU'RE going, but you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. If you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the night, you try it once--you'll see. Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but I couldn't do it, and directly I judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for I had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a narrow channel between, and some that I couldn't see I knowed was there because I'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks. Well, I warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and I only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a Jack-o'-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap places so quick and so much. I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so I judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a little faster than what I was. Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but I couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. I reckoned Jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so I laid down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no more. I didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so sleepy I couldn't help it; so I thought I would take jest one little cat-nap. But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and I was spinning down a big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I was; I thought I was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week. It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as I could see by the stars. I looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. I took after it; but when I got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of sawlogs made fast together. Then I see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the raft. When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time. I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim, and says: "Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you stir me up?" "Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead--you ain' drownded--you's back agin? It's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No, you ain' dead! you's back agin, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck--de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!" "What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?" "Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin'?" "Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?" "How does I talk wild?" "HOW? Why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone away?" "Huck--Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. HAIN'T you ben gone away?" "Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain't been gone anywheres. Where would I go to?" "Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey is. Is I ME, or who IS I? Is I heah, or whah IS I? Now dat's what I wants to know." "Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I think you're a tangle-headed old fool, Jim." "I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de tow-head?" "No, I didn't. What tow-head? I hain't see no tow-head." "You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?" "What fog?" "Why, de fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. En didn't you whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah he wuz? En didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? Now ain' dat so, boss--ain't it so? You answer me dat." "Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I done the same. You couldn't a got drunk in that time, so of course you've been dreaming." "Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" "Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it happen." "But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--" "It don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in it. I know, because I've been here all the time." Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it. Then he says: "Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfullest dream I ever see. En I hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one." "Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. But this one was a staving dream; tell me all about it, Jim." So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. Then he said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. He said the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get us away from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. The lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was the free States, and wouldn't have no more trouble. It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to the raft, but it was clearing up again now. "Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim," I says; "but what does THESE things stand for?" It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now. Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. He had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. But when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says: "What do dey stan' for? I'se gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de raf'. En when I wake up en fine you back agin, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I could a got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole Jim wid a lie. Dat truck dah is TRASH; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed." Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. But that was enough. It made me feel so mean I could almost kissed HIS foot to get him to take it back. It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I warn't ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't done that one if I'd a knowed it would make him feel that way. 
7103	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 4. CHAPTER XVI. WE slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty men, likely. She had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. There was a power of style about her. It AMOUNTED to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that. We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got hot. The river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light. We talked about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I had heard say there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town? Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show. But I said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old river again. That disturbed Jim--and me too. So the question was, what to do? I said, paddle ashore the first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited. There warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it. He said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says: "Dah she is?" But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching, same as before. Jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because I begun to get it through my head that he WAS most free--and who was to blame for it? Why, ME. I couldn't get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. It got to troubling me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come home to me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. I tried to make out to myself that I warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "But you knowed he was running for his freedom, and you could a paddled ashore and told somebody." That was so--I couldn't get around that noway. That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me, "What had poor Miss Watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? What did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. THAT'S what she done." I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep still. Every time he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and I thought if it WAS Cairo I reckoned I would die of miserableness. Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free State he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an Ab'litionist to go and steal them. It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. Just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the old saying, "Give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger, which I had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children--children that belonged to a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm. I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last I says to it, "Let up on me--it ain't too late yet--I'll paddle ashore at the first light and tell." I felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings out: "We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels! Dat's de good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!" I says: "I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn't be, you know." He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as I shoved off, he says: "Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say, it's all on accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck; you's de bes' fren' Jim's ever had; en you's de ONLY fren' ole Jim's got now." I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says: "Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole Jim." Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I GOT to do it--I can't get OUT of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says: "What's that yonder?" "A piece of a raft," I says. "Do you belong on it?" "Yes, sir." "Any men on it?" "Only one, sir." "Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or black?" I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn't come. I tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but I warn't man enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so I just give up trying, and up and says: "He's white." "I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves." "I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. He's sick--and so is mam and Mary Ann." "Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I s'pose we've got to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along." I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says: "Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and I can't do it by myself." "Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what's the matter with your father?" "It's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much." They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One says: "Boy, that's a lie. What IS the matter with your pap? Answer up square now, and it'll be the better for you." "I will, sir, I will, honest--but don't leave us, please. It's the--the --Gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do." "Set her back, John, set her back!" says one. They backed water. "Keep away, boy--keep to looard. Confound it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap's got the small-pox, and you know it precious well. Why didn't you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?" "Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, and they just went away and left us." "Poor devil, there's something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but we--well, hang it, we don't want the small-pox, you see. Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash everything to pieces. You float along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. It will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. Don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard. Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. I feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?" "Hold on, Parker," says the other man, "here's a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy; you do as Mr. Parker told you, and you'll be all right." "That's so, my boy--good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it." "Good-bye, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway niggers get by me if I can help it." They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because I knowed very well I had done wrong, and I see it warn't no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get STARTED right when he's little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd a done right and give Jim up, would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad--I'd feel just the same way I do now. Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn't answer that. So I reckoned I wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time. I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked all around; he warn't anywhere. I says: "Jim!" "Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't talk loud." He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. He says: "I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den I was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool 'em, Huck! Dat WUZ de smartes' dodge! I tell you, chile, I'spec it save' ole Jim--ole Jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey." Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise--twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free States. He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there. Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. Then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting. That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend. I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. I ranged up and says: "Mister, is that town Cairo?" "Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool." "What town is it, mister?" "If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you won't want." I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never mind, Cairo would be the next place, I reckoned. We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it was high ground, so I didn't go. No high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to the left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something. So did Jim. I says: "Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night." He says: "Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck. I awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work." "I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim--I do wish I'd never laid eyes on it." "It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know. Don't you blame yo'self 'bout it." When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo. We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. There warn't no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone! We didn't say a word for a good while. There warn't anything to say. We both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still. By and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it when there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us. So we shoved out after dark on the raft. Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us. The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the river, and you can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. Up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river. We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was close. She aimed right for us. Often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft. I dived--and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under a minute and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I could hear her. I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any answer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me while I was "treading water," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went that way. It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good long time in getting over. I made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it. I was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I knowed better than to move another peg. CHAPTER XVII. IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says: "Be done, boys! Who's there?" I says: "It's me." "Who's me?" "George Jackson, sir." "What do you want?" "I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me." "What are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?" "I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat." "Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did you say your name was?" "George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy." "Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there anybody with you?" "No, sir, nobody." I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. The man sung out: "Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places." "All ready." "Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?" "No, sir; I never heard of them." "Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?" I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough--put your head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off. The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome --and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old gentleman says: "There; I reckon it's all right. Come in." As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows --there warn't none on the side. They held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "Why, HE ain't a Shepherdson--no, there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it--it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says: "Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?" "True for you, Rachel--I forgot." So the old lady says: "Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry." Buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. He says: "Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?" They said, no, 'twas a false alarm. "Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got one." They all laughed, and Bob says: "Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming." "Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right I'm always kept down; I don't get no show." "Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you." When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when the candle went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way. "Well, guess," he says. "How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of it before?" "But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy." "WHICH candle?" I says. "Why, any candle," he says. "I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?" "Why, he was in the DARK! That's where he was!" "Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?" "Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are you going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming times--they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've got a dog--and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Are you all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss." Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever I've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked. The young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here. So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says: "Can you spell, Buck?" "Yes," he says. "I bet you can't spell my name," says I. "I bet you what you dare I can," says he. "All right," says I, "go ahead." "G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n--there now," he says. "Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without studying." I set it down, private, because somebody might want ME to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to it. It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town. They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. They wouldn't took any money for her. Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested. They squeaked through underneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. On the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath. This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big family Bible full of pictures. One was Pilgrim's Progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The statements was interesting, but tough. Another was Friendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn book, and a lot of other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket. They had pictures hung on the walls--mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing the Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. They was different from any pictures I ever see before --blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. But I reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up towards the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me. This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded: ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die? And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the mourners cry? No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened, 'Twas not from sickness' shots. No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling Bots. Despised love struck not with woe That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots. O no. Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down a well. They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft In the realms of the good and great. If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by. Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever have to stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly. Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside. It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too! CHAPTER XVIII. COL. GRANGERFORD was a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. He was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow Douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners --everybody was always good-mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always--I mean he made it seem like good weather. When he turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "Our duty to you, sir, and madam;" and THEY bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people too. Bob was the oldest and Tom next--tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad Panama hats. Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father. She was beautiful. So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty. Each person had their own nigger to wait on them--Buck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time. This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more --three sons; they got killed; and Emmeline that died. The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. These people was mostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with them. It was a handsome lot of quality, I tell you. There was another clan of aristocracy around there--five or six families --mostly of the name of Shepherdson. They was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons and Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when I went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons there on their fine horses. One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the road. Buck says: "Quick! Jump for the woods!" We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel. I had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat tumbled off from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. But we didn't wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come--to get his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute--'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged--then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle: "I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn't you step into the road, my boy?" "The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage." Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. The two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt. Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, I says: "Did you want to kill him, Buck?" "Well, I bet I did." "What did he do to you?" "Him? He never done nothing to me." "Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?" "Why, nothing--only it's on account of the feud." "What's a feud?" "Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?" "Never heard of it before--tell me about it." "Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills HIM; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the COUSINS chip in--and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long time." "Has this one been going on long, Buck?" "Well, I should RECKON! It started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit--which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would." "What was the trouble about, Buck?--land?" "I reckon maybe--I don't know." "Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson?" "Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago." "Don't anybody know?" "Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place." "Has there been many killed, Buck?" "Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt once or twice." "Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?" "Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could out-run him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid HIM out." "I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck." "I reckon he WARN'T a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons--not a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had to be FETCHED home--and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. No, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that KIND." Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons done the same. It was pretty ornery preaching--all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet. About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I went up to our room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if I liked her, and I said I did; and she asked me if I would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is different. Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a Testament. So I give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with "HALF-PAST TWO" wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper in the book again, and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and I might go and play now. I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was following along behind. When we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running, and says: "Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins." Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says: "All right; trot ahead." I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle deep as much as another half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says: "You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'." Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. I poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep--and, by jings, it was my old Jim! I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick HIM up and take him into slavery again. Says he: "I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considable ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat house I begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you--I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet agin I knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gitt'n along." "Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?" "Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn--but we's all right now. I ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when--" "WHAT raft, Jim?" "Our ole raf'." "You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?" "No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal--one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'." "Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim--did you catch her?" "How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm to do fur me I doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart." "Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens HE ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth." I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was--didn't seem to be anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs--nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks I, what does it mean? Down by the wood-pile I comes across my Jack, and says: "What's it all about?" Says he: "Don't you know, Mars Jawge?" "No," says I, "I don't." "Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off in de night some time--nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know--leastways, so dey 'spec. De fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago--maybe a little mo'--en' I TELL you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses YOU never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times." "Buck went off 'thout waking me up." "Well, I reck'n he DID! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst." I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off. When I came in sight of the log store and the woodpile where the steamboats lands I worked along under the trees and brush till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. There was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first I was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn't. There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat landing; but they couldn't come it. Every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both ways. By and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the run. They got half way to the tree I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old. The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was out of sight I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other --wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations--the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him--I hain't ever heard anything like it. All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns--the men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses! The boys jumped for the river--both of them hurt--and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "Kill them, kill them!" It made me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell ALL that happened--it would make me sick again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain't ever going to get shut of them--lots of times I dream about them. I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off in the woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened. When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got away as quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me. It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his island, so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot from me says: "Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise." It was Jim's voice--nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says: "Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin. Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for certain you IS dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back again, honey." I says: "All right--that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down the river--there's something up there that 'll help them think so--so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can." I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens--there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right--and whilst I eat my supper we talked and had a good time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft. CHAPTER XIX. TWO or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres--perfectly still --just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away--trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks --rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it! A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see the axe flash and come down --you don't hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head then you hear the K'CHUNK!--it had took all that time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says: "No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'" Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes Buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go much on clothes, nohow. Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to MAKE so many. Jim said the moon could a LAID them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something. After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away. One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't get some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody I judged it was ME--or maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says: "Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that'll throw the dogs off the scent." They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe. One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags. The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another. "What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap. "Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out WITH you. That's the whole yarn--what's yourn? "Well, I'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I TELL you, and takin' as much as five or six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that I had a way of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't wait for no breakfast--I warn't hungry." "Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?" "I ain't undisposed. What's your line--mainly?" "Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor --tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?" "I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find out the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around." Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says: "Alas!" "What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-head. "To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company." And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. "Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish. "Yes, it IS good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame YOU, gentlemen--far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know--there's a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." He went on a-wiping. "Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heaving your pore broken heart at US f'r? WE hain't done nothing." "No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself down--yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer--perfectly right--I don't make any moan." "Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?" "Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass --'tis no matter. The secret of my birth--" "The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say--" "Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!" Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: "No! you can't mean it?" "Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant--I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!" Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "Your Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain "Bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. But the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along in the afternoon, he says: "Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that." "No?" "No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place." "Alas!" "No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." And, by jings, HE begins to cry. "Hold! What do you mean?" "Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing. "To the bitter death!" He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, "That secret of your being: speak!" "Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!" You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says: "You are what?" "Yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette." "You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least." "Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France." Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort HIM. But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "Your Majesty," and waited on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by HIS father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: "Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? It 'll only make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says I--that's my motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends." The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others. It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have their own way. CHAPTER XX. THEY asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running --was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I: "Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run SOUTH?" No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way, so I says: "My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; Jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother us." The duke says: "Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to. I'll think the thing over--I'll invent a plan that'll fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go by that town yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy." Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick better than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He says: "I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. Your Grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself." Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke says: "'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; I yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world--let me suffer; can bear it." We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little bunch of lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It was my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in anyway if I'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did scream along! And every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a H-WHACK!--bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit--and then RIP comes another flash and another sockdolager. The waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them. I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that time, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he was always mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside--I didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. About two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway. I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that showed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters for the day. The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game. Then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill said, "The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture on the Science of Phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece." The duke said that was HIM. In another bill he was the "world-renowned Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. By and by he says: "But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the boards, Royalty?" "No," says the king. "You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the sword fight in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet. How does that strike you?" "I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but, you see, I don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. Do you reckon you can learn me?" "Easy!" "All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway. Le's commence right away." So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet. "But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe." "No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that. Besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all the difference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her night-gown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts." He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for Richard III. and t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart. There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. We was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the canoe and get some. When we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go, too. The duke said what he was after was a printing-office. We found it; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter shop--carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty, littered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. The duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit out for the camp-meeting. We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there from twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck. The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly. The first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. The people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in the wilderness! Look upon it and live!" And people would shout out, "Glory!--A-a-MEN!" And so he went on, and the people groaning and crying and saying amen: "Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (AMEN!) come, sick and sore! (AMEN!) come, lame and halt and blind! (AMEN!) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (A-A-MEN!) come, all that's worn and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and be at rest!" (A-A-MEN! GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH!) And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild. Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up on to the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean--and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "Don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!" And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody sings out, "Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "Let HIM pass the hat around!" Then everybody said it, the preacher too. So the king went all through the crowd with his hat swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times--and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates. When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with. The duke was thinking HE'D been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. He had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office--horse bills--and took the money, four dollars. And he had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance--so they done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet and saddish--the name of it was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it. Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it. The reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a dot. It said he run away from St. Jacques' plantation, forty mile below New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. "Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards." We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the printing office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to. We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says: "Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?" "No," I says, "I reckon not." "Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better." I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it. 
7104	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 5. CHAPTER XXI. IT was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. The king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. After breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his Romeo and Juliet by heart. When he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practice it together. The duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out ROMEO! that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so--R-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for Juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass." Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practice the sword fight--the duke called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see. But by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river. After dinner the duke says: "Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We want a little something to answer encores with, anyway." "What's onkores, Bilgewater?" The duke told him, and then says: "I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and you--well, let me see--oh, I've got it--you can do Hamlet's soliloquy." "Hamlet's which?" "Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always fetches the house. I haven't got it in the book--I've only got one volume--but I reckon I can piece it out from memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if I can call it back from recollection's vaults." So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told us to give attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever I see before. This is the speech--I learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king: To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life; For who would fardels bear, till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent sleep, Great nature's second course, And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune Than fly to others that we know not of. There's the respect must give us pause: Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, In the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn In customary suits of solemn black, But that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, Breathes forth contagion on the world, And thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage, Is sicklied o'er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia: Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to a nunnery--go! Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first-rate. It seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off. The first chance we got the duke he had some showbills printed; and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword fighting and rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the time. One morning, when we was pretty well down the State of Arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but Jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show. We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The duke he hired the courthouse, and we went around and stuck up our bills. They read like this: Shaksperean Revival ! ! ! Wonderful Attraction! For One Night Only! The world renowned tragedians, David Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theatre London, and Edmund Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre, Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime Shaksperean Spectacle entitled TheBalcony Scene in Romeo and Juliet ! ! ! Romeo...................Mr. Garrick Juliet..................Mr. Kean Assisted by the whole strength of the company! New costumes, new scenes, new appointments! Also: The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling Broad-sword conflict In Richard III. ! ! ! Richard III.............Mr. Garrick Richmond................Mr. Kean Also: (by special request) Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! ! By The Illustrious Kean! Done by him 300 consecutive nights in Paris! For One Night Only, On account of imperative European engagements! Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents. Then we went loafing around town. The stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water when the river was over-flowed. The houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash piles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge--a leather one. Some of the fences had been white-washed some time or another, but the duke said it was in Clumbus' time, like enough. There was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out. All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic awnings in front, and the country people hitched their horses to the awning-posts. There was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching--a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats, they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss words. There was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches-pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was: "Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank." "Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill." Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len' me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I had"--which is a lie pretty much everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack ain't no stranger, so he says: "YOU give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back intrust, nuther." "Well, I DID pay you back some of it wunst." "Yes, you did--'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head." Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic: "Here, gimme the CHAW, and you take the PLUG." All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else BUT mud --mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in ALL the places. The hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, "Hi! SO boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. Then they'd settle back again till there was a dog fight. There couldn't anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in, The people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. Families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons. There was considerable whisky drinking going on, and I seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out: "Here comes old Boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!" All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says: "Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now." Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year." Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an Injun, and singing out: "Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise." He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face. Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel Sherburn, and his motto was, "Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on." He see me, and rode up and says: "Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?" Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says: "He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's drunk. He's the best naturedest old fool in Arkansaw--never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober." Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells: "Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've swindled. You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm a-gwyne to have you, too!" And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and going on. By and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. He says to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says: "I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till one o'clock, mind--no longer. If you open your mouth against me only once after that time you can't travel so far but I will find you." Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and so he MUST go home--he must go right away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use--up the street he would tear again, and give Sherburn another cussing. By and by somebody says: "Go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade him, she can." So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways and stopped. In about five or ten minutes here comes Boggs again, but not on his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-headed, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody sings out: "Boggs!" I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel Sherburn. He was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. The same second I see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the men turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level--both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands and says, "O Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards on to the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. That young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "Oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" The crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "Back, back! give him air, give him air!" Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off. They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town following, and I rushed and got a good place at the window, where I was close to him and could see in. They laid him on the floor and put one large Bible under his head, and opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. She was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and scared. Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as well as you." There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. The streets was full, and everybody was excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. One long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people following him around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says "Bang!" staggered backwards, says "Bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back. The people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened. Then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him. Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging with. CHAPTER XXII. THEY swarmed up towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like Injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death. They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. It was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the fence! tear down the fence!" Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. Sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. The stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to out-gaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. Then he says, slow and scornful: "The idea of YOU lynching anybody! It's amusing. The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a MAN! Because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a MAN? Why, a MAN'S safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him. "Do I know you? I know you clear through was born and raised in the South, and I've lived in the North; so I know the average all around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South one man all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people--whereas you're just AS brave, and no braver. Why don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark--and it's just what they WOULD do. "So they always acquit; and then a MAN goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back and lynches the rascal. Your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. You brought PART of a man--Buck Harkness, there--and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd a taken it out in blowing. "You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and danger. YOU don't like trouble and danger. But if only HALF a man--like Buck Harkness, there--shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid to back down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you are--COWARDS--and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob without any MAN at the head of it is BENEATH pitifulness. Now the thing for YOU to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and when they come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a MAN along. Now LEAVE--and take your half-a-man with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this. The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and Buck Harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap. I could a stayed if I wanted to, but I didn't want to. I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. I had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better save it, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. You can't be too careful. I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in WASTING it on them. It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable --there must a been twenty of them--and every lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a powerful fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol. And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center-pole, cracking his whip and shouting "Hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! And so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild. Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. The ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever COULD think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what I couldn't noway understand. Why, I couldn't a thought of them in a year. And by and by a drunk man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. Then the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm towards the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women begun to scream. So, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. So everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on. The minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. It warn't funny to me, though; I was all of a tremble to see his danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire too. He just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits. And, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment. Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he WAS the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I reckon. Why, it was one of his own men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on to nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but I wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but I never struck them yet. Anyways, it was plenty good enough for ME; and wherever I run across it, it can have all of MY custom every time. Well, that night we had OUR show; but there warn't only about twelve people there--just enough to pay expenses. And they laughed all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke said these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to Shakespeare; what they wanted was low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. The bills said: AT THE COURT HOUSE! FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY! The World-Renowned Tragedians DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER! AND EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER! Of the London and Continental Theatres, In their Thrilling Tragedy of THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD, OR THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! ! Admission 50 cents. Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said: LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED. "There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I don't know Arkansaw!" CHAPTER XXIII. WELL, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and- striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. And--but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. Well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. Twenty people sings out: "What, is it over? Is that ALL?" The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out, "Sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts: "Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We are sold--mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be the laughing stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. NO. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the REST of the town! Then we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!--the jedge is right!" everybody sings out.) "All right, then--not a word about any sell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy." Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. House was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town. The third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know the signs of a dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, I after him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says: "Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you!" I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, all dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam, and says: "Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" He hadn't been up-town at all. We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village. Then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. The duke says: "Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in; and I knew they'd lay for us the third night, and consider it was THEIR turn now. Well, it IS their turn, and I'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. I WOULD just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. They can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions." Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. I never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says: "Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?" "No," I says, "it don't." "Why don't it, Huck?" "Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all alike," "But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions." "Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out." "Is dat so?" "You read about them once--you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this 'n 's a Sunday-school Superintendent to HIM. And look at Charles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and Edward Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in bloom. He WAS a blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head next morning. And he would do it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up. Next morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off. 'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes, Next morning, 'Chop off her head'--and they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers the bell. Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' And he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it Domesday Book--which was a good name and stated the case. You don't know kings, Jim, but I know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at it --give notice?--give the country a show? No. All of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares them to come on. That was HIS style--he never give anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his father, the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up? No--drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying around where he was--what did he do? He collared it. S'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he done it--what did he do? He always done the other thing. S'pose he opened his mouth--what then? If he didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings he'd a fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to THAT old ram, anyway. All I say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. It's the way they're raised." "But dis one do SMELL so like de nation, Huck." "Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way." "Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways." "Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a middling hard lot for a duke. When he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king." "Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is all I kin stan'." "It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. Sometimes I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings." What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said: you couldn't tell them from the real kind. I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often done that. When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was. But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: "What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en I says to her, I says: "'Shet de do'.' "She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It make me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says: "'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!' "She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'! I says: "'I lay I MAKE you mine!' "En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'. Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when I come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open YIT, en dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but I WUZ mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-BLAM!--en my lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so--so--I doan' know HOW I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says POW! jis' as loud as I could yell. SHE NEVER BUDGE! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord God Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb--en I'd ben a-treat'n her so!" CHAPTER XXIV. NEXT day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. You see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it WAS kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it. He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in King Lear's outfit--it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine days. Blamed if he warn't the horriblest looking outrage I ever see. Then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so: Sick Arab--but harmless when not out of his head. And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there was a sound. The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that. These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time. They couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the devil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. I done it, of course. The king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. I never knowed how clothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. Says the king: "Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her." I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. I fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him. "Run her nose in shore," says the king. I done it. "Wher' you bound for, young man?" "For the steamboat; going to Orleans." "Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute, my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman, Adolphus"--meaning me, I see. I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. The young fellow says: "When I first see you I says to myself, 'It's Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.' But then I says again, 'No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.' You AIN'T him, are you?" "No, my name's Blodgett--Elexander Blodgett--REVEREND Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it--which I hope he hasn't." "Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter die--which he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would a give anything in this world to see HIM before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother William at all--that's the deef and dumb one--William ain't more than thirty or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and William's the only ones that's left now; and, as I was saying, they haven't got here in time." "Did anybody send 'em word?" "Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well this time. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young to be much company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after George and his wife died, and didn't seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see Harvey--and William, too, for that matter--because he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls would be all right--for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to." "Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?" "Oh, he lives in England--Sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country. He hasn't had any too much time--and besides he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know." "Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?" "Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives." "It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the others?" "Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about fourteen --that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip." "Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so." "Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Babtis' preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here." Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peter's business--which was a tanner; and about George's--which was a carpenter; and about Harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on. Then he says: "What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?" "Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't stop there. When they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cincinnati boat will, but this is a St. Louis one." "Was Peter Wilks well off?" "Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers." "When did you say he died?" "I didn't say, but it was last night." "Funeral to-morrow, likely?" "Yes, 'bout the middle of the day." "Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or another. So what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all right." "Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that." When we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon she got off. The king never said nothing about going aboard, so I lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me paddle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says: "Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along, now." I see what HE was up to; but I never said nothing, of course. When I got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had said it --every last word of it. And all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good. Then he says: "How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?" The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb person on the histronic boards. So then they waited for a steamboat. About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we went aboard, and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm. He says: "If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?" So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore. About two dozen men flocked down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says: "Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter Wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to say, "What d' I tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and gentle: "I'm sorry sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he DID live yesterday evening." Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and says: "Alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!" Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever I struck. Well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I struck anything like it, I'm a nigger. It was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race. CHAPTER XXV. THE news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of them putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march. The windows and dooryards was full; and every minute somebody would say, over a fence: "Is it THEM?" And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say: "You bet it is." When we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the door. Mary Jane WAS red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and Mary Jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they HAD it! Everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have such good times. Then the king he hunched the duke private--I see him do it--and then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying "Sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall. And when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could a heard them to Orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the way they done. And, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place was that damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting. Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust. And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully. Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:--Rev. Mr. Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley. Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together--that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bell was away up to Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said "Goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk. So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to George's family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat. Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. So these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps the duke on the shoulder and says: "Oh, THIS ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Billy, it beats the Nonesuch, DON'T it?" The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says: "It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you and me, Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best way, in the long run. I've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way." Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. So they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king: "Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?" They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then the duke says: "Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--I reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and keep still about it. We can spare it." "Oh, shucks, yes, we can SPARE it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that--it's the COUNT I'm thinkin' about. We want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer money up stairs and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to--" "Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket. "It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you HAVE got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king. "Blest if the old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out agin," and HE begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up. It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear. "Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's go up stairs and count this money, and then take and GIVE IT TO THE GIRLS." "Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. You have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head I ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let 'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em out." When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile--twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops. Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says: "Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. He has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would a done MORE generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear William and me. Now, WOULDN'T he? Ther' ain't no question 'bout it in MY mind. Well, then, what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? And what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, ROB--sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? If I know William--and I THINK I do--he--well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed a while; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the king says, "I knowed it; I reckon THAT 'll convince anybody the way HE feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money--take it ALL. It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful." Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then such another hugging and kissing I never see yet. And everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time: "You DEAR good souls!--how LOVELY!--how COULD you!" Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking and they was all busy listening. The king was saying--in the middle of something he'd started in on-- "--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want ALL to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public." And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, "OBSEQUIES, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says: "Poor William, afflicted as he is, his HEART'S aluz right. Asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome. But he needn't a worried--it was jest what I was at." Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before. And when he done it the third time he says: "I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't --obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't used in England no more now--it's gone out. We say orgies now in England. Orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact. It's a word that's made up out'n the Greek ORGO, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew JEESUM, to plant, cover up; hence inTER. So, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral." He was the WORST I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. Everybody was shocked. Everybody says, "Why, DOCTOR!" and Abner Shackleford says: "Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey Wilks." The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says: "Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I--" "Keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor. "YOU talk like an Englishman, DON'T you? It's the worst imitation I ever heard. YOU Peter Wilks's brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!" Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how Harvey 'd showed in forty ways that he WAS Harvey, and knowed everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and BEGGED him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the poor girl's feelings, and all that. But it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that pretended to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. The poor girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on THEM. He says: "I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn you as a friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an impostor--has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres, and you take them for PROOFS, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out--I BEG you to do it. Will you?" Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She says: "HERE is my answer." She hove up the bag of money and put it in the king's hands, and says, "Take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no receipt for it." Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other. Everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud. The doctor says: "All right; I wash MY hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a time 's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of this day." And away he went. "All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit. 
7105	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 6. CHAPTER XXVI. WELL, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to Uncle Harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me. So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice. She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he said they warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. The duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby. That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and I stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of the table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so--said "How DO you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for the land's sake, DID you get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know. And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and blest if I didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She says: "Did you ever see the king?" "Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have--he goes to our church." I knowed he was dead years ago, but I never let on. So when I says he goes to our church, she says: "What--regular?" "Yes--regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the pulpit." "I thought he lived in London?" "Well, he does. Where WOULD he live?" "But I thought YOU lived in Sheffield?" I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. Then I says: "I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield. That's only in the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea baths." "Why, how you talk--Sheffield ain't on the sea." "Well, who said it was?" "Why, you did." "I DIDN'T nuther." "You did!" "I didn't." "You did." "I never said nothing of the kind." "Well, what DID you say, then?" "Said he come to take the sea BATHS--that's what I said." "Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the sea?" "Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any Congress-water?" "Yes." "Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?" "Why, no." "Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath." "How does he get it, then?" "Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water--in barrels. There in the palace at Sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. They haven't got no conveniences for it." "Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and saved time." When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she says: "Do you go to church, too?" "Yes--regular." "Where do you set?" "Why, in our pew." "WHOSE pew?" "Why, OURN--your Uncle Harvey's." "His'n? What does HE want with a pew?" "Wants it to set in. What did you RECKON he wanted with it?" "Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit." Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again, so I played another chicken bone and got another think. Then I says: "Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?" "Why, what do they want with more?" "What!--to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl as you. They don't have no less than seventeen." "Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as that, not if I NEVER got to glory. It must take 'em a week." "Shucks, they don't ALL of 'em preach the same day--only ONE of 'em." "Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?" "Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or another. But mainly they don't do nothing." "Well, then, what are they FOR?" "Why, they're for STYLE. Don't you know nothing?" "Well, I don't WANT to know no such foolishness as that. How is servants treated in England? Do they treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?" "NO! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs." "Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New Year's week, and Fourth of July?" "Oh, just listen! A body could tell YOU hain't ever been to England by that. Why, Hare-l--why, Joanna, they never see a holiday from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger shows, nor nowheres." "Nor church?" "Nor church." "But YOU always went to church." Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant. But next minute I whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was different from a common servant and HAD to go to church whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got done I see she warn't satisfied. She says: "Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?" "Honest injun," says I. "None of it at all?" "None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I. "Lay your hand on this book and say it." I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and said it. So then she looked a little better satisfied, and says: "Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I'll believe the rest." "What is it you won't believe, Joe?" says Mary Jane, stepping in with Susan behind her. "It ain't right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you like to be treated so?" "That's always your way, Maim--always sailing in to help somebody before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing to him. He's told some stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every bit and grain I DID say. I reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can't he?" "I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. If you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make THEM feel ashamed." "Why, Maim, he said--" "It don't make no difference what he SAID--that ain't the thing. The thing is for you to treat him KIND, and not be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks." I says to myself, THIS is a girl that I'm letting that old reptle rob her of her money! Then Susan SHE waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb! Says I to myself, and this is ANOTHER one that I'm letting him rob her of her money! Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again--which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered. "All right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon." She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished I could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again. I says to myself, this is ANOTHER one that I'm letting him rob her of her money. And when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so ornery and low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind's made up; I'll hive that money for them or bust. So then I lit out--for bed, I said, meaning some time or another. When I got by myself I went to thinking the thing over. I says to myself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? No--that won't do. He might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell Mary Jane? No--I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. If she was to fetch in help I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one. I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to steal it some way that they won't suspicion that I done it. They've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance time enough. I'll steal it and hide it; and by and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's hid. But I better hive it tonight if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet. So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was dark, but I found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then I went to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I couldn't do nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I judged I'd got to do the other thing--lay for them and eavesdrop. About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary Jane's frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still. They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed. Then I was glad I hadn't found the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets down then, and the king says: "Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to talk us over." "Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your plans. I've got a notion, and I think it's a sound one." "What is it, duke?" "That we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and clip it down the river with what we've got. Specially, seeing we got it so easy--GIVEN back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for knocking off and lighting out." That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would a been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed, The king rips out and says: "What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good, salable stuff, too." The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper--didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of EVERYTHING they had. "Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money. The people that BUYS the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it--which won't be long after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. These yer orphans 'll git their house back agin, and that's enough for THEM; they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. THEY ain't a-goin to suffer. Why, jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, THEY ain't got noth'n' to complain of." Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says: "Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for HIM? Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? And ain't that a big enough majority in any town?" So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says: "I don't think we put that money in a good place." That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help me. The king says: "Why?" "Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some of it?" "Your head's level agin, duke," says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where I was. I stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I tried to think what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the king he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a thought, and he never suspicioned I was around. They took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of getting stole now. But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way down stairs. I groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I could get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: I knowed that very well. Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn't a gone to sleep if I'd a wanted to, I was in such a sweat to get through with the business. By and by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing did. So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down the ladder. CHAPTER XXVII. I CREPT to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed along, and got down stairs all right. There warn't a sound anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. The door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was open; but I see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. I run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then I run back across the room and in behind the door. The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back was to me. I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought I'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked through the crack, and everything was all right. They hadn't stirred. I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after I had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two I could write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money 'll be found when they come to screw on the lid. Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. Of course I WANTED to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it. Every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and I might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. I don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I says to myself. When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone. There warn't nobody around but the family and the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but I couldn't tell. Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. I see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't go to look in under it, with folks around. Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little. There warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his place over against the wall. He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham. They had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say, "Don't you worry--just depend on me." Then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads. So he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. Then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. In a minute or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "HE HAD A RAT!" Then he drooped down and glided along the wall again to his place. You could see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was. Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. So there I was! I didn't know whether the money was in there or not. So, says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do I know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business! They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces again--I couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing. The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done. And he said of course him and William would take the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls, too--tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. Them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but I didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune. Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all the property for auction straight off--sale two days after the funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to. So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. A couple of nigger traders come along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis, and their mother down the river to Orleans. I thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. The girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated or sold away from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn't a stood it all, but would a had to bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a week or two. The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell you the duke was powerful uneasy. Next day was auction day. About broad day in the morning the king and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and I see by their look that there was trouble. The king says: "Was you in my room night before last?" "No, your majesty"--which was the way I always called him when nobody but our gang warn't around. "Was you in there yisterday er last night?" "No, your majesty." "Honor bright, now--no lies." "Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I hain't been a-near your room since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke and showed it to you." The duke says: "Have you seen anybody else go in there?" "No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe." "Stop and think." I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says: "Well, I see the niggers go in there several times." Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they HAD. Then the duke says: "What, all of them?" "No--leastways, not all at once--that is, I don't think I ever see them all come OUT at once but just one time." "Hello! When was that?" "It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't early, because I overslept. I was just starting down the ladder, and I see them." "Well, go on, GO on! What did they do? How'd they act?" "They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act anyway much, as fur as I see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up; and found you WARN'T up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you up." "Great guns, THIS is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says: "It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let on to be SORRY they was going out of this region! And I believed they WAS sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell ME any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. Why, the way they played that thing it would fool ANYBODY. In my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't want a better lay-out than that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. Say, where IS that song--that draft?" "In the bank for to be collected. Where WOULD it be?" "Well, THAT'S all right then, thank goodness." Says I, kind of timid-like: "Is something gone wrong?" The king whirls on me and rips out: "None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r own affairs--if you got any. Long as you're in this town don't you forgit THAT--you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for US." As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says: "Quick sales AND small profits! It's a good business--yes." The king snarls around on him and says: "I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. If the profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?" "Well, THEY'D be in this house yet and we WOULDN'T if I could a got my advice listened to." The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and lit into ME again. He give me down the banks for not coming and TELLING him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that way--said any fool would a KNOWED something was up. And then waltzed in and cussed HIMSELF awhile, and said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and I felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off on to the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it. CHAPTER XXVIII. BY and by it was getting-up time. So I come down the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as I come to the girls' room the door was open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she'd been packing things in it--getting ready to go to England. But she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of course anybody would. I went in there and says: "Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and I can't --most always. Tell me about it." So she done it. And it was the niggers--I just expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know HOW she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and says: "Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't EVER going to see each other any more!" "But they WILL--and inside of two weeks--and I KNOW it!" says I. Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN! I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. I asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks, though I ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm blest if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly SAFER than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I says to myself at last, I'm a-going to chance it; I'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most like setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where you'll go to. Then I says: "Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could go and stay three or four days?" "Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?" "Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know the niggers will see each other again inside of two weeks--here in this house--and PROVE how I know it--will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?" "Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!" "All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more out of YOU than just your word--I druther have it than another man's kiss-the-Bible." She smiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind it, I'll shut the door--and bolt it." Then I come back and set down again, and says: "Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. These uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds --regular dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling easy." It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the shoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself on to the king's breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says: "The brute! Come, don't waste a minute--not a SECOND--we'll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!" Says I: "Cert'nly. But do you mean BEFORE you go to Mr. Lothrop's, or--" "Oh," she says, "what am I THINKING about!" she says, and set right down again. "Don't mind what I said--please don't--you WON'T, now, WILL you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that I said I would die first. "I never thought, I was so stirred up," she says; "now go on, and I won't do so any more. You tell me what to do, and whatever you say I'll do it." "Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travel with them a while longer, whether I want to or not--I druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws, and I'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble. Well, we got to save HIM, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we won't blow on them." Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I could get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so I didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says: "Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it?" "A little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here." "Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low till nine or half-past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home again --tell them you've thought of something. If you get here before eleven put a candle in this window, and if I don't turn up wait TILL eleven, and THEN if I don't turn up it means I'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed." "Good," she says, "I'll do it." "And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took up along with them, you must up and say I told you the whole thing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can." "Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch a hair of your head!" she says, and I see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too. "If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I WAS here. I could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something. Well, there's others can do that better than what I can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as I'd be. I'll tell you how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. There--'Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.' Put it away, and don't lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these two, let them send up to Bricksville and say they've got the men that played the Royal Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses--why, you'll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come a-biling, too." I judged we had got everything fixed about right now. So I says: "Just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. Nobody don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. It's just like the way it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. Why, they can't collect the money for the NIGGERS yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary." "Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then I'll start straight for Mr. Lothrop's." "'Deed, THAT ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I says, "by no manner of means; go BEFORE breakfast." "Why?" "What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?" "Well, I never thought--and come to think, I don't know. What was it?" "Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. I don't want no better book than what your face is. A body can set down and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--" "There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast--I'll be glad to. And leave my sisters with them?" "Yes; never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet a while. They might suspicion something if all of you was to go. I don't want you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with all of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and say you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the morning." "Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given to them." "Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to tell HER so--no harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it would make Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing--that bag of money." "Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think HOW they got it." "No, you're out, there. They hain't got it." "Why, who's got it?" "I wish I knowed, but I don't. I HAD it, because I stole it from them; and I stole it to give to you; and I know where I hid it, but I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm just as sorry as I can be; but I done the best I could; I did honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the first place I come to, and run--and it warn't a good place." "Oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and I won't allow it --you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. Where did you hide it?" I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. So for a minute I didn't say nothing; then I says: "I'd ruther not TELL you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to. Do you reckon that 'll do?" "Oh, yes." So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you was crying there, away in the night. I was behind the door, and I was mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane." It made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give it to her I see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says: "GOOD-bye. I'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if I don't ever see you again, I sha'n't ever forget you and I'll think of you a many and a many a time, and I'll PRAY for you, too!"--and she was gone. Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was more nearer her size. But I bet she done it, just the same--she was just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the notion--there warn't no back-down to her, I judge. You may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And when it comes to beauty--and goodness, too--she lays over them all. I hain't ever seen her since that time that I see her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen her since, but I reckon I've thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I'd a thought it would do any good for me to pray for HER, blamed if I wouldn't a done it or bust. Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody see her go. When I struck Susan and the hare-lip, I says: "What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?" They says: "There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly." "That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry--one of them's sick." "Which one?" "I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it's--" "Sakes alive, I hope it ain't HANNER?" "I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the very one." "My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?" "It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours." "Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her?" I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I says: "Mumps." "Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got the mumps." "They don't, don't they? You better bet they do with THESE mumps. These mumps is different. It's a new kind, Miss Mary Jane said." "How's it a new kind?" "Because it's mixed up with other things." "What other things?" "Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and I don't know what all." "My land! And they call it the MUMPS?" "That's what Miss Mary Jane said." "Well, what in the nation do they call it the MUMPS for?" "Why, because it IS the mumps. That's what it starts with." "Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, 'Why, he stumped his TOE.' Would ther' be any sense in that? NO. And ther' ain't no sense in THIS, nuther. Is it ketching?" "Is it KETCHING? Why, how you talk. Is a HARROW catching--in the dark? If you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say--and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good." "Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip. "I'll go to Uncle Harvey and--" "Oh, yes," I says, "I WOULD. Of COURSE I would. I wouldn't lose no time." "Well, why wouldn't you?" "Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your uncles obleegd to get along home to England as fast as they can? And do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by yourselves? YOU know they'll wait for you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a preacher, ain't he? Very well, then; is a PREACHER going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a SHIP CLERK? --so as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now YOU know he ain't. What WILL he do, then? Why, he'll say, 'It's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle Harvey--" "Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in England whilst we was waiting to find out whether Mary Jane's got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins." "Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors." "Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can't you SEE that THEY'D go and tell? Ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at ALL." "Well, maybe you're right--yes, I judge you ARE right." "But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out a while, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?" "Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, 'Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and say I've run over the river to see Mr.'--Mr.--what IS the name of that rich family your uncle Peter used to think so much of?--I mean the one that--" "Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?" "Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. She said, don't say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the Apthorps--which 'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; I know it, because she told me so herself." "All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message. Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to go to England; and the king and the duke would ruther Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of Doctor Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat--I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't a done it no neater himself. Of course he would a throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very handy, not being brung up to it. Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly. But by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold --everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. So they'd got to work that off--I never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow EVERYTHING. Well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out: "HERE'S your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old Peter Wilks--and you pays your money and you takes your choice!" CHAPTER XXIX. THEY was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. And, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn't see no joke about it, and I judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But no, nary a pale did THEY turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see straight off he pronounced LIKE an Englishman--not the king's way, though the king's WAS pretty good for an imitation. I can't give the old gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this: "This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks' brother Harvey, and this is his brother William, which can't hear nor speak--and can't even make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when I get the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait." So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out: "Broke his arm--VERY likely, AIN'T it?--and very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's MIGHTY good!--and mighty ingenious--under the CIRCUMSTANCES!" So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their heads--it was Levi Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to Louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentleman said, and was listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up and says: "Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come to this town?" "The day before the funeral, friend," says the king. "But what time o' day?" "In the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown." "HOW'D you come?" "I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincinnati." "Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the MORNIN'--in a canoe?" "I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'." "It's a lie." Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher. "Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He was up at the Pint that mornin'. I live up there, don't I? Well, I was up there, and he was up there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim Collins and a boy." The doctor he up and says: "Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?" "I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy." It was me he pointed at. The doctor says: "Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but if THESE two ain't frauds, I am an idiot, that's all. I think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into this thing. Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple, and I reckon we'll find out SOMETHING before we get through." It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so we all started. It was about sundown. The doctor he led me along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand. We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and fetched in the new couple. First, the doctor says: "I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they're frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about. If they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold Peter Wilks left? It ain't unlikely. If these men ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they prove they're all right--ain't that so?" Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart. But the king he only looked sorrowful, and says: "Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n send and see, if you want to." "Where is it, then?" "Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I had went down stairs; and when I sold 'em I hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away with it. My servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen." The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see nobody didn't altogether believe him. One man asked me if I see the niggers steal it. I said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and I never thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made trouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls on me and says: "Are YOU English, too?" I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "Stuff!" Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it up, and kept it up; and it WAS the worst mixed-up thing you ever see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would a SEEN that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what I knowed. The king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I knowed enough to talk on the right side. I begun to tell about Sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, and so on; but I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi Bell, the lawyer, says: "Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I was you. I reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want is practice. You do it pretty awkward." I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let off, anyway. The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says: "If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell--" The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says: "Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so often about?" The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says: "That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right." So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the first time the duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says: "You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names." The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says: "Well, it beats ME"--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing, and then THEM again; and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey Wilks; and here's THESE two handwritings, and anybody can see they didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's THIS old gentleman's hand writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, HE didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't properly WRITING at all. Now, here's some letters from--" The new old gentleman says: "If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother there--so he copies for me. It's HIS hand you've got there, not mine." "WELL!" says the lawyer, "this IS a state of things. I've got some of William's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we can com--" "He CAN'T write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine too. Look at both, please--they're by the same hand." The lawyer done it, and says: "I believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well, well, well! I thought we was right on the track of a solution, but it's gone to grass, partly. But anyway, one thing is proved--THESE two ain't either of 'em Wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke. Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old fool wouldn't give in THEN! Indeed he wouldn't. Said it warn't no fair test. Said his brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried to write --HE see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up and went warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying HIMSELF; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says: "I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late Peter Wilks for burying?" "Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both here." Then the old man turns towards the king, and says: "Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?" Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most ANYBODY sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was HE going to know what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, NOW he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use. Well, did he? A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away. Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: "Mf! It's a VERY tough question, AIN'T it! YES, sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's jest a small, thin, blue arrow --that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. NOW what do you say--hey?" Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek. The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king THIS time, and says: "There--you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks' breast?" Both of them spoke up and says: "We didn't see no such mark." "Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what you DID see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P--B--W"--and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?" Both of them spoke up again, and says: "No, we DIDN'T. We never seen any marks at all." Well, everybody WAS in a state of mind now, and they sings out: "The whole BILIN' of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says: "Gentlemen--gentleMEN! Hear me just a word--just a SINGLE word--if you PLEASE! There's one way yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and look." That took them. "Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out: "Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch THEM along, too!" "We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!" I WAS scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no getting away, you know. They gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening. As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of town; because now if I could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats. Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. This was the most awful trouble and most dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything was going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take my own time if I wanted to, and see all the fun, and have Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tattoo-marks. If they didn't find them-- I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think about nothing else. It got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist --Hines--and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip. He dragged me right along, he was so excited, and I had to run to keep up. When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. And when they got to the grave they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one. So they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all. At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he was so excited and panting. All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out: "By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!" Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way I lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell. I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew--leastways, I had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along! When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so I never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my eye and set it. No light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at last, just as I was sailing by, FLASH comes the light in Mary Jane's window! and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this world. She WAS the best girl I ever see, and had the most sand. The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it and shoved. It was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope. The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the raft at last I was so fagged I would a just laid down to blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard I sung out: "Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we're shut of them!" Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was old King Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but I says: "Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and let her slide!" So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it DID seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels a few times--I couldn't help it; but about the third crack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held my breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!--and just a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke. So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying. CHAPTER XXX. WHEN they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says: "Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company, hey?" I says: "No, your majesty, we warn't--PLEASE don't, your majesty!" "Quick, then, and tell us what WAS your idea, or I'll shake the insides out o' you!" "Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. The man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I lit out. It didn't seem no good for ME to stay--I couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if I could get away. So I never stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask Jim if I didn't." Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "Oh, yes, it's MIGHTY likely!" and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd me. But the duke says: "Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would YOU a done any different? Did you inquire around for HIM when you got loose? I don't remember it." So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. But the duke says: "You better a blame' sight give YOURSELF a good cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most. You hain't done a thing from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. That WAS bright--it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For if it hadn't been for that they'd a jailed us till them Englishmen's baggage come--and then--the penitentiary, you bet! But that trick took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd a slept in our cravats to-night--cravats warranted to WEAR, too--longer than WE'D need 'em." They was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like: "Mf! And we reckoned the NIGGERS stole it!" That made me squirm! "Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "WE did." After about a half a minute the king drawls out: "Leastways, I did." The duke says, the same way: "On the contrary, I did." The king kind of ruffles up, and says: "Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?" The duke says, pretty brisk: "When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was YOU referring to?" "Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I don't know--maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about." The duke bristles up now, and says: "Oh, let UP on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame' fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that money in that coffin?" "YES, sir! I know you DO know, because you done it yourself!" "It's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. The king sings out: "Take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--I take it all back!" The duke says: "Well, you just own up, first, that you DID hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself." "Wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and I'll b'lieve you, and take back everything I said." "You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!" "Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more--now DON'T git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?" The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says: "Well, I don't care if I DID, I didn't DO it, anyway. But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you DONE it." "I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I WAS; but you--I mean somebody--got in ahead o' me." "It's a lie! You done it, and you got to SAY you done it, or--" The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out: "'Nough!--I OWN UP!" I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than what I was feeling before. So the duke took his hands off and says: "If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's WELL for you to set there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for you, after the way you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything --and I a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. It makes me feel ridiculous to think I was soft enough to BELIEVE that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money I'd got out of the Nonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop it ALL!" The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling: "Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn't me." "Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "And NOW you see what you GOT by it. They've got all their own money back, and all of OURN but a shekel or two BESIDES. G'long to bed, and don't you deffersit ME no more deffersits, long 's YOU live!" So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled HIS bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. That made me feel easy and satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim everything. 
7106	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 7. CHAPTER XXXI. WE dasn't stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. We was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with Spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again. First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on. Then in another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. They tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck. So at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate. And at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it. We judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. So then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the Royal Nonesuch there yet. ("House to rob, you MEAN," says I to myself; "and when you get through robbing it you'll come back here and wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft--and you'll have to take it out in wondering.") And he said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along. So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. He scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway--and maybe a chance for THE chance on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out: "Set her loose, Jim! we're all right now!" But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout--and then another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use--old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says: "Yes." "Whereabouts?" says I. "Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. Was you looking for him?" "You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he'd cut my livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out." "Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South, som'ers." "It's a good job they got him." "Well, I RECKON! There's two hunderd dollars reward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the road." "Yes, it is--and I could a had it if I'd been big enough; I see him FIRST. Who nailed him?" "It was an old fellow--a stranger--and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't wait. Think o' that, now! You bet I'D wait, if it was seven year." "That's me, every time," says I. "But maybe his chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. Maybe there's something ain't straight about it." "But it IS, though--straight as a string. I see the handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot--paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below NewrLEANS. No-sirree-BOB, they ain't no trouble 'bout THAT speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?" I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't come to nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore, but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble. After all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars. Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he'd GOT to be a slave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of ME! It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I'd be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. That's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I studied about this the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's One that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, "There was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you'd a done it they'd a learnt you there that people that acts as I'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire." It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they? It warn't no use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from ME, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn't come. It was because my heart warn't right; it was because I warn't square; it was because I was playing double. I was letting ON to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to make my mouth SAY I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie--I found that out. So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go and write the letter--and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. HUCK FINN. I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the ONLY one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper. It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "All right, then, I'll GO to hell"--and tore it up. It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog. Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank. Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign on it, "Phelps's Sawmill," and when I come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. But I didn't mind, because I didn't want to see nobody just yet--I only wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. So I just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man I see when I got there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for the Royal Nonesuch--three-night performance--like that other time. They had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him before I could shirk. He looked astonished, and says: "Hel-LO! Where'd YOU come from?" Then he says, kind of glad and eager, "Where's the raft?--got her in a good place?" I says: "Why, that's just what I was going to ask your grace." Then he didn't look so joyful, and says: "What was your idea for asking ME?" he says. "Well," I says, "when I see the king in that doggery yesterday I says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so I went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. A man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and I started down for the raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, 'They've got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger I've got in the world, and now I'm in a strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living;' so I set down and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what DID become of the raft, then?--and Jim--poor Jim!" "Blamed if I know--that is, what's become of the raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, 'That little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'" "I wouldn't shake my NIGGER, would I?--the only nigger I had in the world, and the only property." "We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd come to consider him OUR nigger; yes, we did consider him so--goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch another shake. And I've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. Where's that ten cents? Give it here." I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money I had, and I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and says: "Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? We'd skin him if he done that!" "How can he blow? Hain't he run off?" "No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone." "SOLD him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he was MY nigger, and that was my money. Where is he?--I want my nigger." "Well, you can't GET your nigger, that's all--so dry up your blubbering. Looky here--do you think YOU'D venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd trust you. Why, if you WAS to blow on us--" He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says: "I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got no time to blow, nohow. I got to turn out and find my nigger." He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says: "I'll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, I'll tell you where to find him." So I promised, and he says: "A farmer by the name of Silas Ph--" and then he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind. And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says: "The man that bought him is named Abram Foster--Abram G. Foster--and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette." "All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll start this very afternoon." "No you wont, you'll start NOW; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with US, d'ye hear?" That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans. "So clear out," he says; "and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get him to believe that Jim IS your nigger--some idiots don't require documents--leastways I've heard there's such down South here. And when you tell him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting 'em out. Go 'long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any BETWEEN here and there." So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't look around, but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I knowed I could tire him out at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile before I stopped; then I doubled back through the woods towards Phelps'. I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows could get away. I didn't want no trouble with their kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them. CHAPTER XXXII. WHEN I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think they're talking about YOU. As a general thing it makes a body wish HE was dead, too, and done with it all. Phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump on to a horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the white folks--hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a row t'other side the smoke-house; one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the fields the woods. I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. When I got a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead--for that IS the lonesomest sound in the whole world. I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for I'd noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I left it alone. When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still. And such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say--spokes made out of dogs--circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from everywheres. A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "Begone YOU Tige! you Spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow. And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do. And here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. She was smiling all over so she could hardly stand--and says: "It's YOU, at last!--AIN'T it?" I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought. She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, "You don't look as much like your mother as I reckoned you would; but law sakes, I don't care for that, I'm so glad to see you! Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's your cousin Tom!--tell him howdy." But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on: "Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away--or did you get your breakfast on the boat?" I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. When we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says: "Now I can have a GOOD look at you; and, laws-a-me, I've been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it's come at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and more. What kep' you?--boat get aground?" "Yes'm--she--" "Don't say yes'm--say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?" I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down. But I go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up--from down towards Orleans. That didn't help me much, though; for I didn't know the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on--or--Now I struck an idea, and fetched it out: "It warn't the grounding--that didn't keep us back but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head." "Good gracious! anybody hurt?" "No'm. Killed a nigger." "Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember now, he DID die. Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was mortification--that was it. He turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at. Your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. And he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now. You must a met him on the road, didn't you?--oldish man, with a--" "No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at daylight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so I come down the back way." "Who'd you give the baggage to?" "Nobody." "Why, child, it 'll be stole!" "Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says. "How'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?" It was kinder thin ice, but I says: "The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have something to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and give me all I wanted." I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I had my mind on the children all the time; I wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show, Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so. Pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says: "But here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me a word about Sis, nor any of them. Now I'll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; just tell me EVERYTHING--tell me all about 'm all every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of." Well, I see I was up a stump--and up it good. Providence had stood by me this fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now. I see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead--I'd got to throw up my hand. So I says to myself, here's another place where I got to resk the truth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says: "Here he comes! Stick your head down lower--there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. Don't you let on you're here. I'll play a joke on him. Children, don't you say a word." I see I was in a fix now. But it warn't no use to worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck. I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and says: "Has he come?" "No," says her husband. "Good-NESS gracious!" she says, "what in the warld can have become of him?" "I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy." "Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted! He MUST a come; and you've missed him along the road. I KNOW it's so--something tells me so." "Why, Sally, I COULDN'T miss him along the road--YOU know that." "But oh, dear, dear, what WILL Sis say! He must a come! You must a missed him. He--" "Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed. I don't know what in the world to make of it. I'm at my wit's end, and I don't mind acknowledging 't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that he's come; for he COULDN'T come and me miss him. Sally, it's terrible--just terrible--something's happened to the boat, sure!" "Why, Silas! Look yonder!--up the road!--ain't that somebody coming?" He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. She stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come; and when he turned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. The old gentleman stared, and says: "Why, who's that?" "Who do you reckon 't is?" "I hain't no idea. Who IS it?" "It's TOM SAWYER!" By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe. But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I was; for it was like being born again, I was so glad to find out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly go any more, I had told them more about my family--I mean the Sawyer family--than ever happened to any six Sawyer families. And I explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White River, and it took us three days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first-rate; because THEY didn't know but what it would take three days to fix it. If I'd a called it a bolthead it would a done just as well. Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. Then I says to myself, s'pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat? And s'pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to keep quiet? Well, I couldn't HAVE it that way; it wouldn't do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I told the folks I reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman was for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me. CHAPTER XXXIII. SO I started for town in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and waited till he come along. I says "Hold on!" and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then says: "I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that. So, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt ME for?" I says: "I hain't come back--I hain't been GONE." When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite satisfied yet. He says: "Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't on you. Honest injun, you ain't a ghost?" "Honest injun, I ain't," I says. "Well--I--I--well, that ought to settle it, of course; but I can't somehow seem to understand it no way. Looky here, warn't you ever murdered AT ALL?" "No. I warn't ever murdered at all--I played it on them. You come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me." So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. And he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he reckon we better do? He said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him. So he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says: "It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first." I says: "All right; but wait a minute. There's one more thing--a thing that NOBODY don't know but me. And that is, there's a nigger here that I'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is JIM--old Miss Watson's Jim." He says: "What! Why, Jim is--" He stopped and went to studying. I says: "I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-down business; but what if it is? I'm low down; and I'm a-going to steal him, and I want you keep mum and not let on. Will you?" His eye lit up, and he says: "I'll HELP you steal him!" Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most astonishing speech I ever heard--and I'm bound to say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer a NIGGER-STEALER! "Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking." "I ain't joking, either." "Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that YOU don't know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about him." Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and I drove mine. But of course I forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap too quick for that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at the door, and he says: "Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would a thought it was in that mare to do it? I wish we'd a timed her. And she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse now--I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd a sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth." That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see. But it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down South. In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the window, because it was only about fifty yards, and says: "Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do believe it's a stranger. Jimmy" (that's one of the children) "run and tell Lize to put on another plate for dinner." Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come EVERY year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. When he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says: "Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?" "No, my boy," says the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's place is down a matter of three mile more. Come in, come in." Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "Too late--he's out of sight." "Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to Nichols's." "Oh, I CAN'T make you so much trouble; I couldn't think of it. I'll walk --I don't mind the distance." "But we won't LET you walk--it wouldn't be Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in." "Oh, DO," says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay. It's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk. And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on another plate when I see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. Come right in and make yourself at home." So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a stranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson--and he made another bow. Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and I getting a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says: "You owdacious puppy!" He looked kind of hurt, and says: "I'm surprised at you, m'am." "You're s'rp--Why, what do you reckon I am? I've a good notion to take and--Say, what do you mean by kissing me?" He looked kind of humble, and says: "I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no harm. I--I--thought you'd like it." "Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. "What made you think I'd like it?" "Well, I don't know. Only, they--they--told me you would." "THEY told you I would. Whoever told you's ANOTHER lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's THEY?" "Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am." It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says: "Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot short." He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says: "I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all told me to. They all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. They all said it--every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it no more --I won't, honest." "You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd RECKON you won't!" "No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again--till you ask me." "Till I ASK you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of creation before ever I ask you --or the likes of you." "Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't make it out, somehow. They said you would, and I thought you would. But--" He stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, and says, "Didn't YOU think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?" "Why, no; I--I--well, no, I b'lieve I didn't." Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says: "Tom, didn't YOU think Aunt Sally 'd open out her arms and say, 'Sid Sawyer--'" "My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so--" and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says: "No, not till you've asked me first." So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again she says: "Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn't looking for YOU at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him." "It's because it warn't INTENDED for any of us to come but Tom," he says; "but I begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy place for a stranger to come." "No--not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed; I hain't been so put out since I don't know when. But I don't care, I don't mind the terms--I'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here. Well, to think of that performance! I don't deny it, I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack." We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families --and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way I've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. There was a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and Tom was on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the little boys says: "Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?" "No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told Burton and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell the people; so I reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time." So there it was!--but I couldn't help it. Tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good-night and went up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if I didn't hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure. On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom all about our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the--here comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by I see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail--that is, I knowed it WAS the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that was human--just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. Well, it made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like I couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings CAN be awful cruel to one another. We see we was too late--couldn't do no good. We asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them. So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling so brash as I was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow--though I hadn't done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had a yaller dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does I would pison him. It takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same. CHAPTER XXXIV. WE stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by Tom says: "Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! I bet I know where Jim is." "No! Where?" "In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?" "Yes." "What did you think the vittles was for?" "For a dog." "So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog." "Why?" "Because part of it was watermelon." "So it was--I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows how a body can see and don't see at the same time." "Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he came out. He fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from table--same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good. Jim's the prisoner. All right--I'm glad we found it out detective fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for any other way. Now you work your mind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one, too; and we'll take the one we like the best." What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer's head I wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be doing something; I knowed very well where the right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon Tom says: "Ready?" "Yes," I says. "All right--bring it out." "My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out if it's Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. Then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan work?" "WORK? Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. But it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing TO it. What's the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk. Why, Huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory." I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever he got HIS plan ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it. And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and would make Jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what it was here, because I knowed it wouldn't stay the way, it was. I knowed he would be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. And that is what he done. Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. I COULDN'T understand it no way at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and save himself. And I DID start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says: "Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't I generly know what I'm about?" "Yes." "Didn't I SAY I was going to help steal the nigger?" "Yes." "WELL, then." That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. But I couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to have it so, I couldn't help it. When we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. We went through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. When we got to the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn't acquainted with--which was the north side--we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. I says: "Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim to get through if we wrench off the board." Tom says: "It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. I should HOPE we can find a way that's a little more complicated than THAT, Huck Finn." "Well, then," I says, "how 'll it do to saw him out, the way I done before I was murdered that time?" "That's more LIKE," he says. "It's real mysterious, and troublesome, and good," he says; "but I bet we can find a way that's twice as long. There ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around." Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. It was as long as the hut, but narrow--only about six foot wide. The door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says; "Now we're all right. We'll DIG him out. It 'll take about a week!" Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door--you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors--but that warn't romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip. In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed Jim--if it WAS Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house. This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. So Tom says: "What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?" The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says: "Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en look at 'im?" "Yes." I hunched Tom, and whispers: "You going, right here in the daybreak? THAT warn't the plan." "No, it warn't; but it's the plan NOW." So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out: "Why, HUCK! En good LAN'! ain' dat Misto Tom?" I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn't know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't a done it, because that nigger busted in and says: "Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?" We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says: "Does WHO know us?" "Why, dis-yer runaway nigger." "I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?" "What PUT it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?" Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way: "Well, that's mighty curious. WHO sung out? WHEN did he sing out? WHAT did he sing out?" And turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "Did YOU hear anybody sing out?" Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so I says: "No; I ain't heard nobody say nothing." Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says: "Did you sing out?" "No, sah," says Jim; "I hain't said nothing, sah." "Not a word?" "No, sah, I hain't said a word." "Did you ever see us before?" "No, sah; not as I knows on." So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe: "What do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? What made you think somebody sung out?" "Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do. Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. Please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey AIN'T no witches. I jis' wish to goodness he was heah now --DEN what would he say! I jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it DIS time. But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's SOT, stays sot; dey won't look into noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when YOU fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you." Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says: "I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger. If I was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, I wouldn't give him up, I'd hang him." And whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to Jim and says: "Don't ever let on to know us. And if you hear any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to set you free." Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then. CHAPTER XXXV. IT would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because Tom said we got to have SOME light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. We fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and Tom says, kind of dissatisfied: "Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. And so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. There ain't no watchman to be drugged--now there OUGHT to be a watchman. There ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And there's Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could a got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it's the stupidest arrangement I ever see. You got to invent ALL the difficulties. Well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got. Anyhow, there's one thing--there's more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. Now look at just that one thing of the lantern. When you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to LET ON that a lantern's resky. Why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first chance we get." "What do we want of a saw?" "What do we WANT of a saw? Hain't we got to saw the leg of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?" "Why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip the chain off." "Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You CAN get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. Why, hain't you ever read any books at all?--Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chelleeny, nor Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? No; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of it's being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. Then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. Nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat --because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know--and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you across a saddle, and away you go to your native Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it is. It's gaudy, Huck. I wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one." I says: "What do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under the cabin?" But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He had his chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says: "No, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it." "For what?" I says. "Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says. "Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't NO necessity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?" "Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. And a leg would be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity enough in this case; and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in Europe; so we'll let it go. But there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. And we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. And I've et worse pies." "Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim ain't got no use for a rope ladder." "He HAS got use for it. How YOU talk, you better say; you don't know nothing about it. He's GOT to have a rope ladder; they all do." "What in the nation can he DO with it?" "DO with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he?" That's what they all do; and HE'S got to, too. Huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the time. S'pose he DON'T do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clews? Of course they will. And you wouldn't leave them any? That would be a PRETTY howdy-do, WOULDN'T it! I never heard of such a thing." "Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all right, let him have it; because I don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer--if we go to tearing up our sheets to make Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born. Now, the way I look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for Jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what kind of a--" "Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I'd keep still --that's what I'D do. Who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous." "Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline." He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he says: "Borrow a shirt, too." "What do we want of a shirt, Tom?" "Want it for Jim to keep a journal on." "Journal your granny--JIM can't write." "S'pose he CAN'T write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?" "Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too." "PRISONERS don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They ALWAYS make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. THEY wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. It ain't regular." "Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?" "Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. Jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window. The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too." "Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan." "That ain't nothing; we can get him some." "Can't nobody READ his plates." "That ain't got anything to DO with it, Huck Finn. All HE'S got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out. You don't HAVE to be able to read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin plate, or anywhere else." "Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?" "Why, blame it all, it ain't the PRISONER'S plates." "But it's SOMEBODY'S plates, ain't it?" "Well, spos'n it is? What does the PRISONER care whose--" He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house. Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. It ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. So we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy. And yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when I stole a watermelon out of the nigger-patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we NEEDED. Well, I says, I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the difference was. He said if I'd a wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it would a been all right. So I let it go at that, though I couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if I got to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I see a chance to hog a watermelon. Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then Tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep watch. By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk. He says: "Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed." "Tools?" I says. "Yes." "Tools for what?" "Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to GNAW him out, are we?" "Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?" I says. He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says: "Huck Finn, did you EVER hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? Now I want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind of a show would THAT give him to be a hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. Picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king." "Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?" "A couple of case-knives." "To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?" "Yes." "Confound it, it's foolish, Tom." "It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the RIGHT way--and it's the regular way. And there ain't no OTHER way, that ever I heard of, and I've read all the books that gives any information about these things. They always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. And it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was HE at it, you reckon?" "I don't know." "Well, guess." "I don't know. A month and a half." "THIRTY-SEVEN YEAR--and he come out in China. THAT'S the kind. I wish the bottom of THIS fortress was solid rock." "JIM don't know nobody in China." "What's THAT got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. Why can't you stick to the main point?" "All right--I don't care where he comes out, so he COMES out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But there's one thing, anyway--Jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last." "Yes he will LAST, too. You don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a DIRT foundation, do you?" "How long will it take, Tom?" "Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear from down there by New Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim, or something like that. So we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can LET ON, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I reckon that 'll be the best way." "Now, there's SENSE in that," I says. "Letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, I don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me none, after I got my hand in. So I'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives." "Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of." "Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," I says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smoke-house." He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says: "It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along and smouch the knives--three of them." So I done it. 
7107	----	HUCKLEBERRY FINN By Mark Twain Part 8. CHAPTER XXXVI. AS soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. Tom said we was right behind Jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because Jim's counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. So we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. At last I says: "This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job, Tom Sawyer." He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while I knowed that he was thinking. Then he says: "It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done. But WE can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. If we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner." "Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?" "I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him out with the picks, and LET ON it's case-knives." "NOW you're TALKING!" I says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer," I says. "Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. What I want is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther." "Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of it, nor I wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better. It might answer for YOU to dig Jim out with a pick, WITHOUT any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because I do know better. Gimme a case-knife." He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and says: "Gimme a CASE-KNIFE." I didn't know just what to do--but then I thought. I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word. He was always just that particular. Full of principle. So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. When I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was so sore. At last he says: "It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?" "Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod." So he done it. Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for Jim out of, and six tallow candles; and I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says: "Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim." "Take them in through the hole," I says, "when we get it done." He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. By and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first. That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. Then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over Jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, SURE. So Jim he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then Tom asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and Aunt Sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, Tom says: "NOW I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them." I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas I ever struck;" but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. It was his way when he'd got his plans set. So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other large things by Nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and what they was for. And told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. He told him everything. Jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as Tom said. Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom was in high spirits. He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our children to get out; for he believed Jim would come to like it better and better the more he got used to it. He said that in that way it could be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. And he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it. In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got Nat's notice off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went along with Nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could a worked better. Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first. And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under Jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered "Witches" once, and keeled over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was dying. Tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed the other door too. Then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. He raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says: "Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I may die right heah in dese tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I FELT um--I FELT um, sah; dey was all over me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all I'd ast. But mos'ly I wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does." Tom says: "Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? It's because they're hungry; that's the reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for YOU to do." "But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? I doan' know how to make it. I hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'." "Well, then, I'll have to make it myself." "Will you do it, honey?--will you? I'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!" "All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger. But you got to be mighty careful. When we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. And don't you look when Jim unloads the pan--something might happen, I don't know what. And above all, don't you HANDLE the witch-things." "HANNEL 'm, Mars Sid? What IS you a-talkin' 'bout? I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I wouldn't." CHAPTER XXXVII. THAT was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in Aunt Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of Uncle Silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in Uncle Silas's coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little while. And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other, and says: "I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what HAS become of your other shirt." My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and I would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was all right again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says: "It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know perfectly well I took it OFF, because--" "Because you hain't got but one ON. Just LISTEN at the man! I know you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--I see it there myself. But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l one till I can get time to make a new one. And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to DO with 'm all is more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you WOULD learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life." "I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see them nor have nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've ever lost one of them OFF of me." "Well, it ain't YOUR fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd a done it if you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. Ther's a spoon gone; and THAT ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only nine. The calf got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, THAT'S certain." "Why, what else is gone, Sally?" "Ther's six CANDLES gone--that's what. The rats could a got the candles, and I reckon they did; I wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas--YOU'D never find it out; but you can't lay the SPOON on the rats, and that I know." "Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss; but I won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes." "Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta PHELPS!" Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. Just then the nigger woman steps on to the passage, and says: "Missus, dey's a sheet gone." "A SHEET gone! Well, for the land's sake!" "I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful. "Oh, DO shet up!--s'pose the rats took the SHEET? WHERE'S it gone, Lize?" "Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally. She wuz on de clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now." "I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I NEVER see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can--" "Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n." "Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet to ye!" Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned I would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. She kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. She stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished I was in Jeruslem or somewheres. But not long, because she says: "It's JUST as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the other things there, too. How'd it get there?" "I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know I would tell. I was a-studying over my text in Acts Seventeen before breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain't in; but I'll go and see; and if the Testament is where I had it, I'll know I didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament down and took up the spoon, and--" "Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest! Go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till I've got back my peace of mind." I'd a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and I'd a got up and obeyed her if I'd a been dead. As we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: "Well, it ain't no use to send things by HIM no more, he ain't reliable." Then he says: "But he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without HIM knowing it--stop up his rat-holes." There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. Then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. He went a mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. Then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: "Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it. I could show her now that I warn't to blame on account of the rats. But never mind --let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good." And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And always is. Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. When he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says: "Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons YET." She says: "Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I counted 'm myself." "Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but nine." She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would. "I declare to gracious ther' AIN'T but nine!" she says. "Why, what in the world--plague TAKE the things, I'll count 'm again." So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says: "Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's TEN now!" and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom says: "Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten." "You numskull, didn't you see me COUNT 'm?" "I know, but--" "Well, I'll count 'm AGAIN." So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well, she WAS in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong. Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle'r out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said NOW she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she DID; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more. So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't CARE, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther die first. So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would blow over by and by. But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. But of course we thought of the right way at last--which was to cook the ladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with. We let on it took nine months to make it. And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into the pie. Being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had a whole dinner. But we didn't need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. We didn't cook none of the pies in the wash-pan--afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from England with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business I don't know nothing what I'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too. Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so Jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole. CHAPTER XXXVIII. MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But he had to have it; Tom said he'd GOT to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. "Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, s'pose it IS considerble trouble?--what you going to do?--how you going to get around it? Jim's GOT to do his inscription and coat of arms. They all do." Jim says: "Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat." "Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different." "Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't." "I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he goes out of this--because he's going out RIGHT, and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record." So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his'n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. He says: "On the scutcheon we'll have a bend OR in the dexter base, a saltire MURREY in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a book--means the more haste the less speed." "Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of it mean?" "We ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out." "Well, anyway," I says, "what's SOME of it? What's a fess?" "A fess--a fess is--YOU don't need to know what a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets to it." "Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a person. What's a bar sinister?" "Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does." That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference. He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: 1. Here a captive heart busted. 2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. 4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV. Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. When he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says: "Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a rock." Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. But Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look to see how me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so Tom says: "I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too." It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. It warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched the grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. Sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through. We got her half way; and then we was plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. We see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch Jim So he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and Jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and Tom superintended. He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed how to do everything. Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone through; but Jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. Then Tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. Then we helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. But Tom thought of something, and says: "You got any spiders in here, Jim?" "No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom." "All right, we'll get you some." "But bless you, honey, I doan' WANT none. I's afeard un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'." Tom thought a minute or two, and says: "It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done. It MUST a been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a prime good idea. Where could you keep it?" "Keep what, Mars Tom?" "Why, a rattlesnake." "De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah I'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid my head." Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. You could tame it." "TAME it!" "Yes--easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn't THINK of hurting a person that pets them. Any book will tell you that. You try--that's all I ask; just try for two or three days. Why, you can get him so in a little while that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth." "PLEASE, Mars Tom--DOAN' talk so! I can't STAN' it! He'd LET me shove his head in my mouf--fer a favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' I AST him. En mo' en dat, I doan' WANT him to sleep wid me." "Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's GOT to have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you could ever think of to save your life." "Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no sich glory. Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin off, den WHAH is de glory? No, sah, I doan' want no sich doin's." "Blame it, can't you TRY? I only WANT you to try--you needn't keep it up if it don't work." "But de trouble all DONE ef de snake bite me while I's a tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I's gwyne to LEAVE, dat's SHORE." "Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. We can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll have to do." "I k'n stan' DEM, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I couldn' get along widout um, I tell you dat. I never knowed b'fo' 't was so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner." "Well, it ALWAYS is when it's done right. You got any rats around here?" "No, sah, I hain't seed none." "Well, we'll get you some rats." "Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no rats. Dey's de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f I's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; I hain' got no use f'r um, skasely." "But, Jim, you GOT to have 'em--they all do. So don't make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain't ever without rats. There ain't no instance of it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. But you got to play music to them. You got anything to play music on?" "I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp." "Yes they would. THEY don't care what kind of music 'tis. A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. All animals like music--in a prison they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of a jews-harp. It always interests them; they come out to see what's the matter with you. Yes, you're all right; you're fixed very well. You want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jews-harp; play 'The Last Link is Broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else; and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things begin to feel worried about you, and come. And they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good time." "Yes, DEY will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is JIM havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I'll do it ef I got to. I reck'n I better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house." Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says: "Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?" "I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it's tolable dark in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble." "Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it." "One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss." "Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it. And don't call it mullen, call it Pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. And you want to water it with your tears." "Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom." "You don't WANT spring water; you want to water it with your tears. It's the way they always do." "Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a START'N one wid tears." "That ain't the idea. You GOT to do it with tears." "She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry." So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim would have to worry along the best he could with an onion. He promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-pot, in the morning. Jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee;" and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed. CHAPTER XXXIX. IN the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed. But while we was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin Jefferson Elexander Phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and Aunt Sally she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. So she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. I never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was. We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give it right up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. Then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn't set down convenient. And so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, I reckon not! And there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went back--we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. But it didn't matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. So we judged we could get some of them again. No, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. You'd see them dripping from the rafters and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want them. Well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm in a million of them; but that never made no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. I never see such a woman. And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. And if she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think the house was afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. Why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much as a week Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all women was just so. He said they was made that way for some reason or other. We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. Jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for him. And he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always lively, he said, because THEY never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over. He said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for a salary. Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit Jim he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we was all going to die, but didn't. It was the most undigestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I was saying, we'd got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below Orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St. Louis and New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St. Louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see we hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters. "What's them?" I says. "Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. But there's always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI. was going to light out of the Tooleries a servant-girl done it. It's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll use them both. And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. We'll do that, too." "But looky here, Tom, what do we want to WARN anybody for that something's up? Let them find it out for themselves--it's their lookout." "Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've acted from the very start--left us to do EVERYTHING. They're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if we don't GIVE them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing TO it." "Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like." "Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I says: "But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you suits me. What you going to do about the servant-girl?" "You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock." "Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one." "I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door." "All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my own togs." "You wouldn't look like a servant-girl THEN, would you?" "No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look like, ANYWAY." "That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to do our DUTY, and not worry about whether anybody SEES us do it or not. Hain't you got no principle at all?" "All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl. Who's Jim's mother?" "I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt Sally." "Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim leaves." "Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and Jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. When a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. It's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. And the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one." So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way Tom told me to. It said: Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout. UNKNOWN FRIEND. Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a coffin on the back door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They couldn't a been worse scared if the place had a been full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering through the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face noway and be satisfied, because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she was always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. He said it showed it was done right. So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at the streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. This letter said: Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate gang of cut-throats from over in the Indian Territory going to steal your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. I am one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. They will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. I am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if I see any danger; but stead of that I will BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. Don't do anything but just the way I am telling you; if you do they will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish any reward but to know I have done the right thing. UNKNOWN FRIEND. CHAPTER XL. WE was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half up stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cupboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about half-past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt Sally's dress that he stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says: "Where's the butter?" "I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a corn-pone." "Well, you LEFT it laid out, then--it ain't here." "We can get along without it," I says. "We can get along WITH it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. I'll go and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to BA like a sheep and shove soon as you get there." So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where I had left it, so I took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes Aunt Sally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says: "You been down cellar?" "Yes'm." "What you been doing down there?" "Noth'n." "NOTH'N!" "No'm." "Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?" "I don't know 'm." "You don't KNOW? Don't answer me that way. Tom, I want to know what you been DOING down there." "I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious if I have." I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but I s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says, very decided: "You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come. You been up to something you no business to, and I lay I'll find out what it is before I'M done with you." So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-room. My, but there was a crowd there! Fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down. They was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but I knowed they was, because they was always taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. I warn't easy myself, but I didn't take my hat off, all the same. I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell Tom how we'd overdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet's-nest we'd got ourselves into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with Jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us. At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I COULDN'T answer them straight, I didn't know which end of me was up; because these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right NOW and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, "I'M for going and getting in the cabin FIRST and right NOW, and catching them when they come," I most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and says: "For the land's sake, what IS the matter with the child? He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!" And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says: "Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when I see that truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowed by the color and all it was just like your brains would be if--Dear, dear, whyd'nt you TELL me that was what you'd been down there for, I wouldn't a cared. Now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!" I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. I couldn't hardly get my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder, with guns! His eyes just blazed; and he says: "No!--is that so? AIN'T it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we could put it off till--" "Hurry! HURRY!" I says. "Where's Jim?" "Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. He's dressed, and everything's ready. Now we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal." But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the pad-lock, and heard a man say: "I TOLD you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked. Here, I'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming." So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. But we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft--Jim first, me next, and Tom last, which was according to Tom's orders. Now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim must glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in Injun file, and got to it all right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out: "Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!" But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a BANG, BANG, BANG! and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We heard them sing out: "Here they are! They've broke for the river! After 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!" So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. We was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close on to us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we was obleeged to. Then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. And when we stepped on to the raft I says: "NOW, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet you won't ever be a slave no more." "En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz planned beautiful, en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey ain't NOBODY kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz." We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg. When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash as what we did before. It was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he says: "Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. I wish WE'D a had the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn't a been no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in HIS biography; no, sir, we'd a whooped him over the BORDER--that's what we'd a done with HIM--and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps--man the sweeps!" But me and Jim was consulting--and thinking. And after we'd thought a minute, I says: "Say it, Jim." So he says: "Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz HIM dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'Go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?' Is dat like Mars Tom Sawyer? Would he say dat? You BET he wouldn't! WELL, den, is JIM gywne to say it? No, sah--I doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a DOCTOR, not if it's forty year!" I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd say what he did say--so it was all right now, and I told Tom I was a-going for a doctor. He raised considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. Then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't do no good. So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says: "Well, then, if you re bound to go, I'll tell you the way to do when you get to the village. Shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again. It's the way they all do." So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was gone again. CHAPTER XLI. THE doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when I got him up. I told him me and my brother was over on Spanish Island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and surprise the folks. "Who is your folks?" he says. "The Phelpses, down yonder." "Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says: "How'd you say he got shot?" "He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him." "Singular dream," he says. So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But when he sees the canoe he didn't like the look of her--said she was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says: "Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough." "What three?" "Why, me and Sid, and--and--and THE GUNS; that's what I mean." "Oh," he says. But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. But they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go down home and get them ready for the surprise if I wanted to. But I said I didn't; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he started. I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?--lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what I'LL do. I'll wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more I'll get down there, too, if I swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when Tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore. So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I waked up the sun was away up over my head! I shot out and went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I'll dig out for the island right off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle Silas's stomach! He says: "Why, TOM! Where you been all this time, you rascal?" "I hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunting for the runaway nigger--me and Sid." "Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your aunt's been mighty uneasy." "She needn't," I says, "because we was all right. We followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and Sid's at the post-office to see what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out to get something to eat for us, and then we're going home." So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but just as I suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man said, come along, let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done fooling around--but we would ride. I couldn't get him to let me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see we was all right. When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same when he come. And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says: "Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister Damrell--didn't I, Sister Damrell?--s'I, he's crazy, s'I--them's the very words I said. You all hearn me: he's crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I. Look at that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell ME't any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s'I? Here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I says in the fust place, it's what I says in the middle, 'n' it's what I says last 'n' all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I." "An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister Hotchkiss," says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in the name o' goodness COULD he ever want of--" "The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, LOOK at it, s'I--what COULD he a-wanted of it, s'I. Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she--" "But how in the nation'd they ever GIT that grindstone IN there, ANYWAY? 'n' who dug that-air HOLE? 'n' who--" "My very WORDS, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?--I was a-sayin' to Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how DID they git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without HELP, mind you --'thout HELP! THAT'S wher 'tis. Don't tell ME, s'I; there WUZ help, s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a PLENTY help, too, s'I; ther's ben a DOZEN a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but I'D find out who done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I--" "A DOZEN says you!--FORTY couldn't a done every thing that's been done. Look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men; look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--" "You may WELL say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as I was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what do YOU think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s'e? Think o' what, Brer Phelps, s'I? Think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a way, s'e? THINK of it, s'I? I lay it never sawed ITSELF off, s'I--somebody SAWED it, s'I; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I, 'n' if any body k'n start a better one, s'I, let him DO it, s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I--" "Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to a done all that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret African writ'n done with blood! Must a ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--" "People to HELP him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you'd THINK so if you'd a been in this house for a while back. Why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time, mind you. They stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they DIDN'T steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day AND night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools US but the Injun Territory robbers too, and actuly gets AWAY with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time! I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever HEARD of. Why, SPERITS couldn't a done better and been no smarter. And I reckon they must a BEEN sperits--because, YOU know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never even got on the TRACK of 'm once! You explain THAT to me if you can!--ANY of you!" "Well, it does beat--" "Laws alive, I never--" "So help me, I wouldn't a be--" "HOUSE-thieves as well as--" "Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in sich a--" "'Fraid to LIVE!--why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or SET down, Sister Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I was in by the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! I was just to that pass I didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough NOW, in the daytime; but I says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there and locked 'em in! I DID. And anybody would. Because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--" She stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--I got up and took a walk. Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little. So I done it. But I dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. And when it was late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and "Sid," and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try THAT no more. And then I went on and told her all what I told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. So then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says: "Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet! What HAS become of that boy?" I see my chance; so I skips up and says: "I'll run right up to town and get him," I says. "No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right wher' you are; ONE'S enough to be lost at a time. If he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go." Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went. He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across Tom's track. Aunt Sally was a good DEAL uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. So she had to be satisfied. But she said she'd set up for him a while anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it. And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good I felt mean, and like I couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now and then if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says: "The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good, WON'T you? And you won't go? For MY sake." Laws knows I WANTED to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all intending to go; but after that I wouldn't a went, not for kingdoms. But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless. And twice I went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I could do something for her, but I couldn't, only to swear that I wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep. CHAPTER XLII. THE old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track of Tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating anything. And by and by the old man says: "Did I give you the letter?" "What letter?" "The one I got yesterday out of the post-office." "No, you didn't give me no letter." "Well, I must a forgot it." So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. She says: "Why, it's from St. Petersburg--it's from Sis." I allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn't stir. But before she could break it open she dropped it and run--for she see something. And so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and Jim, in HER calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. I hid the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and rushed. She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says: "Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!" And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says: "He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way. I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim; and the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed after Tom into the house. The men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like Jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. But the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. So that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their satisfaction out of him. They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but Jim never said nothing, and he never let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-bye cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says: "Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a bad nigger. When I got to where I found the boy I see I couldn't cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and I see I couldn't do anything at all with him; so I says, I got to have HELP somehow; and the minute I says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. Of course I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I WAS! and there I had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. It was a fix, I tell you! I had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course I'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because the nigger might get away, and then I'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. So there I had to stick plumb until daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuller, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and I see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would a done at home--better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I WAS, with both of 'm on my hands, and there I had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so I motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had no trouble. And the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. He ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what I think about him." Somebody says: "Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to say." Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing Jim that good turn; and I was glad it was according to my judgment of him, too; because I thought he had a good heart in him and was a good man the first time I see him. Then they all agreed that Jim had acted very well, and was deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. So every one of them promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more. Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was going to say he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but I judged I'd get the doctor's yarn to Aunt Sally somehow or other as soon as I'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me --explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me put in that dratted night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger. But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night, and every time I see Uncle Silas mooning around I dodged him. Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips to the sick-room, and if I found him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash. But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. So I set down and laid for him to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding in, and there I was, up a stump again! She motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuller all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind. So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says: "Hello!--why, I'm at HOME! How's that? Where's the raft?" "It's all right," I says. "And JIM?" "The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. But he never noticed, but says: "Good! Splendid! NOW we're all right and safe! Did you tell Aunty?" I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "About what, Sid?" "Why, about the way the whole thing was done." "What whole thing?" "Why, THE whole thing. There ain't but one; how we set the runaway nigger free--me and Tom." "Good land! Set the run--What IS the child talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!" "NO, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm talking about. We DID set him free--me and Tom. We laid out to do it, and we DONE it. And we done it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and I see it warn't no use for ME to put in. "Why, Aunty, it cost us a power of work --weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. And we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think HALF the fun it was. And we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and made the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--" "Mercy sakes!" "--and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for company for Jim; and then you kept Tom here so long with the butter in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and WASN'T it bully, Aunty!" "Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was YOU, you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. I've as good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o' you this very minute. To think, here I've been, night after night, a--YOU just get well once, you young scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both o' ye!" But Tom, he WAS so proud and joyful, he just COULDN'T hold in, and his tongue just WENT it--she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says: "WELL, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it NOW, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with him again--" "Meddling with WHO?" Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised. "With WHO? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who'd you reckon?" Tom looks at me very grave, and says: "Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? Hasn't he got away?" "HIM?" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger? 'Deed he hasn't. They've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!" Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to me: "They hain't no RIGHT to shut him up! SHOVE!--and don't you lose a minute. Turn him loose! he ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks this earth!" "What DOES the child mean?" "I mean every word I SAY, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don't go, I'LL go. I've knowed him all his life, and so has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and SAID so; and she set him free in her will." "Then what on earth did YOU want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?" "Well, that IS a question, I must say; and just like women! Why, I wanted the ADVENTURE of it; and I'd a waded neck-deep in blood to --goodness alive, AUNT POLLY!" If she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, I wish I may never! Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over her, and I found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I peeped out, and in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at Tom over her spectacles--kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. And then she says: "Yes, you BETTER turn y'r head away--I would if I was you, Tom." "Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "IS he changed so? Why, that ain't TOM, it's Sid; Tom's--Tom's--why, where is Tom? He was here a minute ago." "You mean where's Huck FINN--that's what you mean! I reckon I hain't raised such a scamp as my Tom all these years not to know him when I SEE him. That WOULD be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from under that bed, Huck Finn." So I done it. But not feeling brash. Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever see --except one, and that was Uncle Silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn't a understood it. So Tom's Aunt Polly, she told all about who I was, and what; and I had to up and tell how I was in such a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps took me for Tom Sawyer--she chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me Aunt Sally, I'm used to it now, and 'tain't no need to change"--that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I had to stand it--there warn't no other way, and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out, and he let on to be Sid, and made things as soft as he could for me. And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Watson setting Jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and I couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he COULD help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up. Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her that Tom and SID had come all right and safe, she says to herself: "Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go off that way without anybody to watch him. So now I got to go and trapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's up to THIS time, as long as I couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it." "Why, I never heard nothing from you," says Aunt Sally. "Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by Sid being here." "Well, I never got 'em, Sis." Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says: "You, Tom!" "Well--WHAT?" he says, kind of pettish. "Don t you what ME, you impudent thing--hand out them letters." "What letters?" "THEM letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-holt of you I'll--" "They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're just the same as they was when I got them out of the office. I hain't looked into them, I hain't touched them. But I knowed they'd make trouble, and I thought if you warn't in no hurry, I'd--" "Well, you DO need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. And I wrote another one to tell you I was coming; and I s'pose he--" "No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but IT'S all right, I've got that one." I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. So I never said nothing. CHAPTER THE LAST THE first time I catched Tom private I asked him what was his idea, time of the evasion?--what it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before? And he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it was. We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. And we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and Jim was pleased most to death, and busted out, and says: "DAH, now, Huck, what I tell you?--what I tell you up dah on Jackson islan'? I TOLE you I got a hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en I TOLE you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich AGIN; en it's come true; en heah she is! DAH, now! doan' talk to ME--signs is SIGNS, mine I tell you; en I knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz gwineter be rich agin as I's a-stannin' heah dis minute!" And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for a couple of weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and I reckon I couldn't get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away from Judge Thatcher and drunk it up. "No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. Hadn't when I come away, anyhow." Jim says, kind of solemn: "He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck." I says: "Why, Jim?" "Nemmine why, Huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo." But I kept at him; so at last he says: "Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat wuz him." Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before. 
7194	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 2 CHAPTER IV THE sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful village like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had family worship: it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid courses of Scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of originality; and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the Mosaic Law, as from Sinai. Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to "get his verses." Sid had learned his lesson days before. Tom bent all his energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter. At the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human thought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations. Mary took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the fog: "Blessed are the--a--a--" "Poor"-- "Yes--poor; blessed are the poor--a--a--" "In spirit--" "In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they--they--" "THEIRS--" "For THEIRS. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they--they--" "Sh--" "For they--a--" "S, H, A--" "For they S, H--Oh, I don't know what it is!" "SHALL!" "Oh, SHALL! for they shall--for they shall--a--a--shall mourn--a--a-- blessed are they that shall--they that--a--they that shall mourn, for they shall--a--shall WHAT? Why don't you tell me, Mary?--what do you want to be so mean for?" "Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I'm not teasing you. I wouldn't do that. You must go and learn it again. Don't you be discouraged, Tom, you'll manage it--and if you do, I'll give you something ever so nice. There, now, that's a good boy." "All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is." "Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's nice, it is nice." "You bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll tackle it again." And he did "tackle it again"--and under the double pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new "Barlow" knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife would not cut anything, but it was a "sure-enough" Barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur in that--though where the Western boys ever got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday-school. Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves; poured out the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door. But Mary removed the towel and said: "Now ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be so bad. Water won't hurt you." Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years--they were simply called his "other clothes"--and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe. The girl "put him to rights" after he had dressed himself; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out. He lost his temper and said he was always being made to do everything he didn't want to do. But Mary said, persuasively: "Please, Tom--that's a good boy." So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three children set out for Sunday-school--a place that Tom hated with his whole heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it. Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church service. Two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily, and the other always remained too--for stronger reasons. The church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom dropped back a step and accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade: "Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?" "Yes." "What'll you take for her?" "What'll you give?" "Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook." "Less see 'em." Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands. Then Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other boys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say "Ouch!" and got a new reprimand from his teacher. Tom's whole class were of a pattern--restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along. However, they worried through, and each got his reward--in small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture on it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation. Ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly bound Bible (worth forty cents in those easy times) to the pupil. How many of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two thousand verses, even for a Dore Bible? And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way--it was the patient work of two years--and a boy of German parentage had won four or five. He once recited three thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth--a grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before company, the superintendent (as Tom expressed it) had always made this boy come out and "spread himself." Only the older pupils managed to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a Bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that day that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. It is possible that Tom's mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it. In due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer who stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert --though why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a slim creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth--a fence that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a side view was required; his chin was propped on a spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends; his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like sleigh-runners--an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours together. Mr. Walters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days. He began after this fashion: "Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. There --that is it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see one little girl who is looking out of the window--I am afraid she thinks I am out there somewhere--perhaps up in one of the trees making a speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you how good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be good." And so forth and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration. It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all. The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters' voice, and the conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude. A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was more or less rare--the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter's wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too--he could not meet Amy Lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this small new-comer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next moment he was "showing off" with all his might --cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces--in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His exaltation had but one alloy--the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden--and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now. The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr. Walters' speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage--no less a one than the county judge--altogether the most august creation these children had ever looked upon--and they wondered what kind of material he was made of--and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might, too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away--so he had travelled, and seen the world--these very eyes had looked upon the county court-house--which was said to have a tin roof. The awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar with the great man and be envied by the school. It would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings: "Look at him, Jim! He's a going up there. Say--look! he's a going to shake hands with him--he IS shaking hands with him! By jings, don't you wish you was Jeff?" Mr. Walters fell to "showing off," with all sorts of official bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. The librarian "showed off"--running hither and thither with his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect authority delights in. The young lady teachers "showed off" --bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young gentlemen teachers "showed off" with small scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline--and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation). The little girls "showed off" in various ways, and the little boys "showed off" with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur--for he was "showing off," too. There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters' ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough --he had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind. And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters was not expecting an application from this source for the next ten years. But there was no getting around it--here were the certified checks, and they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated to a place with the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from headquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy--but those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. These despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass. The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises--a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt. Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face--but he wouldn't look. She wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went--came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her worlds--and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most of all (she thought). Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked--partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out: "Tom." "Oh, no, not Tom--it is--" "Thomas." "Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very well. But you've another one I daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't you?" "Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say sir. You mustn't forget your manners." "Thomas Sawyer--sir." "That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many--very, very great many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you'll look back and say, It's all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood--it's all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn--it's all owing to the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible--a splendid elegant Bible--to keep and have it all for my own, always--it's all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas--and you wouldn't take any money for those two thousand verses--no indeed you wouldn't. And now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned--no, I know you wouldn't--for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?" Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. He blushed, now, and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters' heart sank within him. He said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question--why DID the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say: "Answer the gentleman, Thomas--don't be afraid." Tom still hung fire. "Now I know you'll tell me," said the lady. "The names of the first two disciples were--" "DAVID AND GOLIAH!" Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene. CHAPTER V ABOUT half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. The Sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt Polly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her--Tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days; the mayor and his wife--for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow Douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body--for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been "thrown up to them" so much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on Sundays--accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs. The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all through service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in some foreign country. The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board: Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry BEDS of ease, Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' BLOODY seas? He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church "sociables" he was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and "wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, "Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal earth." After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into a bulletin-board, and read off "notices" of meetings and societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom--a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it. And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the church; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself; for the county; for the State; for the State officers; for the United States; for the churches of the United States; for Congress; for the President; for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of European monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. Amen. There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it--if he even did that much. He was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously --for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it--and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare--he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt detected the act and made him let it go. The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod --and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. However, this time he was really interested for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion. Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed. Presently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. It was a large black beetle with formidable jaws--a "pinchbug," he called it. It was in a percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did was to take him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the beetle went floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth. The beetle lay there working its helpless legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe out of his reach. Other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change. He spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent and absent-minded. His head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched the enemy, who seized it. There was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away, and lit on its back once more. The neighboring spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog looked foolish, and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and began a wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again. But he grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it. Then there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light. At last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance. By this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill. The discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor parson had said a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced. Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of variety in it. He had but one marring thought; he was willing that the dog should play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright in him to carry it off. CHAPTER VI MONDAY morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found him so--because it began another week's slow suffering in school. He generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more odious. Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home from school. Here was a vague possibility. He canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he investigated again. This time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope. But they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected further. Suddenly he discovered something. One of his upper front teeth was loose. This was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a "starter," as he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that would hurt. So he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further. Nothing offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for inspection. But now he did not know the necessary symptoms. However, it seemed well worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit. But Sid slept on unconscious. Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe. No result from Sid. Tom was panting with his exertions by this time. He took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans. Sid snored on. Tom was aggravated. He said, "Sid, Sid!" and shook him. This course worked well, and Tom began to groan again. Sid yawned, stretched, then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at Tom. Tom went on groaning. Sid said: "Tom! Say, Tom!" [No response.] "Here, Tom! TOM! What is the matter, Tom?" And he shook him and looked in his face anxiously. Tom moaned out: "Oh, don't, Sid. Don't joggle me." "Why, what's the matter, Tom? I must call auntie." "No--never mind. It'll be over by and by, maybe. Don't call anybody." "But I must! DON'T groan so, Tom, it's awful. How long you been this way?" "Hours. Ouch! Oh, don't stir so, Sid, you'll kill me." "Tom, why didn't you wake me sooner? Oh, Tom, DON'T! It makes my flesh crawl to hear you. Tom, what is the matter?" "I forgive you everything, Sid. [Groan.] Everything you've ever done to me. When I'm gone--" "Oh, Tom, you ain't dying, are you? Don't, Tom--oh, don't. Maybe--" "I forgive everybody, Sid. [Groan.] Tell 'em so, Sid. And Sid, you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's come to town, and tell her--" But Sid had snatched his clothes and gone. Tom was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone. Sid flew down-stairs and said: "Oh, Aunt Polly, come! Tom's dying!" "Dying!" "Yes'm. Don't wait--come quick!" "Rubbage! I don't believe it!" But she fled up-stairs, nevertheless, with Sid and Mary at her heels. And her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. When she reached the bedside she gasped out: "You, Tom! Tom, what's the matter with you?" "Oh, auntie, I'm--" "What's the matter with you--what is the matter with you, child?" "Oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!" The old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a little, then did both together. This restored her and she said: "Tom, what a turn you did give me. Now you shut up that nonsense and climb out of this." The groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. The boy felt a little foolish, and he said: "Aunt Polly, it SEEMED mortified, and it hurt so I never minded my tooth at all." "Your tooth, indeed! What's the matter with your tooth?" "One of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful." "There, there, now, don't begin that groaning again. Open your mouth. Well--your tooth IS loose, but you're not going to die about that. Mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen." Tom said: "Oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out. It don't hurt any more. I wish I may never stir if it does. Please don't, auntie. I don't want to stay home from school." "Oh, you don't, don't you? So all this row was because you thought you'd get to stay home from school and go a-fishing? Tom, Tom, I love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with your outrageousness." By this time the dental instruments were ready. The old lady made one end of the silk thread fast to Tom's tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bedpost. Then she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face. The tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now. But all trials bring their compensations. As Tom wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in his upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable way. He gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition; and one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent, and shorn of his glory. His heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain which he did not feel that it wasn't anything to spit like Tom Sawyer; but another boy said, "Sour grapes!" and he wandered away a dismantled hero. Shortly Tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, Huckleberry Finn, son of the town drunkard. Huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless and vulgar and bad--and because all their children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like him. Tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied Huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders not to play with him. So he played with him every time he got a chance. Huckleberry was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown men, and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. His hat was a vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat, when he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons far down the back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs dragged in the dirt when not rolled up. Huckleberry came and went, at his own free will. He slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he could go fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited him; nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as late as he pleased; he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring and the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully. In a word, everything that goes to make life precious that boy had. So thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy in St. Petersburg. Tom hailed the romantic outcast: "Hello, Huckleberry!" "Hello yourself, and see how you like it." "What's that you got?" "Dead cat." "Lemme see him, Huck. My, he's pretty stiff. Where'd you get him ?" "Bought him off'n a boy." "What did you give?" "I give a blue ticket and a bladder that I got at the slaughter-house." "Where'd you get the blue ticket?" "Bought it off'n Ben Rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick." "Say--what is dead cats good for, Huck?" "Good for? Cure warts with." "No! Is that so? I know something that's better." "I bet you don't. What is it?" "Why, spunk-water." "Spunk-water! I wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water." "You wouldn't, wouldn't you? D'you ever try it?" "No, I hain't. But Bob Tanner did." "Who told you so!" "Why, he told Jeff Thatcher, and Jeff told Johnny Baker, and Johnny told Jim Hollis, and Jim told Ben Rogers, and Ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. There now!" "Well, what of it? They'll all lie. Leastways all but the nigger. I don't know HIM. But I never see a nigger that WOULDN'T lie. Shucks! Now you tell me how Bob Tanner done it, Huck." "Why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was." "In the daytime?" "Certainly." "With his face to the stump?" "Yes. Least I reckon so." "Did he say anything?" "I don't reckon he did. I don't know." "Aha! Talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool way as that! Why, that ain't a-going to do any good. You got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say: 'Barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts, Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,' and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. Because if you speak the charm's busted." "Well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way Bob Tanner done." "No, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-water. I've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, Huck. I play with frogs so much that I've always got considerable many warts. Sometimes I take 'em off with a bean." "Yes, bean's good. I've done that." "Have you? What's your way?" "You take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. You see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes." "Yes, that's it, Huck--that's it; though when you're burying it if you say 'Down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!' it's better. That's the way Joe Harper does, and he's been nearly to Coonville and most everywheres. But say--how do you cure 'em with dead cats?" "Why, you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard 'long about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see 'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear 'em talk; and when they're taking that feller away, you heave your cat after 'em and say, 'Devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, I'm done with ye!' That'll fetch ANY wart." "Sounds right. D'you ever try it, Huck?" "No, but old Mother Hopkins told me." "Well, I reckon it's so, then. Becuz they say she's a witch." "Say! Why, Tom, I KNOW she is. She witched pap. Pap says so his own self. He come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he took up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her. Well, that very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke his arm." "Why, that's awful. How did he know she was a-witching him?" "Lord, pap can tell, easy. Pap says when they keep looking at you right stiddy, they're a-witching you. Specially if they mumble. Becuz when they mumble they're saying the Lord's Prayer backards." "Say, Hucky, when you going to try the cat?" "To-night. I reckon they'll come after old Hoss Williams to-night." "But they buried him Saturday. Didn't they get him Saturday night?" "Why, how you talk! How could their charms work till midnight?--and THEN it's Sunday. Devils don't slosh around much of a Sunday, I don't reckon." "I never thought of that. That's so. Lemme go with you?" "Of course--if you ain't afeard." "Afeard! 'Tain't likely. Will you meow?" "Yes--and you meow back, if you get a chance. Last time, you kep' me a-meowing around till old Hays went to throwing rocks at me and says 'Dern that cat!' and so I hove a brick through his window--but don't you tell." "I won't. I couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but I'll meow this time. Say--what's that?" "Nothing but a tick." "Where'd you get him?" "Out in the woods." "What'll you take for him?" "I don't know. I don't want to sell him." "All right. It's a mighty small tick, anyway." "Oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong to them. I'm satisfied with it. It's a good enough tick for me." "Sho, there's ticks a plenty. I could have a thousand of 'em if I wanted to." "Well, why don't you? Becuz you know mighty well you can't. This is a pretty early tick, I reckon. It's the first one I've seen this year." "Say, Huck--I'll give you my tooth for him." "Less see it." Tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. Huckleberry viewed it wistfully. The temptation was very strong. At last he said: "Is it genuwyne?" Tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy. "Well, all right," said Huckleberry, "it's a trade." Tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the pinchbug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before. When Tom reached the little isolated frame schoolhouse, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. He hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The interruption roused him. "Thomas Sawyer!" Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble. "Sir!" "Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?" Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form was THE ONLY VACANT PLACE on the girls' side of the schoolhouse. He instantly said: "I STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY FINN!" The master's pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind. The master said: "You--you did what?" "Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn." There was no mistaking the words. "Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever listened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your jacket." The master's arm performed until it was tired and the stock of switches notably diminished. Then the order followed: "Now, sir, go and sit with the girls! And let this be a warning to you." The titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe of his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good fortune. He sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks and whispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon the long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book. By and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur rose upon the dull air once more. Presently the boy began to steal furtive glances at the girl. She observed it, "made a mouth" at him and gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute. When she cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust it away. Tom gently put it back. She thrust it away again, but with less animosity. Tom patiently returned it to its place. Then she let it remain. Tom scrawled on his slate, "Please take it--I got more." The girl glanced at the words, but made no sign. Now the boy began to draw something on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. For a time the girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. The boy worked on, apparently unconscious. The girl made a sort of noncommittal attempt to see, but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. At last she gave in and hesitatingly whispered: "Let me see it." Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl's interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything else. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered: "It's nice--make a man." The artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick. He could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered: "It's a beautiful man--now make me coming along." Tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. The girl said: "It's ever so nice--I wish I could draw." "It's easy," whispered Tom, "I'll learn you." "Oh, will you? When?" "At noon. Do you go home to dinner?" "I'll stay if you will." "Good--that's a whack. What's your name?" "Becky Thatcher. What's yours? Oh, I know. It's Thomas Sawyer." "That's the name they lick me by. I'm Tom when I'm good. You call me Tom, will you?" "Yes." Now Tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from the girl. But she was not backward this time. She begged to see. Tom said: "Oh, it ain't anything." "Yes it is." "No it ain't. You don't want to see." "Yes I do, indeed I do. Please let me." "You'll tell." "No I won't--deed and deed and double deed won't." "You won't tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live?" "No, I won't ever tell ANYbody. Now let me." "Oh, YOU don't want to see!" "Now that you treat me so, I WILL see." And she put her small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued, Tom pretending to resist in earnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were revealed: "I LOVE YOU." "Oh, you bad thing!" And she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened and looked pleased, nevertheless. Just at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on his ear, and a steady lifting impulse. In that vise he was borne across the house and deposited in his own seat, under a peppering fire of giggles from the whole school. Then the master stood over him during a few awful moments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a word. But although Tom's ear tingled, his heart was jubilant. As the school quieted down Tom made an honest effort to study, but the turmoil within him was too great. In turn he took his place in the reading class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class and turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents, till chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and got "turned down," by a succession of mere baby words, till he brought up at the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with ostentation for months. CHAPTER VII THE harder Tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his ideas wandered. So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up. It seemed to him that the noon recess would never come. The air was utterly dead. There was not a breath stirring. It was the sleepiest of sleepy days. The drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying scholars soothed the soul like the spell that is in the murmur of bees. Away off in the flaming sunshine, Cardiff Hill lifted its soft green sides through a shimmering veil of heat, tinted with the purple of distance; a few birds floated on lazy wing high in the air; no other living thing was visible but some cows, and they were asleep. Tom's heart ached to be free, or else to have something of interest to do to pass the dreary time. His hand wandered into his pocket and his face lit up with a glow of gratitude that was prayer, though he did not know it. Then furtively the percussion-cap box came out. He released the tick and put him on the long flat desk. The creature probably glowed with a gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at this moment, but it was premature: for when he started thankfully to travel off, Tom turned him aside with a pin and made him take a new direction. Tom's bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as Tom had been, and now he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in an instant. This bosom friend was Joe Harper. The two boys were sworn friends all the week, and embattled enemies on Saturdays. Joe took a pin out of his lapel and began to assist in exercising the prisoner. The sport grew in interest momently. Soon Tom said that they were interfering with each other, and neither getting the fullest benefit of the tick. So he put Joe's slate on the desk and drew a line down the middle of it from top to bottom. "Now," said he, "as long as he is on your side you can stir him up and I'll let him alone; but if you let him get away and get on my side, you're to leave him alone as long as I can keep him from crossing over." "All right, go ahead; start him up." The tick escaped from Tom, presently, and crossed the equator. Joe harassed him awhile, and then he got away and crossed back again. This change of base occurred often. While one boy was worrying the tick with absorbing interest, the other would look on with interest as strong, the two heads bowed together over the slate, and the two souls dead to all things else. At last luck seemed to settle and abide with Joe. The tick tried this, that, and the other course, and got as excited and as anxious as the boys themselves, but time and again just as he would have victory in his very grasp, so to speak, and Tom's fingers would be twitching to begin, Joe's pin would deftly head him off, and keep possession. At last Tom could stand it no longer. The temptation was too strong. So he reached out and lent a hand with his pin. Joe was angry in a moment. Said he: "Tom, you let him alone." "I only just want to stir him up a little, Joe." "No, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him alone." "Blame it, I ain't going to stir him much." "Let him alone, I tell you." "I won't!" "You shall--he's on my side of the line." "Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?" "I don't care whose tick he is--he's on my side of the line, and you sha'n't touch him." "Well, I'll just bet I will, though. He's my tick and I'll do what I blame please with him, or die!" A tremendous whack came down on Tom's shoulders, and its duplicate on Joe's; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from the two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The boys had been too absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school awhile before when the master came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them. He had contemplated a good part of the performance before he contributed his bit of variety to it. When school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky Thatcher, and whispered in her ear: "Put on your bonnet and let on you're going home; and when you get to the corner, give the rest of 'em the slip, and turn down through the lane and come back. I'll go the other way and come it over 'em the same way." So the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with another. In a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and when they reached the school they had it all to themselves. Then they sat together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky the pencil and held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising house. When the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking. Tom was swimming in bliss. He said: "Do you love rats?" "No! I hate them!" "Well, I do, too--LIVE ones. But I mean dead ones, to swing round your head with a string." "No, I don't care for rats much, anyway. What I like is chewing-gum." "Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some now." "Do you? I've got some. I'll let you chew it awhile, but you must give it back to me." That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs against the bench in excess of contentment. "Was you ever at a circus?" said Tom. "Yes, and my pa's going to take me again some time, if I'm good." "I been to the circus three or four times--lots of times. Church ain't shucks to a circus. There's things going on at a circus all the time. I'm going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up." "Oh, are you! That will be nice. They're so lovely, all spotted up." "Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money--most a dollar a day, Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?" "What's that?" "Why, engaged to be married." "No." "Would you like to?" "I reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?" "Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only just tell a boy you won't ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's all. Anybody can do it." "Kiss? What do you kiss for?" "Why, that, you know, is to--well, they always do that." "Everybody?" "Why, yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you remember what I wrote on the slate?" "Ye--yes." "What was it?" "I sha'n't tell you." "Shall I tell YOU?" "Ye--yes--but some other time." "No, now." "No, not now--to-morrow." "Oh, no, NOW. Please, Becky--I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever so easy." Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her ear. And then he added: "Now you whisper it to me--just the same." She resisted, for a while, and then said: "You turn your face away so you can't see, and then I will. But you mustn't ever tell anybody--WILL you, Tom? Now you won't, WILL you?" "No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now, Becky." He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath stirred his curls and whispered, "I--love--you!" Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded: "Now, Becky, it's all done--all over but the kiss. Don't you be afraid of that--it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky." And he tugged at her apron and the hands. By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and said: "Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but me, ever never and forever. Will you?" "No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry anybody but you--and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either." "Certainly. Of course. That's PART of it. And always coming to school or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't anybody looking--and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because that's the way you do when you're engaged." "It's so nice. I never heard of it before." "Oh, it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence--" The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused. "Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!" The child began to cry. Tom said: "Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any more." "Yes, you do, Tom--you know you do." Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride was up, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping she would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and entered. She was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with her face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him. He went to her and stood a moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly: "Becky, I--I don't care for anybody but you." No reply--but sobs. "Becky"--pleadingly. "Becky, won't you say something?" More sobs. Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said: "Please, Becky, won't you take it?" She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently Becky began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she flew around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called: "Tom! Come back, Tom!" She listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions but silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again and upbraid herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers about her to exchange sorrows with. 
7195	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 3 CHAPTER VIII TOM dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of Cardiff Hill, and the schoolhouse was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a woodpecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more profound. The boy's soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. He sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl. What had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been treated like a dog--like a very dog. She would be sorry some day--maybe when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die TEMPORARILY! But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. What if he turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away--ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas--and never came back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity and jokes and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious. No--better still, he would join the Indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the Far West, and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint, and prance into Sunday-school, some drowsy summer morning, with a bloodcurdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his companions with unappeasable envy. But no, there was something gaudier even than this. He would be a pirate! That was it! NOW his future lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor. How his name would fill the world, and make people shudder! How gloriously he would go plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the Spirit of the Storm, with his grisly flag flying at the fore! And at the zenith of his fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village and stalk into church, brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet doublet and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson sash, his belt bristling with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass at his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes, his black flag unfurled, with the skull and crossbones on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings, "It's Tom Sawyer the Pirate!--the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main!" Yes, it was settled; his career was determined. He would run away from home and enter upon it. He would start the very next morning. Therefore he must now begin to get ready. He would collect his resources together. He went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under one end of it with his Barlow knife. He soon struck wood that sounded hollow. He put his hand there and uttered this incantation impressively: "What hasn't come here, come! What's here, stay here!" Then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle. He took it up and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides were of shingles. In it lay a marble. Tom's astonishment was boundless! He scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said: "Well, that beats anything!" Then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating. The truth was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and all his comrades had always looked upon as infallible. If you buried a marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a fortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation he had just used, you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered themselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely they had been separated. But now, this thing had actually and unquestionably failed. Tom's whole structure of faith was shaken to its foundations. He had many a time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before. It did not occur to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward. He puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm. He thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. He laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and called-- "Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know! Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what I want to know!" The sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a second and then darted under again in a fright. "He dasn't tell! So it WAS a witch that done it. I just knowed it." He well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he gave up discouraged. But it occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient search for it. But he could not find it. Now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying: "Brother, go find your brother!" He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each other. Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green aisles of the forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that. He said cautiously--to an imaginary company: "Hold, my merry men! Keep hid till I blow." Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as Tom. Tom called: "Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood Forest without my pass?" "Guy of Guisborne wants no man's pass. Who art thou that--that--" "Dares to hold such language," said Tom, prompting--for they talked "by the book," from memory. "Who art thou that dares to hold such language?" "I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know." "Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? Right gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. Have at thee!" They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground, struck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful combat, "two up and two down." Presently Tom said: "Now, if you've got the hang, go it lively!" So they "went it lively," panting and perspiring with the work. By and by Tom shouted: "Fall! fall! Why don't you fall?" "I sha'n't! Why don't you fall yourself? You're getting the worst of it." "Why, that ain't anything. I can't fall; that ain't the way it is in the book. The book says, 'Then with one back-handed stroke he slew poor Guy of Guisborne.' You're to turn around and let me hit you in the back." There was no getting around the authorities, so Joe turned, received the whack and fell. "Now," said Joe, getting up, "you got to let me kill YOU. That's fair." "Why, I can't do that, it ain't in the book." "Well, it's blamed mean--that's all." "Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much the miller's son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or I'll be the Sheriff of Nottingham and you be Robin Hood a little while and kill me." This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. Then Tom became Robin Hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed his strength away through his neglected wound. And at last Joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into his feeble hands, and Tom said, "Where this arrow falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood tree." Then he shot the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle and sprang up too gaily for a corpse. The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss. They said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than President of the United States forever. CHAPTER IX AT half-past nine, that night, Tom and Sid were sent to bed, as usual. They said their prayers, and Sid was soon asleep. Tom lay awake and waited, in restless impatience. When it seemed to him that it must be nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten! This was despair. He would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he was afraid he might wake Sid. So he lay still, and stared up into the dark. Everything was dismally still. By and by, out of the stillness, little, scarcely perceptible noises began to emphasize themselves. The ticking of the clock began to bring itself into notice. Old beams began to crack mysteriously. The stairs creaked faintly. Evidently spirits were abroad. A measured, muffled snore issued from Aunt Polly's chamber. And now the tiresome chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could locate, began. Next the ghastly ticking of a deathwatch in the wall at the bed's head made Tom shudder--it meant that somebody's days were numbered. Then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air, and was answered by a fainter howl from a remoter distance. Tom was in an agony. At last he was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began to doze, in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he did not hear it. And then there came, mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most melancholy caterwauling. The raising of a neighboring window disturbed him. A cry of "Scat! you devil!" and the crash of an empty bottle against the back of his aunt's woodshed brought him wide awake, and a single minute later he was dressed and out of the window and creeping along the roof of the "ell" on all fours. He "meow'd" with caution once or twice, as he went; then jumped to the roof of the woodshed and thence to the ground. Huckleberry Finn was there, with his dead cat. The boys moved off and disappeared in the gloom. At the end of half an hour they were wading through the tall grass of the graveyard. It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none. "Sacred to the memory of" So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light. A faint wind moaned through the trees, and Tom feared it might be the spirits of the dead, complaining at being disturbed. The boys talked little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. They found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of the grave. Then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. The hooting of a distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness. Tom's reflections grew oppressive. He must force some talk. So he said in a whisper: "Hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?" Huckleberry whispered: "I wisht I knowed. It's awful solemn like, AIN'T it?" "I bet it is." There was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter inwardly. Then Tom whispered: "Say, Hucky--do you reckon Hoss Williams hears us talking?" "O' course he does. Least his sperrit does." Tom, after a pause: "I wish I'd said Mister Williams. But I never meant any harm. Everybody calls him Hoss." "A body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout these-yer dead people, Tom." This was a damper, and conversation died again. Presently Tom seized his comrade's arm and said: "Sh!" "What is it, Tom?" And the two clung together with beating hearts. "Sh! There 'tis again! Didn't you hear it?" "I--" "There! Now you hear it." "Lord, Tom, they're coming! They're coming, sure. What'll we do?" "I dono. Think they'll see us?" "Oh, Tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. I wisht I hadn't come." "Oh, don't be afeard. I don't believe they'll bother us. We ain't doing any harm. If we keep perfectly still, maybe they won't notice us at all." "I'll try to, Tom, but, Lord, I'm all of a shiver." "Listen!" The boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. A muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard. "Look! See there!" whispered Tom. "What is it?" "It's devil-fire. Oh, Tom, this is awful." Some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light. Presently Huckleberry whispered with a shudder: "It's the devils sure enough. Three of 'em! Lordy, Tom, we're goners! Can you pray?" "I'll try, but don't you be afeard. They ain't going to hurt us. 'Now I lay me down to sleep, I--'" "Sh!" "What is it, Huck?" "They're HUMANS! One of 'em is, anyway. One of 'em's old Muff Potter's voice." "No--'tain't so, is it?" "I bet I know it. Don't you stir nor budge. He ain't sharp enough to notice us. Drunk, the same as usual, likely--blamed old rip!" "All right, I'll keep still. Now they're stuck. Can't find it. Here they come again. Now they're hot. Cold again. Hot again. Red hot! They're p'inted right, this time. Say, Huck, I know another o' them voices; it's Injun Joe." "That's so--that murderin' half-breed! I'd druther they was devils a dern sight. What kin they be up to?" The whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the boys' hiding-place. "Here it is," said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young Doctor Robinson. Potter and Injun Joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple of shovels on it. They cast down their load and began to open the grave. The doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees. He was so close the boys could have touched him. "Hurry, men!" he said, in a low voice; "the moon might come out at any moment." They growled a response and went on digging. For some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of mould and gravel. It was very monotonous. Finally a spade struck upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the ground. They pried off the lid with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. The moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face. The barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. Potter took out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then said: "Now the cussed thing's ready, Sawbones, and you'll just out with another five, or here she stays." "That's the talk!" said Injun Joe. "Look here, what does this mean?" said the doctor. "You required your pay in advance, and I've paid you." "Yes, and you done more than that," said Injun Joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing. "Five years ago you drove me away from your father's kitchen one night, when I come to ask for something to eat, and you said I warn't there for any good; and when I swore I'd get even with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me jailed for a vagrant. Did you think I'd forget? The Injun blood ain't in me for nothing. And now I've GOT you, and you got to SETTLE, you know!" He was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time. The doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground. Potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed: "Here, now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels. Injun Joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up Potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about the combatants, seeking an opportunity. All at once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy headboard of Williams' grave and felled Potter to the earth with it--and in the same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man's breast. He reeled and fell partly upon Potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark. Presently, when the moon emerged again, Injun Joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating them. The doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a long gasp or two and was still. The half-breed muttered: "THAT score is settled--damn you." Then he robbed the body. After which he put the fatal knife in Potter's open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. Three --four--five minutes passed, and then Potter began to stir and moan. His hand closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shudder. Then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and then around him, confusedly. His eyes met Joe's. "Lord, how is this, Joe?" he said. "It's a dirty business," said Joe, without moving. "What did you do it for?" "I! I never done it!" "Look here! That kind of talk won't wash." Potter trembled and grew white. "I thought I'd got sober. I'd no business to drink to-night. But it's in my head yet--worse'n when we started here. I'm all in a muddle; can't recollect anything of it, hardly. Tell me, Joe--HONEST, now, old feller--did I do it? Joe, I never meant to--'pon my soul and honor, I never meant to, Joe. Tell me how it was, Joe. Oh, it's awful--and him so young and promising." "Why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched you another awful clip--and here you've laid, as dead as a wedge til now." "Oh, I didn't know what I was a-doing. I wish I may die this minute if I did. It was all on account of the whiskey and the excitement, I reckon. I never used a weepon in my life before, Joe. I've fought, but never with weepons. They'll all say that. Joe, don't tell! Say you won't tell, Joe--that's a good feller. I always liked you, Joe, and stood up for you, too. Don't you remember? You WON'T tell, WILL you, Joe?" And the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his appealing hands. "No, you've always been fair and square with me, Muff Potter, and I won't go back on you. There, now, that's as fair as a man can say." "Oh, Joe, you're an angel. I'll bless you for this the longest day I live." And Potter began to cry. "Come, now, that's enough of that. This ain't any time for blubbering. You be off yonder way and I'll go this. Move, now, and don't leave any tracks behind you." Potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. The half-breed stood looking after him. He muttered: "If he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself --chicken-heart!" Two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon's. The stillness was complete again, too. CHAPTER X THE two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror. They glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. Every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "If we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered Tom, in short catches between breaths. "I can't stand it much longer." Huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. They gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. By and by their pulses slowed down, and Tom whispered: "Huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "If Doctor Robinson dies, I reckon hanging'll come of it." "Do you though?" "Why, I KNOW it, Tom." Tom thought a while, then he said: "Who'll tell? We?" "What are you talking about? S'pose something happened and Injun Joe DIDN'T hang? Why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "That's just what I was thinking to myself, Huck." "If anybody tells, let Muff Potter do it, if he's fool enough. He's generally drunk enough." Tom said nothing--went on thinking. Presently he whispered: "Huck, Muff Potter don't know it. How can he tell?" "What's the reason he don't know it?" "Because he'd just got that whack when Injun Joe done it. D'you reckon he could see anything? D'you reckon he knowed anything?" "By hokey, that's so, Tom!" "And besides, look-a-here--maybe that whack done for HIM!" "No, 'taint likely, Tom. He had liquor in him; I could see that; and besides, he always has. Well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. He says so, his own self. So it's the same with Muff Potter, of course. But if a man was dead sober, I reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; I dono." After another reflective silence, Tom said: "Hucky, you sure you can keep mum?" "Tom, we GOT to keep mum. You know that. That Injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. Now, look-a-here, Tom, less take and swear to one another--that's what we got to do--swear to keep mum." "I'm agreed. It's the best thing. Would you just hold hands and swear that we--" "Oh no, that wouldn't do for this. That's good enough for little rubbishy common things--specially with gals, cuz THEY go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff--but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. And blood." Tom's whole being applauded this idea. It was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. He picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moonlight, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes. [See next page.] "Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer swears they will keep mum about This and They wish They may Drop down dead in Their Tracks if They ever Tell and Rot." Huckleberry was filled with admiration of Tom's facility in writing, and the sublimity of his language. He at once took a pin from his lapel and was going to prick his flesh, but Tom said: "Hold on! Don't do that. A pin's brass. It might have verdigrease on it." "What's verdigrease?" "It's p'ison. That's what it is. You just swaller some of it once --you'll see." So Tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. In time, after many squeezes, Tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his little finger for a pen. Then he showed Huckleberry how to make an H and an F, and the oath was complete. They buried the shingle close to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away. A figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined building, now, but they did not notice it. "Tom," whispered Huckleberry, "does this keep us from EVER telling --ALWAYS?" "Of course it does. It don't make any difference WHAT happens, we got to keep mum. We'd drop down dead--don't YOU know that?" "Yes, I reckon that's so." They continued to whisper for some little time. Presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside--within ten feet of them. The boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright. "Which of us does he mean?" gasped Huckleberry. "I dono--peep through the crack. Quick!" "No, YOU, Tom!" "I can't--I can't DO it, Huck!" "Please, Tom. There 'tis again!" "Oh, lordy, I'm thankful!" whispered Tom. "I know his voice. It's Bull Harbison." * [* If Mr. Harbison owned a slave named Bull, Tom would have spoken of him as "Harbison's Bull," but a son or a dog of that name was "Bull Harbison."] "Oh, that's good--I tell you, Tom, I was most scared to death; I'd a bet anything it was a STRAY dog." The dog howled again. The boys' hearts sank once more. "Oh, my! that ain't no Bull Harbison!" whispered Huckleberry. "DO, Tom!" Tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. His whisper was hardly audible when he said: "Oh, Huck, IT S A STRAY DOG!" "Quick, Tom, quick! Who does he mean?" "Huck, he must mean us both--we're right together." "Oh, Tom, I reckon we're goners. I reckon there ain't no mistake 'bout where I'LL go to. I been so wicked." "Dad fetch it! This comes of playing hookey and doing everything a feller's told NOT to do. I might a been good, like Sid, if I'd a tried --but no, I wouldn't, of course. But if ever I get off this time, I lay I'll just WALLER in Sunday-schools!" And Tom began to snuffle a little. "YOU bad!" and Huckleberry began to snuffle too. "Consound it, Tom Sawyer, you're just old pie, 'longside o' what I am. Oh, LORDY, lordy, lordy, I wisht I only had half your chance." Tom choked off and whispered: "Look, Hucky, look! He's got his BACK to us!" Hucky looked, with joy in his heart. "Well, he has, by jingoes! Did he before?" "Yes, he did. But I, like a fool, never thought. Oh, this is bully, you know. NOW who can he mean?" The howling stopped. Tom pricked up his ears. "Sh! What's that?" he whispered. "Sounds like--like hogs grunting. No--it's somebody snoring, Tom." "That IS it! Where 'bouts is it, Huck?" "I bleeve it's down at 'tother end. Sounds so, anyway. Pap used to sleep there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts things when HE snores. Besides, I reckon he ain't ever coming back to this town any more." The spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more. "Hucky, do you das't to go if I lead?" "I don't like to, much. Tom, s'pose it's Injun Joe!" Tom quailed. But presently the temptation rose up strong again and the boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their heels if the snoring stopped. So they went tiptoeing stealthily down, the one behind the other. When they had got to within five steps of the snorer, Tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. The man moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. It was Muff Potter. The boys' hearts had stood still, and their hopes too, when the man moved, but their fears passed away now. They tiptoed out, through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance to exchange a parting word. That long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air again! They turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few feet of where Potter was lying, and FACING Potter, with his nose pointing heavenward. "Oh, geeminy, it's HIM!" exclaimed both boys, in a breath. "Say, Tom--they say a stray dog come howling around Johnny Miller's house, 'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet." "Well, I know that. And suppose there ain't. Didn't Gracie Miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next Saturday?" "Yes, but she ain't DEAD. And what's more, she's getting better, too." "All right, you wait and see. She's a goner, just as dead sure as Muff Potter's a goner. That's what the niggers say, and they know all about these kind of things, Huck." Then they separated, cogitating. When Tom crept in at his bedroom window the night was almost spent. He undressed with excessive caution, and fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. He was not aware that the gently-snoring Sid was awake, and had been so for an hour. When Tom awoke, Sid was dressed and gone. There was a late look in the light, a late sense in the atmosphere. He was startled. Why had he not been called--persecuted till he was up, as usual? The thought filled him with bodings. Within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling sore and drowsy. The family were still at table, but they had finished breakfast. There was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to the culprit's heart. He sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into silence and let his heart sink down to the depths. After breakfast his aunt took him aside, and Tom almost brightened in the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. His aunt wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. This was worse than a thousand whippings, and Tom's heart was sorer now than his body. He cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence. He left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward Sid; and so the latter's prompt retreat through the back gate was unnecessary. He moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging, along with Joe Harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the air of one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to trifles. Then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk and his jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony stare of suffering that has reached the limit and can no further go. His elbow was pressing against some hard substance. After a long time he slowly and sadly changed his position, and took up this object with a sigh. It was in a paper. He unrolled it. A long, lingering, colossal sigh followed, and his heart broke. It was his brass andiron knob! This final feather broke the camel's back. CHAPTER XI CLOSE upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified with the ghastly news. No need of the as yet undreamed-of telegraph; the tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house, with little less than telegraphic speed. Of course the schoolmaster gave holiday for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of him if he had not. A gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been recognized by somebody as belonging to Muff Potter--so the story ran. And it was said that a belated citizen had come upon Potter washing himself in the "branch" about one or two o'clock in the morning, and that Potter had at once sneaked off--suspicious circumstances, especially the washing which was not a habit with Potter. It was also said that the town had been ransacked for this "murderer" (the public are not slow in the matter of sifting evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he could not be found. Horsemen had departed down all the roads in every direction, and the Sheriff "was confident" that he would be captured before night. All the town was drifting toward the graveyard. Tom's heartbreak vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not a thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful, unaccountable fascination drew him on. Arrived at the dreadful place, he wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle. It seemed to him an age since he was there before. Somebody pinched his arm. He turned, and his eyes met Huckleberry's. Then both looked elsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their mutual glance. But everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly spectacle before them. "Poor fellow!" "Poor young fellow!" "This ought to be a lesson to grave robbers!" "Muff Potter'll hang for this if they catch him!" This was the drift of remark; and the minister said, "It was a judgment; His hand is here." Now Tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid face of Injun Joe. At this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle, and voices shouted, "It's him! it's him! he's coming himself!" "Who? Who?" from twenty voices. "Muff Potter!" "Hallo, he's stopped!--Look out, he's turning! Don't let him get away!" People in the branches of the trees over Tom's head said he wasn't trying to get away--he only looked doubtful and perplexed. "Infernal impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted to come and take a quiet look at his work, I reckon--didn't expect any company." The crowd fell apart, now, and the Sheriff came through, ostentatiously leading Potter by the arm. The poor fellow's face was haggard, and his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. When he stood before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands and burst into tears. "I didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word and honor I never done it." "Who's accused you?" shouted a voice. This shot seemed to carry home. Potter lifted his face and looked around him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. He saw Injun Joe, and exclaimed: "Oh, Injun Joe, you promised me you'd never--" "Is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the Sheriff. Potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the ground. Then he said: "Something told me 't if I didn't come back and get--" He shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, "Tell 'em, Joe, tell 'em--it ain't any use any more." Then Huckleberry and Tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every moment that the clear sky would deliver God's lightnings upon his head, and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. And when he had finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that. "Why didn't you leave? What did you want to come here for?" somebody said. "I couldn't help it--I couldn't help it," Potter moaned. "I wanted to run away, but I couldn't seem to come anywhere but here." And he fell to sobbing again. Injun Joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that Joe had sold himself to the devil. He was now become, to them, the most balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could not take their fascinated eyes from his face. They inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master. Injun Joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd that the wound bled a little! The boys thought that this happy circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were disappointed, for more than one villager remarked: "It was within three feet of Muff Potter when it done it." Tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said: "Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me awake half the time." Tom blanched and dropped his eyes. "It's a bad sign," said Aunt Polly, gravely. "What you got on your mind, Tom?" "Nothing. Nothing 't I know of." But the boy's hand shook so that he spilled his coffee. "And you do talk such stuff," Sid said. "Last night you said, 'It's blood, it's blood, that's what it is!' You said that over and over. And you said, 'Don't torment me so--I'll tell!' Tell WHAT? What is it you'll tell?" Everything was swimming before Tom. There is no telling what might have happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of Aunt Polly's face and she came to Tom's relief without knowing it. She said: "Sho! It's that dreadful murder. I dream about it most every night myself. Sometimes I dream it's me that done it." Mary said she had been affected much the same way. Sid seemed satisfied. Tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every night. He never knew that Sid lay nightly watching, and frequently slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place again. Tom's distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew irksome and was discarded. If Sid really managed to make anything out of Tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself. It seemed to Tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind. Sid noticed that Tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries, though it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises; he noticed, too, that Tom never acted as a witness--and that was strange; and Sid did not overlook the fact that Tom even showed a marked aversion to these inquests, and always avoided them when he could. Sid marvelled, but said nothing. However, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased to torture Tom's conscience. Every day or two, during this time of sorrow, Tom watched his opportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such small comforts through to the "murderer" as he could get hold of. The jail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom occupied. These offerings greatly helped to ease Tom's conscience. The villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather Injun Joe and ride him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter, so it was dropped. He had been careful to begin both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the courts at present. CHAPTER XII ONE of the reasons why Tom's mind had drifted away from its secret troubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest itself about. Becky Thatcher had stopped coming to school. Tom had struggled with his pride a few days, and tried to "whistle her down the wind," but failed. He began to find himself hanging around her father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable. She was ill. What if she should die! There was distraction in the thought. He no longer took an interest in war, nor even in piracy. The charm of life was gone; there was nothing but dreariness left. He put his hoop away, and his bat; there was no joy in them any more. His aunt was concerned. She began to try all manner of remedies on him. She was one of those people who are infatuated with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of producing health or mending it. She was an inveterate experimenter in these things. When something fresh in this line came out she was in a fever, right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing, but on anybody else that came handy. She was a subscriber for all the "Health" periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance they were inflated with was breath to her nostrils. All the "rot" they contained about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up, and what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and what frame of mind to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing to wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her health-journals of the current month customarily upset everything they had recommended the month before. She was as simple-hearted and honest as the day was long, and so she was an easy victim. She gathered together her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed with death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with "hell following after." But she never suspected that she was not an angel of healing and the balm of Gilead in disguise, to the suffering neighbors. The water treatment was new, now, and Tom's low condition was a windfall to her. She had him out at daylight every morning, stood him up in the woodshed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then she scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought him to; then she rolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under blankets till she sweated his soul clean and "the yellow stains of it came through his pores"--as Tom said. Yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more melancholy and pale and dejected. She added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and plunges. The boy remained as dismal as a hearse. She began to assist the water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-plasters. She calculated his capacity as she would a jug's, and filled him up every day with quack cure-alls. Tom had become indifferent to persecution by this time. This phase filled the old lady's heart with consternation. This indifference must be broken up at any cost. Now she heard of Pain-killer for the first time. She ordered a lot at once. She tasted it and was filled with gratitude. It was simply fire in a liquid form. She dropped the water treatment and everything else, and pinned her faith to Pain-killer. She gave Tom a teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. Her troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the "indifference" was broken up. The boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him. Tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. So he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon that of professing to be fond of Pain-killer. He asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her. If it had been Sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was Tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. She found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it. One day Tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eying the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. Tom said: "Don't ask for it unless you want it, Peter." But Peter signified that he did want it. "You better make sure." Peter was sure. "Now you've asked for it, and I'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." Peter was agreeable. So Tom pried his mouth open and poured down the Pain-killer. Peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. Next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. Then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. Aunt Polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. The old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; Tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter. "Tom, what on earth ails that cat?" "I don't know, aunt," gasped the boy. "Why, I never see anything like it. What did make him act so?" "Deed I don't know, Aunt Polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time." "They do, do they?" There was something in the tone that made Tom apprehensive. "Yes'm. That is, I believe they do." "You DO?" "Yes'm." The old lady was bending down, Tom watching, with interest emphasized by anxiety. Too late he divined her "drift." The handle of the telltale teaspoon was visible under the bed-valance. Aunt Polly took it, held it up. Tom winced, and dropped his eyes. Aunt Polly raised him by the usual handle--his ear--and cracked his head soundly with her thimble. "Now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?" "I done it out of pity for him--because he hadn't any aunt." "Hadn't any aunt!--you numskull. What has that got to do with it?" "Heaps. Because if he'd had one she'd a burnt him out herself! She'd a roasted his bowels out of him 'thout any more feeling than if he was a human!" Aunt Polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. This was putting the thing in a new light; what was cruelty to a cat MIGHT be cruelty to a boy, too. She began to soften; she felt sorry. Her eyes watered a little, and she put her hand on Tom's head and said gently: "I was meaning for the best, Tom. And, Tom, it DID do you good." Tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping through his gravity. "I know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was I with Peter. It done HIM good, too. I never see him get around so since--" "Oh, go 'long with you, Tom, before you aggravate me again. And you try and see if you can't be a good boy, for once, and you needn't take any more medicine." Tom reached school ahead of time. It was noticed that this strange thing had been occurring every day latterly. And now, as usual of late, he hung about the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his comrades. He was sick, he said, and he looked it. He tried to seem to be looking everywhere but whither he really was looking--down the road. Presently Jeff Thatcher hove in sight, and Tom's face lighted; he gazed a moment, and then turned sorrowfully away. When Jeff arrived, Tom accosted him; and "led up" warily to opportunities for remark about Becky, but the giddy lad never could see the bait. Tom watched and watched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in sight, and hating the owner of it as soon as he saw she was not the right one. At last frocks ceased to appear, and he dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered the empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer. Then one more frock passed in at the gate, and Tom's heart gave a great bound. The next instant he was out, and "going on" like an Indian; yelling, laughing, chasing boys, jumping over the fence at risk of life and limb, throwing handsprings, standing on his head--doing all the heroic things he could conceive of, and keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if Becky Thatcher was noticing. But she seemed to be unconscious of it all; she never looked. Could it be possible that she was not aware that he was there? He carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came war-whooping around, snatched a boy's cap, hurled it to the roof of the schoolhouse, broke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every direction, and fell sprawling, himself, under Becky's nose, almost upsetting her--and she turned, with her nose in the air, and he heard her say: "Mf! some people think they're mighty smart--always showing off!" Tom's cheeks burned. He gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed and crestfallen. 
51118	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 51118-h.htm or 28711-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h/28711-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28711/28711-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/monksmissouri00willrich Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). [Illustration: COLONEL MONKS AND WIFE.] A HISTORY OF SOUTHERN MISSOURI AND NORTHERN ARKANSAS Being an Account of the Early Settlements, the Civil War, the Ku-Klux, and Times of Peace. by WILLIAM MONKS West Plains, Mo. West Plains Journal Co. West Plains, Mo. 1907 Copyright 1907 by William Monks Introduction. Now the author was born in the state of Alabama, in Jackson county, on the north side of the Tennessee River, near Huntsville. He was the son of James Monks and Nancy Monks. The father of James Monks came over from Ireland during the Revolutionary War and served in that war until the independence of the United States was acknowledged. Afterwards he married a lady of English descent and settled down in the State of South Carolina. His father died when he was but an infant. His mother removed to the state of Tennessee, being left with five children, James being the youngest. Growing up to manhood in that state, he removed to the north part of the state of Alabama and there married Nancy Graham, who was a daughter of Jesse Graham. They were originally from the state of Virginia. James Monks enlisted in the United States Army and served in the Indian war that was known as the Seminole war, in the state of Florida. After his term of service had expired he returned home and sold his farm and had a flatboat built and placed in the Tennessee River near Gunters Landing, with the intention of moving to the state of Florida. Taking his brother-in-law, a Mr. Phillips, on the boat with him, they went down the river by Decatur, were piloted through the Mussell Shoals, and at the foot of the shoals at what is known as Tuscumbia, the writer remembers seeing a part of the Cherokee Indians that were being removed from the state of Alabama to their present location. The writer can remember seeing the Cherokee Indians before they were removed from the state of Alabama. On reaching Southern Illinois, eight miles from Paducah, my father landed his boat and looked over the country and came to the conclusion that that country was good enough, and located in what was then Pope County. Afterwards they cropped a piece off of Pope and a piece off of Johnson, and created a new county and named it Massack, after the old government fort, and located the county seat, named Metropolis. My father resided nine years in that state, then sold out and started to move to the state of Texas. On arriving in Fulton county, Arkansas, he concluded to locate in that county. Soon after his arrival, in the latter part of June or July, 1844, the writer was employed to carry the United States mail from Salem, the county seat of Fulton County, to Rockbridge, then the county seat of Ozark county, Missouri. My father and mother taught me to be loyal to my government from my earliest remembrance, and I don't think that two persons more honest than they ever lived. They taught me from my earliest recollection to be honest and upright, and I have tried, and believe I have lived up to their teaching to the very letter; and no man or woman before the war, during the war, nor since the war, can say anything else and tell the truth. Religiously, my father and mother were Baptists, and I believe that they were Christians. EARLY SETTLEMENTS. In the year 1844 father sold out and in May started to move to the state of Texas; crossed the Mississippi river at Green's old ferry, came by the way of Jackson, Missouri, and traveled the old military road made by the government troops in removing the Cherokee Indians from the state of Alabama to their present location--only road leading west--and in July of the same year (learning that it was very dangerous for a man to take his family into the state of Texas on account of the Indians), he concluded to locate in Fulton county, Arkansas, purchased an improvement and located on what is known as Bennett's river, about 25 miles from where West Plains is now located. The family at that time consisted of six persons, to-wit: father, mother and four sons, the author then being in his fifteenth year; father, being a farmer by occupation, went to work on the farm. The country at that time was very sparsely settled. The settlements were confined to the creeks and rivers, where were found plenty of water and springs. No place at that time was thought worth settling unless it had a spring upon it. The vegetation was luxuriant, the broom sedge and blue stem growing as high as a man's head--and he upon an ordinary horse. The table lands, which were thought at that time to be worthless, had very little timber growing on them, but were not prairie. There were what were known as post oak runners and other brush growing on the table lands, but the grass turf was very heavy and in the spring of the year the grass would soon cover the sprouts and the stranger would have taken all of the table lands, except where it was interspersed with groves, to have been prairie. The country settled up--some of the settlements being 15 miles apart--yet the early settlers thought nothing of neighboring and assisting each other as neighbors for the distance of 15 miles. At that time Fulton county contained all of the present territory that now includes Baxter, Fulton and a part of Sharp counties; and but a short time previous to the organization of Fulton, all of the territory that now embraces Fulton, Baxter and Sharp; Izard belonged to Independence county and Batesville was the county seat. My father located about five miles from the state line. Ozark county, in Missouri, joined Fulton county on the state line and all of the territory that now comprises Ozark, Douglas and the west half of Howell, belonged to Ozark county and Rockbridge, its county seat, being located on Bryan's Fork of the North Fork, about 50 miles from the state line. Oregon county contained all the territory that now comprises Oregon, Shannon, and the east end of Howell; and a short time previous all of the territory that now comprises Ripley, Oregon, Carter and Shannon belonged to Ripley county; and all of the territory that now comprises Texas, Dent, Wright and Crawford counties belonged to Crawford county. The country at that time abounded in millions of deer, turkeys, bears, wolves and small animals. I remember as my father was moving west and after he had crossed White Water near what was known as Bullinger's old mill, that we could see the deer feeding on the hills in great herds like cattle, and wild turkeys were in abundance. Wild meat was so plentiful that the settlers chiefly subsisted upon the flesh of wild animals until they could grow some tame stock, such as hogs and cattle. This country then was almost a "land of honey." Bees abounded in great number and men hunted them for the profit they derived from the beeswax. There was no such thing known as a bee moth. Honeydew fell in such quantities as to completely kill the tops of the grass where it was open. I have known young turkeys, after they were large enough for use, to have their wings so gummed with honeydew that they could not fly out of the way of a dog--have known lots of them to be caught with dogs when they wanted to use them. There was no question in regard to there being honey when you cut a bee tree, if the hollow and space in the tree were sufficient and the bees had had time to fill it. I have known bee trees being cut that had 8 and 10 feet of solid comb that was candied and grained. When my father first located, beeswax, peltry and fur skins almost constituted the currency of the country. I remember that a short time after my father located, a gentleman came to my father's house and wanted to buy a horse and offered to pay him in beeswax and peltry, and as I had been accustomed to paper currency in the state of Illinois, I asked my father what kind of money peltry was. He laughed and remarked, "Well son, it is not money at all; it is deer skins." A man thought nothing of buying a horse or a yoke of oxen, or to make any other common debt on the promise of discharging the same in beeswax and peltry in one month's time. The immigration consisted mostly of farmers and mechanics. Among the mechanics were coopers who would make large hogsheads for the purpose of holding the honey after it was separated from the beeswax, and a man then had his choice to use either candied honey or fresh honey. I knew whole hogsheads that were full of candied honey. When men would make a contract to deliver any amount or number of pounds of beeswax, and within a given time, especially in the fall of the year, they would either take a yoke of cattle or two horses and a wagon and with their guns and camp equipage go out from the settlements into what was then termed the "wilderness," and burn bee comb. In a short time the bees would be working so strong to the bait that they could scarcely course them. In the morning they would hunt deer, take off pelts until the deer would lie down, then they would hunt bees and mark the trees until the deer would get up to feed in the afternoon, when they would again resume their hunt for deer. After they had found a sufficient number of bee trees and marked them, the morning following they would go out and kill nothing but large deer; case-skin them until they had a sufficient number of hides to contain the honey that they expected to take from the trees, take the hides to the camp, tie a knot in the fore legs of the hide, take dressed buckskin and a big awl, roll the hide of the neck in about three folds, run two rows of stitches, draw it tight, then go to their wagons with ridgepole and hooks already prepared, knot the hind legs of the skins, hang them over the hooks, take their tub, a knife and spoon, proceed to the trees, stop their team a sufficient distance from the tree to prevent the bees from stinging the animals, cut the tree, take out the honey, place it in the tub, and when the tub was filled carry it to the wagon where the hides were prepared, empty their tubs into the deer skins, return again to another tree and continue cutting until the hides were all filled with honey; then they would return home, take the hides from the hooks on the ridge pole on the wagon, hang them on hooks prepared for the purpose in the smokehouse and then the men's work was done. The labor of the women then commenced. They would proceed to separate the honey from the beeswax, pouring the honey into hogsheads, kegs or barrels prepared for it, and running the beeswax into cakes ready for the market, while the men were stretching and drying the deerskins. As soon as the deerskins were dried and the honey was separated from the beeswax, they were ready for the market and took their place as currency, while the flesh of the deer, sometimes, when bread was scarce, took the place of both bread and meat, with a change, whenever the appetite called for it, to turkey and other wild game. At night they would hunt for fur animals, such as raccoon, fox and mink, and stretch their hides; a first-class raccoon hide would sell for 40 to 50 cents; fox, 25 and 30 cents; mink, from 65 to 75c. I have often known the people to pay their taxes, when the collector came around, with fur skins, such as raccoon and fox. The collector would take the hides right at the house and give them a clear receipt for their taxes, both state and county. I have seen collectors leading a horse for the purpose of carrying his fur skins. I have seen the horse completely covered with fur skins, so you could see no part of him but his head and his hoofs and tail--one could not have told there was a horse beneath the load unless he had known it. The people then had many advantages that they are deprived of now, in the way of wild meat, abundance of honey and fine range. A man could raise all the stock in the way of horses and cattle that he could possibly look after; the only expense was salting and caring for them--didn't have to feed, winter nor summer, except the horses in use and the cows used for milking purposes. While, on the other-hand, they labored under a great many disadvantages, in the way of schools and churches. During the residence of my father in the state of Illinois, we had a very good common school system, and we had three months of school every fall. My father being a farmer, sent me only the three months' term in the fall. I had acquired a limited education before his removal to Arkansas, yet he was interested in giving his children an education. At that time there were no free schools, only subscription schools; teachers generally were incompetent and employed through favoritism, and not upon their qualifications to teach. In a year or two after my father located, the settlement got together and located a school-house site, took their teams, hauled round logs, built them into walls, made a dirt floor, cut out a large window in the side, split a tree and made a writing desk, split small trees, hewed them and made benches for seats, cut a hole in one end of the house, erected a wooden chimney, what was then known as a stick and clay chimney, chinked and daubed the cracks, made a clapboard roof, hung the door with wooden hinges, then the house was considered ready for the school and had the name of teaching a three-months' subscription school; and very often half of the pupils were better scholars than the teachers. All they gained in their education was by attention to study. As the country improved in population, the people improved in the erection of school-houses and church-houses and constructed, in place of the round log school-house and dirt floor, hewed log school-houses with puncheon floors, stick and clay chimneys. Those pioneer settlers took a great interest in each other's welfare, and the different settlements met together from a distance of 15 to 40 miles and adopted rules and customs binding each other to aid and assist in helping any person who met with any misfortune in the way of sickness, death or other causes that might occur, and I must say that there was more charity and real religion practiced among those pioneer settlers, although many of them were looked upon as being crude and unlettered. There was a great deal of sickness along the streams, especially chills and fever. Immigrants came in, generally in sufficient numbers to form a settlement; and I have known them, very often, after they had located and opened out 10 to 15 acres and put it in cultivation and broke the ground and planted their corn, for the whole family to be taken down at one time with chills and fever, not able even to help each other or administer to their wants. As soon as the information reached the other settlements for a distance of 15 miles or more, the different settlements would set a day to meet at the place with their horses, plows, hoes, wagons, etc.; also provisions, such as bread-stuff and salt. On meeting, they would ascertain the condition of the family or families and learn what they needed in the way of provision, medicine, nursing, etc.; they would then and there agree that the different settlements should divide up the time, set the day for each one to furnish waiters to wait upon them in their sickness, such medicine as they needed, provisions and everything that was necessary to render comfort, and in the morning before breakfast they would go out and kill a deer and as many turkeys as they needed, dress them, prepare them for the cook, who had been brought with them, go into the field after breakfast, plow and hoe the corn, clean out the garden, leave the families in charge of nurses and return again to their respective settlements. Those families, as soon as they were well, not being acquainted with the customs and rules, would meet them and inquire as to what amount they owed them for what they had done for them during their sickness. They would be readily informed, "_Nothing._ You are not acquainted with our rules and customs. Now, we have obligated and pledged ourselves together not to let any sick or other disabled person suffer for the want of necessary attention, and the only thing we require of you is, if any other person should move into the country and locate, and should be taken down and confined through sickness or any other cause, that you help in furnishing such aid and necessaries as they may need until they are able to again take care of themselves." Now, I have just remarked that there was more real charity and religion practiced among pioneers than there is in the present day. The people then all appeared to be interested in bettering the condition of society. As soon as it was possible, the different settlements erected church-houses built of hewed timber, floored with puncheons, hewed seats, size of house generally from 18 by 20 to 22 by 25 feet, chinked and daubed. The churches or denominations then were Baptists and Methodists. There didn't appear to be any antagonism or hatred existing between the denominations; the doors were thrown wide open for any minister that might travel through and they all turned out, and you heard nothing said then in regard to "my church" or "your church." They appeared to recognize the fact that it was the Lord's church and that they were the Lord's people. In going to church, sometimes from 1 to 10 miles, they would see flocks of turkeys and herds of wild deer, both going and coming. As soon as the crops were laid by, they would agree among the different settlements as to where a camp-meeting should be held; they would then erect camps or huts, make boards to cover them, erect an arbor, fill the center of it with straw, and to the distance of 25 to 35 miles they would all turn out, irrespective of denomination, and all appeared to enjoy themselves, and the love of Christ appeared to dwell in each heart, and they appeared to be proud of the privilege of meeting each other and worshiping together. If any member belonging to either of the denominations defrauded, or in any way wronged his brother, he was at once waited upon and requested to make reparation to his brother and acknowledge to his brother and to the church, or he was withdrawn from or turned out of the church. The immigration was chiefly from the Middle States, some from the Southern States and very few from the Northeastern States. They were frugal, energetic, honest, intelligent and industrious. As the country increased in population, the facilities of both schools and churches improved. The customs and habits were entirely different from those existing now; the wearing apparel was entirely home-made; they would raise their cotton, pick it out with their fingers or a hand gin, women would spin their warp, spin their filling, get their different colors from different barks for men's wear; the women used indigo and copperas for the main colors in manufacturing the cloth for dresses, wound their stripes on a stick and then wove it into cloth; you could scarcely visit a house but what you would see a loom, big spinning-wheel and little wheel; sometimes you would see three or four wheels at one house. They made both their every day and Sunday wear; the women appeared to take great pride in seeing who could weave the nicest piece of cloth, make it into a dress, make cloth and make it into what was known as Virginia bonnets, and the men tanned their own leather, made shoes for the whole family. When the women were dressed completely in their homespun they appeared to enjoy themselves, in church, in company or any other gathering, and felt just as independent and proud as the king upon his throne; they appeared to meet each other and greet each other and all appeared to realize the fact that they were human and they had but one superior and that was God. The women spun the warp, spun the wool, wove it into cloth, procured the different barks from the woods and dyed it, the general color being brown, made it with their own hands into coats, pants, undershirts; made overshirts out of homespun cotton and the whole suit was home-made, and very often a cap, made either of the raccoon or a fox, was worn on the head. When men met each other at any public gathering they appeared to be proud of meeting each other; appeared to realize the fact that they were all American citizens and human, bound together by the ties of love and affection, and the highest ambition appeared to be to make each other happy and help one another in time of need. I don't believe there was as much dissipation by partaking of intoxicants, or other wickedness, as exists to-day among the same number of persons. It is true that then any man who was able to purchase a little still and had a spring could erect his own still house and make his own whiskey without paying any tax or duty upon the same, and anyone of his neighbors who wanted a gallon of whiskey could carry a bushel of corn to the still-house and get a gallon of whiskey in exchange for it. And if men became drunk on the whiskey it did not appear to make them wild and crazy as the whiskey of to-day does. Men then, as well as now, would have disagreements and fall out and fight, but the custom that prevailed among that class would not tolerate nor allow a man to use weapons, and if two men had a disagreement, one of them being a large, stout man physically, the other being a small man, not equal in strength--if they were together in a public place and the large one would challenge the weaker to fight him, before he could hardly open his mouth, some man present who considered himself to be his equal in physical strength, would just say to him "now then, if you want to fight, that man is not your equal, but I am; get your second and walk out and I will do the fighting for this other man." I have, on different occasions, seen the large man who was challenging the weaker for a fight reply to the challenge and say, "My friend, I have nothing against you; this other man hasn't treated me right," or set out some other reason that he ought to whip him; the man in reply would say, "I don't want to hear another word from you in regard to wanting to fight this other man, and if I do you have got me to fight." Very often I have seen the man shut his mouth and turn away and say nothing more. On the other hand, I have heard a man say to another, "If you want to fight, I am your man; the other man is unable to fight you," and in an instant the other would reply. "Well, sir, I am your man; just as leave fight you as anybody else." They would select their seconds, take a drink of whiskey together, enter into an agreement that whenever the seconds said either one was whipped, that they were to abide by it, unless they found out before their seconds did that they were whipped, and if so, they would manifest it by holloing "enough," when the other person was to stop at once and inflict no more injury. I have often seen them fight until they were both as bloody as butchers and in the end the seconds would have to hollo for one or the other. As soon as they were separated they would go to the same pool or place where there was water and wash themselves, and walk arm-in-arm, laughing and talking and drinking together and remark, "We are now fast friends and we have settled the matter as to which was the best man." And if a man would produce a weapon on either side his own friends would turn against him and he would be forced to put it up at once. Men then appeared to be governed by that higher inspiration, that a man should not use anything that would permanently disable or take the life of his fellow-man; but if one man became pregnant with fight or desire to maim his fellow-man, in order that he should not be disappointed, some man would readily volunteer, who believed that he was his equal physically, and deliver him of all his fighting propensities. Dow Bryant and a Gallon of Whisky I will here relate an instance that I well remember. A man by the name of Bridges lived just above where Bakersfield is now located, owned a little mill at the same place where they still continue the work of the mill just above Bakersfield. The mill ground from twelve to fifteen bushels per day; most of us carried our sacks on horseback, and ground by turns. Bridges had employed a man by the name of Math Shipman to run the mill. He was a small man weighing only about 135 pounds, and there was a man by the name of Dow Bryant, lately from the state of Tennessee, quite a large man, weighing 225 pounds, who delighted in fighting under the old style, and claimed that he had whipped two of the best men in Tennessee at the same time. Shipman had made some statement that reflected upon Bryant; so Bryant procured a gallon of whiskey, and, taking two men with him, went from Bennett's river over to the mill and informed Shipman of what he had heard he had said in regard to him, and said to Shipman that if he had said it and didn't take it back, he would have to whip him, and the only thing he hated about it would be the whipping of as little a man as he was. Shipman replied that he need not take that matter into consideration, and that his father had always taught him that if he told anything and it was the truth, not to take it back under any consideration, and that what he had said was true; and as to his whipping him, his father had always taught him never to admit anything until he knew it was true; and "I have my doubts about you being able to whip me; but if you will get your second ready, as soon as the corn that is in the hopper is ground out and I refill the hopper I will get my second and we will go out into the mill yard so you can test it." They accordingly got their seconds, went into the mill yard, formed a ring, and when the word was given by the seconds, they went together. Shipman bit every finger on the right hand and three fingers on the left hand to the bone; and Bryant's friends, seeing he was going to be whipped, proposed parting them. Bryant returned home, and when his neighbors would meet him with his fingers all bound up, they would say, "Hello there! What's the matter?" His reply would be, "I went over into the wilderness and got hold of a wildcat, and it like to have eaten me up before I could get loose from it." He would further say that Shipman was all mouth, and that he could not put his hands anywhere about his head unless he got them in his mouth. I will give another instance touching the same man (Bryant). He went over to Salem during circuit court. The sheriff of the county was a man by the name of Dick Benton, quite a small man, and the constable of the township was named Moore and a very small man. Bryant was drinking some, and wanted to fight as usual, and became noisy. The judge ordered the constable to arrest him; but when Bryant saw the constable coming, he backed behind an old building, and ordered the constable not to rush upon him. When the constable came in reach, he knocked him down, came walking around, and remarked that no tickey officer could arrest him. The judge then ordered the sheriff to arrest him. When the sheriff came within reach, he knocked him down, came walking back, and remarked, "I thought they understood me when I told them that a tickey set of officers could not arrest me." During the time the father-in-law of the sheriff had come out. Bryant walked up to him, and with a d---- said: "I want to know what you are doing here." Without any more words being passed, the sheriff's father-in-law knocked Bryant down, jumped onto him, but he holloed, and they took him off. Bryant straightened himself up right into his face again and remarked, "I have told a lie, I am not whipped." Without any more words he knocked him down again and gave him a considerable pelting. Bryant holloed again, and after they had taken him off, he straightened up and walked off about ten steps distant, turned around, and remarked, "I have told a lie, I am not whipped; but I am not going to say it within reach of that old man any more." On the same day some men knocked him down, taking a common clapboard, hit him three licks while he was running on all fours, then got a piece of chalk and wrote on it, "Dow's board," and nailed it up on the corner of the square. The drinking class for years used all manner of language and obscenity in the streets, and even in the hearing of the court. There was a man by the name of Neeley who became a candidate for circuit judge, and one of the main reasons he urged for his election was that, if elected, he would punish all offenders of the public peace, and force all persons to respect the court, and he would discharge the duties with some dignity and respect for himself and the people. Shortly after he was elected and during his first court, a man by the name of Smith, who lived just north of Salem on the South Fork, and who had worked for his election, came into the court room after the court was in session, walked around to the judge, took him by the hand and remarked, "Judge, I want to congratulate you on your success, and I hope things will change." The judge turned to the clerk and remarked, "Mr. Clerk, assess a fine of five dollars against Mr. Smith." Smith soon retired from the court room and declared that Neeley was a tyrant, and that if he had his vote back he would not support him. In the afternoon the judge ordered the sheriff to bring Mr. Smith into the court room and said to him, "Mr. Smith, you were a warm friend of mine in my canvass, worked for my election, and no doubt contributed much to my success. Now I don't want to disappoint you in any promises that I made during the canvass, but after court is convened and the judge on the bench, it is contempt in any gentleman to come up and take him by the hand and congratulate him on his success; and now I hope that you, with all others of my friends, and those who are not, will support and protect me in enforcing the dignity of the court." Mr. Smith at once became pacified, and said that the judge was right. We remember another instance that occurred during the same court. There was a young lawyer, who came into court, wearing a very fine pair of boots, and, standing on his feet, he would occasionally raise onto his toes, and you could hear his boots creak all over the court room. The judge turned to him and remarked, "Mr., what did those boots cost you?" The lawyer quickly replied, "Ten dollars, sir." The judge remarked to him, "I think you got the boots too cheap. I think they ought to be worth twenty dollars. Mr. Clerk, assess a fine of ten dollars against this man." On the next day a man by the name of Cage Hogan, a man who was widely known, in company with others, got on the public square, near the saloon, and began to curse and swear, and use all manner of obscenity. The judge ordered the sheriff to go down and see who was making the disturbance. The sheriff went out to the place and stated to the crowd that the judge had ordered him to see who was creating that disturbance, and to arrest the party. Hogan remarked, with an oath, "You go back and tell the old judge that it is Cage Hogan, and that I suppose he has heard of me before, and I don't allow sheriffs to arrest me until I get ready." The sheriff came back and reported to the court, and the judge made an order for him to proceed at once and arrest Mr. Hogan and all others that he might find acting in a boisterous manner, and if necessary to take the power of the county, and if he didn't immediately bring him into the court room he would assess a fine against him of $100. The sheriff returned and informed Mr. Hogan of what the court had said, and that he would be bound to arrest him and take him by force if he didn't go without it. Hogan remarked that if it would be any pleasure and consolation to the old tyrant he was the man who could go into the court room. When he came into the court room, the sheriff said, "Here is Mr. Hogan." Mr. Hogan remarked, with an oath, "I am here, judge, and I would like to know what you want." The judge replied that there were some parties creating a disturbance in the hearing of the court and that he had ordered them arrested and brought in. "Do you know who the parties are?" Hogan, with an oath, replied, "I am the man; and, judge, I want you to understand that I am a horse, and if you hain't become acquainted with old Cage Hogan, you will." The judge remarked to him that they had a stable and that was the place for horses, and that he would assess a fine of $50 against him, and ordered the sheriff to take him to jail until it was paid. Hogan, remarking, "I always carry the money to pay my way, and you need not put yourself to any trouble to have the sheriff carry me to jail," pulled out his pocket book, took out $50, and said, with an oath, "Here is the money, and I want you to understand that I am no jail bird, and you can't stick me in your old jail." The judge then said, "Mr. Hogan seems to have plenty of money; Mr. Clerk assess another $50 fine against him." At that Hogan appeared to hesitate and reflect, and, pulling out a quart bottle of whiskey from his pocket, started to approach the judge, who was on the bench, saying with an oath, "Here, judge, let's drink together and be friends and stop this foolishness." The judge turned to the clerk and said: "Mr. Clerk, assess another fine of $50 against him," and ordered the sheriff to take him forthwith to jail and keep him there until further orders, for he considered him an unlawful horse, and he did not think it safe for society for him to run at large. The sheriff, with a considerable posse, carried him to the jail, and with considerable trouble put him in and shut him up. He remained in jail two days, and at the evening session of the second day the sheriff came into court and said that Mr. Hogan was very desirous of seeing the court. The court then ordered him brought in. On his being brought in, the court asked him if he still thought he was a horse. Hogan replied, "No, sir; I am not anything now but Cage Hogan." The judge said: "As you have now arrived at the conclusion that you are human and not animal, are you willing to respect the laws of your land and the dignity of this court?" Hogan replied: "I am, judge, with all my heart." The judge then said to him, "What about that money of yours; are you able to pay the $150 fine?" Hogan said, "No, judge, I don't feel like I could pay $150 this evening; I don't feel as rich and as brave as I did when you first brought me into court, and I want you to be as lenient with me as possible." The court said, "Mr. Hogan, if you will promise me that you will neither disturb the dignity of this court nor incite others to do so, I will remit all of your fine except $50." Mr. Hogan then and there paid the $50 fine and was released. From that time up to the end of his term there never was any disturbance of any nature in the hearing of the court, and if you went into the court room everything was so quiet that you could almost hear a pin drop. The Tutt and Evert War. My memory is that it was in the year 1846 that an incident occurred in Marion county that I will now relate. It was known as the Tutt and Evert war. They were once fast friends. They met in Yellville, the county seat, and while there one of the Everts purchased a set of silver spoons at the store of one of the Tutts. Afterwards a misunderstanding grew up between them as to the payment for the spoons, which led them into a fight. Afterwards, which was often, when they would meet in Yellville, they would hardly ever get away without some fighting taking place between the parties. There was a large gathering and a public demonstration to take place within a few weeks. The Tutts declared, backed by the Kings, that if the Everts came into town that day they would kill them outright. Both parties came in early in the day, heavily armed. After coming under the influence of intoxicants to some extent, Evert went into the public square and stated what he had heard from the Tutts, and said that if they, the Tutts and Kings, were ready for the conflict, there never was a better time than then, and that they, the Everts, were fully ready. Both parties, in short range, opened fire. One of the Kings shot Simm Evert during the fight, supposed to be through the heart. One of the Kings, just previous to the shooting of Evert, had been shot through the hips and so disabled that he could not stand upon his feet. After Simm Evert had received the wound, he turned around, and, within a few steps of the wounded King, picked up a large stone, raised it in both hands, and, stepping up to King, came down on King's head with the stone with all the force possible, completely crushing King's head. Then, turning around and walking about three steps, he remarked, "I am a dead man," and fell to the ground and expired within a few minutes. When the smoke cleared away and the fighting ceased, an examination showed that there were eight or ten left dead on the ground. The stoutest men afterwards went to the stone, but there wasn't one of them that could raise it from the ground. The surviving Kings made arrangements and attempted to leave the country. At that time the sheriff of the county was a man by the name of Mooney. A writ was placed in his hands and he arrested them. Shortly after the arrest, the Everts and their friends came upon the sheriff and his posse and demanded the prisoners. The sheriff gave them up, and they were all shot. The sheriff then appealed to the governor for aid; he sent the militia, who aided the sheriff in the arrest of the Everts, a man by the name of Stratton, and some others of their friends. The governor ordered them to be taken to Lawrence county and placed in the Lawrence county jail at Smithville, the county seat of that county. I saw the militia in charge of the prisoners pass my father's house on their way to Smithville. In about ten days after they were put in prison, late one evening, strange men commenced dropping into the town, who were unknown to the citizens, until they reached to about the number of sixty-five. Somewhere near midnight they paraded the streets, and the jail being a log jail, they prepared levers and pried it up and let the prisoners all out, and they all left together, Evert, Stratton, and their friends proceeding directly to Texas. After their families had reached them and everything had quieted down, they sent in and notified Hamp Tutt, whom they charged with being the inciter and leader in bringing on the original trouble, that if he would "hull out" and leave the state they would not kill him. Tutt was a man of considerable wealth and declared he would not leave the state. He at once hired a young doctor, who claimed to be a very brave man, to act as his body guard, and kept himself very close to the town for about the space of two years. One day, however, he declared that he was going to take a ride out on the main public road for his health. He, in company with the young doctor, then rode out about one mile. On returning, not more than a quarter of a mile from the town, after they had passed the place where they were concealed, they, (the Everts) discharged a volley. Two balls entered the back of Tutt, and his horse made but a few leaps when he fell to the ground. The young doctor ran for dear life, reached the town, and gave the alarm. Parties immediately went out to the place, but found that Tutt was dead. On examining the place where the parties had lain in ambush, they found that they had lain there for months watching for the opportunity. So ended the Tutt and Evert war. Indians Chase a Sheriff Ten Miles. Now the author will relate another incident that occurred in Marion county, Arkansas, in the early settling of this country. There was a large relation of the Coker family who lived in that county. One of the Cokers raised two families, one by a white woman and the other by an Indian woman. The Indian family, after they had grown up and become men, resided a part of the time in the Nation, where the mother lived, and a part of the time they remained in Marion county where their father and other relatives lived. They were very dangerous men when drinking, and the whole country feared them. They had been in different troubles, and had killed three or four men, and if the authorities attempted to arrest them, they defied them, and would go to the Nation and remain awhile. There was a deputy sheriff in the county by the name of Stinnett, who claimed to be very brave, who said he would arrest them if he found their whereabouts. The Cokers learned what Stinnett had said, and that the warrant for their arrest was in his possession, so they got some good tow strings and vowed that whenever they met him they would arrest him and take him to Yellville and put him in jail. A short time afterwards they met him in the public road. As soon as Stinnett recognized them, and having heard of the threats they had made, he wheeled his horse and put spurs to him. They drew their revolvers and put spurs to their horses in pursuit, commanding him to halt. But Stinnett spurred his horse the harder. They pursued him a distance of about ten miles; but Stinnett's horse proved to be the best, and he made his escape. They again returned to the Nation. The good people, generally, of the county were terrorized and afraid to raise their voices against them, and it became a question as to whether they had a man in the county who had the courage to attempt their arrest. They made it a question in the next election, to elect a man that would make the arrest, if such a man could be found in the county. There was a man living in the county by the name of Brown, who was a cousin of the Cokers, and he told the people that if they would elect him, he would arrest them or they would kill him. He was elected by a large majority, and, after he had qualified, took charge of the office. The first time the Cokers came into the settlement, he summoned two men, thought to be brave, who pledged themselves that if it became necessary they would die for him. He then went to the house of one of the Coker family where the Cokers were staying, and on his arrival found the two Coker brothers sitting in chairs in the yard. He was within some thirty feet of them before they saw him. Their guns were sitting near them, and they seized them; but before they could present them Brown had his revolver cocked and leveled at one of their heads, and told him not to attempt to raise his gun or he would kill him. Coker turned his back to him with his gun on his shoulder, secretly cocked it, and leveled it upon Brown as near as possible without taking it from his shoulder and fired, missing his aim. About the same time Brown discharged his revolver at Coker and made a slight scalp wound. The other Coker threw his gun upon Brown and fired, killing him instantly. The two men who were acting as a posse for the sheriff turned and fled, leaving Brown lying dead on the ground. After the shooting the Cokers fled to the Nation and remained there. The author will now relate another incident that occurred in the same county. For years the Cokers and Hogans had been intimate friends, and drank, gambled, and horseraced together a great deal. There came up a trouble between Coker and one of his brothers-in-law, and one evening Coker, in company with Hogan, went to the house of this brother-in-law. Both had been drinking. Coker swore that he would ride onto the porch of his brother-in-law, and made the attempt. His brother-in-law caught the horse by the bridle and warned him not to ride onto porch, and that if he did he would kill him. Coker drew his revolver, spurred his horse, but as he entered the porch his brother-in-law shot him dead. Coker being a cousin of the Indian Cokers, they charged Hogan with inducing him, while drinking, to go to his brother-in-law's house, so as to give him a chance to kill him, and that Hogan's life should pay the penalty. Shortly afterwards Hogan was traveling on an old trail that led along the bluff of White river. The river here made a bend in horseshoe shape, following the bluff all around. The Cokers learned that Hogan was going to pass through this gap, and they lay in wait for him, cutting off all avenues of escape possible so he would be forced into the horseshoe for his escape. When he came in sight they raised the Indian war-whoop, and drew their revolvers. Hogan looked around and saw that his pursuers were in about a hundred yards of him. He saw his predicament, as for a quarter of a mile he confronted the bluff, and that there was only one avenue of escape. He went to the edge of the precipice and looked over. There, under the bluff, lay the deep, blue waters of White river, 150 feet below. Again he turned his eyes toward his pursuers. He knew it meant death if they caught him; so he made the fearful leap over the bluff, striking the water where it was about twenty-five feet deep. Hogan was a wicked man and cursed a great deal. He swore it didn't take him long to reach the water, but that he thought considerable time intervened from the time he struck the water until he reached the top again. He swam to the bank which was but a few feet distant. His pursuers came to the precipice, looked over, and said that they had made Hogan do something they had intended to do, and that was, to take his own life, as they supposed no human being could make the leap and live. After cutting his saddle and bridle to pieces, they turned his horse loose, and reported that Hogan was killed. Hogan traveled around under the bluff for about two miles, made his way home, wound up his business, sold his farm, and moved into Fulton county, Arkansas, which ended the trouble between them. The author will relate another incident that occurred in Marion county, Arkansas. There was a widow residing in that county, who was left with a family of children, among them a boy about twelve years of age. Her horse ran away, and she sent her boy in pursuit of it. After he had found it and was returning home, leading the horse, Hogan and one of his friends met him in the road. They had both been drinking, and seeing the boy, concluded to have some fun out of him. Hogan, with an oath, said, "What are you doing with my horse?" The boy replied, "It is not your horse, it is mother's horse." Hogan sprang off his horse, and, thinking to scare the boy and have some fun with him, said: "Here, you know it's my horse; give him up." The boy pulled a barlow knife out of his pocket, and, opening it, said, "You attempt to come near me, and I will stick this knife into you." Hogan stepped up to him and said, "You little rascal, would you attempt to cut me with a knife?" The boy, without any further words, made a stroke at him with the knife, and the blade entered his body near the left breast. Hogan declared afterward that he jumped about ten feet high. He turned to his friend and remarked: "I believe our fun with the little bugger has caused my death, or at least a serious wound." He went to a physician, had the wound probed, and found the knife had penetrated a rib and reached the inside. The physician informed him that had it passed between the ribs it would have killed him instantly. Hogan remarked to the boy, after he stabbed him, "My son, you are made out of the right kind of stuff. I had no intention of hurting you or taking your mother's horse from you, I merely wanted to have some fun; but I see I have struck the wrong boy this time. Go on and take your horse to your mother." The author will refer to another incident that occurred in Howell county, Missouri. In the year 1860 there was a man who resided in West Plains by the name of Jack McDaniel, who was a blacksmith by trade. This same Hogan came to town, soon became under the influence of whiskey, went down to McDaniel's shop with a horse, and ordered him to shoe him. McDaniel had two other horses in the shop at the time to be shod, and said to Hogan that as soon as he had shod those two horses, he would shoe his. Hogan said, "I am in a hurry, and I want you to shoe mine now." McDaniel told him that he could not shoe his horse until he had shod the other two horses. Hogan said, "If you don't shoe him at once, I will whip you." McDaniel then pulled a barlow knife out of his pocket, and, opening it, said: "Yes; and if you fool with me, I will cut your throat from ear to ear." At this remark, Hogan moved right up to him and said, "Just smell of my neck." McDaniel struck at him with the knife, and the blade entered just under the ear, cutting to the bone all the way around into the mouth. Hogan went to a physician in West Plains and had the wound dressed. He then went to a glass, looked in, and said that he had lived a long time, been in many tight places, but he had never had such a mouth as he had now, and remarked, "My mouth looks as if it was spread from ear to ear." The people then generally gave their time to growing stock, especially horses and cattle, as hogs and sheep had to be kept close around the farms and penned of a night, especially the pigs, on account of wolves and other wild animals. I have known the wolves to kill 2 and 3 year old cattle. Farmers fed their corn chiefly to cattle, horses and mules. They always commanded fair prices. Cattle, at the age of four years and upwards were driven to Jacksonport, Arkansas and from there shipped to New Orleans. Horses and mules were driven to Louisiana, Mississippi and some to the Southern part of Arkansas and there put upon the market. Prices generally ranging from $75 to $150. All of our groceries were purchased in New Orleans, shipped to Jacksonport, from there they were conveyed by wagons. Our dry goods were mostly purchased at Lynn Creek, Missouri and brought through by wagon, but in the early settling of the country they hauled dry goods all the way from St. Louis except what were brought into the country by peddlers. The peddlers would go to St. Louis on horse back with one and sometimes two led horses, buy the goods, pack them, place them on their horses and peddle all the way from St. Louis and still further west and take in exchange all kinds of fur skins. I have seen peddlers with one horse still loaded with goods and the other covered with fur skins, and I have seen them again after they had disposed of all their goods with all three horses completely covered with fur skins and sometimes so heavily loaded that the peddler would either be walking and leading or driving. Money was scarce but the people spent very little money, were not in debt and lived much better and easier than they do now. Their counties were out debt and the county warrants were always at par. When my father first located here, there were about four or five settlers in all of the territory that now belongs to Howell County; there were but three men that resided upon what is known as the middle bayou, William McCarty and his sons, Green and Willis. In about three years after my father settled here, McCarties sold out and located on the bayou above Bakersfield. In 1844 there was a man by the name of Thomas Hall who resided about 10 miles southwest of West Plains, a man by the name of Cyrus Newberry resided about 10 miles from where West Plains now is, and a man by the name of Braudwaters resided near where Moody is now located. There was not a settlement in all the territory that now includes Howell valley. There had been a settlement, by a man who was a hunter, made at what is now termed the town spring at West Plains who had cleared five or six acres, but had left it. All the valleys in Howell county were considered worthless on account of there being no water. When the country commenced settling, there was no attention paid to congressional lines. As they settled on the streams, they would make conditional lines--blaze across the bottom until they would strike the table-lands; and the next men who might come in and settle would blaze his conditional line across, and for years there was but little land entered. Men only sold their improvements, and there was a fixed law, or custom, that prevailed among them--that no man should enter the land and take another man's improvements without paying him for them. A few such instances occurred to my knowledge. The man was at once waited upon, and informed of the rules and customs of the country; and besides the rules and customs, it was not right nor honest to take a man's labor without paying him for it; and that it was the intention and purpose of the people to see that justice was done every man; and he was therefore notified to proceed to the late owner of the improvements and pay him the value of the improvements; and if they couldn't agree upon the value, submit it to two disinterested neighbors; and if they couldn't agree let the third man be brought in, which finding would be final. In every instance if the man who had made the entry failed to comply with the terms, he was at once notified that his absence from the settlement and a speedy departure from the country would be satisfactory to the settlement; and that if he failed to comply, he would have to submit to the punishments that would be inflicted upon him. If the improvements, which were always reasonable, were paid for, the party would move off, blaze out another claim, and go to work to improve it; but if he didn't receive pay for his improvements, he remained on the land and the other fellow's whereabouts would soon be unknown; and when the land was sold for taxes, the man owning the improvements would buy it in by paying the amount of taxes and costs without an opposing bid. When my father first located in this country, a large portion of the territory had never been sectionized. What was known as the old survey, including range seven and a part of range eight (now in this county) formed a part of the old survey. Congress passed a law graduating the price of land according to the length of time it had been upon the market. The government price was $1.25 per acre. The first reduction was twenty-five cents upon the acre; then they reduced the purchase price every few years until all the land included in the old survey went down to a bit an acre. The graduation law allowed each man to take up 320 acres by making actual settlement and cultivating it. But the land speculators took advantage of the law and hired men to go upon the land and make a few brush-heaps, and in the name of some man apply for the entry, until all of the graduated lands were taken up, and there was not a bona fide settler who had complied with the law in one out of every hundred. Most of the land in Howell, Gunters, Peace, and Hutton valleys, and the land where West Plains is now situated, were entered at a bit per acre. After the entries, the valley lands commenced settling rapidly. When the time came to procure a patent to the land, speculators went to Washington and engineered a bill through Congress to allow the parties to prove up without making proof of actual settlement, and in that way fraudulently obtained patents to two-thirds of all the land above referred to. The next thing, the speculators went East, sold their lands (or mortgaged them) by representing that all of the table lands were bottom lands and covered with walnut, hackberry, box elder, and other bottom growths. They let the mortgages all be foreclosed. The merchants, who procured title to the lands, sent out agents to examine the land, who went back and reported that the lands were valueless and were not worth the taxes and refused to pay taxes on them. With some few exceptions the lands were offered time and again for taxes, would not sell for the amount of the taxes and thousands of acres remained in that condition until a short time before the building of the Kansas City & Memphis railroad. All of the table lands were looked upon by the people as being entirely worthless and fit for nothing but range. My father in the year 1849 sold out and removed from Bennett's river, Fulton county, to the North Fork of White river, in Fulton County but two miles from the State line, dividing Missouri and Arkansas. In the year 1852 father took the winter fever, died and was buried in the cemetery, three miles above the State line, known as the Teverbauch cemetery. In the year 1854 my mother and one brother died with the bloody flux, leaving three sons of the family, William, the oldest one living, F. M. and James I. Monks. The author was married on the 10th day of April 1853 to Martha A. Rice, a daughter of Thomas and Nancy Rice. He continued to reside upon the old homestead and was a farmer by occupation. The country commenced settling up rapidly. All the land on the streams was settled, with very few exceptions, with a frugal and intelligent class of people, mostly from the middle states. In the year 1856 Howell county was created by taking a part of the territory of Ozark and a part of the territory of Oregon, to-wit: Ranges 7 and 8 and a small part of 9 were taken from Oregon county and the remainder of 9 and 10 was taken from Ozark county. Andrew V. Taber, ---- Johnson (and the name of the other commissioner we have forgotten at the present time) proceeded to locate the county seat and purchased 40 acres near the West Plains spring and laid it out into lots, got the county seat near the center, as a sufficient amount of water was necessary, taking into consideration the town spring and then what was known as the Bingiman spring. The lots sold rapidly and the town grew beyond any expectation and the country was improving and settling up with the town. In 1858 the author sold out on the North Fork of White river and moved into Howell county and located 11 miles southwest of West Plains upon sections 2 and 11, range 9, was appointed constable of Benton township and in the year 1860 was elected constable of Benton township, commenced reading law in the year 1858. In the year 1860 West Plains was said to be the best, neatest, prettiest town in South Missouri and contained about 200 inhabitants; had a neat frame court house in the center of the square, a first-class hewed log jail, had four first-class stores (for the country at that time) which kept continually on hand a general assortment of merchandise, had two saloons, tan yard and the county was out of debt, with money in the treasury; a county warrant then was good for its face value in gold, and the country was prosperous in every respect. The people generally were fast friends and their chief interest was to develop the resources of the country and aid and help each other. How a Mob Was Prevented In 1860, a man resided about three miles below West Plains by the name of Collins Coffey on the farm recently owned by Thomas Bolin and some men by the name of Griffiths and Boles--(some of them resided in West Plains and some of them resided in Thomasville, Oregon county) and they and Coffey had a falling out with each other and the enmity between them became very great. So the Griffiths, who lived at West Plains went down to Thomasville and they and the Boles with a few other friends declared that they would come up to Coffey's and mob him. They went to work and made for themselves a uniform, procured a bugle, fife and snare drum, procured a hack, made them a place for a candle and aimed to come up in the night. Coffey owned considerable stock among which was a bull about four years old. The range then was luxuriant and there was a pond near the side of the road that led from Thomasville and West Plains and the bull with other cattle had lain down on the edge of the road about one mile from Coffey's residence. They armed themselves, procured their musicians, got into their hack, drawn by two horses and started off to the scene of action with a bright light, with a flag flying and the music playing. When they reached the place near where the male was laying, he rose to his feet, squared himself and fetched a keen bellow as though (although he was animal) he might have some information as to their mission. They paid no attention to the action of the bull and on their driving within about ten feet of him he made a desperate lunge forward; they supposed that he intended to gore the horses, but missed his aim, struck the hack near the coupling, broke the coupling pole and turned head over heels, and fell right between the horses. The horses became frightened, made a desperate lunge to extricate themselves, and the bull at the same time was scuffling to extricate himself. Both horses fell, the bull and horses were all piled into a heap, grunting and scuffling. The occupants of the hack were all piled out in a heap, almost in an instant, and before they could extricate themselves and get onto their feet the bull had gotten up and was moving in the direction of his master's house bellowing every step as if to say, "I dare you to come any further." As soon as the posse got to their feet, having prepared, before they started, with plenty of whiskey, and being pretty well filled at the time of the occurrence, Boles got to his feet, drew his pistol, cocked it and swore he could whip any bull he ever saw, especially a one horned Coffey bull. The hack was almost demolished and the occupants considerably bruised, both horses crippled, and after consultation, they concluded that as the Coffey bull had proved so successful they had better abandon their trip and retreat "in good order" to Thomasville, leaving their horses hitched by the roadside and the shattered hack piled up at one side of the road. The next morning they sent out a team and brought the horses and hack back to Thomasville, and they were wiser and perhaps better men, as they never again attempted to mob Coffey. The strange feature about this matter is that the bull was never known to be cross before this occasion, when his master was to be mobbed. The society of the country had increased with the population, and school houses and churches were erected all over the country, nice farms were opened up, the dwellings changed from round log to hewed log and frame, the people all manifested a great deal of interest in schools and churches and the general development of the country. Religion and Politics. The prominent religious denominations from 1849 to 1860 consisted chiefly of Methodists, Baptists and the Christian order; but all appeared to recognize each other as Christians and would very often work together, as they had in the early pioneer days. Everything had the appearance of pointing to the day when Howell county would become the garden spot of South Missouri. Politically, the country was largely Democratic. In political campaigns the Whig and Democratic candidates would canvass the country together, and while on the stump speaking they would assail each other's platforms in most bitter terms. After the speaking was over they would go to the same hotel or boarding place and laugh and talk together as though they belonged to the same political party, and after the election was over the successful party would be recognized by the people as the officers of the whole people. You would see no partisan line drawn by the different courts between political parties, but the appointments of all local officers were made according to the qualifications of the man and not as to what party he belonged. The author, having been born and raised by Democratic parents, was a Democrat and acted with the Democratic party, his first vote for president having been cast for James Buchanan. In 1860 a great political question of the nation began to be agitated and a very bitter feeling was manifested from the stump between the Republican and Democratic parties. After the Democratic party divided and the bolters nominated Breckenridge for president, the author took part in the canvas and was a strong advocate of Stephen A. Douglas, the regular nominee of the Democratic party, and at the election cast his vote for Stephen A. Douglas for president. MISSOURI AND THE CIVIL WAR. Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. Soon after the election they began to discuss the question of seceding from the Government. The author again took the field in opposition to secession, and delivered a number of speeches. In a short time the people that had been the closest of friends and trusted a neighbor with the most sacred thing they possessed became bitter enemies and arrayed themselves against one another and as the discussion of the great question of war continued to grow more bitter the people appeared to align themselves for and against secession. The people soon grew so bitter that they often talked of fighting each other. Before the firing on Ft. Sumpter and after several of the states had actually seceded the Union sentiment prevailed so strongly in the state of Missouri that Clabourn Jackson, the then acting Governor, was compelled to order an election in the state of Missouri to settle the matter by a vote, of the people as to whether Missouri should secede or remain in the Union. The author then took the stump and advocated that the state remain in the Union and manifest her loyalty to the preservation of the Union. In this campaign the feeling of the war grew more bitter. The result, however, of the election was that the state remained in the Union. In the mean time, Ft. Sumpter had been fired upon by the rebels. Clabe Jackson, the Governor, appeared to be determined upon the state seceding either by fair or foul means. Without regarding a majority vote of the people of the state, Clabe Jackson, the then acting Governor, issued his proclamation convening the Legislature in extra session for the purpose of passing ordinances of secession. At that time Gen. Frost was in the command of the militia and some state troops stationed in St. Louis Barracks but he was in heart and sympathy a rebel. Everything appeared to have been greased and prepared for the occasion. As the Governor had the whole machinery of the state completely under his control he believed that it would be an easy matter for the legislature to pass ordinances of secession and carry the state out of the Union, but the Government authorities at Washington learned of the critical condition and deep laid scheme of the Governor to carry the state out of the Union and at once ordered Capt. Lyons of the Regular Army, (who afterward became General of the volunteer forces and fought the battle at Wilson Creek, Missouri) to come to St. Louis; he, being a captain in the Regular Army, outranked Gen. Frost, took possession of the troops, arms and amunitions, etc., reorganized and rapidly increased the army by volunteers. On information reaching Gen. Lyons that the legislature had been convened in extra session he at once took his available troops and left St. Louis with the intention of surrounding the Capitol and taking the members of both houses, the Governor, with all his state officers, prisoners; when the Governor learned that the Government troops were en route for Jefferson City and their purpose, he ordered the bridge to be burned across the Gasconade river near its mouth, on what was then known as the North Pacific R. R. This delayed the troops for several hours. On their approach to Jefferson City the Governor and state officers and the members of both houses of the legislature and all the troops that had been ordered to the Capital by the Governor retreated to Boonville, Missouri. I heard our representative in a speech delivered a short time afterwards, say they came so near getting him while he was getting out of Jefferson City that he lost his umbrella. Lyons pursued them and at Boonville they made a stand and on Lyon's arrival with his troops he attacked them and they fought for a short time. They again retreated, went into the extreme west part of the state to a place known as Lone Jack. There they made a stand again, Lyons still pursuing. He again attacked then at Lone Jack and after a short fight they retreated again into the State of Arkansas, and there Governor Jackson convened the legislature and they passed ordinances of secession declaring the State of Missouri out of the Union and that she was attached to the compact forming the Confederate States. General Lyon returned to St. Louis, increasing his force considerably, several regiments being attached to his command from other states. The government ordered him to prepare his troops and move west to Springfield. The terminus of the South Missouri Pacific R. R., at that time was at Rolla, Missouri. While Lyon was massing his troops and preparing to march to Springfield the most intense excitement prevailed in the entire State of Missouri. A Big Confederate Meeting at West Plains. The Confederate authorities at once commenced recruiting for the Confederate service and the Confederate recruiting officers published a public meeting at West Plains about the first or tenth of July and while the Confederate authorities were moving, the union or loyal element of the country was not idle, but was watching every move, openly and secretly preparing for the conflict. A few days before the meeting was to be held at West Plains the Confederates sent to the pinery and procured a long pine pole, hoisted it at the corner of Durham's store at the northwest corner of the public square and swung to the breeze the stars and bars. At the same time, or near the same time, the Union men sent to the pinery and procured a pole. They hoisted it on the northeast corner of East Main street by the corner of McGinty's store where the S. J. Langston Mercantile Co., building now stands and swung to the breeze the stars and stripes. It was freely published throughout the county by the Rebels that if any Union man attempted to open his mouth on that day he would be shot as full of holes as a sifter bottom. There was a beautiful grove then growing just east of the branch on East Main street running from the town spring. Large preparations were made by the Rebels for the occasion. It was published that there would be leading Confederates from all over the state and different other states to speak on that day and one of the main features of the day would be recruiting for Confederate service. A big speaker's stand was erected with hundreds of seats. When the day arrived the town was crowded with people and the friends of both parties were armed and appeared to be ready for the conflict. The stars and bars attracted a great deal of attention, being the first flag that had ever been seen by the people that antagonized the stars and stripes and threatened to destroy the United States Government. There was soon a number of determined men gathered under each flag. A number of their prominent speakers were on hand, among them Judge Price, of Springfield, known as "Wild Bill" Price. They readily took in the situation and saw that a conflict was imminent, and as they were not ready for it they met together in council and agreed that their men should not bring on the conflict on that day. Quite a number of the parties prepared themselves at the speaker's stand. When different speakers were introduced to address the people, many of the men would sit, either with their guns in their hands or with their guns near to them, and the most fiery and extreme speeches were made that I ever heard. The author well remembers the speech of Judge William Price. He told them that the lopeared Dutch had reached Rolla, Missouri, the terminus of the railroad, and that they were complete heathens; that Abraham Lincoln had given the state of Missouri to them, if they would send enough lopeared Dutch to conquer the state, and that to his knowledge they had gone out into the country and taken men's wives and daughters and brought them into the camps, and that he saw them, in the presence of the mothers, run bayonets through their infant children and hoist them up and carry them around on their bayonets; that Abraham Lincoln had offered a reward for all of the preachers that were in favor of the South. He bursted into tears and asked the question, "I want to know who the man is, and the color of his hair, that won't enlist in the interest of his home, his wife, his children and everything that is sacred and good, to drive out lopeared Dutch, a certain class of Hessians, from our land." He urged them to come forward and place their names upon the rolls. Nearly all the preachers present placed their names on the recruiting list first. The excitement grew still more bitter. In the afternoon they began to threaten openly that the stars and stripes should be hauled down; that no flag should be allowed to float in West Plains that countenances and tolerates heathen in our land. The Union men declared that the stars and stripes should not be lowered unless it was done over their dead bodies. Quite a number of Union men had assembled under the flag. The Union men were led by a man named Captain Lyle. He had been warned and cautioned by his friends not to open his mouth, for the reason that he would be shot full of holes. Late in the evening there was a lull in the speaking. The author walked up into the speaker's stand, called the attention of the people, saw a number of rifles grasped in their hands, and announced to them that they had been sitting all day listening to Confederate speeches, but on the next Saturday, if they would meet him at Black's store, about ten miles west of West Plains, they could hear Union speeches and the constitution of the United States would be read; thanked the crowd and stepped down. Quite a number of guns were raised in the hands of parties and a shower of groans and hisses, and remarks openly from a number that "We ought to shoot his black heart out now." It appeared for a while that it would be impossible to evade a conflict of arms. A number of orders being sent to the Union men to draw down their flag or they would fire on it and the men who supported it, an answer was returned that the rebels were requested to draw down their flag as it was a stranger in the land and unless they lowered their flag the stars and stripes wouldn't be lowered an inch, unless it was done over their dead bodies. At last a proposition came that they would agree for the sake of averting bloodshed to commence lowering both flags at the same time which proposition was accepted; so wound up that day's proceedings. On the Saturday following, the author, with several other Union speakers, met at Black's store where there were several rebel captains and lieutenants. The author made a speech in favor of remaining in the Union and stated that the attempt to secede by some of the states would eventually result in sad disaster, besides bringing untold suffering upon the people. Several other Union speeches were made after which the author read the constitution of the United States and urged that all lovers of republican form of government would comply with the demand of the supreme law of the land and, if necessary, sacrifice property and life in defence of the same; so ended that day's proceedings. McBride Establishes Military Law. As the organization of the confederates proceeded they still grew more bitter against the Union men and declared, by meeting and passing resolutions, that every Union man should show his colors in favor of the South or be hung as high as Hamen. In the meantime the Union men had secretly organized and met together, to take into consideration as to the time when they should act. The prevailing sentiment was, that they should remain dormant and let the rebels shed the first blood, while the minority thought the time had come for action, and that they ought to act before the rebels crippled them and tied them up in such a manner that, when the time did come, they would be entirely helpless and at their mercy. McBride, who had been elected judge of the 18th Judicial circuit, which included Howell county, whose home was in Texas county, was made Brigadier General of the Confederate forces and commenced organizing and massing his troops. On the arrival of the federal troops at Rolla, Missouri, he became fearful that they would attack him, rout him and destroy his forces, so he concluded to march south to West Plains and make his headquarters at that place until he could organize his forces and prepare for marching west, where he intended to join the forces of Gen. Sterling Price and Gen. McCullough who then were massing their forces to march on Springfield, Missouri, to attack the federal forces who were then stationed at Springfield under the command of Gen. Lyon and Gen. Seigle. On his arrival at West Plains he opened up headquarters, issued his proclamation that all Union men or any men that were unfriendly to the Confederate cause should come in and take the oath and the civil law was declared to be suspended and the military law completely in force. Then was when the dark day and trouble began to hang over the Union people. As soon as it was known that the civil law was suspended little bunches of rebels organized all over the country and also in the state of Arkansas. In a short time after Gen. McBride's arrival in West Plains a man who was a door neighbor to the author came into his field where he was cutting wheat, asked him if he had seen the order of McBride. My answer was "No." He remarked, "Well, he has made a general order, requiring all Union men, especially those who have been open and active in behalf of the Union, to come in and take the oath, and unless they do they are going to hang them as high as Hamen." The author replied to him that he was a Union man and he knew it; he had been open and outspoken for the Union and had voted for McBride when he was elected Judge, but now he thought he was acting outside of the law and humanity. I had neither violated the law of my land nor harmed any man and I didn't consider that McBride had any right to order me to take an oath to take up arms against my country or support those who had taken up arms. If this did become a general war, I thought they were making a blunder, for the Government, or the lopeared Dutch, as they termed them, would have the advantage in the way of transporting forage and commissaries and amunitions of war, while the Confederates would have to rely mostly for their resources upon the county; that I was a peace officer and while I was a strong Union man wasn't taking up arms and I thought that those who wanted to fight, if there had to be a fight, should go out into the open fields, and not force the war onto non-combatants, and that the country would suffer enough at best. Now you know I am a Union man, and I know that you are in favor of the Confederate cause, and I think this is the course that ought to be pursued at the present time. The Confederates are in control of the country, and they will come around and say they must have forage for the support of the army, and ask you if you know of any Union men; you could tell them, "My neighbor right here is a Union man, but he is not disposed to take up arms and go into the fight; take as little from him as you can possibly do with, and as little from myself; in return, if this war goes on, and the Federal authorities extend their jurisdiction, they would be out hunting rebels for the purpose of getting forage and commissaries, and I could say to them that my neighbor here is a rebel but take just as little as possible from him, and as little as possible from me, as we are going to have a hard time to get through the war any way. But if you pursue the policy you say has been adopted by the Confederates, you will force all non-combatants into arms or drive them from the country and completely depopulate it." He burst into a big laugh and remarked, "Your promises are like a broken stick, you will never see the lopeared Dutch in this country." I said to him, "My friend, if this war goes on, before the end of it you will see what you call lopeared Dutch as thick as blackbirds;" and we separated. General Lyons Drives Rebels from Rolla. About June 10, 1851, the rebels were having a big meeting at Rolla, Phelps county, Missouri, for the purpose of recruiting. General Lyons at St. Louis, learned of the meeting, and at once placed quite a force in the cars, well armed and closed them up so they would not be detected and started for Rolla with the intention of capturing the whole outfit. On the day set for the rebel meeting, quite a number of them had assembled and a certain young lawyer was delivering an address, telling them that one southern man could whip five lopeared Dutch and all they wanted was just an opportunity; in the meantime Lyon's forces had reached Dillon, the next station east of Rolla about five miles distant. There the forces were taken from the cars and divided, some marching southwest and the others northwest, making a flank movement for the purpose of surrounding the whole place. While they were marching some person, who was a rebel, went with all the speed possible and informed the meeting that the Dutch were right upon them; that the woods were full of them and to get out of there as quick as possible, if they wanted to save their lives. The lawyer who was addressing them sprang from the speakers stand and holloing at the top of his voice as he went, "Get away from here, the Dutch are upon us." It was said that the lawyer ran so fast that if a glass of water had been sat upon his coat tail it would not have spilled. They scattered to the woods in all directions. The Federal force came in; but their birds had all flown and left the citizens who had remained to tell the sad tale. The rebel forces at once retreated to Salem, Missouri, where they again concentrated their force. The Federal scout, in a few days followed them to Salem, and there again routed them and they retreated directly to West Plains, joining the command of McBride at that place. The rebels, hurriedly, concentrated their forces from all the south and southeastern counties of Missouri and from the northern counties of Arkansas. General McBride made an order to gather all the arms, amunitions, and horses that were fit for the service, as speedily as possible and the report was put in circulation that he had given the county over to the leading rebels, who resided in it, whose action, whatever they did touching the Union men, would be indorsed and carried out by General McBride. The leading rebels of the county at once sent out word that they were going to take all the arms, amunition and available horses from the Union men and that McBride required each and every one of them to report and take the oath at once, and if they failed to comply with said order, speedy action would be taken against them. They would either be arrested, imprisoned or forced into the Confederate army to fight and their leaders would be hung. On the issuing of the said order the wildest excitement prevailed among the Union men. They immediately met for the purpose of consultation as to what their final action would be. There were divers opinions among them; some of them were for acting at once; others (and a majority of them) were in favor of waiting until the rebels shed the first blood. Those who refused to report and take the oath had to place themselves in hiding at once. The rebels made a general move to raid, harass and capture the Union men. Then real danger confronted a man who claimed to be a Union man. The rebels had made a general amnesty, upon the condition that they would join the Confederate army and become loyal to the Confederate States. About two-thirds of the men who had been open and avowed Union men saw the danger that confronted them, and joined the Confederate army and claimed that they would be loyal to its cause. The remainder of the Union men were disarmed at once, except those who kept themselves concealed in the mountains and hills. After they had completely disarmed them and forced many of them to join the Confederate service, had taken most of their horses, cattle and hogs for the use of the army, the leading rebels in the county claimed that they had organized for the purpose of ridding the country of all Union men who had refused to join the Confederate forces; that when McBride moved west he was going to leave the whole matter in their hands, and they intended to string up the Union men to limbs and shoot them, so they would soon be rid of the class of men who were friends of the lopeared Dutch and were nigger lovers. The Testing of Loyal Hearts. Small bunches of rebel troops came in from Arkansas and joined the bands that were raiding the country, and the Union men were hunted like wild beasts. Then set in the darkest day that ever any class of patriots, true to their government, had to confront. The author remembers well when the Union men would meet together, that they took the proposition made by McBride into consideration, and it was discussed pro and con. Some men would say, "While I am a Union man and for the government, all that I have in the world is here in Howell county; my little home, my property and, above all, my wife and children. They have promised us protection provided we will join the rebel army. Had we not better accept the proposition and wait for results?" Others would arise, with tears dripping from their eyes, and remark that this state of affairs is hard indeed. "Can I afford to abandon my wife and children that I love so well and leave them unprotected in the midst of an open state of war, at the mercy of a mad and distracted people, who are thirsting for the loyal blood of the nation, and be alienated from them, perhaps, never more to see them?" Others would arise and remark that "We have seen this danger coming for months and we are satisfied that the worst has not come, and I know that I love my wife, my family, my little children, as I love my own heart; I love to meet them around my fireside and enjoy their sweet company, and I have delighted in laboring to furnish them food and raiment and shelter while they were growing into manhood and womanhood, but I have read and heard read that my highest duty was to God and my second duty was to my country; and the organic law of the nation requires at my hands that whenever it becomes necessary to preserve my government, that I owe to it my life, my honor and the welfare of my family; and the trying ordeal is now at hand and I don't know what the final result will be--if I am forced away from my family, I know they will be left at the mercy of an intolerant and unrelenting enemy, but I now and here lay my life, my family, my property and my future happiness upon the altar of my country, and let come what will, weal or woe, I intend, with all my feeble effort, to defend the stars and stripes, and stand up openly and courageously in defense of and for the preservation of the Union." That proposition prevailed and was unanimously adopted by the Union men. At this time there was no government aid in reach of these loyal hearts, that were controlled by nothing but love of country. Uncle Sam could do nothing for them. They were completely surrounded in an enemy's country, and while they (the men), with what arms they had preserved, could by strategy evade the arrest and slaughter of themselves, their families were completely at the mercy of a mad and howling mob, thirsting for the blood of Union men. While the loyal men in the North were enlisting in the interest of their country, Uncle Sam paid them $13.00 per month, clothed them, and their families were left in the care of friends; they knew nothing about the war, except what they read; but not so with the Union men who were surrounded in an enemy's country. They, without a single word of protection or comfort from the government for themselves or their families, but their love and devotion to their country led them to furnish themselves, to leave their families as best they could, at the mercy of a howling mob, for the defense of their country. Rebels Defeated in Douglas County. The loyal men in Douglas county and the north part of the county of Ozark were in the ascendency. A rebel force organized from the county of Howell, Missouri, and Fulton county, Arkansas, wanting to have some fun hunting Union men, learned that on Bryant's Fork on the north fork of White river in Ozark county there was a bunch of Union men. So they armed and equipped themselves, furnished themselves ropes, and marched to hunt the place these men were said to be. The Union men hearing of their intention hurriedly prepared a temporary barricade around the house, and about sixty of them gathered together with their squirrel rifles in readiness to repel the attack in case it was made. The rebel scout consisted of two hundred and fifty men. Early in the morning reliable information reached the Union men that the rebel forces were well under way and would reach them some time in the afternoon. One of the Union men, who had always borne the reputation of being a brave man and would fight anything, became impatient as the time drew near that they were to be attacked. He had been a great hunter and was considered a first-class shot, and he remarked to the Union men, "I can't wait for the rebels to attack us, I want to get a shot at one so bad with Old Betsy (his gun). I know of a bald knob, about a quarter of a mile from here, where the rebel force is bound to pass. I am going there; place yourselves in waiting, and when you hear 'Old Betsey' belch, you may know there is one dead rebel, and be certain that they are coming." In about an hour after the man referred to had left, the rebel advance came in sight, but they never heard "Old Betsy" belch. They vigorously attacked the Union men inside their fortifications, and after fighting for about an hour, they retreated, leaving one man dead upon the field and one wounded. The Union men received no injury whatever. They became very uneasy in regard to their friend and "Old Betsy," supposing he had fallen into the hands of the enemy and they had used the rope on him. Search was made all along the line of march of the rebels for the missing man, but no information could be learned of his whereabouts. However, in about one week, news came from Douglas county that their friend and "Old Betsy" arrived safely at another rendezvous of Union men in Douglas county, about forty miles distant, and reported that the Union men had had a fight with the rebels, and they were all captured or killed, with the exception of himself, and he had made his escape after the fight. Just before McBride broke camps to march west to join Gen. Price and Gen. McCullough, he made a general order that they arrest and seize every Union man possible, and after he left the country, that the committee who had been organized to take charge of the county, would at once exterminate every Union man who had failed to take the oath or to join the Confederate army, giving them full power as to what disposition they would make of them. Rebels Capture Col. Monks. On the 7th of July, 1861, one of my neighbors came to me and informed me that the time had come that every Union man had to show his colors and unless they reported and took the oath or joined the Confederate army, they would hang as high as Haman. While the Union men were on their guard and watching their movements, once in a while they would slip in home to see how the family was getting along. My family at that time consisted of a wife and four children, three girls and one boy. My wife had never been accustomed to staying alone and I came in home late on the evening of the 7th, thinking that I would leave the next morning before daylight. Sometime after the family had retired, not far from 11 o'clock in the night, I was awakened by a rapping on the door. My wife, suspecting who the parties were, answered them, and demanded to know what was wanted; one of them, who claimed to be an orderly sergeant, remarked that he wanted to know if Monks was at home. She replied that he was not. A man by the name of William Biffle, whom the author had been acquainted with for years, replied, "He is here, I know, for I coursed him into this house late yesterday evening." The author at once arose to his feet and remarked, "I am here, what is wanted?" A man by the name of Garrett Weaver, who claimed to be an orderly sergeant and in charge of the squad, also a neighbor to the author said, "I have been ordered by Gen. McBride to arrest you, bring you in and make you take the oath." I owned at that time a first-class rifle and there was also another rifle gun in the house. I took my gun into my hands and my wife took hold of the other gun. I told them that a general order had gone forth, so I was informed, that they wanted to hang all the leading Union men and "if that is your intention I will die before I surrender." Weaver replied they were not going to hang me, but they were just going to take me to McBride to take the oath and I should be protected. Upon those terms I agreed to surrender, made a light in the house and found that the house was surrounded by a posse of twenty-five rebels. As soon as the light was made, a part of them rushed into the house, took my gun and jerked the one my wife had in her hand out of her possession, almost throwing her to the floor, began a general search of the house for other arms and such things as they said the army needed. As soon as I dressed, they ordered me to move. They didn't even give me time to say good-bye to my wife, nor to imprint a kiss upon the cheeks of my loving children. Closely surrounding me, they marched me about 250 yards, came to their horses, where two more of their posse guarded the horses, they having dismounted, to approach the house on foot so they might not be heard. [Illustration: COL. MONKS ARRESTED AND TAKEN FROM HOME] "Billy, You Ought Not to be So Saucy." When within a few feet of the horses the author was halted. It was just starlight. I noticed a man by the name of Wilburn Baker, a man with whom the author had been acquainted from a boy, go to the horn of one of the saddles, lift therefrom a coiled rope and move toward the author. The author quickly arrived at the conclusion that the time had come to enforce the order of hanging. Baker ordered the author seized by the arms, drew them behind him and securely tied him. The author asked, just as they had completed the tying, "What do you mean? Are you going to cage me?" Baker replied, "Billy, you ought not to be so saucy, for you don't know the danger you are in." I was at once ordered placed on a horse. One of the posse rode up to my side and placed the other end of the rope around his body and the posse moved west. A short time before daylight they arrived at the house of William Nicks, who was a rebel lieutenant. They dismounted and took the author into the house. There appeared to be a general rejoicing among them. Nicks said, "You have got him, have you? We had become uneasy about you, and thought it might have been possible that he had his Union forces around him and that you had met with disaster; but I feel satisfied that we have now captured the leader and the counselor of the Union forces and the remainder will be easily extinguished." Gen. McBride in the meantime, being uneasy for fear the Federal troops would attack him, had removed his forces from West Plains to the south part of Howell county, camping at what was known as the Flag pond. I was closely guarded until daylight. McBride's forces had broken camp at the Flag pond on the morning of July 8th and were marching west with the intention of joining the forces of Gen. Price and Gen. McCullough, who were then moving in the direction of Springfield, Missouri, with the intention of attacking the Federal forces at that place, commanded by Gen. Lyon and Gen. Siegel. Very early on the morning of the 8th the party started in a southwest direction, with the author closely guarded. On coming near the head of Bennett's river, Fulton county, Arkansas, the posse commenced cheering and remarked: "Listen! Do you hear the drums and the fife? That is Gen. McBride's command moving west to kill them lopeared Dutch that you Union men have brought into the state of Missouri. Do you know what we are going to do with such men as you are? Those of you that we don't hang, the first fight that we get into with the lopeared Dutch, we will make breastworks out of to keep the bullets off of good men." About one mile further we came in sight of the moving column. We rode along the line, when there was general cheering until we reached a company that was organized in Oregon county and commanded by Capt. Simpson. Simpson said, "Why have you brought a Union man in here alive! If my company had possession of him, he could not live ten minutes." We soon reached a company commanded by Capt. Forshee which was organized in this county to whom the whole posse that made the arrest, belonged. The author was well acquainted with all of them and over half of them resided in the same settlement and were his neighbors. On reaching the company Captain Forshee walked out of the line and remarked to them "Why have you brought him in here alive?" Some of the posse remarked, that he had been a neighbor and they had all been friends up to the war and they hated to kill him. Forshee said "When I saw him at West Plains at the speaking when he got up and contended that there was a union and the government ought to be preserved, I wanted to shoot his black heart out of him and I feel the same way yet." The author was kept in close confinement and on the night of the 8th the command went into camp near what is known as the old Steve Thompson farm. The author, with several other prisoners, was placed in the guard house and orders were given that he be closely guarded. After they had taken their suppers, men that the author had been acquainted with from his boyhood, and men who had been acquainted with his relatives, came to the guard house in considerable numbers and remarked, "Hello, Monks?" "I never expected to see you under arrest." "What have you been doing that they have arrested you? I thought you was a good Democrat." "Have you left your party." "The Democratic party is in favor of the South." The author replied to them that when they thought he was a good Democrat they were right. But that he was not a slave to party and that he held country higher than party and if Democracy meant secession and nullification, that was one part of the principals of Democracy that he had never learned; that true Democracy, as understood by the author, taught every man that in case his country was invaded either externally or internally that he owed his honor and property in the support of it and for those reasons he was for the preservation of the Union at all hazards. Some remarked that "We ought to hang him right now without waiting any longer" Others remarked that "We have been acquainted with his people both on his mother's and father's side and they were all southern people and Democrats and they are all of them, almost, in favor of the South. It is strange indeed to see the course that he has taken." The author remarked that "There were always some shabby sheep in a flock and I suppose from your reasoning that I am one of them." They all retired, the officers giving orders that the most vigilant watch be kept over the prisoner. After he had retired a gentleman by the name of Joseph Teverbaugh who resided in Ozark county, a merchant and the owner of about twenty negroes, who had been well acquainted with the author from his boyhood, brought up the conversation as to what disposition they thought ought to be made of the author. The author could easily hear all the conversation inside of the guard line. Many opinions were expressed. Quite a number said, "Hang him outright." That was the only way to get shut of the Union men, to make short work of it, and forever rid the country of that element. Others said that appeared to be too harsh, that they were in favor of taking him to Little Rock and confining him in the penitentiary until the war was over, for it wouldn't take but a short time to rid the country of the lopeared Dutch and those who were friends to them. Others remarked that "that would be too easy for a man who was in favor of the lopeared Dutch; that we are in favor of taking all like him right into the army and making them fight and if they won't fight, the first engagement we get into, pile them up and make breastworks out of them, so that they will catch bullets off of good men." At this juncture Teverbaugh remarked, "I have been acquainted with Billy from a boy and you never can force him to fight against what he believes to be right, that he was a good boy and since he has grown up to be a man he has been an honorable and straightforward man and quite an active man politically and my advice would be to confine him in the State Penitentiary until the war is over, for I tell you now if he ever gains his liberty you are going to have him to fight." Sold as a Beef Cow. On the morning of the 9th they broke camp and marched near the mouth of Bennett's river and went into camp at what was then known as Talbert's mill. A short time after we had been in camp Capt. Forshee, who had charge of the prisoners, came to the guard house and the author requested him that he be allowed to take the oath and return home, as his wife and children were almost scared to death owing to the reports that were currently circulated all through the country, his wife would believe they had hung him. The captain replied that they were not going to allow him to take the oath. They had plenty of proof against him, that he had been communicating to the lopeared Dutch and as soon as they had formed a junction with Price and McCullough he would be tried as a spy. He gave orders to the guard to see that he was kept in close confinement, and about 11 o'clock in the night as near as the author can guess, it being starlight, the Captain came down to the guard house in company with one of his men, Frank Morrison. The author was lying on the ground pretending to be asleep. The Captain came inside of the guard, called out, "Monks, are you asleep?" The author raised up in a sitting position and said, "Captain what is wanted"? The Captain remarked, "I want you to go up to my camp fire," which was about 75 yards distance from the guard house. The author said, "Captain, this is a strange time of night to come down and order me to your camp fire." He said; "Not another word out of you, rise to your feet." He ordered Morrison to step behind him with the same gun that he had recently taken from the author and cock it and "if he makes a crooked step from here up to the camp fire shoot him through." The author heard Morrison cock the gun and about half way between the guard house and the camp fire the Captain remarked to the author, "Do you know Kasinger?" The author, suspecting that he was going to be delivered to a mob, said "I know him very well; we have grown up together from boys." The Captain said, "I thought he was a mighty nice man. I have sold you to him for a beef cow." The author remarked there was but one thing he was sorry for; that if he had known he was going to be delivered to a mob he never would have surrendered and had some satisfaction for his life. The Captain said, "I thought I was doing mighty well to sell a black Republican or a Union man for a beef cow where we have as many good men to feed, as we have here." His camp fire was under a gum tree with a large top. The fires had all died down, it being in July and nothing but the stars were giving the light. On coming within two or three feet of the tree the Captain ordered the author to halt. He and Morrison walked about ten paces and said, "I have brought you up here to liberate you. We have got plenty of good men here to feed without feeding men who are friends to the lopeared Dutch." The author replied to the Captain, "you may think you are dealing with a fool. I have neither violated the civil nor military law; have demanded a trial and you refuse to give it to me. You can't bring me up here at this time of night and pretend to turn me loose for the purpose of escaping the responsibility of an officer and deliver me into the hands of a mob." The Confederate Army or Hell. The author was satisfied that he could then see a bunch of men standing in readiness. The Captain replied, "Sit down or you will be shot in half a minute." The author sat down and leaned against the tree. He had on strong summer clothing, wearing an alpaca vest and coat. In an instant, about twenty-five men, led by Kasinger, and a man by the name of William Sap, approached the author; Kasinger, holding a rope in his hand with a noose in it, walked up to the author, held the noose of the rope above his head and said, "Monks, you have half a minute to say you will join the army and fight, or go to hell, just which you please." The author replied that it was said that "hell was a hot place," but he had never been there, and that he had always been counted a truthful man until he had been arrested, and since his arrest he had been asked divers questions of the whereabouts of the lopeared Dutch, and that he had told them in every instance he knew nothing of them and had been cursed for a liar. "If I was to say that I would join the army and fight, I might have a cowardly set of legs and they might carry me away; and in the next place, I am a Union man, first, last and all the time. I suppose your intention is to hang me, and there is only one thing I am sorry for, and that is that I ever surrendered; but there is one consolation left, when you kill me you won't kill them all, and you will meet plenty of them that won't be disarmed as I am now." Kasinger replied, "No damn foolishness, we mean business," and made an attempt to drop the noose over my head, which was warded off with my arms. At this juncture the author appealed to the Captain for protection from the mob, saying that he was a prisoner, unarmed and helpless, and if he suffered him to be murdered by a mob his blood would be upon the Captain's head. No reply being made by the Captain, all of the parties being considerably under the influence of whiskey, Sap raised his left hand, pushed Kasinger back and remarked, "I have been shooting and wounding some of these black Republicans who are friends of the lopeared Dutch, but I intend to shoot the balance of them dead." At the same time he drew a pistol from his right-hand pocket, cocked it, stooped over, ran his fingers under the author's clothing, gave them a twist and commenced punching him around the chest with the muzzle of the revolver, and after, as the author thought, he had punched him some fifty or sixty times with the revolver, the author said to him, "William Sap, there is no question but that your intentions are to kill me, and you want to torture me to death. You know that if I was armed and on equal footing with you, you would not do this." He made a quick jerk with his left hand, intending to jerk the author upon his face, remarking to the Captain at the same time, "Captain, you promised him to us and we are going to take him." The author, with all force possible, leant against the tree, Sap's hold broke loose, tearing off all the buttons that were on the vest and coat. [Illustration: A NARROW ESCAPE FOR COL. MONKS.] The author again appealed to the Captain for protection from the mob. The Captain then remarked to Sap, "Hold on for a moment, I will take a vote of my company as to whether we will hang him or not." The company at that time was lying on the ground, most of them apparently asleep. The Captain called out aloud to his company, "Gentlemen, I am going now to take a vote of my company as to whether we will hang Monks or not. All in favor of it vote, aye; all opposed, no." He then took the affirmative vote and the negative vote. They appeared, to the author, to be almost evenly divided. Sap again remarked to the Captain "You promised him to us, we have bought him and paid for him and he is ours." The author again appealed to the Captain for protection. The Captain replied to Sap, "He claims protection and as I am an officer and he a prisoner I reckon we had better keep him until we reach McCullough and Price and then we will try him for a spy and there is plenty of evidence against him to prove that he has been writing to the lopeared Dutch and after he is convicted will turn him over and you men can take charge of him." At this juncture a brother in-law of the Captain said, "Captain, I have one request to make of you. I want you to take Monks in the morning and tie him hard and fast, with his face to a tree, and let me shoot with a rest sixty yards and show you how I can spoil a black Republican's pate." The Captain replied, "As soon as he is convicted you can have the gratification of shooting him just as often as you please." The Captain and Morrison again took charge of the author, carried him back and delivered him to the guard with instructions to the guard to be diligent in keeping him closely confined so that he would have no possible chance of escape. On the morning of the 10th we broke camp and went into camp that night just beyond where Mountain Home now stands. Dr. Emmons, of West Plains, who was a strong Union man and who afterwards became captain in the 6th Missouri Cavalry, attempted to go through to the Federal forces but was pursued by the rebels, captured somewhere in Texas county and brought back to the camp. He was also a prisoner at the same time; but being a master mason, was paroled to the limits of the camp and on the night of the 10th made his escape and got through to the Federal lines, enlisted and was made captain. Of him we will speak later. In Camp at Yellville. On July 11th they broke camp and reached Yellville, Marion county, and on the 13th reached Carrolton, a small town in Arkansas, and went into camp. The author well remembers the spring. It ran out of the steep, rocky gulch and the branch ran a little south of west and a beautiful grove of timber surrounded the spring. The prisoners were marched down within a few feet of the spring and there placed under guard. As usual, the abuse that had been continually heaped upon the prisoners during the march was renewed and in a short time a man who was said to be from one of the counties north of Rolla, Mo., commenced making a speech and inciting and encouraging the soldiers to mob the prisoners at once; that he had disguised himself and entered the camps of the lopeared Dutch at Rolla, and that to his own personal knowledge they had men's wives and daughters inside of their camps, committing all manner of offenses possible, and that they were heathens; didn't resemble American people at all and that he would not guard nor feed any man who was a friend to them; that they ought to be killed outright. The men who enlisted in the Confederate army from Howell and adjoining counties, before starting, went to the blacksmith shops and had them large butcher knives made; made a belt and scabbard and buckled them around them, and said that they were going to scalp lopeared Dutch. In a short time the tenor of the above mentioned speech had incited over 400 men and it had become necessary to double the guard. The grove of timber was filled with men and boys looking over, expecting to see the prisoners mobbed every minute. There was a man who drew his pistol, others drew knives and made different attempts to break lines and mob the prisoners. The man in possession of the pistol declared that he intended to shoot them. He was on an elevated place and they called him "Red," and there were three or four men holding him to prevent his firing. The author remarked to him that: "The time will soon come when you will meet men who are not disarmed. You had better save your bravery until you meet them, and my opinion is that you won't need any man to hold you then." Just about this time on the north side of the spring--the land dropped toward the spring, on a descent of about 45 degrees--the author heard the voice of a man ordering the guard to "open the lines and let these ladies come in." The author at once arose to his feet and spoke out in an audible voice to the guard to give away and let the ladies come in and see a Northern monkey exhibited, that the monkeys grew a great deal larger in the north than they did in the south. At this juncture it appeared to take one more man to hold Red who said that "he would kill the saucy scoundrel if it took him a week to do it." When the posse came in we saw that the ladies were accompanied by eight or ten Confederate officers with about fifteen ladies. All the ladies carried small Confederate flags, the first ones that the author had ever seen. On coming very close to the prisoners they halted and one of the officers remarked, "These are the Union men that are friends to the lopeared Dutch. Couldn't you tie the knot upon them to hang them?" I think almost everyone spoke out and said "we could." After heaping other epithets and abuse upon the prisoners they and the officers retired outside of the line. The speaker was still talking, urging and insisting that the prisoners should be mobbed at once, that they should not be permitted to live. At about this stage of the proceedings a man's voice was heard on top of the bank saying, "Men, I believe your intentions are to kill these prisoners. You have all started out to fight and you don't know how soon you might be taken prisoner and you would not like to be treated in any such manner; I know Billy, (referring to the author) and all you have against him is the political side that he has taken and I order the orderly sergeant to double the guard around the prisoners so there will be no possible chance for the mob to get through, and move with the prisoners south to a large hewed log house and place the prisoners therein, and place a guard around the walls and suffer no man to approach the house without an order from the officers." As the prisoner began to move, the excited soldiers, who were wanting to mob them, brought out an Indian yell, and it appeared to the author he could almost feel the ground shake. After they were put into the houses, among the prisoners were some who were deserters, the author whispered to the Union men and told them to lie down close to them so that they could not distinguish from the outside one from another. The author was informed by Maj. William Kelley, of the Confederate army, who resides at Rolla, Phelps county, Missouri, at the present time, that he was the officer who made the order to remove the prisoners into the house and place a heavy guard around them to prevent their being mobbed. This ended the excitement for the evening. The author had always been a believer in the realities of religion. About one-tenth of the officers appeared to be Baptist and Methodist preachers, and frequently when they would go into camp would call a large number of the men together and very often take the prisoners and place them near by under a heavy guard, and then convene religious services. They always took for a text some subject in the Bible and the author remembers well of the taking of the subjects in the book of Joshua, where Joshua was commanded to pass around the fortifications of the enemy and blow the ram's horn and the fortifications fell, and, the God of Joshua was the same God that existed to-day and there was no question but that God was on the side of the South and all they had to do was to have faith and move on, attack the lopeared Dutch and God was sure to deliver them into their hands. The author could not help but add, in his own mind, that when the attack is made that God set the earth to shaking and all around where the lopeared Dutch are standing that the earth will open and swallow them up just leave their heads above the surface; so that those Confederates who were so furious could take their big knives and scalp the Dutch as they had said on divers occasions they intended to do. Makes His Escape. The author was determined to make his escape whenever the opportunity offered; and he could learn all about the whereabouts of the Federal soldiers from the excited Confederate scouts who would ride along the lines and say that the lopeared Dutch were as thick as rats at Springfield, Missouri, moving around in every direction and they might be attacked at any time and General McBride was looking every day to be attacked by the Federal forces to cut off his forming a junction with Generals Price and McCullough. In about four or five days they reached Berryville, near where the Eureka Springs are, and went into camp just west of Berryville right at the spurs of the Boston mountain. The prisoners were placed in the guard house near a little creek that was then dry. Captain Forshee's company went into camp next to the company commanded by Captain Galloway of Howell county. As the weather was very hot and dry and the author had been marched barefooted (one of his shoes having worn out) until his feet were badly blistered, he was lying down, feigning sickness. The guard has become a little careless. Just about sundown heavy thunder set in the west. The clouds continued to increase, the elements grew very dark. In the mean time they had put out a chain guard all around the encampment and said guard was about thirty steps from guard house. The low lands were all bottom, covered with heavy timber and a large oak had fallen across the creek and reached from bank to bank and the bark had all slipped off. About thirty feet from the top of the tree the foot of a steep mountain set in. The guard fire was about sixty yards south of the guardhouse. The clouds soon came up and a heavy rain set in, with terrific thunder and lightning, and as the army had temporary tents the guards all crawled in under the tents and left the author by the fire. The rain soon quenched the fire. The chain guard were walking up and down the dry creek and they met at the log referred to. The author thought now was his time to make his escape, if ever; knowing that he would have to have a shoe, slipped to one of the tents, got hold of a shoe, and then the thought struck him that he would like to have a revolver, but on further examination found their revolvers to be placed in such a position that it was impossible to get one without waking the men. He then slipped to the butt of the log and heard the guard meet at the log and turn again on their beat. He at once crossed on the log on the other side, walked into the brush, reached the foot of the mountain about twenty steps distant and halted. Everything appeared to be quiet, the release around the guard fire were singing, whooping and holloing. The author then took the mountain which was about one quarter of a mile high, and it always has appeared to the author that he crossed the log and went up the mountain as light as a cat. On reaching the top, still raining heavily, the thought came into his mind that "I am once more a free man, but I am in an enemy's country, without friends," and at once determined in my mind to reach Springfield, Missouri, if possible. I sat down, pulled on the shoe that I had taken and it just fitted without a sock; I then procured a dead stick for the purpose of holding before me as I traveled for fear I would walk off of some steep cliff or bluff, as it was very mountainous. Having the guard fire for a criterion I moved northwest, soon struck the leading road west that the army was marching on, traveled the road for about one mile, came onto the pickets, surrounded the pickets, struck the road again, traveled all night until just gray day, directly west or nearly so. A slow rain continued all night. As soon as it became light enough to see I found myself in a country completely covered with pine timber. I turned square from the road, went about 350 yards up to the top of a high knob, found about one quarter of an acre level bench. A large pine had turned out by the roots and the hole was partially filled with old leaves. The author always had been afraid of a snake but the time had come when he had more fear of a man than a snake, so he rolled himself down into the hole in the leaves and at the time had become chilled with the steady rain. About 9 or 10 o'clock, as well as the author could guess, he heard the beat of the drum which told that the army was marching on the same road that he had traveled in the night. In a short time the army passed where the author was lying in the sink. The author could have raised himself up and have seen the procession pass but he had seen them just as often as he wanted to and he remained still. Late in the evening a company of about 65 men passed. The author was informed afterwards that they had been detailed to make search for the prisoner, with orders if they found him, to shoot him at once. The author was further informed by Confederates who belonged to the command that as soon next morning as it was reported that the author had made his escape that the chain guard declared that no man could have passed between them and they were satisfied that the author was still inside of the lines. They at once made a large detail and commenced searching. There were quite a large number of box elders with very heavy, bushy tops. They said every single tree, every drift and possible place of hiding, was examined. Orders were at once issued by the commander, who sent word back to the home of the author, that he had made his escape and to watch for him and as soon as he came in home to arrest him and either shoot him or hang him at once. In the afternoon of the same day it cleared off and just as soon as dark came, the author was determined to try to reach Springfield, being in a strange country and knowing that if he was re-captured it would be certain death. He knew somewhere about the distance he had traveled west. He located the north star which he used as his pilot or guide and set out for Springfield, having no arms of any kind, not even a pocket knife and had become very hungry. He came to a slippery-elm tree, took a rock, knocked off some of the bark, ate it and proceeded on his journey, traveling all night. When gray day appeared again, he went to a hickory grub, broke the grub off with a rock, cut the top off with a sharp edged rock, to be used for a weapon, placed himself in hiding, remained all day. As soon as night came, again he proceeded on his journey, traveled no roads except when they run in direction of the north star. On the second morning he went into a small cave surrounded by a thicket, about 10 o'clock in the day he found that he was near enough to some rebel command to hear the drilling. As soon as dark came on he proceeded on his journey. The nights were dark and only star light until the after part of the night. He went near a spring house, but when he got to it, there wasn't a drop of milk in it. He passed through an Irish potato patch, grabbed two or three small Irish potatoes and ate them; passed through a wheat field, rubbed out some dry wheat in his hand, ate that; ate a few leaves off of a cabbage. On the third morning, went into hiding, remained until the darkness came again and resumed the journey. On the morning of the 4th at daylight I had reached an old trace, pulled off my clothes and wrung them and put them on again as the dew was very heavy and every morning my clothes would be wet. I went about 30 or 40 yards from the old trace and thought to myself, if I saw any person passing that was not armed, that I would approach and learn where I was. Hadn't been there more than a half hour when I heard a wagon coming. As soon as the wagon came in sight I saw that there was a lady driving, accompanied by a small girl and boy, I got up and moved into the road, walked on, and met the wagon, spoke to the lady. She stopped the wagon and I asked her if she would be kind enough to tell me where I was, that I had got lost, traveled all night and didn't know where I was. She told the author that he was in Stone county, Missouri, and asked him where he was from. I told her that I was from the state of Arkansas. She wanted to know if there was much excitement there. I told her that there was; that men were enlisting and going into the Confederate service and the people were generally excited over the prospect of war. I asked her if there was any excitement in this country. She replied that there was--that the rebels a day or two ago had run in, on White River, and killed four Union men and drove out about 40 head of cattle and "that's why I am going out here in this wagon. My husband belongs to the home guards and has come in home on a furlough and is afraid to knock around the place for fear he will be waylaid and shot by the rebels." I then asked her if she would allow me to ask her a civil question. She replied that she would. I asked her what her politics were, and she told me that she was a Union woman. I told her, then, that I would tell her the truth; that the rebels had had me prisoner and that I had made my escape from them and had been traveling only in the night time; that this was the fourth morning since I had made my escape, and I asked her how far it was to the house; that she was the first person I had spoken to since I had made my escape. She said it was about 350 yards around the point, to go on down to the house, and as soon as she got some light wood she would be back. I went to the house, halloed at the fence, a man came to the door and invited me in. I walked in, and at once I began to look for arms, and to my great delight I saw a Springfield musket lying in the gun rack, with a cartridge box with the letters U. S. on it. O! the thrill of joy that passed through my mind. I had often heard the old adage quoted, that "a friend in need is a friend indeed," but had never before realized its full meaning. In a short time the lady returned. She went to work cooking, soon had me something to eat, but I had almost lost my appetite, having fasted so long. After I ate something and while she was preparing provisions to carry with me the man told me there was but one place that we could cross White river without being placed in great danger of being captured by the rebels, for they were patrolling up and down the river every day. I told him I never had attempted to travel a foot in daylight since I had made my escape. He told me he thought if we could get safely across the river, he knew of an old trace that led across the mountains and intersected Taney county and as soon as we reached that settlement they all belonged to home guards and a man would be in no danger in making himself known. The woman baked enough biscuit and tied up bacon and red onions with them, the author thought, to have lasted a hungry man three days, for him to carry with him and we at once, after taking leave of the good woman followed by her best wishes that I would get through to the Federal lines safely, started for White river, about two miles distant. Just before reaching the river he left the author standing in the road, went into the house near by and soon came out with two other men in company with him. On reaching the river where there was a canoe tied to the bank they stepped aside by themselves, held a short consultation; then all got into the canoe, carried me across the river, piloted me across the river bottom to where the old trace left the bottom; there we separated, they hoping that I would get through to the Federal lines safely. They didn't think there was any danger in traveling in daylight, because there wasn't a single settlement for the entire distance of 25 miles. The author traveled on until dark had overtaken him. The moon gave no light until the after part of the night. The author laid down by the side of the road, took a nap, after the moon came up proceeded on his journey and in about two miles came to a house. Hallooing at the gate, a lady came to the door and said: "Come in." They appeared to have a very savage dog. I remarked to the lady that I believed the dog would bite me and noticed at the same time that she stood off to one side of the door. She remarked: "Go in; that dog will not bite you." As I stepped into the door I was confronted by a man standing in the middle of the floor in his night clothes with his old Springfield musket cocked and presented and he called out, "Halt!" The author halted, of course, and the next remark was, "Who are you and where is the balance of your crowd?" The author replied: "There is no balance of them and there is not much of myself left. The Confederates have had me prisoner and I have made my escape from them and I am now trying to reach Springfield, Missouri." The man ordered his wife to strike a light, and after viewing the author critically, placed his Springfield musket near the bed and invited the author to take a seat, while he dressed himself. Being not more than two hours until daylight, his wife asked me to go to bed and rest. I told her that I wasn't fit to lie in bed; that I had lain on the ground like a hog ever since I had been arrested. She said that it didn't matter how dirty a Union man was, he was welcome to sleep in her bed, and to lie down and she would proceed at once to get breakfast; that there were some refugee wagons, about two miles distant, making their way to Springfield, and that she would have me up in time to reach them. Accordingly, after eating breakfast before daylight, and starting with the purpose to reach the wagons before they broke camp, the man remarked to the author, "My captain lives just this side of where the wagons are camped and I know he would love to see you and learn about the movements of the rebels." When we got to the house, he hallooed and the captain came out, asked the author his name, where he lived and when he was taken prisoner. The author gave him his name and place of residence, and on learning that he was from Howell county, asked him if he was acquainted with a man by the name of Washington Galloway. The author informed him that he was well acquainted with him. He inquired as to which side he was on, the Confederate or Union. The author informed him that he was on the rebel side and was a captain commanding one of the rebel companies; that I saw him and had had a conversation with him on the evening before I made my escape. He said, "He is an own brother of mine. My name is Jesse Galloway;" and the tears ran from his eyes like a whipped child. He said, "Get down; you are not in a condition to travel any further at the present time." He gave me a change of clothing and had my clothes washed and sent me through to Springfield by one of his men on horseback. About three weeks after I left him the rebels slipped up near his house, lay in ambush, and when he came out into the yard they shot him to death while he was holding an innocent child in his arms. Arrives at Springfield. On reaching Springfield, I was conducted directly to the head quarters of Gen. Lyon, gave him all the information in my possession and told him I had been entirely stripped, had no means with me for support and I would like to join the army. He remarked to me, "I don't want you to join the army; we intend to move south next spring and you are one of the men that will be in great demand. We have a position for you and the Government will pay you good wages." A short time after I arrived I met a man by the name of Percy, a lawyer, who resided at West Plains, a bitter rebel, who was in there as a spy. I was alone and there were very few persons that I was acquainted with living in Springfield. Percy had been posing as a Union man and offered that if I would go with him, he would carry me safely through home; tried to get me to agree to go outside the lines with him after dark, but knowing that he was a bitter rebel and had been taking an active part in the rebel movement I discarded him as quick as possible. In a day or two Benjamin Alsup, who resided on Hutton Valley, Howell county, happened to meet him in town, and he being acquainted in and about Springfield, had him arrested at once. A man by the name of Moore, who was a strong Union man, lived about two miles from Springfield on the Wilson creek road took me home with him for the purpose of resting up. He was the owner of a fine dapple gray gelding four years old. He made Gen. Lyon a present of him. About five days before the Wilson Creek battle it was reported that the Rebels were on Cane creek, west of Springfield, in considerable force. Gen. Lyon moved out with a considerable force, riding the same horse, but on seeing the federal forces approaching they retreated. On the 8th day of August the rebels appeared in large force, being commanded by Gen. Price and Gen. McCullough. General Lyon Killed at Wilson Creek. Gen. Lyon sent out scouts with glasses for the purpose, if possible, of ascertaining their number. The rebels had gone into camp about ten miles from Springfield, with the avowed purpose of attacking Gen. Lyon the next day at Springfield, and as the scouts were not able with their glasses to see the largest force of rebels, which was encamped around a point out of sight, reported as to what they thought the number was. Lyon and Siegel came to the conclusion that by strategy they could easily whip them, so on the morning of the 10th, about midnight, they broke camp at Springfield, taking all of their available men. The morning being very foggy and misty, they easily surrounded the pickets and took them prisoners without the firing of a gun, then drew up and fired the artillery into them before they knew they were there. So the memorable fight known as the battle of Wilson Creek was begun. Gen. Lyon rode the horse above referred to at the time he fell on the battlefield. Both the Confederate and Union side were founding all their future hopes upon the result of that battle, as to settling the question in Missouri. The author heard the artillery all day. Late in the evening word came to the Union men that Gen. Lyon had been killed and that the Federal army was retreating in the direction of Rolla, Missouri, and that all the Union men and the home guard would fall in and meet them at once. O! the scene that followed. Men would hurriedly ride around, meet their wives and children, tell them that the battle was lost and they were then retreating and they had only time to come around and bid them good-bye, and to do the best they could; that they didn't know that they would ever be permitted to see them again. We could hear the wife and children crying and sending up the most pitiful petitions to God to have mercy. Everything on the Union side appeared to be dark, although it was a drawn battle and the rebels commenced retreating at the same time, and retreated about twenty-five miles west, but on learning that the Federal troops were retreating, they faced about, taking possession of the battle-ground and all of the southern and western portion of the state; and then the rebels, being encouraged by the late victory, determined to rid the country of all Union men at once. About that time about 350 men mostly from Oregon county commanded by two very prominent men, made a scout into Ozark county, Missouri. On reaching the North fork of White river they went into camp at what was known as Jesse James' mill. The owner, a man of about 55 or 60 years of age, as good a man as resided in Ozark county, was charged with grinding grain for Union men and their families; at the time he, and a man by the name of Brown, were cutting sawlogs about two miles from home in the pinery. They went out and arrested them, arrested an old man by the name of Russell and several others, carried them to a man's house, who was a Union man, and had fled to prevent arrest. They took Brown and James about 300 yards from the house, procured a rope, hunted a long limb of a tree, rolled a big rock up to the first rope where it was tied to the limb, placed the noose around James' neck, stood him on the rock, rolled the rock from under him and left him swinging, rolled the rock to the next rope, stood Brown on it, placed the noose around his neck, rolled the rock out and left Brown swinging in the air, went to the third rope, placed Russell on the rock, and just as they aimed to adjust the noose, word came that the home guards and Federals were right upon them in considerable force. They fled, leaving Russell standing upon the rock and both Brown and James dangling in the air. [Illustration: HANGING JESSE JAMES AND MR. BROWN.] Their Wives and Other Women Bury Them. Every Union man now having fled in fear of his life, the next day the wives of Brown and James, with the help of a few other women, buried them as best they could. They dug graves underneath the swinging bodies, laid bed clothing in the graves and cut them loose. The bodies fell into the coffinless graves and the earth was replaced. So the author is satisfied that the bones of these men still remain in the lonely earth underneath where they met their untimely death with no charge against them except that they had been feeding Union men, with no one to bury them but their wives and a few other women who aided. Some of the men who were in the scout and present when the hanging was done are still living in the counties of Howell and Oregon. A General Jackson Soldier Shot Down. A short time after this hanging there was a man by the name of Rhodes, who resided on the head of Bennett's Bayou in Howell county. He was about eighty years of age and had been a soldier under General Jackson. His head was perfectly white and he was very feeble. When he heard of the hanging of Brown and James he said openly that there was no civil war in that, and that the men who did it were guilty of murder. Some two weeks from the date of the hanging of Brown and James, about twenty-five men, hearing of what he had said, organized themselves and commanded by Dr. Nunly and William Sapp, proceeded to the house of Rhodes, where he and his aged wife resided alone, called him out and told him they wanted him to go with them. His aged wife came out, and being acquainted with a part of the men, and knowing that they had participated in the hanging and shooting of a number of Union men, talked with them and asked: "You are not going to hurt my old man?" They said: "We just want him to go a piece with us over here." Ordering the old man to come along, they went over to a point about one quarter from the house and informed him of what he had said. There they shot him, cut his ears off and his heart out. Dr. Nunly remarked that he was going to take the heart home with him, pickle it and keep it so people could see how a black republican's heart looked. They left him lying on the ground, proceeded directly to Joseph Spears', who resided about six miles west of town on the Yellville road, declaring that they were going to treat him the same way. They reached his house about two hours in the night, all full of whiskey. When they arrived there Spears was sick in bed. They dismounted, came in, ordered their suppers and their horses fed. Spears at that time owned a negro man, and he ordered him to put up the horses and feed them, and his wife to get them supper. After supper, they concluded to remain until morning. During the night they became sober, and concluded, since Spears owned a "nigger," that it could not be possible that he was a Union man, and the reports that they had heard that he was a Union man might be untrue, and they would let him alone until they could investigate further. [Illustration: CUTTING OUT RHODES' HEART.] In the meantime, Rhodes not having returned home, and not a single Union man left in the country that Mrs. Rhodes could get to look after him, and having heard when they reached Joseph Spears' that the old man was not with them, although very feeble, she still continued the search; on the second day, about fifty yards from the road and about a quarter of a mile from home, while she was looking for him, she heard hogs squealing and grunting as though they were eating something. She proceeded to the place and found the hogs were just about to commence eating the remains of her husband. The Union men having fled, she notified some of the neighbors, and the women came in and helped dress the body and buried him the best they could; and neither at the taking down or burial of Brown and James and the burial of the old man Rhodes did a single rebel put in an appearance. There never was a man arrested by the Confederate authorities, or a single word of condemnation uttered, but as far as could be heard there was general approval. It was said that the means used were desperate, but that was the only way to get rid of the men and strike terror to them so they could neither give aid nor countenance to the lopeared Dutch. Benjamin Alsup Taken to Little Rock. In a few days following they proceeded to arrest Benjamin Alsup, residing in Hutton Valley, who was a strong Union man, took him to Little Rock, placed him in the state penitentiary, and kept him there until after Little Rock fell into the hands of the Federals, when they exchanged him with other prisoners. While they had him in prison they worked him in a bark mill by the side of an old mule, with a strap around his breast and two leather hand holds. He pulled so much in the mill that his little finger was calloused and he almost entirely lost the use of it. After they had hung, shot, captured and driven from the country all of the Union men, they called a public meeting for the purpose of taking into consideration what should be done with the families of the Union men, which meeting had a number of preachers in it. After discussing the premises, they arrived at the conclusion that if they let the families of the Union men, who had escaped and gone into the Federal lines, remain, they would return and bring in the lopeared Dutch. They didn't believe that both parties could ever live together, and as they now had the country completely rid of the Union men, they would force their families to leave. They at once appointed men, among whom were several preachers, to go to each one of the Union families and notify them that they would not be allowed to remain; because if they let them stay, their men would be trying to come back, and they didn't believe both parties could live together. They stated at the same time that they were really sorry for the women and children, but nobody was to blame but their husbands and sons, who had cast their lot with the lopeared Dutch. Also, as they had taken up arms against the Confederate states, all the property they had, both real and personal, was subject to confiscation and belonged to the Confederate authorities; but they would allow them to take enough of the property to carry them inside of the lines of the lopeared Dutch, where they supposed their men were and where they then could care for them. Loyal Women Driven From Their Homes. They said they might have a reasonable time to make preparations to leave the country, and if they didn't leave, they would be forced to do so, if they had to arrest them and carry them out. The wildest excitement then prevailed among the women and children. They had no men to transact their business and make preparations to leave. Little had they thought, while they were chasing, arresting, hanging and shooting their men, that they, too, would become victims of the rebel hatred and be forced to leave house and home, not knowing where their men were or whether they were dead or alive. All they knew of their whereabouts was, that those who escaped arrest had left their homes, aiming to reach the nearest Federal lines. Women were at once dispatched to reach the nearest Federal lines, if possible, and inform them of the Confederate order, and procure help to take them out. Their homes and houses were being continually raided by small bands of Confederates roaming over the country, claiming that they were hunting Union men, taking all classes of property that they might see proper to take, without any restraint whatever. When the Union men heard that an order had been made requiring their families to leave, not thinking that a thing of that kind would ever occur, having left them with comfortable homes and plenty to eat, the wildest consternation reigned amongst them. The Federal authorities were willing to give them aid, but were placed in such a condition that they needed every man in the field, and for that reason couldn't give them any help in getting out. The women had to speedily fit up as best they could, close their doors and start for the Federal lines, leaving the most of their property in the hands of the rebels. The rebels proceeded at once to take possession of and occupy most of the homes. The suffering that followed the women and children is indescribable. They had to drive their own teams, take care of the little ones, travel through the storms, exposed to it all without a man to help them, nor could they hear a single word of comfort spoken by husband, son or friend. On reaching the Federal lines, all vacant houses and places of shelter were soon filled, and they were known and styled as refugees. Many of them went into soldier huts, where the soldiers had wintered and covered the tops of their huts with earth. They had to leave home with a small amount of rations, and on the road the rebels would stop them and make them divide up the little they had started with, and reaching the Federal lines they would be almost destitute of food and many of them very scantily clothed. [Illustration: MRS. MONKS AND CHILDREN BEING DRIVEN FROM HOME.] They would at once commence inquiring for their husbands and sons. Numbers of them never found them, as they had been captured, killed and imprisoned while attempting to reach the Federal lines. O! The untold misery that then confronted them! After they had traveled and half starved and suffered from cold and exposure, promising themselves that when they reached the Federal lines they would again meet their loved ones who could again care for them, they were doomed to disappointment, in a large number of instances. Those who did meet their husbands and sons were also disappointed; they had either joined the service or been employed by the government as guides and scouts, and the small amount of pay they received from the government, wouldn't provide food and raiment for their families. They were compelled to still be absent from their families, although they were suffering greatly for all of the necessaries of life and for clothing and shelter. The women's task of caring for and looking after the family and the little ones was just as great after they had reached the Federal lines as before. The government ordered that wherever aid could be given, rations should be issued to the families, and while the government did all it could in this way, it was not able to furnish shelter and houses for their comfort. Winter came on and they underwent untold suffering; disease set in from exposure, besides the contagious diseases of smallpox and measles, and hundreds of them died for want of proper attention, while their men were in the lines of the service of the government. Here let the author speak a word in behalf of the devotion and patriotism manifested by those loyal women who had given their husbands and their sons to be placed upon the altar of the country, and sacrificed their homes and their firesides, had become exiles and wanderers, without home or shelter, had undergone untold suffering, had faced disease and death, had seen the little ones die, calling for papa, shivering with cold, suffering with hunger--all for the love of their country. Yet when they would see the Federal troops move by, with the stars and stripes unfurled, they would cheer the boys in blue as they would pass, and urge them to save the country they loved so well and had made so many sacrifices for and were still willing to suffer and wrestle with all the ills that a desperate war had brought upon the country, and wanted to live to once more be returned to their own hearthstones and be permitted to live under their own vine and fig tree, where no man dare molest them or make them afraid, to again enjoy all the sweet comforts of life. We revere and honor every Federal soldier who enlisted in the interest of his country from the Northern States, where they knew nothing about war except what they read, their families being left in comfortable circumstances, with plenty to eat and wear and friends to speak works of comfort to them, while their husbands and sons had gone to the front and were willing to sacrifice themselves on the altar of their country, if it became necessary. But O! the comparison between the sacrifices made by the loyal element in those portions of the country where they were completely surrounded by the enemy. Those who were willing to lay upon the altar of their country, their fathers and sons, their wives and children, their property and their sacred honor in support of the government they loved so well, with no protection from the government; no arms, amunitions, rations, clothing or pay from the government, was thought of for a moment. The only question that prompted, ruled and controlled them was their patriotism to their God and their country. When we come to compare the sacrifices, privations, suffering and services between the two classes of loyalists the first referred to, sink into insignificance. O! never let us forget to honor and revere patriotism and sacrifices that were made by the loyal men and women that were surrounded in the enemy's country and continual fighting without and within. Their husbands and sons were shot and hung and imprisoned all over this country, whose bodies never were even honored with a burial. Orders being made by the rebels that they should not be buried; but yet they live and speak in thunder tones to the living. Let us plead with the living to revere and honor the stars and stripes that were maintained and supported by the blood and lives and sacrifices of the loyal men and women of the South. After the rebels had completely driven all the loyal element out of the country and had but one political party left they exclaimed, "Now the means that we have been forced to use are very harsh but the line has been drawn and all of the parties who are giving aid and comfort to the lopeared Dutch are all outside of the Confederate line and we will never be troubled with them and the lopeared Dutch any more." The author went back in retreat with General Siegel, after the Wilson Creek battle. On reaching Rolla, Missouri, Siegel went into quarters for the winter. The author was almost worn out with exposure and traveling, and as General Siegel informed him that there would be no advance made south until the spring of 1862, and as his family had been left in comfortable circumstances, with plenty to eat and wear, and he, being acquainted with some men by the name of Cope, who lived near Jerseyville in Jersey county, Illinois, went to that place, remained a month, and being taken sick with lung fever, came very near dying. He told his friends where he was staying that if he died, he would die dissatisfied; that he wanted to live and be able to move with the Federal command in the spring of 1862 when it moved south. After he had partially recovered he learned that a Mr. Cope, who was living neighbor to him at the time of his arrest and capture, had moved into Randolph county, Illinois. He visited the family at once, hoping to hear from his family at home, and remained there about a month. His wife, among many others, being notified to leave, had been informed that the author had made his escape, reached Springfield, and had gone back with Siegel in his retreat to Rolla. She was permitted to dispose of just enough of the property, at the rebels' own prices, to enable her to move, the family consisting of herself and five small children. She was followed on the road and her wagons searched for arms, and the rebels threatened to take her to Little Rock, Arkansas, but to enable her to reach Rolla, Missouri, she posed as the wife of a rebel who had gone into the Confederate service, and said she was trying to reach her father, who resided near Rolla. By making that impression, her wagons were not disturbed any more. On reaching Rolla, she went to Colonel Phelps, who was afterwards governor of the state, and inquired if he knew anything of the whereabouts of the author. He informed her that he had no knowledge of his whereabouts at that time, but he would take her name, place an advertisement of her arrival at Rolla, in the paper, and if he was alive it might reach him. Every house and cabin was full, it being in the dead of winter, and a deep snow upon the ground, but through the aid and assistance of one Cyrus Newberry, who had escaped through the lines in Howell county, she procured a shelter about three miles north of Rolla, which was very uncomfortable; her clothes were partially frozen on her at that time. In a short time the advertisement reached the author in Randolph county, Illinois. He at once set out for Rolla, Missouri, to meet his family. The house that she had first got into was used by her but a short time, and she had been forced to go into one of the huts that had lately been occupied by the soldiers and had been made vacant by their moving west to Springfield. On the arrival of the author, O! the horror and the joy that were intermingled! I was proud to once more meet my wife and children, but in a moment the thought would pass through my mind, "I left you in a comfortable home, with plenty to eat, and now to see you here in this 'dug-out,' suffering for food and shelter! O! the war, the horrible war! What is it that men won't do?" I set out at once to procure a comfortable shelter for my family and to get in readiness to move south with the army. Gen. Curtis, then in command of the western department, was preparing to make a general move south. I was employed by the government as a guide, receiving $1.50 per day, with rations and clothing. Establishing a Federal Post at West Plains. The army soon broke camp and moved southward. On arriving at West Plains, the Federal army located a post there. Capt. McNulty, of the First Illinois cavalry, who had been wounded in a battle with Gen. Mulligan, was made Provost Marshal. The author was at once detailed and placed in the Provost Marshal's office as assistant, as he was well acquainted with all of the people in the surrounding country. The Provost Marshal would order the author to be seated in a conspicuous place in the office, and as a general order had gone forth from Curtis requiring all rebels and rebel sympathizers to come in and take the oath, and as hundreds of them were daily coming into the office for that purpose, the Provost Marshal ordered the author to watch every person who entered the office and whenever any person entered who had been taking an active part in committing depredations, just to put his hand upon his forehead and move it down over his face, and he would order them to the guard house for further examination, without any further words being said at the time. Many of the rebels who were taking the oath couldn't see how he could draw a line between the different persons; let some take the oath and be released at once, and others ordered to the guard house without a word being spoken. Among the persons who came in and took the oath and were released, was the man who was present at the time Capt. Forshee attempted to deliver the author to the mob, who asked the Captain at the time to tie the author with his face to a tree, and let him shoot him in the back of the head, to show him how he could spoil a black Republican's pate. The author remembers one incident that occurred during the stay at West Plains. A man named Lusk, who was constable of Howell township, and resided in West Plains, was a strong Union man at the beginning of the war; when the general order was made that every man who had been a Union man had to join the Confederate service and show his colors or be hung, Lusk enlisted in the Confederate army and went out with McBride's command. Three or four days after the capture of the author by the rebels, Lusk came up to him in a braggadocio manner and says, "You ought to have your black heart shot out of you." Lusk had taken the oath and been released before the author reached West Plains. The author met him in West Plains and remarked to him: "Hallo, Lusk! How are you getting along? And what are you doing here?" He replied that he had taken the oath; that he was tired of fighting. The author asked him if he felt like he did when he wanted to shoot his black heart out. Lusk replied: "Captain, I am sorry for what I did, and Captain Emmons so maltreated me the other day that I could scarcely sit in my saddle." The author remarked to him: "I will just give your face three good slaps with my hand." After giving him three raps, the author let him pass. Lusk Sees Some Lop-eared Dutch. Soon meeting Captain Emmons, who belonged to the 6th Missouri Cavalry, had asked him what the trouble was between him and Lusk. He said that while he was prisoner Lusk came to him with his big knife belted around him, and said that he was just equal to ten lopeared Dutch and he had that knife for the purpose of taking ten Dutch scalps before he returned home, and otherwise abused him for being a Union man and a friend to the Dutch. On the arrival of the troops in West Plains he inquired of the citizens if Lusk had returned home. They informed him that he had and was residing on Spring Creek, about six miles from town. About half of Emmons' company were Germans. He went immediately to his company, ordered the Orderly Sergeant to make detail of ten men and he wanted them all to be Germans. He ordered them to be mounted and ready for a scout at once. Taking charge of them in person he proceeded to the house of Lusk, about six miles west of West Plains at the head of Spring Creek, rode up to the house and holloed. Lusk immediately came out into the yard and recognized Dr. Emmons and said "O! Doctor! Is that you? I am proud to see you." The Doctor said to him, "I am proud to see you, too." The Doctor at once informed him of what he had said to him when he was a prisoner in regard to being equal to ten lopeared Dutchmen and how he had his knife prepared to take that number of scalps before he came back home, and wanted to know if he got the scalps before he came home. Lusk replied that if he killed a single Dutchmen he didn't know it and that he got all of the fighting that he wanted, didn't want to fight any more. The Doctor wanted to know if he ever saw any lopeared Dutch and Lusk replied that he "didn't know that he had." The Doctor replied, "I have selected ten of the smallest sized of the full stock and I want you to step over the fence and view them." He then ordered the scouts to dismount and form in line. Lusk told the Doctor he didn't want anything to do with them whatever. After they had formed a line the Doctor made him step in front and view them; asked him what he thought of them. He said "They are good looking men." The Doctor said to him, "If you didn't get the chance when you were out in the service to fight ten of them, and you say you didn't get any scalps, I have brought these ten down and intend that you shall fight them." Lusk pleaded with the Doctor that he didn't want to fight them and for God's sake not to let them hurt him. Emmons said to him "Why Lusk! you said you were equal to ten of them and intended to bring back ten of their scalps and there will be nothing now unfair about this fight. I intend to give you a fair show." He ordered Lusk to get his horse and get onto it and get ready to march. There were some four-foot clapboards stacked up near Lusk's house, and Emmons ordered six of the Germans to get a board apiece. They were all soon mounted and moving toward West Plains, soon coming to a "horsen" log. Emmons ordered them to dismount and form a line, placing the men about ten paces from Lusk, then said to Lusk, "Now, prepare yourself, and if you can whip these ten lopeared Dutch I will let you go back home and give you a chromo." Lusk pleaded pitifully to not let the Dutch abuse him. Emmons ordered the six who had the clapboards to move one pace in the rear, leaving four of the number to attack Lusk; he then ordered the four men to seize Lusk, take him to the "horsen" log and take down his clothes. Two of them were to take him by the hands and two by the legs and buck him tight against the log; if they succeeded, the six would proceed, one at a time, and strike him three licks across that part of the body that he generally used for sitting on. He then turned to Lusk, saying, "Prepare to meet them; if you are a better man than they are, down them and pile them up." At the command of Capt. Emmons, the four men advanced on Lusk, who did not attempt to move, seized him by the arms, led him to the log, bucked him over it, two holding him by the arms and two by the legs, ordered the six men to advance, one at a time, strike three licks with the flat side of the board, march on a few paces and give room for the next. After the performance had been completely carried out as commanded, the Captain declared that he could have heard Lusk holloing a mile distant every time the clapboard hit him. After he had received the boarding, Emmons said that Lusk's setter was blistered where the boards had hit him, and that he never saw ten Germans enjoy themselves as much in his life. He then asked Lusk, in their presence, how he felt now in regard to fighting lopeared Dutch. Lusk declared that he had nothing against the Dutch and that he never would want to fight another one as long as he lived, and he hoped that Dr. Emmons would not let them do him any more harm. He dressed himself, they were all mounted, formed a line, and Lusk was brought into West Plains and took the oath, under the promise that he never would fight another lopeared Dutchman. Goes to Washington City. After the post was discontinued at West Plains, the author was again ordered back to Rolla. The state had made a proposition to the Federal authorities that if the government would arm, feed and clothe the troops, it could place a number of regiments of state troops in the service, and they would be able to send some of their regular troops to the front. A delegation was appointed by the state to visit Washington City, wait upon the President and see what the government could do for the state. The author was appointed as one of the delegates, and on the night following the departure of the delegation for Washington City, a rebel scout appeared at the house where the author's family was living and demanded the author. His wife replied that he was not at home, that he was one of the delegation that had left that morning for Washington City. She distinctly heard one man remark: "I expect that is so, for there was a delegation left this morning for Washington City." The house wasn't more than a quarter of a mile from the picket posts. After parleying for some little time, they left the house, marched west about a mile, where some refugees were located in a house, and demanded their surrender. The house was full of women and children, there being also one boy and two men, to-wit: Peter Shriver and a man named Johnson. They ordered the doors opened; the inmates refused; then the rebels knocked down the door, and fired a volley right into the house. Shriver and Johnson being armed, returned the fire, killed one of the rebels on the spot, and fleeing through the rear part of the house, made their escape. The rebels killed one boy and severely wounded a girl and young Johnson, and retreated south, leaving their comrade dead. It was learned afterwards that most of the scout were men from Howell county who had learned that the author had placed his family just outside of the Federal lines and had marched all the way there, with the avowed purpose of capturing the author and either shooting or hanging him. On arrival of the delegation at Washington City they organized the delegation and made Chas. D. Drake their spokesman. He was afterwards elected to the United States Senate. Soon after the arrival President Lincoln informed us that he would be prepared to meet the delegation in a large hall, near the mansion, at which time and place he desired to be introduced to the whole delegation. When the delegation entered the hall the President and his secretary were seated together. The Delegation Meets the President. The delegation entered the hall in a single file. Chas. D. Drake approached the President and when within a few feet of the President and secretary, they arose to their feet and as the delegation marched by each one was introduced to them. Afterwards they were seated, and the petition and address of the people of the State of Missouri was delivered in an audible voice by Chas. D. Drake. In the opening of the address we addressed the President and called ourselves his friends. As soon as the address was read the President rose to his feet and proceeded to deliver an address to the delegation and the author never will forget the impression that was made upon his mind in a part of that address. He said: "You should not address me as your friend; I am the President of the whole people and nation and while I am President, I expect to try to enforce the law against all violators of law and in the interest of the whole people of the nation; but if I have any friends in Missouri I suspect you men compose a part of them. I listened to your petition and offers, which make me proud for the patriotism that you manifest, in offering your services to your country in the darkest hour of her peril and I would be glad if the government was able to grant every request that you have made. The government at the present time is not in a condition to furnish clothing and commissaries for the number of men that you propose to put in the field, but the government will furnish all the arms that they can possibly spare, amunitions and commissaries and authorize the state to organize and put in the field any number of state troops, not to exceed sixty regiments." He said he would do all in his power to feed them but in the present condition of the government the state would have to pay them. The delegation returned and informed the state of what promises the government had made and at once went to organizing and putting state troops into the field. The author was commissioned as lieutenant of Company H. and the regiment was ordered into active service for the period of sixty days. At the expiration of the term of service, the government ordered that a company of scouts be organized and that the author be made Captain of the company, to receive first lieutenant's pay and be clothed and fed by the government, be ordered on duty at once and placed under the direct command of Captain Murphy, who was then commanding the post at Houston. The company scarcely saw an idle day, it was kept continuously scouting and fighting. The counties of Texas, Dent, Wright, Crawford, LaClede and Phelps, outside of the post, being completely under the control of the rebels. Not a single Union man nor his family could remain at home outside of the post. Incidents of 1863. In the fall of 1863, Colonel Livingston, who was acting in the capacity of Brigadier General, was ordered to proceed to Batesville, Arkansas, and there erect a post. The author was transferred, by order of the government, and made chief of scouts receiving Captain's pay and ordered to move with the command of Colonel Livingston and be under his command and control until further orders. On or about December 15, 1863, Colonel Livingston, who was Colonel of the 1st Nebraska regiment and the 11th Missouri Cavalry regiment, broke camp at Rolla, and marched in the direction of Batesville, Arkansas. Colonel Livingston, on leaving Rolla, issued a general order and sent the same in all directions, that all rebels, or "bushwhackers," who were captured wearing Federal uniform, would be court-martialed and shot; or all persons who were captured in robbing or plundering houses would be court-martialed and shot. On our arrival at West Plains the advance of the command captured three Confederates dressed in Federal uniforms, near what was known as the Johnson farm. One of them broke from custody and escaped; the other two were court-martialed and shot, while the command was camped at West Plains. After those men were shot, some of the Confederates, dressed in Federal uniforms, came inside the Federal lines, while in camp at West Plains, just after dark, and took nine black cavalry horses from the line and made their escape. The soldiers saw them take the horses, but thought it was their own men taking them to water. The command, breaking camp at West Plains, marched in the direction of Batesville, passed through Salem, Ark., and on Big Strawberry encountered the rebels and had quite an engagement. The weather was quite cold. I remember that after the fighting ceased, some of the soldiers had been fighting with their revolvers, and their hands had become so benumbed that they had lost the use of their fingers, and couldn't return their revolvers to their scabbards, and the revolvers had to be taken from their hands; the hands of some of them were badly frostbitten. The command again renewed its march for Batesville. Small bands of bushwhackers and rebels kept up a continuous fire every day on the advance, and committed depredations by pillaging; claiming they were Federal forces, most of them being dressed in Federal uniforms. The pillaging grew so annoying that Col. Livingston, just before breaking camp, divided the advance into two columns, marching from a mile to two and a half miles apart. Late in the afternoon, one wing came onto a number of those irregular Confederates, or bushwhackers, robbing the house of a Union woman whose husband was in the Federal army. Nearly all of them were dressed in Federal uniforms, claiming to the woman to be Federal soldiers. They had all dismounted and gone into the house to plunder it, except their captain, Elliott, whom they had left on guard. The road came around in a short bend and concealed the approach of the Federals until they were within a hundred yards of the house. There was a large gate in front of the house. The woman was standing in the yard about ten steps from the gate. She saw the troops coming before they were discovered by the captain, and supposed them to be of the same command. They were all cavalry. As soon as they saw the captain, they put spurs to their horses, and with revolvers in hand, charged upon them. The captain gave the alarm, and fled as rapidly as possible on horseback, a part of the Federals in hot pursuit after him. Every avenue of escape was cut off from those who were in the house, and they were forced to retreat through a ten-acre open field, before they could reach the timber. The woman of the house, seeing them flee, knew at once that they didn't belong to the same command. While the Federals were approaching the gate at full speed, she ran to it and threw it open, so that they would not be checked in their pursuit. They overtook them about two-thirds of the way across the field, as the rebels were cut off from their horses and were on foot. Three of the rebels were killed, and three taken prisoners. They had everything in their possession--bed clothing, domestic, knives and forks, and even axes, that they had been taking from Confederates as well as from Unionists; also a number of women's dresses. All of the dresses were given to the woman whose house they were robbing at the time of their capture. The soldiers had a fine time after they reached camp, by turning the domestic into new towels. Just after supper, the author was notified to appear at the provost marshal's office, to see whether or not he could identify the prisoners. On his appearing and entering into conversation with the prisoners and inquiring their names, one claimed to be named Smith, another Taylor and the other Johnson. One of them lisped a little when talking. The author soon recognized one of them and said to him: "Your name is not Smith. You had just as well give your proper name, for I know you." The Provost Marshal asked him if he knew the author. He hesitated to answer. On the Provost Marshal urging him to answer, he said: "I ought to know him, as he was one of my near neighbors when the war commenced. My name is Calvin Hawkins." The author replied, "That is correct," and turning to the other prisoner for a second look, recognized him. He remarked, "Taylor is not your proper name." The Provost Marshal asked him if he knew the author. He hesitatingly replied that he did. His proper name was then demanded, which he gave as Jacob Bridges. The other was a boy named Hankins, 13 years of age. Court-Martialed and Shot. The Provost Marshal asked them if they had ever read or heard of the general order that had been issued by Col. Livingston. They replied that they had. He said to them: "You have violated the order in every particular; you are wearing Federal uniforms, and have been caught robbing and pillaging citizens' houses. Tonight your cases will be submitted to a court martial, except the boy's." He then ordered the author to take them to a room and inform them that they would certainly be convicted by the court martial, and the only way they could escape death would be to give the rendezvous and names of all irregular troops in their knowledge, and agree to pilot a scout to the different places of resort. The author informed them of what the Provost Marshal had said, and further informed them that Col. Livingston, then acting in the capacity of Brigadier General, would have the only power to commute their sentences, after they were convicted. They refused to give any information that would aid the authorities in capturing the different irregular roving bands. The author bade them good-bye, told them he was sorry for them, that they were in a bad condition, but had brought it upon themselves and each of them had better prepare for death, for they were certain to be court-martialed that night. He then left the prisoners, the guard taking charge of them. The court-martial convened that night; charges and specifications were preferred before the Judge Advocate of violating both orders. They were accordingly convicted, and the next morning, before we broke camp, the author saw the detail that had been selected to execute them; saw the prisoners under guard moving out to the place selected for the execution, heard the discharge of the guns, and soon learned that they both had been shot. Somewhere on the head of Big Strawberry, in Izard county, the boy's mother came to us, and he was turned over to her. The command broke camp and proceeded on the way towards Batesville, with more or less skirmishing with the rebels every day; and on the 25th of December, 1863, we had come to within about three miles of Batesville, Independence county, the rebels in considerable force then being in possession of the city. They had a strong picket about a quarter of a mile from the main city, leading right down Poke bayou. Another road turned to the right and entered the lower part of the city. The commander halted and threw out a considerable force in advance. The author was placed right in the front of the advance, with orders to charge the pickets, and on their retreat, to charge the enemy, and if they found them in too strong a force to fall back on the main command. The rebel ladies had procured a large hall in the city, situated upon High street, leading west through the city. They were all dressed in gray, and had any amount of egg nog and other delicious drinks in the hall and all through the public parts of the city. A large number of the Confederate soldiers were in the hall dancing, a number of them belonging to Col. Freeman's command. On reaching the rebel pickets, they fired, and the commander ordered a charge with revolver and saber, and we followed close upon their heels. On reaching the city, the firing became promiscuous. The rebels retreated south, a number of them retreating in the direction of White river, and swam the river with their horses, while many of them abandoned their horses and swam the river. One part of the rebel command filed to the right, thinking that it was a Federal scout, and attempted to retreat upon the lower road. The Federals saw them coming, and knew from their actions that they were retreating. They at once deployed two lines in front of the command, one on each side of the road. Before the rebels found out their real condition they were completely into the trap, and they surrendered without the firing of a gun. How Received by the Batesville Ladies. After the fighting had subsided, the author, with a part of the command, rode up High street to the hall where they had just been dancing. There must have been as many as two hundred and fifty or three hundred ladies in the hall and on the roof. Some of the boys dismounted, went up into the hall and drank some of their eggnog, although there were strict orders against it. The main command reached the east end of High street, marching in a solid column of two, with a brass band and drums and fifes playing, and striking up the tune of "Yankee Doodle," they came marching down High street, in the direction of the hall. The women began to use the strongest epithets possible in their vocabulary against the Union soldiers, calling them "nigger lovers," "lopeared Dutch," "thieves" and "murderers." The author spoke to them saying, "You are mistaken. These men are gentlemen, sent here by the government to establish a military post, and if you treat them nicely you will receive the same kind of treatment." About this time the front of the command had moved up to the hall. At once a number of the ladies began to make mouths at them and spit over the banisters toward them, calling them vile names. The soldiers then began to hallo at the top of their voices: "O, yonder is my Dixie girl, the one that I marched away from the north to greet." "God bless their little souls, ain't they sweet; sugar wouldn't melt in their mouths." "I am going to get my bandbox and cage up one of the sweet little morsels and take her home for a pet." The voices of the soldiers completely drowned the hearing of anything the women were saying. In a little while the women hushed. As the column was passing by, one of the women remarked, "I believe that gentleman gave us good advice; I think we had better stop our abuse and we will be treated better." We marched down to the west end of High street, marched across to the next main street, then the head of the column turned east again up Main street, and striking up the tune of "Hail, Columbia, My Happy Land," marched up to the east end of Main street, and ordered a guard placed around the whole town, to prevent the escape of the rebel soldiers that were concealed in the town. The author never saw as much confusion as there was there, for a short time, among the citizens, especially the women. Some were laughing, some were abusing the soldiers, some crying, and some cursing. After things had quieted down the soldiers went into camp. Colonel Livingston began to hunt suitable buildings for his head quarters and for an office for the Provost Marshall and Judge Advocate. It became a fixed fact with the citizens of the city that the Federals were going to locate a permanent post at that place. While they were in pursuit of the rebels the author remembered an incident that attracted his attention. There were four or five negro men standing upon the street corner and one of the officers holloed out to the negroes; "Which way did the rebels go?" On one corner of the street there was a bunch of rebel citizens standing and as soon as the corner was turned and they were out of sight of the rebel citizens they answered the officer, "Massa, we don't know which way the rebels went;" one of them dodged around the corner in an instant, and in a low tone of voice, and with a motion of his hand, said, "Massa dey went right dat way," almost in an instant came back around the corner and said in hearing of the rebel citizens "Massa, I declare I don't know the way dem rebels went." The next morning Livingston issued a general order for all persons who claimed protection from the Federal army to come in and report and take the oath. The author remembers an incident that occurred on the evening of the fight. There had been two or three men killed just across the bridge and they placed a guard there with orders to let no person cross it without a pass. Shortly after dark a young lady who had secreted around her waist under her clothes, two pistols, a belt and scabbard which belonged to a Confederate soldier, just after dark came to the bridge and wanted to cross. The sergeant of the guard ask her if she had a pass, to which she replied that she had not. He informed her that he could not let her go over. Among the guards was an Irishman and the young lady remarked to the sergeant that "it was very hard" that she "had a relative that was killed just across the bridge and she wanted to go over and see him and that a woman couldn't do any harm and they might let her go over without a pass." The Irishman sprang to his feet and remarked "Be Jasus, women can do a divil of a sight of harm, can convey more information, can carry more intelligence through the lines to the rebels than twenty men and there are so many of our officers, if she happens to be good looking, would let her pass through." The sergeant believing that she was a near relative of one of the men that was killed a short distance from the bridge, let her pass over, and that night she delivered the pistols to the Confederate soldiers. She afterwards admitted this when she was arrested for refusing to take the oath. If You Will Grease and Butter Him. She declared that she "wouldn't swallow old Lincoln," and the commander ordered all persons who refused to take the oath, either men or women, arrested and sent to Little Rock. When she found that she had to take the oath or go to Little Rock, she said to them that "if they would grease and butter the oath she would try to swallow it." Afterwards she became very intimate with one of the young Federals, married him and when the command broke up left the post, left the country and went with him. The author remained there all that winter, being in active service almost every day, capturing some of the worst men that there were in the country. In a short time after the post was located the west side of the river was all in the control of the rebels. The rebels began to boast and brag that those Northern Yankees could stay around the open field and around cities but whenever they crossed the river they would show them just how rebel bullets would fly. Colonel Freeman's head quarters were near the head of Silamore creek, they would get on the mountains, on each side (as the Yankees knew nothing about mountains) and roll rocks down on them and what they didn't kill with rocks and bullets would be glad to get back across the river to Batesville. There were no ferry boats on the river, they had all been sunk or run out by the rebels. The weather was very cold. White river froze over solid. The old residents there said it was the first time they ever knew of the river freezing over solid. The ice was so thick that it would hold the weight of horses and wagons. Col. Livingston ordered lumber hauled and laid the planks flat on the ice. He then sent some men who resided in Nebraska when at home, to make a test. They reported that the ice was safe for a command to pass over. The commander at once organized a force, crossed the river on the ice, and took up the line of march for the purpose of attacking Freeman's forces, which were distant about ten or twelve miles. As soon as the rebel forces found that they were moving up Silamore creek in the direction of Freeman's headquarters, they placed men on the hills on each side of the creek, and as soon as the Federal forces came within reach, they opened fire, and commenced rolling stones. The commander halted, deployed skirmishers, ordered them to fall back, march on foot and flank the rebels, while they would continue the march up the creek and attract their attention until they would have them completely flanked, and then close in on them. While the main force moved up the creek slowly, under almost continuous fire, all at once a general fire opened up on both sides of the hills. I never before saw rebels running and dodging in all directions, trying to make their escape, as they did then. A number of them were killed and wounded, and the others taken prisoners. The remainder got down from the hills, wiser men, and made a hasty retreat up the creek. Upon the Federal column reaching the headquarters of Freeman, it was so unexpected that he had to retreat, leaving all his camp equipage, his trunk and clothing, and about $5,000 in Confederate money. They retreated in an almost northerly direction. Our force returned to Batesville. The scouts, with a small force of troops, were sent up White river to find where the line of march of the rebels was. They found that they had crossed White river near the mouth of the north fork and were moving in the direction of Pocahontas. There had been two Federal companies detailed and sent out northeast in the direction of Spring river. Freeman's command surrounded them and made prisoners of one of the companies. The other company, commanded by Capt. Majors, made a charge on the lines and cut their way through. Reinforcements were at once dispatched in the direction of the moving columns of rebels. In the meantime, the rebels had reached Pocahontas, on Black river, and had effected a crossing onto the east side of Black river, except the rear guard, which were in their boat about midway of the river, when the Federal forces reached the west side of the river. They fired on the parties in the boat, wounding some of them, but they succeeded in reaching the bank, and turned their boat loose. A strong line of rebels was drawn up on the east bank of Black river, and opened fire on the Federal forces on the west side. After considerable firing, both sides ceased. The rebels appeared to move east; the Federal forces again countermarched and returned to Batesville. The country on the west side of White river was still under the control of a strong force of rebels commanded by Col. Weatherford and three or four other Confederate commanders. About three weeks after their return, an order was issued for two wagon trains with six mule teams and a detail of two companies, to escort it. The train moved out, for the purpose of getting corn and other forage, about fifteen miles distant on White river. After they had arrived at their destination and were loading their wagons, a large force of rebels surrounded them, charged on them, and made prisoners of about half of the escort. The Federal captain, who belonged to one of the 11th Missouri companies, surrendered, handed his pistol, about half shot out, to a rebel soldier, who turned his own pistol on him and shot him dead. The scouts who escaped capture, retreated with all possible haste to Batesville. In the meantime, the rebel forces cut the wagons down, piled them in heaps and set them on fire; while the mules, with all their gear and breeching on were put into White river and swam across to the other side. As soon as the news reached headquarters, a force was speedily organized, and started on a forced march. Upon reaching the scene of action the rebels were all safely across on the other side of the river, harness and wagons were just about completely burned up. No chance of any boats to cross the river and the river being full, they countermarched and returned to Batesville again. The whole winter was taken up in scouting and fighting small bands of rebels. Sometime in the latter part of the winter the commissaries and forage were becoming scarce and the nearest Federal post down White river was at Duvall's bluff. The commander called on the author, who was Captain of scouts, for a detail of two men who could procure a canoe and try, if possible, to reach Duvall's Bluff and inform the Federal authorities there of the conditions of the post. The author detailed a man by the name of Johardy Ware and a man by the name of Simon Mason. They were to procure a canoe and travel in the night, drawing it, when daylight came, into thick brush, and in that way, if possible, reach the Federal post. They succeeded in reaching the post and in a short time commissaries and provisions, with forage, were forwarded up the river on two small transports, with a number of troops to force its passage up the river. Sometime in the latter part of the winter the boats reached Batesville and supplied all of the wants and short rations of the soldiers and again made everything merry and happy. Give an Oyster Supper In April, 1864, the author had promised to return to Rolla for the purpose of aiding and recruiting a regiment, known as the 16th Missouri Cavalry Volunteer. He informed the commander and asked for his recommendation which was granted. He wanted to know when I wanted to start so that he could make preparations to send me around by water. The author informed him that he intended to march through by land. The commander thought it was a thing impossible, that scouting bands of rebels had possession of the country, from a short distance outside of Batesville almost to Rolla, Missouri. The commander and Provost Marshall gave the author an innovation, made an oyster supper for him and his company of scouts, said they were loath to give them up, that they had performed so much valuable service, and he didn't know where he could get any other men to take their places. After taking leave of the officers and soldiers, the author took a small flag, fastened upon a staff, fastened it to the browband of the bridle and remarked to the officers as he bid them good bye, that the stars and stripes should float from Batesville to Rolla or the author would die in the attempt. The company then set out for Rolla, Missouri. Colonel Woods of the 11th Missouri cavalry had been on detached service and Lieutenant Colonel Stevens had been commanding the regiment. He had received orders to join his regiment at Batesville, Arkansas, and, with a considerable force of men, reached the state line about 12 o'clock, and came in sight of the command. They saw our company approaching, at once drew up in line of battle, and as many of the rebels had procured Federal uniforms, both parties sent out couriers to ascertain who the forces were. On learning that both sides were Federals, we marched up and went into camp with them. The author was immediately taken to Col. Wood's headquarters. He informed him that he had camped near West Plains the night before, and that the bushwhackers had kept up a continuous fire until after they got a considerable distance down South Fork; and he believed it impossible for as small a force as I had to reach Rolla without great disaster and perhaps annihilation. He said that the author and his company of scouts were the very men he wanted, and offered to increase his salary to $7.00 per day if he would go back with him and remain with his command. The author told him that he was honor bound to return to Missouri and assist in organizing a regiment of cavalry for the United States service, and if the bushwhackers didn't keep clear, he would give some of them a furlough before he reached Rolla. After dinner Woods broke camp and moved in the direction of Batesville, and we in the direction of Rolla. Near where the last firing was done they had arrested a man named Craws, who really was a Union man, and the author had been well acquainted with him before the war commenced, but Woods' soldiers could with difficulty be restrained from shooting him. On my informing the Colonel that I was well acquainted with the man and that there was no harm in him, he agreed to turn him over to the author and let him bring him back home with him. After we had started, Craws informed the author that he knew the parties who had been firing on the Federal troops; that their headquarters were about two miles from where he then resided; and that he was satisfied from the last firing he had heard, that they had turned off from the main road and gone up what was called the Newberry hollow. After passing the old Newberry farm, they had a plain trail that turned to the right and led directly to the camp. They were commanded by two men named Hawkins and Yates. On reaching his house he agreed to continue with us to the road he thought they had gone, and then return home. I think he was the happiest man I ever saw when he found he had been turned over to my care, believing that Woods' command intended to shoot him. On reaching the road, we found a fresh rebel trail leading right up the creek; we moved on until near the Newberry residence, which we had been informed by Craws was occupied by Hawkins' wife. We turned from the road and halted, and the author, with two or three of his men, being familiar with the country, reached a high point from which we could distinctly see one horse standing at the door. Supposing the rebel scouts were all there, we went back to the company, moved cautiously toward the house, and gave orders to charge upon them as soon as our approach was discovered. On coming within fifty yards of the house, which was unenclosed, a woman stepped outside the door, looked toward us, and then wheeled for the house, and we charged. Hawkins' horse was hitched to a half of a horse shoe driven in at the side of the door, the bridle rein looped over it, his halter rein being already tied over the saddle horn. The author had ordered all to charge with pistols in hand. As Hawkins reached the door and made an attempt to take his bridle rein, he saw that it was impossible. The author demanding his surrender, he attempted to draw his pistol and had it half way out of its holster and cocked, when the author fired upon him. He fell back, still holding his pistol. The author, supposing more of the enemy were inside the house, dismounted, and rushing to the door, demanded the surrender of every person that might be in the house. As the author entered the door, he heard Hawkins, still holding his pistol, remark: "Monks, you have killed me." The author replied that that was what he intended to do, and he must let go of that pistol or he would be shot again. He took his hand loose from the pistol and in a short time was dead. His wife asked the author to lay him out, which request was complied with. We mounted and again took the rebel trail and by this time it had grown so dark that we lost it and went on to the residence of Captain Howard, dismounted, fed our horses and got our supper. Captain Howard afterwards informed the author that he had just been home and started back to the rebel camp and heard the horses feet, stepped behind a tree and that we passed within fifteen feet of him; said if it hadn't been dark we would have been certain to have found the rebel camp; that that day some one of the rebel soldiers had killed a deer, stretched the skin and had it hanging up and the camp wasn't more than two hundred yards from the main road. After we ate our suppers and fed our horses we again resumed our march and reached Rolla, Missouri, on the second day afterwards. Another Meeting With Captain Forshee In the spring of 1863 General Davidson was ordered to move from Rolla, Missouri, directly south to Little Rock. On breaking camp and marching in the direction of West Plains the author, with his company of scouts, was ordered to report to him for service. On reaching West Plains he went into camp. West Plains and vicinity were completely covered with tents and troops. All of the hills adjoining West Plains were literally covered with tents, Davidson's headquarters being inside of the town. The author being sent out on a scout, came to the home of a man named Barnett residing in Gunter's Valley and not being able to reach town, went into camp near Barnett's. In a short time Barnett came in home. He had been a lieutenant in the company where the author was prisoner. He informed the author that he had been to Thomasville Mill and that Captain Forshee, who lived about one mile below, had also returned with him. The author at once placed a guard around Barnett's house (Barnett being the father-in-law of the Captain) detailed two men to accompany him, prepared, mounted, and started to the residence of Forshee fully determined to kill him. The author instructed his men that if Forshee remained in the house and didn't attempt to run, to play off and tell him that they belonged to Colonel Woods, a Confederate officer on White river. The author then being clothed in Federal uniform and having but a limited acquaintance with Forshee before the war did not think that he would recognize him. On reaching the house we repaired to the door, hallooed, and his wife invited us in. The author had his pistol under the cape of his coat still determined upon killing him. On entering the house, found him in bed with one of his children, his wife did not have the supper on the table. The author asked him if he had ever been in the Confederate service; he answered that he had, went out in the six months provisional Confederate service; didn't stay his time out, resigned and came home. The author asked him if they had taken any prisoners while they were in service; he hesitated a moment and replied that they did. The author asked him if he remembered the names of any of them; he said he remembered the names of two of them well. The author asked him if he knew what became of them; he said that Black enlisted in the Confederate service, served his time out and then substituted himself and was now in the eastern Confederate army; he again hesitated. The author asked him if he knew what became of the other man; he said that he didn't; that he made his escape from the Confederate army and he had heard that he was a captain in the Northern army. The author said with an oath "How would you like to see him;" he replied "I would not like to see him very well." The author then said, with an oath, "I am here, look at me and see whether you think I am worth a beef cow or not." At this his wife sprang between him and the author and he said to the author, "Captain, there ain't one man out of ninety-nine but what would kill me for the treatment you received while a prisoner but I have always thought that if I ever met you and you would give me the time to explain the cause of it, you wouldn't kill me, and I want to live to raise my children." The thought passed through the mind of the author that he could not kill him in the lap of his family; but he would take him to Barnett's house where he had some more prisoners and on the next day he would kill him on the way; ordered him to get out of that bed; Forshee again appealed and said that he would like to know whether the author was going to kill him or not; that he wanted to live to raise his children. The author replied to him with an oath that "you ought to have thought of these things when you was pulling me away from the bosom of my family, never gave me time to bid them good-bye; get out of that bed." There was about a six months old child in the cradle. He slid out of the bed, kneeled down by the cradle, and was in the act of praying, his wife still standing close by. The author ordered him to get up; that it was too late to pray after the devil came; that I had been appointed by the devil to send him up at once and lie had the coals hot and ready to receive him and that I didn't want to disappoint the devil. He arose to his feet and again asked the author if he was going to kill him; said he wanted time to give me the whole truth of the matter; went on to say Hawkins, Sapp, Kaiser and others were the cause of all the mistreatment, but would admit that he done wrong in agreeing to deliver the author to them for the purpose of having him mobbed and for abusing him, himself. His wife had hot coffee on the table and she asked that he be allowed to sit down, saying that she wanted to see him sup coffee once more. The author told her that they never gave him time to bid his wife good-bye, let alone to sup coffee with her. After taking a few sups of coffee, the author said that he couldn't fool any longer with him; that he must strike a line and move out. His wife said that she was going with him, but her husband told her she had no business going, as it was then snowing and the ground was considerably frozen. The author told her that if she was determined to go, the boys could take her and the children behind them, but the Captain would have to walk right in front of the author, and if he made a crooked step from there until he reached Barnett's, he would shoot him through. The boys took his wife and children on the horses, and the author started the Captain in front of him. He had thought that he would be compelled to shoot him on the way, but he could not shoot him in the presence of his family; so he thought he would take him to the guard house and keep him until morning, and then on the way to West Plains he would make a pretext to kill him, for he thought he must kill him. In the morning, after breakfast, we broke camp and moved in the direction of West Plains. The author had now become cool, and while he believed he ought to kill him for what he had done, he could not afford to shoot, or cause a prisoner to be shot, while he was in his charge; so on reaching West Plains, the prisoner was turned over to the guard house. The morning following was very cool, and the ground was covered with snow. Gen. Davidson had ordered out a large scout for the purpose of marching towards Batesville and White river, to feel the strength of the enemy, and the author's company composed a part of the detail. After the command was mounted and waiting for orders to move, the sergeant of the guard came out and inquired if there was a Captain Monks in that command. The Colonel informed him that there was. He said there was a prisoner in the guard house who wanted to see him. The author got permission to ride to the guard house, and on reaching the door, who should meet him but Capt. Forshee, who told the author that he had almost frozen the night before, and wanted to know if the author couldn't loan him a blanket. He was told that he was the last man who should ask the author for the use of a blanket. Forshee replied: "That's so, Captain; but I believe that you are a good man, and don't want to see a man, while he is a prisoner, suffer from cold." The author asked him if they had any gray backs in the guard house. He said he had none on himself, but didn't know in what condition the others were. The author had two new government blankets that he had paid $5 apiece for a short time previous, on the back of his saddle. He told Forshee that he didn't know as he would need them both until he had gotten back from the scout, and would loan him a blanket until he returned. Forshee replied: "I will never forget the favor." The author handed him one of the blankets, and immediately started on the scout. While the scout was south reconnoitering with the enemy, Gen. Davidson received orders from headquarters countermanding the order to march to Little Rock by land, and that he would march his forces to Ironton, Missouri, and there await further orders. He at once broke camp and resumed his march in the direction of Ironton, carrying the prisoners with him, with orders for the scout on its return to move up and overtake him, as they were all cavalry. So the author never saw Capt. Forshee nor his blanket any more, but was informed that he was paroled at Ironton, took the oath, returned to Oregon county, and died shortly after the close of the war. Upon the return of the scout to West Plains, a part of the command that belonged to Gen. Davidson's forces moved on after the army, while the author, with two companies, remained in West Plains about half a day for the purpose of resting up. While in West Plains a rebel that the author was well acquainted with, came to him and told him he had better be getting out of West Plains, for a force of five hundred rebels was liable to come into West Plains at any moment. The author pretended to become considerably alarmed, and reported that he was going to march directly to Rolla with the two companies then under his command. After marching about fifteen miles in the direction of Rolla, he made a flank movement, marched into the corner of Douglass county, was there reinforced, and the next day marched directly to the west end of Howell county. The rebels, believing that the Federal troops had all left the county, came in small bunches from all over the county. The author made a forced march and reached the west end of the county about dark, turned directly toward West Plains, took the rebels completely by surprise, had a number of skirmishes with them, reaching West Plains with more rebel prisoners than he had men of his own. On the next day we turned in the direction of Rolla, and by forced march reached Texas county. On the next morning we reached the Federal post at Houston, in Texas county, and turned over the prisoners, among whom were several prominent officers. Capt. Nicks was one of them. On the night of his capture the author said to him: "It appears to me that it is about the same time of night that they brought me prisoner to your house." He answered: "I declare I believe it is." After the rebels found the small number of the force that had made the scout, they declared that it was a shame to let Monks run right into the very heart of the rebels and carry out more prisoners than he had men. Murdering Federal Soldiers. Some time in June, 1863, a rebel scout and a Federal scout had a fight about twenty miles northwest of Rolla. The rebels were forced to abandon a number of wagons and mules, and the Federals, owing to the emergency that confronted them at the time, did not wish to be encumbered with them, so they employed a farmer to keep the mules in his pasture until the government should send for them. The Federal scouts from Rolla and Jefferson City would meet occasionally while scouting. On the scout's arrival at Rolla, another scout composed of about one company of Federals was sent out to bring in the wagons and teams. Just before reaching the place where the wagons and teams had been left, they saw a command of about two hundred and fifty men, all dressed in Federal uniforms, and they at once took them to be a Federal scout from Jefferson City. On approaching each other, they passed the army salute, and marched right down the Federal line; they, being unsuspecting, believed them to be Federal troops. As soon as they were in position each man had his man covered with a pistol. The rebel scout outnumbering the Federal scout more than two to one, they demanded their surrender. The Federals, seeing their condition, at once surrendered. They were marched about a quarter of a mile, near where the wagons and teams were left, dismounted and went into camp, as the rebels claimed, for dinner. Several citizens were present. They marched the Federal company together, surrounded them in a hollow square, brought some old ragged clothing, and ordered them to strip. After they were all stripped completely naked, and while some were attempting to put on the old clothing, all their uniforms having been removed a short distance from them, at a certain signal the rebels fired a deadly volley into them. Then followed one of the most desperate scenes ever witnessed by the eye of man. The men saw their doom, and those who were not killed by the first volley rushed at the rebels, caught them, tried to wrest their arms from them, and a desperate struggle took place; men wrestling, as it were, for their very lives. A number of the Federals had their throats cut with knives. After the rebels had completed the slaughter and hadn't left a man alive to tell the tale, they ate their dinner, and taking the mules and wagons, moved southwest with them. The citizens at once reported the affair to the commander of the post at Rolla. The men who were killed belonged to an Iowa regiment, and the author believes it was the 3rd Iowa, but will not be positive. A strong detail was made and sent at once to the scene of the late tragedy, with wagons and teams to bring the dead back to Rolla. On their arrival with them, it was the most horrible scene that the author ever looked upon. After they were buried, the regiment to which they belonged declared and avowed that they intended to take the same number of rebel lives. The commander, knowing their determination, and being satisfied that they would carry it into effect if the opportunity offered, transferred them to another part of the country. A Rebel Raid. Some time in the fall of 1863 the Federal authorities at Rolla learned that the rebels were organizing a strong force in Arkansas, for the purpose of making a raid into Missouri. The rebels were under the command of Gen. Burbrage. The author, being still the commander of the scouts, was ordered to take one man and go south, for the purpose of learning, if possible, the movements of the rebels. The author left Rolla, came by way of Houston, where there was a post, thence to Hutton Valley, where there was living a man named Andy Smith, who was a Union man, but had made the rebels believe he was in favor of the south. The author approached Smith's house after dark, got something to eat and to feed his horses, and learned from Smith that the rebels were about prepared to make the raid into Missouri. On the next day the author was informed by Smith that Burbrage was then moving with his full force in the direction of Missouri. The author at once started, intending to reach the nearest Federal force, which was in Douglas county. In the meantime, Gen. Burbrage, with his whole force, reached the Missouri line, leaving West Plains a little to the right, taking an old trace that ran on the divide between the waters of the North fork of White river and of Eleven Points river, this being afterwards known as "the old Burbrage trail." The author, expecting they would march by way of West Plains and on through Hutton Valley, thought he would be able to keep ahead of them and make his report; but owing to their marching an entirely different route, the author crossed their trail. He found that a large force of men had just passed and he, in company with a man named Long, examined the horse tracks, found that the shoes contained three nails in each side, and knew at once that it must be Burbrage's command. They had passed not more than three hours before this time. Making a forced march, the author and Long followed on the same trail, and soon came to a house, holloed, and a lady coming out, we inquired how far the command was ahead. The lady informed us that they hadn't been gone more than three hours, and she exclaimed: "Hurrah for Gen. Burbrage and his brave men! The Yankees and lopeared Dutch are goin' to ketch it now, and they intend to clean them out of the country!" We then became satisfied as to whose command it was, and their destination. We rode on about two hundred yards from the house, turned to the left, and started with all possible speed, intending, if possible, to go around them and get the word in ahead of them. On striking the road at the head of the North Fork of White river, we looked ahead of us about a hundred yards and saw twenty-five men, about fifty yards from the road, all in citizen's dress, wearing white hat bands. The state had ordered all the state militia to wear white hat bands, so that they might be designated from the rebels. The author remarked to Long: "I guess the men are militia, but we will ride slowly along the road and pass them, for fear they are rebels." They remained still on their horses until after we had passed them, then they moved forward and came riding up and halted us, and wanted to know who we were. The author told them his name was Williams and Long told them his name was Tucker. They asked us if we had ever heard of the Alsups, and we told them we had. Then they wanted to know where we were going. We told them we were going into Arkansas, near Yellville; that a general order had been made in the state of Missouri that all able-bodied men must come and enroll their names and those who were not in the state service would have to be taxed; that we didn't want to fight nor pay a tax to support those who were fighting. They ordered us to dismount, surrounded us, with cocked pistols, and ordered us to crawl out of our clothes and give up our arms. We commenced to strip. Long had on a very fine pair of boots, for which he had just paid $5.00, and while the author didn't know at what moment they would be shot, he could not help but be tickled at the conduct of Long when they ordered him to take off his boots. He crossed his legs and commenced pulling, with the remark: "My boots are tight." The pistols were cocked and presented right on him, not more than six feet away, and they told him to hurry up or they would shoot his brains out. While he was pulling at his boots he appeared to be looking right down the muzzles of the revolvers. As soon as he had pulled off his boots and pitched them over, they remarked: "Hell, a right brand new pair of socks on. Pull them off quick and throw them over." A part of these men were dressed in the dirtiest, most ragged clothes the author had ever seen--old wool hats, with strings tied under their chins, old shoes with the toes worn out, and old socks that were mostly legs; but claiming all the time to be militia. They ordered us to get into their old clothes and shoes, and placed their old hats upon us. Our clothing and hats all being new, the author thought that was one of the hardest things they had ordered him to do; that he was just as apt to get out of the garments as to get into them. After we were dressed in their old clothing, one of them asked: "What did you say your name was?" Long replied, "Tucker." One that was standing a little back came running up with his pistol cocked, and remarked that if he was a certain Tucker (naming the Tucker): "I am going to kill him right here." Another of the number said: "Hold on, this man is not the Tucker that you are thinking of." Then their leader said, with an oath: "We belong to Gen. Burbrage's command. He is just ahead. Do you want us to take you up to headquarters?" We told him we had heard of Gen. Burbrage, and expected that he was a good man, so if they wanted to take us to his headquarters all right: but we did not want to fall into the hands of the militia, as we wanted to get through to Yellville while Gen. Burbrage was in the country. One of the men looked at the horses we were riding and remarked: "Let's take the horses. We have orders to take all horses that are fit for the service." Another said the horses were rather small for the service, and as we would have a great deal of water to cross between there and Yellville, it would be a pity to make us wade it. Then their leader remarked: "We are Confederate soldiers, out fighting for our country, and you men are too damned cowardly to fight. We have got to have clothing, and as we suppose you are good southern men, when you get to Yellville you can work for more clothes." They then ordered us to take the road and move on, and tell the Alsups that the country was full of rebels. We mounted our horses and rode away, feeling happy on account of our escape. They remained in the road and watched us until we were out of their sight. The author looked over at Long's feet and saw his toes sticking out of his old shoes; could see his naked skin in several places through his raiment. He hardly looked natural--didn't look like the same man. We hadn't gone more than a mile until we struck a farm and a road leading between the farm on one side and the bluff and river on the other, and looking in front, saw about fifteen men coming. The author said to Long: "What shall we do? Shall we attempt to run, or had we better pass them?" We concluded that it was impossible to get away by running; the only chance left being to try to pass through them without being recognized. We rode up to meet them, and they halted us and wanted to know where we were going. We told them we were going to Marion county, Arkansas, near Yellville. They asked us our names and we again gave the names of Williams and Tucker. A man named Charley Durham who had resided at West Plains and had met me several times, rode up near us and asked me; "What did you say your name was?" I replied, "Williams." He asked: "Did you ever live down here about the state line?" I told him I never did, but I might have had relatives who lived on the state line. He said: "I am satisfied that I have seen you somewhere." One of the crowd asked us if we had met about twenty-five soldiers just ahead, and when we informed them that we had, they remarked: "Bully for the boys; we had better be moving on or we will be late." They moved on, and we continued down the road. As soon as we were out of sight I said to Long; "We will not risk our chances in passing any more of them; there are too many men down here that are acquainted with us. If it hadn't been for my old clothes, Charley Durham would have recognized me beyond a doubt." We then left the road and took to the woods, reaching the Federal forces about midnight. They had not heard a thing regarding the approach of the rebels. They hurriedly began to gather in all the forces, and at once set out to find, if possible, the destination of Gen. Burbrage. It was learned that he had completely cut us off from reaching either Houston or Rolla. On the next day the Federal forces met Gen. Burbrage at Hearstville, Wright county, Missouri, and there fought a battle with him. The commander of the post at Houston, who was in command of the Federals, was killed on the first fire from the artillery of Gen. Burbrage. Col McDonald, during the engagement, was shot dead at the head of the town spring. Burbrage retreated on the same route that he had come up on. His command was separated into several divisions, to get food. Long and I had been furnished clothes and arms. Capt. Alsup being in command, moved near the road that leads down Fox Creek, saw a rebel scout moving down Fox Creek, composed of a part of the same men we had met the day before. Capt. Alsup said he thought that by striking the road and taking the rebels by surprise we could rout them. On marching about a mile we came in sight of them, dismounted for dinner at the house of a man named Ferris. I proposed to Capt. Alsup that we charge them. He thought it might be too dangerous; that they would have the benefit of the house, and might outnumber us, and we would be compelled to retreat and might be cut off from our horses. He ordered us to dismount, formed a line, left men to hold the horses, and on moving about ten steps, the rebel picket, who was placed just outside of the line, discovered us. They opened fire from each side of the house, and along a picket fence which enclosed the house. We returned the fire. The first volley that was fired, a ball passed near my ear, and wounded the horse that I was riding. The firing continued for some time. We had them cut off from their horses, unless they came outside and faced the continual firing. One man attempted to leave the house and reach his horse, but about ten feet from the door he received a wound in the face and fell to the ground. In a moment he arose to his feet, and he and several others again retreated into the house. The firing continued for fifteen or twenty minutes, when the rebels retreated on foot, by taking advantage of the house, except one man, who reached his horse, cut the halter, sprang into the saddle, turned his horse down the lane, leaning close to the horn of the saddle, put spurs and made his escape. In the meantime the wounded man attempted to make his escape by taking advantage of the house and retreating. Capt. Alsup, when he saw the rebels were retreating, ordered a charge. The wounded man was again wounded, and fell to the ground, helpless. All the other rebels reached the woods, and made their escape. Farris, the man who owned the house where the rebels were stopping, received a serious wound in the breast. They left sixteen horses with their rigs, saddle-riders filled with new clothing, in our possession. Gen. Burbrage retreated from the state, and the author reported to his command at Rolla. Rescuing Union Families. In the fall of 1862 some of the Union men whose families were still residing in Ozark and Howell counties went to the Federal post and were promised arms and ammunition in order to return and try to get their families out, as it had become almost impossible for their families to get through alone, on account of being robbed. About fifty of them procured arms and started for Howell county, from the outpost of the Federal authorities. They marched at night and lay by in the day, and on reaching the western part of Howell county, informed their families to get ready to move, still keeping themselves in hiding. About twenty families prepared for moving, and had assembled on the bayou, near where Friend's old mill was located. Just about the time they were ready to start, a bunch of rebels came up and opened fire on them. They returned the fire and held the rebels at a distance while they moved all their wagons up close together, and started in the direction of Ozark county. One of the men who had come to assist in the escort became excited upon the first fire from the rebels and ran, never stopping until he reached the Federal lines. The remainder of the men bravely repelled the rebels, while their families kept their teams steadily moving. On reaching the big North Fork of White River, and while the families in their wagons were in mid-stream, the rebels reached the bluff and opened fire on them. The Union men vigorously returned the fire. They all reached the opposite side of the river without one of their number being killed; some of the women and children had received slight wounds, but nothing serious. The rebels still continued to fire upon them until they reached the northern part of Ozark county, when further pursuit was abandoned, and about twenty families were enabled to reach the Federal lines. In a short time the Union men attempted to again reach their homes, for the purpose of helping destitute families to get out. They traveled only at night, keeping themselves concealed in day time. In this way they reached Fulton county, Arkansas, when the rebels found out that some of the Union men were in the country. The rebel forces at once became so strong that the Federals had to retreat without getting any of their families, passing back through the western part of Howell county, over into Ozark, and went into camp on the head of Lick Creek. Shortly after they got into camp the rebels slipped up on them and opened fire, mortally wounding a man named Fox and slightly wounding several others. They had to scatter at once to avoid being captured, and when they reached the Federal lines they were almost worn out. At this time all of the Federal posts had numbers of refugee families stationed near them, entirely destitute of food and raiment, and relying entirely for their preservation upon the small amount of help they received from the government. General Price's Raid. Upon my return from Batesville, Arkansas, in the spring of 1864, I commenced recruiting for the 16th Missouri Cavalry Volunteers, the most of the regiment being composed of men who had been in the state service. The required number to form the regiment was soon procured, and the regiment was organized, electing for their Colonel, John Mahan. The author was elected Captain of Co. K. The regiment was at once placed in active service, being quartered at Springfield, Missouri, up to the time of Gen. Price's raid. Then the regiment was divided, one half of it being sent in pursuit of Price. The other half, which was known as the second battalion, was placed under my command and held at Springfield, it being expected that Gen. Price would change his line of march and attack the city. As soon as the fact was ascertained that Price was marching north and west of Springfield, orders were made to send every available man that could be spared from the post. Among the troops sent out was the author's battalion. We were ordered on a forced march in the direction of Utony, for the purpose of cutting off Price's retreat. We reached Utony about 10 o'clock at night, where they had a strong Federal garrison. Two thousand rebels of Price's command had just marched across the road before we reached the garrison, and gone into camp in sight of the town. Strong pickets were thrown out on each side. About daylight the Federal forces broke camp and moved on the rebel camp, soon coming in sight of the rebel forces, and fire was opened on both sides. The rebels commenced retreating, the Federals pursuing, and continuous firing and fighting was kept up until we came near the Arkansas line. A number of rebel prisoners were taken, besides some of their commissary wagons falling into the possession of the Federals. The Federal commander then ordered a retreat back to Springfield. Price's forces had torn up all the railroads as they passed over them, cutting off all supplies, and the soldiers and prisoners had been placed on quarter rations. The prisoners, numbering about three hundred and fifty, were ordered to be taken to Rolla, Missouri. After the first day's march from Springfield they met a Federal train carrying commissaries to Springfield and other western points. The men being then on quarter rations, the Colonel took possession of some of the commissaries and issued them to the soldiers and prisoners, for which he was afterward arrested and court-martialed. On reaching Lebanon, Missouri, I saw the quartermaster haul in about five or six loads of shucked corn, which was distributed to the soldiers and prisoners. I well remember that while they were distributing the corn to the prisoners, a general rush, which appeared to be almost uncontrollable, was made around the wagon. The corn was thrown out on the ground among them, they picked it up in their arms, and at once retired to their camp fires, so that they might parch and eat it. After leaving Lebanon, the prisoners were all placed in charge of the author. He remembers one rebel prisoner who had on a fine dress coat, with a bullet hole right in the center of the back, and the soldiers had to be watched closely to prevent them from shooting him, as they believed it to be a coat that had been taken from the body of some Union man, after he had been shot. On reaching Rolla, the author turned over all the prisoners to the commander of the post, and they were sent directly to Rock Island, there to be held as prisoners until such time as they might be exchanged. I again returned to Springfield and reported to my regiment. A short time thereafter, the loyal men of the counties of Howell, Dent, Texas, Phelps, Ozark and Douglas, in Missouri, and of Fulton, Izard and Independence counties, in Arkansas, with a number of the officers and soldiers, including the commander at Rolla, petitioned Gen. Schofield, who was then in command of the western district, to have the author detached from his regiment, then at Springfield, and sent south of Rolla to some convenient place, and given command of a post, as it was almost impossible to send commissaries through from Rolla to Springfield, on what was known as the wire road, on account of the roving bands of rebels, who had complete control of the country, a short distance from the military post. Capt. Monks Establishes a Post at Licking. Gen. Schofield at once made an order that Capt. Monks be detached from his regiment and report at Rolla, with his company, for further orders. Gen. Sanborn, then in command at Springfield, informed the author of his final destination; that on reaching Rolla, he would be ordered by Gen. Schofield to Licking, Missouri, to establish a post. It soon leaked out, and the rebels swore openly that if he established a post at Licking or at any other southern point, they would soon drive the post into the ground and annihilate him and his men. I went to Gen. Sanborn and requested that he send a telegram to Gen. Schofield, and ask him to countermand that part of the order that required Capt. Monks to report at Rolla for further orders, and order him to move directly from Springfield to Licking. The General hesitated for sometime, as to whether it would be good policy, owing to the large numbers of rebels in the country through which I had to pass. He didn't believe that I would be able to reach Licking with the one company, but he finally decided that if I was willing to risk it, he would ask Gen. Schofield to change his order. On Gen. Schofield's receiving the telegram, he made an order that I be detached from my regiment, be furnished two company wagons, be well supplied with arms, and proceed directly to Licking. On reaching Licking I was to report by courier to headquarters for further orders; and in obedience to said order, two company wagons, with tents, commissaries, arms and ammunition were at once furnished, and I set out for Licking, Texas county; passed Hartville, the county seat of Wright county, and struck the waters of Big Piney. There was considerable snow on the ground at the time. I took the rebels by complete surprise. While they were expecting me from Rolla to Licking, I struck them from the direction they least expected. On reaching Piney, I encountered a rebel force of about sixty men. We had a fight, two or three rebels were killed, and the rest retreated south. From that time until we reached Licking, we had more or less fighting every day. We would strike trails of rebels in the snow, where there appeared to be over one hundred men, but they were so sure that it was a large scout from Springfield that they did not take time to ascertain, but retreated south at once. On reaching Licking, I sent a dispatch to Gen. Schofield, telling of my arrival, and immediately received orders to establish a post and erect a stockade fort, and to issue such orders as I believed would rid the country of those irregular bands of rebels and bushwhackers and protect all in their person and property, especially the loyal men. I immediately selected a frame building for my headquarters, with an office near by for the man acting as provost marshal; issued my order requiring all persons who claimed protection from the Federal authorities to come in and take the oath, and bring with them axes, shovels, picks and spades, with their teams, for the purpose of erecting a stockade fort. And further setting out in said order, requiring all persons who knew of any irregular bands of rebels or bushwhackers roaming or passing through the country, to report them at once; and if they failed to report them, they would be taken as bushwhackers and treated as such. In a short time I had erected a complete stockade fort with port-holes, and room enough inside to place all the cavalry horses in case of an attack by the rebels. I had these orders printed and sent out all over the country. In a short time, a man who had been known to be a rebel, but had stayed at home unmolested, but who had been giving aid and comfort to the rebels, came into the office and said: "Captain, I want to see you in your private room." On entering the room he said: "I have read that order of yours. You don't intend to enforce it, do you, Captain?" I said to him that I did or I wouldn't have made it; that the rebels and I could not both stay in that country. He said to me, "Captain, of all the post commanders we have had here, there never was one of them issued such an order as that. You know if I were to report those rebel bands they would kill me." I replied, "Very well; you have read my order, and I have said to you and all others that if you fail to report them I will kill you; and you say if you do report them, they will kill you; now, if you are more afraid of them than you are of me, you will have to risk the consequences; for, by the eternal God! if you fail to report them, I have said to you that I would treat you as a bushwhacker, and you well know how I treat them." He dropped his head for a few minutes, then raised it and said: "Well, it is mighty hard, Captain." I replied that there were a great many hard things now; asked him where all of his Union neighbors were. He said that they had been forced to leave their homes and were around the Federal posts for the reason that they claimed to be Union men. I told him that "a lot of you rebels have lain here in the country and made more money than you ever made before in your lives, and at the same time you have been giving aid, comfort and encouragement to all of these irregular bands--giving them all the information that they wanted, so that they might know just when to make their raids, and now I propose to break it up and stop it, unless they are able to rout me and drive me away. The government proposes to protect all of you who will come in and take the oath and comply with every requirement set out in the order. All I ask of you men is to give me information of these irregular rebel bands and their whereabouts, and you can again return home and your information will be kept a secret; but this much you are required to do." In a short time a large number of them had come in and enrolled their names, took the oath and went to work on the fort like heroes. Occasionally one would come in and say "Captain, I want to procure a pass for me and my family through the Federal lines; I want to leave." I would ask him; "What's the matter now? You have stayed here all through the war, up to the present time, and now I have come among you, and offered to protect every one of you who will take the oath and comply with orders." He would reply with a long sigh, "Yes, Captain but that order that you have made." I would ask him "what order." "You require all citizens, especially we people who have been rebels, and stayed at home, to report all of the roving bands of rebels and bushwhackers; if we don't do it, you will treat us like bushwhackers; if we were to report them, they would kill us." I said, "Now, you must chose between the two powers; and if you are more afraid of the rebels than you are of me, you will have to risk your chances. You say if you report them, they will kill you. Now, by the Eternal, I am determined to enforce everything that I have set out in that order. This day you must settle in your own mind whom you will obey. As soon as the first roving bands of rebels and guerrillas reached the country for the purpose of raiding the wire road between Rolla and Springfield, the night never was too dark but that this same class of men would come in and report them. I would at once make a detail, send these men right out with them. As soon as they would get near to the rebels, they would dismiss these men and let them go home." The rebels, for several years, had been sending out a large scout from North Arkansas and the border counties of Missouri and when they would reach Texas and Pulaski counties they would divide into small squads and travel the byways and ridges; on reaching the wire road they would then concentrate and lay in wait until the wagon trains and non-combatants who were merchants, were moving through from Rolla to Springfield under the protection of an escort; and all at once they would make a charge upon them from their hiding places, rout the escort, capture the train and all others that might be in company with it, cut the mules loose from the wagon, take all the goods that was not cumbersome, especially coffee, sugar, salt and dry goods, place them on the backs of the mules, travel a short distance, divide up again into small parties, take byways and mountains, travel fifteen or twenty miles, go into camp; on reaching the counties of Oregon and Shannon, Fulton and Lawrence, of Arkansas, they would concentrate their forces, go into camp, eat, drink, and be merry. As soon as their supplies would run short, they would make another scout of a similar nature. The commanders of the post, as soon as they would attack the trains, would order out a scout to pursue them. They would strike their trail and follow them a short distance to where they would separate and take to the mountains. They would abandon the pursuit, return and swear that the country wasn't worth protecting. In that way they completely outgeneraled the Federal forces and held complete possession of the country almost in sight of the post. On one occasion, when the weather was very cold and bleak, I knew of their capturing some of the Federal soldiers within one mile of the fort, kept them until the coldest part of the night, just before day, stripped them naked, turned them loose, and they were compelled to travel a mile before they could reach a fire, and they were almost frostbitten. Every Union man was driven away from his home and moved his family to different posts. The author had declared that he and the rebels could not both remain in the country together; that he would either rout them or they would have to rout him, and for that reason every man that remained in the country would have to aid him in the work. So, in every instance, when he would send a force in pursuit of those raiding bands, he would order the scout to follow them, and when they divided to still continue pursuit of the most visible trail, and when they came in sight to not take time to count noses, but charge them and pursue them until they were completely annihilated. They would go into camp and move at their leisure, but not so when my scouts got in pursuit of them. In a number of instances they would overtake them from twenty to twenty-five miles from the wire road, in camp, having a jolly good time, and the first intimation they would have would be the boys in blue charging in amongst them, shooting right and left, and they would scatter in all directions. It was but a short time until they remarked to some of the rebel sympathizers that they had never seen such a change in the movements of the Federal scouts; that they used to consider themselves safe from a Federal scout as soon as they left the main road and divided into small squads; but now they were in as much danger in the most secluded spot in the mountains as they were in the traveled roads; therefore, their commanders would have to change their tactics in regard to the scouts, and abandon that part of the country, as almost every scout that they had made to the wire road had proved disastrous since "Old Monks" had been placed in command of the post. In a short time, the Union men, who had been driven from the country, began to return and go onto their farms, and about five months after I had been placed in command of the post, the civil authorities came and held circuit court, Judge Waddle, of Springfield, then being circuit judge. Skirmishes with the Rebels. Some time in the summer, Col. Freeman, who was commanding the rebels in northeastern Arkansas, whose headquarters were near the Spring River mill, made a raid and threatened to capture the Federal forces that were then at the Licking post. I soon gained information of his intention, made every preparation to repel the attack, also informed the commander at Rolla of the intended raid. Col. Freeman, accompanied by other rebel commanders, concentrated all of the available rebel force then at his command, raided the country, came within about five miles of the post, learned that reinforcements had been sent to the post, countermarched and retreated to his headquarters near the head of Spring river. A regiment of Federal troops, known as the Fifteenth Veterans, was sent as a reinforcement, with a part of the Fifth Missouri State Militia that was then stationed at Salem, with orders to remain at the post. I received orders to organize all of the available troops and pursue the rebel forces, and, if possible, to reach the Spring River mill, in Fulton county, Arkansas, and destroy the mill, which Freeman was using at that time for grinding meal. The Federal force composing the scout, aggregating about three hundred and fifty men, moved from the post at Licking. The author divided his forces, ordering one wing of them to move through Spring Valley, in Texas county; the other wing to move directly in the direction of Thomasville, with orders to form a junction about seven miles from Thomasville, where there was a rebel force stationed. On reaching the Wallace farm, in Oregon county, we came onto a force of rebels, commanded by James Jamison, who had met for the purpose of receiving ammunition which had been smuggled through from Ironton. After an engagement, the rebels fled, leaving one man dead; James Jamison received a flesh wound in the thigh. The Federal force which had been ordered through Spring Valley had had an engagement near the head of the valley, which had delayed them. The plans of the author had been frustrated by coming in contact with the rebels sooner than he expected. As they had retreated in the direction of Thomasville, where the main force was said to be stationed, I continued my march, and in about one mile came onto a rebel camp, where the rebels had cabins erected for quarters; here another spirited engagement took place, the rebels retreating in the direction of Thomasville, the Federal forces still pursuing. Just above Thomasville the command encountered a strong picket force, fired upon the command, intending to halt it, but being satisfied that there was a trap laid I ordered a charge. The picket force retreated to the left, up a steep hill, and at once the whole rebel force opened fire from the side of the mountain; the bullets flew just above our heads like hail, one ball passing through my hat. We still continued the charge and on reaching the top of the hill, routed the whole rebel force and they again retreated. The author marched into Thomasville, selected his camping ground inside of Captain Olds' barn lot, giving us the advantage of the barn, in case we were attacked by a superior rebel force. I at once dispatched a forage train with strong escort to gather in all the forage possible, as it was very scarce in the country. After we had been in camp about an hour I inquired of Captain Olds if he knew of any corn. He said he did not. In about a half hour my attention was called by one of the captains pointing to a large smokehouse, and on looking, saw the soldiers taking down any amount of first-class corn. I informed the captain that Captain Olds had claimed that he had no corn; to take the quartermaster and let him place a guard over the corn, to see that it was not wasted, and that it was properly apportioned. In a short time the author saw Captain Olds coming. He went to one of the other captains and inquired who the commander was. He was informed that it was Capt. Monks. He came to the author laughing and remarked: "You found my corn, did you? I told you that I had none; I had to secrete it in that building to keep it so that the rebels could not find it." I just remarked to Captain Olds: "You needn't try to hide anything from these lopeared Dutch, for I don't care where you put it they will find it." The men who discovered the corn were all Germans and belonged to a German company. He asked us to feed just as sparingly as possible and leave him a part of the corn, which we did. He then attempted to warn the author of his danger and asked him if he intended to camp there for the night; said that Colonel Freeman had over one thousand men which he could concentrate within five or six hours and that he would cut the author's command all to pieces. The author replied to the captain that that was his business, that Freeman had come up on the scout and claimed that he was wanting a fight; the author prepared for him and expected to accommodate him but he changed his notion and retreated, devastating the country as he went, and now the author was hunting him and his forces and wanted to fight. If he came up that night and attacked the author's command that it would save any more trouble hunting him. Just about that time the author saw the other part of the command approaching and called the attention of Captain Olds and asked him if he thought that was a part of Freeman's command. After looking a few minutes he said to the author: "They are Federal troops." I asked him if he thought we would be able to remain there until morning? He said that he thought we would and invited me to come into his house and eat supper. While at supper asked if we intended to march any further south. The author informed him that if his information was correct in regard to Freeman's forces we were about as far away from home as we ought to get and that we had better move back in the direction of the post. The author ordered the command to be ready to march by early daylight, next morning broke camp and moved in the direction of Spring river. On reaching the head of Warm fork of Spring river, we encountered another rebel force; had a short engagement, and they again retreated. On reaching the head of Spring river about the middle of the afternoon, we again met a rebel force; after considerable firing they retreated. The author moved up near the mill and went into camp. The mill was grinding corn with quite a lot of corn on hand, but the miller left and retreated with the rebels. The author soon placed a substitute in his place and the boys had a fine time baking corn cakes. After supper, some of the men had just retired to rest, when the rebels again made a fierce attack; after fighting for twenty or twenty-five minutes they retreated a short distance and went into camp, the river dividing the two forces. During the night the two pickets would dare each other to cross the river. During the night there came a heavy rain and made the Warm fork of Spring river swimming; there was no way to cross except on the mill dam. The next morning about daylight the author ordered them to take the millstones and break them up and destroy the machinery so it would be impossible to grind; dismounted about one hundred men, placed them in hiding and marched away a short distance, thinking the rebels would cross over and we would surprise and capture them. But on seeing the Federals break camp and marching up on the west side of the river, they broke camp and marched up on the east side of the river. The author then mounted his men and marched up the Warm fork to where he effected a crossing, marched about ten miles, went into camp for the purpose of getting breakfast. Just after breakfast, the author noticed the advance of a rebel force march out on another road; as soon as they discovered that the Federals were in camp, they fell back and the author at once mounted his men. On the other road, as there was a considerable hill that hid them from sight, he formed his men in two lines in a V; detailed a strong advance force, ordered them to move onto the rebels and charge them, and in case they found that they were too strong, to retreat back between the lines for the purpose of drawing the rebel forces in between the lines. After a fierce conflict, lasting but a few minutes, the rebels again retreated, leaving a rebel Major dead upon the ground. We then marched into Thomasville and had another running fight with the rebels, went into camp and the next morning marched back in the direction of the post at Licking, reaching the post about 10 o'clock that night. The author again took command at the post and the Fifteenth Veterans returned to Rolla. Ridding the Country of Bushwhackers. It soon became very rare to hear of a rebel scout north of the mountain. Both rebel and Union men who claimed protection by the Federal authorities began to repair and improve their farms again. During the time that the author was in command of the post, which continued up to the time that peace was made, his command had routed and completely driven from the country all irregular and roving bands of rebels and bushwhackers and had had numbers of small engagements in which there had been from eighty to ninety of the most desperate class of men that ever lived, killed, which was shown in the adjutant general's report. After they had been driven out of the county, they located in the counties of Oregon, Shannon and Dent, and at once commenced pillaging and robbing all classes of citizens, irrespective of their political adherence. Col. Freeman sent a courier through the lines with a dispatch, stating the condition of affairs, and asking that an armistice be entered into between Col, Freeman's scouts and the scouts which might be sent out from the post, with an understanding that they were going to aid each other in routing and driving out these irregular bands. While engaged in that work they were not to fire on each other, but to co-operate. The author was to enter into the agreement if it could be effected. Col. Freeman sent Capt. Cook into Oregon and Shannon counties to locate those roving guerrilla bands, and in some way, unknown to either Col. Freeman or myself, they gained the information, and while Capt. Cook was in Oregon county locating them, they waylaid him and killed him. Col. Freeman, realizing the fact that they had come into possession of the whole scheme, came to the conclusion that we had better abandon the agreement. He organized scouts and captured and shot some of the most desperate characters that were leaders, while the author kept a vigilant watch to keep them from crossing over into Texas or adjoining counties. At the time peace was made, it was admitted by the law-abiding people, irrespective of party, that the command of Col. Monks had completely rid the country of all irregular bands of rebels and had made it safe, in a short time after he had taken command of the post, for forage trains and all other classes of citizens to pass on the wire road from Rolla to Springfield unmolested, and that very often they passed through without an escort. Battle at Mammoth Spring. Col. Wood, commanding the Sixth Missouri cavalry, left Rolla on the 7th day of March, 1862, with about two hundred and fifty men, for the purpose of making a scout south into the counties of Oregon and Howell and Fulton county, Arkansas, to ascertain the strength of the rebel forces in that portion of the country; reached Licking and went into camp. The next morning he broke camp and marched to Jack's fork, in Shannon county, and on the morning of the 9th marched to Thomasville; on the 10th he marched to Mammoth Spring, Arkansas. On reaching Mammoth Spring they learned that there was a rebel force in camp on the south fork of Spring river, just below Salem, and on the morning of the 11th they broke camp and marched upon the rebels. On reaching the rebel encampment they found they had cut timber and blockaded the road, so that it was impossible to reach the forces, except on foot. In coming within a few hundred yards of the rebels, lying concealed behind the timbers, they opened fire upon the advance of the Federal forces. The Federal forces had two small pieces of artillery that they unlimbered and brought into use. The rebels having no artillery, were soon dislodged from the first line of works, and they stubbornly fell back about one quarter of a mile, and went in behind the second fortifications that had been hurriedly erected. After fighting for an hour and a half or two hours the Federal force being greatly outnumbered, and the rebels having themselves so obstructed, Col. Woods saw that it was useless to further continue the fight and retreated. On the next night he reached Howell Valley just below West Plains and went into camp and on the morning of the 13th they broke camp and marched in the direction of Houston, Missouri, reaching Houston sometime after night. The Federal loss in the battle referred to was seven killed and wounded. The Confederate loss was said to be twenty-five or thirty killed and wounded. Colonels Coleman and Woodside were commanding the Confederates. Col. Woods being in command of the post at Houston, learning that there was considerable of a rebel force, standing at West Plains, Missouri, under the command of Coleman and others, organized a scout and on the 24th day of February, 1862, broke camp and marched in the direction of West Plains, for the purpose of attacking the rebel forces stationed at that place, taking two small mounted howitzers strapped on mules, made a forced march, and in the early part of the day on the 25th reached West Plains. West Plains had a frame court house in the center of the square where the present court house is located. The road at that time led due north where Washington avenue is located until it struck the hill; also there was a road which led east where East main street is now located and on passing what was known as the Thomas Howell farm, turned directly north in the direction of Gunters Valley. The rebels had a strong picket thrown out on both roads; a part of the rebel command was quartered in the court house. Woods being advised of the condition of the rebels and where they were all quartered, supposing that they would take advantage of the court house when the attack was made, selected a high position where the road first struck the hill, planted his artillery, divided his forces and made a flank movement, ordered them to strike the lower road and advance on the pickets and as soon as they were fired upon, to charge them, while he would remain with the other part of the force in readiness to dislodge them with his artillery in case they used the court house as a fortification. On the advance coming in sight of the rebel pickets, they fired and retreated with the Federal forces pursuing. The rebel forces at once rallied their forces and took possession of the courthouse. As soon as Col. Woods saw them file into the house he leveled his cannon and fired a shell which struck the house near its center and passed clear through; that was the first artillery that the rebel command ever had heard. They filed out of the house faster than they went into it; then Col. Woods moved with his forces directly upon the forces near the court house when a general engagement ensued. The rebels retreated west on the road near where West Main street is now located and a running fight was continued for about one mile, when Woods abandoned the pursuit, marched back into West Plains, and again returned to Houston. The losses on both sides were light, several, however, being killed or wounded. "Uncle Tommy" and His Crutches. I will relate an incident which occurred during the fight. Old "Uncle Tommy" Howell as he was familiarly known, resided just below the town spring a short distance from the road; he had a sister living with him who was an old maid, and was known as "Aunt Polly". Howell being one among the early settlers of Howell Valley, had taken an active part in organizing Howell county, which took its name from him and he had been once representative of the county. The author heard him relate the circumstance in a speech delivered in West Plains after the war was over. He said when the fight came up that he was sitting on his front porch: all at once he heard firing commence, and heard horses feet and saw the rebel pickets coming on full gallop horseback, with the Federals close onto them with pistols in hand firing on them; he had been afflicted with rheumatism for years and one of his legs was drawn crooked and he hadn't attempted to walk without a crutch for several years; when he saw the men coming and the others shooting at them, he supposed that every shot was killing a man; he said they came right by his door and he never became excited while they were passing; as soon as they got near the court house they then made a stand, where it appeared to him that there were thousands of shots being exchanged every minute. They had all passed his house and he was sitting there unmolested, when his sister, who was known as "Aunt Polly" ran out on the porch and cried out at the top of her voice "Lord a massy, Uncle Tommy, run for your life; you have been a public man and they will kill you, sure." He said it so excited him that he sprang to his feet. All below his house the valley was covered with hazel brush and snow was lying on the ground. He first looked toward where the firing was going on and said "My God! they certainly have got them very near all killed in this time" for he was under the impression that every shot killed a man. He started southwest from his house, ran about a quarter of a mile, jumped over behind a log; he had hardly gotten still when he imagined he heard the horses feet of the Federals in pursuit of him; he raised up and looked, could not see any person, so ran about another quarter, jumped over behind another log and as soon as he got still, the first thought came into his mind that they were still in pursuit, for he could hear the horses' feet, but on reflecting a moment he found that it was his heart beating; he said he could still hear the firing and he thought they intended to kill them all before they quit. He had a son-in-law by the name of Hardin Brown living on the Warm fork of Spring river, about twenty miles distant, and he started on foot and never stopped traveling until he reached his house. On reaching the house, his daughter asked him how, in the name of God, he ever got there without his crutches. He said that was the first time that he had thought of his crutches. He began to notice his legs and the crooked leg was just as straight as the well leg. He said that it completely cured him of his rheumatism and he had the use of that leg just the same as he ever did the other leg, and never used a crutch afterwards. After the war he removed to Oregon county and was elected to the legislature, and died a member of the legislature. Disposing of Union Men. In the spring of 1862 there was a man by the name of Mawhinney, living about six miles below West Plains, in Howell valley, a Union man, but who had taken no part either way, except to express an opinion. About fifteen men belonging to a rebel scout went to his house, called for their dinners, some of them had him shoe their horses, and after they had their horses shod and got their dinner, they told him that they wanted him to go with them. His wife said to them "It ain't possible that after you have been treated as kindly as you have been you are going to take Mr. Mawhinney prisoner; you men certainly will not hurt him." They made no reply, carried him about one half mile from his home, shot him off of his horse, took the horse and went on, leaving the body on the side of the road. His wife with what other help she could get brought him in and had him buried. About two weeks afterwards, in the spring of 1862, there was a man by the name of Bacon who lived near West Plains, who has some relatives living in this county at the present time. He was a Union man but had taken no part either way, except to express himself openly in favor of the Union. There came a scout of about twenty men and arrested him, started west with him in the direction of South Fork, and on reaching the vicinity where Homeland is located, left the road a short distance, shot him off of his horse. Went on to a house about one mile distant, called for their dinner. The woman in preparing dinner fried some bacon; after they were seated at the table she passed the bacon to them; several of them remarked that they didn't want any, that they had had some bacon, but had just disposed of it a short time before they reached the house. After Bacon had laid where he fell dead for two or three days he was found and being considerably decomposed a hole was dug and the body placed into it and covered up, where his dust remains until the present day. Union Supplies Captured by Rebels. In the spring of 1862, the department commander reestablished the military post at Springfield. All of the commissaries and forage had to be conveyed from Rolla to Springfield, as the terminus of the railroad was at Rolla, by wagon trains, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles. It required a large escort of soldiers to guard the trains to prevent the rebels from capturing them. All of the country south of the wire road was in possession of the rebels. There was scarcely a wagon train that passed on the road without being attacked by the rebels. They made their attacks generally on the front and rear of the trains, and before the wagon masters could corral the trains, they would capture some of the wagons, make the teamsters drive into the woods, cut the mules loose from the wagons, take sacks of coffee, salt, sugar and other commissaries, tie them on the backs of the mules, divide into small bunches and retreat into the hills. Very often the escort would have to send back to Rolla for reinforcements. The train would be tied up from twelve to fifteen hours before it could move on. It became a mystery to the Federal commanders how the Confederates could concentrate a force of men numbering from fifty to three hundred, and the first intimation the escort would have, they, the rebels, would come out of the brush at some secluded spot, yelling, whooping and shooting, and charge upon the wagon train. They would generally capture more or less of the loaded wagons with the above results, and it became a question with the military authorities at Rolla and Springfield how to capture or rout these bands, and as to how they managed to keep that number of men near to the wire road and yet the Federals were unable to discover their hiding places. About the 15th day of August, the department commander ordered Capt. Murphy to take five hundred men and two pieces of artillery and move south from Rolla; to go as far south as he thought it would be safe, without placing his men so far inside of the Confederate lines that they might be captured; and, if possible, to learn the rebel movements and location of their troops. Capt. Murphy broke camp at Rolla and moved south about fifteen miles, was fired on by the rebels from the brush, marched about twenty-five miles, went into camp; on the next morning resumed the march, hadn't marched more than five miles until they were fired on from the brush; they were fired on four or five times that day, and went into camp near Thomasville. The next day he threw out skirmish lines on each side of his command, and resumed the march down the Warm fork of Spring river. There was more or less skirmishing all day. He camped on the Warm fork and the next morning marched over to the Myatt, where we had quite a skirmish. The rebels again retreated in the direction of the Spring River mill, where they were said to have a thousand men. Here the command countermarched back to Rolla, having captured fifty or sixty prisoners; the Federals had a few men wounded. In the spring of 1862, the Federal troops advanced on Springfield from Rolla. The rebels retreated west and the Federals again established a military post at Springfield. The rebels continued to retreat west until they reached Prairie Grove, where they concentrated their forces and the memorable battle of that name was fought, the Federal troops being victorious. The Confederates retreated from the state. The military post at Springfield being over one hundred miles west of Rolla, the terminus of the South Pacific railroad, three-fourths of the distance being in possession of the rebels, all the forage and commissaries had to be conveyed by wagon train. The main rebel forces having been driven from the state, and all of the country south of the wire road, with few exceptions, being in possession of the rebels, the Union men with their families having been driven from their homes. The leading Confederate officers met and held a council of war and decided to change their tactics. The first thing was to place two or three hundred well-armed Confederate soldiers south of and near the wire road leading from Rolla to Springfield, and so harass the wagon trains that the government wouldn't be able to get forage and commissaries through to Springfield, and thus force the Federals to abandon the post. In furtherance of this move, they ordered their soldiers to be taken near to the line of the road and divided into squads of from five to twenty-five men, conceal their arms and claim to be private citizens, live off the country and be so arranged that when a wagon train was about to leave Rolla, they could be called together on short notice; and when they wanted to make a more extensive raid, Confederate soldiers from as far south as the head of Spring river would march up and meet them and make a general raid. The government had considerable trouble to learn the hiding places of these men, but they finally got officers who were acquainted with the country and men who were bona fide citizens, and knew who were citizens and who were not, and broke up their hiding places and drove them further south. It was learned that a part of this Confederate force was composed of men who claimed to be citizens when they were not making their raids. Bravery of Captain Alsup. In the summer of 1863, the Federal authorities established a military post at Clark's mill, in Douglas county, Missouri, on Bryant's fork of White river, erected a post and stationed some Illinois troops under the command of a Colonel, with Capt. Alsup's company, which was composed entirely of Douglas county citizens, in all about two hundred and fifty or three hundred men. Gen. Joe Shelby, a Confederate, with about five hundred troops, made a forced march from Arkansas and during the night time surrounded the fort, and the next morning had his artillery in readiness to open fire. He ordered a complete surrender of the garrison. The captain of the fort asked for a few minutes to consider the matter; at the expiration of the time, the Colonel in command agreed to surrender, stack up the guns and side arms in the fort, march his men outside and make an unconditional surrender. When the commander of the fort ordered his men and officers to stack their arms and march out, Capt. Lock Alsup and his company refused, and being cavalry, ordered his men to arm themselves and be ready to move whenever he ordered. While the commander of the fort was having the remainder of the garrison stack their arms, Capt. Alsup and his company made a bold dash for liberty, came out of the fort shooting right and left, took the rebels by surprise, broke the rebel line, went through, being mounted on good horses, retreated up Bryant's fork with the rebels in pursuit. While going through an old field that had grown up to burrs about as high as a man's head, Fritz Krause, father of the assistant postmaster at West Plains, was thrown from his horse, rolled under the burrs, the rebels passed by and never saw him. He laid in the burrs until dark, then made his escape and rejoined his company at Springfield. The rebels pursued them for about two miles, then returned to their command. Gen. Shelby paroled the prisoners, and such things as he could not carry with him he destroyed, the fort being burned. He resumed his march in the direction of Springfield and was reinforced by about five hundred troops. During this time, Capt. Alsup and his men had reached Springfield and, strange to say, hadn't lost a man; had a few slightly wounded. Gen. Brown, who was in command of the post at Springfield, was said to be a brother-in-law of Gen. Shelby, and on Shelby's arrival at Springfield he demanded the surrender of the garrison. The Federal troops held a consultation and concluded to fight. After a brief engagement, Gen. Shelby drew his troops off and moved north; there were several killed and wounded on both sides. Gen. Brown's arm was broken by a piece from a shell. Gen. Shelby continued his raid towards the Missouri river, had several small engagements and then retreated from the state. Capt. Alsup and his brave men should be held in memory by all comrades, especially by the loyal people of Douglas and Ozark counties, for their heroic action in charging through the rebel lines and making their escape after the post commander had attempted to deliver them into the hands of the rebels. The fort at Clark's mill was never rebuilt. Capt. Alsup and the loyal men of Douglas and Ozark counties and part of Wright county built a temporary fort near the center of Douglas county, and old and young organized themselves into companies and armed themselves. With the help of Capt. Alsup's company, they appointed a few of their men as scouts, while the others worked in their fields. The scouts were out night and day along the state line and if a rebel scout attempted to raid the counties, notice was given all along the line and the men were all up in arms and ready to meet the raiders. It reminds one of reading the history of the early settlements along the Indian border. The settlers would build forts and put out sentinels; if the Indians were seen advancing, word was given and the families would hurry to the fort and the men arm themselves to drive the invaders back. So this organization, with some assistance from the post at Springfield, held Douglas and a part of Ozark and Wright counties during the remainder of the Civil War, and after the war was over, Douglas county gained the title of "Old Loyal Douglas County." These old soldiers and comrades are fast falling and very soon there will be none left to tell of the heroisms and sacrifices they made for the country they loved. Will these comrades and their sons and daughters be so ungrateful that they will let their heroism and sacrifices die with them and be forgotten, never to be written in history? The answer will be no, a thousand times no. The history of their heroism and sacrifices shall be written and go down to their children and their children's children, and may "Old Glory" ever wave over the country that they love so well and for which they made so many sacrifices. Bushwhacking in Howell County. The writer wants to say that there was not a Union man nor a single Union family left at home, from Batesville, Ark. to Rolla, Mo., a distance of two-hundred miles. The writer especially wants to speak for Howell County, Mo. The rebels took quite a number of Union men from their homes and shot them, some of them being old men. I will name a few of them that were shot: Morton R. Langston, the father of T. J. and S. J. Langston, while he was hauling wood; Jeff Langston, one of the firm of Langston Bros, was riding on the wood at the time his father was shot. I asked a leading rebel after the war, why they shot Langston. His reply was: "He talked too much." Shot Mawhinney, Bacon and a number of others. Now I want to say right here, notwithstanding the treatment the Union men received from the rebels, not a single Confederate was ever taken from his home and shot or otherwise injured during the whole Civil War and no truthful Confederate will say to the contrary. There never was but one Confederate hurt after being taken prisoner in Howell County and he wasn't a citizen of Howell County; was said to be a north Missouri bushwhacker, charged with being one of the parties that shot old Mr. Langston, Mawhinney and Bacon. A Federal scout in the year 1864 captured him below West Plains and the next morning they hung him to a smokehouse rafter. Notwithstanding a few of the friends of the bushwackers will tell to strangers that the writer shot a man in this county, by the name of Hawkins, in the lap of his family, which is a positive lie; the facts are these; Hawkins was one of the worst bushwhackers and murderers that ever lived in Howell County and was commanding a company of bushwackers at the time he was shot. A short time before he was shot he had captured one of his cousins, by the name of Washington Hawkins, a Federal soldier, and taken from him a fine mare with his saddle and rig complete. In the spring of 1864, a battalion of the 11th Missouri Cavalry, commanded by Col. Woods, had been ordered to report to Col. Livingston at Batesville, Ark. The writer had been ordered to report at Rolla, Mo., with his command. Col. Woods had camped near West Plains the previous night, the next morning resumed his march towards Batesville; after he had passed West Plains a few miles, Hawkins and his bushwhackers fired on them from the brush and they continued to fire on them every few miles for sixteen miles. Our force met the force of Col. Woods at the state line where Col. Woods informed me how they had been firing upon his men all morning. He had taken a man prisoner by the name of William Krause, whom he turned over to me. Both forces resumed the march, he in the direction of Batesville, Ark., and I in the direction of Rolla, Mo. The prisoner told the writer that he knew the parties who had been firing on Col. Woods' command; that they had a camp by a pond in a secluded place, and were commanded by Hawkins and Yates; that it was about four miles almost west. I told Krause if he would place me on trail he could then go home. He did so and I then released him. Krause said there were about fifty rebels in the command. We trailed them about two miles and came in sight of a house that belonged to old Mr. Newberry, a Union man. He and his family had been run off from home. I saw a horse hitched to the side of the door, and supposed there were more inside of the house; there was a skirt of timber that enabled us to get within about sixty yards of the house. I ordered my men, when we reached a given point, to charge upon the house, dismount and reach the wall of the house and demand the surrender of all persons that might be within. We were about fifteen feet from the door when Hawkins came out and attempted to mount his horse. The author demanded his surrender, but he drew his pistol to fire, the author having his pistol already in hand and presented, fired on him; the author was sitting in his saddle when he fired on him. The men examined the house and found he was the only man in it. The horse he was riding was the one he had taken from his cousin, Washington Hawkins, a short time previous, with a government rig complete. Washington Hawkins resided at Bakersfield, Mo., and got his horse and rig again. We took the trail again, but dark came on us and we lost it. These are the facts surrounding the whole case, the killing of Hawkins, one of the worst bandits and guerrillas that ever roamed through South Missouri and led the worst band of men in the state. I had previously taken him prisoner and he took the oath of allegiance, went right back and joined his command and, if possible, he was worse than before. I must say that there are few men in Howell county that claim to be Confederates, who tell strangers that Monks shot Hawkins down in the lap of his family and that he, Hawkins, was a good man. The writer wants to say that no truthful Confederate will tell any such a thing; they will tell you that Hawkins was a bad man. Ask such Confederates as Capt. Howard, Mark Cooper, Judge Dryer, John Ledsinger, Harvey Kelow, Daniel Galloway, P. N. Gulley and a number of others, if Hawkins was a good man. The writer wants to say that he don't believe all the Confederates were in favor of killing and driving out the families of Union men, but the most bitter element got in power and being backed by the order of Gen. McBride, to force all the Union men to join the Confederate service, or hang them, those Confederates who were opposed to such treatment were afraid to open their mouths for fear they would receive the same treatment. You don't hear these same men, that talked about Monks shooting Hawkins, say a word about Hawkins and his bushwhackers shooting Union men all over Howell county. There never were but two houses burned in Howell county by the Union men during the Civil war, and houses owned by these men had been previously burned by the Confederates. The town of West Plains was burned by the Confederates to keep the Federals from holding a post at West Plains. The writer wants to say that on his return after the war, in the spring of 1866, he met the rebels, both those that had been officers and soldiers, and never spoke a harsh word to them, asked them if they thought both parties could now live together; their answer was, that they thought they could. All that they asked was that they be protected. The writer assured them that both Federal and Confederates would be protected by the civil laws and all they would be asked to do would be to aid in a strict enforcement of civil laws, which they readily promised to do. The Union men who had returned to their homes and the late Confederates joined together and went to building and repairing old church houses and school-houses and soon were found worshiping together in the same church and sending their children to the same school-houses and the old ties that had existed before the war were being re-united. The country appeared to be prosperous and the old war spirit appeared to be fast dying out among the people. I suppose the writer holds more commissions than any other man in the state, both military and civil and there never was a charge preferred against the writer of any failure to discharge his duties by the government or state. While in the military service thousands of dollars passed through the hands of the writer for forage and commissaries and ordinance stores and clothing, every dollar was accounted for and all contraband property was turned over to the government. I never converted, to my own private use, five cents of any man's property or money, before or after the war, in the war, nor since the war. The writer is now residing within about twenty-five miles of where his father located in the year 1844 and there are several persons yet living that have been intimately acquainted with the writer since his boyhood up to the present time, namely James Kellett, Sr., Marion Kellett, present county treasury of Howell county, Washington Hawkins of Bakersfield, Mo., and quite a number of others that have been acquainted with the writer from forty to fifty years. The writer wants to say right here that he is not ashamed of anything he did before the war, in the war, nor since the war, and on his return home to Howell county on meeting the late rebels; he never spoke a harsh word to one of them, but received them kindly and said to them that the civil laws should be strictly enforced against all alike, Confederate and Federal. In the year 1861, sometime in the month of September, after the Federals retreated from Springfield, Mo. and the Confederates had taken possession of Springfield, there was one Capt. Brixey who was captain of a company of home guards residing in the edge of Webster County, Mo.; soon after the Confederates took possession of the post, they ordered a captain belonging to a Texas regiment to detail one company and proceed to the residence of Capt. Brixey and arrest him. Capt. Brixey having no notice of the approach of the scouts, he and one of his men were sitting in the house; the first they knew they had a line within thirty yards of his door, hailed them and presented their guns and demanded their surrender. Capt. Brixey said, "The ---- you say." Both parties fired on each other about the same time, the man with Brixey fell dead, Brixey shot and killed the Confederate captain and wounded one or two other Confederates; he retreated through his house and into his orchard and made his escape; one of his arms was broken by the shot from the rebels from which he entirely recovered and lived many years afterwards, and has a son residing in this county at the present time. Colonel Freeman's Second Raid. Sometime in the Spring of 1862 Col. Freeman, not being satisfied with his first raid on the Federal troops at Salem, planned the second raid to attack the troops then stationed at Salem, Missouri; he organized his scout and compelled one Robert Bolin, who now resides in Howell County, to pilot him through the lines, as he, Bolin, had lived near Salem before the war. On reaching Salem, Col. Freeman halted his troops and planned his attack. The Federal troops had no knowledge of the approach of any rebel forces; they were in squads around Salem. Freeman divided his forces and gave them a countersign and selected a spot near a deep ditch in the road and instructed them, if they were defeated and got scattered to concentrate at that ditch which was beyond the Federal lines a distance of some miles; on reaching the ditch they were to remain until they all were collected. After the first ones reached the place, it being dark, if they saw others approaching they would halt them and demand the countersign, and if they couldn't give it they were to fire on them without any further delay, knowing they were enemies. On reaching the public square they encountered a bunch of the Federal troops in a building; fired on them, wounded a few, a man by the name of Jacob Shoffler now residing in Howell County was in the house at the time, and they cut his clothes in about twenty different places with bullets and never drew blood; Maj. Santee was commanding, with one other officer. After they had rallied, all being in disorder, Maj. Santee ordered a charge on the rebels. Armed with an old pistol he met Col. Freeman of the Confederate side. Freeman had just shot out; Maj. Santee ordered his surrender. Col. Freeman started to run, Maj. Santee in close pursuit, snapped his old pistol, which failed to fire. He then threw the pistol at Col. Freeman, struck him somewhere between the shoulders, drew his sabre, and still continued the pursuit. There was a creek near by and a stone fence had been built along the side of it; the creek had been frozen over and a skiff of snow on it at the time. Just as Freeman reached the stone fence Maj. Santee made a thrust at him with his sabre, inflicting a slight wound; about that time, for the purpose of escaping, Col. Freeman sprang over the stone fence and lit into the creek. Maj. Santee, being on horseback, could not pursue any further. The rebels by this time were scattered in all directions, started to retreat. It being very dark, the first ones fifty or sixty in number reached the ditch, halted to wait for the remainder of them to collect. In a short time about thirty or forty more of them appeared in sight, retreating with considerable speed; they were halted, the countersign demanded. They had become so excited in the fight they had forgotten the countersign and failed to give it. So those who arrived first opened fire and wounded several of them, scattering them to the woods. They failed to concentrate until they had retreated south about 30 miles where they learned of the mistake they had made and that they had fired upon their own men. Maj. Santee being of the opinion that he had seriously wounded Freeman with his sabre, concluded to investigate. On reaching the stone fence where he made his leap they looked over into the creek on the ice and (Col. Freeman being a large man) it looked like a large ox had been thrown over from the hole that he made in the ice. They saw that he had crossed the creek and reached the other side and saw no signs of blood. In the engagement there were about five or six wounded and killed. In the summer of 1863 there was a Federal scout organized at Springfield, commanded by Col. Holland. It was ordered to move by way of Douglas county, get reinforcements then stationed at the fort, and from there march through the county of Ozark. They entered the county of Fulton, Ark., where they had several small engagements. After considerable fighting and capturing a number of prisoners, they returned to Springfield; loss, killed and wounded, very small. In the fall of 1863, Col. Tracy, with a force of rebels, made a raid from Fulton county, marched up through Ozark county, and on reaching the Union settlement in Douglas county, he shot and killed nearly every man he captured, robbed houses, took everything in the house and out of doors, and burned the houses as he went. After raiding and pillaging a number of houses, he came to a house where a Union man by the name of Mahan and one by the name of McCarty were working in the blacksmith shop, with their arms near them. They were members of the home guard. The rebels demanded the surrender of the two men, and as it was generally believed that if a man surrendered to those irregular forces that it was sure death, they refused to surrender. When the forces of Col. Tracy commenced firing through the cracks of the shop, the men returned the fire. Mahan killed one rebel, and they wounded two or three others. The rebels shot McCarty down, shooting him eight or ten times after he fell, knocked the door down and rushed upon Mahan, disarmed him, took him prisoner and then continued their retreat. After reaching Fulton county, near the bayou, they took Mahan into the woods, stripped him naked and shot him, leaving his body lying on the ground unburied. Strange to say, in regard to McCarty, after he had been shot eight or ten times and left for dead, he recovered from the wounds and became hearty and stout. Some time in the early part of the spring of 1864, a man by the name of Mahan deserted from the 11th Missouri cavalry, stationed at Batesville, and on reaching Howell county, about two miles from where Valley Star school house is now located, a bunch of bushwhackers commanded by B. F. Hawkins and Thomas Yates captured him, took him into the woods a short distance, stripped him naked and shot him, leaving his body lying on the ground, unburied. After he had lain there nearly a week, a man now residing in Howell county took a hoe and shovel and raked up some rocks and pitched them upon the decomposed body and threw a few shovels of dirt on him. As it was but a short distance from the road, the stench from the decomposing body was offensive to persons who traveled by. Col. Monks Enforces the Civil Law. In the month of July, 1865, the author was ordered to declare the civil law in force in the counties of Texas, Dent, Shannon, Oregon, Howell, Ozark and Douglas and report to his regiment again at Springfield for the purpose of being discharged. The long-looked-for and final result of the war had come with victory couched upon every man who had borne his flag to the breeze of his country, and to those who had lain themselves on the altar of their country and died that it might live. There was general rejoicing among the loyal people, that there was not a foot of territory on American soil but where the stars and stripes once more floated unmolested, either by foreign or domestic enemies, and while the Confederates had fought manfully for what they conceived to be right, and had laid many of their sons on the altar and sacrificed them to a cause that they believed to be right, yet a large majority of them rejoiced when they learned that the cruel war was over. Although their cause was forever lost, yet the country that they had loved so well and the flag still floated and invited them back as erring sons. The 16th regiment, with a large number of other regiments, was discharged at Springfield. Then a scene ensued that Americans had never witnessed before; the blue and the grey began to meet and greet each other as friends and seemed to forget that just a few months previous they had been meeting each other armed, for the purpose of slaying one another. A general amnesty proclamation had been granted by Gen. Grant to all the rebels who had surrendered. Their officers and commanders should discharge them and they should be allowed to retain their side arms for their own protection and return home for the purpose of again building up and establishing their homes; again meet their wives, their children, fathers and mothers, neighbors and friends, and once more be united in all the ties of love; to again reinstate churches, and instead of studying and practicing the art of war, they should beat their swords into pruning hooks and aid in establishing and building up society and good government. But, lo! one of the most sad and heartrending scenes confronted many Confederates and Federals on returning to the places where they had once had happy homes and sweet families, they were not found. During the terrible war, many of the loved ones that they had left behind had been called from time to eternity. The home had disappeared and nothing was left but the soil; all of the improvements being entirely destroyed. But they, with the courage of heroes, gathered the fragments of their families, went to work improving and building houses, refencing their farms, reerecting church houses and school houses, and in a short time the men who had lately been enemies and borne arms against each other, were again neighbors and friends, associating together, sending their children to the same school, becoming members of the same church; all experienced the difference between a civil war and peace and fraternity. Many of them expressed themselves that they had read of civil wars, but never realized the effect of civil war until after they had passed through the present one: but they could not understand why they called it "civil" war, for if there was anything civil about the war they never experienced that part of it. The author's family had been residing at Rolla during most of the time of the war. He commenced making preparations to return to his home in Howell county in the fall of 1865. He began to organize an immigration party of men who wanted to locate in Howell county and a number of men who had left their homes in that county. Just a short time before the parties were ready to leave Rolla for Howell county, he was met by several men who asked: "Why, Monks, ain't you afraid to go back to Howell county? You have fought the rebels so bitterly and contested every inch of ground during the whole war, and some of them hate you so badly, that I would be afraid that they would kill me." The author replied that he felt like Gen. Putnam, when the British attempted to bribe him and said that the colonies never could succeed in gaining their independence, and that he had better return and renew his allegiance to the Crown. The General's reply was, "D--n a man that is not for his country." Now, my reply to you is, that I have forfeited almost all of my means and shattered the happiness of my family in contending and fighting for the preservation of the government; besides, myself and family have been exiled and banished from our home, and if the rebels had succeeded, all would have been gone. But now the government has been victorious in crushing the rebellion, liberty and protection have been once more guaranteed to every citizen, high or low, rich or poor, and, in the language of Gen. Putnam, I say, "D--n a man that is afraid to go back and enjoy the fruits of his victory." Within a few days about twenty-five families left Rolla for West Plains, and on arriving at West Plains, went into camp. There was not a single building left in West Plains, as the Confederates had burned the whole town in time of the war, with the exception of one store building, which was burned by the Federal troops. The Confederates' object in burning the town was to prevent the Federals from establishing a post. The author procured some clapboards, built an addition to an old stable about two hundred yards south of where James' livery stable is now located. Soon after we had reached West Plains and gone into camp, Capt. Howard, Capt. Nicks and a number of other rebels who were residing in the county, came in, met the author and said to him: "Captain. I am proud to meet you." The author replied, "I am proud to meet you. What do think now in regard to the two parties living together?" They said that they were satisfied that both parties could live together, that all they wanted was protection. The author remarked that the rebels had been in control of the country for several years, but the loyal men were going to take charge of it and run it now, and as the loyal men had been contending for the enforcement of the law and claimed that every American citizen was entitled to the protection of the law, the author could promise them that, if they would fall into line and help enforce the law, they should receive equal protection with any other class of citizens; to which they replied that they were willing to do so, but there were roving bands of rebels and guerrillas which had not been subject to the control of the Confederate authorities, and still refused to lay down their arms, and might yet cause some trouble. The author was appointed sheriff of Howell county, W. Z. Buck circuit and county clerk and Peter Lemons, Judge Alsup and ---- were appointed county judges. There had been an old school house about a quarter of a mile east of West Plains that was still standing. They met at that school house, organized and set the civil government of the county in working order. Soon after, Governor Fletcher ordered an election and the author was elected to the state legislature, tendered his resignation as sheriff, which was accepted and W. D. Mustion was appointed to the vacancy. In a few weeks the author went to Jefferson City, tendered his credentials and was sworn in and became a member of the legislature. Everything, so far as Howell county was concerned, appeared to move off quietly, while the counties of Oregon and Shannon, with a few of the border counties, were entirely controlled by irregular bands of late rebels, who openly declared that the civil law should not be enforced in those counties; that the Confederacy was whipped, but they were not and they intended to live off the government; they were armed to the teeth. During the winter of 1865 and the year 1866, Howell county settled up faster than ever it had at any period before the war; the men who had homes in it and had been forced away on account of the war, mostly returned and commenced to improve their farms. Their houses, outhouses and improvements, generally, having been destroyed, the soil was the only thing left. The town also built up rapidly and in the year 1866 the inhabitants had increased to six or eight hundred. In the fall of 1866 at the general election the author was re-elected to the legislature and Capt. Alley, who had been a Confederate all through the war, was elected to the legislature from Oregon county. The author again qualified and was present in the legislature during the whole time, when the great question was brought up before the legislature, as to what disposition the State would make of the first liens held by the state on the different railroads for aid that had been given to the railroad corporations in the way of state bonds in 1850. In 1855 the state issued her bonds, delivered them to the companies and they went east and put them upon the market in New York and Boston to procure money to construct roads, and the bonds with all the accruing interest, were due the state. Then for the first time the author learned that many of the men who had been selected to represent the people's interest in the State Legislature, failed to discharge the duties that their constituents had imposed upon them, betrayed their trust, and, through money, were entirely controlled in the interest of the railroad corporations. The author believing that it was one among the greatest duties that were imposed upon men of a representative government, to strictly contend and do all in his power to enact legislation in the interest of the people, therefore took a strong stand in favor of closing out all of the state liens against the different roads, held by the state. During the session of the winter of 1866 what was then known as the South Missouri Pacific, which terminated at Rolla, Missouri, was ordered to be closed out and the road declared forfeited. A resolution passed through both houses of the legislature ordering the Governor to seize it, and that said road be run by the state. In the meantime the Governor was to advertise and sell it. The Governor by authority of law advertised it and sold it for $550,000. Sometime in April the legislature adjourned, to meet in an adjourned session in December, 1867. The author returned home. The immigration into the country rapidly increasing, prosperity appeared to be on every side; people had plenty of money, good crops, wheat was worth $1 to $1.50 per bushel, stock of all kinds brought first-class prices, peace so far as Howell county was concerned, prosperity and the bettering of the condition of society were moving hand in hand, and the author felt thankful that the war was over. Outlaw Rule in Oregon and Shannon. In the fall of 1867, the counties of Oregon and Shannon, were still controlled by those roving bands of outlaws who ruled the counties with an iron hand. A despotism, unequalled at any stage of the war, existed there. There was a public gathering in the fall of 1867 in Thomasville. Col. Jamison, one of the leaders of these outlawed bands rode into town at the head of about fifty men, well armed, shot two men's brains out, paraded the streets and swore that any man that attempted to enforce the civil law against them, would fare the same; rode out unmolested and there was not a single attempt made by the civil authorities to arrest one of them. In a few days Jamison with some of his men rode into town and a man by the name of Philip Arbogast, the father-in-law of Mr. Hill, one of the firm of Hill-Whitmire Mercantile Co., now doing business in West Plains, who had been a Confederate all through the war, remarked in the hearing of Jamison, that the war was over, and he believed that the civil law ought to be enforced. Jamison at once dismounted, cocked his pistol, approached Arbogast and commenced punching him with the muzzle of it until he inflicted some wounds remarking to him that if he ever heard of him uttering a word again in favor of the civil law being enforced that he would hunt him up and shoot his brains out. Some time previous to that occurrence, two men who had been discharged from the Federal army and had once resided in Oregon county, came into the county to look at their old homes. Col. Jamison, with about forty men, arrested them, took them to the house of the sheriff, informed the sheriff that no "Feds" could ever reside in Oregon county, and no damn Black Republicans could ever cast a vote at any election that was held in the county; that they were going to make an example of the men, that others might take warning; that they were going to take them out far enough away that their stench would not annoy good Confederates. Accordingly, they started from the house, took them about one-half mile, stripped them naked, shot them to pieces, returned to the sheriff's house with the clothing, which was the uniform they had worn in the service, horse and mule and saddles which they had been riding; gave the mule to the sheriff, took the horse with them, published what they had done, and said that those men shouldn't be buried and that if any Confederate buried them, they would share the same fate. Capt. Alley, who had been a Confederate all through the war, but was an honest man and wanted to see the law enforced, informed Governor Fletcher of the condition of the county. Governor Fletcher at once appointed him an enrolling officer, ordering him to enroll and organize the county into militia companies, to form a posse-comitatus to aid the sheriff in enforcing the law. As soon as he received his commission, he rode into the different townships, put up his notices requesting the people to meet him for the purpose of enrolling. Jamison, with about forty men, rode into the township where his first meeting was to be, posted another written notice on the same tree, the purport of which was that if Capt. Alley, the old, white-headed scoundrel, appeared on the day to carry out the orders of the Governor, he would meet him and shoot his old head off his shoulders. Alley, being satisfied that he would carry out his threat, went to the place before daylight and concealed himself nearby. About 10 o'clock on the day appointed, Jamison and about forty followers came charging in on their horses, revolvers in hand, cursing and declaring that they would like to see the old white-headed scoundrel put in an appearance so they could make an example of him; that they didn't intend to let any man enforce the law against them. As soon as they retired Alley returned home and wrote to the Governor again, stating the acts, conduct and threats that Jamison had openly made, and that troops would have to be sent into the counties to aid him and others in organizing, so the civil law could be enforced. He asked the Governor to appoint Capt. Monks to command the troops which he might send. The author received a letter from the Governor informing him of the condition; also stated in the letter that while Howell county was peaceable and law abiding, that her citizens were not safe, by any means, while such a desperate band of outlaws were right at their very door, bidding defiance to the civil law, committing all manner of crimes from murder down and begging the author to consent to his being appointed Major of State troops; that he would make an order for the author to organize the men in the county of Howell and include Howell county in his order, declaring them to be under martial law especially when it had been requested by Capt. Alley, who had been a life-long Confederate. The author took the matter under advisement, and as Jamison, with his band of men, had threatened time and again to raid Howell county and kill the author with other Union men, he decided to give his consent to the Governor, wrote him while he reluctantly would consent to accept the appointment he had thought that he had discharged his duty in the late war and would not be required to take part in any further military operation. Colonel Monks Commissioned by the Governor. The governor at once appointed and commissioned the author Major of state troops and ordered him to at once proceed and organize a company of militia, and at the same time sent one hundred Springfield rifles and one hundred rounds of amunition for each gun. And soon as it was organized, he was to proceed to Oregon county, for the purpose of aiding and supporting Captain Alley who had been appointed enrolling officer of Oregon county, to enroll and form companies for the purpose of aiding the sheriff in enforcing the civil law. He was to pursue, arrest and drive out those roving bands of murderers from the counties of Oregon, Shannon and Dent. The author at once organized a company in Howell county, composed of men who had been in the Confederate and Federal service. On Jamison and others in Oregon county learning that the author had been appointed Major and that he was organizing, and the state was arming the men with orders to enter the counties of Oregon, Shannon and Dent to drive out the murdering bands and aid Captain Alley in organizing a posse comitatus to aid the sheriff in enforcing the civil law, they publicly declared that "old Monks might get into Oregon county but that he would never get out alive." At that time there was a secret order in the counties of Oregon and Shannon known as the Sons of Liberty. The author was informed that on a certain night they would hold a meeting on Warm fork of Spring river. The author made a forced march and, on reaching the place where they had assembled, surrounded the house and took all the inmates prisoners, among them being the sheriff of the county and a few other prominent men. The next morning Capt. Alley met the author, put up his notices ordering every man to come in and enroll his name. The author remained over the next day near the place, got in possession of their papers, with a secret oath placed upon them, and the aims and objects, binding themselves together to prevent the enforcement of the civil law, and further binding themselves to capture or take property from any man who had been in the Federal army, and, when it became necessary to enforce it, to shoot men down. They claimed to have lawyers connected with it, so that if they should be arrested they were to make a pretense of a trial and allow no man to go onto the jury except those who belonged to the order. Capt. Greer, who had been a Captain in the Confederate service all through the war, and afterwards was elected to the state legislature, remarked that, "I can soon tell whether those grips, obligations and oaths were in the organization known as the Sons of Liberty;" said that "Old Uncle Dickey" Boles, a short time previous, came to him and informed him that the Sons of Liberty were going to hold a meeting in a big sink on the mountain and they wanted him to come and join it; that he was looked upon as a business man and he didn't know anything about what was going on right at his door; that if he would come and join it, in a few years he would be a rich man. Capt. Greer said he replied to him, "Uncle Dickey, I have always been an honest man and have worked hard, and if a man can get rich in two or three years by joining that order, there must be something dishonest in it." Old Uncle Dickey replied: "You won't be in a bit of danger in joining it, for we are so organized that the civil law can't reach us." Capt. Greer said he had a son-in-law who was requested, at the same time he was, to attend the meeting, and that after the meeting he saw him and asked him what kind of an organization it was. He said his brother-in-law told him, "I dare not tell you; I took the bitterest oath that I have ever taken in my life not to reveal the workings of the order on penalty of death. But I will tell you enough; Captain, I know that you are an honest man and that that organization is a damn jay-hawking institution, and you want nothing to do with it." Captain Greer at once sent for his brother-in law; he came, and the signs, grips and by-laws that were captured at the place of the meeting were submitted to him and he said he believed they were word for word the same, and contained the very same oath that they swore him to on the night that he went to their meeting. The author was informed that Jamison was then lying in wait on the road that led from Warm Fork to Frederick Fork township, the next place where Alley had notified them to meet, waiting for the author to pass with his men, so that he might fire on them from the brush. Then the hardest task confronted the author that he ever had had to meet, to study out a plan to prevent Jamison firing on his men from the brush as he marched by. He held four men as prisoners, whom he knew were Jamison's right-hand bowers; he had just been informed that Jamison had a spy then on the ground to learn the time the author would break camp and move in the direction of Fredericks Fork. He ordered a wagon brought up with three spring seats, took the four prisoners and set them in the two front seats, tied a small rope around their bodies and around each seat, with two guards in the back seat; then arrested Jamison's spy, informed him what his business was, which he admitted and said that Jamison was lying in wait to learn what time I would move out, and that he intended to fire on me as soon as I came within reach. I took him to the wagon and asked him if he was acquainted with the prisoners. He said that he was. "Well," said I, "I am going to release you and I want you to go and tell Jamison that, just as certain as he fires from the brush and kills one of my men, I will retaliate by killing these four men, whom I know are his right-hand bowers." The author also wrote a letter containing the same statement, and sent another man, who was a Confederate, with Jamison's spy, to see that the message was delivered. On reaching Jamison, they delivered the message and informed him of what I had said, and told him that there was no possible chance for these men to escape, for there was a rope tied around each man's body and fastened to the spring seat, and they were also under a strong guard. The man who went to carry the dispatch said that after Jamison read it, he appeared to be in trouble and remarked: "Well, we will have to desist and not fire, for just as certain as we fire on him and kill some of his men, he is sure to kill our men." One of the prisoners, after he was placed in the wagon and heard the message sent to Jamison, remarked to the other prisoners: "We are dead men, for Jamison is sure to fire on them." We soon broke camp, and on reaching the place where Jamison had been waiting, saw the camp fire and where their horses had been tied and fed, but there was not a man to be seen, neither was there a gun fired. [Illustration: COL. AND MRS. MONKS AT CLOSE OF WAR.] On reaching Fredericks Fork township, Capt. Alley made a speech to the people and said, among other things, that the counties of Oregon and Shannon had been controlled by one of the most desperate class of men that ever lived. That they had ridden through the country on horseback, heavily armed, defying the enforcement of the civil law, intimidating the people, both Federal and Confederate alike, and committing all manner of crimes, robbing and murdering the people and boasting openly that the damn Confederacy was whipped, but that they were not and intended to live off the damn "Feds." Now the war is over and all good citizens, be they Federal or Confederate, should be in favor of the enforcement of the civil law. "I am ordered by the governor of the state to enroll all able-bodied men in the county to form a posse to aid the sheriff in enforcing the law in Oregon county; I am to organize companies to enforce the civil law. These bushwhackers and thieves have terrorized this county long enough. The governor has sent Capt. Monks, a man who is not afraid of bushwhackers and thieves, into this county to arrest these bushwhackers, thieves and murderers and bring them to justice. If the people of this county want the civil law enforced, they should aid Capt. Monks and his men to hunt these fellows down and either arrest them or drive them from the county. Our people have been present and saw these men commit all manner of crimes, from murder down to the smallest crime known to the criminal code. They have done this openly and the people were afraid to open their mouths or say a word against it, on penalty of death. I wrote the governor, stating the condition of affairs in this county, that neither person nor property were safe, and to send Capt. Monks to this county. And he has sent him and we have got the right man in the right place." One of the prominent men of Oregon county went to Jefferson City to see the governor to procure the removal of the writer and have Col. A. J. Sea appointed in his place. He said to the governor that Capt. Monks was arresting some of the best men in Oregon county and had them prisoners. The governor showed him some of Capt. Alley's letters that he had written to the governor. The letters stated among other things that persons and property were at the mercy of these desperadoes and the county was being terrorized by James Jamison and his men; that they were robbing whom they pleased openly; that a day or two before he, Alley, wrote the letter, that Jamison shot a man's brains out in Thomasville, and dared any man to say he was in favor of the enforcement of the civil law, that he would serve him the same way. The governor asked him if those things were true, and he replied that they were; the governor said to him: "You are a leading man in that county and a citizen of Thomasville and never a word have you written to me that such terror and lawlessness existed in your county." He replied "Governor, I was afraid to." The governor replied to him, "when I send a man down there that is not afraid to handle those men without gloves, then here you come with a howl. Now I expected when I sent Capt. Monks down there, if he did his duty, that there would be a howl raised; I am satisfied that he is doing his duty. I am responsible for his acts and you men want to get rid of him; go home and tell your people to organize companies under Captain Alley and aid Captain Monks and his men in arresting and driving those bushwhackers and bandits out of your country and whenever Captain Monks reports to me that the person and property of your citizens are secure and that the civil law is being enforced, he will be removed, and not before." They then employed Colonel A. J. Sea as an attorney. Some time during the night, while we were encamped on Fredericks Fork, some of the soldiers took the sheriff out and put a rope around his neck to make him tell where the bones of two soldiers were, who were murdered by Jamison and his men. He admitted that he knew where the bones of the two Federal soldiers were; that after they shot them Jamison gave him the mule and saddle that one man was riding; that he was afraid not to take them and promised as soon as the command reached Thomasville to go and show the bones. On the next morning after our arrival at Thomasville I procured a big box and placed it in a wagon and brought the sheriff from the guard house and set him on a box under a strong guard. About that time Colonel A. J. Sea came up and asked what we were going to do with that man. I told him "That is my business; when you was in the military service did you inform the civilians of your object and aims? You are a civilian now and I will give you five minutes to get outside of the lines or you will go into the guard house." He took me at my word and left at once. [Illustration: COLLECTING BONES OF TWO FEDERAL SOLDIERS SHOT BY COL. JAMISON AND MEN IN OREGON COUNTY.] The sheriff piloted the scout to the bones of the men that had been murdered, and the sheriff, aided by the scout, picked up the bones and placed them in the box. On examination it was found that three bullets had passed through one of the skulls, and the other skull appeared to have been shot all to pieces. I brought the bones in and caused them to be buried in a cemetery, about one mile west of Thomasville. Captain Alley had completed the organization of two companies, one commanded by Captain Lasley and the other by Captain Bledsaw. The companies were mostly composed of men who had been late Confederates, as there were very few Union men in the county. They immediately fell in with my soldiers and a vigorous search was at once made for Jamison and his men. Being aided by men who were thoroughly acquainted with the county and knew just where to look for Jamison and his cut-throats, they agreed to keep on Jamison's track and arrest him and his men if possible, in Oregon county. I moved my troops up into Shannon county to prevent Jamison and his men from crossing over into Shannon and scouted that county to keep them from hiding there. The Oregon county companies shot and killed some of them and arrested others. Jameson and the others left the county and never have returned to it since. But they left some of their sympathizers in the county, and the only weapons left them were their tongues; having no conscience or principle, and instigated by the wicked one, they began lying and preferring all manner of charges against the writer and his men who went into the county and, by the aid of the law-abiding citizens, drove out and arrested one of the worst set of men that ever lived, the savage not excepted, and restored the civil law, so that every citizen was secure in person and property. The writer informed the governor that a large majority of the citizens, both Confederate and Federal, had nobly responded to his call, had organized two companies of militia to aid the sheriff in the enforcement of the civil law; Jamison and his bushwhackers had either been arrested, killed or driven from the county, and the strong arm of the military law was not needed any longer. On December 25, 1867, the writer was ordered by the governor to withdraw his forces from the counties that had been placed under martial law and declare the civil law to be in full force and effect. I accordingly returned to Howell county and disbanded my soldiers. During my march and stay in the counties of Oregon and Shannon, it was admitted by all honorable Confederates that I had enforced a strict discipline over my men and protected all classes of citizens in person and property, had paid the people for all forage and commissaries that were required for the soldiers, and had driven out the worst set of bushwhackers, thieves and murderers that ever lived. REMINISCENCES. In the spring of 1866 the loyal men had mostly returned to their homes; among them, Benjamin Alsup, who had been taken prisoner by the rebels in 1861 and confined in the penitentiary at Little Rock, Ark. He was released in 1865, when peace was made. There was but one house left in West Plains, an old school house about one-quarter of a mile east of the town spring, which was used for a court house. Judge Van Wormer, who resided at Rolla, was judge of the circuit court and Mr. Perry was circuit attorney. A short time after the return of Mr. Alsup, a public meeting of the loyal men was called, signed by several loyal men. At the date set the writer was present. The meeting was called to order and Mr. Alsup was elected chairman. He stated the object of the meeting, and among other things said: "The rebels have hung, murdered, imprisoned and driven all the Union men from their homes, and _by the living_, they didn't intend that a single rebel should live inside the limits of Howell county." He was in favor of giving them ten days' notice to leave the county, and if they were not gone by that time, to shoot them down wherever found. Someone introduced a resolution that the rebels be notified to leave with their families inside of ten days or they would force them to leave. The resolution was seconded, I got the floor and spoke as follows: "If that course is pursued, it will ruin the county; peace has been made and Gen. Grant has ordered the rebels to return home and become good citizens. Admitting that everything Mr. Alsup has said is true and we were to turn around and do the same that they did, we would be just as guilty as they were, and it would be a question of might and not of right; and I want to say here now, if any man injures a late rebel, except in self-defense or in defense of his family or property, I will prosecute him to the bitter end of the law." Mr. Alsup called another man to the chair and replied to what I had said, saying: "_By the living_, I am surprised at Captain Monks, a man who has been treated by the rebels as he has, who now gets up here and says he will defend the rebels; _by the living_, I want Capt. Monks to understand right here, now, that if any loyal man kills a rebel and has to leave the country, and has no horse to ride, I will furnish him a good horse to ride off on; and _by the living_, let him prosecute me; he will have a sweet time of it." The next man that took the floor was a Mr. Hall, who resided about eight miles south of West Plains. He said: "I am just like Uncle Ben; if any loyal man kills a rebel and has to leave the country, I will furnish him a good horse to ride off on, and let Captain Monks prosecute me if he wants to; I don't think it would be healthy for him to prosecute me for killing a rebel or helping a man who did kill one." The resolution was put to a vote and lost by a good majority. Later in the spring, there was a man by the name of Finley living seven or eight miles south of West Plains; the family was composed of husband and wife, both of them about sixty-five years of age, a daughter of twenty-two years and a son of about eleven. They had been rebels, but were very quiet and peaceable citizens; they were residing on government land, had good improvements and a good orchard. There was a man by the name of Frederick Baker who had homesteaded the land Mr. Finley was living on. Baker notified Finley to leave in ten days; if not out in that time, they would be killed. Mr. Finley wanted pay for his improvements before giving possession. At the expiration of ten days, very early in the morning Mrs. Finley went into the lot to milk the cows; Baker slipped up to the lot and with a Colt's revolver shot the old lady dead. The daughter saw her mother fall, ran to her, and he shot her; she fell by the side of her mother. The old man ran to the door, reached up to get his gun out of the rack, when Baker placed his pistol against his body and shot him dead. The pistol was so close to Finley when discharged that the powder set his clothes on fire. The boy was the only one of the family left; he ran to the nearest neighbor for help and when they got back to the house they found the old man and his wife dead and the daughter shot through the breast, maimed for life. The old man's clothes were still on fire when the neighbors arrived. Hall made his words good for he furnished Baker with a first-class horse, saddle and bridle, to leave the country on and aided Baker in making his escape. As soon as the writer learned of the murder he caused an affidavit to be made and procured a warrant for the arrest of Baker and had it put into the hands of the sheriff and did all in his power to cause Baker's arrest, but by the aid given him by Hall and others he made his escape. The writer reported the murder to the Governor and the Governor offered a reward of three hundred dollars for Baker's body, dead or alive. Baker never was arrested. The writer was appointed assistant prosecuting attorney by Mr. Perry, who was Circuit Attorney at that time. After I qualified I caused an affidavit to be made against Mr. Hall charging him with being an accessory to the murder before the fact and caused his arrest. I was at once notified that if I attempted to prosecute Hall I would meet the same fate as the Finley family. Hall was arrested, and the day set for his preliminary trial at the school-house east of town. On the day set for trial there were quite a number of persons present; the writer appeared, armed with a good pistol, laid it by his side during the progress of the trial; it was proven by the state that he, Hall, was guilty as charged. The justice held him over to wait the action of the grand jury and ordered him to enter into a recognizance of two thousand dollars for his appearance at the next term of the Howell county circuit court, which he readily filled and was released. Soon after his release he took the fever and died. Baker never was captured. It was one among the dirtiest murders that ever was committed in Howell county. Gen. McBride, before the war, resided in Texas county, on a farm, and was circuit judge of the 18th judicial circuit, which included Howell county. He enlisted in the Confederate army and was placed in command of the Confederate troops at West Plains. The Union men well remember his famous order, given in the spring of 1861, that all Union men join the Confederate service, and if they didn't join the Confederate army he would hang them as high as Haman. After his term of service expired, he moved his family to near Batesville, Ark., where he resided up to near the close of the war. He was taken sick and died in the spring of 1866. Some of the friends of the widow in Texas county sent after her and her family to bring them back to her farm. Reaching West Plains on their return, they were out of money and provisions. They asked the people to help them and a donation was taken up for her in West Plains; I donated five dollars to help her back to her home in Texas county. After the loyal men had returned to their homes and the civil law had been fully restored I brought suits by attachment against the following persons, to-wit: William Nicks, N. Barnett, for aiding the parties in arresting and taking me from my home and abusing me while a prisoner. I attached their real estate which was well improved and valuable; procured a judgement of $8,000.00 against said real estate, procured an execution and ordered the sale of said real estate. Before the time for the sale Barnett and William Nicks came to me and admitted that Barnett was 1st Lieutenant and Nicks 2nd Lieutenant of Capt. Forshee's Confederate company, while I was held prisoner by said company and that I was shamefully and cruelly treated while a prisoner, but they were sorry for what they had done and hoped I would forgive them. Nicks further said to me, that he had saved my life; that while I was a prisoner, he overheard some of the Confederate soldiers agree that on the next night while I was asleep they would slip up and shoot me in the head, and he got his blankets and came and slept with me. I knew that Nicks brought his blanket and slept with me one night, but did not know why he did it. Nicks and Barnett further said, "Captain you have us completely at your mercy; we believe you are a good man and we were friends before the war. You have a judgement against our homes and if you sell them you will turn us and our families out of doors and leave us destitute without any homes for our wives and children." I said, "I know it is hard, for my wife and children were driven from their homes because they were loyal to their government; but children shouldn't be held responsible for the acts of their parents and I will say to you now that I won't sell your homes, I will give them to your wives and children; we are commanded in the best book of all books to do good for evil; you men can each one pay me a small sum for expenses and I will satisfy judgement." Barnett paid me $150. Nicks made a deed to some tax lands and I entered satisfaction on the judgements. They both said to me that they ever would be grateful for what I had done for them. The country began to settle up and the people, irrespective of past associations, formed new ones, especially the sons and daughters of those who wore the blue and the gray, and seemed to forget that they had ever been enemies. As time sped on these attachments ripened into love. I had but two daughters living. Nancy E. Monks, the oldest, married V. P. Renfrow, the son of a Confederate; they have two children, a son, Charles, and a daughter, Mattie M., now grown. Mary M. Monks, who married H. D. Green, whose father, a Confederate colonel, died in the service. They have five children living and one dead, one girl and four boys. Their children are Mattie E., now Mattie E. Bugg; Will H. D., Frank, Russell and Dick. Adeline Turner, whom I had raised, married Jacob Schoffler, a Union soldier, and has ten children, four boys and six girls. Abraham Roach, a boy who had made his home with me since infancy, married Mattie Hunt, a daughter of Jesse Hunt, a Union soldier, has three children living, two girls and one boy, Maggie, Frank and Bernice. I don't believe that there is any person that loves their children better than I do, and I don't see any difference between my grandchildren and my own children. I love my sons-in-law as well as my own children; I love the girl and boy that I raised, and their families feel as near to me as my own. They are flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone, and our highest duty to God and them is to teach them patriotism and loyalty to their government and that their first duty is to God and their second duty to their country. [Illustration: FRANK GREEN AND CHARLES RENFROW.] God forbid that we ever have any more civil war. War is the enemy of good society, degrades the morals of the people, causes rapine and murder, destroys thousands of lives, brings misery and trouble upon the whole people, creates a government debt that our children will not see paid, makes friends enemies. God forbid that any more sectional strife ever may grow up among the people; may there be no North, no South, no East, no West, but let it be a government of the whole people, for the people and by the people. May the time speedily come when the civilized nations of the earth will know war no more; when the civilized nations meet in an international congress, pass an international law that all differences between nations shall be settled by arbitration. May this nation in truth and in deed become a Christian nation and every man speak the truth to his neighbor and adopt the Golden Rule, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." I take pleasure in giving the names of some of the loyal men who resided in Howell county in 1861, at the commencement of the Civil war, who stood for the Union in the dark hour when patriotism and loyalty to country were tested: John McDaniel, sr., John McDaniel, jr., Jonathan Youngblood, George Youngblood, David Nicholass, Thomas Wallace, Martin Keel, Thomas Nicholass, Newton Bond, William Hardcastle, Siras Newberry, William Newberry, David Henson, John Black, sr., Daniel Black, Peter Lamons, John Lamons, Solomon Lamons, Thomas Lamons, Thomas Brisco, Morton Langston, Stephen Woodward, Seth P. Woodward, Dr. D. D. Emmons, Alfred Mustion, W. D. Mustion, John Mustion, Wesley Cordell, Hugh Cordell, William Maroney, Henry Maroney, Collins Coffey, John Coffey, William Coffey, John Chapin, Silas Chapin, Benjamin Alsup, Andrew Smith, Andrew V. Tabor, Josiah Carrico, Josephus Carrico, John Dent, Esau Fox, Thomas O. Brown, Jacob Shoffler, Thomas Rice, sr., Thomas Rice, jr., John W. Rice, Nathaniel Briggs, Captain Lyle, ---- Rhodes, Jesse Hunt, Joseph Spears, James West, Jesse West, Dent West, Thomas Kelley. I will give the names of a few of the men of Douglas county who remained loyal to their country in 1861: Joseph Wheat, John Wheat, Ervin King, John Coats, Locke Alsup, William Alsup, Thomas Alsup, Jack Alsup, Shelt Alsup, Aaron Collins, William Collins, Toodie Collins, Doc Huffman, Jariah Huffman, Madison Huffman, William Huffman. I will give the names of a few of the men who resided in Ozark county, at the commencement of the war, who remained loyal to their country in the dark days when it tried men's souls to be loyal: James Kellet, sr., Marion Kellett, Washington Hawkins. Jesse James, William James, ---- Brown, R. R. Gilliland, Nace Turley, Washington Webster, Dick Webster, Macajar Foster, Jacob Foster, Henry Saunders, Stephen Saunders, Allan Saunders, Alexander Huffman, James Hall, Bennett James. I would love to have space to tell of the patriotism, heroism and devotion to their country, besides their good citizenship, of the men of Howell, Douglas and Ozark counties, but suffice it to say that there never was the same number of men, at any time, who made more sacrifices for the preservation of their country than did these men in its darkest hour. These patriots are growing old and will soon be gone and their lips closed in death, and there will not be one left to tell of their sacrifices and the services they rendered to their country in its extreme need. History only will tell of the hardships, privations and service that they rendered to the government. Will there be no history left to tell of the heroism and devotion to their country in its darkest hour? The answer will come from ten thousand tongues that their history shall be written and go down to our children's children, that they may learn of the heroism, privation and sacrifice that was made by those brave men and women, that their country might live and not a star be dropped from its banner. While history is being written and monuments being erected to the Confederate soldiers for heroism, shall we be so ungrateful to the loyal men and women, after they are dead and gone, and not tell the rising generation of the heroism and sacrifice they have made, that their country might live? The answer will come from every loyal heart: No; a thousand times no; it shall be written and perpetuated for generations not yet born. Has Known Col. Monks Thirty Years. I have known William Monks for thirty years or more. I have been in court with him and a more kind and obliging man I never knew or had dealings with. He is very considerate in regard to the feelings of others, always willing to help those who need help. In later life he joined the church and preached; since he began the Christian life, I have never heard of any conduct that was not in conformity to his profession of Christianity. Had he had the school advantages that others have had, he would have been a power in the community where he lived. The writer of this was born in Lancaster county, Pennsylvania, April first, 1824. His father immigrated west and landed in Pittsburg in 1837. Then the writer of this migrated southwest and finally landed in Tennessee. At Springfield he met Catherine Ebbert, or Abbott, as they now call it, and married her March 20, 1856. She was born in Reeseville, Kentucky, and is still living, aged 76 years last January. J. B. WINGER, West Plains, Mo. [Illustration: MR. AND MRS. J. B. WINGER.] Dr. Dixon's Long Acquaintance. I will state that I came to Howell county in the year 1866 and settled on Hutton Valley near where the town of Willow Springs now is. The present townsite was then a small field without a fence and one small log cabin. I followed the practice of medicine up to the present date. I was 83 years old the 20th of August, 1906, and the picture I send you was taken when I was 81 years old. I was born in McMinn county, East Tennessee, and remained there until I was eleven years old when I left there and have gone through many changes and experiences since then. I served in the Mexican war. I married near Louisville, Ky., in 1849. My wife is still living and is nearly eighty-five years of age and in pretty fair health. I will state that I have known Col. Wm. Monks and wife for over forty years and know them to be good and true people. I will further state that there were said to be but seventy-eight families in the entire county of Howell, and four families in the town of West Plains in May, 1866 and Col. Wm. Monks was one of the four. Now I believe there is a population in West Plains of over 4,000 and there is room for many more. This is an educational town, fine colleges and high schools besides quite a number of ward schools houses, almost entirely built of brick. Schools last about nine months in the year. Respectfully yours, DR. J. C. B. DIXON, West Plains, Mo. [Illustration: DR. J. C. B. DIXON.] Union Woman Leaves Arkansas for Missouri. Mrs. Giddens, a widow, before the war resided in Conway county, Arkansas. She had two sons, Brad and John, who were about grown at the commencement of the war. This was a Union family and these two boys, with others, kept themselves hid until the Confederates issued a general order to hunt down all Union men and either force them to join the Confederate army or hang them. The boys at once saw that they would be arrested and forced into the Confederate service. They held a consultation with their mother and decided to try to reach the Federal lines near Rolla. Their mother took a couple of wagons with a large yoke of oxen to each wagon, and loaded them with her household goods, wearing apparel and provisions to last them through. In the spring of 1864 they started for Rolla. The boys traveled at night until they reached Missouri, and on reaching Taney county they met some Federal troops and made their way to Rolla, where they enlisted and joined the 16th U. S. Cavalry Volunteers, and were attached to company K, commanded by Capt. Monks, and served until peace was made and they were honorably discharged at Springfield. Both of them are still living and are active ministers of the church of Christ. [Illustration: S. B. GIDDENS AND WIFE, MARY DEWETT AND STILLEN STELLMAN.] Their mother aimed to reach Rolla by way of West Plains, and on reaching Howell county, near what is known as the Newt Bond farm, the bushwhackers stopped her wagons and robbed her, and ordered her to exchange her large cattle for smaller ones and her large wagon for a small, light wagon, so that the small cattle could pull it. Finally, after being stopped several times by the Confederate authorities, she reached Rolla and found that her sons had enlisted in the Federal army. She saw the stars and stripes unfurled and it appeared like a complete change of country. Here she located and remained until her sons were discharged from the United States service. SAMUEL B. GIDDENS. Summerville, Mo. * * * * * All Union families were forced to leave Texas county. The illustration contains the pictures of S. B. Giddens and wife, who were driven out; also Mrs. Mary Dewett, now over seventy years of age, who was forced to leave all she had and flee for her life; Mrs. Stillen Stellman, whose father went to Rolla and got the Federal soldiers to guard him while he removed his family. Union Men Killed in Izard County, Ark. Moody, Mo., September 26, 1906. Prior to and when the war of the rebellion broke out the writer of this article was a citizen of Izard county, Arkansas; the few loyal people that lived in North Arkansas, had a hope that war would be averted and when Ft. Sumter was fired upon they realized the awful condition and consequences of war at their very doors; those who favored a dissolution of the states had given notice in no uncertain way. And when the news was flashed over the country that there had been a clash of arms, the persecution of the loyal people began in the South and Central states by those that favored secession. They organized themselves into companies and went from house to house notifying all those that seemed not to take sides either way, that the time had come when the sheep and goats had to be separated. The Union element was arrested and many were sent to the penitentiary at Little Rock, Arkansas, from the counties of Izard, Fulton and Independence. Those people were robbed and plundered as long as there was anything worth taking and some of them, after they had got all the Union people had, commenced arresting and hanging the Union men. They arrested a young man and placed a halter around his neck to hang him; he broke loose from them and he was run one mile before he was caught; then he was taken to a stooping ash tree and hung. The writer was creditably informed that a man who was a prominent member of the Baptist church, scratched the dirt from under his toes in order that he might hang clear of the ground. I have seen the tree he was hanged on many times. Another brutal murder was perpetrated upon the person of Rube Hudson, a Union man who had been run from home and returned home in the winter of 1865; from an exposure, he took sick with pneumonia; his wife had secreted him under the floor near the chimney and fire place; the news got out that he was at home, the rebels raided his house; every thing in the way of beds and what little they had left was turned upside down and they gave up the hunt and started away; a spell of coughing came on him, for he was very ill and he was heard coughing by them and they came back and tore up the floor and found him; they dragged him out and took him about one hundred yards from the house; there he was beaten and hung to make him tell of others who might have come with him; finally he was hung and shot to death, where the family could hear him pleading for his life; he made a special appeal to one of his near neighbors calling his name and asking him to intercede for him and save him. The only consolation he got was "you are a goner, Rube; you are a goner, Rube," he was left hanging for the family to cut down and bury. He met his death for no other cause than that of being a staunch Union man. Another bloodcurdling murder was perpetrated upon the person of Minor White, for no other cause than that of being loyal to his country. He was honest and upright in his dealings with his fellowmen, but he was arrested, taken to the county seat of Izard county, tried and was released. Before he started home a friend told him not to go the road for they would follow him and kill him, he said: "I have always been free to speak my sentiments; I have done nothing that I have to slip back home through the woods. I am going to take the public highway, if I am killed." He was overtaken about a mile out by the mob that took him there; he was shot and otherwise mutilated and left hanging to a tree. I could mention many things that were done to the Union men and women in Northern Arkansas that make me shudder to think of, and if I were to undertake to relate all that came under my own observation, and many incidents that took place in the counties mentioned that were related to me by others who are entitled to credit for honor and truth. There was not a Union family left at home in the counties above referred to. I am opposed to war on general principles: first, it never settles the issue; second, it is always a poor man's fight and a rich man's fuss; third, if the poor soldier is fortunate enough to get back alive, the debt is his to pay. J. M. DIXON. [Illustration: ADMINISTERING KUKLUX OATH.] THE KUKLUX The lawless bands that had been roving through the counties of Howell, Oregon, Shannon and Dent had been captured, killed or driven out of these counties by the officers of the law, aided by the militia forces of the state. All classes of persons and men of every political faith were secure in their person and property. The civil law was enforced to the letter and the people generally looked to the bright future of Missouri. In the fall of 1868, in the month of September during a political campaign that was being made in Howell county, while a political speaking was going on at Black's store in Benton township in the southwest part of the county, a courier came with a dispatch stating that Captain Simpson Mason, registering officer of Fulton county, Arkansas, had been shot and killed from ambush, near the state line adjoining Howell county, by men who styled themselves Kuklux, and had ordered all Union men, and especially the officers of the law, to keep inside of their doors and to tender their resignations as such officers or they would fare the same as Mason had. It was stated that the law-abiding citizens were without arms and that the Kuklux were raiding the whole country; the whole country was being terrorized by said men and in God's name asked us to come and bring men and arms to aid the civil officers to enforce the law. The writer advised the people to be cool; that if there was an organization in the state of Arkansas to overturn the state government and the loyal people of said state were helpless, since the rebels at the commencement of the Civil war had had no regard for state lines I thought that we would have the same right to go down and help our loyal brethern to enforce the civil law. A committee of twelve men was selected to say what action we would take; among the committee were Benjamin Alsup, Rev. Adam Wright, Rev. John Collins, David Nicholass. Old men were placed on the committee. The committee retired to deliberate upon the matter, and in a short time returned and made the following report: "That we, the loyal people of Howell county, go at once with all available men and arms." The writer had in his possession at that time one hundred Springfield rifles, with one thousand rounds of cartridges for each gun. During the night and the next day about seventy-five men were organized into a temporary company and were placed under the command of Uncle Benjamin Alsup. On the night following we made a forced march reaching the Widow Pickrum's farm, situated on Bennet's river, in Fulton county, Arkansas, the next morning. We found Captain Richardson, with one company of state guards, fortified in a barn. On our arrival we offered our services to Captain Richardson, which were readily accepted. They were looking for an attack to be made by the Kuklux at any moment, as Colonel Tracy was said to be at Jackson Port with three hundred and fifty well armed Kuklux. While waiting for further orders from Governor Clayton a vigorous search was commenced for the murderers of Captain Mason. We soon learned that on the day previous to the murder of Mason he was registering the voters on the Big North Fork, at what was known as the Calhoun mill, and on the next day he was to meet the people at the Harbor Precinct for registration. And on the previous night the Kuklux, according to a general move that was to be made throughout the state, met at Colonel Tracy's, at the Widow Pickrum farm. Among them were Colonel Tracy, Dow Bryant, U. R. Bush, and about forty others; they selected about twenty men to do the shooting and divided them into three bunches and erected three blinds, as they did not know which road Captain Mason might travel. They placed about seven well armed men in each blind, who had been sworn by the Kuklux and after they had been placed in their blinds one of the men who did the shooting said, "Let him come; I am sure to get him for I can hit an old gobbler's neck that distance." The blind was erected where the road made a short curve with very thick brush on the left side of the road. When Captain Mason and posse had approached within about thirty yards of the blind they fired a volley, five of the shots taking effect in Mason's body. Captain Mason fell from his horse and expired in a few moments. The assassins fled through a thick bottom growth. Bryant, Bush, and two or three others were arrested, charged with being a part of the men who did the shooting. They were arrested by the state guards, as the civil officers were afraid to issue a single warrant on account of the threats of the Kuklux. On an investigation it was proven that Tracy, Bryant, Bush and about forty others were present the night before Mason's murder. And that Bush was the man who remarked after he had gone into the blind "Let him come. I can get him. I can hit an old gobbler's neck that far." In the meantime, the governor had gotten a dispatch through to Capt. Richardson that the Kuklux in large numbers were organizing and threatening to attack the state officers; that he and the state officers were barricaded in the state house and that he was organizing the state guards as fast as possible. Capt. Richardson was ordered to recruit every available man and protect the civil officers as far as possible; that he had made arrangements to send arms and ammunition up White river on a boat. I suggested to Benjamin Alsup and others who had come down from Missouri that the only way we could make our acts legal would be to join the state guards and be mustered into the state service, to which proposition my old friend Alsup objected and remarked: "That's the way with Monks; he is afraid he will hurt some rebel, contrary to law. Now, by the living, I came down here to hang some of these old rebels and murderers to the first limb we come to, and if we have to join the state guards and wait on the civil and military law to punish them, they never will be punished. I am going back to Missouri." About two-thirds of the men who came down enlisted in the state service; Alsup and others returned to Missouri. As soon as Governor Clayton learned that the writer had come into the state with men and arms, he sent another dispatch stating that he and all the law-abiding people of the state would ever be grateful to him for furnishing men and arms at a time when they were entirely helpless and at the mercy of a secret and bloodthirsty enemy, bent on overthrowing the state government; that if I would remain in the state with my men and arms he would make me lieutenant-colonel of the seventh regiment of state guards. We were watching the movements of the Kuklux, and in about eight or ten days after the murder of Capt. Mason, late one evening, the deputy sheriff of the county came to headquarters and informed Capt. Richardson that there were three hundred and fifty Kuklux, well armed, in camp at Salem, the county seat of Fulton county, and intended to attack Capt. Richardson before day, the next morning; they had ordered him, the deputy sheriff, under penalty of death, to bring Bush and turn him over to them. A brief consultation was held by the officers, and being satisfied that they were not able to meet the force of Kuklux then marching upon them, it was agreed that the writer should take the men from Missouri and recruit men for the service and get all the arms and ammunition that were left at home and return with all possible speed. In the meantime, they would retreat to some secluded place and watch the movements of the Kuklux. They turned Bush over to the deputy sheriff and he started in the direction of Salem, and Capt. Richardson broke camp and retreated. The deputy sheriff had not traveled more than two miles when a posse of armed men met him and demanded Bush, and he, supposing that they were a part of the Kuklux command, turned him over. They took him about two hundred yards and shot him to death. The next morning, before daylight, Col. Tracy charged upon the late camp of Capt. Richardson, but found it had been vacated. The Kuklux began a regular, organized system of raiding the Union men's houses, especially the officers of the civil law, posting written notices, ordering their resignations at once, and if they attempted the arrest of any Kuklux, death would be the penalty. They posted a picture of a coffin with the notice, at the same time ordering all influential Union men to leave the state at once, under the penalty of death. In about two weeks the governor ordered a part of the seventh regiment of state guards to Fulton county, to be stationed on Bennett's river, and to complete the organization of the regiment with all possible speed; Col. Dail was placed in command. After my return home, I organized three companies, commanded by Capt. F. M. Monks, Capt. Nicolas and Capt. Rice. About three days after the regiment reached Fulton county, the writer rejoined his regiment with three companies, one hundred Springfield rifles and one thousand rounds of cartridges for each gun, and soon completed the organization of the regiment; he was commissioned lieutenant-colonel of the regiment. The governor had sent arms and ammunition up White river, but the Kuklux captured and sunk the boat with all the arms and ammunition. The governor said that my arrival saved the north part of the state from the control of the Kuklux, as he would not have been able to procure arms for months. The regiment began an active campaign at once, by which they came into possession of the intentions, aims, secrets and oaths of the order; found that the order extended up into Missouri, along the state line. It was a complete military organization. The intention was to overturn the state government by intimidating the civil officers of the state, and with this purpose in view they procured a human skull and two thigh bones, and while the member was looking on these bones the following oath was administered by the grand cyclops: "We (or I, as the case might be) do solemnly swear before Almighty God and these witnesses, and looking upon these human bones, that I will obey and carry into effect every order made by any cyclops or assistant cyclops, and if I fail to strictly conform and execute every order made as above required of me, unless I am prevented from some cause which shall be no fault of mine, or if I shall give any information to any person or persons except members of this order, that the doom of all traitors shall be meted out to me, and that my bones may become as naked and dry as the bones I am looking upon. And I take this oath voluntarily, without any mental reservation or evasion whatever, for the causes set out in said order, so help me God." After the oath had been taken the persons taking said oath were ready for duty. The intentions and aims of this organization were to intimidate the civil officers and, if necessary to the accomplishment of their aims, to kill and murder all officers of the state by assassination or drive them from the state. All civil officers of the state were at once notified to tender their resignations and to cease to discharge their official duties as peace officers, and if they failed to comply with said order, death would be the penalty The governor and all the state officers received the same order; all Union men that were influential in the state were ordered to keep themselves in doors or be driven from the state, or be murdered by assassination. The following words, with pictures of coffins, were attached to said notices: "If you fail to comply with this notice, this coffin will be your final resting place." The Kuklux organization, having but one object and aim, to turn the state government over to the control of the late rebels or Democratic party of the state, was a complete secret military organization with the most desperate means to-wit: Murder, by assassination whenever ordered by a cyclops or assistant cyclops. A grand cyclops took the place of a colonel. An assistant cyclops lieutenant-colonel. An order from one of these officers to shoot any man was final, from which there was no appeal; and men were selected to execute said order by the most desperate oath known to man or history. This kind of warfare, being inaugurated throughout the whole state, with a thorough understanding that their organization would revolt against the civil authorities of the state government, and had the day set throughout the whole state. On the same day that Captain Simson Mason was assassinated in Fulton county, Ku-Klux attempted to assassinate Governor Clayton in Little Rock. They were seen in considerable numbers near the state capitol, after night, all wearing masks. They notified the governor, that they intended to capture and take possession of the state capitol by a force, if he did not resign his office as governor; the danger became so great that he barricaded the state house, as he had but few state troops. The whole state was invaded by the Kuklux at the same time and they commenced raiding the state in bands of from twenty-five to two hundred and fifty men; all wore masks and large rubber pouches concealed by a cover. They visited the Union men and colored men's houses and raided the whole country generally, proclaiming that they were dead rebels who had been shot on the different battlefields during the civil war and that they had come back to rid the state of black republicans and carpet-baggers. They would claim that they were very thirsty, that they never had a drink of water since they had been killed at the battles of Gettysburg, Corinth, Vicksburg, and other big battles. They would call on the colored people to bring them a bucketful and one of their number would pour the whole bucketful into his pouch and called for more water, making the colored people believe that they drank the water; then they would give the colored people orders not to be caught off their plantations, and if so caught, the penalty of death would be inflicted; many of the influential colored people were shot down. The author saw a number of fresh graves of the colored people that had been shot by the Kuklux; saw holes in windows in houses in towns and villages that had been shot through after night, while men were reading, who had been notified to resign their offices or stop using their influence in favor of the enforcement of the civil law. The author remembers passing some colored people on the side of the road; one old colored woman cried out at the top of her voice "Lawd, massa, massa are you men hunting dem dar Kuklux? Wi, da told us dat bullets wouldn't kill them. I fought we could fight live men but when it come to fightin dead men, don't know what to tink about it. Wi dey come to our house, rode up to de fence called for water; said they hadn't any water since the battle of Shiloh. Wi, one man drank a bucketful, and den call for mo. I thought to my soul that they would never get enuf water." The author replied, "Auntie, when these rebels are killed, they never get back here; the bad man keeps them to build fires for him. These Kuklux are the men that ran away from the battle of Shiloh and have just crawled out of their dens. That's why they are masked." The old woman said, "Dat what I thought bout it." While the Kuklux were raiding the country they visited an old darkie's house and gave him three day's notice to leave the country; and if he failed to leave they would visit him again and death would be his penalty. In about three or four day, twenty-five or thirty Kuklux rode up to his cabin in the night and called for him; he was armed with an old U. S. musket; he fired into the crowd and killed one of the band and then ran and made his escape. Part of the regiment received orders to report to General Upham, who was stationed at Cottonplant, on White river, leaving Captain Richardson in charge of the forces in Fulton county and Captain Toney in charge of the troops in Izard and Sharp counties. The regiment broke camp and marched by way of Jacksonport and on their arrival went into camp on the Wadel farm, two miles below Jacksonport. The Kuklux had declared that we should not march through Jacksonport. A brother-in-law of Mr. Wadel from North Missouri invited the writer to supper; the writer believing that a trap had been fixed to decoy him outside of the lines took one lieutenant and a posse of men and went to his house; on our arrival, we found a bountiful supper; had every thing that a hungry man could wish; had eggnog served in silver cups with silver spoons. The residence was about forty-two by twenty feet; two large rooms with a ten-foot hall between, with kitchen on west side, fine portico, with about ten or twelve negro cabins, about sixty to one hundred feet from the dwelling-house. Just before supper I noticed eight or ten men come in on foot dressed in gray clothing. I at once ordered my men to be ready at any moment and to not let them get the drop on them. Just about the time that most of my men were through eating supper, I noticed that some of the men that came in to the supper table had arms on their persons and noticed that the negroes were excited. I stepped out at a back door and just as I entered the hall door I saw the landlord approaching the room where my men were seated at the table with a navy pistol cocked in his right hand, holding it behind his back. Just as he attempted to open the door where my men were seated at the supper table, I sprang forward and grabbed his pistol and wrenched it out of his hand, and said to him, "Don't you dare to attempt to shoot one of my men." He turned around facing me and said "I went all through the Civil war and you are the first men that ever disarmed me." In a moment my men had pistols in hand ready for action, and I noticed some of the men that came dressed in gray had pistols in their pockets. I remarked to them, "I came here on an invitation; I am here as a guest, I wish to treat all persons as gentlemen, especially the landlord and his family; but this hostile move made upon the part of the landlord and the presence of these armed men shows me that there is something wrong." I ordered my men to fall in line and return to the camp. His wife appeared to be a perfect lady and her husband appeared to be under the influence of whiskey. He agreed that if I would release him, he would go into his room and stay there until my men had all returned to the camp. After he had gone into his room, I gave his revolver to his wife on her promising not to give it to him until the next morning. I learned from Mr. Wadel's brother-in-law that he came from northern Missouri at the commencement of the war and at about the close of the war he married his sister; that he was a cyclops and came to Fulton county in the Kuklux raid, and that the men who came that evening were all Kuklux, that if I had gone alone to his supper, I would have been killed. The next morning we broke camp and resumed our march. On the regiment arriving at Cottonplant, Col. Dail reported to Gen. Upham and we were ordered into camp. As soon as the citizens of the city learned of my arrival, they requested Gen. Upham that I be invited to deliver a speech in the city hall; that they had heard and read of Col. Monks and they wanted him to deliver an address to the people at early candle-light on the present condition of the state. There were about seven or eight hundred men stationed at the post. After supper, the adjutant sent an order by an orderly to detail about fifty men for a patrol guard; that the soldiers had broken into the warehouse and were taking out whiskey and other articles. I ordered the detail to be made and report at headquarters for further orders. Our headquarters were not more than forty yards from the warehouse. I spoke in an audible voice, "Now, we claim that our mission as soldiers is to protect persons and property. I want you to see that your guns and pistols are well loaded, and go direct to the warehouse first and arrest all soldiers that you find in or about the warehouse and take them to the guardhouse and there keep them safe until further orders, and patrol the city closely. Order all soldiers and officers who have not passes to be inside of their quarters in thirty minutes, and if you find any soldiers on the street after thirty minutes, arrest them and take them to the guardhouse; if they resist you, shoot them; and if you have to shoot, shoot to kill." About that time some man near the warehouse called out: "Who in hell are you? This whiskey is Kuklux whiskey, and we will take what we please." I replied, "If we cannot enforce discipline over the soldiers, we will go back home and send others; you will find out who I am if you wait until the patrol gets there." I ordered the officer to sound the reveille. Inside of thirty minutes every soldier was inside of his quarters. The citizens said that such a thing had not occurred since the post had been established. Capt. Sharp was reckless when drinking; he had mutinied and the men that were disposed to be wild had terrorized the people of the city. Gen. Upham had failed to enforce discipline over Capt. Sharp and his company. Capt. Sharp had ridden up and down the streets before the regiment had arrived and proclaimed, "when Colonel Monks arrives we will clean all the Kuklux up." The citizens were considerably frightened on my arrival in August, but after they saw how completely I enforced discipline everything became quiet, they appeared to be perfectly secure in person and property. On the next night, at early candle light, the large hall was filled. After being introduced by Gen. Upham, I spoke in part as follows: "Gentlemen and fellow citizens of Arkansas: I am from your sister state, Missouri, and I am very sorry to find you people in the state of war. War is not very pleasant; it has its effects upon society; demoralizes the morals of the people, besides the great sacrifice of life and property. Besides this, it alienates those who should be brethern and makes them bitter enemies. Your people may ask the question, what right have you Missourians to come down into our state? My first answer will be, Captain Simpson Mason was but recently assassinated in Fulton county, near the state line, while in the discharge of his official duty. At the commencement of the civil war he was a citizen of Fulton county, Arkansas, and I was a citizen of Howell county, Missouri. Both of us were unconditional Union men. Both of us were driven from our homes and posses of men from your state, regardless of the state lines, scouted our county, murdering and driving out Union men, women and children and hung and shot down loyal men. Captain Mason and I met in the early part of the war of the rebellion and soon become fast friends. Served together during the war. When peace was made we determined to go back home. Men would meet us and say "If you men go back among the old rebels who hate you so badly they will kill you." Our reply would be, "Damn a man that is afraid to go back and enjoy the fruits of his victory." We met and pledged our sacred honor to each other that if, after our return to our old homes, either one of us was killed by the late rebels, the other would do all in his power to bring the guilty parties to justice. A better and truer man never lived than Captain Simpson Mason. Each of us came back with the olive leaf in his mouth. Now I don't say that all rebels are Kuklux, but I will say all Kuklux have been late rebels and have organized a secret organization, the objects and aims of which are to overturn the civil government of your state by murder and intimidations, through the most vile and desperate means known to man, the savage not excepted. Besides your organization extends into the border counties of Missouri and as the rebels thought right to cross the state line during the Civil war, we think it right to cross it now to help our loyal brethern, and these are the causes that brought us to your state. We don't want booty. We want to see the civil law enforced, and we ask your cooperation, and promise you, that all law abiding citizens, be they Union or rebel, shall be protected in person and property during our stay in your state and we intend to enforce the very strictest discipline among our troops. I hope by the cooperation of the people of your state this unholy war will soon cease." At the conclusion of the speech they gave three cheers for Missouri troops. [Illustration: MAKING A PLEDGE--Col. Wm. Monks and Capt. Simpson Mason.] On the third day after our arrival at Cottonplant, Captain J. B. Nicholas' and Captain Sharp's companies were ordered to be detached from the regiment and placed under the command of the author and ordered to march at once and report at Marion, the county seat of Crittenden county for further orders. On our arrival at Marion we were ordered to proceed directly to Osceola, the county seat of Mississippi county, Arkansas and to erect a military post and issue an order ordering all the persons that were armed to come in and take the oath. On our arrival at that place to report the same to the Governor of the state. I issued the following general order: "To the people of the state of Arkansas, especially the citizens of Mississippi county; greeting; whereas a part of the people, disregarding their duties as good law-abiding citizens, have by and through a secret organization known as Kuklux revolted against the civil government of the state of Arkansas and are now armed and attempting by murder and intimidations to overthrow the civil government of the state, now therefore, by the authority in me vested and as commander of said post, do order all persons who may be in armed hostility to the present government and those who may be by act or deed aiding or encouraging those who are in arms against the legal constituted laws of the state to return to their allegiance and aid in enforcing the civil law. And any person who may be found from and after this date armed or aiding or abetting those who are in arms against the civil law of the state will be promptly arrested and punished to the extent of the law. WM. MONKS, commanding the post." When I arrived there was not a single civil officer in this county. They had either resigned or had kept themselves indoors. I at once commenced a vigorous campaign and soon learned that there were two men charged with being cyclops; one of them resided about thirty miles down the river on an island; he was charged with killing eight or ten colored people. I made a detail of about fifty men and placed them in charge of Captain Sharp and ordered him to go down and arrest both and bring them up to headquarters. The second day after the scouts started they returned by steamboat with both men, as well as several other prisoners. After the boat arrived Captain Sharp came to headquarters and suggested the release of one of the men as he didn't think he was guilty. I ordered the prisoners brought to headquarters at once. There was a man by the name of Edington who resided in Osceola, one of the wealthiest men in the county; he was well acquainted with one of the men, as he had been sheriff of the county in which he resided and a colonel in the Confederate army. He asked me to parole him to the limits of the city and he would go on his bond for one thousand dollars until said charges could be investigated. In a few days after he was paroled Mr. Edington came into the office and informed me that after his arrest and while on the boat coming up the river Cap. Sharp came to him in the presence of the captain of the steamboat and remarked. "Well, colonel, you have got a hard man holt of you now; if you will pay me one hundred and fifty dollars I can use my influence with Col. Monks and have you released." The colonel said to Captain Sharp that he didn't have the money with him. The captain of the steamboat said to the colonel, "I have the money, I will loan it to you." The colonel paid Captain Sharp one hundred and fifty dollars. Captain Sharp agreed to have him released and let him go back on the boat. Mr. Edington said he had watched all my proceedings since I took command of the post and had become satisfied that my highest aim was to protect every person in his person and property. I ordered the orderly to arrest the colonel and bring him to headquarters. I told him that I had been informed that after his arrest and while in custody of Captain Sharp on the steamboat he paid Captain Sharp one hundred and fifty dollars and Captain Sharp was to release him and let him return home on the boat. He admitted that he paid the money and made a full statement of all the facts that caused him to pay the money. I notified Captain Sharp to appear at headquarters at once. Informed him of what I had just learned, that while he had the colonel prisoner, coming up on the steamboat, that he, the prisoner, paid him one hundred and fifty dollars to procure his release. Captain Sharp admitted that it was true; I asked the captain if he had the money. He said he had. I asked the colonel if he had a friend that he could pay the money to; that I could not pay the money to him, that he might bribe another one of my officers. He said that I could pay the money to Mr. Edington. Captain Sharp paid the money to Mr. Edington by the order of the colonel. I ordered the colonel to the guardhouse for bribing my officers. I ordered Captain Sharp to report at headquarters the next day at ten o'clock. The Captain promptly appeared at the hour set. We went into the back room of my office alone. The captain and myself took seats. I said to the captain, "I am very sorry that this thing occurred; that you have allowed one of your prisoners to bribe you and you have betrayed that confidence imposed in you by the state. It become my painful duty to place you under arrest and of all crimes known to the criminal calender the worst is that one of treason. We claim that we are hunting violaters of the law and if we become violaters of the law then it will devolve on the state to place a new set of men in the service so that all violaters of the law can be arrested and brought to justice. Now I have been informed that while you composed a part of the command stationed at Cottonplant under General Upham you was arrested for disorderly conduct and you caused your company to mutinize. Now I want to say to you that I am going to put you under arrest and disarm you and I will parole you to the limits of the city and your first lieutenant will be placed in command of the company and if you cause your men to mutinize I will arrest the whole company and send them to Little Rock." I ordered the whole company to appear at headquarters and informed them of what I had done. I then sent the orderly and brought out the colonel and paroled him to the limits of the city under one thousand dollar bond. I never had a more obedient set of soldiers in all my service than Captain Sharp's company and they were as true and as brave men as ever lived. Captain Sharp said he was sorry for what he had done and I had done my duty and in about one week I returned his arms and placed him in command of his company. And during the remainder of service Captain Sharp discharged every duty with honor to himself and his state. While I was in command of the post I made a vigorous campaign. Arrested or drove out all the armed Kuklux and had the civil law fully put in force and the ministers of the gospel reorganized their churches and business of all kinds was resumed. Intimidations of the people, of the civil officers, and of the county by the Kuklux was a thing of the past. I received orders from the adjutant general at Little Rock to declare the civil law enforced in Mississippi county and to report with my command to the commander of the post at Marion, Crittendon county, Arkansas, for further orders. My command was conveyed by steamboat to Hopefield and from Hopefield we marched to Marion. And in obedience to said orders I issued the following order: "To all whom it may concern, especially to the citizens of Mississippi county, Arkansas, I send greeting. It affords me great pleasure to say to the people of Mississippi county that the Kuklux organization is completely broken up and there is no armed opposition to the enforcement of the civil law. Therefore, by the power in me vested I declare the civil law from this date in full force and effect in said county. And I invite all good citizens to aid in the enforcement of the civil law. WM. MONKS, Commander of the post." And when the people of the city learned that my command had been ordered to leave the city they at once presented the writer with a new suit of clothes. And on the arrival of the boat and while we were loading our camp equipage, arms and amunition, about three or four hundred persons composed of men, women, and children assembled on the bank of the river to bid us good-bye. And as the boat moved out they waved their handkerchiefs and hats and gave three cheers for the soldier boys and their commanders. On our arrival at Marion we turned over our guns, amunition and camp equipage and were ordered by the adjutant general to proceed to Jacksonport for further orders and on our arrival at Jacksonport the writer was ordered to leave his command at Jacksonport and to report in person to the governor at Little Rock. On my arrival at Little Rock I was informed by the adjutant general that the governor was dangerously sick and confined to his room. The legislature of the state being in session I was invited by both houses to deliver an address to the legislature. Both bodies met in the lower house. The writer was introduced by the speaker. Spoke as follows: "Mr. President of the General Assembly of the State of Arkansas, it affords me great pleasure to have the honor of addressing this august body of men assembled in this hall. Men who have been elected by the people of the whole state. Men who have the interest of the people at heart. Men who have the confidence of the people. Men who are intelligent and know what kind of laws the people need. Men who are determined to do your whole duty; men who have the courage, patriotism and love of country at heart, who have stood by your post while one of the most secret organizations, known as Kuklux, bound by one of the most desperate oaths to overturn your state government by intimidation and murder of all the civil officers of the state and to kill and murder the loyal citizens of your state. The intention of said organization was to overturn the legally constituted laws of the state, but through the untiring effort of your governor and his subordinate officers and the loyal people of your state and the valor and patriotism of your soldiers, this organization has been completely routed and broken up and the civil law is again declared to be enforced in your state. Now may your wisdom as legislators guide you and your successors in all duties that you may be called upon to perform in the legislative capacity. And may you always have the interest of the whole people at heart. And may all the laws that may be enacted by this legislature or your successors be in the interest of the whole people. And may patriotism and the love of both state and nation grow in the hearts of your people and may they become so united that nothing can sever that cord of love for their state and nation. May God's blessing guide and direct every one of your public acts, and go with you to your homes and families and now that your state is once more at peace and the civil law is being enforced, and your people are secure both in person and property, I therefore will return to Missouri to the bosom of my family. I bid you all good bye." The whole house rose to its feet and gave three cheers and pressed forward to give the writer a good, parting handshake. The governor continued to grow worse. The doctors would not admit any person to his sick room. The adjutant general informed me that the governor wanted to see me in person. That I had come to the rescue of the people with men and arms, when the loyal people were completely overpowered and saved the northern part of the state from the control of the Kuklux. He said the governor was well pleased with my services while in the State; that even the rebels spoke in the highest terms in regard to the discipline that I enforced over my men; that I had protected the person and property of both Union and rebel, and that I had given general satisfaction to all classes of persons that were favorable to the enforcement of the civil law and that it was the desire of the governor to promote me to a brigadier-general for the valuable services that I had rendered in the state, and place me in command of the northern district. I said "You can tell the governor when he gets well that I was very sorry to find him sick, that it would have been a pleasure to me to have met him in person. And the offer that he has made to me to promote me to brigadier-general for the meritorious services that I have rendered to the state places me under many obligations to his honor for the high esteem and confidence he imposes in me, as touching my military service, and as a private citizen while in this state. And while I thank him for his offer to promote me to the rank of brigadier-general and place me in command of the northern district of Arkansas, I must decline the offer and return to Missouri for I love the people of my state, I love my home and my desire is to become a private citizen. The only thing that impelled me to come into your state was to aid the state in enforcing the civil law and protect your people from assassination and murder and to do all in my power to aid in bringing violaters of law to justice. This being accomplished and civil law again being enforced in every part of the state, my services as a soldier and an officer not being needed any longer I will ask you again to give my respects to the governor and will ever hold his memory sacred, and may God's blessing rest upon the people of your state and your chief executive. So I will bid you good-bye." I returned to Jacksonport and rejoined my command and marched directly to West Plains. There my men bid each other good-bye and returned to their homes, hoping that this thing of war would be over forever. On my arrival home I found, to my great surprise, a new political organization, composed of men who styled themselves Liberal Republicans, and democrats and rebels; and through some of the most vicious and unprincipled rebels, they charged me with being a thief and a murderer. My friends came to me and requested that I at once institute suits of slander against them, for they knew that it was false from beginning to end. During the intervening time they had called an indignation meeting and publicly denounced me as a thief and murderer. I instituted a civil suit for slander against all persons who took part in said indignation meeting. I also instituted suit against one other man on the same charge. The county of Howell at that time, especially the judicial circuit, was presided over by a judge, who was an extreme democrat. The defence made application to the judge for a change of venue from this judicial circuit; he ordered the change sent to Laclede county, to the city of Lebanon, before Judge Fian. The defence then set about taking depositions. I was notified to meet them in Sharp county at Evening Shade for the purpose of taking depositions. When we met at Evening Shade they commenced hunting around for witnesses to prove their charges, but failed to find a single one. But every person they interviewed touching the charges declared that they were false and that Colonel Monks enforced discipline over his men while he was in their state and protected every one in person and property and that all classes of persons regarded him as being perfectly honest and a good military officer; they failed to procure a single witness at that place. I next was notified to meet them in Oregon county, at the court house, for the purpose of taking depositions. I accordingly armed myself with two good navy revolvers and went to Alton, the county seat of Oregon county; the circuit court being in session at that time, on my arrival I put up at a boarding house conducted by Alfred Harris, who still resides in that county. Circuit court being in session I went into the court room and remained until recess. Just after recess the judge came and told me that he had been informed that a mob then had the court house surrounded and was going to mob me whenever I entered the square, and to remain in the court room for a few minutes and he would try and have the mob removed; in eight or ten minutes the deputy sheriff returned and informed me that the mob had been removed, and that I could go down and go to my hotel. As I passed down I saw about fifty or sixty men in front of the saloons, swearing at the top of their voices "He fought us during the civil war and he shall not be allowed to come into this county and live." After reaching the hotel, Mr. Harris with several other friends urged me not to meet the parties, who were going to take depositions in one of the rooms of the court house, for they believed the mob would kill me. I laughed and told them that I reckoned not and that I thought the war was over and that they couldn't play that game on me, to notify me to meet them to take the depositions and then prepare a mob to prevent me from appearing, so that they would be able to manufacture evidence in the case. And I would either be present at one o'clock, the time I was notified to meet them, or I would die in the attempt. So I appeared promptly at one o'clock, the time set, but not one of the opposite party, either attorney or client put in an appearance. I remained there until four o'clock and still no appearance had been entered by the defendants or their attorneys, and I again returned to my hotel, after circuit court had adjourned for the day. While we were seated at the table eating supper, a man rapped at the hotel door and called to Mr. Harris, the landlord, that he wanted to see him privately for a few moments. Mr. Harris soon returned and remarked to the writer that he had been ordered to deliver a message; that he had just been informed that a mob of about one hundred men then had the hotel surrounded and they would give me ten minutes to get out of town or I would be shot to death. I replied to Mr. Harris, "In the first place, I am too old to run; and in the second place, if these bushwhackers have not shed enough innocent blood, they will have the best opportunity now that they will ever get; tell them that I don't intend to leave or run." Mr. Harris said that he would deliver the message to the bearer. There were two Confederates seated at the table, eating. They said, "What does this mean? We thought the war was over." They got up and left the table. After the writer finished his supper, he retired to the sitting room, which adjoined Mr. Harris' library. Mr. Harris immediately came in and offered to barricade the doors and windows. I objected. He then remarked that the mob would shoot in through the windows, that he would blind the windows. I consented to his putting blinds on the windows, but that the doors shouldn't be interfered with. There was but one door entering the sitting room except the door that came through the library. I took my seat on a bench where I could reach the knob of the door with my left hand and hold my revolver in my right hand. Mr. Harris proposed to blow out the lights, to which I objected. I told him that if the mob came I wanted the light so that I could see how to shoot. He then took his seat and entered into conversation. In a few moments some person took hold of the knob of the door. I rose to my feet with my revolver cocked, in my right hand and let the door open just so that one man could enter at a time. Mr. Maxey, of Howell county, an attorney-at-law, had come in to get a book out of the library, not knowing that there was any trouble up. As he came inside of the room I had my pistol cocked and presented on his left breast. When I recognized Mr. Maxey I lowered my pistol and remarked to him, "Your face has saved your life." Mr. Maxey became very much excited, walked across the floor once or twice, and inquired what was up. I informed him of the notice of the mob and the time that I had been given to leave the hotel and that the time had then expired, and that when I heard him take hold of the door, I supposed the mob was coming. Mr. Maxey remarked that "This thing will never do, I'm going to see if it can't be stopped." I requested him to say to every person that might be disposed to come into the house to make themselves known outside of the door before entering the house. In a short time the circuit judge and deputy sheriff, with two or three others, came to the door and made themselves known and came in. The circuit judge said: "Colonel, I have been informed that you have been notified by a mob to leave the town in ten minutes or you would be shot to death, and I have come to see if you wanted a guard." I replied that I didn't. "If these God damn bushwhackers haven't shed enough innocent blood and are still bloodthirsty, they will never have a better opportunity; so just let them come." The judge and sheriff and those who came with them left the room. I remained in the room until the usual bedtime. I heard them cursing outside and declare that they would take me out before daylight. I thought of my horse that was in the stable, a few yards away. I remarked to Mr. Harris that I was going to the stable to look at my horse. He begged me not to go out, that I would be shot down. I said to him that it was a game that two or more could work at. [Illustration: LOYAL WOMEN OF HOWELL COUNTY.] On reaching the stable, I heard the men quarreling on the public square. A man by the name of Jones, who had been a Confederate and then was prosecuting attorney of the county, and another citizen, who appeared to be leading the mob, were having an altercation. Jones remarked to the other man that he had never met Col. Monks until to-day and that he appeared to be a perfect gentleman, that the war was over, and that he had the same right to come here and transact business as any other man; to which the other declared, with an oath, that a man who had fought them through the war shouldn't come there, and they intended to take him out and shoot him before daylight; and further charged that Jones was not a good Confederate. Jones then gave him the lie. The two appeared to be about to come together, but others interfered to keep them separated. I returned to the hotel and said to Mr. Harris that the seat of war had moved up onto the square. Mr. Maxey informed me that just outside of the door of the hotel he met the mob, and they declared that they intended to take Monks out and shoot him before daylight. He replied to them that they might do it, but they had better take their stretchers along, for some other persons would have to bring some of them out; that he had just been in the house and in a moment he was confronted by Col. Monks with a revolver presented at his left breast and the very devil was in his eye, and if they entered the room he would shoot as long as he could move a finger. When bedtime came, I was placed in an upper room and locked the door, expecting that if they located my room they would shoot through the windows. I could still hear them cursing and threatening to take me out until late in the night. The next morning everything was quiet. I went to the stable and took my horse down to the spring to water; a number of men were standing at the side of the street, and one said: "Where do you suppose the captain and his men are?" I remarked to them that they were just like a pack of wolves; they were in the brush this morning, waiting for night to again renew their howling. There was one, Capt. Wagoner, who resided in town, who remarked to me the next morning that he never was as proud of anything in his life; that if they could have scared me and I had attempted to leave town in the night, they intended to murder me. After circuit court convened, I went into court, and at noon of that day the court adjourned. And I, with a number of others, went to Thomasville, put up at the hotel, had my horse fed and took supper. While on the road, the man that led the mob passed me on his way to Thomasville, where he resided. The defendants and their attorneys failed to produce a single witness to testify in the case. I returned home to West Plains. I was notified to meet them at other places in the country, to take depositions in said cause. The political feeling was strong then between the parties, and they sent the suits to a county over a hundred miles distant from where the suits were instituted; this county, at that time, was completely controlled by the democratic party. When the suits came up to be tried, over half of the jury had been late rebels, yet they failed to introduce a single witness to support their charges, and I recovered a verdict in each case. Judge Fian, who tried the case, said that he was never so surprised in his life; that he opened up the floodgates and let them bring in all their evidence from the beginning of the war up to the time of the trial. Judge Fian had been a colonel on the Federal side in the Civil war. On the account of failure to get any proof the juries were compelled to give a verdict in both cases for Col. Monks, although it was against the will and feeling of them. It cost the defendants between five and seven hundred dollars. After the trials, all parties returned to Howell county. The defendants, after they had procured a change of venue to Laclede county, boasted openly before trials, that they were going to beat both cases, that they had got them into a democratic county. The defendants being beaten at all points, returned, but not being satisfied, and being backed by the late bushwhackers and Kuklux (the most desperate set of men that ever lived,) at the next term of the Howell county circuit court they procured the appointment of a special prosecution attorney, who had been a late rebel and selected a jury of men composed of liberal Republicans and so-called democrats, with the express purpose of indicting the writer for killing one of the most desperate bushwhackers and rebel desperadoes that ever was in South Missouri. The men who composed the jury knew well that he was killed in an open hand to hand fight during the Civil war. The writer soon found out that they were trying to get a bill of indictment against the writer, so the writer watched the proceedings of the grand jury. On Saturday the grand jury came into court and turned in their indictments and reported to the court that they had no more business. The court discharged them. At the same moment the writer asked the court if there was any bill of indictment preferred against him. He ran over the indictments and informed the writer that there was an indictment against him, for murder in the first degree. The Judge said that he was sorry that I had called it out for he wanted to go home until Monday. I told him "Just adjourn your court and go home. The sheriff is here." I remarked to the jury that they needn't have put the county to any cost hunting witnesses; if they had come to me, I could have told them that I killed him and the only thing that I was sorry for, was that I hadn't killed a lot more of the bushwhackers. I would love to ask this jury if they have indicted any of the bushwhackers and rebels who have hung and murdered Union men all over Howell county, irrespective of age; the most of those men were killed at their homes or taken from their homes and afterwards killed. A part of the men who did these things are still living in Howell county and that jury knows it. The sheriff and the judge stepped out of the court house and in a few minutes returned, and the judge remarked "I will turn you over to the sheriff." He then ordered the sheriff to adjourn the court until the next Monday. The sheriff remarked to the writer "You can go where you please and report to the court at ten o'clock next Monday." The writer remarked, in the presence of the judge and sheriff, "I did not know that a man indicted for murder in the first degree could be paroled." The sheriff adjourned the court and he and the judge left the court house together. When I met a number of my friends (as there was a political meeting going on that day) and informed them that I had been indicted and paroled until next Monday, I couldn't make some of them believe it. [Illustration: CAPT. WILL H. D. GREEN, GRANDSON. LIEUT. MARK SPRINGER, CO. K.] I appeared at ten o'clock the next Monday morning and before court was convened, Edward Seay, an attorney-at-law, one among the ablest lawyers at the bar, a strong rebel sympathizer, came to the writer and said, "It is a shame that you have been indicted. It has been done for political purpose and I want your consent to file a motion to quash the indictment." I remarked to him that I would rather have it tried before a jury of my country so that I could show the intention and aims of those who caused said indictments to be procured. He still plead with me to let him file a motion to quash it, that it would not cost me one cent. I at last told him to use his own pleasure in regard to it, so he filed a motion to quash it, and submitted the motion to the court without any argument, and the court sustained the motion and quashed the indictment. So ended that charge of murder against the writer. They saw they were beaten again and their schemes were again exposed to the whole people and they fell back sullen and became desperate. In a short time the writer was informed that they were threatening to assassinate him and to be continually on the watch. I put men on their trails. Several attempts were made to decoy the writer into their nets, but they failed. They then employed one Dr. Beldon, who made an attempt to shoot the author in his own dooryard, but the writer saw him in time to prevent his shooting, and he left the county at once. Shortly after, the author was again warned to be on the watch, that they were still making threats. There was a man by the name of W. H. McCowen, who had been a Confederate colonel, living in West Plains. He was known to be a very dangerous man when drinking and was an uncompromising rebel. The writer then resided in the house south of the town spring, known as the West Plains House, and the street ran within a few feet of the gate, which opened into a hall between the house and kitchen. There was a saloon about forty yards west of the house, on the same street, run by a man by the name of Jackson, another uncompromising rebel. This saloon appeared to be headquarters for these would-be assassins. I had just brought my horse from the stable and tied him by the gate, with the intention of going to my farm. Mrs. Lasater, who still resides in West Plains, had just come over to my house and was there at the time of the shooting. Mrs. McCowen, the wife of Col. McCowen, came to my house that morning, came in the back way, and appeared to be very much excited, and informed me that certain men were going to assassinate me that morning; that to her knowledge they had been plotting for three days. They had been using every inducement, making her husband drunk and trying to work him into it. She had shut him up and locked the doors to keep them away from her husband, but they would raise the windows and come in. She had done all she could to keep her husband out of it, and she thought it was her duty to come and let me know that they had agreed to shoot me that morning. I thanked her for the information and said to her that I would ever be grateful to her. I further said to her that I did not want to hurt the colonel or any other person, but they must not come to my house on that kind of business if they didn't want to get hurt. In a few moments she returned home, going around the back way. I at once sent to S. P. Woodworth, a merchant who resided in West Plains and a strong Union man, for his double-barrelled shotgun. I had two good navy pistols. He sent me his gun and said it was well loaded with buckshot and was sure to fire. I advised the women, if they came, to keep cool and go into the back room so they would be out of danger. I raised the two front windows of the sitting-room about two or three inches, so I could shoot under them, keeping a close watch on the saloon. In about thirty minutes after Mrs. McCowen left, I saw two of the men leave the saloon and come in the direction of my house. They came to the gate, opened it and stepped onto the porch. My wife went to the door and begged them to leave. One of the men said that he wanted to see the colonel. He was armed with two first-class pistols, one of the pistols belonging to Col. McCowen. I cocked both barrels of my shotgun and stepped out on the porch with my gun presented and ordered him to turn around and leave my premises in one minute. Just at that moment my youngest daughter, now the wife of Mr. Green, sprang forward and caught my gun. I said to her; "For God's sake keep away from me." But she stood by my side. During this time he had passed outside of the gate and had gotten behind a tree; had his pistol cocked and presented at me and in a moment I had him covered with my shotgun. He would attempt to get sight on me and would dodge his head back behind the tree. Not knowing where the other man was, I watched his head and when he attempted to take sight I fired at his head; at the crack of the gun he fell. Then six or seven men commenced jumping out at the door of the saloon. The first thing I thought of was, "They will pretend to arrest me and give the mob a chance to shoot me after I am disarmed." I sprang on my horse and rode east and in a few moments five or six men came to my door and asked my wife who shot first. She ordered them to leave the house. They soon found that one of the would-be assassins was shot. On an examination it was found that one of the shot had struck him in the right side of the forehead, the right side of the brim of his hat was torn into fragments and the tree had caught a part of the load. The tree is still standing in the yard. Immediately afterward I sent them word that they had again opened the ball and I was ready to fight it out. I never saw men begin to plead for peace as hard in my life. The sheriff and others would come to me and say: "Colonel, why didn't you shoot some of those fellows long ago? That is just what they needed." I asked them why they hadn't arrested some of the assassins long ago. When the Union men learned that an attempt had been made by these would-be assassins to assassinate me about two hundred and fifty of them headed by such men as J. F. Reiley, Esau Fox, Andrew V. Tabor, David B. Nicholass, John B. Nicholass, Josiah Carico, Chas. Long, J. Youngblood, and Geo. Youngblood rode into town well armed and publicly notified these assassins and those who were aiding and abetting them, that if another attempt was made to assassinate Colonel Monks, or if they did assassinate him it would take ten of their leaders to pay the debt and they knew just who they were. On an investigation, it was proven that on the night before they attempted the assassination about ten or twelve of these would-be assassins met together in the town of West Plains, and one of their leaders set out among other causes why Colonel Monks would have to be killed; that they had tried to scare him away from the country but found they couldn't scare him and the only way to keep the republican party from going into power again in this county was to kill Colonel Monks. Some of the men that were present were hired to do the shooting next morning and paid the money. They drank a health to each other on the death of Colonel Monks next morning. The man who advised and instructed them and paid them a part of the money is still living in Howell county. This failure in their attempt to assassinate me and the action taken by the loyal men appeared to put a quietus on their idea of assassination; if they ever made any further effort the writer never learned about it. They had been defeated in every attempt made either to slander or murder me. I want to say here that I shall ever hold sacred the memory of Mrs. McCowen, for I owe to her the preservation of my life, and may God's blessing ever follow her and rest upon her. The bushwhackers and the Kuklux element were not yet satisfied and had but one way to vent their spleen against me. That was to get right down to hard lying. Having failed to prove a single one of their charges against me in the courts they were bent on injuring me and damaging my character. With no regard for the truth they would go around secretly and tell strangers who knew nothing about me that I was a murderer and a thief. The better element among those who had been Confederates declared openly that these statements were false from beginning to end. Many of them have said that I was an honest man, and that if any one wished to employ an honest lawyer Monks was the man to go to, for no one could buy him. Sometimes I would be informed that a late Confederate would say: "I believe Col. Monks was a good man and an honest one. But I dislike him because he fought us so hard during the war." I would reply: "Tell him that I couldn't please them in any way at the commencement of the war; I didn't want to take up arms. I was an unconditional Union man, and they, the rebels, came to my home and arrested me, took me into their command and swore that I should fight; that they would make me fight and attempted to force me into the Confederate lines, and when I found that nothing else would do them but to fight, and I went to fighting, then they turn about and curse me for fighting." Again I would be informed that some of those persons, who had no regard for the truth, would secretly charge me with being a murderer. In reply I would inform them that every part of the country where I had performed military service was now in the control of the Democratic party and there was no limitation to the crime of murder. Henry Dixon Green. Henry Dixon Green was born in Henderson county Ky., in the year 1851. His father, H. D. Green, was a colonel in the Confederate army, and died while in the service. In 1876, the younger Green left his native state, taking Horace Greeley's advice, and went west to grow up with the country. He located at West Plains, Mo., and soon began reading law in the office of Hon. A. H. Livingston. He was admitted to the bar, and formed a co-partnership with Mr. Livingston in the practice of law, which continued for several years. Afterwards he formed a partnership with Judge B. F. Olden. This firm was for years the local legal representative for the Kansas City, Fort Scott and Memphis Railroad Company, now part of the Frisco System. Mr. Green acted as claim agent for this railroad, and afterwards had charge of the claim department of the Missouri Pacific Railroad Company for the territory of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado and Indian Territory, but resigned to resume the general practice of law at West Plains, Mo. He has served as Probate Judge of Howell county. [Illustration: RUSSELL GREEN AND DIXON GREEN.] Mr. Green was married in 1878 at West Plains to Miss Mary M. Monks, daughter of Col. Wm. Monks. Mrs. Green is a strong republican while Mr. Green is a strong supporter of the principles of the democratic party; but their home life is perfectly peaceful and happy. Five children have brightened this home, a daughter, now Mrs. Arch Bugg, and four sons, Will H. D., Frank, Russell and Dixon. The children all take their politics from their mother. The oldest son, Will, has been admitted to the Howell county bar and is now practicing law with his father. He is also Captain of Company K, the local military company of West Plains. The second and third sons are also members of the company. Frank works and studies at present in his father's law office, and the other boys are in school. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. Changed a few instances of Ku-Klux (excepting the title page) to Kuklux as the author clearly preferred the latter spelling. Changed lop-eard, lopeard, and lop-eared to lopeared as that spelling was somewhat dominant. 
49526	----	(http://mormontextsproject.org/) THE MISSOURI PERSECUTIONS. BY ELDER B. H. ROBERTS. Author of "Outlines of Ecclesiastical History," "A New Witness for God," "The Rise and Fall of Nauvoo," "The Gospel," "Succession in the Presidency," etc. SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH: GEORGE Q. CANNON & SONS CO., PUBLISHERS, 1900. PREFACE. My chief purpose in publishing this book, and the one which will immediately follow--"The Rise and Fall of Nauvoo"--is to place in the hands of the youth of the Latter-day Saints a full statement of the persecutions endured by the early members of The Church in this last dispensation, in the States of Missouri and Illinois, that they may be made acquainted with the sacrifices which their fathers have made for the word of God and the testimony of Jesus Christ. And I indulge the hope that by becoming acquainted with the story of the suffering of the early saints, the faith of the Gospel will become all the more dear to the hearts of their immediate posterity and all the youth of Zion for many generations to come. I think without depreciating at all any other narrative of these events in our Church literature, I may claim that the story of the Missouri Persecutions in these pages is told more thoroughly than in any other of our present publications. This arises from the fact that this book deals with but a brief period in the history of The Church--from 1830 to 1838--and therefore admits of such a consideration of details as could not possibly be given to that period in any general history of The Church. This detailed treatment of the subject, in the opinion of the author, is justified because of the very important events which the treatise covers, and also for the reason that it is a period of our history which has been very much misrepresented, upon which misrepresentations false accusations are made against The Church and its leaders to this day. Those who have thought themselves called upon to oppose, if not to persecute, The Church in later years, frequently attempt to justify their present opposition by insinuating that The Church was driven from Missouri and Illinois for other reasons than adherence to an unpopular religion. The impression is sought to be created that it was for some overt acts against the State or National government, or for some offense against the spirit of American institutions, or because The Church leaders "were determined to be a law unto themselves," in disregard of the rights of others. It is, in part, to correct these false statements, and guard our youth against the influence of such calumnious insinuations, that I tell this story of the Missouri Persecutions; not that the history in these pages is written for the purpose of glozing over the defects in the character of the early members of The Church, or to claim for them absolute freedom from errors in judgment, or actual sinfulness in conduct. I have not written what may be called "argumentative history," only so far as a statement of the truth may be considered an argument. After these pages are read I feel sure that no one will be able to accuse me of failing to point out the errors of the early members of The Church; indeed, I have been careful to call attention to the complaints which the Lord made against their conduct; the reproofs of his inspired servants; and the repeated warnings sent to them by the Prophet Joseph Smith concerning the results of their conduct if there was not a speedy repentance. In Appendices will be found accounts of these same persecutions as told by writers of Missouri history. I quote these extracts from the _"History of Jackson County,"_ published by the Union Historical Company of Kansas City, Missouri, 1881; the _"History of Clay County,"_ published by the National Historical Company, 1885; the _"History of Daviess County,"_ by D. L. Kort; the _"History of Caldwell County,"_ by Crosby Johnson; and the _"History of Missouri,"_ published by the Union Historical Company. While these alleged histories of the "Mormon War," "Mormons in Jackson County," "Mormon Exodus," etc., etc., are contemptible for their distortion of facts and misrepresentations, the reader by having them at hand will at least have both sides of the story presented to him, and will be able by the means of comparison thus afforded, to judge where the truth of the matter lies; and it will contribute to the making of this book a valuable work of reference to the student of Church history. One other thing I ought to say in justice to myself, both in reference to this book and "The Rise and Fall of Nauvoo." Very much of the matter contained in the two volumes, indeed most of it, was published in a series of twenty-four articles some fifteen years ago, in _The Contributor,_ under the respective titles now used. Since that time very extensive quotations have been made from those articles, sometimes with, but often without, acknowledgement of the authorship; and to such extent has this been the case, that I feel it necessary to make mention of it, that I myself may not be charged with using the matter prepared by others, when in reality I am but using my own. Having called attention to this subject, I feel that it will not be out of place to say something further upon it. The fault, not to say literary crime, of plagiarism is by far too common. Some men who would never think of stealing a man's property, or even of using it without his permission, sometimes do not hesitate in public speech or in written articles or books to take all sorts of liberties with another's writings, quoting without acknowledgement not only sentences and paragraphs, but whole pages, and often page after page. And thus they bedeck themselves, not with "old, odd ends stolen out of Holy Writ," but in borrowed phrases and sentences--the fruits of another's research and thought and genius, if the writer from whom they steal possesses any. It is true that plagiarism is not a crime under the law. A man, if he so elects, may steal both the ideas and the literary construction of another, without fear of fine or imprisonment, but no writer or speaker worthy of respect would be found pilfering the thoughts or expressions of another, any more than a self-respecting, honest man would be found with stolen goods upon his back. Gradually there is being built up in The Church a very considerable and stately literature, historical, doctrinal and poetical; and for one I hope to see it, first of all, of a character that will be in harmony with the great Dispensation of the Gospel which it celebrates, that is, that it be honest. THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE FACTS IN WHICH THE CHUCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS HAD ITS ORIGIN. CHAPTER II. The Mission to the Lamanites. CHAPTER III. In Search of Zion. CHAPTER IV. The Land and the City. CHAPTER V. Settlement of the Saints In Missouri--Their Errors--Reproofs and Warnings. CHAPTER VI. Storm Clouds. CHAPTER VII. The Storm Breaks. CHAPTER VIII. Threats of the Mob--Appeal of the Saints. CHAPTER IX. Again the Storm. CHAPTER X. The Passively Good. CHAPTER XI. A "Bloody Day" CHAPTER XII. The "Honor" of a Mob. CHAPTER XIII. Scenes on the Banks of the Missouri--Exiled. CHAPTER XIV. Aftermath of the Expulsion. CHAPTER XV. An "Attempted Vindication" of Law. CHAPTER XVI. The Cause of Expulsion--Future Redemption. CHAPTER XVII. Importuning at the Feet of the Judge--the Governor--the President. CHAPTER XVIII. Zion's Camp. CHAPTER XIX. Zelph. CHAPTER XX. Dissensions in the Camp. CHAPTER XXI. Views Concerning Zion--Mob vs. Storm. CHAPTER XXII. Negotiations. CHAPTER XXIII. The Threatened Judgment--If--! CHAPTER XXIV. Attempt at Arbitration. CHAPTER XXV. The Pros and Cons of Arbitration Proposition. CHAPTER XXVI. An Interim--Blighted Hopes. CHAPTER XXVII. Peaceful Exodus from Clay County. CHAPTER XXVIII. Far West. CHAPTER XXIX. The Fall of David Whitmer and Oliver Cowdery. CHAPTER XXX. The Apostasy at Kirtland. CHAPTER XXXI. Adam-ondi-Ahman. CHAPTER XXXII. The Fourth of July, 1838. CHAPTER XXXIII. Kirtland Camp. CHAPTER XXXIV. Gallatin. CHAPTER XXXV. Boggs in Action--Defense Construed into Offense. CHAPTER XXXVI. De Witt. CHAPTER XXXVII. Millport. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Crooked River. CHAPTER XXXIX. Exterminating Order of Governor Boggs. CHAPTER XL. Haun's Mill. CHAPTER XLI. The Betrayal of Far West. CHAPTER XLII. Sad Scenes at Far West. CHAPTER XLIII. A Prophet's Rebuke. CHAPTER XLIV. "A Strong Point for Treason" CHAPTER XLV. Exodus from Missouri. CHAPTER XLVI. Again the Passively Good--Petitions. CHAPTER XLVII. The Escape of the Prophet from Missouri. CHAPTER XLVIII. A Prophecy that did not Fail. CHAPTER XLIX. A State's Shame. APPENDICES. "Mormons" in Jackson County, etc. THE MISSOURI PERSECUTIONS CHAPTER I. THE FACTS IN WHICH THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS HAD ITS ORIGIN. The story of the persecutions endured by the Latter-day Saints in Missouri, one of the sovereign States of the United States of America, properly begins with the advent of a mission to the Lamanites,[A] at Independence, Missouri, in the winter of 1830. But in order that those not acquainted with the history of The Church may understand how there came to be a mission to the Lamanites in 1830, and how there came to be a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to be persecuted, I think it proper to state briefly those facts in which The Church had its origin. [Footnote A: American Indians] I know the story has often been told--so often indeed that all novelty in relation to it has long since passed away. But in history there are certain foundation facts that are as essential to the right understanding of some particular phase of history as the employment of the first principles of the science of mathematics is to the solution of some particular problem in algebra; and the historical writer is as much bound to state those foundation facts as the mathematician is to use the first principles of his science in the solution of his problem. In the present instance, however, though I deem it necessary to tell again such a well known story as the rise of The Church, I shall attempt no embellishment of it; nor shall I deal with the religious condition of the world at the time of the origin of The Church with any view to establish the probability of the story; nor stop to call attention to the reasonableness and strength of it; nor the evidences of its truth, or necessity, although the temptation to do this is always strong whenever the facts of that story are passed before me in review. I shall content myself on this occasion with a mere statement of the facts, such as an annalist might make, without any further consideration of them whatsoever; and this because such a statement will serve my present purpose. Joseph Smith, the man who, under the direction of God, was the founder of The Church, was born at the little village of Sharon, Windsor County, in the State of Vermont, on the 23rd of December, in the year of our Lord 1805. When he was ten years of age the Smith family moved from Vermont to the State of New York, settling in Palmyra, Wayne County. Four years later the family moved a few miles south to the town of Manchester, Ontario County. Here, in the spring of 1820, a great religious revival agitated the community, and Joseph Smith was much affected by it. In the course of this religious excitement he was much perplexed over the discussion and strifes of the different Christian sects, and often wondered how it was that the Church of Christ could be so divided into contending factions. "I found," he said some years later when writing his recollections of those early days of his religious experience--"I found that there was a great clash in religious sentiment; if I went to one society they referred me to one plan, and another to another--each one pointing to his own particular creed as the _summum bonum_ of perfection. Considering that all could not be right, and that God could not be the author of so much confusion, I determined to investigate the subject more fully, believing that if God had a Church it would not be split up into factions, and that if he taught one society to worship one way and administer in one set of ordinances, he would not teach another principles which were diametrically opposed." [B] [Footnote B: From a letter to Mr. John Wentworth, written in 1842. Mr. Wentworth at the time was the editor of the _Chicago Democrat_.] In the midst of these perplexities Joseph's attention was called to the first chapter of the epistle of James, where it is written: "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and unbraideth not; and it shall be given him." This instruction the youth determined to follow, and accordingly repaired to a secret place in the woods near his father's house, where he called upon God for wisdom. While so engaged he was seized upon by some power of darkness which threw him violently to the ground, and it seemed for a time that he was doomed to sudden destruction. It was no imaginary power, but some actual being from the unseen world who thus seized him. His tongue for a time was bound that he could not speak; darkness gathered about him; but, exerting all his powers, he called upon God to deliver him out of the hands of his enemy, and at the very moment he was ready to give up in despair and abandon himself to destruction, he beheld a pillar of light immediately over his head descending towards him. Its brightness was above that of the sun at noonday, and no sooner did it envelop him than he was freed from the enemy who had held him in his power. When the light rested upon him he beheld within it two personages standing above him in the air, whose brightness and glory defied all description. They exactly resembled each other in form and features. One of them, pointing to the other, said: "JOSEPH, THIS IS MY BELOVED SON, HEAR HIM." As soon as the youth gained his self-possession, he asked the personage to whom he was thus introduced, which of all the religious sects was right, that he might join it. He was answered that none of the sects were right; that their creeds were an abomination to God; that their professors were corrupt; that they drew near to God with their lips but their hearts were far removed from him; that they taught for doctrine the commandments of men; that they had a form of godliness but denied the power thereof; and he was strictly commanded to join none of them: but was informed that at some future time the fullness of the Gospel would be made known to him.[C] [Footnote C: Letter to Mr. John Wentworth, 1842. I cannot refrain at this point from calling attention, at least in a foot note, to the importance of this great vision which lies at the very foundation of what the world calls "Mormonism." At a glance it gives the reason for the existence of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and also the reason for the proclamation of the new dispensation of the Gospel it presents to the world. It makes known the awful fact that the Gospel was not on the earth at that time; that none of the churches were acknowledged of God as his; that divine authority to preach and administer the ordinances of salvation was not among men. Therefore if men were to have the Gospel of Jesus Christ it must be restored from heaven; the Church of Christ must be again established; divine authority must be renewed. Moreover, this splendid vision dispelled the vagaries that men had conjured up in respect to the person of Deity. Instead of being a personage without body, parts or passions, it revealed the fact that he had both body and parts, that he was in the form of man, or, rather, that man had been made in his image. The vision clearly proves that the Father and Son are distinct persons, and not one person as the Christian world believes. The oneness of the Godhead, so frequently spoken of in scripture, must therefore relate to oneness of sentiment and agreement in purpose--to likeness. The great revelation swept away the rubbish of human dogma, tradition and speculation that had accumulated in all the ages since Messiah's personal ministry on earth, by announcing that God did not acknowledge any of the sects of Christendom as his Church, nor their creeds as his gospel. Indeed, the Lord himself declared that they taught for doctrine the commandments of men. Thus the ground was cleared for the planting of the truth. The vision showed how mistaken the Christian world was in claiming that all revelation had ceased--that God would no more reveal himself to man. The vision created a witness for God on the earth: a man lived who could say to some purpose that God lived and that Jesus was the Christ, for he had seen and talked with them. Thus was laid anew the foundation for faith in God.--_Roberts_.] This heavenly visitation Joseph Smith related to many of his acquaintances, including some sectarian ministers, who generally disbelieved his story and ridiculed him for telling it; all said inspired dreams and revelations from God were no more to be expected. After an interval of three years Joseph Smith again received a heavenly visitant. On the 21st of September, 1823, after having retired to his chamber, he betook himself to prayer, seeking to know his standing before the Lord. While so engaged his room began to be filled with beautiful light, in the midst of which he beheld a personage who announced himself to be Moroni, one of the ancient prophets of the western hemisphere, now raised from the dead, and made an angel of God. He said he was sent from the Divine Presence to reveal the existence of an ancient record engraven upon plates of gold, giving an account of the origin of the American Indians; of God's hand-dealings with their forefathers; of the rise and fall of their civilization; of the ministry of the Lord Jesus Christ among them after his resurrection from the dead and of the establishment of the Christian religion and the Church of God in their midst. Joseph Smith was also informed that this record was concealed in a hill not far distant; and that with it would be found a Urim and Thummim,[D] consisting of two stones fastened in silver bows attached to a breast-plate, by means of which the record could be translated through the power of God. The Prophet then beheld in a vision the hill where the plates were hidden. [Footnote D: Those who would be informed concerning the Urim and Thummim and its use among the ancients, should consult the following scriptures: Ex. 28:30; Lev. 8:8; Deut. 33:8; Ezra 2:63; Neh. 7:65; Num. 17:21; I Sam. 28:6.] When this vision was passed the angel quoted a number of ancient prophecies relating to the gathering of Israel in the last days, and the judgments of God upon the wicked, all of which he declared would soon be fulfilled.[E] The angel visited him three times during that same night, repeating to him each time the message he first announced. [Footnote E: The passages quoted are as follows: Malachi, part of chapter 3. (most likely the first part); Malachi, chapter 4; Isaiah 11; Acts 3:22, 23; Joel 2:28-32.] The next day Moroni again appeared to him when he was crossing a field, and announced to him once more the message of the night before, and instructed the youth to make a confidant of his father, Joseph Smith, Sen., and make known to him the visitations he had received and the things revealed, which the youth promptly and gladly did, and from that hour received consolation and encouragement from his father. The same day, namely, 22nd of September, 1823, Joseph Smith went to the place where the record was deposited--called by Moroni, Cumorah--and there in a rude stone box, the crowning cover of which he could see above the surface of the hillside, he found the record, together with the Urim and Thummim. Moroni appeared to him again while he was viewing the sacred treasure, and forbade him taking the plates from their place of concealment, as the time had not yet come for him to take possession of them. He was required to meet the angel at that place in one year from that time, and from year to year, until the time should come for the record to be given to him for translation. These annual visits at Cumorah continued until the 22nd of September, 1827, when the plates were committed to his keeping with instructions to translate them. He received a strict commandment to show them to no man, except such as God would appoint to see them, and bear witness of their existence and the truth of what they contained; nor was he to have any other object in view in obtaining and translating the record than the glory of God and the establishment of his Church in the earth. With the assistance of a man of the name of Martin Harris, and another of the name of Oliver Cowdery, the latter acting as his scribe, Joseph translated the record in about two years and a half, and published it at Palmyra, New York, early in the spring of 1830. The stone box in which the record had been preserved, and the record itself, is thus described by Joseph Smith: Convenient to the village of Manchester, Ontario County, New York, stands a hill of considerable size, and the most elevated of any in the neighborhood. On the west side of this hill, not far from the top, under a stone of considerable size, lay the plates, deposited in a stone box. This stone was thick and rounding in the middle on the upper side, and thinner towards the edges, so that the middle part of it was visible above the ground, but the edge all round was covered with earth. Having removed the earth, and obtained a lever, which I got fixed under the edge of the stone, and with a little exertion raised it up, I looked in, and there indeed did I behold the plates, the Urim and Thummim and the breast-plate, as stated by the messenger. The box in which they lay was formed by laying stones together in some kind of cement. In the bottom of the box were laid two stones crossways of the box, and on these stones lay the plates, and the other things with them.[F] [Footnote F: Millennial Star, Supplement to Vol. 14, p.6.] These records were engraven on plates which had the appearance of gold; each plate was six inches wide and eight inches long, and not quite so thick as common tin. They were filled with engravings, in Egyptian characters, and bound together in a volume as the leaves of a book, with three rings running through the whole. The volume was something near six inches in thickness, a part of which was sealed. The characters on the unsealed part were small, and beautifully engraved. The whole book exhibited many signs of antiquity in its construction and much skill in the art of engraving.[G] [Footnote G: Letter to Mr. Wentworth.] The following is a summary of this interesting record as given by the Prophet in his letter to Mr. Wentworth: In this important and interesting book the history of ancient America is unfolded, from its first settlement by a colony that came from the Tower of Babel, at the confusion of languages, to the beginning of the fifth century of the Christian era. We are informed by these records that America in ancient times had been inhabited by two distinct races of people. The first was called Jaredites and came directly from the Tower of Babel. The second race came directly from the city of Jerusalem, about six hundred years before Christ. They were principally Israelites, of the descendants of Joseph. The Jaredites were destroyed about the time that the Israelites came from Jerusalem, who succeeded them in the inheritance of the country. The principal nation of the second race fell in battle towards the close of the fourth century (A.D.) The remnant are the Indians that now inhabit this country. This book also tells us that our Savior made his appearance upon this continent after his resurrection; that he planted the gospel here in all its fullness, and richness, and power, and blessing; that they had apostles, prophets, pastors, teachers and evangelists; the same order, the same priesthood, the same ordinances, gifts, powers and blessings, as were enjoyed on the eastern continent; that the people were cut off in consequence of their transgressions; that the last of their prophets who existed among them were commanded to write an abridgment of their prophecies, history, etc., and to hide it up in the earth, and that it should come forth and be united with the Bible for the accomplishment of the purposes of God in the last days. The Book of Mormon was not brought forth without serious opposition. The commandment not to show the plates to anyone except those whom God should appoint to be witnesses of their existence and their truth, necessarily enjoined secrecy upon Joseph Smith, and involved more or less of mystery in his movements; and yet it became necessary for some to know of his having the records, or else how could he obtain the necessary assistance to translate them? These prohibitions upon the Prophet and the necessary secrecy they involved, gave rise to a perfect flood of misrepresentations and slanders; enemies pursued him at every turn; the vilest calumnies were circulated both with respect to himself and his family; they were charged with the grossest ignorance, superstition, idleness, and all things that go to the making of vicious and low characters; and yet it is evident from the testimony of those who personally knew them, that the Smiths, while poor, were nevertheless people of upright lives, kind neighbors, and good citizens. This is not said for the purpose of claiming for Joseph Smith exemption from many boyish follies, and the common weaknesses of humanity--the existence of these weaknesses, in fact, he himself freely admits and deplores; and as much has been made of his own admissions on that head, I think it proper that what he has said upon the subject should be given in full, and hence I republish here a letter of his to Oliver Cowdery which the Prophet wrote upon hearing that Cowdery, in 1834, was about to publish a series of letters on the subject of "Early Scenes in the Church." Following is the letter: _Oliver Cowdery:_ DEAR BROTHER: Having learned from the first number of the _Messenger and Advocate,_ that you were not only about to "give a history of the rise and progress of the Church of the Latter-day Saints," but that said history would necessarily embrace my life and character, I have been induced to give you the time and place of my birth; as I have learned that many of the opposers of those principles which I have held forth to the world, profess a personal acquaintance with me, though when in my presence, represent me to be another person in age, education, and stature, from what I am. I was born (according to the record of the same, kept by my parents) in the town of Sharon, Windsor County, Vermont, on the 23rd of December, 1805. At the age of ten my father's family removed to Palmyra, New York, where, and in the vicinity of which, I lived, or made it my place of residence, until I was twenty-one; the latter part in the town of Manchester. During this time, as is common to most or all youths, I fell into many vices and follies; but as my accusers are and have been forward to accuse me of being guilty of gross and outrageous violations of the peace and good order of the community, I take the occasion to remark that, though as I have said above, "as is common to most, or all, youths, I fell into many vices and follies," I have not, neither can it be sustained, in truth, been guilty of wronging or injuring any man or society of men; and those imperfections to which I allude, and for which I have often had occasion to lament, were a light, and too often, vain mind, exhibiting a foolish and trifling conversation. This being all, and the worst, that my accusers can substantiate against my moral character, I wish to add that it is not without a deep feeling of regret that I am thus called upon in answer to my own conscience, to fulfill a duty I owe to myself, as well as to the cause of truth, in making this public confession of my former uncircumspect walk, and trifling conversation and more particularly, as I often acted in violation of those holy precepts which I knew came from God. But as the "Articles and Covenants" of this Church are plain upon this particular point, I do not deem it important to proceed further. I only add, that I do not, nor never have, pretended to be any other than a man "subject to passion," and liable, without the assisting grace of the Savior, to deviate from that perfect path in which all men are commanded to walk. By giving the above a place in your valuable paper, you will confer a lasting favor upon myself, as an individual, and, as I humbly hope, subserve the cause of righteousness. I am, with feelings of esteem, your fellow-laborer in the Gospel of our Lord, JOSEPH SMITH. It is clear from this letter that Joseph Smith, while acknowledging his imperfections, does not accuse himself of any dark crimes of a nature to disqualify him for his subsequently exalted station or the great work to which he was called. He goes no further than to confess to lightness and vanity of mind, resulting in "a foolish and trifling conversation;" but even that, on account of his quick conscience and innocent life, occasioned him much remorse. While the Book of Mormon was in process of translation, namely, in May, 1829, the question of baptism came up between Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery. They repaired to the woods to inquire of the Lord concerning it, when an angel from heaven appeared to them and announced himself to be John the Baptist, of the New Testament, now raised from the dead, and sent to them by the Apostles Peter, James and John, under whose direction he acted, to confer upon them the Aaronic Priesthood.[H] He placed his hands upon their heads and said: [Footnote H Elsewhere the writer has said concerning this event: "When the work reached that stage of development that men could be taught repentance, and receive baptism for the remission of sins, who so qualified or who with more propriety could be sent to deliver the keys of the priesthood that is especially appointed to cry repentance and administer baptism, than _the_ teacher of repentance and _the_ Baptist?"--_New Witness for God, p. 221._] Upon you, my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah, I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministration of angels and of the gospel of repentance, and of baptism for the remission of sins, and this shall never be taken from the earth until the sons of Levi do offer again an offering unto the Lord in righteousness. They were then commanded to each baptize the other, which they did, and thus baptism for the remission of sins, under divine authority, was again commenced on earth. This ordination received under the hands of the angel gave them the right and power to preach the gospel, call men to repentance, and baptize them for a remission of their sins. This they began to do and in a short time quite a number had been baptized. Soon after this first ordination, namely, some time in the month of June, 1829, Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery were again visited by angels. The ancient Apostles Peter, James and John came to them on the banks of the Susquehanna River, between Harmony, Susquehanna County, and Colesville, Broome County, and conferred upon them the holy Apostleship, the keys of the higher or Melchisedek Priesthood, which gave them power not only to preach the gospel and administer baptism, but to lay on hands for the Holy Ghost, together with right to all the offices in The Church. This Priesthood gave them power to organize The Church, set in order the affairs thereof in all the world, and preside over it as God's representatives. The authority of God thus restored to earth, the way was prepared for the organization of The Church. Still the young men to whom had been entrusted these great powers waited further direction from the Lord, and did not proceed with so great an undertaking until he commanded them. At length the commandment came, and the 6th day of April, 1830, was appointed as the day on which to effect the organization of The Church. A number of the people who had been baptized met with Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery, on the day appointed, at the house of Peter Whitmer, Sen., in Fayette, Seneca County, New York, to effect that organization. The meeting was opened by solemn prayer, after which, according to previous instructions from the Lord, the Prophet Joseph called upon the brethren present to know if they would accept himself and Oliver Cowdery as their teachers in religion, and if they were willing that they should proceed to organize The Church according to the commandment of the Lord. To this the converts to the faith consented by unanimous vote. Joseph then ordained Oliver an Elder of the Church of Jesus Christ; after which Oliver ordained Joseph an Elder of said Church. The sacrament was administered, and those who had been previously baptized were confirmed members of The Church, and received the Holy Ghost by the laying on of hands. Some enjoyed the gift of prophecy, and all rejoiced exceedingly. While The Church was yet assembled a revelation was received from the Lord, directing that a record be kept, and that in it Joseph Smith be called a Seer, a Translator, a Prophet, and an Apostle of Jesus Christ, an Elder of The Church; and The Church was commanded to give heed to all his words and commandments which he should receive from the Lord, accepting his word as the word of God in all patience and faith. On condition of their doing this, the Lord promised them that the gates of hell should not prevail against The Church; but on the contrary he would disperse the powers of darkness before them, and shake the very heavens for their good. In addition to the ordination of Joseph and Oliver to be Elders in The Church, as stated above, other brethren were called and ordained to different offices in the Priesthood as the Spirit directed. "And after a happy time," says the Prophet, "spent in witnessing and feeling for ourselves the power and blessings of the Holy Ghost, through the grace of God bestowed upon us, we dismissed with the pleasing knowledge that we were now individually, members of, and acknowledged of God, The Church of Jesus Christ, organized in accordance with commandments and revelations given by him to ourselves in the last days, as well as according to the order of The Church as recorded in the New Testament." On Sunday, the 11th of April, the public ministry of The Church may be said to have begun. Oliver Cowdery on that day preached the first public discourse of the new dispensation then opening. Of the nature of the discourse we know little or nothing. The meeting was held by previous appointment at the house of Mr. Peter Whitmer, in Fayette, and was largely attended by people of the neighborhood, and the preaching was certainly successful, as upon the same day, and doubtless as a result of the explanations, teachings, doctrines and spirit of the discourse, a number came forward for baptism, and a few days later a number more--thirteen in all. And so the work grew and prospered. Fayette, in Seneca County, New York, and Colesville, Broome County, in the same State, were the centers of activity for The Church in those early days. In both places meetings were occasionally held, and baptisms were frequent, in the clear, beautiful waters of Seneca Lake. What historical associations will yet gather about these localities! Fayette! Seneca Lake! I venture to predict that these places will in the ages to come be as famous as Capernaum and Lake Gennesaret. The latter were the scenes of Christ's early ministry. The former the scenes of Joseph Smiths. The latter were identified with the Dispensation of the Meridian of Time. The former with the Dispensation of the Fullness of Times. Capernaum and Gennesaret are associated with memories of the Christ, with Simon Peter, with John, with Andrew and Nathaniel, and Mary of Magdala. Fayette and Seneca with Joseph Smith, with Oliver, with David Whitmer, with Joseph Knight and Newel, his son, with Emily Coburn and others. Gennesaret was but the widening of the Jordan; Seneca but one of the river valleys once occupied and modified by the glaciers which in ancient times filled that land.[I] The site of the ancient Capernaum is now unknown; so, too, the Fayette of our Church history is no more; but of the latter as of the former, and of Seneca as of Gennesaret it may be said: If every vestige of human habitation should disappear from beside it, and the jackal and the hyena should howl about the shattered fragments where Joseph once taught, yet the fact that he chose it as the scene of his ministry will give a sense of sacredness and pathos to its lovely waters till Time shall be no more. [Footnote I: Enc. Brit., Art. New York.] On the first of June The Church held its first conference as an organized body. At that conference--held in Fayette--more brethren were ordained to the various offices of the Priesthood; a number who had been baptized were confirmed; the sacrament was administered, and many spiritual manifestations were enjoyed, such as beholding heavenly visions and prophesying. Thus The Church was organized and well started upon its career, the history of which was to be so thrilling; the success of which was to be so great; and the final victory of which over every opposing power is assured by the promises of God. CHAPTER II. THE MISSION TO THE LAMANITES. The Book of Mormon, the coming forth of which has already been detailed, contains many promises to the Lamanites--that is, to the American Indians, whom it reveals to be the remnants of mighty nations that once inhabited the Americas, and also proclaims them to be descendants of the house of Israel. Their present fallen state arises from their departure from the ways of the Lord, and the instructions and doctrines of their ancient prophets; the very blackness of their skin is the result of God's curse upon them for their unrighteousness; yet are they promised that they shall know their origin--the favored race from which they are descended; it is promised that the gospel of Jesus Christ shall be declared among them, and they shall regard it as a blessing from the hand of the Lord; "and their scales of darkness shall begin to fall from their eyes, and many generations shall not pass away among them save they shall be a white and delightsome people." [A] It is promised that Zion, the New Jerusalem, shall be built upon the land of their fathers--the Americas--which, according to the Book of Mormon, is a land especially dedicated to the seed of Joseph, of Egyptian fame, the son of Jacob, "and they are the ten thousands of Ephraim, and they are the thousands of Manasseh;" and in this great work of building up the Zion of God, the Lamanites are assigned a special part, which will be a manifestation of God's favor towards them.[B] [Footnote A: II Nephi, chap. 30.] [Footnote B Book of Mormon, Ether 13, and III Nephi 20.] Very naturally, of course, those who accepted the Book of Mormon as true, possessed a lively interest in this people, that is, in the Lamanites; and anxiously looked forward to the commencement of the fulfillment of the words of their ancient prophets concerning them; and hence at the close of a conference held in the last days of September, and which also extended into the early days of October, "a great desire," says the Prophet, "was manifested by several elders respecting the remnants of the house of Joseph--the Lamanites residing in the west--knowing that the purposes of the Lord were great to that people, and hoping that the time had come when the promises of the Almighty in regard to that people were about to be accomplished, and that they would receive the gospel and enjoy its blessings. The desire was so great that it was agreed upon that we should inquire of the Lord as to the propriety of sending some of the elders among them, which we accordingly did." [C] [Footnote C Millennial Star, (Supplement), Vol. 14, p. 44.] The result of this inquiry was a revelation in which Oliver Cowdery, Peter Whitmer, Parley P. Pratt and Ziba Peterson were called to go on a mission to the Lamanites who then inhabited the western states and the Indian Territory. On their journey westward the Indian missionaries stopped at Kirtland, Ohio, where they converted a number of people to the gospel, and organized a branch of The Church. It was here that Sidney Rigdon, a somewhat noted Campbellite preacher, resided and had a large following. These Campbellites, or Disciples of Christ, as they preferred to be called, were reformed Baptists: that is, in addition to believing that immersion is the only acceptable mode of baptism, they also taught that baptism, when preceded by true faith in God and sincere repentance, was "for the remission of sins;" and that forgiveness of sins really followed every proper baptism. It was on the occasion of this visit of the Indian missionaries to Kirtland, that Sidney Rigdon first heard of Joseph Smith and Mormonism; and the first time he ever saw the Book of Mormon was when young Parley P. Pratt, himself formerly a Campbellite preacher, presented a copy of it to him to read. I think it important to make this statement here, because it has been asserted that Sidney Rigdon had much to do with producing the Book of Mormon; the theory of some being that it was he who stole from a printer in Pittsburg--a Mr. Patterson--a manuscript story written by a sort of harebrained, retired minister, of the name of Solomon Spaulding; and that, after making some changes in the text, he then connived with Joseph Smith to palm it off upon the world as a new revelation from God--a theory which, in addition to being absolutely untrue, always was inadequate as an explanation of the origin of the Book of Mormon, and is now quite generally abandoned, since the manuscript of Solomon Spaulding most unexpectedly came to light in 1884, verbatim copies of which have been widely published; the original now being in Oberlin College, in the State of Ohio. It needs only a perusal of the "Manuscript Found" to satisfy anyone that it never could in the remotest manner have suggested the Book of Mormon, or any part of it; while the fact that Sidney Rigdon knew nothing of the Book of Mormon until Parley P. Pratt presented it to him at Kirtland, Ohio, on the occasion above referred to, is a complete refutation of the idle stories that he was associated with Joseph Smith in writing the Book of Mormon. Sidney S. Rigdon was born in St. Clair Township, Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, on the 19th of February, 1793, and was the youngest son of William and Nancy Rigdon. On his father's side his forefathers were English; on his mother's, Irish. In his youth and early manhood he followed the vocation of a farmer and tanner. At the age of twenty-five he became associated with a Baptist society, and possessing a natural gift of oratory he drifted into the ministry of that society. He seems to have been much in doubt as to the Baptist church possessing the fullness of the truth, and he at last severed his connection with it and joined in the reform movement inaugurated by one Alexander Campbell, of Bethany, Virginia, founder of the church of the "Disciples," or "Christians." This new religious movement was very successful in what was called the Western Reserve, that region of country lying south of Lake Erie, and constituting the present State of Ohio. It derived its name, Western Reserve, from the fact that the State of Connecticut in ceding its claims upon western lands reserved to itself this magnificent tract for the purposes of a school fund. Among the settlers on this Western Reserve, I repeat, the doctrines of faith, repentance and baptism for the remission of sins, preached by Alexander Campbell, Sidney S. Rigdon, Parley P. Pratt and others, as the cardinal doctrines of Christianity, and the means provided in the gospel for man's salvation, had great success. Sidney Rigdon's labors in this new ministry led him to settle at Kirtland, where he had a large congregation, the members of which, in addition to accepting the primitive faith and ordinances referred to above, were also trying to carry out that order of things incidentally mentioned in the early Christian writings,[D] namely, none of them said that which he possessed was his own; but they had all things in common. [Footnote D: Acts 4:32-37.] Such was the state of affairs in Kirtland, and with Sidney Rigdon, when Parley P. Pratt and his associates arrived there in the fall of 1830, and presented the Book of Mormon to him, and preached the gospel of the Dispensation of the Fullness of Times. Here it may not be amiss to speak a word with reference to the character of Sidney Rigdon. His subsequent prominence in The Church, both the good and the injury he did it, warrant my doing so, and will doubtless be a key to his conduct. That he possessed talents of an extraordinary nature goes without saying, especially in the line of public speaking. Few men in The Church, perhaps none, have possessed the gift of oratory to an equal degree; spontaneous, fervid, rapid, brilliant, captivating; abounding in flights of fancy, rich in coloring and original in its wealth of historical illustration, which his wide and various reading made possible. It can well be imagined how one so gifted would be useful in the work just beginning to come forth through the instrumentality of Joseph Smith--what a welcome the young Prophet would give to such a help-meet, and what influence he would have in The Church then struggling into existence. The Prophet could receive the word of the Lord through the Urim and Thummim, and by the visitation of angels; but at that time he was evidently lacking in ability to expound it or show that what he brought forth was in harmony with the predictions of ancient prophets, a part of a great whole, and admirably dovetailed into the general purposes and designs of God. Neither his powers of expression nor his historical information fitted him for this task. Whatever his abilities in the later years of his ministry, in the earlier days of it he was somewhat slow of speech. He was as Moses waiting for Aaron, and that Aaron, that spokesman, he found in Sidney Rigdon, and bade him welcome. But talented as Sidney Rigdon was, moral, too, and spiritually minded and sincere as we believe him to have been in these early days of his career, he possessed traits of character which neutralized to a very great extent his great abilities. He was vain of his talents; vainglorious of his importance; too proud of what he regarded as his sacrifices for the truth. The very qualities which made him brilliant prevented him from being profound. The fervid imagination which enabled him to clothe with such splendid imagery his speech, made him a dangerous man when called to act with reference to stern and often disagreeable and prosy realities. He was constitutionally unsound. Remarkably gifted in one or two directions, he was markedly deficient in others. He was wanting in soundness of judgment, steadiness of purpose, a high sense of honor. He was moody, petty, jealous, selfish; and in a word, lacked that mysterious quality so well expressed by the phrase, "weight of character." But with all his imperfections he was useful, and for many years was faithful and devoted to the Prophet and the work of God. He was an instrument in the hands of the Almighty through whom was accomplished much good. He endured much for the truth's sake--persecution, poverty, imprisonment, mob violence, almost death. For such men, whatever may be their defects of character,--especially when such defects are constitutional, the effect of temperament--we can have but the kindest sentiments; and only make mention of such defects as they may have possessed in order to bring to pass a proper understanding of events with which they were associated. At Kirtland, Frederick G. Williams, who subsequently occupied an important station in The Church--counselor to the Prophet Joseph in the First Presidency--was also baptized. He volunteered to accompany the Indian missionaries on their journey westward. The Indian missionaries arrived at Independence, Missouri, in midwinter. Independence was then a frontier town; one of the outposts of Anglo-American advancement westward. It was on the line that divided our frontier from the possessions of the red man west of the great Missouri River; and it can be very well understood that its civilization was not of the highest order. Here had drifted many outcasts from society, and there was, at the time of which we are writing, very little regard for God, religion, refinement, or for civilization. As the Indian missionaries were destitute and weary from the extended journey on foot through what, at that time, was at best but a sparsely-settled country, and very much of it wilderness--it was arranged that two of the company who had been tailors should obtain work at their trade in Independence, while the three others should cross the frontier line and enter the reservation occupied by the Shawnees and the Delaware Indians. The chief of the Delawares, who is described by Elder Parley P. Pratt as a "venerable looking man," and the "sachem of ten nations or tribes," called together some forty chief men of his people, and to these Oliver Cowdery delivered, in substance, the following message: Aged Chief and Venerable Council of the Delaware nation: We are glad of this opportunity to address you as our red brethren and friends. We have traveled a long distance from towards the rising sun to bring you glad news; we have traveled the wilderness, crossed the deep and wide rivers, and waded in the deep snows, and in the face of the storms of winter, to communicate to you great knowledge which has lately come to our ears and hearts; and which will do the red man good as well as the pale face. Once the red men were many; they occupied the country from sea to sea--from the rising sun to the setting sun; the whole land was theirs; the Great Spirit gave it to them, and no pale faces dwelt among them. But now they are few in numbers; their possessions are small, and the pale faces are many. Thousands of moons ago, when the red man's forefathers dwelt in peace and possessed this whole land, the Great Spirit talked with them and revealed his law and his will, and much knowledge to their wise men and prophets. This they wrote in a book; together with their history, and the things which should befall their children in the latter days. This book was written on plates of gold, and handed down from father to son for many ages and generations. It was then that the people prospered, and were strong and mighty; they cultivated the earth; built buildings and cities, and abounded in all good things, as the pale faces now do. But they became wicked: they killed one another and shed much blood; they killed their prophets and wise men, and sought to destroy the book. The Great Spirit became angry, and would speak to them no more; they had no good and wise dreams; no more visions; no more angels sent among them by the Great Spirit; and the Lord commanded Mormon and Moroni, their last wise men and prophets, to hide the book in the earth that it might be preserved in safety, and be found and made known in the latter day to the pale faces who should possess the land; that they might again make it known to the red men; in order to restore them to the knowledge of the will of the Great Spirit and to his favor. And if the red men would then receive this book and learn the things written in it, and do according thereunto, they should be restored to all their rights and privileges; should cease to fight and kill one another; should become one people: cultivate the earth in peace, in common with the pale faces, who are willing to believe and obey the same book, and be good men and live in peace. Then should the red men become great, and have plenty to eat and good clothes to wear, and should be in favor with the Great Spirit and be his children, while he would be their Great Father, and talk with them, and raise up prophets and wise and good men amongst them again, who should teach them many things. This book, which contained these things, was hid in the earth by Moroni, in a hill called by him Cumorah, which hill is now in the State of New York, near the village of Palmyra, in Ontario County. In that neighborhood there lived a young man named Joseph Smith, who prayed to the Great Spirit much, in order that he might know the truth; and the Great Spirit sent an angel to him, and told him where this book was hidden by Moroni; and commanded him to get it. He accordingly went to the place, and dug in the earth, and found the book written on gold plates. But it was written in the language of the forefathers of the red men; therefore this young man, being a pale face, could not understand it; but the angel told him and showed him, and gave him knowledge of the language and how to interpret the book. So he interpreted it into the language of the pale faces, and wrote it on paper, and caused it to be printed, and published thousands of copies of it among them; and then sent us to the red men to bring some copies of it to them, and to tell them this news. So we have now come from him, and here is a copy of the book, which we now present to our red friend, the chief of the Delawares, and which we hope he will cause to be read and known among his tribe; it will do them good. To these remarks the Indian chief made the following reply: We feel truly thankful to our white friends who have come so far, and been at such pains to tell us good news, and especially this news concerning the book of our forefathers; it makes us glad in here, [placing his hand on his heart]. It is now winter, we are new settlers in this place; the snow is deep, our cattle and horses are dying, our wigwams are poor; we have much to do in the spring--to build houses, and fence and make farms; but we will build a council house, and meet together, and you shall read to us and teach us more concerning the book of our fathers and the will of the Great Spirit.[E] [Footnote E: Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, ch. 8.] The interest awakened among the Indians by the brethren aroused the jealousy of sectarian missionaries who were also at work among this tribe. They falsely charged the Elders with disturbing the peace, and through their influence with the Indian agents, secured the banishment of the Mormon mission from the reservation. The Indian missionaries, after their banishment, met with their brethren at Independence, on the 14th of February, 1831, for consultation as to their future movements. It was finally agreed by the meeting that Parley P. Pratt should return to Ohio, and report their labors to the Prophet. Elder Pratt immediately set out upon this long journey, and after enduring much fatigue and sickness, he arrived early in the spring at Kirtland, where he found the Prophet Joseph Smith, to whom he reported the labors of himself and companions. How Joseph Smith came to be in Ohio at this particular time is of some interest. After joining The Church at Kirtland under the ministrations of Oliver Cowdery, Parley P. Pratt and others, Sidney Rigdon, in company with Edward Partridge (who had not yet received baptism), determined upon a personal visit to the Prophet in New York. They arrived at Fayette, New York, early in the month of December, and soon thereafter the Prophet received revelations which must have been a source of great comfort to these brethren. Sidney Rigdon was declared to have been inspired of God and sent forth to prepare the way before the coming of the Lord and of Elijah, though he knew it not. He had baptized by water unto repentance, but those who received his ministrations did not receive the Holy Ghost; now he was called to a greater work, and was promised that the baptism of the Holy Ghost, under his hands, should follow the baptism of the water, even as was the case with the apostles of old. He was commanded to tarry with Joseph Smith and assist him in writing and in counseling with him in relation to the great work that the Lord was bringing forth. Edward Partridge, who is described by the Prophet as a pattern of piety, one of the Lord's great men, and, like Nathaniel of old, a man in whom there was no guile, after some investigation of the truth, was baptized by the Prophet in Seneca Lake, and was also called by revelation to the ministry. The addition of these brethren to The Church greatly strengthened the ministry; they preached almost daily, and were frequently engaged in receiving the word of the Lord by revelation and through the revision of the scriptures; for it had been made known that in consequence of imperfections in translation in some instances, and the omission of many plain and precious parts in other instances, the scriptures--the Old and New Testaments--were imperfect, and hence the necessity for the revision. Finally the brethren received a commandment that after they had strengthened The Church in these parts, they should go to Ohio. The Church in New York was also commanded to gather to Ohio, which commandment, by the way, is the first one given to The Church to gather together in this dispensation. Obedient to this commandment, Joseph Smith, in company with Elders Rigdon and Partridge, and with his family, about the latter part of January removed to Kirtland, where he received a hearty welcome, and was there when Parley P. Pratt arrived from the west with his report of the labors of the Indian missionaries, as already stated. What effect this Indian mission report had upon the mind of the Prophet he has left no word to indicate; but that a deep impression was made upon him, and that he attached much importance to that mission, can scarcely be doubted, because of the mighty consequences which subsequently grew out of it. Since the departure of the Indian missionaries for the west a very great amount of knowledge had been revealed concerning the work of the Lord in the last days. Soon after the arrival of Sidney Rigdon at Fayette, in New York, as already related, work upon the translation of scripture was begun, and among the ancient scriptures that were revealed in the course of this work, was "The Prophecy of Enoch," which is alluded to in the writings of Jude,[F] in the New Testament. According to this "Prophecy of Enoch" the Lord revealed to that patriarch very much that would take place in the last days, among which is the following: [Footnote F: Jude 14, 15 and 16.] And righteousness and truth will I cause to sweep the earth as with a flood, to gather out mine own elect from the four quarters of the earth, unto a place which I shall prepare, a holy city, that my people may gird up their loins, and be looking forth for the time of my coming; for there shall be my tabernacle, and it shall be called Zion, a New Jerusalem. And the Lord said unto Enoch, then shall you and all your city meet them there, and we will receive them unto our bosom, and they shall see us, and we shall fall upon their necks, and they shall fall upon our necks, and we will kiss each other, and there shall be my abode, and it shall be Zion, which shall come forth out of all the creations which I have made; and for the space of a thousand years shall the earth rest.[G] [Footnote G: Prophecy of Enoch, Pearl of Great Price.] This is the city also spoken of in the Book of Mormon, to which reference before has been made.[H] [Footnote H: Page 24.] Again, before the Prophet and his companions departed from Fayette, in the month of January, speaking of the provisions that he would make for the poor, the Lord said: I have made the earth rich; and behold it is my footstool, wherefore, again I will stand upon it; and I hold forth, and deign to give unto you greater riches, even a land of promise, a land flowing with milk and honey, upon which there shall be no curse when the Lord cometh: and I will give it unto you for the land of your inheritance, if you seek it with all your hearts. And this shall be my covenant with you, ye shall have it for the land of your inheritance, and for the inheritance of your children forever, while the earth shall stand, and ye shall possess it again in eternity, no more to pass away.[I] [Footnote I: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 380.] After the Prophet's arrival in Kirtland, the branch of The Church there in the meantime having increased to about one hundred members, the elders of The Church were sent out into the surrounding country, two and two, to preach the gospel; and a promise of a future mission was given to them in which it was said: And from this place ye shall go forth into the regions westward; and inasmuch as ye shall find them that will receive you, ye shall build up my Church in every region, until the time shall come when it shall be revealed unto you from on high, when the city of the New Jerusalem shall be prepared, that ye may be gathered in one, that ye may be my people and I will be your God.[J] [Footnote J: Ibid Sec. 42.] Moreover, in the same revelation, something of the law under which the holy city is to be built up unto the Lord was revealed, of which we shall say more in the course of this history. In the latter part of February a brief revelation was given, making known that it was the will of the Lord that the elders who had been sent out to preach in the regions round about should be called together; and this led to the appointment of a somewhat notable conference of The Church that was called to meet on the sixth day of June ensuing. On the 7th of March (1831), the Lord gave a somewhat lengthy revelation setting forth the judgments that should come upon the generation in which this new dispensation of the gospel came forth, in the course of which it is said: Wherefore I, the Lord, have said, gather ye out from the eastern lands, assemble ye yourselves together ye elders of my Church; go ye forth into the western countries, call upon the inhabitants to repent, and inasmuch as they do repent, build up churches unto me; and with one heart and with one mind, gather up your riches that ye may purchase an inheritance which shall hereafter be appointed unto you, and it shall be called the New Jerusalem, a land of peace, a city of refuge, a place of safety for the saints of the Most High God; and the glory of the Lord shall be there, insomuch that the wicked will not come unto it, and it shall be called Zion. And it shall come to pass, among the wicked, that every man that will not take his sword against his neighbor, must needs flee unto Zion for safety. And there shall be gathered unto it out of every nation under heaven; and it shall be the only people that shall not be at war one with another. And it shall be said among the wicked, Let us not go up to battle against Zion, for the inhabitants of Zion are terrible; wherefore we cannot stand.[K] [Footnote K: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 45.] For a time, however, both the saints who had come from New York in obedience to the commandment from the Lord, and also the saints in Ohio, were commanded by revelation to remain in Ohio for the present, the saints in the latter State being called upon to share their lands with their eastern brethren. "It must needs be necessary," continues the revelation, "that ye save all the money that ye can, and that ye obtain all that ye can in righteousness, that in time ye may be enabled to purchase land for an inheritance, _even the city._ The place is not yet to be revealed, but after your brethren come from the east, there are to be certain men appointed, and to them it shall be given to know the place, or to them it shall be revealed. And they shall be appointed to purchase the lands, and to make a commencement to lay the foundation of the city." [L] [Footnote L: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 48] Thus it will be seen that considerable knowledge had been imparted to The Church concerning "Zion" during the absence of the Indian missionaries; and as all the revelations indicated that the location of Zion was in the west, very naturally the interest of The Church was intense concerning this Indian mission operating on the very western borders of American civilization. This brings us to the before mentioned conference, appointed for the 6th of June, 1831. CHAPTER III. IN SEARCH OF ZION. The conference of The Church appointed for the 6th of June assembled on that date, in Kirtland. It was an occasion of great importance. In what way it was done is not recorded, but the Prophet in speaking of the matter says: "The Lord displayed his power in a manner that could not be mistaken." He further recounts that the Man of Sin was revealed, and the authority of the Melchisedek Priesthood was manifested and conferred for the first time upon several of the elders. "It is clearly evident," says the Prophet, "that the Lord gives us power in proportion to the work to be done, and strength according to the race set before us, and grace and help as our needs require." The day following (June 7th), the Lord, in a revelation given through the Prophet, appointed the next conference to convene in Missouri, "upon the land which I will consecrate unto my people, which are a remnant of Jacob, and them who are heirs according to the covenant. Wherefore, verily I say unto you, let my servants Joseph Smith, Jr., and Sidney Rigdon take their journey as soon as preparations can be made to leave their homes, and journey to the land of Missouri. And inasmuch as they are faithful unto me, it shall be made known unto them what they shall do; and it shall also, inasmuch as they are faithful, be made known unto them the land of your inheritance." This announcement caused great joy to the conference. The place for the Zion of God--the New Jerusalem--was to be made known! It was to be the land of their inheritance! The city which Enoch, the seventh from Adam, saw in its splendor--the city of refuge for the righteous in the last days; the city of peace; the joy of the godly; the terror of the wicked--this city was to be located, and they were to be instruments in the founding of it! Small wonder if the thought of it exalted them until even the weak felt strong, and the strong yet more powerful. Twenty-eight elders in all were called by name to go in different directions through the western states, two by two--"preaching by the way in every congregation, baptizing by water and the laying on of hands by the water's side." They were to meet in western Missouri in a conference appointed at that place, and there learn the location of Zion. Soon after the close of the conference the elders started upon this mission, some going on foot, others going part way by stage and steamboat. The Prophet, in company with Sidney Rigdon, Martin Harris, Edward Partridge, W. W. Phelps, Joseph Coe, A. S. Gilbert and wife, left Kirtland for Missouri _via_ Cincinnati and St. Louis. At Cincinnati the Prophet Joseph had an interview with Rev. Walter Scott, the associate of Alexander Campbell in founding the sect of "The Disciples," or "Campbellites." It was with these gentlemen that Sidney Rigdon was associated in a religious reform movement, to which reference has already been made. Their design was to re-establish primitive Christianity. This object they proposed to achieve by discarding all man-made creeds and accepting the Bible alone--and especially the New Testament--as the authority and groundwork of their faith. Their cardinal doctrines were, faith in God and in Jesus Christ, repentance of sin, and baptism by immersion for the remission of sins, followed by righteousness of life. This unquestionably was a good beginning in the way of restoring the primitive Christian faith. Most of the fundamentals of the Christian faith are here; and if Sidney Rigdon, as the Lord declared, was sent forth even as John the Baptist to prepare the way before the Lord Jesus and Elijah--though he knew it not--then undoubtedly Alexander Campbell and Walter Scott, who were engaged in the same work, were also sent forth to prepare the way before the Lord. Certain it is that Alexander Campbell did a great work among the Protestant sects of the United States in getting them to turn from the creeds of men to the scriptures; and the elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have found in the sect of "The Disciples" more who would listen to their teachings, and a greater proportion of them who would accept the fullness of the gospel, than among any other sect. And those among them who have rejected the fullness of the gospel when it was presented to them, have failed to understand aright the meaning of the Campbell-Scott-Rigdon reform movement--they have failed to recognize in that movement merely a preparation for the incoming of the fullness of the gospel. That their teaching was not a complete return to the Christianity of the New Testament ought to have been clear to them, especially to the originators of the movement. They lacked divine authority--divine commission from God to administer the sacraments of the gospel. They baptized only with water for the remission of sins. The baptism of the Holy Ghost--apparently unknown to them--is equally a vital part of primitive Christianity, and is as plainly taught in the New Testament as an essential to salvation as water baptism. They lacked the organization of the primitive Church--apostles, prophets, bishops, elders, teachers, deacons, etc., etc.; and especially were they lacking in the enjoyment of those spiritual gifts of the gospel, so prominent a characteristic of the primitive Christian Church. Unfortunately, and very unlike Sidney Rigdon, both Mr. Campbell and Mr. Scott violently opposed the work of God brought forth by Joseph Smith. Alexander Campbell, through his "Millennial Harbinger," bitterly assailed both the Book of Mormon and the character of Joseph Smith; and Mr. Scott in this Cincinnati interview with the Prophet, opposed the work strenuously for that it set forth that men accepting the gospel of Jesus Christ were now entitled to the same spiritual powers and gifts as were enjoyed in the primitive Church. "Before the close of our interview," says the Prophet, "he manifested one of the bitterest spirits against the doctrine of the New Testament, (that these signs shall follow them that believe, as recorded in the 16th chapter of the Gospel according to St. Mark), that I ever witnessed among men." From St. Louis, those who continued in the company of the Prophet made the journey on foot to Independence, where they arrived about the middle of July. In a few days the other elders of this mission through the western states began to arrive. These men had suffered all the hardships incident to a long journey performed for the most part on foot through a sparsely settled country and in the hot summer months; but the consciousness that they were seeking the place of the city of Zion; that they had been promised, on condition of their faithfulness, that its location would be revealed to them; that it should be the land of their inheritance--sustained them in every trial and made the journey pleasant to them. The meeting between these brethren from the eastern states and the elders of the Indian mission who had remained at Independence since the departure of Elder Pratt to report their operations to the Prophet at Kirtland, was a memorable one. Those from the east could tell their brethren of the west of the expansion of The Church both in numbers and in doctrine; of the commandment of The Church to gather from New York to Ohio; of the appointment of a Bishop in The Church; of the revelation of the prophecy of Enoch, in which they had learned more about the city of Zion; of the other revelations that had been given upon that same subject--the city of Zion--the promise of God to reveal the place where eventually it is to be founded; the laws that must govern its inhabitants; of the glory which at last it shall possess; and finally of their God-commanded journey toward the place where it had been indicated its location was, and all the incidents that had happened on the way westward. All these and a thousand other things--their hopes for the advancement of the Kingdom; the peace of Zion that shall be; the safety, the glory;--all these were interesting themes for conversation. Of their meeting the Prophet himself said: The meeting with our brethren who had long waited our arrival, was a glorious one, and moistened with many tears. It seemed good and pleasant for brethren to meet together in unity. But our reflections were great, coming as we had from a highly cultivated state of society in the east, and standing now upon the confines or western limits of the United States, and looking into the vast wilderness of those that sat in darkness; how natural it was to observe the degradation, leanness of intellect, ferocity and jealousy of a people that were nearly a century behind the times, and to feel for those who roamed about without the benefit of civilization, refinement or religion; yea, and to exclaim in the language of the prophets: When will the wilderness blossom as the rose? When will Zion be built up in her glory, and where will Thy temple stand, unto which all nations shall come in the last days? The brethren were not long left in doubt upon this subject, for within a day or two--the date of the revelation is not definitely known further than the fact that it was given in July--a revelation was given in which the Lord made known that Missouri was the land which the Lord had appointed and consecrated for the gathering of his people: "Wherefore this is the land of promise," said the Lord, "and the place for the city of Zion," and "behold, the place which is now called Independence, is the center place, and a spot for the temple is lying westward, upon a lot which is not far from the court house." [A] [Footnote A: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 57.] The Saints were commanded to purchase this land, and that lying westward to the extent of their ability, that they might "obtain it as an everlasting inheritance." Sidney Gilbert was appointed an agent to The Church to receive money and to purchase lands, and also to engage in the business of a general merchant, the proceeds of which business were to be used in the purchase of lands. Edward Partridge, by virtue of his office as bishop, was to divide to the Saints their inheritance as the lands were purchased. W. W. Phelps was to be established as a printer and publisher to The Church in Zion, assisted by Oliver Cowdery. Immediate preparations were to be made by the bishop and his agents for settling the families then on their way from the east to settle in Zion. The first Sunday after the arrival of the elders of this western mission, a public meeting was held over the western boundary of the United States. Such a congregation was present as was only possible in an American frontier district--Indians, Negroes (then slaves), and all classes and conditions of people from the surrounding counties--Universalists, Atheists, Deists, Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, both priests and people--a motly crowd, truly! At the conclusion of the services two were baptized, but they were not the fruits of this meeting as they previously believed the gospel. During the week following, the Colesville branch of The Church, which had emigrated bodily from Colesville, Broome County, State of New York, arrived and settled in the edge of an extensive prairie about twelve miles west of Independence, and in what must now be the suburbs of Kansas City. It is worth while observing as we pass, that this branch of The Church was made up wholly of northern people, and therefore constituted a different class of settlers from the old inhabitants of Independence, who came chiefly from the south. They had been commanded to come to western Missouri in a body, with a view to permanently settling in the land of Zion, when that place should be designated; and in this their mission differed from that given to the twenty-eight elders who were commanded to travel two and two, preaching the gospel through the western states en route for Missouri. These people were unquestionably plunged into new conditions. They had been reared in a district of New York where the land was heavily timbered, and where to clear a farm for cultivation took well-nigh the lifetime of one generation. But here they found alternate woodland and prairie, great stretches of open country which only needed to be fenced to be ready for plowing, and doubtless their hearts swelled with gratitude when they contemplated the possibilities and prosperity that could come to the industrious in such a goodly land. They soon set about their work of founding Zion, for on the 2nd day of August they began the erection of a log house. The first log was carried and placed by twelve men--of whom the Prophet was one--in honor of the twelve tribes of Israel; and Sidney Rigdon who had arrived at Independence sometime after the Prophet, from whom he separated at St. Louis, dedicated the land of Zion for the gathering of God's people. "It was a season of joy to those present," writes the Prophet, "and afforded a glimpse of the future which time will yet unveil to the satisfaction of the faithful." Sidney Rigdon was also commanded to write a description of the land of Zion, but of that more later. It will be remembered that a site for the temple in Zion was also revealed at the time Independence was declared to be the center place thereof, and that it was described as lying a short distance west from the court house. A scant half mile from the latter place one comes to the summit of a hill-- A gentle hill of mild declivity --the crown of which is about an acre and a half in area, perhaps more. On the 3rd day of August, 1831, upon this spot then covered with a rich growth of timber, the Prophet and a number of the brethren, among whom were Sidney Rigdon, Edward Partridge, W. W. Phelps, Oliver Cowdery, Martin Harris and Joseph Coe--assembled to dedicate the place as the temple site in Zion. In the course of the impressive ceremonies then conducted, the 87th Psalm was read: His foundation is the holy mountains. The Lord loveth the gates of Zion more than all the dwellings of Jacob. Glorious things are spoken of thee, O city of God. I will make mention of Rahab and Babylon to them that know me; behold Philistia, and Tyre, with Ethiopia: this man was born there. And of Zion it shall be said, This and that man was born in her; and the Highest himself shall establish her. The Lord shall count when he writeth up the people, that this man was born there. As well the singers as the players on instruments shall be there: all my springs [i. e. hopes] are in thee. The Prophet Joseph then dedicated the spot where the temple is to be built--a temple, by the way, on which the glory of God shall visibly rest; yea, the Great God hath so declared it, saying: "Verily this generation shall not all pass away until an house shall be built unto the Lord, and a cloud shall rest upon it, which cloud shall be even the glory of the Lord, which shall fill the house; * * * the sons of Moses and also the sons of Aaron shall offer an acceptable offering and sacrifice in the house of the Lord, which house shall be built unto the Lord in this generation, upon the consecrated spot as I have appointed." [B] [Footnote B: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 84:4-6, 31.] On the 4th of August a conference was held at the house of Joshua Lewis, in Kaw Township, Jackson County, among the Colesville saints. This was the conference that was appointed to convene by the revelation received on the 7th of June, directing the elders to go westward in search of Zion. Thus the work of building up the center place of Zion was commenced, and although the commencement was humble in the extreme, the final result shall be the erection of a city that shall be the crowning glory of the western world--a city from which shall go forth the law of the Lord unto all nations, for it is written: "The law shall go forth from Zion." [C] [Footnote C: Isaiah 2:3.] It shall be a city of refuge, for the Lord has said that "every man that will not take his sword against his neighbor, must needs flee unto Zion for safety." [D] [Footnote D: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 45:68.] The wicked will consider her inhabitants terrible, while the righteous out of every nation will come unto her with songs of everlasting joy in their hearts.[E] [Footnote E: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 45:69-71.] CHAPTER IV. THE LAND AND THE CITY. The land in which the city of Zion is to be built will ever be of interest to the saints, and I therefore give the following description of that section of Missouri. The Missouri River, though flowing east in the main, takes a meandering course through the State to which it has given its name. The "river bottom" is a low strip of land on either bank of the stream, and varies in width from a few hundred yards to several miles. The character of the soil in the bottom is, of course, alluvial, and very fertile. The Missouri is said to be a "treacherous stream" by the people living on its banks. By that they mean it frequently changes its channel. Several places were pointed out to me, as I passed down it, that used to be the main channel of the stream; but which are now overgrown with trees, underbrush, and fields of waving corn; while here and there the stream is cutting its banks, and mass after mass of sandy, alluvial deposit of former times is caving in--the river is cutting for itself a new channel--or moving obstructions from an old one in which it flowed ages ago. But however often the Missouri may change its banks, the main stream never leaves the river bottoms, for the reason that these bottoms are walled in by the "bluffs." The word bluff naturally suggests to the mind rugged cliffs rising almost perpendicularly from the bottoms to dizzy heights--but such are not the bluffs of the Missouri. While occasionally one may see a bold cliff rising from the water's edge, yet they are not numerous. The Missouri bluffs are sharp, rolling hills that run parallel with the river on either side, and are usually timbered. They vary in width, sometimes extending ten or fifteen miles, and then again narrowed down to a few hundred yards by some patch of prairie that approaches very nearly to the river bank. Back from these bluffs are stretched out great rolling prairies, the extent of which quite bewilders one. They are divided into what appear to be immense meadows by the strips of timber land which invariably border the winding streams. Standing on an eminence that overlooks these alternate prairie and timber lands, extending as they do as far as the eye can reach--with here and there a crowning hill ornamented with a pretentious farm house, or some more humble dwelling half hidden from your view by the thick foliage of the trees, with cattle feeding on a thousand hills--all this is very likely to make the beholder imagine himself in some enchanted realm. But to be more particular: Jackson County, which is the center place of Zion, is in ninety-four west longitude, and thirty-nine north latitude, being nearly equally distant from the northern boundary of the United States and the Gulf of Mexico. It is also about midway between the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans, making it the most central point within the United States, and, with reference to both North and South America, a central place in this western hemisphere, of which in the future it will be the great capital. The climate is delightful, being mild at least three-fourths of the year The soil of Missouri is, for the most part, a rich, black loam, in places intermingled with sand and clay, and is from two to ten feet in depth, with a sub-soil of a fine quality of clay. Both climate and soil are favorable to the production of all the fruits and vegetables of the warm temperate climate: not only the hardy cereals, such as oats, barley, wheat, rye, buck-wheat, corn, etc., but also tobacco, cotton, flax, sweet-potatoes and all other common vegetables, as also fruit, apples, pears, apricots, persimmons, plums of many varieties, the luscious peach, the delicious grape, and a great many kinds of berries grow in abundance. It is either Stanley or Livinstone who, in speaking of some parts of Africa, says: "The people tickle the soil with a hoe, and it laughs with plenty." It is so with the land of Zion. Though the supply of timber useful for lumber purposes is nearly exhausted, you still find luxuriant growths of hickory, some black walnut, a variety of oaks, plenty of elm, cherry, honey-locust, mulberry, bass-wood and boxelder; huge sycamores and cottonwoods grow in the river bottoms, as also hard and soft maple. Formerly many wild animals roamed over the prairies or lived in the woods; such as the buffalo, elk, deer, bear, wolf, beaver, and many smaller animals; wild turkeys, geese, quail, and a variety of singing birds: in short, it was once the hunter's paradise. Civilization, however, has driven away nearly all these animals, especially the larger ones; but they are replaced by the domestic species so useful to man, both for food and clothing, as well as being of valuable assistance in his labors. The clay, of which there is unlimited quantities, makes a fine quality of brick. Stone quarries which supply a good quality of light-colored sand-stone, are abundant, so that substantial building material may be said to be plentiful. Such is the land of Zion as I found it--a land with resources well-nigh unlimited, a land yielding an abundance of all useful products though but indifferently cultivated by the husbandmen who possess it--a land of surpassing loveliness, though its beauties are often marred rather than increased by those who inhabit it; while its magnificent resources are very far from anything like complete development. The land being thus beautiful in its products when only partially developed, the mind naturally inquires what will it be when its resources are fully developed--when the idleness and indifference of its people shall be banished--when it shall be possessed by the saints of the Most High, who will consecrate their substance for the building of Zion; and all their exertions will be to glorify God, and benefit mankind--when covetousness is subdued and virtue and righteousness shall reign in every heart--and when under the blessings of Jehovah the land shall yield in its strength! When the glory of Lebanon shall be brought to Zion, the fir tree, the pine tree and the box tree together; when for brass, will be brought gold; and for iron, silver; for wood, brass; and for stones, iron, to glorify the place of God's sanctuary! Surely when this shall come to pass, the land of Zion shall be the perfection of beauty. Independence, designated as the center place of Zion, is in the northern part of Jackson county, about three or four miles south of the Missouri River. It is located nearly midway between two small rivers which flow northward and empty into the Missouri; the stream on the west is called "Big Blue," and the one on the east "Little Blue." The town is situated in the river bluffs already described as sharp, rolling hills, many of which at one time were covered with fine growths of timber and even now some of them are partially covered with beautiful groves. Independence in 1831, as stated in a previous chapter, was a frontier town with all the disadvantages implied by that term. It had a mixed population of white men from many sections of the Union, chiefly, however, from the south, some of whom had moved into the western wilderness to escape the consequences of unlawful deeds committed elsewhere; vagabond Indians and renegades who had mingled with them; besides a number of negro slaves. Society was as varied as the character of the population, but on the whole may be described as being without stability, regard for law, or religion. Of late years, of course, the character of Independence has been entirely changed. Western Missouri is no longer the frontier of the United States, nor is Independence a frontier town. It is now a delightful residence suburb of Kansas City, Missouri, with many attractive homes. Having given a description of the land of Zion and the town of Independence, it may be interesting to learn something concerning the city of Zion that shall yet stand there to the glory of God. Of necessity the description will be imperfect, as the available materials for such description are very meagre. While the prophets have written much concerning Zion and her future glory, their rapturous effusions do not furnish matter for a definite description of the city. In June, 1833, however, Joseph Smith and the elders in Kirtland, Ohio, sent a plat of the city to the brethren in Missouri. We have been unable to find the plat, but an explanation of it is recorded in the history of Joseph Smith,[A] from which we learn the following: [Footnote A: Millennial Star, Vol. 14, p. 438] The city plat is one mile square, divided into blocks containing ten acres each--forty rods square--except the middle range of blocks running north and south; they will be forty by sixty rods, containing fifteen acres, having their greatest extent east and west. The streets will be eight rods wide, intersecting each other at right angles. The tier of blocks forty by sixty rods will be reserved for public buildings, temples, tabernacles, school houses, etc.[B] [Footnote B: By this arrangement, it will be observed that the blocks in the city cannot be uniformly forty rods square (if the middle range of blocks running north and south are made forty by sixty), as the plat east and west would lack twenty-eight rods, and north and south eight rods, of being sufficient for such an arrangement. Either the outside tier of blocks must be less than forty rods square, or the city plat must be more than a mile square. It must be three hundred and forty-eight rods east and west, (instead of three hundred and twenty) by three hundred and twenty-eight north and south.--B. H. R.] All the other blocks will be divided into half-acre lots, a four rod front to every lot, and extending back twenty rods. In one block the lots will run from the north and south, and in the next one from the east and west, and so on alternately throughout the city, except in the range of blocks reserved for public buildings. By this arrangement no street will be built on entirely through the street; but on one block the houses will stand on one street, and on the next one on another street. All of the houses are to be built of brick or stone; and but one house on a lot, which is to stand twenty-five feet back from the street, the space in front being for lawns, ornamental trees, shrubbery, or flowers according to the taste of the owners; the rest of the lot will be for gardens, etc. It is supposed that such a plat when built up will contain fifteen or twenty thousand population, and that they will require twenty-four buildings to supply them with houses for public worship and schools. These buildings will be temples, none of which will be less than eighty-seven feet by sixty-one, and two stories high, each story to be fourteen feet, making the building twenty-eight feet to the square. I say none of these temples will be smaller than this, but of course there will be others much larger; the above, however, are the dimensions of the one the saints were commanded to build first. Lands on the north and south of the city will be laid off for barns and stables for the use of the city, so there will be no barns or stables in the city among the homes of the people. Lands for the agriculturist are also to be laid off on the north and south of the city plat, but if sufficient land cannot be laid off without going too great a distance, then farms are to be laid off on the east and west also; but the tiller of the soil as well as the merchant and mechanic will live in the city. The farmer and his family, therefore, will enjoy all the advantages of schools, public lectures and other meetings. His home will no longer be isolated, and his family denied the benefits of society, which has been, and always will be, the great educator of the human race; but they will enjoy the same privileges of society, and can surround their homes with as much refinement as will be found in the home of the merchant or banker. "When this square is thus laid off and supplied, lay off another in the same way," said Joseph to those to whom the city plat was sent, "and so fill up the world in these last days, and let every man live in the city, _for this is the city of Zion._" CHAPTER V. SETTLEMENT OF THE SAINTS IN MISSOURI--THEIR ERRORS--REPROOFS AND WARNINGS. On the 4th of August, 1831, a conference was held among the Colesville saints, at the house of Joshua Lewis, in Kaw Township; and about this time a number of revelations were given in which the Lord made known his will to his servants and gave his reasons for calling them to Missouri. Those reasons were: 1. That the Lord's servants might give to him a witness of their obedience; 2. That they might have the honor of laying the foundation of Zion; 3. That they might bear record in all their travels hereafter, where the city of Zion shall stand; 4. That the testimony of these things might go forth from "the city of the heritage of God." [A] [Footnote A: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 58:1-13] The Lord commanded the saints to purchase lands in Jackson County, to the extent of their ability; and for the better accomplishment of this object, Sidney Gilbert was appointed agent for The Church. Having accomplished these things, the elders, except Edward Partridge and a few others whom the Lord appointed to settle permanently in Missouri, were commanded to return to their homes, bearing record by the way of what had been revealed. The saints and elders who remained in the land of Zion began the work of building up permanent homes. They had arrived too late to raise crops that season, but they cut hay for their cattle, and prepared some ground for cultivation. The fall and winter were occupied in building log cabins; but with all their industry they were not able to provide shelter for all. Through that long, cold winter the saints cheerfully submitted to all kinds of inconveniences, such as several families living in an open, unfinished log room, without windows, and nothing but the frozen ground for a floor. Their food consisted chiefly of beef and a little bread, made of coarse corn meal, manufactured by rubbing the ears of corn on a tin grater. The spirit of peace, union and love, however, was in their midst, and at their prayer meetings, and in their family worship, they were blessed with many seasons of refreshing from the presence of the Lord. Thus the winter of 1831 passed away. As soon as the churches scattered abroad learned that the Lord had revealed the place where the city of Zion was to be built, preparations to purchase inheritances absorbed the minds of the faithful; and money was sent to The Church agent from all quarters to buy lands. Edward Partridge had been appointed the bishop in Zion, and it was made his duty to divide unto the saints their inheritances.[B] As early as February, 1831, the Lord had said that those who loved him would remember the poor, and consecrate of their property to sustain them, for inasmuch as they did it to the poor, they did it unto him; and that which was consecrated to the poor, should be imparted to them with a deed and a covenant that could not be broken. Moreover every man was to be made a steward over his own property.[C] [Footnote B: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 57:7.] [Footnote C: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 42:29-35.] This law of consecration and stewardship was as follows: Every man was to consecrate his property to the bishop of The Church without reserve, with a covenant that could not be broken; and then from this consecrated property receive an inheritance from the bishop--sharing equally with his brethren, according to his family and circumstances--this inheritance being deeded [D] to him by the bishop; which inheritance then became his stewardship, upon which he was to improve according to the measure of wisdom he possessed. Every man is to be independent in the management of his stewardship. By every man consecrating his property to the bishop, and then receiving back as his stewardship only sufficient for his support, there was a surplus left in the hands of the bishop to be placed in the Lord's storehouse. Then if in the management of his stewardship a man obtained more than was needful for his support, it, too, was put into the Lord's storehouse, and that, as well as the surplus first named, was to be used in giving inheritances to the poor; and in assisting the brethren in the improvement of their respective stewardships, as should be appointed by the high council of The Church, and the bishop and his counselors.[E] And thus the saints were to be made equal in temporal things as well as in things that are spiritual.[F] [Footnote D: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 51:4.] [Footnote E: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 42:33, 53-55.] [Footnote F: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 78.] The hearts of the saints in Zion were made glad in the spring of 1832 by a visit from their youthful Prophet and Sidney Rigdon, both of whom had suffered much for the truth's sake, during the winter that had just past, at the hands of a furious mob in Ohio. At the time the mobbing referred to occurred, the Prophet was living at the house of a Brother John Johnson, Sen., (usually called "Father Johnson" by Joseph and the saints), in the little town of Hiram, Portage County, Ohio, about thirty miles from Kirtland. Before removing to that place, the Prophet's wife had taken two children (twins) to rear, their mother, the wife of a Brother John Murdock, having died when the children were a few days old. Emma Smith received them when they were nine days old, and at the time of the event to be related they were eleven months old. Nothing of unusual importance had occurred in Hiram since the Prophet's arrival. He had occupied his time in the revision of the Bible that he had been commanded to make, and in holding public meetings in the evenings and on the Sabbath day. Here, too, he received a number of revelations, among them the one called the "Vision," [G] which describes the different degrees of glory to which men may attain in the future life. [Footnote G: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 76.] A number of men, however, had apostatized from the truth and left The Church; among them one Ezra Booth, formerly a Methodist minister. He had been converted on seeing a person healed of an infirmity of many years' standing, and, as is so frequent in such cases, he required a constant succession of miracles to keep him in The Church. "But when," as the Prophet remarks in stating his case, "he actually learned that faith, humility, patience, and tribulation were before blessing, and that God brought low before he exalted; that instead of the Savior's granting him power to smite men and make them believe (as he said he wanted God to do with him), he found he must become all things to all men, that he might peradventure save some; and that, too, by all diligence, by perils, by sea and land, as was the case in the days of Jesus"--when he found this was the course the servants of God must run, he was disappointed and turned away from the faith and The Church. So, too, did one Simonds Rider, and also Eli Johnson, Edward Johnson, and John Johnson, Jr. This by way of introducing the matter, the rest is as related by the Prophet himself: On the 25th of March, 1832, the twins before mentioned, which had been sick of the measles for some time, caused us to be broke of our rest in taking care of them, especially my wife. In the evening I told her she had better retire to rest with one of the children, and I would watch with the sickest child. In the night she told me I had better lie down on the trundle bed, and I did so, and was soon after awakened by her screaming _murder!_ when I found myself going out of the door in the hands of about a dozen men, some of whose hands were in my hair, and some hold of my shirt, drawers and limbs. The foot of the trundle bed was towards the door, leaving only room enough for the door to swing. My wife heard a gentle tapping on the windows which she then took no notice of, (but which was unquestionably designed for ascertaining whether we were all asleep), and soon after the mob burst open the door and surrounded the bed in an instant, and as I said, the first thing I knew I was going out of the door in the hands of an infuriated mob. I made a desperate struggle as I was forced out, to extricate myself, but only cleared one leg, with which I made a pass at one man and he fell on the door steps. I was immediately confined again, and they swore by God they would kill me if I did not be still, which quieted me. As they passed around the house with me, the fellow that I kicked came to me and thrust his hand into my face, all covered with blood, (for I hit him on the nose,) and with an exulting hoarse laugh, muttered, "Gee, gee, God damn ye, I'll fix ye." They then seized me by the throat, and held on till I lost my breath. After I came to, as they passed along with me, about thirty rods from the house, I saw Elder Rigdon stretched out on the ground whither they had dragged him by the heels. I supposed he was dead. I began to plead with them, saying, "you will have mercy and spare my life, I hope?" To which they replied, _"God damn ye, call on yer God for help,_ we'll show ye no mercy;" and the people began to show themselves in every direction; one coming from the orchard had a plank, and I expected they would kill me and carry me off on the plank. They then turned to the right and went on about thirty rods further--about sixty rods from the house and thirty from where I saw Elder Rigdon, into the meadow, where they stopped, and one said, "Simonds, Simonds," (meaning, I supposed, Simonds Rider,) "pull up his drawers, pull up his drawers, he will take cold." Another replied, "a'nt ye going to kill 'im, a'nt ye going to kill 'im?" A group of mobbers collected a little way off, and said: "Simonds, Simonds, come here;" and Simonds charged those who had hold of me to keep me from touching the ground (as they had done all the time), lest I should get a spring upon them. They went and held a council, and as I could occasionally overhear a word, I supposed it was to know whether it was best to kill me. They returned after awhile, when I learned they had concluded not to kill me, but pound and scratch me well, tear off my shirt and drawers, and leave me naked. One cried, "Simonds, Simonds, _where's the tar bucket?"_ "I don't know," answered one, _"where 'tis, Eli's left it."_ They ran back and fetched the bucket of tar, when one exclaimed, _"God damn it, let's us tar up his mouth;"_ and they tried to force the tar paddle into my mouth; I twisted my head around so that they could not; and they cried out, _"God damn ye, hold up yer head and let us give ye some tar."_ They then tried to force a vial into my mouth and broke it in my teeth. All my clothes were torn off me except my shirt collar; and one man fell on me and scratched my body like a mad cat, and then muttered out: _"God damn ye, that's the way the Holy Ghost falls on folks."_ They then left me and I attempted to rise, but fell again; I pulled the tar away from my lips, so that I could breathe more freely, and after awhile I began to recover, "and raised myself up, when I saw two lights. I made my way towards one of them, and found it was Father Johnson's. When I had come to the door I was naked, and the tar made me look as though I was covered with blood, and when my wife saw me she thought I was all mashed to pieces, and fainted. During the affray abroad, the sisters of the neighborhood had collected at my room. I called for a blanket; they threw me one and shut the door: I wrapped it around me and went in. * * * * * * * * My friends spent the night in scraping and removing the tar, and washing and cleansing my body; so that by morning I was ready to be clothed again. This being Sabbath morning, the people assembled for meeting at the usual hour of worship, and among those came also the mobbers, viz.: Simonds Rider, a Campbellite preacher and leader of the mob; one McClentic, son of a Campbellite minister; and Pelatiah Allen, Esq., who gave the mob a barrel of whiskey to raise their spirits; and many others. With my flesh all scarified and defaced, I preached to the congregation as usual, and in the afternoon of the same day baptized three individuals. It was during this visit to Missouri in the spring of 1832, that Joseph was acknowledged by The Church and Priesthood in Zion, "President of the High Priesthood." It was on the occasion of this visit, too, that he sought to so "organize The Church that the brethren might, eventually, be independent of every incumbrance beneath the celestial kingdom, by bonds and covenants of mutual friendship and mutual love." [H] [Footnote H: History of Joseph Smith. Millennial Star Vol. 14, p. 162.] In a revelation given July, 1831, W. W. Phelps had been appointed a printer unto The Church in the land of Zion. Accordingly a press and type were purchased, and in June, 1832, the first number of a monthly paper was issued, called the _Evening and Morning Star._ This was the first periodical published by The Church. According to its prospectus it was to be a messenger of truth; a harbinger of peace and good will; to bring good tidings of great joy to all people, but more especially to the house of Israel scattered abroad, telling them that the day of their redemption was near; to proclaim the ensign to which all nations must come, in order to worship God acceptably; to declare that goodness consists in _doing_ good, not merely in teaching it; and to show that all men's religion is vain without charity; and as the paper was to be devoted to the great concerns of eternal things, and the gathering of the saints, it would leave politics, broils, the gainsayings of the world, and many other matters for their proper channels.[I] [Footnote I: Millennial Star Vol. 14:146-8.] So rapidly did the saints gather to Zion during this summer that the _Star_ for November reported eight hundred and thirty souls in the new settlements. The Lord had blessed them both with food and with raiment, and there was plenty in Zion. A feeling of insubordination, however, existed among the brethren of the priesthood. Seven high priests had been appointed to preside over the affairs of The Church in Zion, viz., Oliver Cowdery, W. W. Phelps, John Whitmer, Sidney Gilbert, Edward Partridge, Isaac Morley and John Corrill. These brethren, with the common consent of the several branches comprising The Church in Missouri, were to appoint elders to preside over the respective branches, and attend to all the affairs of The Church in that land. But a number of those high priests and elders who went up to Zion, ignored the authority of the seven who were placed there to preside, and began setting some of the branches in order without being appointed to do so; and it resulted in some confusion. Others who went there sought to obtain inheritances in some other way than according to the laws of consecration and stewardship; and these things, together with jealousies, covetousness, light-mindedness, unbelief, and general neglect to keep the commandments of God, enkindled the displeasure of the Almighty against Zion and her inhabitants. This state of affairs coming to the knowledge of the Prophet Joseph, through his correspondence with the leading elders in Zion, he wrote a letter to the saints in Missouri, severely reproving them for their neglect to keep the commandments of God; and as the communication is full of prophecy of those calamities which eventually befell the Church, I quote it entire: KIRTLAND, January 11, 1833. _Brother Wm. W. Phelps:_ I send you the Olive Leaf which we have plucked from the tree of Paradise, the Lord's message of peace to us; for though our brethren in Zion indulge in feelings towards us which are not according to the requirements of the new covenant, yet we have the satisfaction of knowing that the Lord approves of us and has accepted us, and established his name in Kirtland for the salvation of the nations; for the Lord will have a place from which his word will go forth, in these last days, in purity, for if Zion will not purify herself, so as to be approved of in all things, in his sight, he will seek another people; for his work will go on until Israel is gathered, and they who will not hear his voice must expect to feel his wrath. Let me say unto you, seek to purify yourselves, and also the inhabitants of Zion, lest the Lord's anger be kindled to fierceness. Repent, repent, is the voice of God to Zion; and strange as it may appear, yet it is true, mankind will persist in self-justification until all their iniquity is exposed, and their character past being redeemed, and that which is treasured up in their hearts be exposed to the gaze of mankind. I say to you (and what I say to you, I say to all), hear the warning voice of God, lest Zion fall, and the Lord swear in his wrath, "The inhabitants of Zion shall not enter into my rest." The brethren in Kirtland pray for you unceasingly, for, knowing the terrors of the Lord, they greatly fear for you. You will see that the Lord commanded us, in Kirtland, to build a house of God, and establish a school for the prophets; this is the word of the Lord to us, and we must, yea, the Lord helping us, we will obey; as on conditions of our obedience he has promised us great things; yea, even a visit from the heavens to honor us with his own presence. We greatly fear before the Lord lest we should fail of this great honor, which our Master proposes to confer upon us; we are seeking for humility and great faith lest we be ashamed in his presence. Our hearts are greatly grieved at the spirit which is breathed both in your letter and that of Brother G----'s; the very spirit which is wasting the strength of Zion like a pestilence; and if it is not detected and driven from you, it will ripen Zion for the threatened judgments of God. Remember, God sees the secret springs of human action, and knows the hearts of all living. Brother, suffer us to speak plainly, for God has respect for the feelings of his saints, and he will not suffer them to be tantalized with impunity. Tell Brother G----that low insinuations God hates; but he rejoices in an honest heart, and knows better who is guilty than he does. We send him this warning voice, and let him fear greatly for himself, lest a worse thing overtake him; all we can say by way of conclusion is, if the fountain of our tears is not dried up, we will still weep for Zion. This from your brother who trembles for Zion, and for the wrath of heaven which awaits her if she repent not. JOSEPH SMITH, JUN. P. S.--I am not in the habit of crying peace, when there is no peace, and, knowing the threatened judgments of God, I say, Woe unto them that are at ease in Zion; fearfulness will speedily lay hold of the hypocrite. I did not expect that you had lost the commandments, but thought from your letters you had neglected to read them, otherwise you would not have written as you did. It is in vain to try to hide a bad spirit from the eyes of those who are spiritual, for it will show itself in speaking and in writing, as well as in all our other conduct. It is also needless to make great pretensions when the heart is not right; the Lord will expose it to the view of his faithful saints. We wish you to render the _Star_ as interesting as possible, by setting forth the rise, progress and faith of our Church, as well as the doctrine; for if you do not render it more interesting than at present, it will fall, and The Church suffer a great loss thereby. J. S. A council of high priests at Kirtland also appointed Hyrum Smith and Orson Hyde to write a letter of reproof and warning, in which they cried, "Repent! repent! or Zion must suffer, for the scourge and judgment must come upon her." The whole of this communication, however, is likewise so full of prophetic warning to the saints in Zion that I consider it too important to be omitted, and hence give it _in extenso:_ KIRTLAND MILLS, GEAUGA COUNTY, OHIO, January 14, 1833. _From a conference of twelve High Priests, to the Bishop, his Council, and the inhabitants of Zion:_ Orson Hyde and Hyrum Smith being appointed by the said conference to write this epistle in obedience to the commandment, given the 22nd and 23rd of September last which says: "But verily I say unto all those to whom the kingdom has been given, from you it must be preached unto them that shall repent of their former evil works, for they are to be upbraided for their evil hearts of unbelief; and your brethren in Zion, for their rebellion against you at the time I sent you." Brother Joseph, and certain others, have written to you on this all-important subject, but you have never been apprized of these things by the united voice of a conference of those high priests that were present at the time this commandment was given. We, therefore, Orson and Hyrum--the committee appointed by said conference to write this epistle--having received the prayers of said conference, that we might be enabled to write the mind and will of God upon this subject, now take up our pen to address you in the name of the conference, relying upon the arm of the great Head of The Church. In the commandment alluded to, the children of Zion were all, yea, even every one, under condemnation, and were to remain in that state until they repented and remembered the new covenant, even the Book of Mormon, and the former commandments, which the Lord had given them, not only to say but to do them, and bring forth fruit meet for the Father's Kingdom; otherwise there remaineth a scourge and a judgment to be poured out upon the children of Zion; for "shall the children of the kingdom pollute the holy land? I say unto you, nay!" The answers received from those letters which have been sent to you upon this subject, have failed to bring to us that satisfactory confession and acknowledgment, which the spirit of our Master requires. We, therefore, feeling a deep interest for Zion, and knowing the judgments of God that will come upon her except she repent, resort to these last and most effectual means in our power to bring her to a sense of her standing before the Most High. At the time Joseph, Sidney and Newel left Zion, all matters of hardness and misunderstanding were settled and buried (as they supposed), and you gave them the hand of fellowship; but afterwards you brought up all these things again, in a censorious spirit, accusing Brother Joseph in rather an indirect way of seeking after monarchial power and authority. This came to us in Brother Carroll's letter of July 2nd. We are sensible that this is not the thing Brother Joseph is seeking after, but to magnify the high office and calling whereunto he has been called and appointed by the command of God, and the united voice of this Church. It might not be amiss for you to call to mind the circumstances of the Nephites, and the children of Israel rising up against their prophets, and accusing them of seeking after kingly power, etc., and see what befell them, and take warning before it is too late. Brother Gilbert's letter of December 10th has been received and read attentively, and the low, dark, and blind insinuations which were in it were not received by us as from the fountain of light, though his claims and pretensions to holiness were great. We are not unwilling to be chastened or rebuked for our faults, but we want to receive it in language that we can understand, as Nathan said to David, "Thou art the man." We are aware that Brother G----is doing much and has a multitude of business on hand, but let him purge out all the old leaven, and do his business in the spirit of the Lord, and then the Lord will bless him, otherwise the frown of the Lord will remain upon him. There is manifestly an uneasiness in Brother Gilbert, and a fearfulness that God will not provide for his saints in these last days, and these fears lead him on to covetousness. This ought not to be, but let him do just as the Lord has commanded him, and then the Lord will open his coffers, and his wants will be liberally supplied. But if this uneasy, covetous disposition be cherished by him, the Lord will bring him to poverty, shame and disgrace. Brother Phelps' letter of December 15th, is also received, and carefully read, and it betrays a lightness of spirit that ill becomes a man placed in the important and responsible station that he is placed in. If you have fat beef and potatoes, eat them in singleness of heart and boast not yourselves in these things. Think not, brethren, that we make a man an offender for a word; this is not the case; but we want to see a spirit in Zion, by which the Lord will build it up; that is the plain, solemn, and pure spirit in Christ. Brother Phelps requested in his last letter that Brother Joseph should come to Zion; but we say that Brother Joseph will not settle in Zion until she repent and purify herself and abide by the new covenant, and remember the commandments that have been given her, to do them as well as to say them. You may think it strange that we manifest no cheerfulness of heart upon the reception of your letter; you may think that our minds are prejudiced so much that we can see no good that comes from you, but rest assured, brethren, that this is not the case. We have the best of feelings, and feelings of the greatest anxiety for the welfare of Zion; we feel more like weeping over Zion than rejoicing over her, for we know that the judgments of God hang over her, and will fall upon her except she repent, and purify herself before the Lord, and put away from her every foul spirit. We now say to Zion, this once, in the name of the Lord, Repent! repent! awake, awake, put on thy beautiful garments, before you are made to feel the chastening rod of him whose anger is kindled against you. Let not Satan tempt you to think we want to make you bow to us, to domineer over you, for God knows this is not the case; our eyes are watered with tears, and our hearts are poured out to God in prayer for you, that he will spare you, and turn away his anger from you. There are many things in the last letters of Brothers G----and P----that are good, and we esteem them much. The idea of having "certain ones appointed to regulate Zion, and traveling elders have nothing to do with this part of the matter," is something we highly approbate, and you will doubtless know before this reaches you, why William E. McLellin opposed you in this move. We fear there was something in Brother Gilbert when he returned to this place from New York last fall, in relation to his brother William, that was not right. For Brother Gilbert was asked two or three times about his brother William, but gave evasive answers, and at the same time he knew that William was in Cleveland; but the Lord has taken him. We merely mention this that all may take warning to work in the light, for God will bring every secret thing to light. We now close our epistle by saying unto you, the Lord has commanded us to purify ourselves, to wash our hands and our feet, that he may testify to his Father and our Father, to his God and our God, that we are clean from the blood of this generation; and before we could wash our hands and our feet we were constrained to write this letter. Therefore, with the feelings of inexpressible anxiety for your welfare, we say again, Repent, repent, or Zion must suffer, for the scourge and judgment must come upon her. Let the bishop read this to the elders that they may warn the members of the scourge that is coming, except they repent. Tell them to read the Book of Mormon and obey it; read the commandments that are printed and obey them: yea, humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God that peradventure he may turn away his anger from you. Tell them that they have not come up to Zion to sit down in idleness, neglecting the things of God, but they are to be diligent and faithful in obeying the new covenant. There is one clause in Brother Joseph's letter which you may not understand; that is this, "If the people of Zion did not repent, the Lord would seek another place and another people." Zion is the place where the temple will be built, and the people gathered, but all people upon that holy land being under condemnation, the Lord will cut them off, if they repent not, and bring another race upon it that will serve him. The Lord will seek another place to bring forth and prepare his word to go forth to the nations, and as we said before, so we say again, Brother Joseph will not settle in Zion, except she repent and serve God, and obey the new covenant. With this explanation the conference sanctions Brother Joseph's letter. Brethren, the conference meets again this evening to hear this letter read, and if it meets their minds, we are all agreed to kneel down before the Lord, and cry unto him with all our hearts, that this epistle, and Brother Joseph's, and the revelations also, may have their desired effect, and accomplish the thing whereunto they are sent, and that they may stimulate you to cleanse Zion, that she mourn not. Therefore, when you get this, know ye that a conference of twelve high priests have cried unto the Lord for you, and are still crying, saying, Spare thy people, O Lord, and give not thy heritage to reproach. We now feel that our garments are clean from you and all men, when we have washed our feet and hands according to the commandment. We have written plain at this time, but we believe not harsh. Plainness is what the Lord requires, and we should not feel ourselves clear, unless we had done so: and if the things we have told you be not attended to, you will not long have occasion to say, or to think rather, that we may be wrong in what we have stated. Your unworthy brethren are determined to pray unto the Lord for Zion, as long as we can shed the sympathetic tear, or feel any spirit to supplicate a throne of grace in her behalf. The school of the prophets will commence, if the Lord will, in two or three days. It is a general time of health with us. The cause of God seems to be rapidly advancing in the eastern country; the gifts are beginning to break forth so as to astonish the world, and even believers marvel at the power and goodness of God. Thanks be rendered to his holy name for what he is doing. We are your unworthy brethren in the Lord, and may the Lord help us all to do his will, that we may at last be saved in his kingdom. ORSON HYDE. HYRUM SMITH. N. B.--We stated that Brother Gilbert knew that William was in Cleveland last fall when he was in Kirtland. We wrote this upon the strength of hearsay: but William being left at St. Louis, strengthened our supposition that such was the fact. We stated further, representing this matter, or this item, than the testimony will warrant us. With this exception the conference sanctions this letter. These words of reproof and warning had the effect of awakening in the hearts of the saints the spirit of repentance. A solemn assembly was called at which a sincere and humble repentance was manifested. A general epistle to The Church authorities in Kirtland, bearing date of 26th of February, 1833, was adopted at a conference of the saints in Zion, expressing their repentance, and desires to keep the commandments of God in the future. This was satisfactory to the brethren in Kirtland; and the Lord said in a revelation given the 8th of March, that the brethren in Zion _"began"_ to repent; and that the angels rejoiced over them. Still there were many things with which the Lord was not well pleased, and he said that he would contend with Zion, and plead with her strong ones, and chasten her until she overcame.[J] [Footnote J: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 90:32-36.] CHAPTER VI. STORM CLOUDS. The spring of 1833 opened early in western Missouri. The streams, which had been so long locked up in ice, broke loose under the genial rays of the returning sun, and rushed madly on to swell the majestic current of the Missouri. The winter snows early melted before the balmy breath of spring, and grass and flowers in rich profusion and of varied hue clothed the great rolling prairies of the west in their loveliest attire. The forests along the water courses put forth their tender buds, and the birds that had migrated to the south in the autumn, to escape the severity of the winter, joyfully returned to build their nests in the same old woods, and make the wilderness glad with their sweet songs. All nature rejoiced, and the saints who had gathered to that land to build up Zion rejoiced with her. They had repented of the sins which had called forth the reproofs of the servants of God: and although there were some persons among them with whom the Lord was not well pleased, yet they had received assurances from God that the angels rejoiced over them. Under these auspicious circumstances eighty officials and a large number of the members of The Church met for the service of God, and to be instructed in the things of eternal life, at the Ferry on Big Blue, a small forest-lined stream a few miles west of Independence. Their conversation and discourses ranged over immense periods of time; extending back to that time when the morning stars sang together, and the sons of God shouted for joy in anticipation of the blessings that would follow the creation of this earth.[A] They spoke of the cruel persecutions endured by the disciples of Jesus in former ages, little dreaming that the time was at hand when they, too, would be required to endure like trials for the truth's sake--for the word of God and the testimony of Jesus. Their minds were absorbed in contemplating the future glory of Zion; their souls were filled with joy unspeakable--filled with that spirit which ages before caused men and angels to unite in singing, "Peace on earth; good will to man." This occurred on the 6th of April, and was the first attempt of The Church to celebrate the anniversary of her birthday. Only three years before, in the house of Peter Whitmer The Church had been organized; and now the saints in Missouri were exclaiming, How The Church has grown! How much has been accomplished! The Gospel had been preached in nearly all the states of the Union: thousands had hailed the message with delight, and numerous branches of The Church had been established. The place of the city of Zion had been revealed, and nearly a thousand of the saints gathered there. A printing establishment had been founded, and the precious truths from heaven were being published to the world; and all this had been accomplished in the face of poverty and bitter opposition. [Footnote A: Job 38:3-7.] During the summer of 1833, a school for the elders was organized in Zion, presided over by Elder Parley P. Pratt, who labored with all the zeal of an apostle in teaching them the things of God. They held their meetings in the shady groves--in "God's first temples," and their instructor frequently walked several miles bare-footed to meet with them. How strange it seems to record the above as occurring in this age! It appears to be quite out of joint with the times, and smacks rather of that age in which John the Baptist preached the gospel in the wilderness of Judea, clothed with camel's hair, and a girdle of skin about his loins; and whose food was locusts and wild honey. Some day, however, when a parallel shall be drawn between the introduction of the gospel in this dispensation, and that in which John figured, it will appear that the men who have been chosen of the Lord in this age to perform his work, possess the same simplicity of character as those whom he chose in Judea, nineteen hundred years ago--the same guileless honesty of purpose; the same child-like confidence in God, and the same unwavering fidelity to their Master's cause; as willing to undergo privations, hunger and cold, and toil and nakedness; as willing to endure the scorn and hatred of the world; as willing to suffer bonds and even death. The migration of the saints to Missouri in the early summer of 1833, exceeded that of the previous season; but they were settling among a people who possessed characteristics with which, from the nature of things, they were bound to be at variance. The "old settlers" of Jackson County were principally from the mountainous portions of the Southern States. They had settled along the water-courses, in the forests which lined their banks, instead of out on the broad and fertile prairies, which only required fencing to prepare them for cultivation. It was the work of years to clear a few acres of the timber lands, and prepare them for cultivation, but with these small fields the "old settlers" were content. They had no disposition to beautify their homes, or even make them convenient or comfortable. They lived in their log cabins without windows, and very frequently without floors other than the ground; and the dingy, smoked log walls were unadorned by pictures or other ornaments. They were uneducated; those who could read or write being the exception and not the rule; and they had an utter contempt for the refinements of life. It is needless to add that they were narrowminded, ferocious, and jealous of those who sought to obtain better homes, and who aspired to something better in life than had yet entered into the hearts of these people. There was another element in western Missouri which did not tend to the improvement of its society. Western Missouri at the time of which I write, and as before remarked, was the frontier of the United States, and therefore a place of refuge for those who had outraged the laws of society elsewhere. Here they were near the boundary line of the United States, and if pursued by the officers of the law, in a few hours they could cross the line out of their reach, as the officers could not operate outside of their own nation. These outcasts helped to give a more desperate complexion to the already reckless population of western Missouri. The Saints could not join the Missourians in their way of life--in Sabbath-breaking, profanity, horse-racing, idleness, drunkenness, and debauchery. They had been commanded to keep the Sabbath day holy, to keep themselves unspotted from the sins of the world. The fact of people having so little in common with each other was of itself calculated to beget a coldness and suspicion, which would soon ripen into dislike. The saints, too, had come, for the most part, from the Northern and New England States, and the hatred that existed at that time between the people of the slave-holding and free states, was manifested toward the saints by their "southern" neighbors. Moreover, the old settlers were dear lovers of office, and the honors and emoluments growing out of it; and they greatly feared that the rapidly increasing saints would soon outnumber them, and that the offices would be wrested from them. Political jealousy is always cruel and unscrupulous; and is not slow to find excuses for destroying the object of its hatred. To the politician as well as to the lover, "Trifles light as air, Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of Holy Writ." And where these "trifles" do not exist, we shall see in the progress of our narrative that sectarian meanness and political jealousy do not hesitate to manufacture them. As early as the spring of 1832 there began to appear signs of an approaching storm. In the deadly hours of the night the houses of some of the saints were stoned, the windows broken, and the inmates disturbed. In the fall of the same year a large quantity of hay in the stack belonging to the saints was burned, houses shot into, and the people insulted with abusive language. In the month of April, 1833, the old settlers to the number of some three hundred met at Independence, to consult upon a plan for the destruction, or immediate removal, of the "Mormons" from Jackson County. They were unable, however, to unite on any plan, and the mob becoming the worse for liquor, the affair broke up in a "Missouri row." The secret of their failure in accomplishing anything was this: A few of the brethren, learning that such a meeting was being held, met for secret prayer, and petitioned the Father to frustrate the plans of this ungodly mob, who were seeking their destruction. The Lord, in view of the fact, doubtless, that this people were partially repenting of the evils for which they had been reproved, in his mercy heard their prayers, and thwarted the designs of their enemies. But the angry clouds of the threatened persecution had been merely drifted aside, not driven from the horizon; and in a few months they assumed a more threatening aspect than on their first appearance. The sectarian priests inhabiting Jackson and the surrounding counties were earnestly engaged in fanning the flames of prejudice, already burning in the public mind. The Rev. Finis Ewing, the head and front of the Cumberland Presbyterian church, published this statement: "The 'Mormons' are the common enemies of mankind and ought to be destroyed." The Rev. Pixley, who had been sent out by the Missionary Society to Christianize the savages of the west, spent his time in going from house to house, seeking to destroy The Church by spreading slanderous falsehoods, to incite the people to acts of violence against the saints. Early in July, a document was in circulation known as the "Secret Constitution," setting forth the alleged grievances of the mob, and binding all who signed it to assist in "removing the 'Mormons.'" The document set forth the following: The signers believed an important crisis was at hand in their civil society, because a pretended religious sect--the "Mormons"--had settled in their midst. The civil law did not afford them a sufficient guarantee against the threatening evils, and therefore they had determined to rid themselves of the "Mormons," "peaceably if they could, forcibly if they must;" and for the better accomplishment of this object, they had organized themselves into a company--pledging to each other their "bodily powers, their lives, fortunes, and sacred honors!" The saints are represented as being the very dregs of that society from which they came; and also as being poor, "idle, lazy, and vicious." They are accused of claiming to receive direct revelation from God; to heal the sick by the laying on of hands; to speak in unknown tongues by inspiration; and, in short, "to perform all the wonder-working miracles wrought by the inspired apostles and prophets of God;" all of which, the document claims, "is derogatory of God and religion, and subversive of human reason." The signers of this document also accuse the saints of sowing dissensions and inspiring seditions among their slaves. They further charge that the "Mormons" had invited "free people of color" to settle in Jackson County; and state that the introduction of such a caste among their slaves, would instigate them to rebel against their masters, and to bloodshed. The "Mormons" are also charged with having openly declared that God had given them the land of Jackson County; and that sooner or later they would possess it as an inheritance. The document then concludes by saying that if after timely warning, and receiving an adequate compensation for what property they could not take with them, the saints shall refuse to leave the county, such means as might be necessary to remove them were to be employed; and calls a meeting of the signers to convene at the court-house in Independence on the twentieth of July, to consult on subsequent movements.[B] [Footnote B: The document of which the foregoing is a summary was published in the December number (1833) of the Evening and Morning Star.] It may not be amiss here to notice the charges made against the saints: The statement made by the mob that the "civil law did not afford them a sufficient guarantee against the threatening evils" of which they complained, is good evidence that the saints, although they may have fallen far short of coming up to the full requirements of the high moral and spiritual laws of the gospel of Jesus Christ, had violated none of the laws of man--it is an acknowledgement that they lived above that law. As to the saints being the dregs of the society from which they came--it is untrue; they had a respectable standing in the society from which they came, and that society was far in advance in civilization and enlightenment of the people of western Missouri. This is an old and oft repeated charge against the early members of The Church--this charge that they were of the "dregs of the society from which they came," and I repeat again that it is not true. I know the usual method of defense is to concede the charge, and then quote the well-known and, I may add also, the well-worn passage from Paul's writings, where, in speaking of the early Christians, he says: "For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called: but God hath chosen the foolish things of the world, * * * the weak things of the world, * * * and base things of the world, and things which are despised, * * * and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are: that no flesh should glory in his presence." [C] But however complete such an answer may have been in the days of Paul with reference to the Christians of the first century; and however satisfying it may be now in some particulars as to the character of the early membership of The Church, so far as the charge, that the early members thereof were of the "dregs of that society from which they came," is concerned, there is a better course to pursue, a more direct and perfect answer, a more complete argument; and that better course, that more complete answer, is to deny _in toto_ the charge. I do deny it. It is not true. Nobler men and women than those who first embraced the gospel of the Son of God in this last dispensation are not to be found; nobler spirits were not on earth. It counts for nothing that in the main they were poor in this world's goods. It is of little moment that they were not famous for learning in the schools of men. I care nothing about their not being regarded as constituting "polite society," having neither the leisure nor the means to cultivate the special graces supposed to go to the making of "polished" gentlemen and ladies. But honesty of heart, purity of motive, nobility of soul, righteousness of life, devotion to God--all characteristics and all attributes which go to the making of a people worthy in the sight of God, may exist quite apart from all that man considers essential to entitle certain of their fellow-men to be considered as forming "good society;" and these attributes the early members of The Church possessed. The Smiths, the Whitmers, the Cowderys, the Johnsons, the Pages, the Corrills, the Knights, the Partridges, the Pratts, the Morleys, the Rigdons, the Whitneys, the Gilberts, the Allens; and a little later, the Youngs, the Snows, the Kimballs, the Taylors, the Richardses--and a host of others whose names do not appear so prominently in the very early history of The Church, were a class of people of whom both The Church and God might well be proud. So far removed were they from being the dregs of society that they were the very choicest part of it; respected and honored because possessed of those cardinal virtues which always command respect, however fallen the material fortunes, or humble the station or calling of those who possess them. Nor is this general statement concerning the respectability of the early members of The Church to be weakened because some of them were unhappily overcome of the world, the flesh and the devil. It is not to be supposed that all who start in the way of salvation will be equal to the task of persevering to the end. The inherent weakness of human nature forbids us to hope for that. The innate weakness of many of the saints was made apparent. The gospel is calculated to do that. "If men come unto me I will show them their weakness," [D] is the word of the Lord in the Book of Mormon, and indeed it is self-evident that if men are to be perfected--and that is the mission of the gospel--then it is necessary that their defects be pointed out to them; for the first step in reformation is to learn in what particular direction reformation is needed. All that can be said, then, against some of the early saints of this dispensation is that they manifested some of the sinfulness common to humanity, and much of that weakness which is the heritage of the sons of Adam; and some of them--many of them if you will--were not quite equal to the great task of overcoming that sinful nature, that human frailty. Meantime, their future is in the hands of God, and he alone will judge them. To the world we may say: "Who art thou that judgeth another man's servants? To his own master he standeth or falleth. Yea, he shall be holden up; for God is able to make him stand." [E] [Footnote C: I Cor. chap. I.] [Footnote D: Ether 12:27.] [Footnote E: Rom. 14:4.] The charge of idleness comes with a bad grace from the slave-holders of Missouri. Especially so since the charge is made against people chiefly from New England; who, whatever other faults they may possess, can never be truthfully charged with idleness. In addition to the saints who settled in Missouri having been trained from childhood to habits of industry in their former homes, they had received an express command from God to labor, and the idler was not to eat the bread nor wear the garment of the laborer,[F] and unless the idler repented, he was to be cast out of The Church.[G] [Foonote F: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 42:42.] [Footnote G: Ibid, Sec. 75:28.] The saints in Missouri, it is true, claimed to receive revelations from God through the Prophet Joseph Smith; and they also enjoyed the gifts of tongues, and of healing the sick through the anointing with oil and the prayer of faith, in fulfillment of the promises of the Lord;[H] but how all this can be "derogatory of God and true religion," when these blessings of revelation and the enjoyment of the spiritual gifts enumerated are the same as those that were possessed by the primitive Christians, which they were encouraged to "desire," [I] and have ever been regarded as a crowning glory of the early Church; or how they could be "subversive of human reason," can only be comprehended by a Missouri mob, seeking a vain excuse for the destruction of an unoffending people. [Footnote H: St. James 5:14, 15.] [Footnote I: 1 Cor. 14:1.] The charge of sowing dissensions and inspiring seditions among the slaves, and inviting free people of color to settle in Jackson County, has no foundation in truth. The July number of the _Evening and Morning Star,_ for 1833, contains an article on "Free People of Color," and publishes the laws of Missouri relating to that class of people. "Free people of color" were negroes or mulattoes who were set free through the kindness of their masters, or who, by working extra hours, for which they were sometimes allowed pay, were able at last to purchase their liberty. Concerning such people the Missouri laws provided that: If any negro or mulatto come into the State of Missouri, without a certificate from a court of record in some one of the United States, evidencing that he was a citizen of such State, on complaint before any justice of the peace, such negro or mulatto could be commanded by the justice to leave the State; and if the colored person so ordered did not leave the State within thirty days, on complaint of any citizen, such person could be again brought before the justice who might commit him to the common jail of the county, until the convening of the circuit court, when it became the duty of the judge of the circuit court to inquire into the cause of commitment; and if it was found that the negro or mulatto had remained in the State contrary to the provisions of this statute, the court was authorized to sentence such person to receive ten lashes on his or her bare back, and then order him or her to depart from the State; if the person so treated should still refuse to go, then the same proceedings were to be repeated, and punishment inflicted as often as was necessary until such person departed. And further: If any person brought into the State of Missouri a free negro or mulatto, without the aforesaid certificate of citizenship, for every such negro or mulatto the person offending was liable to a forfeit of five hundred dollars; to be recovered by action of debt in the name of the State. The editor of the _Star_ commenting upon this law said: Slaves are real estate in this and other states, and wisdom would dictate great care among the branches of The Church of Christ on this subject. So long as we have no special rule in The Church, as to people of color, let prudence guide; and while they, as well as we, are in the hands of a merciful God, we say: shun every appearance of evil. Publishing this law, and the above comment, was construed, by the old settlers, to be an invitation to free people of color to settle in Jackson County! Whereupon an extra was published to the July number of the _Star_ on the sixteenth of the month, which said: The intention in publishing the article, "Free People of Color," was not only to stop free people of color from emigrating to Missouri, but to prevent them from being admitted as members of The Church.[J] * * * * To be short, we are opposed to having free people of color admitted into the State. [Footnote J: In making the statement that it was the intention of the _Star_ article not only to stop "free people of color" emigrating to Missouri, but also to "prevent them from being admitted as members of The Church," the editor of the _Star_ goes too far; if not in his second article, explaining the scope and meaning of the first, then in the first article; for he had no business to seek to prevent "free people of color" from being admitted members of The Church. And in forming a judgment of this matter the reader must remember that it is the statement of the editor of the _Star,_ and by no means represents the policy of The Church. As a matter of fact there were very few if any "free people of color" in The Church at that time. The "fears" of the Missourians on that head were sheer fabrications of evil-disposed minds.] But in the face of all this the mob still claimed that the article was merely published to give directions and cautions to be observed by colored brethren, to enable them upon their arrival in Missouri, to "claim and exercise the rights of citizenship." "Contemporaneous with the appearance of this article"--the above article in the _Star_--continued the charge published in the _Western Monitor_--"was the expectation among the brethren, that a considerable number of this degraded caste were only waiting this information before they should set out on their journey." [K] And this base falsehood was used to inflame the minds of the old settlers against the saints. [Footnote K: Western Monitor for the 2nd of August, 1833.] That the saints may have said the Lord would yet give them the land of Missouri for their inheritance, is doubtless true; but that they were to obtain it in any other than a legal way never entered their minds. They had been commanded of the Lord to purchase [L] the land for an inheritance. Besides, the elders stationed in Zion about this time, addressed an epistle to the churches abroad, in which they alluded to the gathering of ancient Israel, and pointing out the difference in their circumstances and those by which the saints now were surrounded. Ancient Israel had been compelled to obtain the lands of their inheritance by the sword. "But," the address adds, "to suppose that we can come up here, and take possession of this land by the shedding of blood, would be setting at naught the law of the glorious gospel and also the word of our Great Redeemer: and to suppose that we can take possession of this country without making regular purchases of the same, according to the laws of our nation, would be reproaching this great republic, in which most of us were born, and under whose auspices we all have protection." [M] Nothing then can be clearer than that while the saints may have said that Missouri would eventually be the land of their inheritance, they were expecting to obtain it in a perfectly legitimate manner--by purchase. [Footnote L: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 57:3, 5.] [Footnote M: Evening and Morning Star, July, 1833.] I have been particular in examining the charges made against the saints by their enemies in Jackson County, in order that my readers may know that wherein the things charged were not in and of themselves innocent, and no cause for offense whatever, they were utterly without foundation in truth. CHAPTER VII. THE STORM BREAKS In answer to the call made for the citizens of Jackson County to assemble at the court house on the twentieth of July, 1833, to devise means to rid the county of the "Mormons," between four and five hundred gathered in from all parts of the county. Colonel Richard Simpson was elected chairman of the meeting, and James H. Flournoy and Colonel S. D. Lucas were chosen secretaries. A committee of seven was appointed by the chair to draft an address to the public, in relation to the object of the meeting; the following was the committee: Russel Hicks, Esq., Robert Johnson, Henry Childs, Esq., Colonel Jas. Hambright, Thomas Hudspeth, Joel F. Childs and Jas. M. Hunter. The address this committee reported repeated the falsehoods concerning the saints interfering with slaves, inviting free people of color to settle in Jackson County; and of the saints being the very dregs of the society from which they had emigrated; again charged them with most abject poverty, idleness, and of coming to obtain inheritances in Jackson County, "without money and without price." It declared that the evils which threatened their community, by the "Mormons" settling among them, were such as no one could have foreseen, and therefore they were unprovided for by the laws; and the delays incident to legislation would put the mischief beyond all remedy. It expressed the fear that if the saints were not interfered with, the day would not be far distant when the civil government of the county would be in their hands; when the sheriff, the justices, and the county judges would be "Mormons" or persons wishing to court their favor from motives of interest or ambition; and then the following: What would be the fate of our lives and property in the hands of jurors and witnesses who do not blush to declare, and would not, upon occasion, hesitate to swear, that they have wrought miracles, and have been the subjects of miraculous and supernatural cures, have conversed with God and his angels, and possess and exercise the gifts of divination, and of unknown tongues, and fired with the prospects of obtaining inheritances without money and without price--may be better imagined than described.[A] [Footnote A: Western Monitor, August 2, 1833.] However, in speaking of the gifts of the Spirit which the saints enjoyed--revelation, prophecy, speaking in tongues, healing the sick, etc., the committee proposed to have nothing to say, but piously close the clause which refers to these things with the words: _"Vengeance belongs to God alone!"_ For the other things with which they charged the saints--each and all of them were utterly false except it might be in the matter of poverty. But even in this the truth was not stated. A few cases aside, the "poverty" in question was that poverty of the pioneer newly arrived in the wilderness which is to be the subsequent field of his enterprises and triumphs. Quite generally the saints went into Jackson County prepared to purchase lands and build homes; but pending the accomplishment of that, there was much inconvenience and some suffering for want of shelter and clothing; but "abject poverty," apart from this, there was none. The conclusion of the mob in the whole matter was thus stated: That no Mormon shall in future move to or settle in this (Jackson) county; that those now here, who shall give a definite pledge of their intention, within a reasonable time, to remove out of the county, shall be allowed to remain unmolested, until they have sufficient time to sell their property, and close their business without material sacrifice; that the editor of the _Star_ be required forthwith to close his office, and discontinue the business of printing in this county; and as to all other stores and shops belonging to the sect, their owners must, in every case, strictly comply with the terms of the second article of this declaration, and upon failure, prompt and efficient measures will be taken to close the same; that the Mormon leaders here are required to use their influence in preventing any further immigration of their distant brethren to this county, and to counsel and advise their brethren here to comply with the above requisitions; that those who fail to comply with these requisitions be referred to those of their brethren who have the gifts of divination, and of unknown tongues, to inform them of the lot that awaits them.[B] [Footnote B: Western Monitor, August 2, 1833.] This address was unanimously adopted by the meeting, and a committee of twelve appointed to wait upon the "Mormon" leaders, and see that the foregoing requisitions were assented to by them. In case of a refusal on the part of the "Mormons" to comply with these demands, the committee, acting as the organ of Jackson County, were to inform them that it was the fixed determination of the mob to adopt such means as would enforce their removal. The committee called upon Edward Partridge, A. S. Gilbert, John Corrill, Isaac Morley, John Whitmer, and W. W. Phelps, and demanded that they cease publishing the _Star_ and close the printing office, and that, as elders of the "Mormon Church," they agree to move out of the county forthwith. Three months was asked for by these elders in which to consider the proposition, and to give them time to counsel with The Church authorities in Ohio; as closing a printing office and removing twelve hundred people from their homes was a work of no small moment. But this time was denied them. They asked for ten days; but that was not granted; fifteen minutes only was allowed them in which to decide. At this the conference broke up, and the mob returned to the courthouse and reported to the meeting that they had called upon the "Mormon" leaders and that they refused to give a direct answer, but asked for time to consider the propositions and counsel with their brethren in Ohio. The meeting then resolved that the printing office be razed to the ground, and the type and press destroyed. With demoniac yells the mob surrounded the printing office and house of W. W. Phelps. Mrs. Phelps, with a sick infant in her arms, and the rest of the children, were forced out of their home, the furniture was thrown into the street and garden, the press was broken, the type pied; the revelations, book-work and papers were nearly all destroyed or kept by the mob; and the printing office and house of W. W. Phelps were razed to the ground. Having reduced these buildings to a mass of ruins, the mob proceeded to demolish the mercantile establishment of Gilbert, Whitney & Co., and destroy the goods; but when Mr. Gilbert assured them that the goods would be packed by the twenty-third, they desisted from their work of destruction. But their fiendish hate had not spent its force. With horrible yells and cursings loud, they sought for the leading elders. Men, women and children ran in all directions, not knowing what would befall them. The mob caught Bishop Edward Partridge and Charles Allen, and dragged them through the maddened crowd, which insulted and abused them along the road to the public square. Here two alternatives were presented them: either they must renounce their faith in the Book of Mormon, or leave the county. The Book of Mormon they would not deny, nor consent to leave the county. Bishop Partridge, being permitted to speak, said that the saints had to suffer persecution in all ages of the world, and that he was willing to suffer for the sake of Christ, as the saints in former ages had done; that he had done nothing which ought to offend anyone, and that if they abused him, they would injure an innocent man. Here his voice was drowned by the tumult of the crowd, many of whom were shouting: "Call upon your God to deliver you--pretty Jesus you worship!" These expressions, intermingled as they were with the vile oaths of the mob, were enough to put hell itself to shame. The two brethren, Partridge and Allen, were stripped of their outer clothing, and daubed with tar, mixed with lime, or pearlash, or some other flesh-eating acid, and a quantity of feathers scattered over them. They bore this cruel indignity and abuse with so much resignation and meekness that the crowd grew still, and appeared astonished at what they witnessed. The brethren were permitted to retire in silence--in silence, except when it was broken by the voice of a sister, crying aloud: While you who have done this wicked deed must suffer the vengeance of God, they, having endured persecution, _can rejoice,_ for henceforth for them is laid up a crown eternal in the heavens! By this time it was getting late and the mob suddenly dispersed. As night drew her sable mantle over the scene of ruin, those who had escaped to the woods and corn fields began to return, to learn what had befallen their friends. Wives anxiously inquired of the fate of their husbands, and children of the fate of their parents. There can be nothing more sad than this seeking to remove uncertainty in such cases. It is like seeking the dead and wounded on the battlefield, or the missing, the maimed or the dead after an earthquake, or some devouring tempest or flood--so much alike, at least in their results, are the eruptions of the elements and the fierce, uncontrolled passions of man. Before each the timid and the helpless fly to such shelter as they find at hand. Some seek safety in flight, others in hiding from the storm or from wrath. Then when temporary safety is seemingly assured, thoughts for the safety of others assert themselves. The desire for the safety of the loved ones--a wife, a husband, a child, a parent, a brother, a friend--becomes an agony. Love by degrees conquers fear, and at last prompts the facing of danger much greater than those from which at first they fled, and the loved ones are sought despite of all risks to personal safety. So it was with the saints who had been so unexpectedly assailed. On this occasion, however, those returning from flight or hiding had nothing to discover beyond the destruction of the printing press, the wrecking of the Phelps home, the looting of Gilbert's store, and the abuse of Partridge and Allen. Enough surely for one day of persecution, but not to be compared with scenes they yet would witness! The outrages of this day were the more reprehensible because of the character of the leaders of the mob. In the main they were the county officers--the county judge, the constables, clerks of the court and justices of the peace; while Lilburn W. Boggs, the lieutenant-governor, the second officer in the state, was there quietly looking on and secretly aiding every measure of the mob--who, walking among the ruins of the printing office and house of W. W. Phelps, remarked to some of the saints, "You now know what our Jackson boys can do, and you must leave the country!" CHAPTER VIII. THREATS OF THE MOB--APPEAL OF THE SAINTS. The third day after the events related in the preceding chapter, the mob, to the number of some five hundred, again came dashing into Independence bearing a red flag, and armed with rifles, pistols, dirks, whips and clubs. They rode in every direction in search of the leading elders, making the day hideous with their inhuman yells and wicked oaths. They declared it to be their intention to whip those whom they captured with from fifty to five hundred lashes each, allow their negroes to destroy their crops, and demolish their dwellings. Said they: "We will rid Jackson County of the 'Mormons,' peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must. If they will not go without, we will whip and kill the men; we will destroy their children, _and ravish their women!_" "WE WILL RAVISH THEIR WOMEN!" A threat most horrible. Worse than murder; for murder has in it yet some mercy as compared with ravishment, that worst exercise of brute force against helpless innocence. Murder when it has completed its work leaves its victim senseless and peaceful in death; "after life's fitful dream is over," he may sleep well. But what damning torments must that breast suffer which is robbed of its peace by brutal force! How deep the woe that bears the burden of an outraged modesty! How agonizing to be an object of pity! How much more cruel the living tortures of a life so humiliated than the calmness and the peace of death! When devils would with their direst terrors shake a people they say, _We will ravish your women!_ The leading elders, seeing their own lives, and the property and lives of those over whom they presided in jeopardy, resolved to offer themselves as a ransom for The Church--willing to be scourged, or even put to death if that would satisfy their tormentors, and stop their inhuman cruelties practiced toward the flock of which the Holy Ghost had made them overseers. The men who thus offered their own lives for the lives of their friends were: JOHN CORRILL, JOHN WHITMER, W. W. PHELPS, A. S. GILBERT, EDWARD PARTRIDGE, ISAAC MORLEY. Forever let their names be known throughout all Israel as men who have given the greatest evidence within the power of man to give, that they loved the brethren. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends;" and that faith which will inspire in man a love for his fellows; that will lead him to offer his life as a ransom for his brethren, is so nearly akin to that faith and love which glowed within the breast of the Divine Master, that its source cannot be mistaken. But the inhuman wretches who had combined to drive the saints from their homes in Jackson County, were insensible to the sublime manifestations of love they witnessed. It appealed not to their adamantine hearts. With brutal imprecations they told these men that not only they, but every man, woman and child would be whipped or scourged until they consented to leave the county, as they had decreed that the "Mormons" should leave the county, or they "or the 'Mormons' must _die_." The presiding brethren, finding that there was no alternative but for them to leave speedily or witness innocent blood shed by fiends incarnate, concluded to leave Jackson County. A new committee was selected by the mob to confer with the brethren, and the following agreement was entered into: The leading elders with their families were to move from the county by the first of January following; and to use their influence to induce all their brethren to leave as soon as possible, one half by the first of January, 1834, and the remainder by April, 1834. They were also to use all the means in their power to stop any more of their brethren moving into the county; and also to use their influence to prevent the saints then enroute for Missouri settling permanently in Jackson County, but for those then on the way they were to be permitted to make temporary arrangements for shelter until a new location was agreed upon by the society. John Corrill and A. S. Gilbert were to be allowed to remain as general agents to settle up the business of The Church, so long as necessity required. Gilbert, Whitney & Co. were to be permitted to sell out their merchandise then on hand, but no more was to be imported. The _Evening and Morning Star_ was not again to be published, nor a press established by any member of The Church in the county. Edward Partridge and W. W. Phelps were to be allowed to pass to and from the county to wind up their business affairs, provided they moved their families from the county by the first of January following. On the part of the mob, the committee pledged themselves to use all their influence to prevent any violence being used against the saints, so long as the foregoing stipulations were complied with on the part of The Church.[A] [Footnote A: Evening and Morning Star, p. 229.] A day or two after this treaty was entered into, The Church in Zion dispatched Oliver Cowdery to Ohio to confer with the general Church authorities on the situation of the saints in Missouri. This conference resulted in the general authorities sending as special messengers Elders Orson Hyde and John Gould to Jackson County, with instructions to the saints not to dispose of their lands or other property, nor remove from the county, except those who had signed the agreement to do so. Meantime the saints attempted to settle in Van Buren, the county joining Jackson on the south (the name has since been changed to Cass), but the people of that county, after the saints commenced a settlement, drew up an agreement to drive them from there, and destroy the fruits of their labors; so they were obliged to return to their former homes. While the saints were making efforts to carry out the first part of the stipulation entered into with the mob of Jackson County, the mob on their part failed to refrain from acts of violence. Daily the saints were insulted. Houses were broken into, and the inmate threatened with being mobbed if they stirred in their defense. But Truth began to make herself heard. As the fiendish acts of the mob became known, they called forth execrations from various quarters. A number of articles published in the _Western Monitor,_ printed at Fayette, Howard County, Missouri, censured the conduct of the mob, and suggested that the saints seek redress of the State authorities for the wrongs they had suffered. Whereupon the leaders of the mob began to threaten life, and declared that if any "Mormon" attempted to seek redress by law or otherwise, for defamation of character, or loss of property, he should die. These threats, however, did not deter the saints from appealing to the chief executive of the State for a redress of grievances. A petition setting forth their suffering, and denying the allegations of the mob, was presented by Orson Hyde and W. W. Phelps to Daniel Dunklin, who, at the time, was governor of the State. In addition to relating the story of their wrongs, and denying the charges made by the mob, upon which the old settlers of Jackson County depended to excuse or defend their acts of cruelty toward the saints, the petition set forth that whenever that fatal hour arrived that the poorest citizen's person, property, or rights and privileges shall be trampled upon by lawless mobs with impunity, "that moment a dagger is plunged into the heart of the Constitution of the country, and the Union must tremble * * * We solicit," said they, "assistance to obtain our rights; holding ourselves amenable to the laws of our country, whenever we transgress them." They asked the governor by express proclamation or otherwise to raise a sufficient number of troops, who, with themselves, might be empowered to defend their rights; that they might sue for damages for the loss of property, for abuse, for defamation of character, and, if advisable, try for treason those who had trampled upon law and government, that the law of the land might not be defied, nor nullified, but peace restored to the country. To this very reasonable request Governor Dunklin made a patriotic reply. He stated he would think himself unworthy the confidence with which he had been honored by his fellow citizens, did he not promptly employ all the means which the Constitution and laws had placed at his disposal to avert the calamities with which the saints were threatened, and added: Ours is a government of laws, to them we all owe obedience, and their faithful administration is the best guarantee for the enjoyment of our rights. No citizen, nor number of citizens, have a right to take the redress of their grievances, whether real or imaginary, into their own hands. Such conduct strikes at the very existence of society, and subverts the very foundation on which it is based. I am not willing to persuade myself that any portion of the citizens of the State of Missouri are so lost to a sense of these truths as to require the exercise of _force,_ in order to insure respect for them. He advised the threatened saints, therefore, to make a trial of the efficacy of the laws; that wherein their lives had been threatened, they make affidavit to that effect before the circuit judge, or the justices of the peace in their respective districts, whose duty it then became to bind the threatening parties to keep the peace. By this experiment it would be proven whether the laws could be executed or not; and in the event that they could not be peacefully executed, the governor pledged himself, on being officially notified of that fact, to take such steps as would insure a favorable execution of them. As to the injuries the saints had sustained in the loss of property, the governor advised them to seek redress by civil process--expressing the opinion that the courts would grant them relief.[B] [Footnote B: Evening and Morning Star, p. 351.] I do not doubt the sincerity of Governor Dunklin in giving this counsel to the saints, and under ordinary circumstances to seek redress at the hands of the civil authorities would be the proper thing to do. But in this case the officers of the law had been the head and front of this high-handed and infamous proceeding. In proof of this statement I give the names and offices held by those who were most active in the lawless proceeding related: S. D. LUCAS, _colonel, and judge of the county court;_ SAMUEL C. OWENS, _county clerk;_ RUSSEL HICKS, _deputy clerk;_ JOHN SMITH, _justice of the peace;_ SAMUEL WESTON, _justice of the peace;_ WILLIAM BROWN, _constable;_ THOMAS PITCHER, _deputy constable._ Besides these there were Indian agents, postmasters, doctors, lawyers and merchants. These were the men who had despoiled the saints--these the ones, in connection with the secret assistance of the lieutenant governor of the State, LILBURN W. BOGGS, who inflamed the minds of the ignorant frontier settlers against an innocent people, and encouraged the vicious to maltreat the virtuous. These were the men who on the 23rd of July of the same year had said: _"We will rid Jackson County of the 'Mormons' peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must. If they will not go without, we will whip and kill the men; we will destroy the lives of their children, and ravish their women!"_ And these were the men--the officers of _justice,_ to whom the "Mormons" were to appeal for a redress of grievances! To say the least, does it not smack of "going to law with the devil, when court is to convene in hell?" Surely it was only a forlorn hope the saints could entertain of being redressed for their wrongs by appealing to the very parties who inflicted those wrongs upon them; and yet it was about the only course open to the governor to suggest at that time. Being willing to magnify the law, the saints acted upon the governor's advice. For this purpose they engaged the services of four lawyers from Clay County, then attending court at Independence, viz.: Messrs. Wood, Reese, Doniphan and Atchison. These gentlemen engaged to plant all the suits the saints might wish to present before the courts, and agreed to attend to them jointly throughout for one thousand dollars. W. W. Phelps and Bishop Partridge gave their notes for that sum, endorsed by Gilbert & Whitney. No sooner did the mob witness these movements than they began to prepare for further hostilities. The red right hand of persecution was again armed to plague the saints. CHAPTER IX. AGAIN THE STORM. Having made all necessary preparations for obtaining by civil process redress for the wrongs inflicted upon them by the mob, Sunday, the twentieth day of October, 1833, the saints declared publicly that as a people they intended to defend their lands and homes. The next day the leaders of the mob began to prepare to inflict further violence upon them. Strict orders were circulated among the saints not to be the aggressors, but to warn the mob not to come upon them. Court was to convene on Monday, the 28th of October, and it was expected that some of the leaders of the mob would be required to file bonds to keep the peace. While these preparations were progressing among the saints, the mob were not idle. They resorted to their old method of circulating false rumors about the "Mormons." The blasphemy of their doctrines; their intentions to take possession of Jackson County by force; the incompatibility between the old settlers and the "Mormons," were all urged, and the conclusion reached that a war of extermination must be waged against the saints in the name of self-preservation. Saturday, the 26th, about fifty of the mob met in counsel, and "voted to a hand to move the 'Mormons;'" and as an earnest of their intentions, attacked a number of families who had but lately arrived from Ohio and Indiana, but without inflicting much injury. Monday, the 28th, the circuit court convened, but very few people were in attendance. There was no mob there, but threats of the most violent character were made. The night of October 31st, however, may be regarded as the time when hostilities recommenced in earnest. That night the mob to the number of forty or fifty proceeded against a branch of The Church located on the stream called Big Blue, known as the Whitmer settlement. They shamefully whipped nearly to death several of the brethren, among whom was Hiram Page. With brutal threats they frightened helpless women and children and drove them into the wilderness in the middle of the night, and then unroofed and demolished ten or twelve houses. This outrage was followed up the next night, November 1st, by an attack upon the saints living in Independence and vicinity. Their houses were brickbatted, doors broken down, and long poles thrust through their windows. A party of the brethren had gathered for protection about half a mile west of Independence, and to them word was sent that the mob were tearing down the store of Gilbert, Whitney & Co., and destroying their goods. Whereupon these brethren went in a body to the store. At their approach the main body of the mob fled. One of their number, bolder than his fellows, remained, however, and continued sending brickbats and stones through the shattered doors and windows, while the goods were scattered around him in the street. This man the brethren took prisoner, and brought him immediately before Samuel Weston, justice of the peace, entered a complaint, and asked that a warrant be issued that he, Richard McCarty, might be secured. But the justice refused to make out the warrant, or do anything in the matter, and McCarty was turned loose. The same night an attack was projected upon another branch of The Church, known as the Colesville branch, located in Kaw Township, about twelve miles west of Independence. The mob sent two of their number, Robert Johnson and one Harris, as spies, armed with two guns and three pistols. They were discovered by some of the brethren, among whom was Parley P. Pratt. Without provocation Johnson struck Pratt over the head with the breech of his gun, which staggered him for a moment, and made the blood flow in streams down his face. These two men were taken and detained as prisoners through the night. The spies not returning rather disconcerted the mob, and it is generally supposed prevented an attack that night upon the Colesville branch. The morning following, Johnson and Harris were given their arms, and permitted to return to their companions, without receiving injury from the hands of those whom they had so maliciously assaulted, and into whose power they had fallen. On the night of November 2nd, a party of the mob went against the branch located on Big Blue, unroofed one house and destroyed some furniture. They also broke into the house of David Bennett, whom they found sick in bed. Being unable to resist them, they beat him most unmercifully, and swore they would blow out his brains. One of their number shot at him with a pistol, but the ball instead of entering his head, as evidently intended, cut a deep gash across the top of it, which, however, did not prove fatal. While the mob were in the act of beating Bennett, a number of the brethren who had gathered in a body for mutual protection came upon the scene, and a firing of guns commenced. Both parties claim that the other began the attack, but which party began the firing does not matter here. If the brethren opened the fire, they were altogether justified in doing so under the circumstances. Women and children were running here and there screaming with terror, not knowing where to go for safety. Their piteous cries, mingled with the brutal oaths of the mob, and the firing of guns, made the night hideous. In the melee a young man acting with the mob was shot through the thigh, but by which party it is not known. This day also the saints in Independence gathered in a body as much as possible, about half a mile west of the town, for the purpose of better defending themselves against their enemies. The day following the events just detailed. Joshua Lewis, Hiram Page, and two others were despatched to Lexington, to see John F. Ryland, judge of the circuit court, and obtain a peace warrant. The saints had previously applied to Squire Silvens for such a warrant, but he refused to grant it. They read to him the governor's letter, which directed them to proceed in that manner, but he replied that he cared nothing for what the governor said. Either his fears of the mob were greater than his respect for the governor, or the law, or he was in hearty sympathy with the rioters. Judge Ryland issued a peace warrant on the 6th; but whether it ever reached the hands of the county sheriff or not I cannot learn. If placed in his hands, then he refused to serve it. But the most reasonable conclusion is, that in consequence of the exciting times and unsettled state of affairs in Jackson County, it never reached his hands. CHAPTER X. THE PASSIVELY GOOD. There were a few of the citizens of Jackson County who did not take part in these shameful proceedings against The Church. They were friendly disposed towards the saints, but lacked the courage to speak out boldly in their defense, or take up arms to protect suffering innocence. This is often the case with the passively good; with "conservative" citizens. They have no sympathy with rioters, or with mob lawlessness. They are ready to say that such conduct is outrageous, and even a menace to free institutions, and incompatible with freedom; but further than this they do not go. Their conception of good citizenship does not lead them to be active in resisting aggressions upon the liberties of others; especially when those "others" are people with whom they have but little sympathy. They seem not to have learned that those who would preserve their own rights and freedom must insist upon the rights and liberty of every man being respected and assured. It is vain, and especially in a republic is it vain, for any man to suppose that the freedom of any citizen or class of citizens, however humble or even unpopular they may be, can be infringed without endangering the rights and freedom of all. Many otherwise, good citizens of the Republic--simple and fundamental to the preservation of rights and freedom as is this principle--seem so far to fail in appreciation of it, that they stand by while the rights of others are invaded, and sometimes swept away, without making so much as a protest against the injustice. They are content if only their own personal and immediate rights are not directly assailed. The result is that an active minority--often, in fact, an insignificant part of the community, and contemptible of character--are permitted to perpetrate outrages upon worthy though it may be unpopular citizens, that bring disgrace upon the State, and endanger liberty itself. Such was the case in the present instance with those who were not in sympathy with the mob; and yet so far were they from standing up for the rights of those whom they confessed were unjustly assailed, that they advised the saints to leave the State immediately, as the wounding of the young man on the night of the 2nd had enraged the whole county against them; and it was a common expression among the mob that Monday (the 4th of November), would be a "bloody day." CHAPTER XI. A "BLOODY DAY." Early on Monday the mob took the ferry-boat on Big Blue, west of Independence, which belonged to the saints, driving the owners away with threats of violence. From thence they went to a store, about one mile west of the ferry, kept by one Wilson. Word was brought to a branch of The Church located several miles still further west from the ferry, that the mob east of the Blue were destroying property, and the saints needed assistance. Upon hearing this, nineteen of the brethren volunteered to go to their aid; but on approaching Wilson's store they learned that the mob were there, and that the report of the destruction of property east of the Blue was false. The company started to return to their homes, but two small boys passing on their way to Wilson's store saw this company, and reported to the mob that the "Mormons" were on the road west of them. At this the mob, which numbered between forty and fifty, started in pursuit, and soon came in sight of the company of volunteers, which, at the enemy's approach, fled in all directions. The mob gave hot pursuit, hunting for the brethren through the corn fields, and even searching the houses of the saints for them; at the same time threatening the women and children with violence if they did not tell where the men were hiding. They fed their horses in Christian Whitmer's corn field, and took him and pointed their guns at him, threatening his life if he did not tell them where the brethren were. Two or three of the company who were dispersed by the mob made their way to the Colesville branch of The Church, which was but about three miles away. A company of thirty men was quickly formed, and although they were armed with but seventeen guns, and knew their enemies were more numerous than they, and better armed, they promptly marched to the assistance of their brethren. They found the mob hunting for their victims, and threatening the women and children. As the mob saw this new company approaching, some of them shouted _"Fire, God damn ye, fire!"_ and then they themselves fired two or three shots at the approaching company. This fire was promptly returned by a volley from the brethren, at which the mob fled, leaving two of their number and some of their horses dead on the ground. The two killed were Hugh L. Brazeale and Thomas Linville. Brazeale had been known to say, "with ten fellows I will wade to my knees in blood, but what I will drive the 'Mormons' from Jackson County." The first shots fired by the mob wounded Philo Dibble in the bowels, the balls remaining in him. As he bled much inwardly his bowels became swollen, and his life was despaired of. Newel Knight, however, administered to him, by laying on hands in the name of Jesus Christ, and a purifying fire penetrated his whole system. He discharged several quarts of blood and corruption, with which was one of the balls that inflicted his wounds. He was immediately healed, and remained an able-bodied man, and performed military duty for a number of years afterwards.[A] [Footnote A: Philo Dibble lived to take part in the defense of the city of Nauvoo, some thirteen years later; afterwards removed with The Church to the Rocky Mountains, settling finally in Springville, Utah County, where he died in full faith of the gospel at the advanced age of 90, on the sixth of June 1895.] A brother by the name of Andrew Barber was mortally wounded--his death occurred the next day. This battle was fought about sundown, and during the night the mob dispatched runners in all directions with the false report that the "Mormons" had _"riz;"_ that they had been joined by the Indians, and had taken Independence; that the "'Mormons' had gone into Wilson's store and shot his son," with other rumors that were calculated to excite the people, and enrage them against the saints. The same day, November 4th, a most extraordinary affair occurred at Independence. We have already told how a number of the brethren caught Richard McCarty on the night of November 1st, in the act of hurling stones and brickbats through the doors and windows of Gilbert, Whitney & Co.'s store, while the goods--calicoes, shawls, cambric handkerchiefs, etc.--were scattered around him in the street; and how the brethren took him before the justice of the peace, Samuel Weston, and asked for a warrant to be issued against him, and how the justice refused to issue the warrant. But on this fourth day of November, Richard McCarty obtained a warrant from this same justice of the peace for the arrest of A. S. Gilbert, Wm. E. McLellin, Isaac Morley, John Corrill, and three or four others, charging them with _assault and battery,_ and _false imprisonment._ In relation to this matter Brother Corrill tersely remarks, "Although we could not obtain a warrant against him for breaking open the store, yet he had gotten one for us, for catching him at it." The trial of these men was in progress in the courthouse at Independence, when the news of the battle west of the Blue was brought to town. But instead of being reported correctly, it was said that the "Mormons" had gone into Wilson's house and shot his son. This so enraged the crowd that were in attendance at the trial that a rush was made for the prisoners, to kill them. This, however, was prevented; and at the suggestion of Samuel C. Owens, clerk of the county court, those on trial were locked up in jail for their own safety. During the night the mob were busy collecting arms and ammunition, making every preparation for a general massacre of the saints the next day. The brethren who were imprisoned were frequently told of these warlike preparations during the night, and that, too, by men of note; and were further informed that nothing but their leaving the county would prevent bloodshed. Whereupon the brethren consented to leave the county, and furthermore agreed to go and consult with their brethren on the subject of all the members of The Church leaving. For this purpose Gilbert, Morley, and Corrill were accompanied by the sheriff and two others to the branch of The Church some half a mile from Independence; and there held an interview with their brethren upon the subject of their moving from the county, to which the members of that branch consented. The sheriff and his prisoners then returned to the jail--it being about two o'clock in the morning. As they approached the jail they were halted by a company of armed men, six or seven in number. The sheriff answered them, giving his own name and the names of his prisoners, at the same time exclaiming, "Don't fire, don't fire, the prisoners are in my charge!" Morley and Corrill turned and fled, and the party who had halted them fired one or two shots after them. Gilbert stood his ground, and while the sheriff held him, several guns were presented at him. Two of the men, more desperate than the rest, attempted to shoot him, but their guns missed fire; seeing that they failed to shoot him, one of the party, Thomas Wilson, knocked him down. His life, however, was preserved and his injuries were not very serious. CHAPTER XII. THE "HONOR" OF A MOB. The morning of the 5th of November witnessed the people from all parts of the county crowding well armed into Independence. But few knew of the agreement made by the saints in and about Independence to leave the county; and the presence of the armed crowds was made the occasion of calling out the militia. This last move was at the instigation of Lieutenant Governor Boggs--at least such was the report among the people that day. The command of this militia was given to Colonel Pitcher, but the men who had formerly been the mob made up the ranks of the militia; and the only difference between the mob and the militia was that the mob organized as a militia were prepared to adopt more effective measures in driving the saints from their homes than before they were so organized. The colonels in command--Pitcher and Lucas--were known as the bitter enemies of the saints, and their names were attached to the agreement, circulated in the July previous, to drive them from the county. From such a militia, officered by such men as Pitcher and Lucas, the saints could hope for no protection. The branches of The Church west of Independence did not hear of the agreement of the Independence branch to leave the county, but reports reached them that a number of their brethren were imprisoned, and that the mob were determined to kill them. About a hundred of the brethren gathered from the various branches, and marched in a body to assist those in peril. They halted about a mile west of Independence, to ascertain the situation of affairs. Learning that the mob had not attacked the branch at Independence, and that the militia was called out, they concluded to quietly disperse and go to their homes. But they had been seen on the road, and it was reported that the "Mormons" were on the march toward Independence, with the intention, no doubt, to do mischief. Hearing this, the militia under Colonel Pitcher became enraged, and would only consent to grant the people peace on the condition of their agreeing to deliver up certain men, engaged in the battle the evening before, to be tried for murder and surrendering their arms. To this last proposition Lyman Wight, who, it appears, acted as the leader of the body of brethren that had marched to Independence, would not consent, unless Colonel Pitcher would also disarm the mob. To this the colonel cheerfully agreed; and pledged his honor, with that of Lieutenant Governor Boggs, Samuel C. Owens, and others, to carry out his promise.[A] [Footnote A: Times and Seasons, 1843, p. 263.] Upon this treaty being made the brethren surrendered their arms--in all, forty-nine guns and one pistol. They also gave up a number of the parties who were engaged the night before in the battle, to be tried for murder. These men were detained a day and a night, during which time they were insulted, threatened, and brickbatted; and after receiving a mockery of a trial, Colonel Pitcher let them go, after taking an old watch from one of them to satisfy costs! The agreement made by Colonel Pitcher, to disarm the mob, was never executed; but as soon as the brethren had surrendered their arms, bands of armed men were turned loose upon them. Lyman Wight was chased by one of these gangs across an open prairie for five miles, but fortunately escaped. He lay three weeks in the woods, and was without food three days and nights. He was hunted by the mob through Jackson, Lafayette, and Clay counties, and also through the Indian Territory. Some of the parties who were hounding him were asked why it was they had so much against him, to which they replied: "He believes in Joe Smith and the Book of Mormon, G--d d---n him; and we believe Joe Smith to be a d--d rascal!" The men who had made up the rank and file of the militia on the 5th of November, the next day were riding over the country in armed gangs threatening men, women and children with violence, searching for arms, and brutally tying up and whipping some of the men, and shooting at others. The leaders of these ruffians were some of the prominent men of the county; Colonel Pitcher and Lieutenant Governor Boggs being among the number. The priests in the county, it seems, were determined not to be outdone by the politicians, for the Reverend Isaac McCoy and other preachers of the gospel (!) were seen leading armed bands of marauders from place to place; and were the main inspirers of cowardly assaults on the defenseless. All through this day and the day following (the 6th and 7th of November,) women and children were fleeing in every direction from the presence of the merciless mob. One company of one hundred and ninety--all women and children, except three decrepit old men--were driven thirty miles across a burnt prairie. The ground was thinly crusted with sleet, and the trail of these exiles was easily followed by the blood which flowed from their lacerated feet![B] This company and others who joined them erected some log cabins for temporary shelter, and not knowing the limits of Jackson County, built them within the borders thereof. Subsequently, in the month of January, 1834, parties of the mob again drove these people, and burned their wretched cabins, leaving them to wander without shelter in the most severe winter months. Many of them were taken suddenly ill and died. [Footnote B: Lyman Wight's affidavit, Times and Seasons, 1843, p. 264.] CHAPTER XIII. SCENES ON THE BANKS OF THE MISSOURI--EXILED. Other parties during the two days mentioned flocked to the Missouri River, and crossed at the ferries into Clay County. One of the companies of distressed women and children were kindly lodged by a Mr. Bennett for the night in his house. We speak of this because acts of benevolence toward the saints were so rare that whenever they occur they should be chronicled. In one of the companies that went to Clay County was a woman named Ann Higbee who had been sick for many months with chills and fever,--she was carried across the river, apparently a corpse. Another woman named Keziah Higbee, in the most delicate condition, lay on the banks of the river all night, while the rain descended in torrents, and under these circumstances was delivered of a male child; but the mother died a premature death through the exposure. All the pity the parties received from their relentless persecutors was this brutal expression, "G---d d--n you, do you believe in Joe Smith now?" The scene that was witnessed on the banks of the Missouri on the seventh of November is so graphically described in the Prophet Joseph's history that I cannot forbear inserting it here: The shores began to be lined on both sides of the ferry with men, women and children, goods, wagons, boxes, chests, provisions, etc.; while the ferrymen were busily employed in crossing them over; and when night again closed upon the saints, the wilderness had much the appearance of a camp-meeting. Hundreds of people were seen in every direction; some in tents, and some in the open air, around their fires, while the rain descended in torrents. Husbands were inquiring for their wives, and women for their husbands; parents for children, and children for parents. Some had the good fortune to escape with their family household goods, and some provisions; while others knew not of the fate of their friends, and had lost all their goods. The scene was indescribable, and would have melted the hearts of any people upon earth, except the blind oppressor and prejudiced and ignorant bigot. Next day the company increased, and they were chiefly engaged in felling small cottonwood trees and erecting them into temporary cabins, so that when night came on, they had the appearance of a village of wigwams, and the night being clear, the occupants began to enjoy some degree of comfort.[A] [Footnote A: Millennial Star, Vol. 14, p. 582.] On the night of the thirteenth of November, while large bodies of the saints were still encamped on the Missouri bottoms, exiled from their homes for the gospel's sake, one of the most wonderful meteoric showers occurred that was ever witnessed. The whole heavens and the earth were made brilliant by the streams of light which marked the course of the falling aerolites. The whole upper deep was one vast display of heaven's fireworks. The long trains of light left in the heavens by the meteors would twist into the most fantastic shapes, like writhing serpents. The grandeur of the display was far beyond the power of words to describe. I mention it because of the effect it had upon the minds of the suffering saints. The scriptures teach that one of the signs of the glorious appearing of Jesus Christ shall be the falling of stars from the heaven, as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind; and the shaking of the powers of heaven.[B] [Footnote B: Mark 13:25, 26; also Revelation 6:13-17.] It is needless to say that this sign in the heavens encouraged the exiles; that it revived their hopes; that it calmed their fears; that it seemed to herald the coming of their Deliverer, the Son of God. Nor need I say that it awed the mob, and made a pause in their cruel proceedings for a season. That pause, however, was brief; for on the twenty-third of November the mob held a meeting and appointed a committee to warn away any of the saints who might possibly be found within the borders of the county. Accordingly what few families were scattered here and there through the county were threatened and abused until they were finally forced from their homes. On the twenty-fourth of December four aged families were assaulted at Independence. The mob tore down their chimneys, broke open their doors and threw large stones into their houses. A brother by the name of Miller, sixty-five years of age, and the youngest of the men in the four families, narrowly escaped fatal injuries. A brother Jones, who was also subjected to like inhuman treatment, served as a life-guard to General Washington in the Revolution, and had fought for the establishment of the sacred principles of liberty guaranteed in the Constitution of his country, the free exercise of which was now denied him by a gang of heartless wretches, who had conspired against the liberties of worthy citizens. Some time later in the winter, an old man of about seventy years of age was driven from his house, after which it was thrown down. His household goods, corn, etc., were piled together and set on fire; but, fortunately, after the mob left, his son extinguished the flames. About the same time Lyman Leonard had two chairs broken to splinters over his head and body, and was dragged out of doors, where he was beaten with clubs until he was supposed to be dead. The same day Josiah Sumner and Barnet Cole received the same kind of treatment.[C] [Footnote C: Evening and Morning Star, p. 277.] Early in the spring the mob burned the remainder of the houses belonging to the saints. According to the testimony of Lyman Wight, two hundred and three dwelling-houses and one grist mill were so destroyed [D]--destroyed in the hope, perhaps, of discouraging the return of the exiles. [Footnote D: Lyman Wight's affidavit, Times and Seasons, 1843, p. 264.] CHAPTER XIV. AFTERMATH OF THE EXPULSION. The saints, exiled from their homes in Jackson County, found a temporary resting place in Clay County; though some of them were scattered through Ray, Lafayette, and Van Buren Counties. Those, however, who settled in Van Buren were again driven away, as related in a former chapter. The people in Clay County, as a rule, were kind to the exiles thrown so unceremoniously upon their hospitality. They were permitted to occupy every vacant cabin, and build others for temporary shelter. Some of the sisters obtained positions as domestics in the households of well-to-do farmers, while others taught school. For their acts of kindness the people of Clay County were well repaid in labor performed by the brethren, who were by no means idle, nor of the class who would receive a gratuity when it was within their power to give its equivalent in honest toil. But look at the situation of the saints in the best possible light, and after all, it was a gloomy prospect! In their scattered condition no regular discipline could be enforced. Many of them were beyond the reach of their spiritual teachers; and being surrounded by wickedness, their hopes blighted, and witnessing the apparent triumph of the wicked, is it any wonder if, in their despair, many of them committed sins, and were chargeable with follies unbecoming people of their profession? But in the main the saints were immovable as the everlasting hills in their righteousness, and in their integrity. They were willing to count all things as dross for the excellency of the knowledge of God. Their very sufferings only wafted them nearer to him who permitted their enemies to chasten them for their good, their very chastisement being a witness that they were sons of God--that he loved them.[A] [Footnote A: Hebrews 12:6-9.] The brethren were perplexed most of all as to what course to pursue. Their return to the lands from which they had been driven looked at least unlikely. They knew not whether it would be best to lease or buy lands in Clay County; whether to prepare for permanent or only temporary residence in that land. In the midst of this uncertainty, a conference was convened on the 1st of January, 1834, at the house of P. P. Pratt, at which it was-- _Resolved,_ that Lyman Wight and Parley P. Pratt be sent as special messengers to represent the situation of the scattered brethren in Missouri, to the Presidency of The Church, in Kirtland, and ask their advice. Accordingly these brethren started to perform this mission, leaving their families in a penniless condition, while they themselves faced the winds and snows of winter in the interests of their afflicted co-religionists. Pending the saints receiving instructions from their youthful Prophet, we have many events to relate to our readers. In the latter part of December, 1833, a court of inquiry was held at Liberty, Clay County, to investigate the conduct of Colonel Pitcher, in dispossessing the "Mormons" of their arms, and driving them from their homes. The inquiry resulted in his arrest and trial before a court-martial; but the court did not convene until the 20th of February, 1834; and so remiss in the performance of his duty was General Thompson, who presided at the court-martial trial, that no report was made to the governor until the first of May; and even then it had to be solicited by the governor. From the facts brought out in that trial, the governor decided that Colonel Pitcher had no right to dispossess the "Mormons" of their arms; and sent an order to S. D. Lucas, colonel of the thirty-third regiment, to deliver the arms taken from the "Mormons" on the 5th of December, 1833, to W. W. Phelps, John Corrill, E. Partridge, A. S. Gilbert, or their order. Lucas, in the meantime, however, had resigned his position, left Jackson County and settled in Lexington. Learning of this, the governor issued a second order for the arms, directing it this time to Colonel Pitcher. This letter was inclosed in a letter from the governor to W. W. Phelps, and sent to Pitcher on the tenth of July; but the arms were never returned. Indeed, between the issuing of the first and second orders of the governor for their restoration to their owners, the arms were distributed among the mob; and they insolently boasted that the arms should not be returned, notwithstanding the order of the executive. The determination of the mob proved to be stronger than the authority of the governor--the commander-in-chief of the militia of the State. In the month of December, 1833, the mob permitted the firm of Davies & Kelly to take the printing press owned by The Church over to Liberty, in Clay County, where the said firm began the publication of _The Missouri Enquirer;_ and in payment for the press turned over to the lawyers employed by the saints three hundred dollars on the one thousand dollar note the brethren had given their attorneys. Not much to pay for a press that, with the book-works, had cost, eighteen months before, between three and four thousand dollars. CHAPTER XV. AN "ATTEMPTED VINDICATION" OF LAW. It would appear that as soon as the news of the expulsion of the saints reached the ears of the State officers, they were anxious to reinstate them in their possessions. R. W. Wells, the attorney-general of Missouri, wrote the lawyers employed by The Church to the effect that if the "Mormons" desired to be returned to their homes in Jackson County, an adequate force of the State militia would be sent forthwith to accomplish this object, the militia have been ordered to hold themselves in readiness for that purpose. He also promised that if the "Mormons" would organize themselves into a company of militia, they should be supplied with arms by the State. He also suggested that, "as only a certain quantity of public arms can be distributed in each county, those who first apply will be most likely to receive them." This letter was written after a conversation between the governor and the attorney-general; and by that conversation, the attorney-general believed that he was warranted in making these suggestions to the "Mormons," and one would be justified in regarding the foregoing as the sentiments of the governor, as well as the attorney-general. John F. Ryland, the circuit judge for the district of which Jackson County was a part, wrote to Amos Reese, circuit attorney for the same district, and also counsel for The Church, saying that he had been requested by the governor to inform him "about the outrageous acts of unparalleled violence that had lately happened in Jackson County;" and had been requested by him to examine into these outrages, and to "take steps to punish the guilty and screen the innocent." He, however, (that is, Judge Ryland) could not proceed without some person was willing to give the proper information before him. He asked the circuit attorney to find out from the "Mormons" if they were willing to take legal steps against the citizens of Jackson County; and if they desired to be reinstated in their possessions. If so, he was willing to adopt measures looking toward the accomplishment of this object, saying that the military force would repair to Jackson County, and execute any order he might make respecting the subject. "It is a disgrace to the State," said he, "for such acts to happen within its limits, and the disgrace will attach to our official characters, if we neglect to take proper means to ensure the punishment due such offenders." The order for an immediate court of inquiry had been prepared by the governor, but he waited to hear from the saints, as to whether or not they desired to be reinstated in their homes. The leading elders of The Church, learning through their attorneys of the steps taken to hold an immediate court of inquiry, at once wrote the governor, asking him not to hold an immediate court of inquiry, as at that time many of those persons whom they would want as witnesses were scattered through several of the surrounding counties, and could not be notified in time to be in attendance. Besides this they urged that many of their principal witnesses would be women and children, and so long as the rage of the mob continued unabated, it would be unsafe to take these witnesses to Independence. "An immediate court of inquiry," wrote A. S. Gilbert, "called while our people are thus situated, would give our enemies a decided advantage in point of testimony." He asked his excellency therefore, in behalf of The Church, to postpone the court of inquiry until the saints were restored to their homes, and had an equal chance with their enemies in producing testimony before the court. Amos Reese, the circuit attorney, and one of the counsel for The Church, concurred in these very reasonable requests; and said further: "I think that at the next regular term of the court, an examination of the criminal matter cannot be gone into without a guard for the court and witnesses." The communication which made these suggestions was followed up on the 6th of December by a petition to the governor, which set forth the outrages committed against the saints by the Jackson County mob, as already related in these pages; and asked him to restore them to their possessions in that county; and protect them when restored by the militia of the State, if legal, or by a detachment of the United States troops. The petition suggested that doubtless the latter arrangement could be effected by the governor conferring with the President of the United States on the subject. They also asked that their men be organized into companies of "Jackson Guards," and furnished with arms by the State, that they might assist in maintaining their rights. "And then," said they, "when arrangements are made to protect us in our persons and property (which cannot be done without an armed force, nor would it be prudent to risk our lives there without guards till we receive strength from our friends to protect ourselves), we wish a court of inquiry instituted, to investigate the whole matter of the mob against the 'Mormons.'" To this petition the governor replied on the 4th of February, 1834; and said the request to be restored to their homes and lands needed no evidence to support the right to have it granted. In relation to the brethren organizing into military companies, the governor said: "Should your men organize according to law--which they have a right to do, indeed it is their duty to do so, unless exempted by religious scruples--and apply for public arms, the executive could not distinguish between their right to have them, and the right of every other description of people similarly situated." All these answers of the governor to the petition of the exiled saints, so far, were good, and manifested a spirit to administer even-handed justice. But when he comes to consider their request to be _protected_ in their possessions, as well as _reinstated_ in them, his reply was not so favorable. "As to the request," said he, "for keeping up a military force to protect your people, and prevent the commission of crimes and injuries, were I to comply it would transcend the power with which the executive of this State is clothed." Still, the laws of the State empower the "commander-in-chief, in case of actual or threatened invasion, insurrection, or war, or public danger, or _other emergency,_ to call forth into actual service such portion of the militia as he may deem expedient." In my judgment, it does seem that under the powers here conferred upon the executive by this provision of the fundamental law of the State--the constitution--the governor could have granted the request of the saints to be protected in their homes, until peace was restored. Surely the clause, _"or other emergency,"_ in the section of the law just quoted, was broad enough to justify him in protecting, by the State militia, twelve hundred citizens of the United States in their homes until mob violence had subsided--until respect for the civil law had been restored, and these citizens allowed to dwell in safety upon the lands they had purchased from the general government. Under this provision he could have "curbed those cruel devils of their will," without "doing even a little wrong, in order to do a great right"--without "wresting the law to his authority." But he chose to interpret the law otherwise--as follows: The words, "or other emergency," in our militia law, seem quite broad; but the emergency to come within the object of that provision, shall be of a public nature. Your case is certainly a very emergent one, and the consequences as important to _your society_ as if the war had been waged against the whole State, yet the _public_ has no other interest in it than that the laws be faithfully executed. The sequel will show how _faithfully_ the laws were executed, and how the "public" stood by, indifferent spectators, while an unoffending people were robbed of their possessions, and the laws of the State set at defiance by insolent mobs. The governor closed his answer to the petition of the exiles by saying that as then advised it would be necessary to have a military guard for the court and State witnesses, while sitting in Jackson County; and he sent an order to the captain of the Liberty Blues to comply with the requisition of the circuit attorney, in protecting the court and executing its orders during the progress of the trials arising out of the Jackson County difficulties; and said the "Mormons" could if they felt so disposed, return under the protection of this guard to their homes, and be protected in them during the progress of the trials. It required no great wisdom, however, to foresee that for the saints to return to their homes, and then be left there without protection--left to the mercy of inhuman wretches, in whose veins ran none of the milk of human kindness--would not be far removed from suicide, as the mob greatly outnumbered the saints. To return under these circumstances would only be laying the foundation for a greater tragedy than the one already enacted; and the brethren wisely concluded not to attempt to regain possession of their homes, until some measure was adopted to protect them when there--until "God or the President ruled out the mob." At the February term of the circuit court, which convened at Independence, about twelve of the leading elders were subpoenaed as witnesses on the part of the State, against certain citizens of Jackson County for their acts of mob violence against the "Mormons." On the twenty-third of the month these witnesses crossed the Missouri into Jackson County, under the protection of the Liberty Blues, Captain Atchison commanding. The company numbered about fifty, and were all well armed with United States muskets, bayonets fixed--presenting an outward appearance "fair and warlike." The company and witnesses commenced crossing the river about noon, but it was nearly night before the baggage wagon was taken across. While waiting for the arrival of the wagon, it was decided to camp in the woods, and not go to Independence until the next morning. Half the company and a number of the witnesses went about half a mile towards Independence and built fires for the night. While engaged in these duties the quartermaster and others, who had gone ahead to prepare quarters in town for the company, sent an express back, which was continued by Captain Atchison to Colonel Allen, for the two hundred drafted militia under his command: and also sent to Liberty for more ammunition. The night was passed around the camp fires, as the party was without tents, and the weather cold enough to snow a little. Next morning the witnesses were marched to Independence under a strong guard and quartered in the block-house--formerly the Flourney Hotel. The attorney-general of the State, Mr. Wells, had been sent down by the governor to assist the circuit attorney, Mr. Reese, "to investigate as far as possible, the Jackson outrage." These gentlemen waited upon the witnesses in their quarters, and gave them to understand that all hope of criminal procedure against the mob was at an end. Only a few minutes afterward, Captain Atchison informed the witnesses that he had received an order from Judge Ryland that the services of his company were no longer needed in Jackson County. So the witnesses for the State were marched out of town to the tune of Yankee Doodle--quick time. Thus ended the sickly attempt of the State authorities to "execute the law"--in which execution the 'public,' according to the governor, was interested, but no further interested in this outrage. But, "so far as a faithful execution of the laws is concerned," he presumed, "the whole community felt a deep interest; for that which is the case of the 'Mormons' today, may be the case of the Catholics tomorrow; and after them, any other sect that may become obnoxious to a majority of the people of any section of the State." [A] After this effort by the State authorities to execute the law, doubtless all other sects or parties who were likely to come under the ban of popular sentiment felt secure in their liberties--satisfied with the valor of the officers of the State who had trembled before the bold front of a mob--a mob which had boasted that if the "Mormons" were reinstated in their homes by the authority of the governor, not three months should elapse before they would drive them again! And even while the circuit court was convened at Independence, and a company of militia was in attendance to execute its mandates, and the attorney-general of the State present to assist the circuit attorney prosecute those who had violated the law--yet, in the presence of all this authority, the old citizens of Jackson gathered, and assumed such a boisterous and mobocratic appearance that their bold front overawed the officers of the court; the attorneys of the State telling the State witnesses--who were also sufferers from the previous violence of the mob--that all hopes of criminal prosecutions against the mob were at an end; while Judge Ryland issued an order for the militia to withdraw, just when they were needed to protect his court in vindicating the law! Thus ended the only effort that was ever made by the officers of Missouri to bring to justice these violators of the law. One class of citizens had conspired against the liberties of another class, and being the stronger had, without the authority of law, or shadow of justification, driven twelve hundred of them from their possessions, and there was not virtue enough in the executive of the State and his associates to punish the offenders. The determination of the mob to resist the law was stronger than the determination of the State officers to execute it and make it honorable. And yet the constitution of the State made it the imperative duty of the executive to "take care that the laws are faithfully executed." And the laws of the State empowered the commander-in-chief of the militia (the governor) "in case of * * * insurrection, or war, or public danger, or other emergency, to call forth into actual service such portion of the militia as he might deem expedient." With this power placed in his hands by the laws of the State, Governor Dunklin permitted mobs to overawe the court of inquiry he himself had ordered, and allowed them to continue unchecked in their unhallowed deeds of devastation and violence. And while the mobocrats triumphed over the law, the governor's letters to the leading elders of The Church contained many pretty patriotic sentiments, but he lacked the courage to execute the law. [Footnote A: Governor Dunklin's communication, Millennial Star, Vol. 14, p. 702.] CHAPTER XVI. THE CAUSE OF EXPULSION--FUTURE REDEMPTION. It must not be supposed that the Prophet Joseph was an uninterested spectator of the stirring events that were being enacted. The circumstances of The Church were such that his presence was necessary in Kirtland, but all the sympathy of his nature went out to his brethren in affliction; and his letters were filled with words of encouragement and wise counsels: and, so far as his embarrassing financial circumstances would permit, he rendered them material aid. There were two things, however, that he could not understand; "and," said he, "they are these: Why God has suffered so great a calamity to come upon Zion, and what the great moving cause of this persecution is. And again, by what means he will return her back to her inheritance, with everlasting joy upon her head." He was not left long in doubt as to these matters. The words we have quoted above are taken from a letter written by Joseph on the tenth of December, 1833; and six days later the Lord in a revelation to him said: Verily I say unto you, concerning your brethren who have been afflicted, and persecuted and cast out from the land of their inheritance, I, the Lord, have suffered the affliction to come upon them, wherewith they have been afflicted, in consequence of their transgressions. * * * Behold, I say unto you, there were jarrings, and contentions, and envyings, and strifes, and lustful and covetous desires among them; therefore by these things they polluted their inheritances. They were slow to hearken unto the voice of the Lord their God, therefore the Lord their God is slow to hearken unto their prayers, to answer them in the day of their trouble.[A] [Footnote A: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 101:1-7.] This explained to the uttermost why the saints were driven away from Zion. Of the evils which were in their midst they had been made aware by the reproofs of their brethren; they had been warned time and again by the Prophet and the high council at Kirtland of impending judgments. But all these warnings had only aroused them to a partial repentance; and the Lord, true to his word at the time of giving the warning, was now pleading with the strong ones in Zion, and chastening her mighty ones, that they might overcome.[B] [Footnote B: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 90:34-37.] Seeing, then, that the saints were punished for neglecting to observe the counsels of God, the question may arise, are the mob to be held responsible for their acts of violence against them? Most assuredly, for it is a case where "offenses must needs come, but woe unto them by whom they come." In relation to the other matter about which Joseph was perplexed, namely, by what means the Lord would redeem Zion, this same revelation, and one given subsequently--on the twenty-fourth of February, 1834--explained. From these two revelations we learn that Zion is to be redeemed by power. "I will raise up unto my people," said the Lord, "a man who shall lead them like as Moses led the children of Israel, for ye are the children of Israel, and of the seed of Abraham, and ye must needs be led out of bondage, with power, and with a stretched out arm: and as your fathers were led at the first, _even so shall the redemption of Zion be._ Therefore, let not your hearts faint, for I say not unto you as I said unto your fathers, mine angel shall go up before you, but not my presence; but I say unto you, mine angels shall go before you, and also my presence, and in time ye shall possess the goodly land." [C] But this great blessing, they were given to understand, was not to be granted _"until after much tribulation."_[D] [Footnote C: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 103.] [Footnote D: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 103:12, and Sec. 58:2-4.] Joseph Smith was commanded to gather up the strength of the Lord's house, the young men, and the middle-aged; and they were to gather to Zion to possess the land that the Lord had appointed unto the saints, much of which they had purchased and consecrated unto him. The work of gathering was to go on. The churches of the east were to sent up money in the hands of wise men to purchase inheritances; and inasmuch as their enemies came upon them to drive them from their homes, they were to defend themselves, and avenge themselves of their enemies. They were to make every effort to obtain five hundred men to go up and redeem Zion; but if they failed to get five hundred, then they were to get three hundred; and if they failed to get three hundred, they were to get one hundred; but they were not to go if unable to obtain one hundred. The Lord told the saints, even previous to this, that "there is even now already in store a sufficient, yea, even an abundance, to redeem Zion, and establish her waste places, no more to be thrown down, were the churches, who call themselves after my name, willing to hearken to my voice." [E] [Footnote E: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 101:75.] CHAPTER XVII. IMPORTUNING AT THE FEET OF THE JUDGE--THE GOVERNOR--THE PRESIDENT. Pending the gathering of the strength of the Lord's house to go up to redeem Zion, the saints who had been driven from their homes were instructed to importune at the feet of the judge; and if he heed them not, then to importune at the feet of the governor; and if the governor heeded them not, then to importune at the feet of the president; and if the president heeded them not, "then will the Lord rise and come forth out of his hiding place, and in his fury vex the nation, and in his hot displeasure, and his fierce anger, in his time, will cut off these wicked, unfaithful, and unjust stewards." The brethren now began the work of petitioning in earnest. The authorities and brethren in Kirtland petitioned the governor of Missouri in behalf of their afflicted brethren of that State, inclosing in their petition the revelation the Lord had given respecting the redemption of Zion.[A] They also sent a similar petition, and the same revelation, to the President of the United States. "And now," wrote Joseph to the brethren in Missouri, "we will act the part of the poor widow [B] to perfection, if possible, and let our rulers read their destiny if they do not lend a helping hand." [Footnote A: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 101.] [Footnote B: Luke 18:1-6.] The saints in Missouri were by no means idle. They continued to keep the subject of their wrongs constantly before the authorities of the State. They also prepared a petition to the President of the nation, setting forth their wrongs at great length, enclosing in it the reply of the governor to their petition to him. And since the governor claimed that the laws of his State did not authorize him to keep a military force in Jackson County, to protect them in their homes after their restoration, they asked the President to restore them to their possessions, and protect them when so restored, by an armed force, until peace was insured. Their petition also referred to the section of the Constitution which provides that the United States shall protect each state against invasion; "and on application of the legislature, or of the executive (when the legislature cannot be convened) against domestic violence." [C] At the same time the exiles informed Governor Dunklin that they had petitioned the President for a force to protect them in their homes, and asked him to assist them by sending to the chief executive of the nation a few lines in support of their claims. Elder Phelps wrote Senator Thomas H. Benton, informing him of their having sent a petition to the President, and asked him for his co-operation in securing their rights. Governor Dunklin answered that as it was possible that the saints had asked the President to do something that he was not empowered to do, he could not consistently join with them in urging him to do it. "If you will send me a copy of your petition to the President, I will judge of his right to grant it; and if of opinion he possesses the power, I will write in favor of its exercise." But whether the saints complied with this request or not, I cannot learn. [Footnote C: Const. Art. iv, Sec. 4.] On the second of May, 1834, they received a communication from Washington, which, as might have been anticipated, stated that the offenses of which they complained were violations against the laws of the State of Missouri, and not the laws of the United States, and the clause in the Constitution to which they had alluded, extended only to proceedings under the laws of the United States. "Where an insurrection in any State exists, against the government thereof," said the communication from Washington, "the President is required, on the application of such State, or of the executive (when the legislature cannot be convened), to call forth such a number of the militia, as he may judge sufficient to suppress such insurrection. But this state of things does not exist in Missouri, or if it does, the fact is not shown in the mode pointed out by law. The President cannot call out a military force to aid in the execution of the State laws, until the proper requisition is made upon him by the constituted authorities." And as the "constituted authorities" would not make that requisition, all hopes of assistance from the general government, of course, were at an end. When the State legislature convened, the governor called the attention of the body legislative to the outrages committed by the citizens of Jackson County against the "Mormons," saying: "As yet, none have been punished for these outrages, and I believe that, under our present laws, conviction for any violence committed against a 'Mormon' cannot be had in Jackson County. * * * It is for you to determine what amendment the laws may require, so as to guard against such acts of violence for the future." This notice of the question in the governor's message revived the sinking hopes of the exiles, but it was only again to have them disappointed. The portion of the governor's message which referred to the Jackson outrage was given to a special committee, and at the suggestion of Messrs. Thompson and Atchison, of the Missouri legislature, the saints petitioned that body for an enactment to reinstate them in their homes and protect them, when thus reinstated, but it availed nothing. The legislature took no action in the matter. The violators of the law went unwhipped of justice. Suffering innocence found no protector in the State. CHAPTER XVIII. ZION'S CAMP. "When the Lord commands, do it." This is what the Prophet Joseph declared to be his rule. Therefore, when the Lord, on the twenty-fourth of February, 1834, commanded him to gather together the strength of the Lord's house--the young and middle-aged men in The Church--for the purpose of going to Missouri, to redeem Zion, two days later he was seen leaving his home for the State of New York, to fulfill this commandment. He was accompanied by Parley P. Pratt on this mission. Other leading Elders went in various directions on the same errand. They traveled among the branches of The Church in the east pleading the cause of Zion, asking the saints to assist in her redemption by contributing of their substance to relieve the distresses of their brethren who had been driven from their homes in Missouri, who now were exiles and largely dependent upon the kindness of strangers for means of living. They called upon the saints to send money to Missouri with which to purchase inheritances for themselves; they also asked the young and the middle-aged men to volunteer to go to Zion for the purpose of assisting their brethren to maintain their possessions in Jackson County, when the State authorities should reinstate them in their homes. We have none of the speeches of these elders in print, we cannot tell how well they told the story of Zion's wrongs; but surely the plain, unvarnished statement of her woes would be sufficient to move adamantine hearts to pity; while those who held the sufferers as brethren in a common cause would weep over their affliction, and with resolution stronger than the love of life, pledge their fortunes, and themselves to bring about their restoration to their homes and secure to them the enjoyment of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It will become necessary, however, in another place, for us to tell how unsympathetic, and what a lack of faith there was among the eastern branches of The Church; and how these things justly brought upon the saints in the east the displeasure of God, and prevented, at that time, the redemption of Zion. The village of New Portage, about fifty miles from Kirtland, Ohio, was made the place of rendezvous for the young and middle-aged brethren, who, in response to the call of the Lord and his Prophet, had volunteered to go to the assistance of their brethren in Missouri; and here, about the first of May, the volunteers began to assemble. On the sixth they were joined by their youthful prophet-leader, who, the next day, organized them as follows: F. G. Williams was appointed treasurer and pay-master of the camp. All the money was collected and given into his keeping. Zerubbabel Snow was appointed commissary general. There were also other general officers that were appointed, but what they were we have been unable to learn. The camp was divided into small companies, twelve men in each. These companies elected their own captains, who then assigned each man his duty in the respective companies, thus: two cooks; two firemen; two tent makers; two watermen; one runner, or messenger; two wagoners and horsemen; and one commissary. In all, the company that collected at New Portage numbered one hundred and fifty, which was increased by the time the camp reached Missouri to about two hundred. They purchased flour and baked their own bread, and cooked their own provisions, which, at times, were scarce. Their baggage wagons, about twenty in number, were so loaded with their provisions, arms, ammunition and clothing for their distressed brethren in Missouri, that nearly the whole company had to walk. Every night before retiring to sleep, the blast of the evening trumpet called them to prayers in their respective tents; and the morning trumpet summoned them to implore the assistance of Divine Providence in the day's march. Thus they made the journey, pitching their tents by the way-side, alike in the settled country and in the wilderness; stopping occasionally for a few days, to refresh their overworked teams; and always remaining in camp on the Sabbath day to hold divine service, and partake of the sacrament. On the occasion of their holding public worship, the people in the vicinity of their encampment would often attend and wonder much at the doctrines they heard, being puzzled to know what sect of men they were. Such a company of men traveling in this manner through the country did not fail to excite the curiosity of the people; and every effort was made to learn the names of the leaders, the business, object, and destination of the expedition; but in this they failed, as it was Joseph's instructions to the members of the company not to make these things known. There were several boys in the expedition, and at times these were questioned by strangers, but with very unsatisfactory results. Among the number of boys so questioned was Geo. A. Smith, afterwards one of the counselors to President Brigham Young, in the Presidency of The Church. The questions and answers were about as follows: "My boy, where are you from?" "From the east." "Where are you going?" "To the west." "What for?" "To see where we can get land cheapest and best." "Who leads the camp?" "Sometimes one, sometimes another." "What name?" "Captain Wallace, Major Bruce, Orson Hyde, James Allred, etc." [A] [Footnote A: Celebration Pioneers' Day, p. 18.] The people not unfrequently, however, suspected they were "Mormons," and many times the little band was threatened with destruction, and spies continually harassed them by trying to get into their camp. They were foiled in these efforts though, by the vigilance of the guards, who nightly patrolled their encampment. At various points through Indiana and Illinois, they were told their passage would be resisted, but these threats nothing daunted them. The opposition was overawed more than once by the numbers in the camp being multiplied in the eyes of their enemies. The brethren of Zion's Camp knew the object of the expedition to be a noble one. They were conscious of God's approval, and of the presence in their midst of his angels; and strengthened by this knowledge, they fearlessly marched on to accomplish the work of redeeming Zion. Joseph says: "We know that the angels were our companions, for we saw them." A circumstance in the experience of Parley P. Pratt furnishes further testimony of the presence of angels with this expedition. Elder Pratt was chiefly engaged as a recruiting officer, and on one occasion, when he had traveled all night to overtake a small company he was conducting to the main camp, he stopped at noon on a broad level plain to let his horse feed. No habitation was near. Stillness and repose reigned around him. "I sank down," he says, "overpowered with a deep sleep, and might have lain in a state of oblivion till the shades of night had gathered about me, so completely was I exhausted for the want of sleep and rest; but I had only slept a few moments till the horse had grazed sufficiently, when a voice, more loud and shrill than I had ever before heard, fell upon my ear, and thrilled through every part of my system; it said: _'Parley, it is time to be up and on your journey.'_ In the twinkling of an eye I was perfectly aroused, I sprang to my feet so suddenly that I could not at first recollect where I was, or what was before me to perform. I afterwards related the circumstance to Brother Joseph Smith, and he bore testimony that it was the angel of the Lord who went before the camp, who found me overpowered with sleep, and thus awoke me." [B] [Footnote B: Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, p. 123.] The line of march led the camp through Indiana and the central part of Illinois. The journey was undertaken, too, at a time of year--May and June--when nature appears in her most lovely attire--when the forests were in full leaf, and filled with the resonance of birds, the hum of bees and insects; when the great prairies, which quite bewilder one with their vastness, are clothed in their variegated garments of grass and wild flowers; at a time of year when in the upper deep there is a deeper blue, when the rising sun seems to shed a brighter light upon the earth beneath, and when his parting rays paint the evening skies in splendors unsurpassed.[C] [Footnote C: PEN-PICTURE OF THE CAMP.--In fancy I see them after a hard day's march making their encampment. The sun has just sunk behind the western horizon as Joseph and the standard bearer are choosing the place for their night's encampment They have paused on the summit of one of the gentle swells of prairie so common in their line of travel. A short distance to the south is a small wooded stream. To the north and east, as far as the eye can see, is nothing but the broad, rolling prairie; looking west, the horizon is bounded by a view of the heavy forests which marked the meandering course of the Illinois. "Brother Joseph, would it not be better to make our camp further to the south, down on the banks of the stream where wood and water will be more convenient?" said he who bore the standard. "I think not," replies the Prophet. "You know we received word that the people intend to prevent us crossing the Illinois River, which we will reach by ten o'clock tomorrow; so that we are in the vicinity of our enemies. If we camp in the woods, they could surround us, and we not be aware of it. But by making this eminence our camp ground they can't approach without being observed by our guards; and the brethren will be willing to carry both wood and water this short distance in order to enjoy the security of this position." And now the main company has come in full view over a hill to the east, and as they see the ensign planted they know the camp ground has been chosen. Anxious to obtain food and rest, they urge their jaded teams to make better speed, and soon the twenty wagons are arranged in two curving lines, to make an oval enclosure with openings at each end. Now is enacted a busy scene. Men are hurrying to and fro in all directions; but there is no confusion. Each knows what is required of him, and cheerfully performs his allotted part. The teamsters have unhitched and stripped the harness from their sweating horses that now quietly crop the rich grass; the firemen and watermen have brought both fuel and water, and already the sombre twilight is made cheerful by the light of the camp fire, around which the cooks are busy preparing the evening meal. The tent makers are stretching the tents within the space enclosed by the wagons. Orders are given in a cheerful, half-jesting manner. All is peace--all is union. Now you see the men quickly gathering around their respective fires, as their several cooks announce supper ready. As they quietly seat themselves around their food, heads are bared, and thanks returned to Him, who had commanded them in everything to give thanks. Pleasant conversation prevails in nearly every group. The trials of the day are turned into merriment--anecdotes and jests provoke peals of laughter, and the toils of the day are forgotten. Supper is over. Around a fire near the center of the encampment have gathered a number of brethren, and their prophet-leader is relating to them some of the visions of his early youth, interspersing his narrative with maxims of incalculable value to the hearers. As he warms under the glow of the Spirit of God, he tells them of the future glory of Zion--of the temple to be overshadowed by a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night--of her being a place of refuge--a city of peace in which the saints of God shall safely dwell, and how the wicked shall say, "let us not go up to battle against Zion, for her inhabitants are terrible." But listen! In another part of the camp a number of the brethren are singing; and as the melody floats out on the calm stillness of the night, you recognize one of the familiar songs of Zion:-- Glorious things of thee are spoken, Zion, city of our God He, whose word can not be broken, Chose thee for his own abode. On the Rock of ages founded, What can shake thy sure repose! With salvation's walls surrounded, Thou may'st smile on all thy foes. The song was scarcely concluded when the sharp, thrilling notes of the bugle summon to prayer. All promptly retire to their tents and are engaged in solemn devotion. Few leave the tents after prayers. The guards have been notified to take their places, and their comrades stretch out their tired limbs upon their rude pallets. As the bustle in the camp ceases, and naught is heard but the whispered conversation of the guards, or their footsteps as they move back and forth upon their beats, you hear in the distance the plaintive notes of the whip-poor-will. And now the pale moon slowly rises and bathes in her soft light the sleeping camp.--_Roberts_.] CHAPTER XIX. ZELPH. After crossing the Illinois River Zion's Camp passed many of those mysterious earth mounds so common in that section. Mysterious mounds! No, not mysterious to them, for they had with them the record of the peoples who erected them--the Nephites and Lamanites, or, more likely still, the people of Jared. While encamped on the western bank of the Illinois, Joseph and several others ascended one of these high mounds from which they could overlook the tops of the trees, and see the prairies beyond. On the top of the mound were three stone altars, erected one above the other, "according to the ancient order," said Joseph. Human bones were scattered about on the surface of the ground; and after removing about a foot of the soil at the crown of the mound, they found the skeleton of a man nearly complete. Between his ribs was an Indian arrowhead which, doubtless, had produced his death. The visions of Joseph's mind the day following were opened, and he learned that this man whose skeleton they had found was named Zelph. He was a white Lamanite; the curse of the black skin had been taken from him because of his righteousness. He was a noted character, a warrior and chieftain under the great prophet Omandagus, who was known from the hill Cumorah to the Rocky Mountains. He was killed in the last great struggle of the Lamanites and Nephites by the arrow-head found between his ribs.[A] [Footnotes A: President Brigham Young took possession of the arrow-head.] CHAPTER XX. DISSENSIONS IN THE CAMP. On the seventh of June Zion's Camp reached the Allred settlement, on Salt River. This Allred settlement consisted, for the most part, of Latter-day Saints, and here Joseph resolved to refresh his men and teams by resting a few days. The day following their arrival, they were rejoined by Hyrum Smith and Lyman Wight who had parted from the main company in Ohio for the purpose of going into Michigan, to raise from among the several branches of that State, volunteers to assist in redeeming Zion. The addition of these volunteers swelled the number in the camp to two hundred and five men, and twenty-five baggage wagons, with two or three horses to each. During this stay of several days at Salt River, a reorganization of the camp took place. Lyman Wight, who had some knowledge of military evolutions and tactics, and was, withal, a bold, fearless man, was elected general of the camp. Joseph chose a company of twenty men to be his life guard, of whom his brother Hyrum was made captain. The rest of the men were organized into companies as at New Portage. The general of the camp drilled these companies in military manoeuvres; inspected their fire-locks, and gave them target practice by platoons--in short, prepared them for effective service should the emergency arise for them to use force to retain their possessions in Zion. I regret to say that the spirit of union and harmony depicted in my pen sketch of the camp, in the foot-note of chapter eighteen, was not always characteristic of it. There were times when a spirit of selfishness and an utter lack of brotherly love with some was manifested. Particularly was this true of one Sylvester Smith, who exhibited a selfish and at other times a quarrelsome spirit. One evening when provisions in camp were scarce, Elder P. P. Pratt called upon Sylvester Smith for something to eat; and although Smith had food, he refused to divide with Brother Pratt, and sent him to someone else. The end of it was Brother Pratt had to retire hungry. Joseph being told of this, severely reproved the offender; and whether that reproof continued to gall the feelings of Sylvester Smith or not, I cannot say. But at any rate, as soon as the camp arrived at what is known as the twenty-two mile Wockendaw Prairie, well on to two hundred miles west from the Mississippi, this same man and Lyman Wight made an effort to divide the camp. The company had first taken up quarters in the woods on the bank of the river; but being threatened by their enemies, Joseph decided that it would be better to move out into the open prairie. With this arrangement some were dissatisfied, as it took them away from firewood. Lyman Wight and Sylvester Smith turned aside with their companies and went into camp before leaving the timber; and as the other companies came along, would hail the captains and ask them if they were following General or Wight some other man. At this some companies hesitated a moment, and then drove out to the plain where the ensign had been planted to mark the place Joseph had chosen for the encampment. Those who had turned aside, and made an effort to divide the camp, came up also, and were called upon to give an account of their conduct. They acknowledged their error, and were forgiven. Another difficulty arose among the brethren, about a dog which had snapped at Sylvester Smith and others. Considerable anger and ill feeling existed in camp about it. At last Joseph in the presence of a number of the brethren said: "I will descend to that spirit which is in the camp, to show you the spirit you are of; for I want to drive it from the camp. _The man that kills that dog, I will whip him."_ Sylvester Smith came up just in time to hear the last part of Joseph's remarks, and said: "If that dog bites me I shall kill him." "If you do I will whip you," replied Joseph. "If you do, I shall defend myself the best way that I can." To which Joseph rejoined that he would whip him in the name of the Lord. "Now," said he, "I have descended to that spirit to show you the spirit which is among you. Brethren, are you not ashamed of it? I am." Then he reproved them sharply for their murmuring and follies. As they continued in their rebellious moods and manifested but little of the spirit of repentance, he predicted that a plague would overtake the camp, and they would die like sheep with the rot.[A] Of the fulfillment of this prediction, I shall speak hereafter. [Footnotes A: Of this prophecy Heber C. Kimball, in his journal under date of June 3rd says: "This day June 3rd, while we were refreshing ourselves and our teams, about the middle of the day, Brother Joseph got up in a wagon and said that he would deliver a prophecy. After giving the brethren much good advice, exhorting them to faithfulness and humility, he said the Lord had told him that there would be a scourge come upon the camp, in consequence of the factions and unruly spirits that appeared among them and they should die like sheep with the rot; still if they would repent and humble themselves before the Lord, the scourge in a great measure might be turned away; but as the Lord lives, this camp will suffer for giving way to their unruly temper."--Times and Seasons Vol. vi. p. 788.] CHAPTER XXI. VIEWS CONCERNING ZION--MOB VS STORM. As soon as the camp was reorganized at Salt River, Parley P. Pratt and Orson Hyde were sent as delegates to wait upon Governor Dunklin, at Jefferson City, and request him to call out a sufficient military force to reinstate the saints in the possession of their homes. In the interview the governor frankly admitted the justice of the demand, but expressed fears that if he should so proceed, it would excite civil war, and deluge the whole country with blood. He advised these delegates to counsel their people, for the sake of peace, to sell the lands from which they had been driven. To this the delegates refused to consent, saying: We will hold no terms with land pirates and murderers. If we are not permitted to live on the lands we have purchased of the United States, and be protected in our rights and persons, they will at least make a good burying ground in which to lay our bones; and we shall hold on to our possessions in Jackson County, for this purpose at least. The governor could not and did not blame them; but he trembled for the country, and dared not carry out what he admitted to be the plain, imperative duties of his office. Elders Pratt and Hyde rejoined the camp not far from the line of Ray County. As soon as they arrived, the Prophet Joseph, his brother Hyrum, Lyman Wight, and some others repaired to a grove, and heard their report. "After hearing our report," says Parley P. Pratt, "the President (Joseph Smith) called on the God of our fathers to witness the justice of our cause, and the sincerity of our vows, which we engaged to fulfill whether in this life or in the life to come. For, as God lives, truth, justice, and innocence shall triumph; and iniquity shall not reign." As the brethren approached Richmond, threats were made that they should not pass through the town, and rumor had it that a force of men was in waiting to intercept them. Daylight of the nineteenth of June saw them, in spite of the threats, quietly passing through the streets of the sleeping town. When they broke camp in the morning, they designed reaching Clay County that day; but they met with so many reverses in the day's march, such as wagons breaking down, wheels running off, etc., that they failed to accomplish it. Early in the evening they went into camp between two forks of Fishing River. A plan had been laid for the complete destruction of "Joe Smith's army," as Zion's Camp was called by the Missourians; and now the time for its\ execution had arrived. A mob of two hundred men had been raised in Jackson County, which was to cross the Missouri into Clay County, about the mouth of Fishing River, where a man named Williams kept a ferry. This mob was to be joined at the fords of Fishing River by a party of sixty from Richmond; and still by another mob, seventy in number, from Clay County. Indeed, it looked as if Zion's Camp was to be annihilated forthwith. While the brethren were making preparations for the night, five men armed with guns rode into camp, and insolently told the brethren they would "catch hell before morning." "And their oaths," says Joseph, "partook of all the malice of demons." The Jackson mob assembled opposite the mouth of Fishing River, and one scow-load--forty in number--was sent over. By this time the sun was but little more than an hour high, and the camp observed a small cloud coming up from the west. "It wasn't any larger than your hat when I first saw it," said one [A] who was present, and described the occurrence to me; "but in about twenty minutes the whole heavens were inky blackness, which now and then seemed split by the vivid streams of lightning." All the artillery of heaven seemed to be in action. The wind blew and the rain and hail fell in torrents. The hailstones--unusually large ones--cut down the corn crop and other vegetation. Large limbs were wrenched from sturdy oaks and twisted into withes by the fierce wind. [Footnote A: This was the late Judge Joseph Holbrook of Davis County, who personally related the circumstance to me.] The tents in the camp were blown down, and the most of the brethren took refuge in an old church house near their camp ground. Big Fishing River, that was not more than six inches deep before the storm arose, was about forty feet deep the next morning; and the mob swore that Little Fishing River rose thirty feet in that many minutes. This storm prevented the mob from collecting as arranged. The scow that had ferried over part of the Jackson mob, in returning for more, was met by the storm and only after much difficulty about dark reached the Jackson side. Those that had been shipped across were exposed to the pitiless pelting of the storm all night, which cooled their desire to "kill Joe Smith and his army." "Instead of continuing a cannonading which they commenced, * * * they crawled under wagons, into hollow trees, and filled one old shanty." [B] The next morning they were as anxious to reach the Jackson side of the Missouri as they had been the night before to get at "Joe Smith's" camp. The other parts of the mob who were to give the brethren "hell before morning" met with a fate equally unpleasant. Their horses were frightened, broke away from their masters, and wandered over the prairies in some instances several days. Their plans for the destruction of Zion's Camp were frustrated, and the brethren rejoiced. [Footnote B: Joseph's history under date of 19th of June, 1834.] CHAPTER XXII. NEGOTIATIONS. The day following this providential storm the camp moved out into the prairie some five miles, where there was a better chance to defend themselves. Here, the next day, Colonel Sconce and two other leading men from Ray County called upon the camp to learn what the intentions of the brethren were. Said the colonel: "I see there is an Almighty power that protects this people, for I started from Richmond with a company of armed men having a full determination to destroy you, but was kept back by the storm, and was not able to reach you." Having said so much, he was seized with such excitement that he trembled from head to foot like an aspen-leaf, and had to take a seat in order to compose himself. Joseph, in a lengthy speech, related the trials and persecutions of the saints, particularly the sufferings of those in Jackson County. He related the story of the travels of Zion's Camp, how they had come one thousand miles to assist their afflicted brethren by bringing them clothing, etc., and to aid them in returning to their homes and maintaining them, and denied the infamous reports circulated to arouse the anger of the people against the exiled saints. This speech was so simple, so pathetic, and yet so forcible that the strangers were melted by its spirit, so that they wept at the story of the persecutions of God's people. At the close of the speech they arose, and gave their hands to the youthful speaker; promising to use all their influence to allay the excitement and correct the false impressions that had gone out respecting the object of the expedition--a promise they faithfully kept. It is said of the Prophet Joseph that if he could but once get the attention even of his most bitter enemies his native eloquence, inspired by the truth and the pathos of his people's sufferings, usually overwhelmed them; and in no instance was his triumph more marked than in the one just related. The day after the visit of Colonel Sconce, Cornelius Gillium, the sheriff of Clay County, came into camp and desired a consultation. The company was marched into a grove adjacent and formed a large circle with Gillium in the center. "I have heard that Joseph Smith is in the camp, and if so, I should like to see him," commenced Gillium. "I am the man," replied Joseph, as he rose to his feet. This was the first time Joseph was made known to strangers since leaving Kirtland, as he had gone by a fictitious name through the whole journey. Gillium then proceeded to describe the character and disposition of the Missourians, and the course that ought to be pursued to secure their favor and protection; and concluded by requesting to know what the intentions of the company were. This brought out the statements we now give, which were published in the _Missouri Enquirer_ of the first of July, 1834. GILLIUM'S COMMUNICATION. Being a citizen of Clay County, and knowing there is considerable excitement amongst the people thereof, and also knowing that different reports are arriving almost hourly; and being requested of the Hon. J. F. Ryland to meet the "Mormons" under arms, and obtain from the leaders thereof the correctness of the various reports in circulation, the true intent and meaning of their present movements, and their views generally regarding the difficulties existing between them and Jackson County,--I did in company with other gentlemen, call upon the said leaders of the "Mormons," at their camp in Clay County; and now give to the people of Clay County their written statement, containing the substance of what passed between us. (Signed) CORNELIUS GILLIUM. PROPOSITION, ETC., OF THE MORMONS. Being called upon by the above named gentleman, at our camp in Clay County, to ascertain from the leaders of our men, our intentions, views, and designs, in approaching this county in the manner we have, we therefore the more cheerfully comply with their request, because we are called upon by gentlemen of good feelings, and who are disposed for peace and an amicable adjustment of the difficulties existing between us and the people of Jackson County. The reports of our intentions are various, and have gone abroad in a light calculated to arouse the feelings of almost every man. For instance, one report is, that we intend to demolish the printing office in Liberty; another report is, that we intend crossing the Missouri River on Sunday next, and falling upon women and children, and slaying them; another is, that our men were employed to perform this expedition, being taken from manufacturing establishments in the east, that had closed business; also that we carried a flag, bearing "peace" on one side, and "war or blood" on the other, and various others too numerous to mention, all of which a plain declaration of our intentions, from under our own hands, will show are not correct. In the first place it is not our intention to commit hostilities against any man, or set of men; it is not our intention to injure any man's person or property, except in defending ourselves. Our flag has been exhibited to the above gentlemen, who will be able to describe it. Our men were not taken from any manufacturing establishment. It is our intention to go back upon our lands in Jackson County by order of the executive of the State, if possible. We have brought our arms with us for the purpose of self-defense, as it is well known to almost every man of the State, that we have every reason to put ourselves in an attitude of defense, considering the abuse we have suffered in Jackson County. We are anxious for a settlement of the difficulties existing between us, upon honorable and constitutional principles. We are willing for twelve disinterested men, six to be chosen by each party, and these shall say what the possessions of these men are worth who cannot live with us in the county; and they shall have their money in one year; and none of the "Mormons" shall enter that county to reside until the money is paid. The damages that we have sustained in consequence of being driven away, shall also be left to the above twelve men, or they may all live in the county, if they choose, and we will never molest them if they let us alone, and permit us to enjoy our rights. We want to live in peace with all men; and equal rights is all we ask. We wish to become permanent citizens of this State, and wish to bear our proportion in support of the government, and to be protected by its laws. If the above propositions are complied with, we are willing to give security on our part, and we shall want the same of the people of Jackson County, for the performance of this agreement. We do not wish to settle down in a body, except where we can purchase the land with money; for to take possession by conquest or the shedding of blood, is entirely foreign to our feelings. The shedding of blood we shall not be guilty of, until all just and honorable means among men prove insufficient to restore peace. (Signed) JOSEPH SMITH, JUN., F. G. WILLIAMS, LYMAN WIGHT, RODGER ORTON, ORSON HYDE, JOHN S. CARTER. To John Lincoln, John Scone, George R. Morehead, Jas. H. Long, Jas. Collins. After the departure of Gillium a revelation was given.[A] The Lord in this revelation declared that Zion might have been redeemed by that time, had it not been for the transgressions of his saints. They had not been obedient to the requirements made of them. They had withheld their means, and in their hearts had said: "Where is their God? Behold he will deliver them in time of trouble, otherwise we will not go up unto Zion, and we will keep our monies." [Footnote A: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 105.] Besides these evidences of a lack of faith, they were wanting in that unity required by the law of the celestial kingdom, and it is only through the observance of that law that Zion can be redeemed. The Lord, therefore, commanded the elders to wait a season for the redemption of Zion, until the saints should obtain more experience, learn obedience, and until means could be raised to purchase all the lands in Jackson County that could be purchased, and also in the surrounding counties; and until the Lord's army had become very great, and sanctified before him. And when this was done the Lord promised to hold his people guiltless in taking possession of that which was their own; and they should possess it forever. He had permitted the elders composing the camp to come thus far, for a trial of their faith; and now he had prepared a great endowment for them in the house which he had commanded to be built in Kirtland. Those who could stay in Missouri were to do so, but those who had left their families in the east, were at liberty to return. The saints who had been driven from their lands in Jackson were instructed to carefully gather together in one region as much as could be, without exciting the fears of the people. They were to be very faithful and humble; boasting neither of faith nor judgments. By following this counsel, the Lord promised to give them favor in the eyes of the people, that they might rest in peace while they were saying to the people: "Execute judgment and justice for us according to the law, and redress us of our wrongs." CHAPTER XXIII. THE THREATENED JUDGMENT--IF--! The day following this revelation the camp left Fishing River and approached Liberty, Clay County; but when within five or six miles of that place they were met by General Atchison and others who requested them not to go to Liberty, as the people were very greatly enraged at them. As this request was made by men of influence, and those who desired peace, and who felt an interest in the execution of justice, Joseph consented not to go to Liberty; and turning aside, camped on Rush Creek, near the residence of Sydney Gilbert, and in a Brother Burghart's field. The day before, three of the brethren had suffered some with the cholera but it was not until the camp came to Rush Creek that the disease broke out among them in its fury. The night of the twenty-fourth of June will long be remembered by the members of Zion's Camp. All night long they heard the moans and piteous cries of the sufferers, and loud lamentations of those who lost their loved ones by the ravages of this dreadful disease. When it first made its appearance Elder John S. Carter attempted to rebuke it, but he became its first victim. Joseph also undertook to stay its ravages by the laying on of hands. He administered to his brother Hyrum. "The moment I attempted to rebuke the disease, that moment I was attacked," he writes; "and had I not desisted, I must have saved the life of my brother by the sacrifice of my own, for when I rebuked the disease, it left him and seized upon me. I quickly learned by painful experience that when the great Jehovah decrees destruction upon any people, and makes known his determination, man must not attempt to stay his hand." The brethren unitedly covenanted and prayed, hoping that they might have power with the heavens to stay the ravages of the plague; but to no purpose; for while they were engaged in prayer Elder Wilcox died. The deaths occurred so rapidly that coffins could not be prepared, so the dead were rolled up in blankets and put hurriedly into their graves; and while part of the brethren were engaged in digging the graves, others had to stand guard, musket in hand. After the plague had continued for two or three days, an effectual remedy was found for it by dipping those afflicted in cold water, or pouring it upon them. In all about seventy suffered from the cholera, and out of that number thirteen died. The camp was dispersed early on the morning of the 25th, and Joseph sent by express to Messrs. Thornton, Doniphan, and Atchison, the following note: _Gentlemen:_--Our company of men advanced yesterday from their encampment beyond Fishing River to Rush Creek, where their tents are again pitched. But feeling disposed to adopt every specific measure that can be done without jeopardizing our lives, to quiet the prejudices and fears of some part of the citizens of this county, we have concluded that our company shall be immediately dispersed and continue so till every effort for an adjustment of differences between us and the people of Jackson has been made on our part, that would in anywise be required of us by disinterested men of republican principles. I am respectfully, Your obedient servant, JOSEPH SMITH, JR. Thus Zion's Camp was disbanded. Had Governor Dunklin possessed the courage to enforce the law of the State; had he called out the militia of Missouri to reinstate the exiles in their homes, as at one time he expressed a willingness to do, the history of the camp might have been different. But Governor Dunklin lacked that courage, and without that assistance the camp itself was powerless. Perhaps another view is also admissible. Had the members of Zion's Camp been more faithful--less contentious--more united; and had the saints in the eastern branches had more faith--faith to send up to Zion more men and more money with which to strengthen the hands of the saints on the land of Zion--the history of Zion's Camp might have been different. But thus it is: what men and great movements might attain to is often defeated, sometimes by the actions of enemies, sometimes by the lack of devotion and faith and energy on the part of those into whose hands great enterprises are committed. While God's general purposes will never ultimately be defeated by man, still upon each side of the general purposes of God a margin somewhat wide seems to have been left in which those both for and against those purposes may write what history they please--one that will meet with the approval of God, or one that will meet only with condemnation--herein is the agency of man. But in the exercise of that agency God's purposes will not be thwarted, for man's agency will not extend so far as that--if it did it would interfere with God's agency and decrees. Joseph Smith and his brethren, on hearing that the governor of Missouri was afraid to execute the laws by returning the exiled saints to their homes, again covenanted that they would never cease their exertions until Zion was redeemed, and truth, justice and law should triumph over falsehood, injustice, and mobocracy,--a covenant which they called upon the God of their fathers to witness, and which they engaged to fulfill either in this life or the life to come. But standing above all human resolutions, as the heavens stand above the earth, is Jehovah's own decree that he will execute justice and judgment, and that he will not give to wickedness a lasting victory. Zion will be redeemed. God has decreed it. "Behold, I say unto you, the redemption of Zion must needs come by power; therefore, I will raise up unto my people a man, who shall lead them like as Moses led the children of Israel, for ye are the children of Israel, and of the seed of Abraham, and ye must needs be led out of bondage with power, and with a stretched out arm: and as your fathers were led at the first, even so shall the redemption of Zion be." [A] [Footnotes A Doc. & Cov. Sec. 103:15-18.] CHAPTER XXIV. ATTEMPT AT ARBITRATION. Whether it was the fear of popular censure or the approach of Zion's Camp that awed the Jackson County mob into suggesting a peaceable adjustment of their difficulties with the saints, we cannot say. Perhaps both considerations had their weight. At any rate the month of May, 1834, found them suggesting to Governor Dunklin, through some influential gentlemen of Clay County, the propriety of dividing Jackson County so that the old settlers and the saints could occupy separate territory, and confine themselves within their respective limits, with the exception of the public right of ingress and egress upon the highway. This plan of settling the Jackson County trouble was suggested by Colonel J. Thornton, and concurred in by Messrs. Reese, Atchison and Doniphan. Their communication brought out a reply from the governor in which he expressed his pleasure at these gentlemen making an effort to bring about a compromise of the difficulties. He told them that had he not been afraid of embarrassing himself as an officer of the State he should have exerted himself to have brought about a compromise even before then; but he was fearful of traveling out of the strict line of his duty as the chief executive of the State, should he do so. Said he: My first advice would be to the "Mormons" to sell out their lands in Jackson County, and to settle somewhere else, where they could live in peace, provided they could get a fair price for their lands, and reasonable damages for injuries received. If this failed, I would try the citizens, and advise them to meet and rescind their illegal resolves of last summer, and agree to conform to the laws in every particular, in respect to the "Mormons." Should success attend neither of these plans, he would then try the plan of dividing the county as suggested by Colonel Thornton. "If all these failed," said the governor, "then the simple question of legal right would have to settle it. It is this last that I am afraid I shall have to conform my action to in the end." From the whole tenor of this communication, we learn that even the governor understood that the "simple question of _legal right_" would reinstate the saints on the lands from which they had been driven. Here is an extract from the letter which confirms this statement: A more clear and indisputable right does not exist, than that the "Mormon" people who were expelled from their homes in Jackson County, should return and live on their lands; and if they cannot be persuaded as a matter of policy to give up that right, or to qualify it, my course as the chief executive officer of the State is a plain one. * * * The Constitution of the United States declares: "that the citizens of each State shall be entitled to all privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States." Then we cannot interdict any people who have a political franchise in the United States, from emigrating to this State, nor from choosing what part of the State they will settle in, provided they do not trespass on the property or rights of others. * * * And again, our Constitution says, "that all men have a natural and indefeasible right to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of their own conscience." _I am fully persuaded that the eccentricity of the religious opinions and practices of the "Mormons," is at the bottom of the outrages committed against them._ They have the right constitutionally guaranteed to them, and it is indefeasible, to believe and worship JOE SMITH as a man, an angel or even as the only true and living God, and to call their habitation Zion, the Holy Land, or even Heaven itself. Indeed there is nothing so absurd or ridiculous that they have not a right to adopt as their religion so that in its exercise they do not interfere with the rights of others. Surely this is a liberal statement of the rights of the Latter-day Saints, and, indeed, of any other people; for the rights, privileges, and immunities of the saints under the government of the United States are no more than those belonging to other people--certainly they are no less. Still the governor was loath to perform what he admits to be his plain duty in restoring the "Mormons" to their homes. Indeed, he at length refused to do it; fearing that in executing the law, by returning the saints to their homes, he would involve the State in a civil war. He came the easier to this conclusion, doubtless, because the sufferers were an unpopular religious community. But if the execution of law must be abandoned because the violators thereof threaten to resist its execution, or because a reckless mob led by desperate men threaten that if the law is enforced they will plunge the country into civil war--what a burlesque on government it would be to refrain from the execution of law on that account! On the tenth of June, 1834, the district judge, John F. Ryland, wrote a letter to Elder A. S. Gilbert, asking him to use his influence in gathering his brethren at Liberty, in Clay County, on the sixteenth of the month; saying that he expected to meet a delegation of citizens from Jackson County there, and he was desirous of giving his views upon the present situation of the parties concerned in the Jackson troubles, with the hope of bringing about a peaceable adjustment of them. This letter was read in a public meeting of the saints, and a respectful answer given, promising that as many of the exiles and their friends as conveniently could attend the meeting on the sixteenth would be present. Knowing there had been some talk about the propriety of the saints selling out their lands in Jackson County, and fearing the judge would advise them to do so, the brethren took occasion to say in this communication to him that no such proposition could possibly be acceded to by them, and concluded by saying: "Home is home, and we want possession of our homes from which we have been wickedly expelled--and those rights which belong to us as native free born citizens of the United States." About one thousand people were in attendance at the meeting at the courthouse in Liberty on the sixteenth of June; and among them were many of the brethren and a deputation of citizens from Jackson County, who made the following proposition for the settlement of the Jackson difficulties: The people of Jackson County will buy all the land the "Mormons" own in the County of Jackson, and also all the improvements which the "Mormons" had on any of the public lands as they existed before the first disturbance between the people of Jackson and the "Mormons," and for such improvements as they have made since. The valuation of the land and improvements shall be ascertained by three disinterested arbitrators, to be chosen and agreed upon by both parties; should the parties disagree in the choice of arbitrators, then----is to choose them. Twelve Mormons shall be permitted to go with the arbitrators to show them their lands and improvements while they are being valued; and any other "Mormons" may accompany the arbitrators whom they may desire in order to give them information; and the people of Jackson guarantee their entire safety while doing so. When the arbitrators report the value of the land and improvements, the people of Jackson will pay to the "Mormons" the valuation, _with one hundred per cent added thereon,_ within thirty days thereafter; the Mormons are to agree not to make any effort ever after to settle, either collectively or individually, within the limits of Jackson County; and are to enter into bonds to insure the conveyance of their lands in Jackson County, according to these terms, when the payment shall be made, and the committee will enter into a like bond, with such security as shall be sufficient, for the payment of the money according to this proposition. While the arbitrators are investigating and deciding upon the matters referred to them, the "Mormons" are not to attempt to enter into Jackson County, or to settle there, except such as are by these propositions permitted to go there. Or---- The people of Jackson will sell all their lands and improvements on public lands in Jackson County to the "Mormons," the valuation to be obtained in the same manner, the same per cent to be added, and thirty days allowed for payment as in our proposition to buy: the "Mormons" to give good security for the payment of the money, and this delegation will give security that the land will be conveyed to the "Mormons." All parties to remain as they are till the payment is made, at which time the people of Jackson will give possession.[A] [Footnote A: Abridged from Millennial Star, Volume 15, p. 81.] After these propositions were submitted to the meeting, a number of speeches were made in which much bitterness was manifested against the saints. The Rev. M. Riley, a Baptist minister, said: "The 'Mormons' have lived long enough in Clay County; and they must either clear out, or be cleared out." To which the chairman of the meeting, Mr. Turnham, replied: "Let us be republicans, let us honor our country, and not disgrace it like Jackson County. For God's sake don't disfranchise or drive away the 'Mormons.' They are better citizens than many of the old inhabitants." _General Doniphan:_--"That's a fact, and as the 'Mormons' have armed themselves, if they don't fight they are cowards. I love to hear that they have brethren coming to their assistance. Greater love can no man show, than he who lays down his life for his brother." Cries of "adjourn," and "no, no, go on!" were now heard, mingled with curses loud and deep, and the ominous gleaming of knives, and cocking of pistols. To add to the excitement a man by the door yelled out--"A man stabbed!" At this, those in the court room rushed out to learn what had happened. It turned out that a blacksmith by the name of Calbert had stabbed a man by the name of Wales, who had boasted of having whipped many of the "Mormons"--one of whom had nearly lost his life through the injuries received. The meeting broke up without further bloodshed. In the midst of this excitement a few of the brethren retired and addressed a communication to the Jackson County delegation in attendance at the meeting, to the effect that their proposition for a settlement of the Jackson difficulties would be presented to the saints, and an answer to it would be handed to Judge Turnham by the twentieth, sooner if possible. The brethren assured the Jackson delegation that peace was what they desired, and promised to use all their influence to establish it, and disclaimed any design to commence hostilities against the inhabitants of Jackson County; and further pledged themselves to use their influence to prevent the large company of their men (Zion's Camp) then en route for Missouri, going into Jackson County until the citizens of Jackson should receive an authoritative answer to their proposition to "buy or sell." The Jackson delegation, in a very bad humor, started for Independence. One of the leaders, James Campbell, as he adjusted his pistols in his holsters, exclaimed: "The eagles and buzzards shall eat my flesh, if I don't fix Joe Smith and his army [meaning Zion's Camp,] so that their skins won't hold shucks before two days are passed." The Jackson delegation went to Ducker's ferry and started to cross the Missouri, but when about the middle of the river, their boat suddenly went down as if made of lead. There was no storm--the river was calm, and no natural explanation could be given for the sinking of the boat. Joseph declared that the angel of the Lord sank it.[B] Indeed the circumstances are such as to go very far toward strengthening the statement. It is supposed that about twelve men were in the boat, and of this number seven [C] were drowned. Of the number drowned the names of three are all that have been learned--Ike Job,----Everett and James Campbell. The body of Campbell was found by a Mr. Purtle, about three weeks after the occurrence, on a pile of drift-wood, some four or five miles below where the boat sank. But little more than the skeleton of the man remained. His flesh had been eaten by the eagles and buzzards. His fate points a fearful warning to those who raise their hands against God's anointed. It gives us reason to believe that the day is not distant when the command of Jehovah--"Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm"--must be obeyed. [Footnote B: Millennial Star, Volume 15, p. 83.] [Footnote C: Joseph states that seven were drowned, (see History of Joseph Smith, Millennial Star, Volume 15, p. 83); but the History of Clay County, published in St. Louis by the National Historical Society, says that only five were drowned.] The fate of Owens was more ludicrous--a comedy rather than a tragedy. He floated down the stream until he landed on an island, where he remained all night. The next morning he stripped off his clothes and swam ashore and laid down by the side of a log, close to the road. A lady passing on horse-back, learning of his condition, dropped him her shawl to cover his nakedness, until he could secure clothing. CHAPTER XXV. THE PROS AND CONS OF ARBITRATION PROPOSITION. Having related the principal events connected with the meeting held at Liberty, we must consider the propositions made by the Jackson people to the saints, for the peaceful adjustment of their difficulties. To have the lands owned by the saints and the improvements thereon valued by disinterested arbitrators, and the amount paid with _one hundred per cent added_ within thirty days, looks like a very fair proposition; but still the saints could not accept such terms; as the condition upon which the proposition was made required the surrender of some of their rights as citizens of the United States and freemen. The Constitution of the United States says expressly: "The citizens of each State shall be entitled to all privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States." [A] The saints were citizens of the United States, possessing all the rights and franchises thereof, and they had a right--an indefeasible one, too--to settle in whatever State they saw proper to choose for their abode; and they had a right to settle in whatever part of the State pleased them best; and, as Governor Dunklin admitted, they had a right to call their habitation "ZION, the Holy Land, or Heaven itself," so long as in doing so, they interfered not with the property and rights of others. To accept the proposition of the Jackson people, therefore, and bind themselves never again to make any effort to settle collectively or individually within the limits of Jackson County, would be a surrender of their dearest rights of citizenship; and would be permitting mobocrats and murderers to dictate them in the exercise of their liberties; binding not only themselves, but their children as well, to the dictum of these wretches. To accept such a settlement of their troubles, would have been a covenant with death, an agreement with hell! To their honor be it said, they spurned the proposition with the contempt it deserved. [Footnote A: Const. Art. IV, Section 2.] But the surrender of some of their rights as citizens of the United States was not the only difficulty involved in the settlement of the Jackson troubles by the saints selling their possessions. God had revealed it to them that Jackson County was the place where is to be built the Zion of their God. For them to sell their lands then, and agree never after to make a settlement there, collectively or individually, would be a denial of their faith and bring upon them the displeasure of their God. For them to sell their lands was entirely out of the question. But the mob offered not only to buy, but to sell upon the same conditions that they proposed to buy. Why did not the saints accept this offer? Simply because they could not, and the citizens of Jackson knew very well they could not. The old settlers of Jackson owned many times more the amount of land than was possessed by the saints, say thirty acres to one. The saints were not wealthy to begin with; and now, after they had been driven from their homes, robbed of their goods, their cattle driven away, their houses, stables, and stacks of grain burned, they are asked to buy nearly the whole of Jackson County, for which they must pay double price, because they were to add _one hundred per cent_ to the appraised value--in _thirty days!_ I don't believe the people of Jackson County were sincere in making the proposition. They knew the saints could not sell their lands without surrendering many of their rights as free men and citizens of the United States; and without being untrue to their God, by virtually denying their faith in the revelations he had given regarding the building up of Zion in Jackson County. This the old settlers knew the Mormons would not do. They had tried to whip and frighten too many of them into a denial of their religious convictions, to think for one moment that money would be any inducement for them to deny that faith. On the other hand, they determined to put the price of their own land beyond the possibility of the saints purchasing it. The whole scheme was concocted with a view of covering up their outrages against the people of God, under an appearance of fairness. "In the corrupted currents of this world, where Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice," where hypocrisy is often mistaken for piety, and cunning for fairness, the subterfuge may have served its purpose; but when the wretches who would have murdered the saints and plundered them of their goods shall stand before the bar of God where there is "no shuffling," but where the actions of men "lie in their true light," they will find their refuge of deceit will not shield them from the justice of Him who has declared, "vengeance is mine, I will repay!" The saints refused to accept the terms of settlement made by the people of Jackson, but they themselves proposed terms of adjustment, as follows: Twelve disinterested men were to be chosen, six by the exiles, six by the people of Jackson County. These twelve men were to say what the possessions of those men were worth that would not consent to live with the "Mormon" people, and they should receive the money for the same in one year from the time the treaty was made, none of the saints to enter Jackson County to reside until the money was paid. This same company of twelve men was to be empowered to say what the damage was which the "Mormons" sustained in being driven from their homes and in the destruction of their property, the said amount allowed for damages to be deducted from the amount paid for the lands of those who would not consent to live with the saints. The only reply received to this proposition was in a letter from S. C. Owens to Mr. Amos Reese, which plainly said the Jackson people would listen to nothing like the proposition made by the "Mormons;" and here the hopes of settling the Jackson County trouble by arbitration ended. CHAPTER XXVI. AN INTERIM--BLIGHTED HOPES. The work accomplished by the Prophet Joseph was considerable during his stay in Missouri. On the first of July, with a few of the brethren, he crossed the Missouri into Jackson County, "once more," he remarked, "to set my foot on this 'goodly land.'" What contending emotions would be awakened by such a visit! There, just to the west of the courthouse in Independence, three years before, he had assembled with his brethren, and dedicated a site for the temple of the Lord. Now and then they would come to the ruined homes of the brethren; now in vision he might, for a moment, see the future glory of Zion; then he would weep to think of the saints stripped of all their earthly goods, and in the midst of strangers whose bond of friendship was not strong. On the third of July a High Council was organized by the Prophet, in Clay County, of which David Whitmer was made president and W. W. Phelps and John Whitmer, counselors. This council proceeded to discuss a variety of subjects pertaining to the situation of The Church and its members. They made a direct appeal to the people of the United States, and to mankind everywhere, stating their wrongs and imploring their assistance in securing and maintaining their rights. They declared their devotion to the laws of their country, and their faith in God, and the final establishment of Zion in Jackson County, and expressed a desire to be at peace with all mankind.[A] [Footnote A: History of Joseph Smith, Millennial Star, Vol. 15, p. 121.] This High Council investigated some matters arising between the members in The Church, and busied itself in setting in order The Church in Missouri generally. On the twelfth of July the council appointed Edward Partridge, Orson Pratt, Isaac Morley and Zebedee Coltrin to visit the afflicted and scattered brethren in Missouri. They were not to hold public meetings, as that would arouse too much popular prejudice; but they were to work quietly, setting the saints in order and teaching them the way of holiness, as the Lord by his Spirit might direct. Subsequently a few elders were sent out to hold public meetings, "to teach the disciples how to escape the indignation of their enemies, and keep in favor with those who were friendly disposed." On the seventh of August the council sent out about twenty elders to preach the gospel to the world; and thus in these trying circumstances, these faithful men continued to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ. In the meantime, Joseph and a few of his brethren who had accompanied him had arrived in Kirtland, having left the brethren in Missouri on the ninth of July. On his return to Kirtland, the Prophet was charged with aspiring to be "tyrant, pope, king, usurper of men, false prophet, prophesying lies in the name of the Lord, taking consecrated moneys," etc., etc., "a catalogue," said Joseph, "as black as the author of it." But High Council meetings were called, investigations were inaugurated; the accusers were brought face to face with the accused; the character of God's Prophet was vindicated, his accusers were made to hang their heads in shame, and in the most public manner made known their errors so that shortly the Prophet was, as he himself stated it, "swimming in good, clear water with his head out." No sooner had these difficulties been settled than the Prophet again turned his attention to Zion. On the eleventh of August, 1834, he wrote the brethren in Missouri concerning what had befallen him in Kirtland, and also requested that another petition be written such as the High Council would approve, asking the governor of Missouri to call on the President of the United States to furnish a guard to protect the saints in their homes in Jackson County (when they should be restored) from the insults and violence of the mob. Copies of this petition were to be placed in the hands of the elders going on missions through the United States, and every effort was to be made to get signers; "that peradventure," wrote Joseph, "we may learn whether we have friends or not in these United States." Lyman Wight was instructed to enter complaints to Governor Dunklin as often as he should receive insults or injuries; and should mobs take life or burn houses, and the people of Clay County refuse to protect the saints, he was to collect the little army of brethren scattered through Clay County, be sent over into Jackson County--it will be remembered that the governor had expressed his willingness to escort the saints back to their lands by aid of the State militia, though holding that he had no authority of law to keep a military force under arms for their protection--and do the best he could in maintaining the ground. If the excitement continued to abate, then the saints were to gather quietly together in the regions surrounding, and be in "readiness to move into Jackson County _in two years from the eleventh of September next [1836], which is the appointed time for the redemption of Zion._ IF--verily I say unto you--IF The Church, with one united effort, perform their duties--if they do this, the work shall be complete." [B] If, on the other hand, The Church failed to gather up the young men and means to redeem Zion by the appointed time, "behold," said the Prophet, "there remaineth a scourge for The Church, even that they shall be driven from city to city, and but few shall remain to receive an inheritance," [C] [Footnote B: History of Joseph, Millennial Star, Vol. 15, p. 140.] [Footnote C: Ibid.] During the two years following, the Prophet was busily engaged in setting in order the various quorums of the priesthood. In the winter of 1834-5 the quorum of Twelve Apostles and the first quorum of Seventies were organized, being chosen principally from among those brethren who had gone up to Missouri in Zion's Camp. But amid the busy scenes at Kirtland--while organizing these quorums and instructing them in the duties of their respective callings; attending the school for the elders; studying Hebrew under Professor Sexias; translating some rolls of Egyptian papyrus containing the precious Book of Abraham, which he purchased from M. H. Chandler; attending to general duties and correspondence--amid all these busy scenes, Joseph still had time to think of Zion and her redemption. On the occasion of a large body of the priesthood being present at a meeting in Kirtland, on the second of May, 1835, he moved that they never give up the struggle for the redemption of Zion, so long as life should last. September following, the High Council met at the house of the Prophet to take into consideration the redemption of Zion. It was the decision of the council that the saints who had been expelled from Zion, petition the governor of the State to reinstate them the following spring, and they would either live or die on their lands, and Joseph prayed that they might be successful in getting eight hundred or a thousand emigrants to go up to settle in Zion. Still later, viz: thirteenth of March, 1836, the First Presidency resolved to remove on or before the fifteenth of May next to Zion; that their influence might be more effectual in encouraging the saints to gather there. But events of a strange character were to occur that would prevent the carrying out of these resolutions. The saints did not comply with the conditions upon which Zion was to be redeemed. They did not with a united effort do their duty. They did not give of their means liberally, nor did their young men volunteer readily to go up to Zion. Hence, they were not entitled to the fulfillment of God's promise to redeem Zion; but instead of this blessing, there was suspended over them the promised scourge of being driven from city to city, because they failed to keep the commandments; a scourge that has been executed to the uttermost--but I will not anticipate the story. The petitions the elders circulated throughout the States in their travels, asking the people to petition the governor of Missouri to reinstate the saints in their homes, met with a response that was considerable. I cannot learn how many names were attached to this petition, but when it was mailed on the ninth of December, 1835, the package was large, the postage amounting to five dollars. But all these efforts failed to move the State officials of Missouri to make any effectual effort towards restoring the exiles to their own and protecting them in the quiet possession of their property and lives. CHAPTER XXVII. PEACEFUL EXODUS FROM CLAY COUNTY. Meantime the presence of the saints in Clay County began to be a cause of uneasiness among the non-"Mormons" of the community. The leading citizens of the county assembled at the courthouse in Liberty on the twenty-ninth of June, 1836, to consider the difficulties threatening the people of Clay County in consequence of the presence of the "Mormons." After the usual organization at such meetings, the committee on resolutions reported a document that briefly stated the circumstances under which the "Mormons" flocked into Clay County; without money; without property; without food for their wives and children; and, like Noah's dove, without a resting place for their feet; and how the people of Clay County in face of the thousand reports accusing them of every crime known to the laws of the country, had treated them with toleration, and often with peculiar kindness. The document referred to the statements of the leading brethren who had said they did not regard Clay County as their permanent home, but merely as a temporary asylum which they would promptly leave whenever a respectable portion of the citizens of the county should request it; and now the best interest of the county demanded the fulfillment of that pledge. The reasons why the saints had become objectionable as permanent citizens to many of the people of Clay County were stated to be: 1. Their religious tenets were so different from the present churches of the age, that this always had and always would excite deep prejudice against them in any populous country where they might locate. 2. They were eastern men whose manners, habits, customs, and even dialect were essentially different from the Missourians. 3. They were _non_-slave holders, and opposed to slavery, which excited deep and abiding prejudices in a community which tolerated and protected slavery. 4. Common report had it that they kept up a constant communication with the Indian tribes on the frontier; and declared from the pulpit that the Indians were a part of God's chosen people, destined by heaven to inherit with them the land of Missouri. "We do not vouch for the correctness of these statements," said the committee in their report, "but whether they are true or false, their effect has been the same in exciting our community." The causes named are represented as having raised a prejudice against the saints, and a feeling of hostility, that the first spark might, and the committee deeply feared would, ignite into all the horrors and desolations of a civil war, and it was Resolved: That it is the fixed and settled conviction of this meeting, that unless the people commonly called Mormons, will agree to stop immediately the immigration of their people to this country, and take measures to remove themselves from it, a civil war is inevitable. We do not contend that we have the least right under the constitution and laws of the country to expel them by force. But we would indeed be blind, if we did not foresee that the first blow that is struck at this moment of deep excitement, must and will speedily involve every individual in a war, bearing ruin, woe, and desolation in its course. It matters but little how, where, or by whom the war may begin, when the work of destruction commences, we must all be borne onward by the storm, or crushed beneath its fury. The saints were told that if they had one spark of gratitude they would not willingly plunge a people into civil war who had held out to them the friendly hand of assistance in the dark hour of their distress. A committee of ten were appointed to present these views to the leading elders among the "Mormons" with the understanding that if the saints would consent to move as requested, the gentlemen who had called the meeting, and now asked them to leave Clay County, would use all their influence to allay the excitement among the citizens of the county. The reply of the Saints to the request to remove from Clay County was adopted at a general mass meeting. In their reply they expressed their appreciation of the kindness shown them by the people of Clay County. They denied having any disposition to meddle with slavery. They also denied holding communication with the Indians, and said they held themselves as ready to defend their country against their barbarous ravages as any other people. After making these denials they resolved that For the sake of friendship, and to be in a covenant of peace with the citizens of Clay County, and they to be in a covenant of peace with us, notwithstanding the necessary loss of property, and expense we incur in moving, we comply with the requisitions of their resolutions in leaving the county of Clay, as explained by the preamble accompanying the same; and that we will use our exertions to have The Church do the same. It appears that the committee who had presented the resolutions of the Clay County citizens, had tendered their services to assist the saints in selecting a new location, and the latter resolved to accept that assistance. The reply from the saints was perfectly satisfactory to the people of Clay County, and the latter made some arrangements to assist the former in complying with their request; that is, two persons from each township were appointed to raise money by subscription to aid the "Mormons" who might need assistance to leave the county, and also arrange for some suitable person to assist them in selecting a new location for settlement; and recommended the "Mormons" to the good treatment of the citizens in surrounding counties; and asked them to assist the exiles in selecting some abiding place, where they would be, in a measure, the only occupants of the land; and where none would be anxious to molest them. On the twenty-fifth of July, 1834, the brethren received a letter from Governor Dunklin that was the funeral knell to their hopes of executive interference in their behalf. He informed them their cases were individual cases, and as such, were subjects for judicial interference, and not for the special cognizance of the executive, and to this the governor added:-- And there are cases, some times, of individual outrage which may be so popular as to render the actions of the courts of justice nugatory, in endeavoring to afford a remedy. * * * * * A public sentiment may become paramount law, and when one man, or society of men become so obnoxious to that sentiment, as to determine the people to be rid of him or them, it is useless to run counter to it. * * * Your neighbors accuse your people of holding illicit communication with the Indians, and of being opposed to slavery. You deny. Whether the charge or the denial is true I cannot tell. The _fact_ exists, and your neighbors seem to believe it true; and whether true or false, the consequences will be the same, unless you can, by your conduct and arguments, convince them of your innocence. If you cannot do this, all _I_ can _say_ to you is, that in _this republic_ the _vox populi_ is the _vox Dei._ What a mockery then is such government! Under it none may hope to enjoy liberty but those who are willing to swim in the stream of popular sentiment--a stream oftener filthy than clean! oftener wrong than right!--influenced by passion rather than reason! How precarious is the hold of the inhabitants of such a government upon their liberties--depending upon the changing whims of the populace--the populace, which "to-day will weep a Caesar slain; to-morrow vote a monument to Brutus!" Under such a government what is to become of reformers? Perhaps the fate of reformers of other ages, who have fallen victims to the hatred of popular sentiment will answer the question. What is to become of the weaker parties if all are to be crushed or banished that popular sentiment condemns? For what are governments established if not to protect _all,_ the weak as well as the strong, the despised as well as the favored in the enjoyment of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? What do constitutions amount to if they are not recognized as conservators of liberty, by acting as restraints upon these rash acts of injustice, so frequently prompted by the frenzy of popular sentiment--a sentiment often manufactured by a misrepresentation of the principles and motives of those against whom the injustice is levelled? In popular governments constitutions are adopted for the express purpose of restraining the majority in the exercise of its power, and to guarantee the enjoyment of rights and liberties to the minority--to those out of favor with the popular sentiment of the hour. The tyranny of a majority is known and feared, and hence it is restrained by constitutional provisions, which thus become the bulwarks of freedom, by especially guarding the weak against the strong. It may be held that in popular governments the constitutions and laws enacted in accordance therewith are but the expressions of popular sentiment. Grant it. But the popular sentiment as expressed in constitutions and laws, is very different from that expressed by an excited populace, not unfrequently controlled by demagogues. Popular sentiment is often created by intemperate speeches, and sustained by misrepresentation. But the popular sentiment as expressed by laws and constitutions is adopted in legislative halls where _right reason_ has a chance to assist in forming the sentiment; and where a decent respect for the long established maxims of justice and liberty will be taken into consideration, and will influence the legislature in forming the rules for the action of the people. When popular sentiment is expressed in constitutions and laws, and they are enforced, the citizens are, in a measure at least, secure from oppression and sudden destruction; but what guarantee have the people against injustice being done, if an inconsiderate, frenzied, popular sentiment is to be enforced--a sentiment that falsehood creates and that passion directs? None whatever. And when the citizens of the American Republic regard the prejudiced and excited voice of the populace as the voice of God--as Governor Dunklin of Missouri did--let them bid an everlasting farewell to freedom! CHAPTER XXVIII. FAR WEST. At the time the saints were requested to leave their homes in Clay County, the whole northern part of Missouri was very sparsely settled; and but few counties were organized. As it was desirable on the part of the saints to obtain a location where they would be the principal settlers and occupants of the lands, where they would be free from injustice and violence of mobs, where they might quietly gather together and be taught to observe the principles of truth in the Gospel of Christ, that they might be prepared in all things for the redemption of Zion--upper Missouri, with its boundless prairies, wooded streams, and sparse population, seemed admirably adapted for their home until Zion could be redeemed. W. W. Phelps and others had traveled through it, and had described it to the saints some two years before. It was recommended to the attention of the brethren by their influential friends in Clay County, and so the month of October, 1836, found a number of them settling on Shoal Creek. They soon petitioned for an enactment organizing a new county, which was granted. The new county was organized on the 26th of December, 1836, and was named Caldwell, with the county seat at Far West. The town plat of Far West as first laid off embraced a square mile, but afterwards additions were made as the population increased. In the center of the town a large public square was laid off, approached by four main roads running east and west, north and south, each a hundred feet wide. Eventually the blocks were so laid off that each block contained four acres, divided into four lots. Far West was located in the western part of Caldwell County, about eight miles west of the present county seat--Kingston. The town site is the highest swell in that high rolling prairie country, and is visible from a long distance. Standing on what used to be the public square of Far West, on the occasion of my visit there in 1884, I obtained an excellent view of all the surrounding country. Vast fields of waving corn and meadow land were stretched out on all sides, as far as the eye could see. Several towns and villages, with their white church spires gleaming in the sun-light, were in plain view, though from five to ten miles distant. Away to the east is Kingston, the present county seat of Caldwell; further to the northeast is Breckenridge, Hamilton and Kidder; to the west is Plattsburg, and south is the quaint village of Polo. All these places are within easy vision from the site of Far West, and increase the grandeur of the scene. The site chosen for Far West is the finest location for a city in the county, but notwithstanding all the advantages of the location, Far West has been abandoned. In the fall of 1838 it was a thriving town of some three thousand inhabitants, but today nothing remains except the house of the Prophet Joseph, now owned by D. F. Kerr,[A] and one portion of the Whitmer Hotel, now used as a stable. This is all that remains of the buildings, at Far West, erected by the hands of the saints. A few farm houses have been built in the vicinity since their expulsion from Missouri, and a quarter of a mile from the public square stands a neat white Methodist church. [Footnote A: At least it was owned by him in 1884.] Nothing but an excavation one hundred and ten feet by eighty, enclosed in an old field, with a large rough, unhewn stone in each corner, now marks the spot that was once the pretentious public square of Far West. This excavation was made on the 3rd of July, 1837, and was intended for the basement of the temple the saints expected to erect there. There are several very interesting circumstances connected with this old excavation and the rough corner stones, that will be related as the circumstances of which I am writing, shall bring them due. Standing on this consecrated ground and viewing the few relics that are left to remind us that the saints once lived here, one naturally falls into a sad reverie. It is true we are not surrounded by the fallen columns of ruined temples; or the ruins of splendid palaces, or massive walls, such as one would meet with at Babylon, Jerusalem, Rome or Athens. It is not the ruins of an antique or celebrated civilization that inspires one's sadness over Far West. But there one sits in the midst of the ruined prospects and blighted hopes of the saints of God, instead of in the midst of broken columns, ponderous arches, and crumbling walls. The chief interest about Far West, of course, is the fact that it was the theatre where was enacted those stirring scenes which add another black page to the history of Missouri. "If that strange people," says Crosby Jackson in his history of Caldwell County, "who built Nauvoo and Salt Lake, who uncomplainingly toiled across the American desert, and made the wilderness of Utah to bloom like a garden, had been permitted to remain and perfect the work which they had begun here, how different would have been the history of Far West! Instead of being a farm with scarcely sufficient ruins to mark the spot where once it stood, there would have been a rich, populous city, along the streets of which would be pouring the wealth of the world; and instead of an old dilapidated farmhouse, there would have been magnificent temples to which the devout saints from the further corners of the world would have made their yearly pilgrimage. But the bigotry and intolerance of the saints towards the gentiles, and especially toward dissenters from the new revelations of Joe Smith, rendered such a consummation impossible!" It now becomes my duty to relate those circumstances which prevented the saints from building up Far West, and which at last drove them as exiles from the State of Missouri; and we shall, in the course of our narrative, see whether it was the "bigotry and intolerance of the saints towards the gentiles and dissenters," that brought about the fate of Far West, or whether it was the brutal savagery of pretended "Christians" incited to deeds of cruelty by jealous sectarian ministers, and unscrupulous demagogues fearful of the growing political power of the "Mormons." The first settlement in the vicinity of Far West was made in October, 1836; by July following, about one hundred buildings had been erected, eight of which were stores. This same month the school section of land was sold at auction, and although entirely a prairie it sold, on a year's credit, for seven dollars and ninety cents per acre, making the settlers' school fund about five thousand dollars. Some non-members of The Church expressed a desire to establish saloons in the growing town, and endeavored to induce some of the brethren to sell intoxicants on commission for them, but the High Council resolved not to sustain any persons as members of The Church, who would become retailers of spirituous liquors, and the liquor business was dropped. In September, 1837, The Church at Kirtland appointed Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon to seek out new places for the gathering of the saints and lay off other stakes of Zion, than those of Far West and Kirtland. On this mission Joseph and Sidney arrived at Far West in the latter part of October. A council of the Priesthood was called at which it was decided that there was sufficient room in the vicinity of Far West for the gathering of the saints from abroad; and hence it was decided that it was not necessary for the present to select other places. At a general conference convened in October, 1837, the several quorums of the Priesthood were set in order. Men and measures were thoroughly discussed. Difficulties were adjusted and covenants of brotherly love renewed. Twenty-three Elders were started out to preach the gospel. It was voted to enlarge the town plat of Far West so that it would contain four sections--two miles square. The conference also voted not to support any stores or shops selling spirituous liquors, tea, coffee or tobacco. CHAPTER XXIX. THE FALL OF DAVID WHITMER AND OLIVER COWDERY. Thus Far West was founded; and the impediments to her growth as a strictly moral and temperance city removed. And yet, causes were at work that were undermining the spiritual strength of many of the saints, and killing the influence of a number of the elders in high positions. A wave of speculation, especially in lands, swept over the entire country, and the brethren partook largely of this spirit, which proved ruinous to their spiritual life. Among those who were affected by this spirit of wild speculation to their injury were John Whitmer and W. W. Phelps. Shortly afterwards Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer, two of the three witnesses to the truth of the Book of Mormon, were excommunicated. The charges sustained before the High Council against Oliver Cowdery were: 1. Persecuting the brethren by urging on vexatious law suits against them, and thus distressing the innocent. 2. Seeking to destroy the character of Joseph Smith, Jr., by falsely insinuating that he was guilty of adultery. 3. Treating The Church with contempt by not attending meetings. 4. Leaving his calling, to which God had appointed him by revelation, for the sake of filthy lucre, and turning to the practice of law. 5. Disgracing The Church by being connected in the "bogus" business, as common report says.[A] [Footnote A: Upper Missouri was infested with sharps engaged in counterfeiting the currency of the United States, and common rumor connected Oliver Cowdery with them.] 6. Dishonestly retaining notes after they had been paid; and finally forsaking the cause of God and returning to the beggarly elements of the world, and neglecting his high and holy calling, according to his profession. The charges sustained against David Whitmer were: 1. Not observing the word of wisdom. 2. Unchristian-like conduct in neglecting to attend meetings, and in uniting with and possessing the same spirit as the dissenters. 3. Writing letters to the dissenters in Kirtland, unfavorable to the cause and to the character of Joseph Smith, Jr. 4. Neglecting the duties of his calling, and separating himself from The Church. 5. Signing himself president of the Church of Christ in an insulting letter to the High Council, after he had been cut off from the presidency [B] [Footnote B: In reorganizing the quorums of the Priesthood at Far West, in November, 1836, to which we have alluded, David Whitmer was made president of The Church in Missouri, and W. W. Phelps and John Whitmer, counselors; but the whole Church under the leadership of Thomas B. Marsh, Lyman Wight, David Patten, and others, on February 5, 1838, met as a committee of the whole, and preferred serious charges of wickedness against the three presidents, and refused to sustain them in their office. The vote which deposed them was unanimous, but the presidents refused to acknowledge the authority of The Church and continued to sign documents as presidents of The Church. It is this to which the fifth charge against David Whitmer refers.] As before stated, these two men, Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer, were two of the three special witnesses to the Book of Mormon. It was, therefore, a bold move to excommunicate them. Although it may be thought outside the theme I am following in these pages to make such a digression, still I cannot refrain from indulging in the following reflections: Suppose for a moment that the theory of the world relative to the origin of the Book of Mormon be true: that is, that it was the production of Solomon Spaulding or Sidney Rigdon; that Joseph Smith was put forward as a figure-head; and the three witnesses were induced to become parties to the fraud that was to be perpetrated on mankind--if this supposition were true, would Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon, under such circumstances, have dared to withdraw their fellowship from these men? If the Book of Mormon were a huge scheme to deceive mankind, and Cowdery and Whitmer were parties with Smith and Rigdon to the deception, the latter would hardly venture to cast away the former, for fear they might deny their testimony, expose the fraud, and cause the whole Mormon Church fabric to collapse. If the Book of Mormon had been a fraudulent production, Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon would never have dared to break with these two important witnesses, whatever their wickedness might be. But the bold, independent course pursued in excommunicating them, when their conduct warranted the action, supplies good evidence that Joseph Smith knew that the existence of The Church did not depend on the testimony of Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer. The Book of Mormon being true, it would stand independent of these witnesses, and Joseph knew it. But the most gratifying part of it is, these witnesses to the Book of Mormon, though separated from The Church--excommunicated for unrighteousness--never denied their testimony or changed it in the least. But the fact of their having uniformly adhered to their testimony while disconnected with The Church, doubtless adds strength to that testimony, as they stand in the light of disinterested witnesses. Oliver Cowdery, after his excommunication, became a wanderer for a number of years, unsettled and restless, though following the profession of the law. It was impossible for a man who had once tasted the glories of the Celestial Kingdom of God, as Oliver Cowdery had, to be satisfied with the dry husks of the beggarly elements of the world; and hence after some ten years of wandering outside The Church of Christ he at last found his way back to the fold of God, to the house of his father, and begged to be admitted as a humble member of The Church. This was in the early part of November, 1848, before a High Council over which Elder Orson Hyde presided. On that occasion Oliver Cowdery said: "Brethren, for a number of years I have been separated from you. I now desire to come back. I wish to come humbly and be one in your midst. I seek no station, I only wish to be identified with you. I am out of The Church. I am not a member of The Church, but I wish to become a member of it. I wish to come in at the door. I know the door. I have not come here to ask precedence. I come humbly and throw myself upon the decisions of this body, knowing as I do, that its decisions are right and should be obeyed." Soon after this he was re-baptized. He was on his way to join the main body of The Church when he stopped at Kanesville, Iowa, where the above occurred. Before continuing his journey west he resolved to visit his wife's friends, the Whitmers, then living at Richmond, Missouri; and while there he was taken with an illness from which he died, on the 3rd of March, 1850, in his forty-fifth year. According to the testimony of Phineas Young, who was present at his death, "his last moments were spent in bearing testimony of the truth of the gospel revealed through Joseph Smith, and the power of the holy Priesthood which he had received through his administration." David Whitmer never denied his testimony to the truth of the Book of Mormon, through all the years of his separation from The Church, but repeatedly reaffirmed it, especially in the closing years of his life. Three days previous to his death, which occurred on the 25th of January, 1888, he called his family and a number of his friends to his bedside, and turning to his physician, said: "Dr. Buchanan, I want you to say whether or not I am in my right mind, before I give my dying testimony." The doctor answered: "Yes, you are in your right mind, for I have just had a conversation with you." He then addressed himself to all around his bedside in these words: "Now, you must all be faithful in Christ. I want to say to you all, the Bible and the record of the Nephites (Book of Mormon) is true, so that you can say that you heard me bear my testimony on my death-bed. All be faithful in Christ, and your reward will be according to your works. God bless you all. My trust is in Christ forever, worlds without end. Amen." [C] [Footnote C: Richmond Democrat, February 2, 1888.] CHAPTER XXX. THE APOSTASY AT KIRTLAND. The spirit of apostasy referred to in the last chapter was by no means confined to Missouri. It extended more or less throughout The Church, but more especially at Kirtland. During the winter of 1836 and the early summer of 1837, a wild spirit of speculation swept over the United States, and the members of The Church had been carried away with it. Money had been plentiful, easy to borrow, and a spirit of reckless extravagance and speculation had taken hold of the people. When the reaction from this only seeming state of prosperity set in, financial ruin stared the people in the face. As a result of these conditions and the spirit engendered by them, "evil surmisings, fault-finding, disunion, dissension and apostasy followed in quick succession" among the saints in Kirtland. "It seemed," says the Prophet Joseph, in speaking of the conditions existing in the early summer of 1837--"It seemed as though all the powers of earth and hell were combining their influence in an especial manner to overthrow The Church and make a final end." Many of the leading brethren became especially bitter against the Prophet of God, as though he were the sole cause of the evils he was striving against, and which were brought about by the brethren not giving heed to his counsels. "No quorum in The Church," remarks Joseph, "was entirely exempt from the influence of those false spirits who were striving against me for the mastery; even some of the Twelve were so far lost to their high and responsible calling, as to begin taking sides, secretly, with the enemy." [A] [Footnote A: History Joseph Smith, Millennial Star, Vol. 16, p. II] Early in 1837 the Kirtland Safety Society Bank was organized. It was one of the many banks which sprung up all over the United States about that time, and which under the current banking laws issued bank currency; and with hundreds of other similar institutions throughout the land, went down in the financial maelstrom which swept over the country in the latter part of 1837. Among those disaffected at Kirtland there were some who held the Prophet responsible for the failure of the Safety Society Bank. Some charged that they had been given to understand that the bank was instituted by the will of God, and that "it would never fail, let men do what they would." [B] The Prophet disclaimed having made any such statement, or having authorized any one else to make it. On the contrary, he declared in open conference, held at Kirtland on the 3rd of September, 1837, that he had always said "that unless the institution was conducted on righteous principles, it would not stand." [C] [Footnote B: A statement of this character was made by Elder Boynton, one of the Twelve Apostles, at a conference held at Kirtland, September 3, 1837.] [Footnote C: History Joseph Smith, Millennial Star, Vol. 16, p. 56.] But notwithstanding his disclaimers, apostates in Kirtland held him responsible for its failure; and by early January, 1838, the spirit of these men became so bitter that the Prophet Joseph and Sidney Rigdon had to seek safety in flight in the direction of Far West. They fled by night from the city on horseback, but subsequently were joined by their families in wagons and thus made the tedious journey with teams. The weather was cold, and sometimes they were obliged to secrete themselves in their wagons to escape their enemies, who followed them for about two hundred miles from Kirtland. The mobbers frequently crossed their track. Twice they were in the same house with the brethren; and once they stopped at the same house over night, with only a partition wall between them, through which the Prophet and his companion could hear their oaths, threats and imprecations. They even went into the room of the brethren, looked upon them, but concluded they were not the men they were pursuing. Part of the time the Prophet and Sidney traveled together, but for greater security they sometimes traveled alone. At Terre Haute, Indiana, they separated and did not meet again until they arrived at Far West. Joseph reached the latter place on the 14th of March, and Sidney Rigdon on the 4th of April following. The saints at Far West received the Prophet and Elder Rigdon with every demonstration of joy. Indeed, when they heard that Joseph was en route for Missouri, a delegation of brethren with teams and money went to meet him a hundred and twenty miles from Far West, and greatly assisted him in completing a journey with dispatch and safety which had been fraught with so many dangers. CHAPTER XXXI. ADAM-ONDI-AHMAN. Joseph was forever active. His appearance in the midst of the saints was always the signal for increased activity in all phases of the work. A day or two after his arrival at Far West, while walking over the prairie, in company with several of the brethren, in one of those sudden out-bursts of inspiration so frequent and natural with and to him, he gave the following as the POLITICAL MOTTO OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS. The Constitution of our country formed by the Fathers of Liberty: peace and good order in society; love to God, and good will to man. All good and wholesome laws; virtue and truth above all things, and Aristarchy [A] live for ever; but woe to tyrants, mobs, aristocracy, anarchy and toryism, and all those who invent or seek out unrighteous and vexatious law suits, under the pretext and color of law or office, either religious or political. Exalt the standard of Democracy! Down with that of priestcraft, and let all the people say, Amen! That the blood of the fathers may not cry from the ground against us. Sacred is the memory of that blood which bought for us our Liberty. [Footnote A: Aristarchy--a body of good men at the head of government.] That is a motto that will challenge the admiration of all patriots, and is worthy of living in the archives of the great Republic. Conferences, the convening of High Councils, preparing elders to go on missions, making arrangements for settling the ever-increasing numbers of the saints on the new lands of Far West, were the common labors of the day. In May, 1838, Joseph and other leading brethren started on an exploring expedition to the north, for the purpose of finding new districts where more stakes of Zion might be laid off, and the gathering saints find homes. They traveled north until they reached Grand River, a stream sufficient for steamboat navigation in the rainy seasons, but so fluctuating that it is not practically a navigable stream. Time has cut the channel very deep, and left the wood-lined banks in places quite precipitous. After reaching Grand River, Joseph and his party followed up the beautiful stream which lead them a north-westerly course. Having traveled some thirty miles from Far West, they camped on the north side of Grand River, at Tower Hill, a name which the Prophet Joseph gave it, because of finding an old ruined Nephite tower or altar on the hill. Half a mile north of Tower Hill, Joseph and party selected and laid claim to a site for a city in township sixty, ranges twenty-seven and eight, sections twenty-five, thirty-six, thirty-one, and thirty. Some of the saints had been located at the place for several months and called it Spring Hill; but by the mouth of the Lord it was named ADAM-ONDI-AHMAN;[B] because, said he, it is the place where Adam shall come to visit his people, or the Ancient of Days shall sit, as spoken of by Daniel [C] the prophet. [Footnote B: Doc. & Cov. Sec. 116.] [Footnote C: Daniel 8:9-14.] Adam-ondi-Ahman, then, or Diahman, as it was familiarly known to the Missouri saints, is located on the north bank of Grand River. It is situated, in fact, in a great bend of the Grand. The river comes sweeping down from the north-west, and here makes a bold curve and runs in a meandering course to the north-east for some two or three miles, when it as suddenly makes another curve and flows again to the south-east. We have already spoken of Grand River as a stream that has worn a deep channel for itself, and left its banks precipitous; but here at Diahman that is only true of the south bank. The stream, as it rushed from the north-west, struck this height of prairie land containing beds of lime-stone, and not being able to cut its way through, it veered off to the north-east, and left that height of land standing like a palisade that rises very abruptly from the stream to a height of from fifty to seventy-five feet; but the summit of these bluffs is the common level of the high, rolling prairie, extending off in the direction of Far West. The bluffs on the north bank recede some distance from the stream, so that the river bottom at this point widens out to a small valley. The bluffs on the north bank of the river are by no means as steep as those on the south, and are covered with a heavier growth of timber. A ridge or spur runs out from the main line of the bluffs into the river bottom some two or three hundred yards, approaching the stream at the point where the curve is made. The termination of the bluff is quite abrupt, and overlooks a considerable portion of the river bottom. On the brow of the bluff stood the old stone altar which the brethren found there. When it was first discovered, according to those who visited it frequently, it was about sixteen feet long, by nine or ten feet wide, having its greatest extent north and south. The height of the altar as the brethren found it, was some two and a half feet at each end but gradually rising higher to the center, which was between four and five feet high--the whole surface being crowing. Such was the altar at Diahman when the brethren found it. Now, however, it is thrown down and nothing but a mound of crumbling stones mixed with soil, and a few boulders, mark the spot which is doubtless rich in historic events. It was here that the patriarchs, associated with Adam and in his company, assembled at this altar to worship their God. Here their evening prayers ascended to heaven in the smoke of the burning sacrifice, and here angels instructed them in heavenly truths--but more of this anon. North of the ridge on which the ruins of the altar are found, and running parallel with it, is another ridge, separated from the first by a depression or miniature valley, varying in width from fifty to a hundred yards. This small valley, with the larger one through which flows Grand River, is the valley of Adam-ondi-Ahman. Three years previous to the death of Adam, he gathered the patriarchs Seth, Enos, Cainan, Mahalaleel, Jared, Enoch and Methuselah, together with all their righteous posterity, into this valley we have described; and there gave them his last blessing. And even as he blessed them, the heavens were opened, and the Lord appeared, and in the presence of their God, the children of Adam arose and blessed him, and called him Michael, the Prince, the Archangel. The Lord also blessed Adam, saying: "I have set thee to be the head--a multitude of nations shall come of thee, and thou art a Prince over them for ever." So great was the influence of this double blessing upon Adam, that though he was bowed down with age, under the out-pouring of the Holy Ghost he predicted what should befall his posterity, to their latest generations. Thus we find the valley of Diahman a hallowed spot, made so because of these sacred associations. But all the interest concerning Diahman is not associated with the past, it is connected with the future as well. For it is in this same valley that the "Ancient of Days," Adam, will come and meet with his posterity, when thousand thousands shall minister to him, and ten thousand times ten thousand shall stand before him; here is where the books will be opened and the judgment shall sit. Here, too, the Son of Man will appear to this vast multitude, in the clouds of heaven, and coming to the Ancient of Days, shall give to him dominion and glory, and issue a decree that all people, nations and languages shall serve and obey him; and his dominion shall be everlasting, and his kingdom one that shall never be destroyed.[D] [Footnote D: Daniel 7th chapter; see also Doc. & Cov. Sec. 107.] Such were the scenes of the past enacted in the "Valley of Diahman:" such are the splendid scenes to be enacted there in the future! No wonder if Satan has contended with the saints for the possession of this holy ground! Does not the fact of its being chosen as the place where the Kingdom of God shall be established in power no more to be destroyed, explain in part why there was such an effort on the part of the powers of darkness to drive the saints away from it? And, again, do not the very efforts made by Satan to drive away the saints, sustain the words of the prophets that declare this to be holy ground? On the evening of May 21st, 1838, a few days after the arrival of Joseph's exploring party at Diahman, a council of the whole party was called, and it was decided not to go farther north, but counsel the people to settle at Diahman, and secure the land between there and Far West. So rapidly did the saints gather to this place, that about one month from the time it was selected, a stake of Zion was organized there. John Smith, uncle of the Prophet, was chosen president; Reynolds Cahoon and Lyman Wight were selected to be his counselors. A High Council was also organized, and Vinson Knight was chosen acting Bishop _pro tempore_. CHAPTER XXXII. THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1838. The Fourth of July, 1838, is a memorable day in the history of Far West. The saints had long been vexed by their enemies. They had seen their homes destroyed, their helpless women and children driven into the wilderness by cruel mobs, when the exiles could be traced by the blood left in their tracks. They had been robbed of their possessions and maltreated in their persons until they were driven almost to desperation. They took advantage therefore of Independence Day to declare their intentions no more to quietly submit to the outrages perpetrated against them. Joseph Smith was president of the day; and his brother Hyrum, vice-president; Sidney Rigdon, orator; and Reynolds Cahoon, chief marshal. They marched in procession through the town and at last formed a circle around a large excavation--one hundred feet long by eighty wide--in the public square; and there, with appropriate ceremonies, they laid the corner stones of the House of the Lord at Far West. This was followed by speeches, music, prayers, reading the Declaration of Independence, etc. Sidney Rigdon, orator of the day, stirred with indignation in contemplating the sufferings the saints had endured, allowed his eloquence to carry him beyond the limits of calm wisdom, and many of the words spoken by him on that occasion, though corrected by the Prophet Joseph, were later made use of by the enemies of The Church, to the injury of the saints. As an example of Elder Rigdon's unwise and intemperate language on the occasion referred to, I quote the following paragraph from his speech: Our cheeks have been given to the smiters--our heads to those who have plucked off the hair. We have not only when smitten on one cheek turned the other, but we have done it again and again, until we are wearied of being smitten, and tired of being trampled upon. We have proved the world with kindness, we have suffered their abuse, without cause, with patience and have endured without resentment until this day, and still their persecutions and violence do not cease. But from this day and this hour we will suffer it no more. We take God and all the holy angels to witness, this day, that we warn all men, in the name of Jesus Christ to come on us no more for ever, for from this hour we will bear it no more, our rights shall not be trampled upon with impunity; the man, or the set of men who attempt it, do it at the expense of their lives. And that mob that comes on us to disturb us, it shall be between us and them a war of extermination; for we will follow them until the last drop of their blood is spilled, or else they will have to exterminate us, for we will carry the seat of war to their own houses and their own families, and one party or the other shall be utterly destroyed. Remember it then, all men. We will never be the aggressors, we will infringe on the rights of no people, but shall stand for our own until death. We claim our own rights and are willing that all others shall enjoy theirs. No man shall be at liberty to come into our streets, to threaten us with mobs, for if he does he shall atone for it before he leaves the place, neither shall he be at liberty to vilify and slander any of us, for suffer it we will not, in this place. We therefore take all men to record this day, that we proclaim our liberty this day, as did our fathers, and we pledge this day to one another our fortunes, our lives, and our sacred honors, to be delivered from the persecutions, which we have had to endure for the last nine years or nearly that time. Neither will we indulge any man, or set of men, in instituting vexatious law suits against us, to cheat us out of our rights; if they attempt it we say woe unto them. We this day, then, proclaim ourselves free with a purpose and determination that never can be broken, no, never! No, never!! No, never!!!--COLLECTION OF FACTS.--_Rigdon in Missouri, by J. M. Grant, p._ 11. CHAPTER XXXIII. KIRTLAND CAMP. It may not be inappropriate here to break the direct line of my narrative, for the purpose of noticing events that are but indirectly connected with the Missouri persecutions; and yet are peculiarly characteristic of "Mormon" movements. The seventies that were in Kirtland in the spring of 1838, met in the House of the Lord there, and discussed the best method of removing the quorum to Missouri. It was manifest both by vision and by prophecy, that they should go up in a camp, pitching their tents by the way; and the liberty of going with the camp was to be extended to those that were not seventies, on the condition that they would comply with the rules of the camp. A commission of seven, all seventies, was appointed to lead the camp; and there were also appointed a chief engineer, a historian, and a general treasurer. The camp was divided in companies of ten, with a captain over each company. The rules governing "Kirtland Camp," as it is called in Church history, were few, and smack of a primitive simplicity: 1. The engineer shall receive advice from the counselors (the commission of seven) concerning his duties. 2. At four o'clock a. m., the horn shall blow for rising, and at twenty minutes past four for prayers, at which time each captain of ten shall see that the inmates of his tent are ready for worship. 3. The head of each division shall keep a roll of all his able-bodied men to stand guard, in turn, as called for by the engineer; one half in the former, the other half in the latter part of the night. 4. Each company of the camp is entitled to an equal portion of the milk whether it owns the cows or not. 5. Appointed a herdsman for the camp, who was to call for the assistance necessary to care of the stock. 6. Provided the camp should not travel more than fifteen miles a day, unless absolutely necessary. A company of two hundred and forty-nine males, and two hundred and sixty-six females, a total of five hundred and fifteen souls, with twenty-seven tents, ninety-seven horses, twenty-two oxen, sixty-nine cows, camped about a quarter of a mile south of the Lord's House in Kirtland, on the fifth of July, 1838; and the next day started for Missouri. The journey was long and tedious; many difficulties were encountered and numerous obstacles overcome. A spirit of murmuring was frequently manifested, much sickness was in the camp, and because of their disobedience, evil spirits plagued them by getting possession of their bodies. At times they would camp by the way-side to rest their jaded teams, when the brethren would generally get a small contract of work to do; such as harvesting a field of grain, building fences or making road. In this way they spent the summer in journeying to Missouri, where they arrived late in autumn. A company of saints organized in a similar manner, in Canada, under the leadership of John E. Page, in their journey to Missouri met with the camp from Kirtland, on Sunday the 12th of August, and John E. Page preached to the Kirtland Camp. As they passed through the country they received varied treatment at the hands of the people. At times they were allowed to pass on in peace, and then threatened with violence; and at times actually assaulted. Their toils and sufferings, their faithfulness and rebellions, their rejoicings and sorrows, their preaching the word in the wilderness, their hunger, fatigue, sickness, deaths, and the final arrival of the travel-worn remnants of the camp in Far West and Diahman would, if related in detail, make a long interesting chapter, but we have not space to say more here. CHAPTER XXXIV. GALLATIN. The sparsely settled counties of upper Missouri, as well as the newly organized county of Caldwell, seemed to promise an asylum where the exiles from Jackson and Clay Counties, and the gathering saints from the East, could find peace and rest. But the illusion was soon to be dispelled, the hope blighted. They were to receive another testimony that the Church of Christ was still militant, and not triumphant; and that the true disciple of Christ must endure patiently the fortunes of that warfare. Renewed hostilities with the Missourians began in this way: On the 6th of August, 1838, an election was held at Gallatin, in Daviess County; and the old settlers under the leadership of H. P. Peniston, made a determined effort to prevent the "Mormons" from voting. Some of the bullies among the Missourians persistently insulted the brethren, which was endured patiently for a time; but when at last a drunken rough--one Dick Welding--attempted to strike a brother by the name of Samuel Brown, Perry Durphy caught his arm, and this was made an excuse by the Missourians to begin a general assault. The Missourians, although outnumbering the brethren, found themselves overmatched and beat a hasty retreat to get arms. Among those who fought hardest for his rights as an American citizen, and in the defense of his brethren, was John L. Butler; and as soon as they left, Butler called the brethren together and said: "We are American citizens; our fathers fought for their liberty, and we will maintain the same principles." Here he was interrupted by the county officials who told the brethren that the whole disturbance was a premeditated thing, to prevent them from voting, and requested them to withdraw, as they feared it might end in bloodshed. By this time the Missourians began to collect, armed to the teeth and greatly reinforced; and as the brethren were unarmed, they retired to their homes, collected their families and concealed them in the hazel thickets. The rain fell in torrents through the night; the women and children were lying on the ground, while the men guarded them. Judge Morin, of Daviess County, some two weeks before the time of election, had told Levi Stewart and others that there was a movement on foot then to prevent the "Mormons" from voting; and advised them if they went to the election at Gallatin to go armed, prepared to assert their rights. The brethren, however, had not heeded the friendly warning, and went to the polls unarmed, with the result above stated. The report of the trouble at Gallatin which reached Far West was very much exaggerated. It stated that three of the brethren had been killed, and were refused burial, and that the people of Daviess County were arming to drive the saints from their homes in Diahman. Upon the reception of the report, the Prophet Joseph, his brother Hyrum, and other leading men started for the settlement of the saints, their company increasing on the route, by brethren living between Far West and Diahman joining them. The company arrived at the house of Lyman Wight, and there learned the truth in relation to the Gallatin trouble. The whole country was in an uproar, in which ministers of the gospel and county officials joined; and by their connection with it made the disturbance formidable. The whole company that had come with Joseph from Far West rode over to a spring on the prairie, a short distance from Wight's house, and a committee called upon Judge Adam Black, the justice of the peace for that district, and judge-elect for the county, to learn if he justified the course of the proceedings at Gallatin, on the part of the old settlers; to which he replied he did not. As he was a justice of the peace, they desired to know if he would administer the law justly and not join the mob. The question was put to him because rumor had it that he was connected with the mob element. He replied that he would administer the law fairly, and consented to give a statement in writing to that effect, and also denied having any connection with the mob. As this occurrence at Black's residence was made the excuse for commencing those hostilities which terminated so disastrously to the saints, I give Black's agreement in full--orthography and capitalization as in the original: I, Adam Black, a justice of the Peace of Davies county do here by Sertify to the people, coled Mormin, that he is bound to suport the Constitution of this State, and of the United States, and he is not attached to any mob, nor will he attach himselff to any such people, and so long as they will not molest me, I will not molest them. This the 8th day of August, 1838. ADAM BLACK J. P. While the judge-elect was making out this, to him, weighty document, Mrs. Black was chastising the brethren with the valor of her tongue, in a manner that, doubtless, would have made the ancient Xantippe green with envy. After securing this agreement of peace from Judge Black, the company returned to Wight's, where they met some citizens from Millport, and arranged to hold a conference the next day at noon with the principal men of Daviess County. Among those who attended that meeting, the day following, were Joseph Morin, State senator-elect; John Williams, State representative-elect; the clerk of the circuit court and others. Those men, and the principal elders of The Church, entered into a solemn agreement to preserve each other's rights, and stand in each other's defense. If men in the respective parties should do wrong, they were not to be upheld or screened from justice by their friends; but must be delivered up to be dealt with according to law and justice. But like some hardened sinner, who "even in penance will plan sins anew," so with the Missourians; while some of their leading men were entering into covenants of peace, others of them were planning the destruction of the saints. The very day following the agreement of peace referred to, Wm. P. Peniston, who had incited the mob disturbance at the Gallatin election, went before the circuit judge, Austin A. King, and made out a complaint against Joseph Smith, Lyman Wight and others, accusing them of having surrounded the house of Adam Black, and under threats of immediate death, compelled him to sign a most disgraceful paper; also that the same men and their followers had threatened to take his life on sight, and the same threat extended to others. He claimed that the body of men following Joseph Smith numbered some five hundred, that they were armed, and that their actions were of a highly insurrectionary character, and that their object was to intimidate and drive from the county all the old citizens, and possess themselves of their lands, or to force such as would not leave to accept their measures and submit to their dictation. In the latter part of the month, Adam Black, himself, swore out a complaint to the same effect; adding that the "Mormons" would not submit to the law. As soon as it was heard that Joseph Smith and a body of followers had gone armed into Daviess County to inquire about their friends, a committee of Ray County citizens came up to Far West to inquire into the reasons of such a movement. A meeting was called and a committee appointed to give the committee from Ray all the information required. Joseph's movements were watched very closely. On the occasion of his returning from a visit to a company of saints camped on the forks of Grand River, between thirty and forty miles from Far West, he and the small company of brethren with him were chased some distance by a body of armed men, but they escaped. It was reported that Joseph would not submit to civil process, that he defied the law. A charge had been trumped up in Daviess County against him, for going there in arms to inquire about the Gallatin election troubles, and on the morning of the 13th of August the sheriff of Daviess County and Judge Morin called upon Joseph and informed him that they had a writ for his arrest. Joseph expressed his willingness to be tried, but as the people of Daviess County were very much--though unjustly--exasperated at him, he wished to be tried in his own county, and the laws gave him that right. Upon this insistence the sheriff refused to serve the warrant, and he said he would see Judge King about it. Joseph agreed to remain at home until his return; which he did. On his return the sheriff informed the Prophet that he was out of his jurisdiction. The excitement which had been aroused, however, could not be abated. On the contrary, it spread into surrounding counties and its intensity increased. CHAPTER XXXV. BOGGS IN ACTION--DEFENSE CONSTRUED INTO OFFENSE. This excitement in Daviess and surrounding counties, and the Indian difficulties which were threatening about the same time, induced Governor Boggs [A] to send an order to Gen. David R. Atchison, third division of Missouri militia, ordering him to raise within the limits of his district, four hundred mounted men, armed and equipped as infantry or riflemen, to be held in readiness to quell disturbances arising either from the excitement concerning the "Mormon" troubles, or Indian outbreaks. This order was dated August 30, 1838. [Footnote A: This was Lilburn W. Boggs who, during the troubles in Jackson County, was lieutenant-governor of the State, and who not only quietly looked on and saw the saints driven from their homes by mob violence, but secretly aided and encouraged the mob in its atrocities.] In order to show his willingness to honor the law, Joseph, under the counsel of General Atchison, under whom and General Doniphan, Joseph and Sidney Rigdon were studying law, volunteered to be tried for going armed into Daviess County before the circuit judge, Austin A. King. The judge was notified of Joseph's action, and the place selected for trial was the house of a Brother Littlefield, about fifteen miles north of Far West, where the little village of Winston is now located. But as the plaintiff, Wm. P. Peniston, failed to put in an appearance, the trial was postponed until the next day, to take place at the house of a Mr. Raglin, one of the chief mobocrats. The result of the trial was that Joseph and Lyman Wight were bound over in a five hundred dollar bond to appear at the next session of the district court; though Judge King afterwards said nothing worthy of bonds had been proven against them. The leaders of the mob had sent out representatives into the surrounding counties, asking the people to join them in driving the "Mormons" from the State. They were usually successful in getting assistance, but when the people of Chariton County were appealed to they determined to proceed carefully, and very wisely sent two delegates to Caldwell and Daviess counties, to make inquiries as to the cause of the excitement. These men were at Joseph's trial before Judge King, and at its close accompanied him and his party to Far West, where the information they received convinced them that there was no occasion for the people of Chariton County to join with the surrounding counties in an effort to drive the saints from their homes. Chariton County is due east of Caldwell, with Carroll and Livingston intervening. The whole country was in a state of intense excitement, and so many wild rumors were afloat, that it was difficult to determine just what the situation was. The brethren, however, were very active in moving from point to point, wherever there was a threatened attack upon their people. Hearing that a wagon load of arms and ammunition was _en route_ from Richmond to the mob infesting the vicinity of Diahman, Captain Wm. Allred took a company of ten mounted men and started to intercept the transport. They found the wagon broken down, and the boxes of guns concealed near the roadside in the tall grass; but no one was in sight. Shortly after this party had discovered the arms, they saw moving over the prairie, from the direction of the mob's camp, two horsemen and behind them a third man driving a team. These parties came up to the broken down wagon and were arrested by Captain Allred, by virtue of a writ he held for them issued by the civil authorities of Caldwell County. The prisoners and the guns were taken to Far West, and after an examination before Albert Petty, justice of the peace, they were held to bail for their appearance at the next term of the circuit court. The names of these parties were, J. B. Comer, held as principal, and Wm. L. McHoney and Allen Miller as being in the employ of Comer, engaged in furnishing a mob with arms for an illegal purpose. Judge King was informed of the arrest of these men, and his advice was asked as to what disposal should be made of the prisoners. He replied that the prisoners must be turned loose and treated kindly. He had no advice to give about the guns, and was at a loss to know how to account for them being in the possession of Comer, as they belonged to government, and had been in the custody of Captain Pollard, living in the vicinity of Richmond. I have already related how the prisoners were held to bail. The guns were distributed among the brethren to be used in self-defense. A few days afterwards the prisoners were delivered up to Gen. A. W. Doniphan; and forty-two stands of the firearms were also collected and delivered to him. The mob took a number of the brethren prisoners, and sent word to Far West and other settlements that they were torturing them in the most inhuman manner, by this means, doubtless, seeking to provoke the saints to some act of cruelty upon their enemies that might fall into their power, and thus give the mob an excuse for assaulting and driving the "Mormon" community from the State. All parts of the State were flooded with the falsehoods about "Mormon" atrocities and cruelties--cruelties which never occurred. A bitter prejudice, however, was manufactured against the saints, and people generally believed the "Mormons" were capable of all the crimes known to hardened, sinful wretches; and that they were unfit to live. In the meantime, the militia Governor Boggs had ordered to be held in readiness, was mustered into service. Under the direction of Gen. Doniphan six companies of fifty men each were collected and armed from the militia of Clay County, and at once marched into the vicinity of Diahman. Here Doniphan found the citizens of Daviess and surrounding counties to the number of two or three hundred under arms, and commanded by Dr. Austin, from Carroll County. They claimed to have collected solely for the purpose of defending the people of Daviess County against the "Mormons." Doniphan read to them the order of his superior officer, General Atchison, to disperse, but this they refused to do. "I had an interview," said Doniphan, "with Dr. Austin, and his professions were all pacific. But they (Austin's men) still continued under arms, marching and counter marching." The general also visited the encampment of the brethren under the command of Colonel Lyman Wight. Doniphan's report says: "We held a conference with him, and he professed entire willingness to disband, and surrender up to me every one of the 'Mormons' accused of crime; and required in return that the hostile forces collected by the other citizens of the county, should also disband." As they refused to obey the order to disband, the safety of the brethren and their families required that they should continue under arms; and General Doniphan took up a position between the two opposing forces, hoping that if the parties were kept apart, in a few days they would disband without coercion. In the course of two or three days General Atchison arrived with a body of militia from Ray County. He at once ordered the citizens from the surrounding counties to repair to their respective homes, a movement they began to make with many signs of reluctance. Only about one hundred of them obeyed the order. Atchison reported to Governor Boggs, that he had received assurance from the "Mormons" that all those accused of a violation of the laws would be in for trial the very day on which his report was dated--the 17th of September, 1838. "And," says the report, "when that is done, the troops under my command will be no longer required in this county, if the citizens of other counties will retire to their respective homes." A day or two after this report, Atchison succeeded in disbanding the mob forces; and the brethren against whom charges were trumped up appeared before a court of inquiry and entered into bonds to appear at the next session of the circuit court. This much having been accomplished, Atchison thought it no longer needful to keep his whole force of militia in the field, hence he dismissed all his forces except two companies, which were left in the vicinity, under the command of Brigadier-General H. G. Parks. In reporting these latter movements to the governor, Atchison says in conclusion: The "Mormons" of Daviess County, as I stated in a former report, were encamped in a town called Adam-ondi-Ahman, and they are headed by Lyman Wight, a bold, brave, skillful, and I may add, a desperate man; they appear to be acting on the defensive, and I must further add, gave up the offenders with a good deal of promptness. The arms taken by the "Mormons" and the prisoners were also given up upon demand with cheerfulness. The forces, then, which had been called out by order of General Atchison were disbanded, except the two companies that were left under the command of General Parks. Parks and these men remained in the vicinity of Diahman, watching both "Mormons" and Gentiles, assisting in serving civil process, and reporting occasionally to his superior officers. As these reports come from a source that is other than a "Mormon" one, he is a witness to the uprightness of the acts of the "Mormon" people at that time of considerable importance; and this must be our excuse for inserting several extracts from his official reports. In a report which Parks made to Governor Boggs, on the 25th of September, occurs the following: Whatever may have been the disposition of the people called "Mormons" before our arrival here, since we have made our appearance, they have shown no disposition to resist the law or of hostile intentions. There has been so much prejudice and exaggeration concerned in this matter, that I found things entirely different from what I was prepared to expect. When we arrived here, we found a large body of men from the counties adjoining, armed and in the field, for the purpose, as I learned, of assisting the people of this county against the "Mormons," without being called out by the proper authorities. In the meantime, a committee of old citizens had agreed to meet with a committee appointed by the saints in Daviess County, for the purpose of making arrangements for either buying the property of the saints, or of selling theirs to the brethren. Speaking of this committee in a postscript to the above report, Parks says: "I received information that if the committee do not agree, the determination of the Daviess County men is to drive the 'Mormons' with powder and lead." Two days later than the date of Parks' report, General Atchison wrote to the governor, saying: The force under General Parks is deemed sufficient to execute the laws and keep the peace in Daviess County. Things are not so bad in that county as represented by rumor, and in fact from affidavits. I have no doubt your Excellency has been deceived by the exaggerated statements of designing or half crazy men. I have found there is no cause of alarm on account of the "Mormons;" they are not to be feared; they are very much alarmed. These statements, accompanied by the former statements of Atchison and Doniphan, which said the "Mormons" were only acting on the defensive, and had surrendered the arms they had taken from the mob, together with the prisoners, with promptness and cheerfulness, prove that the saints in collecting and arming were merely acting in self-defense, and not with any desire to outrage the laws or injure the Missourians. CHAPTER XXXVI. DE WItt. Dr. Austin, of Carroll County, who had commanded the mob forces about Diahman, being compelled to disband his forces, at least part of them, he esteemed his force insufficient to drive out the brethren from Diahman; so he conceived the idea of striking a blow in another quarter. In the south-east part of Carroll County, about fifty miles south-east of Far West, and near the point where Grand River empties into the Missouri, is the little settlement called De Witt. Here in the autumn of 1838, a number of the saints were located, quite a number of whom had come from Ohio during the summer of 1838, and were still camped in their wagons and tents. It was to this smaller and weaker settlement that the gallant(!) Dr. Austin lead the remainder of his mob forces, after about one hundred of his original number had returned to their homes in obedience to the orders of General Atchison. At various times through the summer the mob had threatened the saints in and around De Witt, but it was not until the 20th of September that any serious demonstration of mob violence occurred. On that day about a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty men, rode into the settlement and threatened the people with death if they did not agree at once to leave the State, but after some deliberation, they gave them until the 1st of October in which to make their departure. The action of the mob was promptly reported to the governor, and he was asked by the saints to take such steps as would put a stop to all lawless proceedings. The petition making this prayer was signed by over fifty of the brethren living at De Witt, but the governor gave no heed to their prayers for the suppression of lawlessness. The saints at De Witt of course paid no attention to the demand of the mob made on the 20th of September, that they leave the State by the first of October. So, on the 2nd of that month, early in the morning, about fifty men rode into De Witt and began firing upon the peaceful inhabitants of the place. Henry Root made out an affidavit to the foregoing effect, and at once went to General Parks with it, who was still in the vicinity of Diahman with his two companies of militia. Leaving Colonel Thompson in command at Diahman, General Parks at once ordered two companies of militia under the command of Captains Bogart and Houston to arm and equip, as the law directed, with six days' provisions and fifty rounds of powder and ball. With these companies he marched for De Witt. Just before leaving he sent a messenger to a Colonel Jones, of Carroll County, to call out three companies of the militia and join him at Carrollton, the county seat of Carroll County. This order, however, was ignored. In his report to General Atchison, General Parks says that when he arrived at De Witt he found the place surrounded by Dr. Austin's men, to the number of some three hundred, provided with a piece of artillery ready to attack the "Mormons" gathered in De Witt. But he expressed the opinion that the "Mormons" could beat Austin even if he had five hundred troops. In the meantime his own forces were mutinous, and refused to act against the mob; hence he had sent word to General Doniphan to raise companies from Platte, Clay, and Clinton counties, as he had no faith that troops ordered from Livingston and other counties would come. During the time that trouble was threatened at Diahman, which for the time was happily suppressed by General Atchison, Governor Boggs, in addition to the militia ordered out under Atchison, Doniphan and Parks, had directed General S. D. Lucas, of the fourth division of the Missouri militia, to march with four hundred men to join General Atchison at Diahman. Orders similar in their nature were issued to Major-Generals Lewis Bolton, John B. Clark and Thomas D. Grant. But the success of General Atchison in scattering the mob forces about Diahman led to the disbanding of the militia under the generals just named. This apparently was not relished at all by S. D. Lucas, who, it will be remembered, took an active part in connection with Governor Boggs against the saints in the Jackson County troubles. Hearing of the difficulty arising at De Witt, he thought it another opportunity to strike a blow at the defenseless people he before had assisted in murdering and driving from their homes. He passed down the Missouri River, near where De Witt was located, about the time the actual hostilities began there, and reported the situation to Governor Boggs, and in concluding his letter he says: If a fight has actually taken place, of which I have no doubt, it will create excitement in the whole of upper Missouri, and those base and degraded beings (the "Mormons") will be exterminated from the face of the earth. * * * It is an unpleasant state of affairs. The remedy I do not pretend to suggest to your Excellency. My troops were only dismissed subject to further orders, and can be called into the field at an hour's warning. While Lucas pretended in the above not to suggest a remedy to the governor, he really does so, and plainly offers to carry out the plan. General Lucas says: "Those base and degraded beings (the saints) will be exterminated from the face of the earth," and then follows that statement up by saying that his troops, amounting to four hundred, had only been dismissed subject to further orders, and could be called out at an hour's warning! This act on the part of Lucas was in reality a suggestion to Governor Boggs to exterminate the saints, and an offer on his part to do the job, if he only had orders to call out the men he had but a few days before disbanded. The circumstance is the more significant since his covert suggestion was subsequently acted upon by Governor Boggs. The people of Chariton County were again asked to assist against the "Mormons," this time to drive them from De Witt; and again the people of that county held a public meeting on the question, and sent a committee of two to inquire into the situation and report. As their report is a complete vindication of the action of the saints in this instance, I make an extract from it: We arrived at the place of difficulties on the fourth of October, and found a large portion of the citizens of Carroll and adjoining counties assembled near De Witt well armed. We inquired into the nature of the difficulties. They said there was a large portion of the people called "Mormons," embodied in De Witt, from different parts of the world. They are unwilling for them to remain there, which is the cause of their waging war against them. To use the gentleman's language, they are waging a war of extermination, or to remove them from the said county. We also went into De Witt, to see the situation of the "Mormons." We found them in the act of defense begging for peace, and wishing for the civil authorities to repair there and as early as possible settle the difficulties between the parties. Hostilities have commenced, and will continue until they are stopped by the civil authorities. As soon as word was brought to Joseph that the saints were shut up by mob forces in De Witt, he at once started for the scene of the trouble to allay, if possible, the excitement among the people. He had some difficulty in getting there, as the mob had all the roads strongly guarded, and allowed neither ingress nor egress to the place they were actually besieging. But by going unfrequented roads and through the woods, he arrived at the besieged town, and found the saints surrounded by a host of their enemies, with their provisions nearly exhausted, and no prospects of obtaining more. The first thing Joseph did on his arrival was to talk with several gentlemen of respectability and of good standing in the neighborhood, and who were not connected with The Church, but who had witnessed the proceedings of the mob against the saints, and now offered to make affidavits respecting the treatment the saints had received at the hands of the mob forces, and their present perilous situation; and further offered to send a messenger with these papers, and lay the case before the governor. Their proposition was gladly accepted. The affidavits were made out, and a Mr. Caldwell dispatched at once with them to the governor. Instead of sending the people of De Witt any hope of relief, however, the governor said to Mr. Caldwell: _The quarrel is between the "Mormons" and the mob, and they can fight it out._ This was the death blow to all hopes that had been entertained of receiving relief from the governor when the case should be fairly presented to him. Following close upon this answer that was returned from the chief executive, General Parks sent word to the besieged saints, that his troops under Captain Bogart had mutinied, and in order to prevent them joining the mob he was under the necessity of drawing them away. This act of course turned the people of De Witt over to the tender mercy of the mob led by Dr. Austin, Major Ashley, a member of the State legislature, and Sashiel Woods, a Presbyterian minister. The saints were hopelessly shut up in De Witt. If their stock wandered outside of the immediate settlement it was shot down by the mob; and if the people went to the outskirts in search of food, they too became the targets of their merciless enemies. Provisions were exhausted, and some of the brethren died of exhaustion and starvation, while all were worn out with constantly watching the movements of their enemies. In this extremity the saints were advised by some of the prominent non-"Mormon" citizens in the vicinity of De Witt to leave that county, and they would be paid for all their losses, Henry Root and David Thomas having secured a promise of the mob that if the "Mormons" would leave De Witt, they should not be molested while doing so. The saints were compelled to accept these terms, and a committee was appointed to appraise the property of the "Mormons." The names of two of this committee are all that have been preserved--Judge Erickson and Major Florey. The only property that was appraised, however, was the real estate; the personal property the saints had lost, and the stock that had been shot down by the mob and upon which they had fed, was not taken into account at all. The saints gathered up what teams and wagons they had left, and placing the sick, the aged and infirm, together with what personal property they could take with them, they left their fields and their homes in the hands of their enemies, and wended their slow way over the prairie in the direction of Far West. Ever and anon as they looked back with mournful glance in the direction of De Witt, they could see the smoke ascending heavenward from some of their burning homes. That was a dreary march to Far West. They were continually harassed by gangs of the mob who followed them, and others that they met in going to the appointed rendezvous in the vicinity of De Witt. Several brethren died on the way, and had to be buried without coffins, under the most sorrowful circumstances. One sister, who had not recovered from child-birth, through the exposure consequent upon being compelled to leave a comfortable home, died and was buried in a grave bordering the banks of a beautiful stream. The company arrived among their awe-stricken brethren and sisters at Far West on the 12th of October. CHAPTER XXXVII. MILLPORT. No sooner had the saints departed from De Witt than the Presbyterian preacher, Woods, called the mob that had infested that settlement together, and in a speech of frenzied hate he suggested that they proceed at once to Daviess County and assist their friends in driving the "Mormons" from their homes in that county, as they had already done in Carroll County. He assured them the civil authorities would not interfere to defend the "Mormons," and they could get possession of their property just as well as not. He reminded them that the land sales would soon come off, and if they could but get rid of the "Mormons" they could secure all the lands they would want. To appreciate the force of this part of the preacher's appeal to the mob, the reader must remember that the whole country was wild on land speculations, and that some of the saints were badly tinctured with it, as explained in a previous chapter. The speech had the desired effect, and forthwith the entire body with their cannon started for Daviess County. While these events were transpiring in Carroll County, Cornelius Gilliam, who, it will be remembered, called upon Zion's Camp at Fishing River several years before, had been engaged in raising a mob in Platte and Clinton counties to accomplish the same object that Parson Woods and his mob had in view. General Doniphan learned of these movements, both on the part of Gilliam and Woods, and sent word to Joseph Smith that a body of eight hundred men were moving upon the settlement of his people in Daviess County. He gave orders for a company of militia to be raised at Far West and marched at once into Daviess County, to defend those who were threatened, until he could raise the militia in Clay and adjoining counties to put down the insurrection. Accordingly a company of one hundred militia-men were gotten in readiness to march into Daviess County. The command was given to Colonel Hinckle and he started for Diahman. After General Parks had left the vicinity of De Witt with his mutinous militia, he returned to Diahman, where he had left Colonel Thompson in command, and resumed control of affairs in that section. The mob about Diahman, hearing of the fate of De Witt, and learning of the approach of that mob and the efforts of Gilliam in the same direction, became bolder, and at once began to threaten the saints and burn some of their houses and stacks of hay and grain. These depredations were committed chiefly at a place called Millport, a short distance from Diahman. The house of Don Carlos Smith was burned down, after being plundered, and his wife with two helpless babes were driven out into the night. She made her way to Diahman, carrying her children and having to wade Grand River where the stream was waist deep. The next day General Parks passed the ruins of this house, belonging to Don Carlos Smith, who was then on a mission in Tennessee, and it seemed to arouse within him a just indignation. He at once went to the house of Lyman Wight and gave him orders to call out his companies of militiamen--Wight holding a colonel's commission in the fifty-ninth regiment of the Missouri militia, commanded by General Parks--and gave him full authority to put down mobs wherever he should find them assembled. He said he wished it distinctly understood that Colonel Wight had full authority from him to suppress all mob violence. The militia that Colonel Wight called out was divided into two companies; one company, consisting of about sixty men, was placed under the command of Captain David Patten, and the other of about the same number was commanded by Wight in person. Captain Patten was ordered to go to Gallatin and disperse the mobs that were reported to be in that vicinity, while Wight and his company started for Millport. When Patten's company came in sight of Gallatin, he found a body of the mob, about one hundred strong, who were amusing themselves by mocking and in various ways tantalizing a number of the saints whom they had captured. Seeing the approach of Patten's men, and knowing the determination of the leader, the mob broke and ran in the greatest confusion, leaving their prisoners behind them. On his march to Millport, Colonel Wight found the whole country deserted by the mob which had infested it, and their houses in flames or in smoldering ruins. The mob having learned that General Parks had ordered out Wight's companies of militia, was seized with sudden fear and swore vengeance, not only upon the "Mormons," but upon Generals Parks and Doniphan as well. To accomplish this purpose, they had loaded up their most valuable personal effects and setting fire to their log huts, they sent runners throughout the State with the lying report that the "Mormons" had "riz" and were burning the houses, destroying property, and murdering the old settlers. CHAPTER XXXVIII. CROOKED RIVER. That was a cunning piece of diabolism which prompted the mob of Daviess County to set fire to their own huts, destroy their own property and then charge the crime to the saints. It was an act worthy of an incipient Herod. But it was not without a precedent in Missouri. Two years before that, something very similar occurred in Mercer County, just north-east of Daviess. In June of the year 1836, the Iowa Indians, then living in St. Joseph, made a friendly hunting excursion through the northern part of the state, and their line of travel led them through what was known as the Heatherly settlement, in Mercer County. The Heatherlys, who were ruffians of the lowest type, took advantage of the excitement produced by the incursion of the Indians, and circulated a report that they were robbing and killing the whites, and during the excitement these wretches murdered a man by the name of Dunbar, and another man against whom they had a grudge, and then fled to the settlements along the Missouri River, representing that they were fleeing for their lives. This produced great excitement in the settlements in the surrounding counties; the people not knowing at what hour the Indians might be upon them. The militia was called out for their protection; but it was soon ascertained that the alarm was a false one. The Heatherlys were arrested, tried for murder, and some of them sent to the penitentiary. This circumstance occurring only two years before, and in a county adjacent to Daviess County, doubtless suggested the course pursued by the mob in burning their own houses--chiefly built of logs--and fleeing to all parts of the State with the report that the "Mormons" had done it, and were murdering and plundering the old settlers. These false rumors spread by the mob, were strengthened in the public ear by such men as Adam Black, Judge King of Richmond, and other prominent men who were continually writing inflammatory communications to the governor. The citizens of Ray County called a public meeting and appealed to the governor to protect the people of upper Missouri from the "Mormons," whom they termed a "fearful body of thieves and robbers." It seemed as if the very prince of lies and all his hosts had suddenly broken loose, and sought to overwhelm the saints with a flood of falsehood. It was at this particular crisis that Thomas B. Marsh, the president of the Twelve Apostles, and Orson Hyde, one of the members of the same quorum, fled to Richmond and there testified to the most wicked falsehoods, calculated to bring destruction upon their former brethren. Thomas B. Marsh made an affidavit before Henry Jacobs, a justice of the peace, at Richmond, of which the following is an extract: They have among them (the "Mormons") a company consisting of all that are considered true "Mormons," called Danites, who have taken an oath to support the heads of The Church in all things, whether right or wrong. I have heard the Prophet say that he would yet tread down his enemies, and walk over their dead bodies; that, if he was not let alone, he would be a second Mohammed to this generation, and that he would make it one gore of blood from the Rocky Mountains to the Atlantic Ocean. To this Marsh swore, and Hyde corroborated by affidavit, saying that he knew part of it to be true, and he believed the other.[A] [Footnote A: It may be as well to say here that some time after this, when the clouds of hatred that at this time threatened the saints with destruction had drifted aside, and these men had time to reflect upon the terrible wickedness of their action, Orson Hyde, in tears, came back to the people he sought to destroy, and humbly begged to be restored to his position. And having manifested a spirit of repentance, he was received back into his place, went on a mission to Jerusalem, and for many years labored faithfully for the advancement of The Church. Thomas B. Marsh, after leading a vagabond life for years, with the brand of Judas upon his brow, and the gnawing of the worm that never dies at his heart, when the saints had weathered the storms of persecution not only in Missouri but also in Illinois as well, and their lives had fallen in the pleasant valleys of the Rocky Mountains, he too, a mere wreck of his former self, weak and driveling and childish; broken down in health and spirits, came humbly bending to the people upon whom he had sought to bring ruin, and begged--humbly begged, the privilege of ending his days in their midst. He arose in a congregation where thousands were congregated, referred to his wrecked condition, and told them it was the effect of apostasy, and warned all against walking in the path which he had trod to his infinite sorrow. His life furnishes a sad page in the history of the Latter-day Saints. He fell as Judas fell, and as Judas failed to stay the work of God in his day, so Marsh failed to break down God's work in these last days: he succeeded only in bringing upon himself the ruin and shame he tried to bring upon The Church.] Since in this statement made by Thomas B. Marsh and Orson Hyde the "Danites" are spoken of, and as much has been said of this organization, and many false statements made over and over again, accusing The Church of having such an association as described by Marsh and Hyde, I here give in brief an account of that organization so far as The Church knows anything in relation to it. A Doctor Sampson Avard joined The Church a short time previous to the apostasy of Marsh and Hyde. He was one of those restless, ambitious men who desire to become great, and lord it over their fellow men. Possessing neither the intelligence nor the integrity to rise to positions of honor and trust in The Church by open, fair means, he resolved to become a leader by craft and villainy. He employed the art of flattery in his conversations with the brethren, appointed frequent meetings at his own house which was guarded by one or more of his trusted associates, who would give him a sign if any one approached whom he had not trusted. With an air of mystery he would intimate that he had been appointed by the heads of The Church to accomplish some important work of a secret character, and at last put those whom he had won by his flattery, under an oath of eternal secrecy, not to reveal anything that he should communicate to them. By these means he continued to enlarge his band, which he named _The Danites,_ claiming of course that it was a very ancient order or society. He gave to them certain secret signs by which members of the band could recognize each other either day or night. He gave them to understand that he had authority from the heads of The Church for what he was about to do. He then proceeded to organize his men into companies of tens and fifties, placing a captain over each. Up to this time Avard had never intimated that anything unlawful or contrary to the spirit of the gospel was to be carried out. But now that he had the companies organized and all under an oath of secrecy, he thought he could with safety let the mask fall. After instructing the men as to what their duties were under their several captains, he took the captains into a secluded place and there told them they would soon be permitted to go among the Gentiles and take their property as spoil, and by robbing and plundering the Gentiles, they were to waste them away and with the property thus confiscated build up the Kingdom of God. If any of the band were recognized by their enemies, "who could harm them?" he asked: "for," said he, "we will stand by each other, and defend one another in all things. If our enemies swear against us, we can swear also." At this point some of the brethren expressed surprise, in fact, astonishment. But Avard continued by saying: As the Lord liveth I would swear to a lie to clear any of you; and if this would not do, I would put them or him under the sand as Moses did the Egyptian. * * * And if any of us transgress, we will deal with him amongst ourselves. And if any one of this Danite society reveals any of these things, I will put him where the dogs cannot bite him. This lecture of the doctor's revealed for the first time the true intent of his designs, and the brethren he had duped suddenly had their eyes opened, and they at once revolted and manfully rejected his teachings. Avard saw that he had played and lost, so he said they had better let the matter drop where it was. As soon as Avard's villainy was brought to the knowledge of the president of The Church he was promptly excommunicated, and was afterwards found making an effort to become friends with the mob, and conspiring against The Church. This is the history of the Danite band, "which," says the Prophet Joseph, "died almost before it had an existence." And now I return to the main line of my narrative. Captain Bogart, who, it will be remembered, held a command in the militia under General Parks, both in the operations about Diahman and before De Witt, and who on one occasion manifested a determination to mutiny and join the mob, was one of the bitterest enemies the saints had, and the most active of the mob. On the twenty-fourth of October, 1838, he, with about forty of his followers, called at the house of a Brother Thoret Parsons who lived on the east branch of Log Creek southeast of Far West. He warned Parsons to leave by ten o'clock the next day and remarked that he expected to give Far West "hell" before noon the next day; provided he was successful in joining his forces with those of Niel Gilliam who would camp that night six miles west of Far West, and that he himself should camp that night on Crooked River. A messenger was dispatched at once with this information to Far West, and Parsons followed the mob to watch their movements. The day on which this occurred Joseph Holbrook [B] and a Brother Judith were watching the movements of a small detachment of Bogart's men, and saw eight of them enter the house of a Brother Pinkham, where they took three prisoners and four horses, together with some arms and food; and warned the old gentleman Pinkham to leave the State at once or they "would have his d--d old scalp." This detachment then started to join Bogart's main company, and Holbrook and Judith started for Far West. They arrived there near midnight and reported what they had seen in the vicinity of the mob's encampment. The blast of the trumpet and the roll of the drum soon brought together a large crowd of men to the public square. Men slept very lightly in those days, as they had to be constantly on hand to repel the attacks of their enemies. The men had been assembled by order of Judge Higbee, and he requested Lieutenant-Colonel Hinkle to raise a company to disperse the mob, and rescue the prisoners. Volunteers were called for, and in a few minutes seventy-five men had answered the call and were placed under the command of David W. Patten, who it will be remembered held a captain's commission in the state militia. He was also a member of the quorum of the Twelve. [Footnote B: This was Judge Holbrook, late of Bountiful, Davis County, Utah.] The company marched out some distance from Far West, where it halted, and the body was divided into three divisions, the commands of which were given to David W. Patten, James Durphy, and Charles C. Rich, the whole being under the direction of David W. Patten. The march to the scene of action is thus described by one of the company: The night was dark, the distant plains far and near were illuminated with blazing fires, immense columns of smoke were seen rising in awful majesty, as if the world was on fire. This scene of grandeur can only be comprehended by those acquainted with scenes of prairie burning, as the fire sweeps over millions of acres of dry grass in the fall season, and leaves a smooth, black surface divested of all vegetation. The thousand meteors blazing in the distance like the camp fires of some war hosts, threw a fitful gleam of light upon the distant sky, which many might have taken for the Aurora Borealis. This scene, added to the silence of midnight, the rumbling sounds of the trampling steeds over the hard surface of the plain, the clank of the swords in their scabbards, the occasional gleam of bright armor in the flickering firelight, the gloom of surrounding darkness, and the unknown destiny of the expedition, or even the people who sent it forth; all combined to impress the mind with deep and solemn thoughts, and to throw a romantic vision over the imagination, which is not often experienced except in the poet's dreams, or in the wild imagery of sleeping fancy.[C] [Footnote C: Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, ch. 21.] The mob were encamped in a bend of Crooked River near the line of Caldwell and Ray counties, and I should judge all of fifteen miles directly south of Far West. The stream here lies imbedded in a deep ravine, in fact this may be said of all the streams in this part of Missouri. There has been but little disturbance of the earth's crust in this locality, and the streams, having run in their present course for ages, perhaps ever since our Father Adam and the patriarchs dwelt in the land, have worn their channels deep. At any rate, at the place where the mob was camped, and which old settlers pointed out to me as "Bogart's Battle Field," the stream lies in the bottom of a deep ravine, the sides of which are quite steep and covered with a heavy growth of underbrush and timber. A dugway road has been cut on the north side of the ravine leading down to a point where the stream is fordable. It is just above this ford where Bogart and his men were encamped in a little bottom immediately on the bank of the river. When the brethren from Far West were within two or three miles of this encampment they dismounted, and, leaving their horses in the care of a part of their company, the rest proceeded on foot to the brow of the hill under which the mob was encamped. It must be remembered that Captain Patten did not know the exact locality of the mob, but supposed they had camped somewhere about the ford of the river. Near the brow of the hill the companies separated, Patten's division going to the right, Rich's to the left, and Durphy's between them. They were proceeding along silently when suddenly the stillness was broken by some one exclaiming, "Who comes there?" followed instantly by the sharp report of a rifle, and a young man of the name of Patrick O'Banion reeled from the ranks and fell, mortally wounded. Captain Patten ordered a charge down the hillside upon the mob below, which was promptly obeyed. The mob left their encampment and formed in a line under the bank of the river. Patten's men formed in a line facing them, and the mob opened fire, which was promptly answered by the brethren and then followed a moment's silence, which was broken by C. C. Rich calling the watchwords: _"God and Liberty."_ Patten ordered a second charge upon the enemy and then the fight was hand to hand. The fight, however, was but of short duration; the mob soon began leaping into the stream and making for the other side. The late Judge Holbrook of Davis County, Utah, was struck at by a fierce Missourian with a sword, but by throwing up his left arm he saved his head, and before the mobber could recover himself the judge had cut him down. Two of the hindmost men of the mob were pursued by Captains Patten and Rich. The one followed by Patten suddenly wheeled round and shot him in the bowels, and he fell mortally wounded. Gideon Carter's face was so literally shot to pieces that he was almost beyond recognition. Several others were wounded in this engagement, about nine, I think, but they recovered. The mob had the advantage of position in the engagement, as they formed under the bank of the river, which answered all the purposes of a breastwork. It will be remembered too that it was not yet daylight--the dawn was only just breaking in the east when the fight began. The mob in their flight left their horses and all their camp utensils. These the victors took charge of, and making litters on which to carry their wounded and dying, they started on the return to Far West. Several miles from Far West the mournful train was met by a number of the brethren, among whom was the Prophet Joseph and his brother Hyrum and the wife of Captain Patten. Tender hands had carried him on a litter from the battle field, but he suffered excruciating pains and asked to be laid down by the wayside that he might die. He was taken to the house of a Brother Winchester about three miles from Far West, where he died that night. I need not dwell upon the heartrending sorrow of the wife at the loss of a noble husband, or the grief of the whole people who mourned the departure of a great and good man, and one of the leading spirits in these last days. He died full of faith, having done as he often said he would do, if need were--lay down his life for his friends. Just before he breathed his last he said to his grief-stricken wife, "Whatever you do else, O, do not deny the faith!" Young O'Banion died shortly afterwards, and they were buried together with military honors. The body of Gideon Carter was afterwards brought up from the battle ground, and interred at Far West. The loss of the mob has never been correctly ascertained, but at the time they scattered before the impetuous charge of Patten's men, each one supposed he was the only survivor left to tell the tale of the mob's destruction. This battle on Crooked River, though perfectly justifiable on the part of the saints, was made the excuse for raising armies against them for their destruction. The following inflammatory and untruthful message was sent to the governor as a report of what we have already related: SIR:--We were informed last night by an express from Ray County, that Captain Bogart and all his company, amounting to between fifty and sixty men, were massacred at Buncombe, twelve miles north of Richmond, except three. This statement you may rely on as being true, and last night they expected Richmond to be laid in ashes this morning. We could distinctly hear cannon, and we knew the "Mormons" had one in their possession. Richmond is about twenty-five miles west of this place, on a straight line. We know not the hour or minute we shall be laid in ashes--our county is ruined--for God's sake give us assistance as soon as possible. Yours, etc., SASHIEL WOODS, JOSEPH DICKSON. Woods will be remembered as the Presbyterian preacher who, after the saints were compelled to leave De Witt, called the mob which had infested that place and urged them to hasten to the assistance of their friends in Daviess County, to drive the "Mormons" away from their settlement at Diahman, that they might gain possession of their lands. These men say they distinctly heard cannon and they knew the "Mormons" had one. Yet these men were thirty-seven miles from where the engagement on Crooked River occurred, and no cannon was used--and the one in possession of the saints was only a six-pounder. "These mobbers," said Joseph, "must have had very acute ears; * * * so much for the lies of a priest of this world." One of Bogart's men fled to Richmond and reported that ten of his comrades had been killed and the rest taken prisoners after many of them had been wounded; and he said it was the intention of the "Mormon banditti" that night to sack and burn Richmond. Upon the reception of this lying report C. R. Morehead was dispatched from Richmond to Lexington, a town located on the south bank of the Missouri on the high bluffs overlooking the river, and only about eight miles south of Richmond. He begged the people of that town to come to the assistance of Richmond, and they responded by sending one hundred well armed, and according to E. M. Ryland, "daring men, the most effective our county can boast of." An express was sent from Lexington to Messrs. Amos Rees and Wiley C. Williams of Jackson County, then en route for the city of Jefferson, ordering them to hurry on to the city of Jefferson, imparting correct (?) information to the public as they went along; and to send one of their party into Cooper, Howard and Boone counties in order that volunteers might be getting ready to flock to the scene of trouble as soon as possible. The letter said: "They [the volunteers before alluded to] must make haste and put a stop to the devastation which is menaced by these infuriated fanatics, and they _must go prepared, and with a full determination to exterminate or expel them from the State en masse."_ The italics are mine, and I use them because it was upon the strength of this message that Governor Boggs afterwards issued his celebrated exterminating order. And I pause here to call attention to the fact that these men, Wiley C. Williams and Amos Rees had started for Jefferson City as special messengers to the governor to secure the banishment of the saints from the State of Missouri. These untruthful reports of the trouble on Crooked River were favorable to their cause, and an express was sent after them to add this falsehood to those with which they were already laden, and to wish them "God speed" in their murderous affairs! We need not say the "Mormons" had not so much as thought of going to Richmond, or acting otherwise than on the defensive. CHAPTER XXXIX. EXTERMINATING ORDER OF GOVERNOR BOGGS. In the meantime the messengers from those parties who had burned their own homes and destroyed their own property at Millport had reached Jefferson City, and poured into the willing ears of the executive the villainous falsehoods that the "Mormons" with an armed force had expelled the old settlers from Daviess County, pillaged and burned their dwellings, driven off their stock, and destroyed their crops. They also said that Millport and Gallatin were in ashes, and that all the records of the county were destroyed. Upon the reception of this batch of falsehoods and an application from these people to be restored to their homes and protected in them, Governor Boggs set himself vigorously at work calling out militia forces to accomplish this object. One can not help pausing a moment to notice the difference in the action of the State authorities in two cases that would have been just alike, provided the report of those parties who fled from Daviess County, by the light of their burning homes, had been true. In 1833 the saints were driven by brute force and under circumstances the most distressing, from their possessions in Jackson County. And not only was their property destroyed, but quite a number of them were killed, while the number that was exiled amounted to twelve hundred. The State authorities had the fullest evidence of these outrages--in fact the very man who at the time of the Daviess County troubles was governor of the State, was on the ground and knew of all the circumstances of cruelty and outrage. But when those things came before the State authorities, it took more than two whole years of correspondence to come to an understanding of what could and should be done, and then the decision was that the exiles would do well to move still further on, in fact, get entirely away from that section of the country where they had made their homes, as the prejudices of the people were set against them, and the popular sentiment in this country was _vox Dei!_ But now, when a mere rumor comes that the "Mormons" have been guilty of inflicting upon the Missourians the outrages which aforetime had been perpetrated against them, there is no halting on the part of the authorities, but on the contrary the most vigorous efforts are put forth to punish the reputed offenders, and reinstate the supposed exiles! Governor Boggs, then, began his efforts to restore these reputed exiles to their homes. He sent an order to General John B. Clark, of the first division of Missouri militia, directing him to raise two thousand men from the first, fourth, fifth, sixth and twelfth divisions of the militia to be mounted and armed as the law directs, provided with rations for fifteen days, and to rendezvous at Fayette in Howard County, about eighty miles southeast of Far West, by the third of November. This order was dated the twenty-sixth of October, 1838. The next day, however, Amos Rees and Wiley C. Williams arrived in Jefferson City with their false report of the battle on Crooked River, and Governor Boggs changed his orders to General Clark the same day. This letter is Boggs' exterminating order. He said to General Clark: Since the order of the morning to you, * * * I have received by Amos Rees, Esq., and Wiley C. Williams, one of my aids, information of the most appalling character, which changes the whole face of things and places the "Mormons" in the attitude of open and avowed defiance of the laws, and of having made open war upon the people of this State. Your orders are, therefore, to hasten your operations and endeavor to reach Richmond, in Ray County, with all possible speed. The "Mormons" must be treated as enemies and _must be exterminated_ or driven from the State, if necessary for the public good. Their outrages are beyond description. If you can increase your force, you are authorized to do so to any extent you may think necessary. The governor also ordered Major General Wallock of Marion County, to raise five hundred men, and join General Doniphan of Clay County, who had been directed to raise a like number of men, and together they were to proceed to Daviess County to cut off the retreat of the "Mormons" to the north. General Parks had been ordered to raise four hundred men and join Clark at Richmond, and thus the campaign was planned. The troops were not to reinstate the supposed exiles of Daviess County in their homes and protect them, but they were to operate directly against the "Mormons"--in fact, make war upon them--exterminate them, or drive them from the State. Up to this time Major General Atchison had apparently exercised his influence counseling moderation in dealing with the "Mormons." He was a resident of Clay County when the saints were driven into that county from Jackson. He, with General Doniphan and Amos Rees, had acted as counsel for the exiles, and had seen the doors of the temples of justice closed in their faces by mob violence, and all redress denied them. He was acquainted with the circumstances which led to their removal from Clay County, to the unsettled prairies of what afterwards became Caldwell County. He knew how deep and unreasonable the prejudices were against the saints. Can it be possible that he did not know how utterly unjustifiable the present movement against them was? Whether he was blinded by the false reports about Millport and Gallatin and Crooked River, or whether his courage faltered, and he became afraid longer to defend a people against whom every man's hand was raised, I cannot now determine, but one or the other must have been the case for I find him joining with S. D. Lucas in the following communication to Governor Boggs: SIR:--From late outrages committed by the "Mormons," civil war is inevitable. They have set the laws of the country at defiance and are in open rebellion. We have about two thousand men under arms to keep them in check. The presence of the commander in chief is deemed absolutely necessary, and we most respectfully urge that your excellency be at the seat of _war_ as soon as possible. Your most obedient, etc. DAVID R. ATCHISON, M. G. 3rd Div. SAMUEL D. LUCAS, M. G. 4th Div. General Atchison, however, was afterwards "dismounted," to use a word of General Doniphan's in relating the incident, and sent back to Liberty in Clay County by special order of Governor Boggs, on the ground that he was inclined to be too merciful to the "Mormons." So that he was not active in the operations about Far West. But how he could consent to join with Lucas in sending such an untruthful and infamous report to the governor about the situation in upper Missouri, is difficult to determine. The saints had not set the laws at defiance, nor were they in open rebellion. But when all the officers of the law refused to hear their complaints, and both civil and military authority delivered them into the hands of merciless mobs to be plundered and outraged at their brutal pleasure, and all petitions for protection at the hands of the governor had been answered with: _"It is a quarrel between the Mormons and the mob, and they must fight it out,"_ what was left for them to do but to arm themselves and stand in defense of their homes and families? It is not admitted in the above that the saints had defied the laws of the country, for it was not so. The movement on Gallatin by Captain Patten and that on Millport by Colonel Wight was ordered by General Parks, who called upon Colonel Wight to take command of his company of men, when the militia under Parks' command mutinied, and disperse all mobs wherever he found them. Gallatin was not burned, nor were the records of the county court, if they were destroyed at all, destroyed by the saints. What houses were burned in Millport had been set on fire by the mob. The expedition to Crooked River was ordered by Judge Higbee, the first judge in Caldwell County and the highest civil authority in Far West, and was undertaken for the purpose of dispersing a mob which had entered the house of a peaceable citizen--one Pinkham--and carried off three people prisoners, four horses and other property, and who had threatened to "give Far West hell before noon the next day." So that in their operations the acts of the saints had been strictly within the law, and only in self defense. CHAPTER XL. HAUN'S MILL. THE mob forces were gathering from all quarters to destroy Far West. Niel Gilliam was in the west urging the citizens to drive the "Mormons" from the State. Generals Lucas and Wilson, who will be remembered as active leaders of the mob which expelled the saints from Jackson County, were collecting those same mob forces; while General Clark was in the south raising companies of men to carry out the exterminating order of Governor Boggs. In addition to these preparations for the destruction of the saints, in the counties immediately surrounding Caldwell, there was a general uprising of the old settlers under no particular leadership, but roaming through the scattered settlements of the saints in small bands, murdering, stealing stock, house-burning, whipping the men and driving the terror-stricken women and children from their homes. In fact, the whole country surrounding Far West was infested with a merciless banditti, which daily were guilty of the most atrocious deeds of cruelty. The saints living in a scattered condition over the prairies who were fortunate enough to escape with their lives, came running into Far West at all times of the day and night, white with fear. Let is here be said that the Prophet Joseph and counseled his people to settle in villages, and have their farms on the outskirts thereof, after the pattern, as far as circumstances would permit, of the plan given by revelation for building up the city of Zion, described in a former chapter of this volume. He had urged, in addition to the improved opportunities this plan would give them for educating their children, etc., that they would be in a better condition to defend themselves against their enemies. But the saints, at least many of them, would not hearken to this advice; now, however, that the enemy was upon them, when it was too late for them to profit by it, they could see the wisdom of it. It was one of these marauding bands, under the leadership of Nehemiah Comstock, which was guilty of a fiendish massacre at Haun's Mill, on the thirtieth of October. Haun's Mill was between ten and twelve miles nearly due east of Far West, on the south bank of Shoal Creek, which takes a meandering course, though in the main flowing east, and finally empties into Grand River. All told there were about thirty families of the saints located at Haun's Mill, several of which had just recently arrived from the eastern states, and were camped in their wagons and tents behind an old blacksmith's shop adjacent to the mill. The banks of the stream were lined with a growth of scattered trees and an undergrowth of hazel and other brush; while back from the banks is the rather sharp rolling prairie common to that part of Missouri. This little body of saints had been threatened by mobs for some time and were therefore on their guard. On the twenty-eighth of October, however, Colonel Jennings, of Livingston County, whose band of mobbers had been most menacing to the peace and safety of the saints, sent one of his men to the settlement to make a treaty of peace. This proposition of peace was gladly accepted by the saints, in fact, it was what they most devoutly prayed for. There was to be mutual forbearance, and each party was to exert itself to the extent of its influence to prevent further hostilities. There were other mobs collecting in the vicinity, however, who were not affected by this agreement of peace entered into by the saints and Colonel Livingston--one particularly on Grand River, at William Mann's residence. Hence the brethren in the little settlement on Shoal Creek remained under arms. The thirtieth of October, the day on which the fearful tragedy occurred, is said by some of the survivors to have been a most beautiful one: one of those days in mid-autumn, when smoky mists hang about the horizon--the sure sign of the Indian summer; when the sun shines with all the brightness, but without the scorching heat, of August; when the gentle breeze rustles through the ripened corn and softly stirs the leaves of the forests that have been kissed by the early frosts and autumn sun to purple and gold, and all the shades and tints known to the practiced eye of the artist; when the sinking sun paints the heavens with new glories; and when hill and plain, stream and sky, forest and field all reflect the fullness of nature's beauties. Oh, is it not passing strange that one of God's fairest days should be made to look upon so foul a deed as that committed at Haun's Mill! The merry laughter of the children as they played upon the banks of Shoal Creek, mingled with the snatches of songs the mothers sang as they went about their domestic employments, made sweet music to the fathers engaged in gathering the crops, or guarding the mill. In their neighborhood all apparently was peace, and no premonitory shuddering warned the saints of their approaching fate. It burst upon them with all the suddenness of a clap of thunder from a cloudless sky. The sun had sunken more than halfway down the western sky, when some of those on guard saw a large body of armed and mounted men approaching the mill at full speed. They came through the scattering timber on the bank of the creek to the edge of the prairie, where they formed themselves in a three square position with a vanguard. David Evans ran out to meet them, swinging his hat and crying, "Peace! Peace!" But there was no peace. The saints by this time were in the wildest state of excitement, and running in every direction, many of the men taking refuge in an old blacksmith shop not far from the mill. The leader of the mob, numbering two hundred and forty, fired his gun, and after a pause of a few seconds about a hundred shots were fired into the old blacksmith shop, and at those fleeing for the protection of the woods. The mob then rode up to the shop and fired through the space between the logs until, as they thought, all had been killed or mortally wounded. They then entered, and among the dead and dying found Sardius Smith, a lad about twelve years old, who in his fear had crawled under the bellows for safety. He was dragged from his place of concealment by a Mr. Glaze, who placed the muzzle of his gun near the boy's head and literally shot off the top of it. The inhuman wretch afterwards shamelessly boasted of his damning deed. His brother, Alma, a boy of eight summers, was shot through the hip. He had seen his father and brother shot down, and fearing if he moved the heartless wretches would shoot him again, he remained quiet among the dead until he heard the voice of his mother gently calling his name in the darkness. She nursed him tenderly, prayerfully, and under the inspiration of heaven made such a collection of herbs and barks with which she dressed his wound that he recovered, grew to manhood, lived to a reasonably good old age, and lately died at Coalville, Summit County, Utah. Thomas McBride, an old gray haired veteran of the American Revolution, was met by a number of the mob in front of Mr. Haun's house. The old man, trembling with age rather than from fear, surrendered his gun, saying: "Spare my life, I am a Revolutionary soldier." But the inhuman wretch to whom he made this simple, pathetic appeal, sufficient to have moved adamantine hearts, shot the veteran down with his own gun, and then a Mr. Rogers, of Daviess County, fell upon him and hacked him to pieces with an old corn cutter. And there lay the veteran soldier of the Revolution, covered with a score of unsightly wounds, either of which alone had been fatal--his brains oozing from his cracked skull, and his white hairs crimsoned with his gore! Oh, a hard fate to overtake one of that noble band, who gave the best years of his life to his country's service, that liberty might survive oppression! As night drew her sable mantle over the ghastly scene about Haun's Mill, those who had escaped to the woods returned to learn the fate of their friends. I need not dwell upon the horrors of that awful night in which wives with bursting hearts sought for their husbands, and mothers searched for their sons among the mangled bodies of the dead. Nor need I pause to relate in detail the sights revealed by the morning light. According to the statement of the leaders of the mob, they had fired seven rounds each, making in all some sixteen hundred shots fired at a company in which there were not more than thirty men. Nineteen of the men and boys were killed outright in this inhuman butchery, and some twelve to fifteen were wounded more or less severely. The few men who escaped with their lives, the following day carried the bodies of the slain to an old vault which had been dug for a well, and there the butchered were interred in haste, as those performing these sad offices were under fear every moment that the mob would return to massacre the survivors of the tragedy of the day before. This Haun's Mill butchery may very properly be regarded as the first fruits of Governor Boggs' exterminating order. On the twenty-eight of October, Colonel Jennings, of Livingston County, had entered into a treaty of peace with the saints at Haun's Mill, and each party agreed to use whatever of influence it possessed for peace; and while we cannot learn whether that same colonel was in the company which did the killing or not, still it is known that a few days after the massacre, he, in company with other leading men in upper Missouri, among whom was Mr. Ashby, member of the State legislature from Chariton, went about threatening the lives of the survivors, stealing their property, laying waste their crops and running off their stock. My own view of the circumstances is that after the treaty of peace entered into on the twenty-eighth, Colonel Jennings' men, with other mob forces, heard of the exterminating order of Governor Boggs, and gathered together under the leadership of Comstock and undertook to carry out the monstrous edict that was worthy only of a Nero, a Caligula, or a Domitian. CHAPTER XLI. THE BETRAYAL OF FAR WEST. In the meantime the mob forces, called "the governor's troops," had gathered about Far West to the number of two thousand two hundred men, armed and equipped for war. The main body of these forces had marched from Richmond under the command of Major General Samuel D. Lucas, starting on the 29th of October. The following day he was joined by the forces of General Doniphan at the ford of Log Creek, not far from Far West. Here they received the exterminating order of Governor Boggs. This order made no provisions for the protection of the innocent, the "Mormons" were either to be exterminated or driven from the State, regardless of their guilt or innocence as individuals. On the morning of the 30th, the citizens of Far West had been informed of the approach of large bodies of armed men from the south, and sent out a company of one hundred and fifty of their number to learn the character of these forces, whether they were friendly or otherwise. The scouting party was soon convinced that the intentions of the approaching forces were hostile, and found some difficulty themselves in returning to Far West without being captured by the mob militia. As they approached the city in the evening, they were discovered by General Doniphan, who received permission from General Lucas to try and capture them; but having a superior knowledge of the ground, they escaped. Seeing these large bodies of men approach, what militia there was in Far West was drawn up in line just south of the city to oppose the advance of the formidable enemy. Both parties sent out a flag of truce, and they met between the two forces. In answer to the inquiry of the citizens of Far West as to who the mob forces were and what their intentions, the reply was, "We want three persons out of the city before we massacre the rest." [A] Hostilities, however, were postponed until the next day, and the mob began the work of encampment along the borders of a small stream called Goose Creek. During the night, the people in Far West constructed, as best they could, some rude fortifications south of the city, and were reinforced in the night by Lyman Wight and a small body of men from Diahman. [Footnote A: P. P. Pratt's Autobiography, page 201. The man sent out with the flag of truce from Far West was the late C. C. Rich.] The mob forces were also strengthened during the night by the arrival from the west of Niel Gilliam's bands, who were dressed and painted like Indians, and doubtless more savage than the savages whose dress, paint, and horrible yells they imitated. The mob forces under Comstock, with their hands dripping with the blood of their Haun's Mill victims, also joined Lucas during the night. That was a terrible night of suspense for Far West. The people had learned of the massacre at Haun's Mill; they knew the murderous intentions of the mob forces encamped within two miles of their homes, and outnumbering the people of Far West by more than four to one, and clothed with a seeming authority by the highest officer in the State, to resist which, however outrageous or barbarous the conduct of the mob might be, would give further excuse for their extermination. How true the saying: "When the wicked rule, the people mourn!" It was with heavy hearts and sinking hopes that the saints watched the first approach of the gray dawn that ushered in the 31st of October. About eight o'clock a flag of truce was sent out (Joseph and other Church writers say) by the mob forces; Lucas in his report to Governor Boggs says: "I received a message from Colonel Hinkle, the commander of the 'Mormon' forces, [Caldwell militia] requesting an interview with me on an eminence near Far West, which he would designate by hoisting a white flag. I sent him word I would meet him at two o'clock p. m., being so much engaged in receiving and encamping fresh troops, who were hourly coming in, that I could not attend before." It may be, judging from the subsequent treachery of Colonel Hinkle, that he sent a secret messenger to Lucas requesting an interview, and that the white flag sent out by the mob forces, of which our Church annals speak, and which was met by Hinkle in person with a few others, was sent to give General Lucas' answer to Hinkle's earlier request for an interview. At any rate, the truce flag was sent out and was met by some of the brethren, among whom was Hinkle; and if anything special was learned, or accommodations arranged, or understanding arrived at by the conference held with the enemy's flag of truce, our writers have failed to mention it. The reasonable conclusion is, therefore, that the flag of truce merely brought to Colonel Hinkle the information that Lucas could not meet him until two o'clock; and that Hinkle did meet him at that time; and upon his own responsibility, without consulting with the citizens of Far West or their leaders, entered into, and bound the people to, the following terms of capitulation: First. To give up all their [The Church] leaders to be tried and punished. Second. To make an appropriation of their property, all who have taken up arms, to the payment of their debts, and indemnify for damage done by them. Third. That the balance should leave the State, and be protected out by the militia, but to remain until further orders were received from the commander in chief. Fourth. To give up their arms of every description, to be receipted for. According to Lucas' statement, Hinkle, while he readily accepted these terms of capitulation, desired to postpone the matter until the following morning; to which Lucas replied that if that was done he would demand that Joseph Smith, Junior, Sidney Rigdon, Lyman Wight, Parley P. Pratt and George W. Robinson be surrendered to his custody as hostages for his faithful compliance with the foregoing terms; and if after reflection and consultation the people decided to reject the terms offered them, these hostages were to be returned at the point where they were delivered into his possession.[B] [Footnote B: Report of Lucas to Governor Boggs, dated November 2, 1838. Headquarters near Far West.] Let us pause here for a moment's reflection. If Lucas intended to deliver up those men again, what advantage was it for him to have them? According to his own statement he offered Hinkle terms of capitulation which he and the people affected were to consider and report their conclusions upon the following day; but Lucas demands the principal "Mormon" leaders as hostages for the faithful performance--of what? Merely to bind them to consider the terms of capitulation, according to Lucas' statement; and if those terms were rejected after due consideration and consultation, these hostages were to be restored to the people! Was there any need of hostages being given to insure the consideration of the terms of surrender offered? Not under the circumstances. The whole thing was a plan to get the leaders of The Church into the hands of the mob, that the governor's order of extermination or banishment might be carried out without the mob militia running the risk of some of them losing their lives; as their generals believed the saints would submit to any injustice or indignity, rather than endanger the lives of their prophet leaders by resisting it. These men were demanded as a pledge that the whole infamous agreement between Lucas and Hinkle should be faithfully performed on Hinkle's part; and not to insure the consideration of his terms of surrender as Lucas clumsily puts it. As I proceed with the narrative it will be seen that Lucas never intended to restore the prisoners to their friends. Hinkle returned from the secret consultation with Lucas, and about four o'clock in the afternoon told Joseph Smith and the other men Lucas demanded as hostages, that the leaders of the governor's troops desired a consultation with them outside the city limits. Accordingly the brethren, in company with Hinkle, walked out of Far West in the direction of the enemy's encampment. When midway between that encampment and Far West, the little band of brethren were met by the mob forces. Lucas occupied a central place, followed by fifty artillerymen, with a four-pounder; while the remainder of the forces, amounting to over two thousand, came up on the right and left. As soon as Lucas came up, Lyman Wight shook hands with him and said: "We understand, General, you wish to confer with us a few moments; will not tomorrow morning do as well?" Here Colonel Hinkle said: "General Lucas, these are the prisoners I agreed to deliver to you." Lucas brandished his sword and told these men from Far West that they were his prisoners, and that they would march into his camp without further delay! "At this moment," says Lyman Wight, "I believe there were five hundred guns cocked and twenty caps bursted, and more hideous yells were never heard, even if the description of the yells of the damned in hell is true as given by the modern sects of the day." [C] Especially horrible and threatening were the yells and threats of Niel Gilliam's company, costumed and painted as Indians. [Footnote C: Wight's affidavit, Times and Seasons, Vol. 4, page 267.] The brethren had been basely betrayed by Hinkle, as he had never consulted with them or any of the leaders of the people in relation to the terms of surrender offered by Lucas; and by misrepresentation he had induced them to place themselves in the hands of their implacable enemies. So long as treason is detested, and traitors despised, so long will the memory of Colonel Hinkle be execrated for his vile treachery. On reaching the enemy's camp, ninety men were called out to guard the prisoners. Thirty were on this duty at a time: two hours on and four hours off. The prisoners lay in the open air with nothing as a covering, and they were drenched with rain before morning. All night long they were mocked and taunted by the guard, who demanded signs, saying, "Come, Mr. Smith, show us an angel, give us one of your revelations, show us a miracle;" [D] mingling these requests with the vilest oaths. Sidney Rigdon had an attack of apoplectic fits, which afforded much merriment to the brutal guard. [Footnote D: P. P. Pratt's Autobiography, page 204.] All night long the prisoners were compelled to listen to the filthy obscenity of those who watched them, and hear them relate their deeds of rapine and murder, and boast of their conquest over virtuous wives and maidens by brute force. Thus the wretched night passed away. The morning following, which was the 1st of November, Hyrum Smith and Amasa Lyman were brought into the mob's camp as prisoners. According to Hinkle's agreement, the militia in Far West were marched out of the city and grounded their arms, which were taken possession of by Lucas, although they were not State arms, but were the private property of the men who carried them. The mob was now let loose upon the unarmed citizens of Far West, and under the pretext of searching for arms they ransacked every house, tore up the floors, upset haystacks, wantonly destroyed much property, and shot down a number of cattle just for the sport it afforded them. The people were robbed of their most valuable property, insulted and whipped; but this was not the worst. The chastity of a number of women was defiled by force; some of them were strapped to benches and repeatedly ravished by brutes in human form until they died from the effects of this treatment. The horrible threat made a few years before in Jackson County had been at last carried out--_We will ravish their women!_ At night a court-martial was held, consisting of some fourteen militia officers, among whom were Colonel Hinkle and about twenty priests of the different denominations. Sashiel Woods and Bogart, the Presbyterian ministers, were among them; and in addition to these spiritual dignitaries, there was the circuit judge, Austin A. King and the district attorney, Mr. Birch. The decision of the court was that the prisoners should be shot the following morning at eight o'clock, in the public square of Far West, in the presence of their families, as an example to the "Mormon" people. Colonel Hinkle visited Hyrum Smith and told him that a court-martial had been held and that he had contended for his (Hyrum's) acquittal, but it availed nothing, and all were to be shot the next morning. General Wilson had made an effort during the day to corrupt Lyman Wight, and get him to testify to something against Joseph Smith, but in this he failed. About the time Hinkle went to Hyrum, General Wilson took Wight aside and told him the decision of the court-martial. "Shoot and be damned," said Wight. About this time General Doniphan came up to Wilson and Wight and, addressing the latter, he said: "Colonel, the decision is a damned hard one, but I wash my hands against such cold-blooded murder." And he further said that he intended to remove his troops the following day as soon as light, that they should not witness such heartless murder. General Graham and a few others, whose names unfortunately have not been preserved, had voted against the decision of the court-martial, but it availed nothing. The bold stand taken by General Doniphan the next morning, in threatening to remove his troops and denouncing the execution of the prisoners as cold-blooded murder, alarmed Lucas, and he changed his mind about executing the decision of the courtmartial; in fact he revoked the decree, and placed the prisoners in charge of General Wilson with instructions to conduct them to Independence. CHAPTER XLII. SAD SCENES AT FAR WEST. Before starting, the prisoners were conducted into Far West, permitted to get a change of linen, and take leave of their families, though in the presence of a brutal guard. This parting, which they had good reason to believe was their final one, was very distressing. Yet it was borne with manly fortitude. Parley P. Pratt's wife was sick with a fever, with an infant at her breast. The roof of the miserable hovel in which she lay afforded but little protection from the drizzling rain which at the time was falling. His large comfortable house had been pulled down by the mob, and he had been forced to find temporary shelter in this hovel, for his sick wife and her young family. Stretched out on the foot of the bed, on which his wife lay, was another woman who had been driven from her home the night before, who now was in the throes of child-birth. To leave a family sick and helpless and destitute and exposed to the insults of a lawless band of murderers, would appall the stoutest heart. In tears Elder Pratt went to General Wilson and told him the circumstances of his family with the view of getting time to provide for their comfort, but he was only answered with a mocking, exultant laugh. The wife of Hyrum Smith was near her confinement, yet he was compelled to take his leave of her in the presence of his brutal guard, who peremptorily ordered her to get her husband a change of clothing within two minutes or he would be compelled to go without them; and after securing the clothing he was rudely hustled out of the house to join the rest of the prisoners. The separation of Sidney Rigdon from his family was scarcely less distressing, and Joseph had been as roughly torn away from his family. The prisoners were placed in a wagon, around which crowded the friends and relatives, among whom were the aged parents of Joseph and Hyrum, their hearts wrung with anguish and their eyes blinded with tears, as they beheld their noble sons in the hands of their merciless enemies. No one was allowed to speak to them, the silent pressure of the hand was the only token of affection granted, and the wagon containing the prisoners moved on, surrounded by its military guard, and followed by the prayers of heart-sick wives and a grief-stricken people. Leaving the prisoners to pursue their journey to Independence, let us relate what happened about Far West and Diahman. Joseph and his fellow-prisoners were started for Jackson County on the second of November, and General Clark arrived at Far West on the fourth. In the meantime, Lucas had sent Niel Gilliam's company and a part of General Parks' brigade, under command of General Parks, with orders to surround Diahman and disarm the people. And just before Clark arrived, Lucas, too, went to Diahman. The first thing done by Clark was to send orders to General Lucas to take all the men among the "Mormons" prisoners, and secure their property, with a view of paying with it the damages that had been sustained by the old settlers. After this, the brethren remaining at Far West were drawn up in line, and the names of fifty-six called off, and as they stepped out from the line, they were put under arrest to await a trial, though they were not informed as to the nature of the charges against them. After these fifty-six had been secured, General Clark addressed himself to the remainder, and referred them to the terms of surrender that Colonel Hinkle had arranged for them without their consent, and even without consulting with them. Yet General Clark as rigidly enforced those terms as if the people had drafted them, or had given them their sanction after they were drafted. The first item in the terms of capitulation was that the leaders of the people should be given up to be dealt with according to law. "This," said Clark, "you have complied with." The second item was that they should deliver up their arms. "This has been attended to," said the general. The third stipulation was that they sign over their property to defray the expenses of the war. "This you have also done," complacently went on Clark. That was true. The saints had signed away their property at the point of the musket, while the mob which compelled them to go to such extremes, mocked them with their taunts and sneers, unchecked by the officers who commanded them. After enumerating the things the saints had complied with, the self-important general concluded his speech in these words: Another article yet remains for you to comply with, and that is, that you leave the State forthwith; and whatever may be your feelings concerning this, or whatever your innocence, it is nothing to me. General Lucas, who is equal in authority with me, has made this treaty with you--I approve of it--I should have done the same had I been here--I am therefore determined to see it fulfilled. The character of this State has suffered almost beyond redemption, from the character, conduct and influence that you have exerted. And we deem it an act of justice to restore her character to its former standing among the States by every proper means. The orders of the governor to me were, that you should be exterminated, and not allowed to remain in the State; and had your leaders not been given up and the terms of the treaty complied with, before this you and your families would have been destroyed, and your homes in ashes. There is a discretionary power vested in my hands which I shall exercise in your favor for a season, for this lenity you are indebted to _my clemency._ I do not say that you shall go now, but you must not think of staying here another season, or of putting in crops; for the moment you do this the citizens will be upon you. If I am called here again in case of a non-compliance of a treaty made, do not think that I shall act any more as I have done, you need not expect any mercy, but extermination, for I am determined the governor's order shall be executed. As for your leaders do not once think--do not imagine for a moment--do not let it enter your mind, that they will be delivered or that you will see their faces again, for _their fate is fixed--their die is cast. Their doom is sealed._ I am sorry, gentlemen, to see so great a number of apparently intelligent men found in the situation you are; and oh, that I could invoke that _Great Spirit,_ the unknown God, to rest upon you and make you sufficiently intelligent to break that chain of superstition and liberate you from those fetters of fanaticism, with which you are bound, that you no longer worship a man. I would advise you to scatter abroad and never again organize yourselves with bishops, presidents, etc., lest you excite the jealousies of the people and subject yourselves to the same calamities that have now come upon you. You have always been the aggressors; you have brought upon yourselves these difficulties by being disaffected and not being subject to rule; and my advice is that you become as other citizens, lest by a recurrence of these events, you bring upon yourselves irretrievable ruin. After listening to this harangue--this mixture of hypocrisy and conceit, affected pity and heartless cruelty, pretended patriotism and willful treason--the fifty-six brethren who had been arrested, for what, they knew not, neither did Clark appear able to inform them, were sent to Richmond where they were to be tried; and the remainder were dismissed to provide food and fuel for their families, and make preparations for leaving the State. Governor Boggs appeared anxious about having his exterminating orders carried into effect, and occasionally stirred up General Clark to a lively remembrance of what he expected him to do, by sending him messages from time to time. Here is a specimen received directly after Clark had sent the fifty-six prisoners to Richmond: It will be a necessity that you hold a military court of inquiry in Daviess County, and arrest the "Mormons," who have been guilty of the late outrages committed towards the inhabitants of said county. My instructions to you are to settle this whole matter completely if possible before you disband your forces; if the "Mormons" are disposed voluntarily to leave the State, of course it would be advisable in you to promote that object in any way deemed proper. _The ring-leaders ought by no means to be permitted to escape the punishment they merit._ As if inspired to new zeal by the receipt of this message, Clark ordered General Wilson, who, in the meantime, had returned from Jackson County, to go to Diahman and take charge of all the prisoners at that place, and ascertain those who had committed "crimes," put them under close guard, and when he moved to take them to Keytesville, the county seat of Chariton County, and between seventy and eighty miles from Diahman. A number of the brethren were taken prisoners at Diahman and were examined before Judge Adam Black, one of the ringleaders of the mob in bringing about the whole trouble. But even he was obliged to acquit the brethren brought before him, as they were innocent of the charges made against them. At the close of their examination, General Wilson ordered all the saints to leave Diahman within ten days, with permission to move into Caldwell County, and remain until spring, when they were to leave the State. A committee of twelve men were granted the privilege of moving about freely between Far West and Diahman, with permission to move the corn and household goods from the latter to the former place. The stock, or the most of it, was taken possession of by the mob-militia. The committee of twelve were to wear white badges on their hats in order that they might be easily recognized by the forces that would be detailed to watch the movements of the "Mormon" people. By this arrangement the saints at Diahman were driven from their comfortable homes to camp out through a long, dreary and severe winter in their wagons and tents, by reason of which exposure many perished, among whom were a number of delicate women and children. CHAPTER XLIII. A PROPHET'S REBUKE. It is time now that we turn our attention to what befell Joseph Smith and his fellow-prisoners. The first day from Far West they made twelve miles, camping at night on Crooked River. A strong guard was placed around the prisoners, who watched them closely. The next morning the Prophet Joseph had a word of comfort for his brethren. He spoke to each one quietly saying: "Be of good cheer, brethren, the word of the Lord came to me last night that our lives should be given us; and that whatever we might suffer during this captivity, not one of our lives should be taken." [A] [Footnote A: Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, page 210.] The reader will pardon me if I anticipate sufficiently to say that this remarkable prophecy was verily fulfilled: not one of their lives was sacrificed. The same day this prophecy was made, the prisoners reached the Missouri River, and were hurried across into Jackson County, for General Clark had sent word to Lucas to bring the prisoners to him at Richmond; but Wilson was determined to exhibit the prisoners at Independence. On the journey Wilson became more friendly towards his prisoners and conversed freely with them in relation to the disturbances which had taken place in Jackson County, in 1833. General Wilson, it must be remembered, was the man who kept a store about one mile west of Big Blue, and seven or eight miles west of Independence; and who was active in driving the saints from Jackson County and burning their homes. Of the part he took in these proceedings he boasted as if it was some laudable work he had accomplished, though he admitted that he and his associates then, and now, were the aggressors, and that the manner of life followed by the saints was blameless. On the fourth the prisoners and their guards arrived at Independence, and though it was raining, the prisoners were driven about the streets for the purpose of exhibiting them to the crowds which had come together to see them. They were placed in an old, vacant house where many came to see them during that and the following day. Among those who came on the first day was a lady, who innocently inquired which one of the men it was the "Mormons" worshiped. Joseph was pointed out to her as the one, and she inquired of him if he professed to be the Lord and Savior. To which he replied that he "professed to be nothing but a man, and a minister of salvation, sent by Jesus Christ to preach the Gospel." This astonished the lady and her eager questions brought from the prophet, ever willing to preach the gospel either in freedom or in bondage, a discourse on the principles he was sent to teach. The lady broke down in tears, and left their dingy prison with a prayer for their safety and deliverance. Joseph's native eloquence and the truth he advocated had gained another triumph, for not only was the lady overcome with what she heard, but it had its effect upon all who listened. In a day or two the prisoners were removed from their miserable quarters where the floor had been their bed and blocks of wood their pillows, to the best hotel in the city, where they were treated kindly and allowed to move about pretty freely, with a small guard to watch their movements. Subsequently, however, they had to pay their own expense at this hotel, and exorbitant charges were made for every comfort afforded them. During the few days that Joseph and his fellow-prisoners remained at Independence, several messages were sent from General Clark's headquarters at Richmond to have the "Mormon" leaders sent there immediately. General Wilson, however, found it difficult to secure a guard to accompany them, as no one would volunteer, and when men were drafted they refused to obey orders. At last three men were obtained as a guard, and on the morning of the eighth of November they set out for Richmond. They traveled down the south bank of the Missouri River to a ferry kept by a Frenchman by the name of Roy. Here they crossed the river, and after going about a half a mile lodged for the night at a private house. The guard who accompanied the prisoners came more as a protection to them than to hinder them from escaping, and the people in and about Independence appeared willing for the prisoners to escape. The guards had been drinking during the day, and not infrequently the prisoners were sixty or eighty rods in the rear or ahead of them. When night found them at the private house before mentioned, sleep so overpowered the guards that they gave their arms into the hands of the prisoners that they might protect themselves if occasion to do so should occur; and that was quite likely since they were in a neighborhood filled with their most bitter enemies. The night passed, however, without any disturbance, and the next morning the journey to Richmond was continued. Before starting a number of armed and rough-looking men, gathered about the prisoners with curses and threats, and the guards alarmed for their safety, sent a messenger to Richmond to obtain a stronger guard. Without waiting for its arrival, the little company proceeded on its journey, but had not gone far when they met Colonel Sterling Price and a guard of seventy soldiers. Arriving at Richmond, Joseph and his brethren were thrust into an old, vacant house under guard. Soon afterwards they were visited by General Clark who was introduced to them. The prisoners made an effort to find out the charges against them, but Clark evaded their questions and shortly withdrew. Clark had left the room but a few minutes when Colonel Price came in accompanied by a blacksmith of the name of John Fulkerson, carrying a log chain and a number of pad-locks. The windows to the house were nailed down, and the seven prisoners from Independence were chained together by the ankles; Price's guard of ten men standing with guns poised, and their thumbs on the hammers for instant use. In the meantime General Clark was searching for authority to try the prisoners before a court-martial, and it would appear from the testimony of a brother, by the name of Grant, that he had concluded to so proceed, and had even given the sentence of the court before an investigation had occurred; for this young man by the name of Grant, (given name not known), but a brother-in-law to William Smith, brother to the Prophet Joseph, lodged at the hotel where Clark made his headquarters. He saw that general select the men who were to shoot the "Mormon" leaders on the morning of the twelfth of November. He saw these men choose their rifles and load them with two balls in each; after which Clark said to them: "Gentlemen, you shall have the honor of shooting the "Mormon" leaders on Monday morning at eight o'clock." [B] [Footnote B: Testimony of Hyrum Smith, Times and Seasons, volume 4, page 252.] Some of the friends of the captive brethren intimated to the general that he had no authority to try the prisoners by court-martial; whereupon he sent to Fort Leavenworth to obtain the military code of laws, which he searched for several days for authority to try the prisoners as he had proposed, by court-martial. At last he had to give it up, but he did it with great reluctance. He visited the prison where Joseph and his brethren were confined, and told them he had decided to deliver them to the civil authorities; and informed them they were accused of "treason, murder, arson, larceny, theft, and stealing." The prisoners then were delivered into the hands of the civil authorities, and an investigation was begun before Austin A. King, the circuit judge, and Thomas C. Birch, the prosecuting attorney for the State. The examination of the witnesses for the State continued from the eleventh of November to the twenty-sixth. Each night after the day's examination the prisoners who had been brought down from Independence were taken to their gloomy prison and chained together, while about fifty of their brethren and fellow-prisoners, who had been brought from Far West, were kept under guard in an open unfinished, court-house, exposed to the excessive coldness of that inclement season. The constitution of Elder Rigdon was so delicate, that in consequence of the exposure and hardships he was forced to endure under this cruel persecution, his health broke down and at last he lost his reason; yet he was chained to his companions and compelled to remain in the presence of a noisy and unruly and unfeeling guard. His daughter, who was the wife of George W. Robinson, one of the prisoners fastened to the same chain with her father, was at last permitted to come to the prison and care for her afflicted father. Lovingly, tenderly this delicate young woman with her first born babe at her breast, nursed her afflicted father through those gloomy days, and through her tenderness and anxious care nursed him back to health and reason. The guard, under Colonel Price, was perhaps the most foulmouthed and villainous that could possibly be brought together. They related to each other their deeds of murder and rapine, and boasted of raping virtuous wives and maidens, until the prisoners were heart-sick with the disgusting details of their crimes. Parley P. Pratt relates an incident that occurred in the prison one night when the guards were unusually obscene, which we give entire in that writer's own language: I had listened [to the guard's boasts of defiling wives and maidens by force] till I became so disgusted, shocked, horrified and so filled with the spirit of indignant justice that I could scarcely refrain from rising upon my feet and rebuking the guards; but had said nothing to Joseph, or any one else, although I lay next to him and knew he was awake. On a sudden he arose to his feet, and spoke in a voice of thunder, or as the roaring lion, uttering as near as I can recollect, the following: "_Silence!_ ye fiends of the the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and hear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die _this instant._" He ceased to speak. He stood erect in terrible majesty. Chained and without a weapon; calm, unruffled, dignified as an angel, he looked upon the quailing guards, whose weapons were lowered or dropped to the ground; whose knees smote together, and who shrinking into a corner, or crouching at his feet, begged his pardon, and remained quiet till a change of guards. I have seen the ministers of justice, clothed in magisterial robes, and criminals arraigned before them, while life was suspended on a breath, in the courts of England. I have witnessed a congress in solemn session to give laws to nations; I have tried to conceive of kings, or royal courts, of thrones and crowns, and of emperors assembled to decide the fate of kingdoms; but dignity and majesty have I seen but once, as it stood in chains, at midnight in a dungeon, in an obscure village in Missouri. CHAPTER XLIV. "A STRONG POINT FOR TREASON." FIFTEEN days were consumed in taking testimony for the State. At the expiration of that time the judge ordered the defendants to bring forth their rebutting testimony or he would thrust them into prison. "I could hardly understand what the judge meant," says Hyrum Smith, "as I considered we were in prison already." The names of forty persons, residents of Far West, were given to the court to be called as witnesses for the defense, and the subpoenas for them were placed in the hands of "Captain" or "Parson," which ever title the reader may be best pleased to know him by, for he was both captain of a gang of mobbers and a supposed minister of Christ, and now an arm of the civil power--any way it was Bogard of Crooked River battle fame. He took with him a force of fifty men and started for Far West; and in the course of a few days returned with the forty men. They were at once put under arrest and by this cunning were prevented from appearing as witnesses. After executing this _coup de main_ the judge petulantly exclaimed: "Gentlemen, you must get your witnesses or you shall be committed to jail immediately." Most of the brethren felt very much discouraged at the turn affairs had taken, but Hyrum Smith, under the advice of General Doniphan and Lawyer Reese, gave the names of some twenty other persons at Far West, who were desirable as witnesses. The same man was ordered to bring the witnesses to Richmond, but in the meantime the people at Far West had learned of the intrigue being practiced upon them, and the persons whose names Bogard took with him, who had not left the State, kept out of the way and he returned to Richmond with but one man who was wanted, and he was thrust into jail and not allowed to testify. The judge again urged the prisoners to bring on their witnesses, telling them it was the last day he would hold the court open for them. While the brethren were in consultation with their lawyers a Mr. Allen passed the window and Hyrum Smith beckoned to him to come inside, and the prisoners then informed the court that they had one witness who was ready to be sworn. But at this juncture the prosecuting attorney, Birch, objected to having the witness testify, as this court was merely investigating the case, and not trying it, notwithstanding the frequent calls from the court asking the accused to procure witnesses. General Doniphan here lost his patience, and rising to his feet he said: "I'll be G---d----d if the witness is not sworn. It is a d---d shame to treat these defendants in this manner. They are not allowed to put one witness on the stand; while the witnesses they have sent for have been captured by force of arms and thrust into the 'bull pen,' to prevent their testifying." No sooner, however, had Allen begun his testimony than he was taken by the nape of the neck by a brother-in-law of the priest Bogard, kicked out of the room and made to run for his life. During this preliminary examination Judge King appeared extremely anxious to fasten the crime of treason upon Joseph Smith and his associates; and to that end he bent every energy, knowing that if a charge of that character were sustained against them he could refuse them bail. The judge asked one of the witnesses if the "Mormons" sent missionaries to foreign countries. He was answered in the affirmative. "Do the 'Mormons' profess a belief in the seventh chapter of Daniel, and the twenty-seventh verse?" [A] asked the judge. [Foonote A: "And the kingdom and dominion, and the greatness of the kingdom under the whole heavens shall be given to the people of the saints of the Most High, whose kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and all dominions shall serve and obey him" [meaning Christ.]--Daniel 7:27.] "Certainly they do," replied the witness. "Then," said Judge King, turning to the clerk of the court, and speaking with that dignity all judges are supposed to possess, "put that down; that is a strong point for treason!" The examination resulted in the Prophet Joseph, his brother Hyrum, Sidney Rigdon, Lyman Wight, Caleb Baldwin and Alexander McRae being committed on a charge of treason, and sent to Liberty jail, in Clay County. Parley P. Pratt, Morris Phelps, Lyman Gibbs, Darwin Chase and Norman Shearer were committed on a charge of murder for the part they took in the battle of Crooked River; and were to remain in prison at Richmond. The fifty-six other brethren that had been sent to Richmond as prisoners by General Clark, and the forty brought down by Bogard under the pretense that they were to be witnesses on behalf of their brethren, were either released or admitted to bail. Those admitted to bail, together with those who went on their bonds, were subsequently driven from the State so that the bail was forfeited. Having followed the brethren in bonds thus far, we must turn our attention to what befell the main body of the Saints. CHAPTER XLV. EXODUS FROM MISSOURI. It will perhaps be remembered that the saints at Diahman were given a very limited time by General Wilson in which to leave for Far West--only ten days. Therefore in their flight to Far West they left much of their stock and property behind them. On the first of December the "Mormon" committee that had been granted the privilege of moving freely between Diahman and Far West for a limited time proposed to a committee of Daviess County citizens, viz., W. P. Peniston, Dr. K. Kerr, and Adam Black, that the "Mormon" committee be allowed, first, to employ twenty teams and their drivers to move the property of the saints from Diahman to Far West; and, second, that they be allowed to collect all stock the "Mormon" people owned in Daviess County, and that on a given day a committee from said county examine the stock and accompany the "Mormon" committee and the stock out of the county, the brethren binding themselves on their part not to take any stock from the county after this general drive. These propositions were accepted by the Daviess County committee, and duly executed, though much of the stock belonging to the saints had been driven away, or shot down to supply the mob forces with beef. It was during these trying times that Brigham Young, afterwards the President of The Church, began to exhibit those executive qualities which so eminently fitted him as a great leader. By the apostasy of Thomas B. Marsh, the presidency of the quorum of the Twelve Apostles devolved upon him, hence also the leadership of The Church during the absence of the First Presidency. Was God training him for leadership in that greater exodus to take place a few years later? He called together those members of the High Council of the Far West stake of Zion that still remained in Far West, and enquired of them as to their faith in the Latter-day work, first telling them that his own faith was unshaken. All the members present expressed their undying faith in the gospel, and their confidence in Joseph Smith as a prophet of God. The council was then reorganized; the vacancies caused by absence or apostasy were filled up, and the council was prepared to do business. Elders John Taylor and John E. Page, both of whom had previously been chosen by revelation for the office, were ordained members of the quorum of the Twelve Apostles, on the nineteenth day of September, under the hands of Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball. This work of setting in order the High Council and filling the vacancies in the quorum of the Apostles being accomplished, Elder Young waited upon Bishop Partridge and proposed to him that they adopt some plan to remove the poor from the State, that they might not fall victims to the governor's exterminating order. The bishop's reply was rather ungracious, for he said: "The poor may take care of themselves, and I will take care of myself!" "Well," said Elder Young, "if you will not help them out, I will." Here, however, I would suggest to the reader not to judge the bishop too harshly for the petulant expression he allowed to escape him at that moment. Let it be remembered that when the bishop first became connected with The Church he was a man of considerable means: and now, in consequence of frequent drivings, and caring for his brethren, he found himself stripped of nearly all his earthly possessions, and sorely perplexed as to the future. No wonder then, if, in a moment of forgetfulness, he made the remark quoted above. Those were days that tried men's souls, be not surprised if good men and true had their periods of despondency. Elder Young's activity and zeal in the matter of caring for the poor were unbounded. A public meeting was called, not only of the saints but also of the citizens of Caldwell County and the poverty and distress of many of the saints presented to them. Several gentlemen, not members of The Church, expressed themselves as being of opinion that an appeal should be made to the citizens of upper Missouri, inviting their assistance towards furnishing means to remove the poor from Caldwell County. Whether such an appeal was made or not, I cannot say, but rather think not, as a resolution was adopted at this meeting as follows: "_Resolved,_ That it is the opinion of this meeting that an exertion should be made to ascertain how much [means] can be obtained from individuals of the society [church]; and that it is the duty of those who have, to assist those who have not, that thereby we may, as far as possible, within and of ourselves, comply with the demands of the Executive." So that the generosity of the people of upper Missouri I think was not appealed to by the saints that were driven from among them. At a subsequent meeting, similar in character to the one alluded to, Elder Young offered this resolution: "_Resolved,_ That we this day enter into a covenant to stand by and assist each other, to the utmost of our abilities, in removing from this State, and that we will never desert the poor who are worthy, till they shall be out of the reach of the general exterminating order of General Clark, acting for and in the name of the State." This resolution was adopted, and a committee of seven appointed to superintend the removal of the saints. A committee was also appointed to draft a covenant that should bind the saints in an agreement to assist each other to the extent of their available property to remove from the State of Missouri, in accordance with the orders of the governor; this covenant was drawn up in due form and signed by the faithful brethren. Elder Young secured eighty names to this covenant the first day he took hold of it, and three hundred the next. The Prophet Joseph, not willing to be behind the other brethren in the good work, hearing what was going on through those who visited him while in prison, from his gloomy dungeon at Liberty, sent the brethren a hundred dollars to assist in removing the Saints. Charles Bird was appointed to go down towards the Mississippi and make deposits of corn for the use of the saints as they should make their way out of the State. He was also to make contracts for ferriage and arrange whatever else might be necessary for their comfort and security. Thus all things were prepared for the exodus of The Church from the unfriendly State of Missouri. No sooner had these arrangements been perfected than Elder Young, whose wisdom and activity had doubtless given offense to the enemies of The Church, had to flee from Far West to escape the vengeance of the mob. He went to Illinois. In his labors, Elder Young had been materially assisted by the support and counsels of Heber C. Kimball, John Taylor and the members of the various committees that had been appointed, to whom was now left the execution of the plans that had been laid for the removal of The Church. I can not dwell upon all the details of that exodus. All I need say here is that it was managed with consummate wisdom; and, in view of all the difficulties in the way, with less suffering than could have been expected. By the twentieth of April nearly all the saints, variously estimated from twelve to fifteen thousand, had left the State where they had experienced so much sorrow; and found a temporary resting place in the State of Illinois, chiefly in the city of Quincy and vicinity, but a few settled in the then Territory of Iowa. CHAPTER XLVI. AGAIN THE PASSIVELY GOOD--PETITIONS. It must not be supposed that all the people of Missouri sanctioned the outrages committed against The Church. On the contrary there was here and there an honorable man who protested against the conduct of the mob and the authorities; and occasionally some newspaper would deplore the action of the State against the saints. Among the men who were moved with sympathy by their sufferings was Michael Arthur. He wrote to the representatives in the State legislature from Clay County, relating the vile atrocities that were heaped upon the heads of the defenseless saints after they had surrendered their arms to General Clark. He represented that the "Mormons" were willing to leave the State, in fact that they were making every effort that their limited means would permit them to make to get away, and suggested that a company of reliable men under the command of Geo. M. Pryer be authorized to patrol on the line between Daviess and Caldwell counties with authority to arrest any one they found disturbing the peace, that the "Mormons" might be protected while they were making preparations to leave the State. And if it was impracticable to organize this company of men, then he suggested that the arms taken from the "Mormons" be returned to them, that they might defend themselves from the barbarous attacks of their enemies. Nor were the saints wanting in attention to the instructions of the Lord in the matter of petitioning for a redress of their grievances. For as soon as the legislature was convened they sent a statement of all the wrongs heaped upon them during their sojourn in the State of Missouri, from the time they first settled in Jackson County to the treaty forced upon them at Far West by Generals Lucas and Clark, and the outrages that had been committed against them since the surrender of their arms. After detailing the story of their wrongs, they asked: first, that the legislature pass a law rescinding the exterminating order of Governor Boggs; second, they asked an expression of the legislature, disapproving the conduct of those who compelled them to sign a deed of trust at the muzzle of the musket, and of any man in consequence of that deed of trust taking their property and appropriating it to the payment of damages sustained, in consequence of trespasses committed by others; third, that they receive payment for the six hundred and thirty-five arms that were taken from them, which were worth twelve or fifteen thousand dollars; fourth, that an appropriation be made to reimburse them for their loss of lands from which they had been driven in Jackson County. The petition closed in these words: In laying our case before your honorable body, we say that we are willing, and always have been, to conform to the Constitution and laws of the United States, and of this State. We ask in common with others the protection of the laws. We ask for the privileges guaranteed all free citizens of the United States and of this State to be extended to us, and that we may be permitted to settle and live where we please, and worship God according to the dictates of our own conscience without molestation. And while we ask for ourselves this privilege, we are willing all others should enjoy the same. Elder David H. Redfield was appointed to present this petition to the legislature; and on that mission he arrived at Jefferson City on the seventeenth day of December. The same day of his arrival he had an interview with Governor Boggs, in which the governor manifested much interest, and on being informed that the Missourians were committing depredations against the saints, promised to write Judge King and Colonel Price ordering them to put down every hostile appearance. In the course of this conversation Boggs admitted that the "stipulations entered into by the Mormons to leave the State, and signing the deeds of trust, were unconstitutional and not valid." "We want the legislature to pass a law to that effect, showing that the stipulations and deeds of trust are not valid and are unconstitutional," said Redfield, and went on to say if they did not, the character of the State was forever lost. Previous to the arrival of Redfield, the governor's exterminating order, General Clark's reports, the report of the _ex parte_ investigation at Richmond, and a lot of other papers, had been forwarded to the legislature and referred to a special joint committee. That committee reported the day following Redfield's arrival at Jefferson City, the eighteenth of December. And to show in what bad repute these documents were held by this committee, I need only say that it refused to allow them to be published with the sanction of the legislature, because the evidence adduced at Richmond in a great degree was _ex parte_ and not of a character to be desired for the basis of a fair and candid investigation. The report concluded with three resolutions: one to the effect that it was inexpedient at that time to prosecute further the inquiry into the cause of the late disturbances; another to the effect that it was inexpedient to publish any of the documents accompanying the governor's message in relation to those disturbances; the last favored the appointment of a joint committee from the house and senate to investigate the troubles and the conduct of the military operations to suppress them. These resolutions were subsequently referred to a joint select committee with instructions to report a bill in conformity thereto, and to which I shall again allude. The day after, the committee reported in relation to that part of the governor's message relating to the "Mormon troubles," and on the documents accompanying it. The petition from the saints was read, amid profound stillness of the house, and at its conclusion an angry debate followed, in which quite a number of the members testified to the correctness of the statements made in the petition and to the cruelties practiced upon the saints, but they were in the minority. On the sixteenth of January, Mr. Turner, the chairman of the select joint committee before alluded to, in conformity with the resolution passed, reported "A bill to provide for the investigation of the late disturbances in the State of Missouri." The bill consisted of twenty-three sections. It provided for a joint committee composed of two members of the senate and three members from the house, which was to meet at Richmond on the first Monday in May and thereafter at such time and places as it saw proper. The committee was to select its own officers; issue subpoenas and other processes, administer oaths, keep a record, etc. This bill was introduced on the sixteenth of January, and on the fourth of February called up for its first reading, but on motion of Mr. Wright was laid on the table till the fourth of July. He knew that by that time, since the governor's exterminating order was still in force, that the "Mormons," in obedience to that cruel edict, would all have left the State, and then there would be no need of an investigation. That was the fate of the bill. It was never afterwards brought up. The legislature in its magnanimity appropriated two thousand dollars to relieve the sufferings of the people in Daviess and Caldwell Counties, the "Mormons" were to be included. And now came an opportunity for the Missourians of Daviess County to display their generosity. Having filled their homes with the household effects of the saints; their yards with the stock they had stolen; their smoke houses with "Mormon" beef and pork; they concluded they could get along without their portion of the appropriation and allowed the two thousand dollars to be distributed among the "Mormons" of Caldwell County! Judge Cameron and a Mr. McHenry superintended the distribution of this appropriation. The hogs owned by the brethren who had lived in Daviess County were driven down into Caldwell, shot down and without further bleeding were roughly dressed and divided out among the saints at a high price. This and the sweepings of some old stores soon exhausted the legislative appropriation, and amounted to little or nothing in the way of relief to the saints. Subsequently this same legislature, while the petition of the saints for a redress of their wrongs was lying before it, appropriated two hundred thousand dollars to defray the expenses incurred in driving the "Mormons" from the State, and dispossessing them of their property! By that act the legislature became a party to the deeds of the mob forces, urged on in their cruelties by the executive of the State; for that legislature had sealed with its approval all that had been done, by paying the mob that had executed the plan devised for the expulsion of the "Mormon" people. CHAPTER XLVII. THE ESCAPE OF THE PROPHET FROM MISSOURI. The winter of 1838-9 must have been a trying one to Joseph the Prophet and his associates immured in Liberty prison. The gloom of their prison life must have caused them less sorrow than the anxiety they felt for the safety of their families and friends, who were being abused and insulted by a heartless mob, even while making arrangements to leave the State. Still there were occasional glimpses of sunshine breaking through the clouds. Some of the faithful brethren called occasionally, bringing them the news from their families and their people, and the progress being made in the preparations to leave the State. Letters also from their families were brought to them, so that they were not altogether cut off from that sweet communion which affection breeds. Nor was the Lord unmindful of them, but he communed with them, and through the Prophet Joseph some of the noblest revelations ever given to The Church were received in that gloomy stone prison known as Liberty jail.[A] [Footnote A: See Doc. & Cov. Sec. 121, 122 and 123.] Nor were Joseph and his companions neglectful in making every proper effort to obtain justice from the State authorities. On the contrary they exhausted every means their minds could conceive of to regain their liberty. They petitioned the legislature, but without availing anything. Failing here, they petitioned the supreme court of the State twice for a writ of habeas corpus, but each time the petition was denied by Judge Reynolds, who subsequently became governor of the State.. They then petitioned the county court, and in about three weeks afterwards Judge Turnham came into their prison and said he had permitted Sidney Rigdon to get bail, but he had to do it in the night; and that he would have to make his escape in the night as his enemies had sworn they would kill him if they could find him. The judge said that he dared not admit the others to bail, lest it should cost him his own life, as well as theirs. The judge informed the prisoners that the whole scheme for the expulsion from the State of the "Mormon" people was arranged early in the spring, and that every officer in the State from the governor down was connected with the plot. He said the governor was now heartily sick of the whole transaction and would grant them a release if he dared; but the matter had gone beyond his control. However, the judge bid the prisoners to be of good cheer, as the governor had arranged a plan for their escape. In April the prisoners were taken to Daviess County, where they expected to be tried. Here they found Judge Thomas C. Birch on the bench--formerly the prosecuting attorney for the State in the _ex parte_ examination of the Prophet and his companions before Judge King at Richmond, and the man who was connected with the court-martial that condemned them to be shot in the public square at Far West. They were arraigned by a grand jury, composed of men connected with the massacre at Haun's Mill, some of whom, while under the influence of liquor, boasted of their deeds of cruelty at that horrible butchery. This grand jury did double service. During the day it acted as a court of inquiry, at night members of it were chosen by turns to act as a guard over the prisoners! After ten days passed in this manner, the jury reported indictments against the prisoners, for "treason, murder, arson, theft and stealing." The prisoners asked for a change of venue to Marion County. That was denied, but one was given them to Boone County, and Judge Birch made out the mittimus without date, name, or place; and the prisoners in charge of the sheriff and four other men and a two horse team and wagon started for Boone County. Passing through Diahman the prisoners were allowed to purchase two horses of the guard, giving some clothing for one, and their note for the other. The third day out from Gallatin three of the guards and the sheriff got drunk and went to bed. The sheriff, previously having shown the prisoners the mittimus made out by Judge Birch, now also informed them that Birch had told him not to take the prisoners to Boone County. After exposing the plan that had been laid for their escape by the authorities, the sheriff assured the prisoners that he should take a good drink of whiskey and go to bed, and they could do as they pleased. Accordingly when all the guards but one were asleep, that one, who, by the way, was sober as well as awake, assisted them to mount their horses and escape. Ten days later they arrived among their friends in Illinois. The Prophet in a signed summary of the persecutions endured by himself and his people in Missouri says:-- Before leaving Missouri I had paid the lawyers at Richmond thirty-four thousand dollars in cash, lands, &c.; one lot which I let them have, in Jackson County, for seven thousand dollars, they were soon offered ten thousand dollars for it, but would not accept it. For other vexatious suits which I had to contend against, the few months I was in the State, I paid lawyers' fees to the amount of about sixteen thousand dollars, making in all about fifty thousand dollars, for which I received very little in return; for sometimes they were afraid to act on account of the mob, and sometimes they were so drunk as to incapacitate them for business. But there were a few honorable exceptions. Among those who have been the chief instruments and leading characters in the unparalleled persecutions against The Church of Latter-day Saints, the following stand conspicuous, viz.: Generals Clark, Wilson and Lucas; Colonel Price, and Cornelius Gilliam; Captain Bogart also, whose zeal in the cause of oppression and injustice was unequalled, and whose delight has been to rob, murder and spread devastation among the saints. He stole a valuable horse, saddle and bridle from me, which cost two hundred dollars, and then sold the same to General Wilson. On understanding this, I applied to General Wilson for the horse, who assured me, upon the honor of a gentleman and an officer, that I should have the horse returned to me; but this promise has not been fulfilled. All the threats, murders and robberies, which these officers have been guilty of, are entirely overlooked by the executive of the State; who, to hide his own iniquity, must of course shield and protect those whom he employed to carry into effect his murderous purposes. I was in their hands, as a prisoner, about six months; but notwithstanding their determination to destroy me, with the rest of my brethren who were with me, and although at three different times (as I was informed) we were sentenced to be shot, without the least shadow of law (as we were not military men), and had the time and place appointed for that purpose, yet through the mercy of God, in answer to the prayers of the saints, I have been preserved and delivered out of their hands, and can again enjoy the society of my friends and brethren, whom I love, and to whom I feel united in bonds that are stronger than death; and in a State where I believe the laws are respected, and whose citizens are humane and charitable. During the time I was in the hands of my enemies, I must say, that although I felt great anxiety respecting my family and friends, who were so inhumanly treated and abused, and who had to mourn the loss of their husbands and children who had been slain, and, after having been robbed of nearly all that they possessed, were driven from their homes, and forced to wander as strangers in a strange country, in order that they might save themselves and their little ones from the destruction they were threatened with in Missouri, yet so far as I was concerned, I felt perfectly calm, and resigned to the will of my Heavenly Father. I knew my innocency, as well as that of the saints, and that we had done nothing to deserve such treatment from the hands of our oppressors. Consequently, I could look to that God who has the hearts of all men in his hands, and who had saved me frequently from the gates of death, for deliverance; and notwithstanding that every avenue of escape seemed to be entirely closed, and death stared me in the face, and that my destruction was determined upon, as far as man was concerned, yet, from my first entrance into the camp, I felt an assurance that I, with my brethren and our families, would be delivered. Yes, that still small voice, which has so often whispered consolation to my soul, in the depth of sorrow and distress, bade me be of good cheer, and promised deliverance, which gave me great comfort. And although the heathen raged, and the people imagined vain things, yet the Lord of Hosts, the God of Jacob, was my refuge; and when I cried unto him in the day of trouble, he delivered me; for which I call upon my soul, and all that is within me, to bless and praise his holy name. For although I was "troubled on every side, yet not distressed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed." The conduct of the Saints, under their accumulated wrongs and sufferings, has been praiseworthy; their courage in defending their brethren from the ravages of the mobs; their attachment to the cause of truth under circumstances the most trying and distressing which humanity can possibly endure; their love to each other; their readiness to afford assistance to me and my brethren who were confined in a dungeon; their sacrifices in leaving Missouri, and assisting the poor widows and orphans, and securing them houses in a more hospitable land; all conspire to raise them in the estimation of all good and virtuous men, and has secured them the favor and approbation of Jehovah, and a name as imperishable as eternity. And their virtuous deeds and heroic actions, while in defense of truth and their brethren, will be fresh and blooming when the names of their oppressors shall be either entirely forgotten, or only remembered for their barbarity and cruelty. Their attention and affection to me, while in prison, will ever be remembered by me; and when I have seen them thrust away and abused by the jailer and guard, when they came to do any kind offices, and to cheer our minds while we were in the gloomy prisonhouse, gave me feelings which I cannot describe; while those who wished to insult and abuse us by their threats and blasphemous language, were applauded, and had every encouragement given them. However, thank God, we have been delivered. And although some of our beloved brethren have had to seal their testimony with their blood, and have died martyrs to the cause of truth; yet Short though bitter was their pain, Everlasting is their joy. Let us not sorrow as "those without hope;" the time is fast approaching when we shall see them again and rejoice together, without being afraid of wicked men. Yes, those who have slept in Christ shall he bring with him, when he shall come to be glorified in him, and admired by all those who believe; but to take vengeance upon his enemies and all those who obey not the gospel. At that time the hearts of the widows and fatherless shall be comforted, and every tear shall be wiped from off their faces. The trials they have had to pass through shall work together for their good, and prepare them for the society of those who have come up out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Marvel not, then, if you are persecuted; but remember the words of the Savior: "The servant is not above his Lord; if they have persecuted me, they will persecute you also;" and that all the afflictions through which the saints have to pass, are in fulfillment of the words of all the prophets which have spoken since the world began. We shall therefore do well to discern the signs of the times as we pass along, that the day of the Lord may not "overtake us as a thief in the night." Afflictions, persecutions, imprisonments and deaths, we must expect, according to the Scriptures, which tell us, that the blood of those whose souls were under the altar could not be avenged on them that dwell on the earth, until their brethren should be slain as they were. If these transactions had taken place among barbarians, under the authority of a despot, or in a nation where a certain religion is established according to law, and all others proscribed, then there might have been some shadow of defense offered. But can we realize that in a land which is the cradle of liberty and equal rights, and where the voice of the conquerors who had vanquished our foes had scarcely died away upon our ears, where we frequently mingled with those who had stood amidst "the battle and the breeze," and whose arms have been nerved in the defense of their country and liberty, whose institutions are the theme of philosophers and poets, and held up to the admiration of the whole civilized world--in the midst of all these scenes, with which we were surrounded, a persecution the most unwarrantable was commenced, and a tragedy the most dreadful was enacted, by a large portion of the inhabitants of one of those free and independent States which comprise this vast Republic; and a deadly blow was struck at the institutions for which our fathers had fought many a hard battle, and for which many a patriot had shed his blood, and suddenly was heard, amidst the voice of joy and gratitude for our national liberty, the voice of mourning, lamentation and woe? Yes! in this land, a mob, regardless of those laws for which so much blood had been spilled, dead to every feeling of virtue and patriotism which animated the bosom of free men, fell upon a people whose religious faith was different from their own, and not only destroyed their homes, drove them away, and carried off their property, but murdered many a free-born son of America--a tragedy which has no parallel in modern, and hardly in ancient, times; even the face of the red man would be ready to turn pale at the recital of it. It would have been some consolation, if the authorities of the State had been innocent in this affair; but they are involved in the guilt thereof, and the blood of innocence, even of _children,_ cries for vengeance upon them. I ask the citizens of this vast Republic, whether such a state of things is to be suffered to pass unnoticed, and the hearts of widows, orphans and patriots to be broken, and their wrongs left without redress? No! I invoke the genius of our Constitution. I appeal to the patriotism of Americans, to stop this unlawful and unholy procedure; and pray that God may defend this nation from the dreadful effects of such outrages. Is there not virtue in the body politic? Will not the people rise in their majesty, and with that promptitude and zeal which is so characteristic of them, discountenance such proceedings, by bringing the offenders to that punishment which they so richly deserve, and save the nation from that disgrace and ultimate ruin, which otherwise must inevitably fall upon it? JOSEPH SMITH, Junior. The other prisoners who had been left in Richmond during this dreary winter, in the spring were taken to Columbia, in Boone County, and during the summer also escaped and joined their fellow exiles in Illinois. CHAPTER XLVIII. A PROPHECY THAT DID NOT FAIL. Before concluding this writing I wish to refer to a matter before briefly alluded to. On July 8, 1838, the Lord had given a revelation to the Twelve Apostles through Joseph, the Prophet, in which John Taylor, John E. Page, Wilford Woodruff and Willard Richards were chosen to fill the vacancies in the quorum of the Twelve, and the Apostles were to take leave of the saints in Far West on the twenty-sixth day of April, 1839, on the building spot of the Lord's House, and from thence depart over the great waters to preach the gospel in foreign lands. It had been the constant boast of the mob throughout the persecutions we have been relating, that this was one of "Joe Smith's" revelations, at least, that should not be fulfilled. Yet at the time appointed, the twenty-sixth day of April, five of the Twelve Apostles arrived there, having come from Quincy by various routes to elude the vigilance of their enemies, together with a number of Elders, High Priests and Priests. The five Apostles ordained Wilford Woodruff and George A. Smith members of their quorum, thus making the number of Apostles present seven, a majority of the Twelve, and hence competent to transact business as a quorum. They also ordained a number to the office of Seventy. They excommunicated a number of persons from The Church; prayer was offered up by the Apostles in the order of their standing in the quorum. A hymn known to the saints as Adam-Ondi-Ahman was sung. After this hymn was sung, Elder Alpheus Cutler, the master-workman of the Lord's House, laid the south-east corner stone in its position, and then said, in consequence of the peculiar situation of the saints, it was deemed prudent to discontinue further labor on the House until the Lord should open the way for its completion. The Apostles then took leave of some seventeen saints, who were present, and started on their way to fill their missions beyond the great Atlantic Ocean. Thus was fulfilled that revelation in every particular, notwithstanding the boasts of the mob which said it should fail of fulfillment. So important do I deem the fulfillment of this prophecy, however, that I give here the official report of the proceedings of that meeting, signed by the president of it:-- At a conference held at Far West by the Twelve, High Priests, Elders and Priests, on the twenty-sixth of April, 1839, the following resolution was adopted-- Resolved: That the following persons be no more fellowshipped in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but excommunicated from the same, viz.:--Isaac Russell, Mary Russell, John Goodson and wife, Jacob Scott, Senior, and wife, Isaac Scott, Jacob Scott, Junior, Ann Scott, Sister Walton, Robert Walton, Sister Cavanaugh, Ann Wanlass, William Dawson, Junior, and wife, William Dawson, Senior, and wife, George Nelson, Joseph Nelson and wife and mother, William Warnoch and wife, Jonathan Maynard, Nelson Maynard, George Miller, John Grigg and wife, Luman Gibbs, Simeon Gardner and Freeborn Gardner. The council then proceeded to the building spot of the Lord's House; when the following business was transacted--Part of a hymn was sung, on the mission of the Twelve. Elder Cutler, the master-workman of the House, then re-commenced laying the foundation of the Lord's House, agreeably to revelation, by rolling up a large stone near the southeast corner. The following of the Twelve were present--Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Orson Pratt, John E. Page and John Taylor, who proceeded to ordain Wilford Woodruff and George A. Smith (who had been previously nominated by the First Presidency, accepted by the Twelve, and acknowledged by The Church)--to the office of the Twelve, to fill the places of those who are fallen. Darwin Chase and Norman Shearer (who had just been liberated from Richmond prison, where they had been confined for the cause of Jesus Christ,) were ordained to the office of the Seventies. The Twelve then offered up vocal prayer in the following order--Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Orson Pratt, John E. Page, John Taylor, Wilford Woodruff and George A. Smith. After which we sung Adam-Ondi-Ahman, and then the Twelve took their leave of the following saints, agreeably to the revelation, viz.: Alpheus Cutler, Elias Smith, Norman Shearer, William Burton, Stephen Markham, Shadrach Roundy, William O. Clark, John W. Clark, Hezekiah Peck, Darwin Chase, Richard Howard, Mary Ann Peck, Artimesia Grainger, Martha Peck, Sarah Grainger, Theodore Thurley, Hyrum Clark and Daniel Shearer. Elder Alpheus Cutler then placed the stone before alluded to in its regular position, after which, in consequence of the peculiar situation of the saints, he thought it wisdom to adjourn until some future time, when the Lord shall open the way; expressing his determination then to proceed with the building; whereupon the conference adjourned. BRIGHAM YOUNG, President. JOHN TAYLOR, Clerk. CHAPTER XLIX. A STATE'S SHAME. This brings me to the close of the story of the Missouri Persecutions. We have seen a people start out under the direction of the Lord to build up the City of Zion to his holy name; but because of their disobedience and failure to observe strictly those conditions upon which the Lord had promised them success in accomplishing so great a work, they were driven entirely from that county and state where that city is to be founded. We have seen a proud, sovereign state of the great American Union, with a constitution that guaranteed the largest possible religious and civil liberty to its citizens, ignore both the spirit and letter of that constitution. We have seen its officers shamefully violate the laws passed in pursuance of it; and from the chief executive down enter into plots to destroy the saints of God, or drive them from the State; in accomplishing which, they were guilty of the most cruel barbarity. It is no palliation of their offense to say that the saints had not strictly kept the commandments of God. Their offenses were against the laws of God rather than the laws of man; delinquencies that fell not under the power of the State to correct. So far as the State of Missouri was concerned, she was not justified in trampling on her own constitution and laws, and permitting not only her people but the officers of the State to commit outrages against an innocent people that would put savages to the blush of shame. I impeach the State of Missouri before the Bar of Nineteenth Century Civilization; and affirm that in the five years between 1833 and 1838, she permitted and became a party to acts of robbery, violence and blood which are a disgrace to the age and its boasted spirit of progress and toleration. I charge that Missouri was guilty of crimes the perpetration of which forbids the claim that in the United States of America, and in this enlightened century, there has been an abandonment of the barbarities of past ages. Before the great Bar of History, I impeach the State of Missouri. In the years from 1833 to 1838 there were committed within her borders and against an unoffending, and law-abiding people, acts of shameful robbery, arson, mob-violence; willful, wanton slaughter of men, women and children; worst of all, rape upon virtuous wives and maidens; and, at the last, illegal banishment of some twelve thousand people from the State. For these crimes, repeatedly committed and numerous, no offender was ever brought to punishment by the State. On the contrary the machinery of its government was employed and its officers exerted themselves to further oppress the innocent sufferers; so that instead of being a means for their protection, the government was made an engine for their oppression; and its legislature turning a deaf ear to the story of their wrongs, made liberal appropriations from the State treasury to defray the expenses of those who committed the outrages against them and drove them from the State. I impeach the State of Missouri before the Bar of American Constitutions and Institutions; and charge that in the crimes permitted and by her officers perpetrated against the Latter-day Saints in the five years between 1833 and 1838, she both deserted and violated the principles of government upon which the State is founded. By failing--nay, worse, by refusing at first to protect by the majesty and righteous execution of her laws, and next by becoming an assailant and robber of the unoffending Latter-day Saints, she denied to them and deprived them of the right to property, the right to pursue happiness, the right to be free the right to worship God after the dictates of their own consciences. And by denying to them and depriving them of these rights, Missouri violated the fundamental principles of American government, and outraged American institutions. Lastly, I charge Missouri's historians, both those who have written the history of the counties in which the outrages I have detailed occurred, as well as the historians of the State at large, with having glazed over these deeds of infamy. They have either withheld or misrepresented the facts, and have descended so low as to become apologists for the State and the officers that could perpetrate and become a party to such acts of injustice, rapine and murder. The statements of fact in these pages are irrefutable and easy of verification. They can neither be successfully denied, gainsaid, nor explained away; nor can the impeachment of the State of Missouri before the Bar of History, Civilization or of American Institutions. The otherwise grand State of Missouri is stained with dishonor; because of her treatment of the Latter-day Saints on her escutcheon is to be seen the blotch of innocent blood unavenged. In undertaking the task of writing this history, the one thought above all others in my mind has been the desire to present to the youth of the Latter-day Saints, many of whose fathers passed through these trying scenes, with a circumstantial account of them that they might know how much was endured by their fathers for the truth's sake; that they might learn to prize it, not only for what it is in itself, but also to prize it to some degree for what it cost the fathers. But at the close of my task I find myself convinced that it is equally important that the people of Missouri and of the United States should have the plain facts presented to them, that they may not unwittingly, as the general tendency now is, become in a manner parties to the crime by approving what was done in that period, and thus fall under the displeasure of God, whose words are equally strong against those who shed the blood of the saints and the prophets, and those who applaud such crimes. APPENDICES. APPENDIX I. "MORMONS" IN JACKSON COUNTY. (_Taken from the "History of Jackson County, Missouri," published by Union Historical Co., Kansas City, Missouri,_ 1881, _pp._ 250 _to_ 269, _inclusive._) A very prominent feature of the early history of Jackson County was the trouble between the "Mormons" and other citizens during 1831 and 1832, which led to the expulsion of the former from the county during the latter part of the year 1832. This sect was brought into existence on the sixth day of April, 1830, near Manchester, New York. The first society consisted of six persons--Joseph Smith, Sr., Joseph Smith, Jr., Hyrum Smith, Samuel Smith, Oliver Cowdery and Joseph Knight. The three Smiths last mentioned were brothers, and sons of Joseph Smith, Sr., and Joseph Smith, Jr., was the reputed author of the new faith, and is the prophet of "Mormon" history. This Smith family came from Vermont, where Joseph, Jr., was born at Sharon, in Windsor County, December 23rd, 1805. They are represented by their neighbors, both in Vermont and New York, to have been a shiftless, worthless family. The parents are represented as having been dishonest, unreliable, ignorant and superstitious, and the sons seemed to have inherited all these peculiarities. A part of the business of the father was that of "water witch," in which capacity he went about the country with a hazel rod divining where water could be found by digging wells, by the writhings of the rod when held in the hands in a peculiar manner. Young Joseph is reported to have been a wild, reckless boy, dishonest, untruthful and intemperate. As he grew toward adult age he adopted his father's profession of "water-witching," and afterwards added to it the more practical business of digging the wells he thus located. While in this capacity he discovered a smooth, round stone of peculiar shape while digging a well for a Mr. Chase near Manchester. This he adopted as a "peep stone," and pretended that by placing it in his hat in a peculiar way it had the miraculous power of revealing to him where lost and stolen articles could be found, and he then added this to his previous miraculous business of "water-witchery." During the decade from 1820 to 1830 a great religious revival swept over the country, and gave rise to the phenomena known as "jerks!" This excitement raged greatly in western New York and in the neighborhood of the Smiths. Joseph, Jr., and some of his sisters and brothers became converted at one of the revivals, but Joseph was greatly vexed in spirit by the uncertainty as to which of the sects was the right one. He became a constant reader of the Bible for a time, but subsequently fell again into his old ways, and later events indicate that he fell also into some new ones, which have extended the peculiarities of his nature much beyond the sphere of his personal influence and beyond the period of his time. He put forth the claim that in September, 1823, God sent messengers to him to say that he was forgiven for his sins. Again in 1826, he claimed an angel visited him with the information that in the Hill Cumorah, not far from Manchester, were hidden certain golden plates which he was to unearth and translate. These plates were exhumed in September, 1826, as Joseph represents it, "with a mighty display of celestial machinery," and were delivered by the angels to him. These plates were afterwards translated by Joseph Smith, Oliver Cowdery, a school-master, and one Martin Harris, and published in the early part of the year 1830 as the "Book of Mormon." Another account of the origin of the Book of Mormon is that it was written as a historical romance, to account for the Indians in America, in 1812, by a Mr. Solomon Spaulding, a retired preacher, and presented to Mr. Patterson, a bookseller in Pittsburg for publication, together with a preface representing it to have been taken from plates dug up in Ohio. Mr. Patterson did not think the enterprise would pay, and hence did not publish it; but Sidney Rigdon, afterwards quite noted in early "Mormon" history, was then at work in the office of Mr. Patterson, and it is suggested that he stole the manuscripts, and had his full share in bringing "Mormonism" into existence, though he did not appear in connection with it for some months after the organization of the first society. But, however the book may have come, Joseph Smith appears from the first as prophet, and directed the movements of the new sect by what he claimed to be divine revelations, and put forth the most extravagant claims for himself and his prophetic powers. This was a time particularly favorable for the cultivation of such a superstition. The religious ideas prevailing at the time of the religious excitement referred to, embraced the belief in the direct dealings of God with man, very much after the manner represented in ancient Jewish history, which made such pretenses as these peculiarly liable to be accepted. Immediately after the organization of the first society, as above stated, there was an administration of the sacrament, and the laying on of hands for the "Gift of the Holy Ghost." Five days afterward, on the 11th of May, Oliver Cowdery preached the first sermon on the new faith, and before the close of the month, at Colesville, Browne [A] County, New York, there was what was claimed by the new sect to be miracles performed. From this the new sect took strong root with the ignorant and superstitious, and it gained members rapidly, notwithstanding the prophet was several times arrested for misdemeanors. In August, Paxley P. Platte [B] and Sidney Rigdon appeared as "Mormons," and soon after Orson Platte [C] was converted and baptized into the new sect. [Footnote A: This should be Broome County.] [Footnote B: Should be Parley P Pratt.] [Footnote C: Should be Orson Pratt.] The work of propagandation now became very active and effective. Smith put forth a revelation that mundane things were about to be brought to an end, a claim that was likely to strike terror into the hearts of the ignorant and superstitious, after the strong religious excitement that had been prevailing, and with the ideas of hell and the future state at that time current in theology. This was industriously proclaimed by the preachers, and accompanied with the narration of Smith's miracle, and the injunction to seek safety in the new Church. Its effect upon the ignorant and superstitious was very great, and by October, 1830, the society numbered fifty, and by June, 1831, about two thousand. Rigdon having taken up his residence near Kirtland, Ohio, had gathered around him about fifty very fanatical people. In January, 1831, he visited Smith in New York, and Smith returned with him to Kirtland, and soon afterward there was a gathering of all the adherents at Kirtland. This is known in "Mormon" history as the "First Hegira." The sect, at this time, as at all others, was composed of ignorant, superstitious and fanatical people prepared by these qualities to accept anything marvelous that might be told them, or to do anything to which they might be directed by one imposed upon them as a prophet or something demanded of them by the Lord. Such were the character of the people whom Smith attempted to settle in Jackson County. In June, 1831, Smith put forth a revelation to the effect that the final gathering place of the saints, which name they had now assumed, was to be in Missouri. Accordingly he set out with a few elders for the new land of promise, arriving at Independence in July. Here he put forth another revelation stating that this was the land, or as he put it, "the Zion that should never be moved," and that the whole land was "solemnly dedicated to the Lord and his saints." They began at once to build and at first erected a log house in Kaw township about twelve miles from Independence. On the 2nd of August, he gave out another revelation that the site of the great temple was three hundred yards west of the court house in Independence, and accordingly on the 3rd of August the spot was taken possession of by Joseph Smith, Sidney Rigdon, Edward Partridge, W. W. Phelps, Oliver Cowdery, Martin Harris and Joseph Coe, and dedicated with great ceremony, and followed by an "accession of gifts" from God. The next day, August 4th, another and larger party arrived from Kirtland, and the first "general conference" in the Land of Zion was immediately held. During this conference Smith gave utterance to another revelation, stating that the whole land should be theirs and should not be obtained "but by purchase or by blood." The situation, surroundings and leadership of these people seemed to impress their ignorant and superstitious minds with the idea that they were a chosen people designed in the purposes of God, to effect some great reformation in the world, and they seemed to have imagined that they occupied a similar position to that assigned by the Bible to the ancient Jews at the time of their escape from Egyptian bondage and replanting in Canaan. From this extravagance the way to others was open, easy and natural. In their poverty, the purchase of the "whole land" by them was manifestly not intended, and hence they seemed to expect that in some way the Lord would establish them in the possession of Missouri without that. Assuming this that they were the holy people of the Lord, that the Lord was the real owner of all things, and that all his possessions were free to them, they were not calculated to be respectful of the rights and interest of their non-"Mormon" neighbors _But though no overt acts of transgression upon such rights were being committed,_[D] the rapidly gathering members of the "Mormons," their ignorance, poverty and fanaticism, and the boastfulness and assurance with which they reiterated their belief in their destined possession of the country, backed by Smith's significant revelations and the dishonesty of the methods of the leaders, made the new sect an object of profound solicitude to the people. [Footnote D: Italics are mine.--_R._] In August following the "general conference," Smith and Rigdon returned to Kirtland, where they established a mill and a bank, the latter being an irresponsible "wild cat" concern that failed soon after its notes were well afloat, which failure was attended by another revelation to Smith, directing him and Rigdon to depart at night for Missouri. Soon after their arrival at Kirtland in August, W. W. Phelps was appointed to purchase a press and establish a Church paper in Independence, to be called the _Evening and Morning Star._ The prospectus for this paper appeared in February, 1832, and the paper itself in June following. On the 25th of March, 1832, Smith and Rigdon, while away from home, were seized by a mob and tarred, feathered and beaten for attempting to establish communism, and for forgery and dishonest dealings. In April, 1832, Smith being at Independence, a council was held and the printing press set up with religious ceremonies. In June the paper made its appearance and further excited the apprehensions of the citizens by an article on "Free People of Color," which was understood by the slave-holding population of Missouri to mean that the new sect were what was then appropriately called "abolitionists," and which in the excitement of that time about slavery, were as obnoxious to slave-holders as though they possessed the "cloven foot." This was a further cause of apprehension and led to a reply in a pamphlet entitled, "Beware of False Prophets!" In the spring of 1833, the "Mormons" numbered fifteen hundred in Jackson County. They had nearly taken possession of Independence, and were rapidly extending their settlements. They grew bolder as they grew stronger, and daily proclaimed to the older settlers that the Lord had given them the whole land of Missouri; that bloody wars would extirpate all other sects from the country; that it would be "one gore of blood from the Mississippi to the border," and that the few who were left unslain would be the servants of the saints, who would own all the property in the country. At the same time they fell into equal extravagance regarding spiritual things, and declared themselves "kings and priests of the Most High God," and all other religious sects as reprobates, the creation of the devil designed to speedy destruction, and that all but themselves were doomed, cast away Gentiles, worse than the heathen and unfit to live. They notified all "Gentiles" who were building new houses and opening new farms that it was needless, that the Lord would never allow them to enjoy the fruits of their labor and that in a few months the "Gentiles" would have neither name nor place in Missouri. At the same time that these extravagances were thus indulged, there does not appear to have been any more lawlessness among them or by them than would result from any equal number of low, ignorant people, so that while their presence was rapidly becoming insufferable, _they were doing nothing that would warrant their legal expulsion._[E] Still their numbers constantly increased by accessions from the east and from time to time large and enthusiastic meetings were held. In addition to their paper they had established a Church store in Independence, which was kept by Bishop Partridge. During the spring and summer it began to be manifest that they would be strong enough at the fall election to control the election of officers, and the other settlers could not regard, except with grave apprehension, the filling of the county offices by members of such a sect. These apprehensions were intensified by scandalous stories, which about this time began to reach Missouri about the leaders of the sect in Ohio, and as the feeling of apprehension increased, there arose a state of restlessness and friction closely bordering upon open hostility. However, beyond some mutual petty annoyances, such as throwing stones at houses, breaking down fences, etc., there was no open action taken until the 20th of July, when a number of citizens, about four hundred, assembled to take action on the situation. [Footnote E: Italics are mine.--_R._] The following account of this meeting is taken from a report published in the _Western Monitor,_ at that time published by Weston F. Birch, at Fayette, Mo.: "The meeting was organized by calling Colonel Richard Sampson to the chair, and appointing James H. Flournoy and Colonel Samuel D. Lucas as secretaries. "Messrs. Russell Hicks, Esq., Robert Johnson, Henry Childs, Esq., Colonel James Hambriglet, Thomas Hudspeth, Joel F. Chiles, and James M. Hunter, were appointed to draft an address; the meeting then adjourned and convened again, when the following was presented: "This meeting, professing to act not from the excitement of the moment, but under a deep and abiding conviction, that the occasion is one that calls for cool deliberation, as well as energetic action, deem it proper to lay before the public an _expose_ of our peculiar situation, in regard to this singular sect of pretended Christians, and a solemn declaration of our unalterable determination to amend it. "The evil is one that no one could have foreseen, and it is therefore unprovided for by the laws, and the delays of legislation would put the mischief beyond remedy. "But little more than two years ago some two or three of these people made their appearance in the upper Missouri, and they now number some twelve hundred souls in this county, and each successive autumn and spring pours forth its swarms among us, with a gradual falling of the character of those who compose them, until it seems that those communities from which they come were flooding us with the very dregs of their composition. Elevated, as they mostly are, but little above the condition of our blacks, either in regard to property or education, they have become a subject of much anxiety on that point, serious and well-grounded complaints having already been made of their corrupting influence on our slaves. * * * * * * * "When we reflect on the extensive field in which the sect is operating, and that there exists in every country a leaven of superstition that embraces with avidity notions the most extravagant and unheard-of, and whatever can be gleaned by them from the purlieus of vice and the abodes of ignorance, it is to be cast like a waif into our social circles. It requires no gift of prophecy to tell that the day is not far distant when the civil government of the county will be in their hands; when the sheriff, the justices and the county judges will be 'Mormons,' or persons wishing to court their favor from motives of interest or ambition. "What would be the fate of our lives and property in the hands of jurors and witnesses who do not blush to declare, and would not upon occasion hesitate to swear that they have wrought miracles, and have been the subjects of miraculous and supernatural cures; have conversed with God and his angels, and possess and exercise the gifts of divination and of unknown tongues, and fired with the prospect of obtaining inheritances without money and without price, may be better imagined than described. * * * * * * * "And we do hereby most solemnly declare, "That no 'Mormon' shall in future move into and settle in this county. "That those now here shall give a definite pledge of their intention, within a reasonable time, to move out of the county, shall be allowed to remain unmolested until they have sufficient time to sell their property and close their business without any material sacrifice. "That the editor of the _Star_ be required forthwith to close his office, etc. * * * * * * "That those who fail to comply with these requisitions be referred to those of their brethren who have the gift of divination and of unknown tongues to inform them of the lot that awaits them." Compliance with these demands being refused, the people assembled, tore down the printing office, scattering the materials and paper on the ground, and took Bishop Partridge, and a man named Charles Allen, to the public square, where they stripped and tarred and feathered them. Mr. Gilbert, who was now connected with the store, agreed to close it, and the mob then dispersed until the twenty-third. On the 23rd of July, this convention of citizens again convened and a committee was appointed to confer with the "Mormon" leaders. This committee was met by Messrs. Phelps, Partridge, Gilbert, and Messrs. Covil, Whitmer and Morley, elders of the sect. Between them an agreement was made to the effect that Oliver Cowdery, W. W. Phelps, William McLellin, Edward Partridge, Lyman Wight, Simeon Carter, Peter and John Whitmer, and Harvey Whitlock, were to remove from the county on or before January 1, 1834, and were to use their influence to secure the removal of all the saints--one-half by January 1st, the other half by April 1, 1834; John Corril and Algernon Gilbert were to be allowed to remain as agents to settle up the business of those removing; the _Star_ was not again to be published nor any other press set up in the county; Mr. Phelps and Mr. Partridge, if their families removed by January 1st, were to be allowed to come and go in settling up their business. The committee of citizens pledged themselves to use their influence to see that no violence was to be used against the saints while compliance to the agreement was being observed. This agreement as reported to the meeting, was unanimously adopted by the citizens, and the minutes signed by the chairman, Richard Sampson, and the secretaries, S. D. Lucas, J. H. Flournoy. In September Orson Hyde and W. W. Phelps were appointed by the "Mormons" as a delegation to Governor Dunklin, then Governor of Missouri, and to represent the affairs already recited, and to ask for protection. They prepared and presented to the Governor, October 8th, a long memorial setting forth a long list of grievances, wrongs and intimidations which they had suffered at the hands of the people of Jackson County. The Attorney-General being absent, Governor Dunklin declined to take any action until his return, so that it was not until the 19th of October that they received his decision. The case presented to him was an _ex parte_ one, and it received a decision which led the "Mormon" leaders to rely upon his protection. He denied the right of any citizens to take into their own hands the redress of the grievances, and recommended the "Mormons" to appeal to the civil courts by affidavit and legal process for redress of the wrongs complained of, and promised them a faithful enforcement of the laws. In pursuance of this action of the Governor, the leaders resolved not to abide by the agreement made with the people in July. Preparations for removal from the county were stopped and their leaders engaged Messrs. Woods, Reese, Doniphan and Atchison to defend them and prosecute for them in the courts. This aroused the citizens again, and although the "Mormons" had not so violated the law as to enable the people to proceed against them by legal process, the prospect, from the facts already stated, were regarded by the people as so extraordinary as to warrant extraordinary measures. Their safety, it appeared to them, depended upon the expulsion of the "Mormons" from the county by force, and they at once began preparations to that end. On the 31st day of October, a party of forty or fifty armed men, without other warrant than their own judgment of the requirements of the situation, visited a settlement of the "Mormons" on the Big Blue, destroyed ten houses and whipped a number of men. On the night of the 1st of November another party visited a settlement about twelve miles southwest of Independence, where Parley P. Pratt had assembled a force of about sixty men; here they encamped for the night and put out guards, two of which, Robert Johnson and a man named Harris, had an encounter with Pratt, whom one of them knocked down with a musket. They were then captured by Pratt's party and detained over night. The same night they were attacked in Independence and houses were stoned, doors broken down, etc. Part of A. S. Gilbert's house was pulled down and the doors of the store were broken in and the goods scattered on the street. A party of "Mormons," summoned from a neighboring settlement, saved part of the goods and attempted to have a man named Richard McCarty arrested for participation in the affair, but the Justice of the Peace applied to, Samuel Weston, refused to issue a warrant for the purpose. At the same time other "Mormon" settlements were visited by the people and great consternation was caused thereby among the women and children, the men having fled, but no injury was done them. The next day, November 2nd, all the Independence "Mormons," numbering about thirty families, left town and gathered together for protection. The same day people made another attack on the Big Blue settlement, when they unroofed another house. They attacked also another settlement about six miles from Independence. The next day, November 3rd, Joshua Lewis, Hiram Page and two other "Mormons" went to Lexington to ask protection from the circuit court, which was refused; while others applied to Justice of the Peace Silvers at Independence, with a like result. A number of persons at this time visited the "Mormons" and advised them to leave the country, as the people were so incensed at them that their lives were in danger. This was Sunday, and the "Mormons" had a rumor among them that a general massacre was impending for Monday. When Monday came the citizens collected and took possession of a ferry belonging to the "Mormons" across the Blue, but they soon abandoned it and gathered in greater numbers at Wilson's store about one mile west of it. A party of "Mormons," numbering about thirty, started from an adjacent settlement to help those on the Blue, but hearing of the assembly of the citizens at the store, fled through the cornfields and were pursued by the citizens. Later in the day a party of about thirty arrived from the settlement on the prairie where Pratt had encountered the guards a few nights before, and between them and the citizens a fight occurred, in which Hugh L. Brozeal and Thos. Linville of the citizens were killed and a "Mormon" named Barber fatally wounded. This fight created the greatest excitement throughout the county. The same day Richard McCarty caused Gilbert and Whitney to be arrested for assaulting him in Independence Saturday night, and for causing his arrest and attempting to prosecute him afterward. The situation of affairs now was that no "Mormon" could receive justice from the public courts any more than a citizen could have received justice in a trial by "Mormons." The conduct of the "Mormons" had so disrupted public peace and order that the county was virtually in the hands of a mob. In this situation Samuel C. Owens, clerk of the county court, advised Gilbert and Whitney to go to jail as a means of protection, and they, together with W. E. McLellin and a Mr. Coville and Morley, and one other "Mormon," took this advice. During the night, Gilbert, Coville and Morley were taken out for the purpose of an interview with their fellow "Mormons," but on being returned next morning were fired upon by a party of six or seven citizens. Coville and Morley ran and escaped, but Gilbert was retained by the sheriff. The balance of the party were released next day. The next day, November 5th, brought still more exciting times, for rumors from both sides exaggerated the scenes that had transpired; the citizens gathered to the number of hundreds from all parts of the county; the "Mormons," too, were rallying, one hundred of them collecting about a mile west of Independence. There they halted, waiting to learn the condition of affairs. They were informed that the militia had been ordered out for their protection and that Colonel Pitcher was in command. Upon application to this officer the "Mormons" were told that there was no alternative, they must leave the county forthwith; and deliver into Col. Pitcher's hands certain ones of their number to be tried for murder; and to give up their arms. To these demands the "Mormons" yielded. The arms, about fifty guns of all sorts, were surrendered; the men present accused of being in the skirmish the evening before, were given up for trial; and after being kept in durance for a day and night Col. Pitcher took them into a cornfield near by and said to them, "Clear out!" Following this event small parties went over the country warning the "Mormons" away wherever found, and not unfrequently using violence to the men when any of them were caught. This was continued by the infuriated citizens until the "Mormons" had all fled the county. They attempted to find refuge in adjoining counties, but Clay was the only one that would receive them. This was the end of "Mormonism" in Jackson County, but not the end of the Mormon trouble, for through the influence of their attorneys, and in the absence of such open violations of law as would have warranted their legal expulsion from the county, they were able to impress Governor Dunklin with the idea that they were then the victims of a ruffianly mob and were being persecuted on account of their religion. Hence for several years afterward there was a sort of support given them by the governor, which, though insufficient to reinstate them in Jackson County, was sufficient to inspire them with the hope, and caused them to expect and to some extent propose to return. This kept up the trouble. Whether the people were justified in so employing violence to rid themselves of an obnoxious sect, the members of which had not so violated the law as to warrant their legal expulsion, was shown by the events of the next few years. The "Mormons" settled finally in Clay, Carroll, Ray, Caldwell and Daviess counties, where they grew strong and prosperous, and, as in Jackson County, became correspondingly arrogant and unbearable. They took political possession of Daviess County, and there and in Caldwell County began to put in practice the things the people in Jackson County had apprehended and to prevent which they expelled them from the county. After making for themselves a record for treason, arson, burglary, theft, murder, and a long list of other crimes, they were finally, in 1838, expelled from the State by Governor Boggs, whom they attempted afterward, on the 6th day of May, 1842, to assassinate while sitting in his house at Independence.[F] [Footnote F: For an investigation of this subject see "Rise and Fall of Nauvoo," by the author of "Missouri Persecutions."] A quite detailed account of their efforts to get back to Jackson County, and of the action of Governor Dunklin, and the negotiations between them and the people of Jackson County, has been furnished in the following, which, it will be observed, is as favorable to the "Mormons" as possible: November 21st, R. W. Wells, attorney-general of Missouri, wrote to the legal counsel employed by the saints, that he felt warranted in advising them that in case the "Mormons" expelled from Jackson County desired to be reinstated, he had no doubt the governor would send them military aid. He further advised that the "Mormons" might organize into militia and receive public arms for their own defense. Judge Ryland also wrote Attorney Amos Reese, stating that the governor had inquired of him respecting the "outrageous acts of unparalleled violence that have lately happened in Jackson County;" and wished to know whether the "Mormons" were willing to take "legal steps against the citizens of Jackson County." He further wished to know whether a writ issued by him upon the oath of Joshua Lewis and Hiram Page had been handed to the sheriff for service; and if so what was the fate of the writ. This letter was dated November 24, 1833. In answer to the governor's inquiries Mr. Gilbert wrote that officer on November 29th, giving the following reasons why an immediate court of inquiry could not be held. "Our Church is scattered in every direction: some in Van Buren, (a new county;) a part in this county, (Clay;) and a part in Lafayette, Ray, etc. Some of our principal witnesses would be women and children, and while the rage of the mob continues, it would be impossible to gather them in safety to Independence. And that your excellency may know of the unabating fury with which the last remnant of our people remaining in that county are pursued at this time, I here state that a few families, perhaps fifteen to twenty, who settled themselves more than two years ago on the prairie, about fifteen miles from the county seat of Jackson County, had hoped from the obscurity of their location that they might escape the vengeance of the enemy through the winter; consequently they remained on their plantations, receiving occasionally a few individual threats, till last Sunday, when a mob made their appearance among them; some with pistols cocked and presented to their breasts, commanding to leave the county in three days, or they would tear their houses down over their heads, etc." * * * "An immediate court of inquiry called while our people are thus situated, would give our enemies a decided advantage in point of testimony, while they are in possession of their homes, and ours also; with no enemy in the county to molest or make them afraid." This letter was read and concurred in by Mr. Reese. Those people threatened on the 24th, as stated by Mr. Gilbert, fled into Clay County and encamped on the Missouri. December 6th, an additional memorial of facts and petition for aid, was sent to Governor Dunklin, setting forth the facts of their dispersion, and signed by six of the elders of The Church. A letter accompanied the petition, informing his excellency of the wish and intention of the saints to return to their homes, if assured of safety and protection. On Monday, December 24th, four families living near Independence, whose age and penury prevented their removal in haste, were driven from their homes; the chimneys of their houses were thrown down, and the doors and windows broken in. Two of these men were named Miller and Jones, Mr. Miller being sixty-five years old, and the youngest of the four. A court of inquiry was held in Liberty, Clay County, during December, which resulted in the arrest of Colonel Pitcher for driving the saints, or "Mormons," from Jackson, for trial by court-martial. Mr. Gilbert wrote Governor Dunklin from Liberty, Clay County, January 9, 1834, submitting for consideration the idea of the saints making the endeavor to purchase the property of a number of the most violent opposers, if such effort would be satisfactory, and help to solve the question peaceably. Governor Dunklin replied to the memorials and petitions of the saints in a friendly manner, avowing his desire and design to enforce the civil law, and if practicable, to reinstate those unlawfully dispossessed of their homes. Two clauses in this letter disclose something in reference to the peculiar animus of the persecution waging against the "Mormon" population. He wrote: "Your case is certainly a very emergent one, and the consequences as important to your society as if the war had been waged against the whole State; yet the public has no other interest in it, than that the laws be faithfully executed. Thus far, I presume, the whole community feel a deep interest, for that which is the case of the 'Mormons' today, may be the case of the Catholics tomorrow; and after them any other sect that may become obnoxious to a majority of the people of any section of the State. So far as a faithful execution of the laws is concerned, the executive is disposed to do everything consistent with the means furnished him by the legislature, and I think I may safely say the same of the judiciary. "As now advised, I am of the opinion that a military guard will be necessary to protect the State witnesses and officers of the court, and to assist in the execution of its orders, while sitting in Jackson County." An order was sent by the same mail from the governor, directing the captain of the Liberty Blues, a military organization, to comply with the requisitions of the circuit attorney, in the progress of the trials that might ensue. This letter is dated February 4, 1834. Suits were instituted by Messrs. Phelps and Partridge, in the proper courts of Jackson County, and a dozen or so of the brethren summoned by subpoena to attend the sitting of the court of inquiry to be held. These witnesses were met February 23rd, at Everett's Ferry by the Liberty Blues, fifty strong, commanded by Captain Atchison, to guard them into Jackson County. They crossed the river, and encamped about a mile from it. From reports brought into camp by scouts sent out, Captain Atchison sent an order to Captain Allen for two hundred drafted militia, and to Liberty for ammunition. The next day the party reached Independence, where the witnesses met the district attorney, Mr. Reese, and the attorney-general, Mr. Wells; and from them it was ascertained that all prospect for a criminal prosecution was at an end. Mr. Wells had been instructed by the governor, to investigate, "as far as possible," the outrages in Jackson; but the determined opposition presented to the enforcement of the law, by those who had driven the "Mormons" out, prevented the performance of executive duty. The judge discharged Captain Atchison and his company of Blues, stating that their service was not needed and that officer marched out of town, with the witnesses under guard, to the tune of "Yankee Doodle." While all this was transpiring time passed on and others were made to suffer. One old man Lindsay, nearly seventy, had his house thrown down, his goods, corn and other property piled together and fired, but was fortunate, after the parties who did it left, to save a part of his effects through the exertions of a son. Lyman Leonard, one of those who was compelled to return from Van Buren County was dragged from his house, beaten and left for dead, but revived and escaped. Joshua Sumner and Barnet Cole were beaten severely at the same time. March 31st, 1834, Ira I. Willis went over from Clay County into Jackson to look for and reclaim a cow that had strayed. While at the house of Justice Manship, making proof to the ownership of the cow, he was set upon and cruelly whipped. April 10th, 1804,[G] a petition was prepared memoralizing the President of the United States, and stating the facts of the expulsion of the people from Jackson County; and further setting forth that an impartial investigation into their several individual wrongs in the county where those wrongs were committed was impossible; they therefore asked that the executive power of the United States be exercised in their protection. This memorial and petition was signed by one hundred and fourteen of the expelled refugees. [Footnote G: Doubtless should be 1834.] In answer to this petition the President by order replied that the matter of the petition was referred to the War Department, and the department declined interference, as it did not appear that the emergency warranting such interference had occurred. This information was dated May 2nd, 1834, and signed by Lewis Cass. On the same day Governor Dunklin wrote to Messrs. Phelps and others, that the court of inquiry, before which Lieut. Col. Pitcher was to answer, had decided that the demand made by the officer for the surrender of the arms of the saints on Nov. 5th, 1833, was improper, and an order was sent to Col. Lucas to return them. This order directed Col. Lucas to deliver to W. W. Phelps, E. Partridge and others, fifty-two guns and one pistol, received by Col. Pitcher from the "Mormons," Nov. 5th, 1833. The result of this order is seen from the following communication made to Gov. Dunklin, May 7th, 1834: "Since the 24th ult., the mob of Jackson County have burned our dwellings to the number of over one hundred and fifty. Our arms were also taken from the depository, (the jail,) about ten days since and distributed among the mob." * * * * * * * The order for the restoration was forwarded to Col. Lucas, at Independence, May 17th, with a statement that he might return the arms to either of the three ferries on the Missouri, the line between Jackson and Clay counties. Of this delivery of the order the governor was informed by letter dated May 29th. To the letter and order to Col. Lucas, that officer stated that he would reply by May 22nd, but before that time he removed to Lexington and did not reply what he would do. Some time in May the expelled "Mormons" and their friends in Clay County began the manufacture of weapons, in order to be prepared for defense if occasion again required it; and in this many of the influential men of the county encouraged them, in order, as they said, "to help the 'Mormons' to settle their own difficulties." In the fall and before the agreement to leave Jackson County had been made, by the "Mormons" afterward expelled, a number of their brethren in Ohio, including Joseph Smith, Sylvester Smith, Frederick Williams and others, not far from one hundred and fifty men in all, had made arrangements to move into Missouri, with the intent to aid their followers there in defending themselves, or to share with them the fate that might await them. Of their intention thus to enter the State as immigrants, they notified their brethren in Missouri, who by letter dated April 24th, 1834, informed the governor, asking that their arms be restored to them and they be reinstated in their homes with the privilege of maintaining themselves in those homes, when so reinstated, by force; further asking the governor to give them a guard to escort them to Jackson County, when their friends from the East arrived. This letter was signed by A. S. Gilbert and four others. This company above referred to, left Kirtland May 5th, 1834, and on June 5th, Mr. Gilbert notified the governor, in accordance with the opinion of Mr. Reese, district attorney, that the company was nearly to their journey's end; and again asked for an escort. In answer to the communications of Mr. Gilbert and others, Governor Dunklin made answer, dated at Jefferson City, June 6th, 1834, from which letter, directed to Col. J. Thornton, the following extracts are taken: "Dear Sir:--I was pleased at the reception of your letter, concurred in by Messrs. Reese, Atchison and Doniphan, on the subject of the Mormon difficulties. * * * A more clear and indisputable right does not exist, that the Mormon people, who were expelled from their homes in Jackson County, to return and live on their lands, and if they cannot be persuaded as a matter of policy to give up that right, or to qualify it, my course, as the chief executive officer of the State, is a plain one. The Constitution of the United States declares: 'That the citizens of each State shall be entitled to all privileges and immunities of citizens in the several States.' Then we cannot interdict any people who have a political franchise in the United States, from immigrating to this State, nor from choosing what part of the State they will settle in, provided they do not trespass on the property or rights of others. * * * And again, our Constitution says; That all men have a natural and indefeasible right to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of their own consciences.' I am fully persuaded that the eccentricity of the religious opinions and practices of the 'Mormons' is at the bottom of the outrages committed against them. They have the right constitutionally guaranteed to them, and it is indefeasible, to believe, and worship Joe Smith as a man, as an angel, or even as the true and living God, and to call their habitation Zion, the Holy Land, or even heaven itself. Indeed there is nothing so absurd or ridiculous, that they have not the right to adopt as their religion, so that in its exercise they do not interfere with the rights of others. * * * I consider it the duty of every good citizen of Jackson and adjoining counties, to exert themselves to effect a compromise of their difficulties, and were I assured I would not have to act in my official capacity in the affair, I would visit the parties in person and exert myself to the utmost to settle it. My first advice would be to the Mormons to sell out their lands in Jackson County, and to settle somewhere else, where they could live in peace, if they could get a fair price for them, and reasonable damages for injuries received. If this failed I would try the citizens and advise them to meet and rescind their illegal resolve of last summer; and agree to conform to the laws in every particular, in respect to the Mormons. If both these failed, I would then advise the plan you have suggested, for each party to take separate territory, and confine their numbers within their respective limits, with the exception of the public right of ingress and egress upon the public highway. If all these failed then the simple question of legal right would have to settle it. It is this last that I am afraid I shall have to conform my action to in the end, and hence the necessity of keeping myself in the best situation to do my duty impartially." To facilitate any effort that might be made to effect a settlement of the troubles, the governor appointed Col. Thornton as an aid to the commander-in-chief, and requested him to keep himself and the governor closely informed of all that was transpiring. The company emigrating from Ohio, under the charge of Joseph Smith, were joined at Salt River, Missouri, by a number from Michigan in charge of Hyrum Smith and Lyman Wright,[H] their united number being two hundred and five men. These were organized and drilled under Mr. Wright, who was appointed to the command of the whole force. [Footnote H: Wight.] June 9th, 1834, the governor issued a second order for the return of the arms, directed to Col. Pitcher, Col. Lucas having resigned his command and left the county. This order to Col. Pitcher required him to collect the arms, if not in his possession, and return them to Messrs. Phelps and Partridge and others from whom they were taken. June 10th, Judge John F. Ryland wrote to Mr. Gilbert from Richmond, requesting that the "Mormons" be called together at Liberty the following Monday, the 16th, at which time he would meet them with a deputation of some of the most respectable citizens of Jackson County and explain to them his views, stating further that he dreaded the consequences likely to ensue if he failed in his efforts to secure an amicable adjustment between the parties. This request was acceded to. Mr. Gilbert and others notified their brethren of the time and place of meeting and its object; and on the 16th the meeting was held, the citizens of Clay County, including the "Mormons," numbering between eight hundred and a thousand, assembled at the court house, where they were met by the judge and a deputation from Jackson County. At this meeting the citizens of Jackson County, through a committee consisting of Mr. Samuel C. Owens and nine others, submitted propositions in substance as follows: That they would purchase the lands and improvements of the "Mormons" at a valuation to be fixed by arbitrators to be agreed upon by the parties; that when these arbitrators should have been chosen, twelve of the "Mormons" should be permitted to go with the arbitrators to point out the lands and improvements to be valued, the people of the county guaranteeing their safety while so doing; that when these arbitrators should have fixed said valuation, the people of Jackson County would pay the same with one hundred per cent added thereto within thirty days after said report. That upon said payment so made the "Mormons" should execute deeds for the lands, and make no effort ever after to settle as a community or as individuals within the county. Both parties were to enter into bonds to keep the terms of the agreement when made. A counter proposition was that the "Mormons" should buy all the lands of the people of Jackson County and their improvements on the public lands, the valuation to be made in the same way by arbitrators, and the same addition of one hundred per cent to such valuation when reported, payment to be made by the "Mormons" within thirty days after said report of valuation, as in the first proposition. After the reading of this proposition, its adoption and enforcement were warmly urged by Mr. Owens, chairman of the deputation from Jackson County, and were as warmly met and opposed by Gen. Doniphan. Rev. M. Riley, of the Baptist church, urged the expulsion of the "Mormons," stating that they had "lived long enough in Clay County, and must either clear out or be cleared out." Mr. Turnham, the moderator of the meeting, answered this speech, counseling moderation, saying, among other things, "Let us be Republicans; let us honor our country and not disgrace it like Jackson County. For God's sake, don't disfranchise or drive away the 'Mormons.' They are better citizens than many of the old inhabitants." This expression was endorsed by Gen. Doniphan. Considerable excitement ensued, during which a quarrel occurred between some parties outside the door, in which one Calbert stabbed another man named Wales. Someone shouted into the door of the court room, "A man stabbed!" which broke up the meeting. Pending the restoration to order, Messrs. Phelps, McClellan and others consulted together and replied to the proposition, that they were not authorized to accede to either of the set of terms submited, but that they would give general notice and call a meeting of their brethren and make definite answer by the following Saturday or Monday, and that such answer should be placed in the hands of Judge Turnham, chairman of the meeting, earlier than the day named, if possible; assuring Mr. Owens and others that there was no design to open hostilities on the people of Jackson or other counties. They further pledged themselves to prevent any of their brethren coming from the east from entering into Jackson County. Messrs. Phelps and Gilbert submitted to Mr. Owens and others of the Jackson committee a reply dated June 21st, 1834, stating that they had consulted with their brethren, as agreed, and were authorized to state that the propositions as made to them June 16th, could not be acceded to. In the same communication they gave the assurance that there was no intention on the part of themselves or their brethren to invade the county of Jackson in a hostile manner. By this uniting, immediate conflict seemed to be averted, and the Jackson County committee returned home by way of the ferry, where is now the Wayne City landing. The boat was taken over to them and ten or twelve men and as many horses went aboard the boat. When about the middle of the Missouri the boat filled with water and sank; men, horses and all went down together. George Bradbury, David Lynch and James Campbell were drowned. S. V. Nolan could not swim, but catching hold of his horse's tail was hauled safely to the Jackson County shore. Samuel C. Owens and Thomas Harrington clung to the wreck of the boat and floated down a mile, and when the boat reached a sandbar Mr. Owens divested himself of all his clothes except his shirt, left the wreck and swam safely to the shore. He found a cow path which he followed to the main road. While traveling the path he found himself terribly annoyed by the sting of the nettle, but he walked to Independence, a distance of some four miles. Mr. Harrington hung to the boat and was drowned. William Everett swam to the Jackson shore and was washed against a drift and was found there ten days afterwards, one hand fast hold of a projecting snag. The other men swam back to the Clay County shore, where they all made it safe except Small-wood Nolan, who clung to a "sawyer" only a short distance from the shore. The men who made the shore built a fire and encouraged Nolan to "cling on" till they could rescue him. He did cling on with the grip of death. When daylight came and the men went in to take him off his scanty support, they found that the water was only waist deep and he could have waded to the shore with ease if he had known it. It was rumored that the "Mormons" had secretly bored holes in the boat above the customary water mark, but when loaded would sink to the holes and then fill with water. But the most reasonable idea was that the boat did not generally carry such heavy loads, hence the timbers had become dry and the corking loose, and when the water pressed against it gave way and the boat filled. Joseph Smith and his party passed through Richmond, Clay County, June 19th, and encamped between two branches of Fishing River, not far from their junction. Here they were met by five armed men, who informed them that sixty men from Ray and seventy from Clay counties were to meet others from different places and prevent their further progress. They also learned that two hundred from Jackson County were to cross the Missouri River at Williams' Ferry, there to meet the forces from Ray and Clay Counties, at Fishing River ford, and thence to attack and disperse or destroy them. Their designs, if entertained, were prevented, for on the night following a severe storm of wind and rain occurred, which raised the streams, flooded the country and prevented any hostile movements being made by either party. Mr. Smith's band moved out on the prairie on the 20th and encamped, where, on the 21st, they were visited by Col. Sconce and two other leading men from Ray County, who were anxious to know what were their intentions. Mr. Smith replied, stating that they had come to assist their brethren, bringing with them clothing and other supplies to aid them in being reinstated in their rights; and disclaimed any design to interfere with, or molest any people. These men returned from their visit, satisfied of the intentions of Mr. Smith and those with him, and rode through the neighborhood, using their influence to allay the excitement. Cornelius Gillium, sheriff of Clay County, went to the camp of Mr. Smith and party on June 22nd, and asked for Mr. Smith; and upon being presented to him, gave them some instructions concerning the peculiarities of the inhabitants of the county; and advised Mr. Smith and the rest as to the course that should be pursued by them to secure the protection of the people. Mr. Smith and those with him resumed their march to reach Liberty, Clay County, on the 23rd; but were met by Gen. Atchison and others when within six miles of the town, and were by them persuaded not to go to Liberty, as the people were too much incensed against them. The party, therefore turned away to the left and encamped upon the premises of a member of the fraternity named Burghardt, on the bank of Rush Creek. From here a proposition for settlement was agreed to on the part of the "Mormons," and was by them sent to Mr. S. C. Owens and others, the committee from Jackson County. This proposition was in substance as follows: That if the inhabitants of Jackson County would not permit them to return to their homes and remain in peace, then twelve disinterested men were to be chosen, six by each party to the strife, and these twelve men were to fix the value of the lands of those men resident in the county who were opposed to the "Mormons," and could not consent to live in the county with them; that when this valuation was made, the "Mormons" were to have one year in which to raise the money; that none of the "Mormons" should enter the county to reside until the money was paid; that the same twelve men were also to fix the amount of damages incurred by the "Mormons" in their expulsion, and the amount of damages so fixed should be taken from the aggregate sum to be paid by the said "Mormons" for the lands appraised by said arbitrators. On June 25th, Mr. Smith caused his company to be broken into small bands, and scattered them among the resident members. He also apprised Generals Doniphan, Atchison and Thornton of what he had done, informing them that his company of emigrants would so remain dispersed until every effort for an adjustment of differences had been made on their part, "that would in anywise be required of them by disinterested men of Republican principles." June 26th, by agreement among the elders of the "Mormons," a letter was prepared to Governor Dunklin, informing him of their arrival in Clay County, of their having been met by General Doniphan, of their present condition and the nature of the negotiations then pending, of the character of the proposals made by them, and notifying the governor that if the present effort for peace failed they should do all that could be required of them by human or divine law to secure peaceably their homes in Jackson County, their claim to which they would not abandon. They further notified the governor that within the week one of their brethren was taken by some citizens from Jackson County, and forcibly carried from Clay County across the Missouri, and after being detained in custody for a day and night was threatened and released. Also, that the houses of a number of their members in Clay County had been broken into and rifled of guns and arms during the absence of the men folks, the women being threatened and intimidated. On the same day they received a rejection of the proposals to Mr. Owens, by the way of their attorney, Mr. Reese. While encamped on Rush Creek the cholera broke out among them, and out of sixty-eight attacked thirteen died, among them John S. Carter, Eber Wilcox and Algernon S. Gilbert, he who was expelled from Independence. Mr. Gillium published the result of his visit to the "Mormon" camp, and the propositions made by them as stated above, in the _Enquirer,_ July 1st, 1834, and the whole country then became acquainted with the purposes and wishes of these worshipers. We quote from this publication the following: "We wish to become permanent citizens of the State, and bear our proportion in support of the government and to be protected by its laws. If the above propositions are complied with we are willing to give security on our part, and we shall want the same of the people of Jackson County, for the performance of this agreement. We do not wish to settle down in a body, except where we can purchase the land with money; for to take possession by conquest or the shedding of blood is entirely foreign to our feelings. The shedding of blood we shall not be guilty of, until all just and honorable means among men prove insufficient to restore peace." This declaration was signed by Joseph Smith, Jr., F. G. Williams, then acting president of The Church, Lyman Wright, Roger Orton, Orson Hyde and John S. Carter, all leading men among the "Mormons." It was directed to John Lincoln, John Sconce, George R. Morehead, James H. Long and James Collins. The "Mormons" also appointed a committee of their number, who drafted an appeal to the people of the United States, in which they set forth the purposes expressed by them in their statement to Mr. Gillium. This appeal was published and scattered abroad, but it is not known what effect it had, other than possibly to exasperate the feeling in Missouri against them. The message of the governor of Missouri to the general assembly of the State, then in session, communicated on November 20th, 1838, recommended a commission of both houses of the Legislature to inquire into the "Mormon" difficulties. The house, in committee of the whole on the state of the Republic, November 22nd, appointed a select committee of seven to co-operate with such number from the senate as that body might appoint, to inquire into the "causes of said disturbances, and the conduct of the military operations in suppressing them, with power to send for men and papers." The senate, on November 23rd, appointed Messrs. Turner, Noland and Scott, as their part of said committee, thus concurring in the action. This committee reported in the senate, on December 18th, that they had taken the matters submitted to them into consideration, and decided that they "thought it unwise and injudicious under all the circumstances of the case to predicate a report from the papers, documents, etc., purporting to be copies of the evidence taken before an examining court, held in Richmond, Ray County, for the purpose of inquiring into the charges alleged against the people called 'Mormons,' growing out of the difficulties between that people and other citizens of the State." The reasons given are: The evidence given in that examination was in a great degree _ex parte,_ and not of a character to afford a "fair and impartial investigation." The papers had been so certified as to satisfy the committee of their authenticity. There were still charges pending against some of the "Mormons" for treason, murder and other felonies, which charges were to be tried before the courts in the several counties, where such crimes were charged to have been committed. Publication of the evidence and papers referred to might affect seriously the right of trial by a "jury of the vicinage," by prejudicing public sentiment against the accused. Were the committee to act and send for papers and persons, it might interfere with the action of the courts wherein the suits were pending. For this reason the committee recommended the appointment of a committee, who should, after the adjournment of the assembly, go into the vicinity of the scenes of the difficulties, there to make inquiry and make proper report to the legislature of their inquiry and examination when concluded. Among other reasons given for such recommendation occur these: that the "documents, although serviceable in giving direction to the course of inquiry, are none of them, except the official orders and correspondence, such as ought to be received as conclusive evidence of the facts stated." And that it "would not be proper to publish the official orders and correspondence between the officers in command, and the executive, without the evidence on which they were founded; and that evidence is not sufficiently full and satisfactory to authorize its publication." The recommendations of the committee were concurred in by the senate, January 10th, and on the 16th Mr. Turner introduced a bill providing such inquiry; making it the duty of the commission when appointed to inquire into the causes of the disturbances. This bill passed after amendment, and being reported to the house was, on February 4th, 1839, laid on the table until July 4th, by 48 to 37. Pending the expiration of the time for which this bill to inquire into the causes of the disturbance of the peace in the various counties of Clay, Ray and Daviess, the history of the "Mormons" of the State is about as follows: After the removal from Jackson, and the acceptance of the final decision, nothing further appears of any settlement being attempted in Jackson County by the expelled party, or their brethren. Joseph Smith returned to Kirtland, Ohio, with many others, while some concluded to remain in the, to them, land of Zion; and these settled in and through the counties above named. Things did not long remain in a peaceful condition, however, and it became apparent that there would again be trouble. To avoid this, if possible, it appears that some of the leading men among the "Mormons" were sent to Richmond, Ray County, and made inquiry as to whether the citizens would be willing that they should settle upon the territory north of and contiguous to the county of Ray, at that time unorganized. To this no answer was given, and, taking it for granted that no objections would be offered, many removed, and Mr. James M. Hunt, in his "Mormon War," written in 1844, declares that: "Here, for some time, the Prophet concentrated his followers; houses were erected, as if by magic--improvements were prosecuted with such rapidity as to promise a flourishing town and country in a very short time. The country round about was fast being settled, and undergoing improvements--every month bringing swarms of deluded fanatics, to forward the designs of their ambitious leaders." Settlements were made at Far West; one on Grand River, in Daviess, called Adam-Ondi-Ahman, and one in Carrol County, called DeWitt. At these places says, Hunt, "members gathered, improving town and country rapidly." "It is due the 'Mormons,'" further says this writer, "here to state, that they were an industrious, agricultural people, or at least that portion of them who located in the country round about in the 'stakes,'" as these settlements were called by them. Between the year 1834 and the beginning of 1838, these settlements, outside of Jackson, continued to thrive, disturbed, possibly, by now and then an outrage or reprisal, such as may occur in newly settled countries among any class of settlers, for which mutual wrongs, attempted redresses were sought before mutual courts, as some of the local minor courts were in the hands of the "Mormons," though the county and superior ones were held by other citizens; and each party claimed that injustice was done them by these courts by reason of partisan bias. The feeling was growing bitter against the "Mormons" on the part of the citizens, and the feelings of injury and resentment began to crystallize into provocation and resentment (especially so with some individuals) on the part of the "Mormons." Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon had settled with their families in the State, and under their direction the people had been organized and armed, more or less efficiently, to repel encroachments and protect themselves, as they stated, from unlawful aggressions. They had been told that the authority of the legislature and executive could not be brought to bear for their defense until remedies at the lesser courts failed them, and then only at the requisition of local civil officers, and had been advised whether judiciously or otherwise to defend themselves. There grew up some dissensions among themselves: a few, some of the prominent men among them, dissented from the rules of the society and the authority of Messrs. Smith and Rigdon; these were denounced as apostates, and attempts made to drive them out from the society and settlements, which resulted in mutual recrimination and the making public exaggerated accounts of the intentions of the "Mormon" leaders. Some of the brethren who were fanatical or more unwise than others, were guilty of a flagrant excess of language calculated to create suspicion and uneasiness in the minds of those already prejudiced against them as a people. There were some law-breakers among them who committed crimes and were not punished; all of which hastened the impending trouble. These things among themselves, and the constant manifestation of hostility from many of the citizens, lawless and irresponsible, and some of note and ability among the most respectable as well, with occasional depredation upon the "Mormons," resulted in making further peace very improbable. In June, 1838, Sidney Rigdon preached a sermon, taking strong ground against the dissenters and the Missourians. This sermon was construed as a declaration of war against the apostates and of reprisal against the citizens. Mr. Hunt states that in this state of things, the citizens apprehended wrong-doers against them, but having to go before a "Mormon" justice and jury, they failed and were abused by the "Mormons" for bringing vexatious suits; and that the Gentiles were not idle in "setting afloat their grievances, and probably exaggerating them." Mr. Rigdon is said to have delivered an oration July 4, 1838, at Far West, before a gathered multitude, which was called a treasonable speech. This oration we have carefully read and can now see that the passages construed as treasonable and dangerous, may have been but the indignant protest against violence that a possible enthusiast might unadvisedly use. They are as follows: "And that mob that comes on us to disturb us, it shall be between us and them a war of extermination; for we will follow them till the last drop of their blood is spilled, or they will have to exterminate us, for we will carry the seat of war to their own houses and their own families, and one party or the other shall be utterly destroyed. Remember it, then, all men! We will never be the aggressors--we will infringe on the rights of no people, but shall stand for our own till death. We claim our own rights, and are willing that others shall enjoy theirs. No man shall be at liberty to come into our streets, to threaten us with mobs, for if he does, he shall atone for it before he leaves the place; neither shall he vilify or slander any of us, for suffer it we will not in this place. * * * Neither will we indulge any man or set of men, in instituting vexatious law-suits against us to cheat us out of our rights; if they attempt it, we say woe be unto them." August 1st, at an election in Daviess County, a quarrel ensued between some citizens and "Mormons." One of the latter was badly stabbed, and others on both sides wounded. From this occurrence, rumors flew in every direction. The "Mormons" at Far West were told that several of their number had been killed, and two hundred of them went into Daviess County to inquire into it. They found no one killed; but Mr. Adam Black, a justice of the peace of Daviess County, stated under oath, before John Wright and Elijah Foley, fellow justices, that Mr. Smith and others, to the number of one hundred and fifty-four, exacted from him about August 8, 1838, a written promise to support the Constitution of the State and the United States; and not to support a mob nor attach himself to any mob, nor to molest the "Mormons." To answer to this charge Mr. Smith, L. Wight and others were arrested, and recognized to appear for trial. Other disturbances followed, and upon representation of a deputation of citizens from Daviess County, Major-General Atchison, at the head of a thousand men of the Third Division of militia, went to the scene of trouble. The major-general found the citizens and the "Mormons" in hostile array. He dispersed both parties and reported to the governor, with the further statement that no further depredations were to be feared from the "Mormons." Almost simultaneously disturbances occurred in Carroll and Caldwell counties. The citizens determined to drive the "Mormons" from the State; the "Mormons" refused to be driven. A number of citizens made representations to General Atchison, on September 10th, that the citizens of Daviess had a "Mormon" in custody, as a prisoner, and that the "Mormons" had Messrs. John Comer, Wm. McHamy and Allen Miller prisoners, as hostages. Certain of the "Mormons," and other citizens of Carroll County, petitioned the governor from De Witt, stating the committal of lawless acts against them, among which was the ordering them to leave the county, giving them till October 1st, and asking interference and relief. This was dated September 22, 1838. From reports filed with the governor, by Generals H. G. Parks, David R. Atchison and A. W. Doniphan, copies of which accompanied the messages of the governor to the assembly, it appears that when the proper authorities appeared on the scene of difficulty, the "Mormons" gave up, not only the prisoners they had taken in reprisal, but their arms, and also the men of their number against whom civil proceedings were pending. General Parks, in a report dated Mill Post, September 25, 1838, states: "Whatever may have been the disposition of the people called 'Mormons,' before our arrival here, since we have made our appearance, they have shown no disposition to resist the laws, or of hostile intention. * * * There has been so much prejudice and exaggeration concerning this matter, that I find things on my arrival here, totally different from what I was prepared to expect. When we arrived here, we found a large body of men from the counties adjoining, armed, and in the field, for the purpose, as I learned, of assisting the people of this county against the 'Mormons,' without being called out by the proper authorities." General Atchison wrote the governor from Liberty, Missouri, September 17, 1838: "I have no doubt your excellency has been deceived by the exaggerated statements of designing or half crazy men. I have found there is no cause of alarm on account of the 'Mormons;' they are not to be feared; they are much alarmed." Hostile feeling culminated rapidly. The citizens, in absence of the militia, gathered their forces together, and, on the night of October 1st, attacked De Witt. A committee of citizens of Chariton County went into Carroll County, and found De Witt invested by a large force, the "Mormons" in defense and suing for peace, and wishing for the interposition of the civil authorities. They reported October 5, 1838. General Atchison reported October 16th, that the "Mormons" had sold out in Carroll County and left, and that a portion of their assailants were on the march to Daviess County with one piece of artillery, "where, it is thought the same lawless game is to be played over, and the 'Mormons' driven from that county, and probably from Caldwell." "Nothing, in my opinion," wrote this general in his report, "but the strongest measures within the power of the executive will put down this spirit of mobocracy." The "Mormons" resisted, and in their turn plundered the store of Jacob Stollings at Gallatin, removing the goods, burned the store and other buildings in that place and Millport. The citizens of Ray, Daviess, Carroll, Jackson, Howard and some other counties gathered, and apprising the governor that the "Mormons," now growing desperate, had become the aggressors, the governor, L. W. Boggs, moved thereto by representations made to him, issued orders to General John B. Clark, placing him in command of all the force necessary, with instruction that he was in receipt of information of the most appalling nature, "which entirely changed the face of things, and places the 'Mormons' in the attitude of an open and armed defiance of the laws, and of having made war upon the people of this State * * * The 'Mormons' must be treated as enemies, and must be exterminated or driven from the State, if necessary for the public peace--their outrages are beyond all description." In obedience to this order, General Clark, associated with General Lucas, proceeded to the seat of war, and, without much resistance, disbanded the armed forces of the "Mormons," demanded and received their arms, took Joseph Smith, Sidney Rigdon, Hyrum Smith and fifty other leading men prisoners for trial upon various charges--high treason against the State, murder, burglary, arson, robbery and larceny. These men were examined before Austin A. King, judge of the Fifth Judicial Circuit in the State of Missouri, at Richmond, beginning November 12, 1838. At this examination some were discharged for lack of evidence to hold them, but Joseph Smith, Lyman Wight, Hyrum Smith, Alexander McRae and Caleb Baldwin were held for trial and committed to jail in Clay County; some others were recognized for trial and gave bonds. A further demand was made to the effect that the "Mormons" make an appropriation to pay their debts and the indemnification for the damage to citizens done by them. The property said to have been taken by them was mostly restored upon demand of the officers. The "Mormons" began leaving at once, and continued to leave until all were gone, except now and then a recalcitrant member, or one who had some personal friends among the citizens. Many sold out for what they could get, and many were compelled to go without selling at all. Their leaders were taken prisoners, their means of defense, as well as offense, were taken from them by law, and by the will of the citizens, enforced by the order of the governor, some twelve thousand people were driven from the State. The number of killed in this "Mormon" war is stated by the official report of the general in command in the following language: "The whole number of the 'Mormons' killed through the whole difficulty, as far as I can ascertain, are about forty, and several wounded." This is rather a damaging result against the State, after the terrible character given the "Mormons" by those opposed to them, and upon whose reports the governor ordered their suppression. Messrs. Smith, Rigdon and their comrades, in jail at Liberty, took change of venue to Boone County, but the officer charged with their delivery in Boone in his return of the order of removal to Daviess County states that the prisoners escaped. They afterwards reached Illinois in safety. Such in brief is the history of that strange people called "Mormons," in Missouri; the events succeeding their departure from the county of Jackson and settlements in Ray, Clay, Caldwell, Daviess and other counties, has been hurried over as not properly belonging in our history of Jackson. After this expulsion from Missouri, the "Mormons" settled in Illinois, where in six years, from 1838 to 1844, they increased rapidly and laid the foundation for a magnificent city. They began the erection of a stone temple upon a sightly location. Trouble followed them, the citizens were again aroused. Process was issued for the arrest of Joseph and Hyrum Smith, on charge of treason; awaiting trial upon which charge in the jail of Hancock County, Illinois, June 27th, 1844, they were attacked and killed by a mob. Two years after that, the "Mormons," under the leadership of Brigham Young, were expelled from Illinois, and Utah and polygamy are the outcome. There is now in Jackson County a body of people calling themselves Latter-day Saints. They are in fact a branch of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, of which church, Joseph Smith, Jr., the eldest son of Joseph Smith, the putative father of "Mormonism," is the president. The present headquarters of the church is at Plano, Kendall County, Illinois; where they have a printing house, containing engine, press, type and other facilities for carrying on quite an extensive business. They number some fifteen thousand members now, dispersed through the United States in over four hundred congregations, including branches in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, St. Louis, Salt Lake City and many other prominent cities; and are most numerous in Illinois, Iowa and Missouri. In many places they have houses of worship, which they by the engagement and aid of the citizens have built; one of these buildings is in Independence. This church, under Mr. Smith's presidency, has kept an active ministry at work in Utah, endeavoring to disabuse the "Mormons" of that Territory of the dogma of polygamy, which they assert to be no part of primitive "Mormonism;" and from the history of the sect during its stay in Missouri from 1835 to 1838, it would appear that these organizers are correct; for not a single charge of such dogma being held or taught appears in the many statements made against them, or in the published orders and reports of the officers engaged in expelling them from the State. They, at all events, oppose the tenet, and are directly antagonizing Utah "Mormonism." APPENDIX II. "MORMON" WAR. (_Taken from the History of Clay County as published in St. Louis by the National Historical Company,_ 1885.) In 1832 the "Mormons" under their Prophet Joe Smith came into Jackson County, where the previous year large tracts of land had been entered and purchased for their benefit and began to occupy and possess the land with the intention, as they said, of remaining for all time. "But their years in that land were few and full of trouble." They were in constant collision with their Gentile neighbors, who frequently tied them up and whipped them with cowhides and hickory switches, derided their religion, boycotted them where they did not openly persecute them, and at last engaged in a deadly encounter with them, tarred and feathered their bishops; threw their printing press into the river and finally drove them from their homes and out of the county. Affrighted, terror-stricken, many of the "Mormons" took refuge in Clay County. Every vacant cabin in the south of the county was occupied by the fugitives. Many of them among the men obtained employment with the farmers, some of the women engaged as domestics, others taught school. A few heads of families were able to and did purchase land and homes, but the majority rented. The Clay County citizens treated them kindly and administered to their wants and rendered so many favors that to this day away out in Salt Lake the old "Mormons" hold in grateful remembrance the residents of the county of 1834-6. An old citizen of Independence has recently published in the Kansas City _Journal_ an interesting article on the "Mormon" troubles in Jackson County. One paragraph of this article reads as follows: True history, however, must record the fact that the deluded followers of the so-called prophet Joseph Smith, in their first effort to organize and establish a religious, socialistic community in Jackson County, Missouri, were unjustly and outrageously treated by the original settlers. That is seen in the tragical and pitiful scene which occurred during the last part of their sojourn in this their promised inheritance, their Zion and New Jerusalem. With scarcely one exception the old settlers were the aggressors so far as overt acts of hostility were concerned. During the last year of their stay, the continued persecutions to which they were subjected excited the sympathy of many outside the county, especially of the people of Clay County, who gave them an asylum and assistance for a year or two after their expulsion. Indeed, material aid and arms were furnished them by citizens of Clay County before their expulsion. A wagon with a quantity of guns was stopped near the south part of Kansas City and seized by parties on the watch. The Jackson County people were indignant at the reception given the "Mormons" by the citizens of Clay County and stigmatized some of our citizens as Jack "Mormons," a term yet used. On one occasion a delegation of eleven Jackson County citizens, led by Major S. Owens and James Campbell came over to Liberty to hold a council with the Gentile citizens and "Mormons" of Clay County in regard to the lands from which the "Mormons" had been driven. The title to these lands was in the hands of the "Mormons," but the Gentiles wished to extinguish it by purchase, if it could be obtained at their--the Gentiles'--price. Accordingly, they offered the "Mormons" an insignificant sum for their lands and farms, many of which were already in possession of certain citizens of Jackson County, but this offer was refused. The Clay County people generally endorsed the refusal. Returning home that night in great ill humor with their neighbors on this side of the river, the delegation of Jackson County met with a sad misfortune. As they were crossing the river at Duckins Ferry, about the middle of the river the boat sank and five of them were drowned. Three of the unfortunate men were Ilu Job, James Campbell and----Everett. The casualty increased the indignation already felt against the people of Clay County. By the year 1838, all or nearly all of the "Mormons" had left Clay County, and joined the "Mormon" settlement at or near Far West, or at other points in Caldwell and Daviess counties; and in October of that year the "'Mormon' War" broke out. Among the troops dispatched to Far West during that month were some companies of militia from Clay County, belonging to General Doniphan's brigade, of Major-General D. R. Atchison's division. Two of these companies were commanded by Corporals Prior and O. P. Moss. Of Captain Prior's company Peter Holtzclaw was first lieutenant. He with twenty-five men from the north part of the county became separated from the main command and did not leave with it. The detachment marched across into Ray County and fell in with the Jackson county regiment, which had refused to march through Clay County owing to the animosity existing, and had crossed the river at Lexington. All the Clay County men were in line confronting the breastworks when the "Mormon" camp at Far West was surrendered, and witnessed all the proceedings. They saw the white flag pass back and forth from the "Mormons," and saw the robber, Captain Bogard of the Missourians, fire on it; saw the cannoneers stand with lighted matches beside their pieces, having sent word to General Doniphan that they were ready to fire; saw suddenly a white flag go up; saw the "Mormon" battalion march out with "General" G. W. Hinkle, brave as a lion, at its head and form a hollow square and ground arms, and then saw Hinkle ride up to Doniphan, unbuckle his sword and detach his pistols from their holsters and pass them over to his captor, who quietly remarked, "Give them to my adjutant." Then they saw Hinkle dash the tears from his face, and ride back to his soldiers. The "Mormons" agreed fully to Doniphan's conditions, that they should deliver up their arms, surrender their prominent leaders for trial, and the remainder of them, with their families, leave the State. As hostages, Joe Smith, Sidney Rigdon, Lyman Wight, G. W. Hinkle [A] and other prominent "Mormons" delivered themselves up to e held for the faithful performance of the hard conditions.[B] [Footnote A: Hinkle was not among the hostages that were held for the faithful performance of his agreement with the mob, nor did those "hostages" deliver themselves up to the mob; they were betrayed into the hands of their enemies by Hinkle.--_B. H. R._] [Footnote B: Colonel Lewis Wood of this county, who was present, states to the compiler that at a council of the leading militia officers held the night following the surrender, it was voted by nearly three to one to put these leaders to death, and their lives were only saved by the intervention of General Doniphan, who not only urged his authority as brigadier, but declared he would defend the prisoners with his own life.--_N. H. C._] The "Mormon" leaders were taken before a court of inquiry at Richmond, Judge Austin A. King presiding. He remanded them to Daviess County, to await the action of the grand jury on a charge of treason against the State and murder. The Daviess County jail being poor and insecure, the prisoners were brought to Liberty and confined in the old stone jail (still standing) for some time. Many citizens of the county remember to have seen Joe Smith when he was a prisoner in the old Liberty jail. In due time indictments for various offenses, treason, murder, resisting legal process, etc., were found against Joe Smith and his brother Hyrum, Sidney Rigdon, G. W. Hinkle, Caleb Baldwin, P. P. Pratt, Luman Gibbs, Maurice Phelps, King Follet, Wm. Osburn, Arthur Morrison, Elias Higbee and others. Sidney Rigdon was released on a writ of habeas corpus, the others requested a change of venue, and Judge King sent their cases to Boone County for trial. On the way from Liberty to Columbia, Joe Smith escaped. It is generally believed the guard was bribed. P. P. Pratt escaped from Columbia jail; the others were either tried and acquitted, or the cases against them were dismissed. The entire proceedings in the cases were disgraceful in the extreme. There never was a handful of evidence that the accused were guilty of the crimes with which they were charged. Those who were tried were defended by General Doniphan and James S. Rollins.--pp. 132-5. APPENDIX III. THE "MORMONS." (_History of Daviess County, by D. L. Kort._) This sect of professed Christians, whose history is but a burlesque upon the pure morality of the meek and lowly, but glorious Nazarene, came to this country in 1836. Their chief settlement was in Far West, in Caldwell County, where their apostle, Joseph Smith, and all their chief dignitaries resided. Here in 1838 the corner stone of the temple was laid, with great ceremony and not a little deception; for Smith had foretold that the rock, which was of great size, would move at his command. This it apparently did do, but actually by means of ropes and pulleys worked through a concealed trench, by men at a distance. The temple was to occupy a large square in the centre of the town, and was approached by four main streets, each one hundred feet wide, and was to exceed in magnificence any edifice in the United States. The temple was never built, but Far West attained a population of three thousand inhabitants, and was for some years the county seat of Caldwell County. Now, however, not one stone is left upon another, and the farmer's plow turns up their once busy streets and desecrates their holy ground. In our own county their chief point was a place still known as "Diamond," but by the "Mormons" called Adam-ondi-Ahman, which we believe means "the grave of Adam." This place is the old Dr. Craven's farm now, owned and occupied by Major McDonald, and lies about three and a half miles northwest of Gallatin. It is a romantic spot, on the east bluff, overlooking the valley of Grand River; and to this day, owing perhaps to fissures in the underlying rock, the observer may behold the greasy cactus-lined walks of their "garden of Eden; laid off with almost mathematical precision. Adam's Grave is at the edge of the garden, and is a small mound of broken limestone, gravel and soil intermixed. From Diamond to Far West the "Mormons" had a very fair road, and all along it and interspersed throughout the county were many settlers of their faith. A trace of wandering, a track of blood and temple building are the principal features in the history of this deluded people, deluded by a film so thin that even sense might see beyond. Taking their rise in the south of New York they soon migrated to Kirtland, Ohio, then to Jackson county, Missouri, then to Clay County, then to Daviess and Caldwell, then to Nauvoo, Illinois, and thence across the plains to Salt Lake, and even now there are rumors of another removal. In all these places they began to build a temple, and in all except the first they left the marks of blood, either their own or shed by them. The "Mormons" have always claimed that they were peaceable and law-abiding; yes, peaceable when not resisted in their outrages, law-abiding when obeying the laws of their prophet. They have always claimed that they never shed blood only when attacked: but this is stark falsehood, as, witness the work of their Danite Destroying Angels, Mountain Meadow Massacre; and even the attacks they complain of were always induced by their infamous conduct. The first cardinal principle in the tenets of their religion, as exemplified among our people, was: "The Lord has given the earth and the fullness thereof to his saints," the next was, "We are his saints." Thus armed and equipped and incited by their leaders, they roamed through the county, took whatever pleased their fancy, carried it to Diamond and placed it in the "Lord's storehouse." Nothing was safe, nothing was exempt from their rapacity, and our sturdy pioneers were justly indignant and panting for revenge. With them the "Mormon" war meant business, and we find the county court on the sixth of March, 1839, allowing an account of twenty-one dollars for powder and lead furnished the county during the "Mormon" war. So great was the numerical superiority of the "Mormons" that the citizens dared offer no resistance, but were simply at their mercy. On the 13th of October, 1838, the "Mormon" Legion formed their line of battle in front of the few houses in Gallatin, and ordered the citizens to leave at once. From there the legion proceeded to Millport and issued the same order. That night the citizens fled by the light of their burning homes, the principal part going to Livingston County. When they burned Gallatin the "Mormons" robbed the treasury: true, they did not find much money, but they took what they could lay their hands on. Shortly after this the State militia, under General Parks, entered the county, and the people arose en masse to assist him. Diamond, containing perhaps five hundred souls, surrendered without resistance. About the same time Smith himself surrendered Far West, and the war was over. At the April term, 1839, of our circuit court, indictments for treason, arson, riot, burglary, and a host of other crimes were found against Joseph Smith, Hyrum Smith, Lyman Wight, Caleb Baldwin, Alexander McRae, W. S. Slade, H. H. B. Belt, Eli Bagley, Wm. Aldridge, Alanson Ripley, Amos Lubbs, Perry Durphery, John Lehomon and many others. Most of them were released on bail, which they forfeited, but Smith and the rest of the leaders, being refused bail, took a change of venue to Boone County, to which place the sheriff was ordered to convey them under military guard. On the way the prisoners effected their escape, it is claimed, by bribing their guard. During the time between the surrender of the "Mormons" and the finding of the indictments against them, they had been in custody in Clay County, and a claim of four hundred and eighty dollars for guarding them in Liberty jail was presented to our county court, but disallowed. The claimants obtained a temporary writ of mandamus, which was venued to Caldwell County, and finally passed into oblivion. The general assembly on the eleventh day of December, 1838, appropriated two thousand dollars to relieve the suffering in Daviess and Caldwell caused by this "Mormon" war. This was for the relief of "Mormons" as well as others, and M. T. Green was appointed relief commissioner for this county. APPENDIX IV. CALDWELL COUNTY. (_By Crosby Johnson._) Mormon emigration.--Shortly prior to the organization of the county, the "Mormons," driven from Jackson County, sent J. Whitmer and others to select a home in the wilderness. Far West was chosen, which was approved by The Church authority. Far West.--The site chosen for Far West was a high, rolling prairie, visible for a long distance from all directions. The plat of the town as laid off embraced a square mile, to-wit: Northeast quarter, section fifteen; northwest quarter, section fourteen; southeast quarter, section ten; southwest quarter, section eleven. In the center of the town a large square was left as a site for a temple which it was their design to erect. The square was approached by four main streets, each a hundred feet wide. * * * As its population increased, additions to the town were laid out. At the time of the "Mormon" war the population of Far West was about two thousand five hundred, and it was the largest town in the State north of the Missouri. "Mormon" War.--The "Mormons" as a people were honest, sober and industrious, but the object of the leaders was to make money and obtain power. Joe Smith and his brother Hyrum, with The Church funds, purchased of the government large tracts of land around Far West, which they did not scruple to sell to their followers at exorbitant prices. When the leaders set the example of speculating in the devotion of the people, it is scarcely to be wondered at if the subordinates went to greater extremes to fill their purses, and if they had but little respect for their obligations to each other, they had less for the laws of the State or the rights of their Gentile neighbors. Some of their daring leaders taught the doctrine that the Lord had given the earth and the fullness thereof as an inheritance to his people, and they were his people and had a right at pleasure to take what pleased their appetite or fancy. At the time of the difficulties in Jackson County, Joe Smith organized a band of men called the army of Zion, to protect his people against the attacks of their enemies. Among these were many who were too lazy to earn a living by the sweat of their brow. Desperado and vagabond joined his band for the purpose of plundering. Squads of them strolled about the county threatening the men, intimidating the women, and appropriating in the name of the prophet any property which pleased their taste. As the "Mormons" largely outnumbered the Gentiles, they elected to all offices of honor and trust persons of their own faith. Smith was careful that the persons selected should be subservient to the will of himself and his apostles. The Gentiles declared it was impossible for them to get a fair hearing before the "Mormon" magistrates and juries; that the trials were farces: that the leaders taught and the members acted on the principle that a Gentile had no rights that a "Mormon" was bound to respect, and that not the merits of the cause, but the creeds of the contestants determined which way the scales should turn. Whether these complaints were true or false, they were believed by many and naturally excited deep indignation against the "Mormons." Tales of debauchery, theft and murder were told of them, and their expulsion from the county demanded. These bitter feelings engendered broils and riots. Crowds of excited fanatics pelted obnoxious Gentiles on the streets of Far West with clubs and stones. In retaliation armed Gentiles rode into public meetings where their lawless conduct was being denounced, seized the speakers and applied the lash until the blood trickled down their backs. Both sides ceased to resort to legal methods in the enforcement of their rights. Amid so much excitement and insubordination the civil authorities were powerless to enforce the laws and punish offenses. Finally, in 1838, the disorder became so great and outrages so frequent that the State authorities felt it their duty to interfere. Governor Boggs issued a proclamation calling out the militia to aid in restoring order and enforcing the laws. The generals in command were Generals John B. Clark, David R. Atchison, A. W. Doniphan. General Doniphan's brigade removed to Far West. The main body of the army of Zion under the command of G. M. Hinkle, whom Smith designated as commander in chief of the "Mormon" forces, was held in reserve to act as emergencies might require. Smaller forces were thrown forward to guard the approaches from the south and the east. Haun's Mill.--On the thirtieth of October an engagement was fought at Haun's Mill on Shoal Creek, south of Beckenridge. At that point a "Mormon" outpost entrenched in the mill and a blacksmith shop was attacked by the Livingston County militia under Captain Comstock. After a brief struggle the "Mormons" threw down their arms in token of surrender, but one of the militia men, being savagely wounded, his comrades were so enraged that their officer was unable to check them until eighteen of the "Mormons" were killed and a number wounded. Haun, the proprietor of the mill, was killed and with the rest of the dead buried in a well that stood near by. "Mormon" Exodus.--The surrender took place in November. The days were cold and bleak, but the clamor for the instant removal of the "Mormons" was so great that the old and young, the sick and feeble, delicate women and suckling children, almost without food and without clothing were compelled to abandon their homes and firesides to seek new homes in a distant State. Valuable farms were sold for a yoke of oxen, an old wagon or anything that would furnish means of transportation. Many of the poorer classes were compelled to walk. Before half their journey was accomplished the chilly blasts of winter howled about them and added to their general discomfort. The suffering they endured on this forced march though great, was soon forgotten in the prosperity of Nauvoo, their new asylum. Their trials and sufferings instead of dampening the ardor of the Saints, increased it ten fold. "The blood of the martyrs became the seed of The Church." The exodus of the "Mormons" reduced the population of the county from six thousand to less than one thousand; but the deserted farms and houses offered inducements to emigration that were not despised and new settlers rapidly filled the places of the departed ones. Visions.--If that strange people who built Nauvoo and Salt Lake, who uncomplainingly toiled across the American Desert and made the wilderness of Utah bloom like a garden, had been permitted to remain and perfect the work which they had begun here, how different would have been the history of Far West. Instead of being a farm with scarcely sufficient ruins to mark the spot where it once stood, there would have been a rich populous city, along the streets of which would be pouring the wealth of the world, and instead of an old dilapidated farm house there would have been magnificent temples, to which devout Saints from the farthest corners of the world would have made their yearly pilgrimages. But the bigotry and intolerance of the Saints toward the Gentiles and especially toward dissenters from the new revelations of Joe Smith, rendered such a consummation impossible. APPENDIX V. "MORMON" DIFFICULTIES. (_History of Missouri, Union Historical Society,_ 1881.) In 1832, Joseph smith, the leader of the "Mormons," and the chosen prophet and apostle, as he claimed, of the Most High, came with many followers to Jackson County, Missouri, where they located and entered several thousand acres of land. The object of his coming so far west--upon the very outskirts of civilization at that time--was to more securely establish his Church, and the more effectively to instruct his followers in its peculiar tenets and practices. Upon the present town site of Independence the "Mormons" located their "Zion," and gave it the name of "New Jerusalem." They published here _The Evening Star,_ and made themselves generally obnoxious to the Gentiles who were then in a minority, by their denunciatory articles through their paper, their clannishness and their polygamous practices.[A] [Footnote A: Although the work from which the above record is quoted is quite a pretentious history consisting of 1006 pages, yet it apparently has no regard for consistency of statement, for while it is said on page 47, that this Church (of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints--"Mormon") made themselves generally obnoxious by their polygamous practices, on page 269 the following occurs, speaking of the difference between the so-called Josephite Church, who now have a congregation and church building in Independence, Mo., and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints: "This church, * * * (i. e., Josephite Church,) has kept an active ministry at work in Utah, endeavoring to disabuse the 'Mormons' of that Territory of the dogma of polygamy, which they assert to be no part of primitive Mormonism; and from the history of the sect during its stay in Missouri from 1835 to 1838, it would appear that these organizers are correct; for not a single charge of such dogma being held or taught appears in the many statements made against them, or in the published orders and reports of the officers engaged in expelling them from the State."] Dreading the demoralizing influence of a paper which seemed to be inspired only with hatred and malice toward them, the Gentiles threw the press and type into the Missouri River, tarred and feathered one of their Bishops, and otherwise gave the "Mormons" and their leaders to understand that they must conduct themselves in an entirely different manner if they wished to be left alone. After the destruction of their paper and press, they became furiously incensed, and sought many opportunities for retaliation. Matters continued in an uncertain condition until the 31st of October, 1833, when a deadly conflict occurred near Westport, in which two Gentiles and one "Mormon" were killed. On the second of November following the "Mormons" were over-powered and compelled to lay down their arms and agree to leave the county with their families by January 1st on the condition that the owner would be paid for his printing press. Leaving Jackson County, they crossed the Missouri and located in Clay, Carroll, Caldwell and other counties, and selected in Caldwell County a town site, which they called "Far West," and where they entered more land for their future homes. Through the influence of their missionaries, who were exerting themselves in the east and in different portions of Europe, converts had constantly flocked to their standard, and Far West, and other "Mormon" settlements, rapidly prospered. In 1837 they commenced the erection of a magnificent temple but never finished it. As their settlements increased in numbers they became bolder in the practices and deeds of lawlessness. During the summer of 1838, two of their leaders settled in the town of DeWitt, on the Missouri River, having purchased the land from an Illinois merchant. DeWitt was in Carroll County, and a good point from which to forward goods and emigrants to their town--Far West. Upon its being ascertained that these parties were "Mormon" leaders the Gentiles called a public meeting, which was addressed by some of the prominent citizens of the county. Nothing, however, was done at this meeting, but at a subsequent meeting, which was held a few days afterward, a committee of citizens was appointed to notify Colonel Hinkle (one of the "Mormon" leaders at De Witt,) what they intended to do. Colonel Hinkle upon being notified by this committee became indignant, and threatened extermination to all who should attempt to molest him or the Saints. In anticipation of trouble, and believing that the Gentiles would attempt to force them from De Witt, "Mormon" recruits flocked to the town from every direction, and pitched their tents in and around the town in great numbers. The Gentiles, nothing daunted, planned an attack upon this encampment, to take place on the 21st of September, 1838, and, accordingly, one hundred and fifty men bivouacked near the town on that day. A conflict ensued, but nothing serious occurred. The "Mormons" evacuated their works and fled to some log houses, where they could the more successfully resist the Gentiles, who had in the meantime returned to their camp to await reinforcements. Troops from Howard, Ray and other counties came to their assistance, and increased their number to five hundred men. Congreve Jackson was chosen brigadier-general; Ebenezer Price, colonel; Singleton Vaughn, lieutenant-colonel, and Sashel Woods, major. After some days of discipline, this brigade prepared for an assault, but before the attack was commenced Judge James Earickson and William F. Dunnica, influential citizens of Howard County, asked permission of General Jackson to let them try and adjust the difficulties without bloodshed. It was finally agreed that Judge Earickson should propose to the "Mormons" that, if they would pay for all the cattle they had killed belonging to the citizens, and load their wagons during the night and be ready to move by ten o'clock next morning, and make no further attempt to settle in Howard County, the citizens would purchase at first cost their lots in DeWitt, and one or two adjoining tracts of land. Colonel Hinkle, the leader of the "Mormons," at first refused all attempts to settle the difficulties in this way, but finally agreed to the proposition. In accordance therewith, the "Mormons," without further delay, loaded, up their wagons for the town of Far West, in Caldwell County. Whether the terms of the agreement were ever carried out, on the part of the citizens, it is not known. The "Mormons" had doubtless suffered much and in many ways--the result of their own acts--but their trials and sufferings were not at an end. In 1838 the discord between the citizens and the "Mormons" became so great that Governor Boggs issued a proclamation ordering Major-General David R. Atchison to call the militia of his division to enforce the laws. He called out a part of the first brigade of the Missouri State Militia, under the command of General A. W. Doniphan, who proceeded to the seat of war. General John B. Clark, of Howard County, was placed in command of the militia. The "Mormon" forces numbered about 1,000 men, and were led by G. W. Hinkle. The first engagement occurred at Crooked River, where one "Mormon" was killed. The principle fight took place at Haun's Mill, where eighteen "Mormons" were killed and the balance captured, some of them being killed after they had surrendered. Only one militiaman was wounded. In the month of October, 1838, Joe Smith surrendered the town of Far West to General Doniphan, agreeing to his conditions, viz: That they should deliver up their arms, surrender their prominent leaders for trial, and the remainder of the "Mormons" should, with their families, leave the State. Indictments were found against a number of these leaders including Joe Smith, who, while being taken to Boone County for trial, made his escape, and was afterward, in 1844, killed at Carthage, Illinois, with his brother Hyrum. 
7193	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 1 P R E F A C E MOST of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred; one or two were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also, but not from an individual--he is a combination of the characteristics of three boys whom I knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of architecture. The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and slaves in the West at the period of this story--that is to say, thirty or forty years ago. Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in. THE AUTHOR. HARTFORD, 1876. T O M S A W Y E R CHAPTER I "TOM!" No answer. "TOM!" No answer. "What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM!" No answer. The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service--she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well. She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear: "Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll--" She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat. "I never did see the beat of that boy!" She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom. So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted: "Y-o-u-u TOM!" There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight. "There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in there?" "Nothing." "Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that truck?" "I don't know, aunt." "Well, I know. It's jam--that's what it is. Forty times I've said if you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch." The switch hovered in the air--the peril was desperate-- "My! Look behind you, aunt!" The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it. His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh. "Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that boy, and that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up sin and suffering for us both, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, * and [* Southwestern for "afternoon"] I'll just be obleeged to make him work, to-morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him, or I'll be the ruination of the child." Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home barely in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's wood and split the kindlings before supper--at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the work. Tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways. While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep--for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said she: "Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?" "Yes'm." "Powerful warm, warn't it?" "Yes'm." "Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?" A bit of a scare shot through Tom--a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing. So he said: "No'm--well, not very much." The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said: "But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move: "Some of us pumped on our heads--mine's damp yet. See?" Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new inspiration: "Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!" The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His shirt collar was securely sewed. "Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is--better'n you look. THIS time." She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once. But Sidney said: "Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black." "Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!" But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said: "Siddy, I'll lick you for that." In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them--one needle carried white thread and the other black. He said: "She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to geeminy she'd stick to one or t'other--I can't keep the run of 'em. But I bet you I'll lam Sid for that. I'll learn him!" He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well though--and loathed him. Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time--just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music--the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet--no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer. The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked his whistle. A stranger was before him--a boy a shade larger than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy was well dressed, too--well dressed on a week-day. This was simply astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes on--and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's vitals. The more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved--but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time. Finally Tom said: "I can lick you!" "I'd like to see you try it." "Well, I can do it." "No you can't, either." "Yes I can." "No you can't." "I can." "You can't." "Can!" "Can't!" An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said: "What's your name?" "'Tisn't any of your business, maybe." "Well I 'low I'll MAKE it my business." "Well why don't you?" "If you say much, I will." "Much--much--MUCH. There now." "Oh, you think you're mighty smart, DON'T you? I could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to." "Well why don't you DO it? You SAY you can do it." "Well I WILL, if you fool with me." "Oh yes--I've seen whole families in the same fix." "Smarty! You think you're SOME, now, DON'T you? Oh, what a hat!" "You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it off--and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs." "You're a liar!" "You're another." "You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up." "Aw--take a walk!" "Say--if you give me much more of your sass I'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head." "Oh, of COURSE you will." "Well I WILL." "Well why don't you DO it then? What do you keep SAYING you will for? Why don't you DO it? It's because you're afraid." "I AIN'T afraid." "You are." "I ain't." "You are." Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said: "Get away from here!" "Go away yourself!" "I won't." "I won't either." So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. But neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and Tom said: "You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and I'll make him do it, too." "What do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's bigger than he is--and what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too." [Both brothers were imaginary.] "That's a lie." "YOUR saying so don't make it so." Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said: "I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't stand up. Anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep." The new boy stepped over promptly, and said: "Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it." "Don't you crowd me now; you better look out." "Well, you SAID you'd do it--why don't you do it?" "By jingo! for two cents I WILL do it." The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out with derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him with his fists. "Holler 'nuff!" said he. The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying--mainly from rage. "Holler 'nuff!"--and the pounding went on. At last the stranger got out a smothered "'Nuff!" and Tom let him up and said: "Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with next time." The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and threatening what he would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out." To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the window and declined. At last the enemy's mother appeared, and called Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went away; but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy. He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness. CHAPTER II SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting. Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour--and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said: "Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some." Jim shook his head and said: "Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business--she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend to de whitewashin'." "Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket--I won't be gone only a a minute. SHE won't ever know." "Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me. 'Deed she would." "SHE! She never licks anybody--whacks 'em over the head with her thimble--and who cares for that, I'd like to know. She talks awful, but talk don't hurt--anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you a marvel. I'll give you a white alley!" Jim began to waver. "White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw." "My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful 'fraid ole missis--" "And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe." Jim was only human--this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye. But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work--the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it--bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of WORK, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration. He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently--the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump--proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance--for he was personating the Big Missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them: "Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk. "Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides. "Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!" His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles--for it was representing a forty-foot wheel. "Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-lingling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left hand began to describe circles. "Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! LIVELY now! Come--out with your spring-line--what're you about there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now--let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH'T! S'H'T! SH'T!" (trying the gauge-cocks). Tom went on whitewashing--paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said: "Hi-YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!" No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said: "Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?" Tom wheeled suddenly and said: "Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing." "Say--I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther WORK--wouldn't you? Course you would!" Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said: "What do you call work?" "Why, ain't THAT work?" Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly: "Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer." "Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you LIKE it?" The brush continued to move. "Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?" That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the effect--added a touch here and there--criticised the effect again--Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said: "Say, Tom, let ME whitewash a little." Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "No--no--I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know --but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and SHE wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done." "No--is that so? Oh come, now--lemme just try. Only just a little--I'd let YOU, if you was me, Tom." "Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly--well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it--" "Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say--I'll give you the core of my apple." "Well, here--No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard--" "I'll give you ALL of it!" Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with--and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a dog-collar--but no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash. He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while--plenty of company --and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village. Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it--namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign. The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to report. CHAPTER III TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting --for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. Her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety. She had thought that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't I go and play now, aunt?" "What, a'ready? How much have you done?" "It's all done, aunt." "Tom, don't lie to me--I can't bear it." "I ain't, aunt; it IS all done." Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see for herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent. of Tom's statement true. When she found the entire fence whitewashed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable. She said: "Well, I never! There's no getting round it, you can work when you're a mind to, Tom." And then she diluted the compliment by adding, "But it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well, go 'long and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or I'll tan you." She was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took him into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort. And while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a doughnut. Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect, and Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at peace, now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his black thread and getting him into trouble. Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of the village, where two "military" companies of boys had met for conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom was General of one of these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General of the other. These two great commanders did not condescend to fight in person--that being better suited to the still smaller fry--but sat together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through aides-de-camp. Tom's army won a great victory, after a long and hard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and marched away, and Tom turned homeward alone. As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden--a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered pantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction; he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done. He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time; but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending her way toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer. She halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the door. Tom heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold. But his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she disappeared. The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction. Presently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side, in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But only for a minute--only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart--or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway. He returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, "showing off," as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though Tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions. All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered "what had got into the child." He took a good scolding about clodding Sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said: "Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it." "Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into that sugar if I warn't watching you." Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl--a sort of glorying over Tom which was wellnigh unbearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl dropped and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was silent. He said to himself that he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she asked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model "catch it." He was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles. He said to himself, "Now it's coming!" And the next instant he was sprawling on the floor! The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when Tom cried out: "Hold on, now, what 'er you belting ME for?--Sid broke it!" Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But when she got her tongue again, she only said: "Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some other audacious mischief when I wasn't around, like enough." Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie there cold and white and make no sign--a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other. He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought of his flower. He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she knew? Would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world? This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare. At last he rose up sighing and departed in the darkness. About half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street to where the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower. And thus he would die--out in the cold world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came. And thus SHE would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down? The window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains! The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz as of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and shot away in the gloom. Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought better of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom's eye. Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made mental note of the omission. 
7196	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 4 CHAPTER XIII TOM'S mind was made up now. He was gloomy and desperate. He was a forsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found out what they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had tried to do right and get along, but they would not let him; since nothing would do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them blame HIM for the consequences--why shouldn't they? What right had the friendless to complain? Yes, they had forced him to it at last: he would lead a life of crime. There was no choice. By this time he was far down Meadow Lane, and the bell for school to "take up" tinkled faintly upon his ear. He sobbed, now, to think he should never, never hear that old familiar sound any more--it was very hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the cold world, he must submit--but he forgave them. Then the sobs came thick and fast. Just at this point he met his soul's sworn comrade, Joe Harper --hard-eyed, and with evidently a great and dismal purpose in his heart. Plainly here were "two souls with but a single thought." Tom, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something about a resolution to escape from hard usage and lack of sympathy at home by roaming abroad into the great world never to return; and ended by hoping that Joe would not forget him. But it transpired that this was a request which Joe had just been going to make of Tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose. His mother had whipped him for drinking some cream which he had never tasted and knew nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him and wished him to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing for him to do but succumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never regret having driven her poor boy out into the unfeeling world to suffer and die. As the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to stand by each other and be brothers and never separate till death relieved them of their troubles. Then they began to lay their plans. Joe was for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and dying, some time, of cold and want and grief; but after listening to Tom, he conceded that there were some conspicuous advantages about a life of crime, and so he consented to be a pirate. Three miles below St. Petersburg, at a point where the Mississippi River was a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded island, with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered well as a rendezvous. It was not inhabited; it lay far over toward the further shore, abreast a dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest. So Jackson's Island was chosen. Who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a matter that did not occur to them. Then they hunted up Huckleberry Finn, and he joined them promptly, for all careers were one to him; he was indifferent. They presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on the river-bank two miles above the village at the favorite hour--which was midnight. There was a small log raft there which they meant to capture. Each would bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he could steal in the most dark and mysterious way--as became outlaws. And before the afternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet glory of spreading the fact that pretty soon the town would "hear something." All who got this vague hint were cautioned to "be mum and wait." About midnight Tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles, and stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the meeting-place. It was starlight, and very still. The mighty river lay like an ocean at rest. Tom listened a moment, but no sound disturbed the quiet. Then he gave a low, distinct whistle. It was answered from under the bluff. Tom whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the same way. Then a guarded voice said: "Who goes there?" "Tom Sawyer, the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main. Name your names." "Huck Finn the Red-Handed, and Joe Harper the Terror of the Seas." Tom had furnished these titles, from his favorite literature. "'Tis well. Give the countersign." Two hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously to the brooding night: "BLOOD!" Then Tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after it, tearing both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort. There was an easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it lacked the advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a pirate. The Terror of the Seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about worn himself out with getting it there. Finn the Red-Handed had stolen a skillet and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought a few corn-cobs to make pipes with. But none of the pirates smoked or "chewed" but himself. The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main said it would never do to start without some fire. That was a wise thought; matches were hardly known there in that day. They saw a fire smouldering upon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they went stealthily thither and helped themselves to a chunk. They made an imposing adventure of it, saying, "Hist!" every now and then, and suddenly halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal whispers that if "the foe" stirred, to "let him have it to the hilt," because "dead men tell no tales." They knew well enough that the raftsmen were all down at the village laying in stores or having a spree, but still that was no excuse for their conducting this thing in an unpiratical way. They shoved off, presently, Tom in command, Huck at the after oar and Joe at the forward. Tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded arms, and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper: "Luff, and bring her to the wind!" "Aye-aye, sir!" "Steady, steady-y-y-y!" "Steady it is, sir!" "Let her go off a point!" "Point it is, sir!" As the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward mid-stream it was no doubt understood that these orders were given only for "style," and were not intended to mean anything in particular. "What sail's she carrying?" "Courses, tops'ls, and flying-jib, sir." "Send the r'yals up! Lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of ye --foretopmaststuns'l! Lively, now!" "Aye-aye, sir!" "Shake out that maintogalans'l! Sheets and braces! NOW my hearties!" "Aye-aye, sir!" "Hellum-a-lee--hard a port! Stand by to meet her when she comes! Port, port! NOW, men! With a will! Stead-y-y-y!" "Steady it is, sir!" The raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her head right, and then lay on their oars. The river was not high, so there was not more than a two or three mile current. Hardly a word was said during the next three-quarters of an hour. Now the raft was passing before the distant town. Two or three glimmering lights showed where it lay, peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of star-gemmed water, unconscious of the tremendous event that was happening. The Black Avenger stood still with folded arms, "looking his last" upon the scene of his former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing "she" could see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and death with dauntless heart, going to his doom with a grim smile on his lips. It was but a small strain on his imagination to remove Jackson's Island beyond eyeshot of the village, and so he "looked his last" with a broken and satisfied heart. The other pirates were looking their last, too; and they all looked so long that they came near letting the current drift them out of the range of the island. But they discovered the danger in time, and made shift to avert it. About two o'clock in the morning the raft grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the head of the island, and they waded back and forth until they had landed their freight. Part of the little raft's belongings consisted of an old sail, and this they spread over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter their provisions; but they themselves would sleep in the open air in good weather, as became outlaws. They built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty steps within the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some bacon in the frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn "pone" stock they had brought. It seemed glorious sport to be feasting in that wild, free way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and uninhabited island, far from the haunts of men, and they said they never would return to civilization. The climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon the varnished foliage and festooning vines. When the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance of corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass, filled with contentment. They could have found a cooler place, but they would not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting camp-fire. "AIN'T it gay?" said Joe. "It's NUTS!" said Tom. "What would the boys say if they could see us?" "Say? Well, they'd just die to be here--hey, Hucky!" "I reckon so," said Huckleberry; "anyways, I'm suited. I don't want nothing better'n this. I don't ever get enough to eat, gen'ally--and here they can't come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so." "It's just the life for me," said Tom. "You don't have to get up, mornings, and you don't have to go to school, and wash, and all that blame foolishness. You see a pirate don't have to do ANYTHING, Joe, when he's ashore, but a hermit HE has to be praying considerable, and then he don't have any fun, anyway, all by himself that way." "Oh yes, that's so," said Joe, "but I hadn't thought much about it, you know. I'd a good deal rather be a pirate, now that I've tried it." "You see," said Tom, "people don't go much on hermits, nowadays, like they used to in old times, but a pirate's always respected. And a hermit's got to sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put sackcloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the rain, and--" "What does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head for?" inquired Huck. "I dono. But they've GOT to do it. Hermits always do. You'd have to do that if you was a hermit." "Dern'd if I would," said Huck. "Well, what would you do?" "I dono. But I wouldn't do that." "Why, Huck, you'd HAVE to. How'd you get around it?" "Why, I just wouldn't stand it. I'd run away." "Run away! Well, you WOULD be a nice old slouch of a hermit. You'd be a disgrace." The Red-Handed made no response, being better employed. He had finished gouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with tobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke--he was in the full bloom of luxurious contentment. The other pirates envied him this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to acquire it shortly. Presently Huck said: "What does pirates have to do?" Tom said: "Oh, they have just a bully time--take ships and burn them, and get the money and bury it in awful places in their island where there's ghosts and things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships--make 'em walk a plank." "And they carry the women to the island," said Joe; "they don't kill the women." "No," assented Tom, "they don't kill the women--they're too noble. And the women's always beautiful, too. "And don't they wear the bulliest clothes! Oh no! All gold and silver and di'monds," said Joe, with enthusiasm. "Who?" said Huck. "Why, the pirates." Huck scanned his own clothing forlornly. "I reckon I ain't dressed fitten for a pirate," said he, with a regretful pathos in his voice; "but I ain't got none but these." But the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough, after they should have begun their adventures. They made him understand that his poor rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for wealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe. Gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the eyelids of the little waifs. The pipe dropped from the fingers of the Red-Handed, and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary. The Terror of the Seas and the Black Avenger of the Spanish Main had more difficulty in getting to sleep. They said their prayers inwardly, and lying down, since there was nobody there with authority to make them kneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not to say them at all, but they were afraid to proceed to such lengths as that, lest they might call down a sudden and special thunderbolt from heaven. Then at once they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge of sleep--but an intruder came, now, that would not "down." It was conscience. They began to feel a vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run away; and next they thought of the stolen meat, and then the real torture came. They tried to argue it away by reminding conscience that they had purloined sweetmeats and apples scores of times; but conscience was not to be appeased by such thin plausibilities; it seemed to them, in the end, that there was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was only "hooking," while taking bacon and hams and such valuables was plain simple stealing--and there was a command against that in the Bible. So they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of stealing. Then conscience granted a truce, and these curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep. CHAPTER XIV WHEN Tom awoke in the morning, he wondered where he was. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around. Then he comprehended. It was the cool gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the deep pervading calm and silence of the woods. Not a leaf stirred; not a sound obtruded upon great Nature's meditation. Beaded dewdrops stood upon the leaves and grasses. A white layer of ashes covered the fire, and a thin blue breath of smoke rose straight into the air. Joe and Huck still slept. Now, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered; presently the hammering of a woodpecker was heard. Gradually the cool dim gray of the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life manifested itself. The marvel of Nature shaking off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing boy. A little green worm came crawling over a dewy leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air from time to time and "sniffing around," then proceeding again--for he was measuring, Tom said; and when the worm approached him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a stone, with his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to go elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful moment with its curved body in the air and then came decisively down upon Tom's leg and began a journey over him, his whole heart was glad--for that meant that he was going to have a new suit of clothes--without the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical uniform. Now a procession of ants appeared, from nowhere in particular, and went about their labors; one struggled manfully by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged it straight up a tree-trunk. A brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy height of a grass blade, and Tom bent down close to it and said, "Lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children's alone," and she took wing and went off to see about it --which did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was credulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity more than once. A tumblebug came next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and Tom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against its body and pretend to be dead. The birds were fairly rioting by this time. A catbird, the Northern mocker, lit in a tree over Tom's head, and trilled out her imitations of her neighbors in a rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill jay swept down, a flash of blue flame, and stopped on a twig almost within the boy's reach, cocked his head to one side and eyed the strangers with a consuming curiosity; a gray squirrel and a big fellow of the "fox" kind came skurrying along, sitting up at intervals to inspect and chatter at the boys, for the wild things had probably never seen a human being before and scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not. All Nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight pierced down through the dense foliage far and near, and a few butterflies came fluttering upon the scene. Tom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with a shout, and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and tumbling over each other in the shallow limpid water of the white sandbar. They felt no longing for the little village sleeping in the distance beyond the majestic waste of water. A vagrant current or a slight rise in the river had carried off their raft, but this only gratified them, since its going was something like burning the bridge between them and civilization. They came back to camp wonderfully refreshed, glad-hearted, and ravenous; and they soon had the camp-fire blazing up again. Huck found a spring of clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of broad oak or hickory leaves, and felt that water, sweetened with such a wildwood charm as that, would be a good enough substitute for coffee. While Joe was slicing bacon for breakfast, Tom and Huck asked him to hold on a minute; they stepped to a promising nook in the river-bank and threw in their lines; almost immediately they had reward. Joe had not had time to get impatient before they were back again with some handsome bass, a couple of sun-perch and a small catfish--provisions enough for quite a family. They fried the fish with the bacon, and were astonished; for no fish had ever seemed so delicious before. They did not know that the quicker a fresh-water fish is on the fire after he is caught the better he is; and they reflected little upon what a sauce open-air sleeping, open-air exercise, bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger make, too. They lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while Huck had a smoke, and then went off through the woods on an exploring expedition. They tramped gayly along, over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush, among solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their crowns to the ground with a drooping regalia of grape-vines. Now and then they came upon snug nooks carpeted with grass and jeweled with flowers. They found plenty of things to be delighted with, but nothing to be astonished at. They discovered that the island was about three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest to was only separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hundred yards wide. They took a swim about every hour, so it was close upon the middle of the afternoon when they got back to camp. They were too hungry to stop to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and then threw themselves down in the shade to talk. But the talk soon began to drag, and then died. The stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the woods, and the sense of loneliness, began to tell upon the spirits of the boys. They fell to thinking. A sort of undefined longing crept upon them. This took dim shape, presently--it was budding homesickness. Even Finn the Red-Handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and empty hogsheads. But they were all ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his thought. For some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar sound in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which he takes no distinct note of. But now this mysterious sound became more pronounced, and forced a recognition. The boys started, glanced at each other, and then each assumed a listening attitude. There was a long silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen boom came floating down out of the distance. "What is it!" exclaimed Joe, under his breath. "I wonder," said Tom in a whisper. "'Tain't thunder," said Huckleberry, in an awed tone, "becuz thunder--" "Hark!" said Tom. "Listen--don't talk." They waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled boom troubled the solemn hush. "Let's go and see." They sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the town. They parted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the water. The little steam ferryboat was about a mile below the village, drifting with the current. Her broad deck seemed crowded with people. There were a great many skiffs rowing about or floating with the stream in the neighborhood of the ferryboat, but the boys could not determine what the men in them were doing. Presently a great jet of white smoke burst from the ferryboat's side, and as it expanded and rose in a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of sound was borne to the listeners again. "I know now!" exclaimed Tom; "somebody's drownded!" "That's it!" said Huck; "they done that last summer, when Bill Turner got drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water, and that makes him come up to the top. Yes, and they take loaves of bread and put quicksilver in 'em and set 'em afloat, and wherever there's anybody that's drownded, they'll float right there and stop." "Yes, I've heard about that," said Joe. "I wonder what makes the bread do that." "Oh, it ain't the bread, so much," said Tom; "I reckon it's mostly what they SAY over it before they start it out." "But they don't say anything over it," said Huck. "I've seen 'em and they don't." "Well, that's funny," said Tom. "But maybe they say it to themselves. Of COURSE they do. Anybody might know that." The other boys agreed that there was reason in what Tom said, because an ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation, could not be expected to act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such gravity. "By jings, I wish I was over there, now," said Joe. "I do too" said Huck "I'd give heaps to know who it is." The boys still listened and watched. Presently a revealing thought flashed through Tom's mind, and he exclaimed: "Boys, I know who's drownded--it's us!" They felt like heroes in an instant. Here was a gorgeous triumph; they were missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account; tears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and remorse were being indulged; and best of all, the departed were the talk of the whole town, and the envy of all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was concerned. This was fine. It was worth while to be a pirate, after all. As twilight drew on, the ferryboat went back to her accustomed business and the skiffs disappeared. The pirates returned to camp. They were jubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the illustrious trouble they were making. They caught fish, cooked supper and ate it, and then fell to guessing at what the village was thinking and saying about them; and the pictures they drew of the public distress on their account were gratifying to look upon--from their point of view. But when the shadows of night closed them in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing into the fire, with their minds evidently wandering elsewhere. The excitement was gone, now, and Tom and Joe could not keep back thoughts of certain persons at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as they were. Misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy; a sigh or two escaped, unawares. By and by Joe timidly ventured upon a roundabout "feeler" as to how the others might look upon a return to civilization--not right now, but-- Tom withered him with derision! Huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined in with Tom, and the waverer quickly "explained," and was glad to get out of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted homesickness clinging to his garments as he could. Mutiny was effectually laid to rest for the moment. As the night deepened, Huck began to nod, and presently to snore. Joe followed next. Tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching the two intently. At last he got up cautiously, on his knees, and went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung by the camp-fire. He picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose two which seemed to suit him. Then he knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something upon each of these with his "red keel"; one he rolled up and put in his jacket pocket, and the other he put in Joe's hat and removed it to a little distance from the owner. And he also put into the hat certain schoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value--among them a lump of chalk, an India-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of that kind of marbles known as a "sure 'nough crystal." Then he tiptoed his way cautiously among the trees till he felt that he was out of hearing, and straightway broke into a keen run in the direction of the sandbar. CHAPTER XV A FEW minutes later Tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading toward the Illinois shore. Before the depth reached his middle he was half-way over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he struck out confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. He swam quartering upstream, but still was swept downward rather faster than he had expected. However, he reached the shore finally, and drifted along till he found a low place and drew himself out. He put his hand on his jacket pocket, found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through the woods, following the shore, with streaming garments. Shortly before ten o'clock he came out into an open place opposite the village, and saw the ferryboat lying in the shadow of the trees and the high bank. Everything was quiet under the blinking stars. He crept down the bank, watching with all his eyes, slipped into the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into the skiff that did "yawl" duty at the boat's stern. He laid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting. Presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to "cast off." A minute or two later the skiff's head was standing high up, against the boat's swell, and the voyage was begun. Tom felt happy in his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for the night. At the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and Tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards downstream, out of danger of possible stragglers. He flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his aunt's back fence. He climbed over, approached the "ell," and looked in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there. There sat Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, and Joe Harper's mother, grouped together, talking. They were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door. Tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on his knees; so he put his head through and began, warily. "What makes the candle blow so?" said Aunt Polly. Tom hurried up. "Why, that door's open, I believe. Why, of course it is. No end of strange things now. Go 'long and shut it, Sid." Tom disappeared under the bed just in time. He lay and "breathed" himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his aunt's foot. "But as I was saying," said Aunt Polly, "he warn't BAD, so to say --only mischEEvous. Only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. He warn't any more responsible than a colt. HE never meant any harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was"--and she began to cry. "It was just so with my Joe--always full of his devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he could be--and laws bless me, to think I went and whipped him for taking that cream, never once recollecting that I throwed it out myself because it was sour, and I never to see him again in this world, never, never, never, poor abused boy!" And Mrs. Harper sobbed as if her heart would break. "I hope Tom's better off where he is," said Sid, "but if he'd been better in some ways--" "SID!" Tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not see it. "Not a word against my Tom, now that he's gone! God'll take care of HIM--never you trouble YOURself, sir! Oh, Mrs. Harper, I don't know how to give him up! I don't know how to give him up! He was such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most." "The Lord giveth and the Lord hath taken away--Blessed be the name of the Lord! But it's so hard--Oh, it's so hard! Only last Saturday my Joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and I knocked him sprawling. Little did I know then, how soon--Oh, if it was to do over again I'd hug him and bless him for it." "Yes, yes, yes, I know just how you feel, Mrs. Harper, I know just exactly how you feel. No longer ago than yesterday noon, my Tom took and filled the cat full of Pain-killer, and I did think the cretur would tear the house down. And God forgive me, I cracked Tom's head with my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. But he's out of all his troubles now. And the last words I ever heard him say was to reproach--" But this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely down. Tom was snuffling, now, himself--and more in pity of himself than anybody else. He could hear Mary crying, and putting in a kindly word for him from time to time. He began to have a nobler opinion of himself than ever before. Still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt's grief to long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with joy--and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still. He went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim; then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads had promised that the village should "hear something" soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the Missouri shore some five or six miles below the village --and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not sooner. It was believed that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to shore. This was Wednesday night. If the bodies continued missing until Sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning. Tom shuddered. Mrs. Harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. Then with a mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. Aunt Polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to Sid and Mary. Sid snuffled a bit and Mary went off crying with all her heart. Aunt Polly knelt down and prayed for Tom so touchingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through. He had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over. But at last she was still, only moaning a little in her sleep. Now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. His heart was full of pity for her. He took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle. But something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. His face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in his pocket. Then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him. He threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a graven image. He untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream. When he had pulled a mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to his work. He hit the landing on the other side neatly, for this was a familiar bit of work to him. He was moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it might be considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a thorough search would be made for it and that might end in revelations. So he stepped ashore and entered the woods. He sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. The night was far spent. It was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the island bar. He rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. A little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and heard Joe say: "No, Tom's true-blue, Huck, and he'll come back. He won't desert. He knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and Tom's too proud for that sort of thing. He's up to something or other. Now I wonder what?" "Well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?" Pretty near, but not yet, Huck. The writing says they are if he ain't back here to breakfast." "Which he is!" exclaimed Tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping grandly into camp. A sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as the boys set to work upon it, Tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures. They were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done. Then Tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the other pirates got ready to fish and explore. CHAPTER XVI AFTER dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the bar. They went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands. Sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. They were perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an English walnut. They had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on Friday morning. After breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal water of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their legs from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun. And now and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each other's faces with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with averted faces to avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath at one and the same time. When they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and by break for the water again and go through the original performance once more. Finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and had a circus--with three clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest post to his neighbor. Next they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw" and "keeps" till that amusement grew stale. Then Joe and Huck had another swim, but Tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the protection of this mysterious charm. He did not venture again until he had found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to rest. They gradually wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps," and fell to gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village lay drowsing in the sun. Tom found himself writing "BECKY" in the sand with his big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his weakness. But he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help it. He erased it once more and then took himself out of temptation by driving the other boys together and joining them. But Joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. He was so homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. The tears lay very near the surface. Huck was melancholy, too. Tom was downhearted, but tried hard not to show it. He had a secret which he was not ready to tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he would have to bring it out. He said, with a great show of cheerfulness: "I bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. We'll explore it again. They've hid treasures here somewhere. How'd you feel to light on a rotten chest full of gold and silver--hey?" But it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply. Tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. It was discouraging work. Joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking very gloomy. Finally he said: "Oh, boys, let's give it up. I want to go home. It's so lonesome." "Oh no, Joe, you'll feel better by and by," said Tom. "Just think of the fishing that's here." "I don't care for fishing. I want to go home." "But, Joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere." "Swimming's no good. I don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there ain't anybody to say I sha'n't go in. I mean to go home." "Oh, shucks! Baby! You want to see your mother, I reckon." "Yes, I DO want to see my mother--and you would, too, if you had one. I ain't any more baby than you are." And Joe snuffled a little. "Well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we, Huck? Poor thing--does it want to see its mother? And so it shall. You like it here, don't you, Huck? We'll stay, won't we?" Huck said, "Y-e-s"--without any heart in it. "I'll never speak to you again as long as I live," said Joe, rising. "There now!" And he moved moodily away and began to dress himself. "Who cares!" said Tom. "Nobody wants you to. Go 'long home and get laughed at. Oh, you're a nice pirate. Huck and me ain't cry-babies. We'll stay, won't we, Huck? Let him go if he wants to. I reckon we can get along without him, per'aps." But Tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see Joe go sullenly on with his dressing. And then it was discomforting to see Huck eying Joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous silence. Presently, without a parting word, Joe began to wade off toward the Illinois shore. Tom's heart began to sink. He glanced at Huck. Huck could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. Then he said: "I want to go, too, Tom. It was getting so lonesome anyway, and now it'll be worse. Let's us go, too, Tom." "I won't! You can all go, if you want to. I mean to stay." "Tom, I better go." "Well, go 'long--who's hendering you." Huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. He said: "Tom, I wisht you'd come, too. Now you think it over. We'll wait for you when we get to shore." "Well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all." Huck started sorrowfully away, and Tom stood looking after him, with a strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too. He hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. It suddenly dawned on Tom that it was become very lonely and still. He made one final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling: "Wait! Wait! I want to tell you something!" They presently stopped and turned around. When he got to where they were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at last they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set up a war-whoop of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if he had told them at first, they wouldn't have started away. He made a plausible excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction. The lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will, chattering all the time about Tom's stupendous plan and admiring the genius of it. After a dainty egg and fish dinner, Tom said he wanted to learn to smoke, now. Joe caught at the idea and said he would like to try, too. So Huck made pipes and filled them. These novices had never smoked anything before but cigars made of grape-vine, and they "bit" the tongue, and were not considered manly anyway. Now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff, charily, and with slender confidence. The smoke had an unpleasant taste, and they gagged a little, but Tom said: "Why, it's just as easy! If I'd a knowed this was all, I'd a learnt long ago." "So would I," said Joe. "It's just nothing." "Why, many a time I've looked at people smoking, and thought well I wish I could do that; but I never thought I could," said Tom. "That's just the way with me, hain't it, Huck? You've heard me talk just that way--haven't you, Huck? I'll leave it to Huck if I haven't." "Yes--heaps of times," said Huck. "Well, I have too," said Tom; "oh, hundreds of times. Once down by the slaughter-house. Don't you remember, Huck? Bob Tanner was there, and Johnny Miller, and Jeff Thatcher, when I said it. Don't you remember, Huck, 'bout me saying that?" "Yes, that's so," said Huck. "That was the day after I lost a white alley. No, 'twas the day before." "There--I told you so," said Tom. "Huck recollects it." "I bleeve I could smoke this pipe all day," said Joe. "I don't feel sick." "Neither do I," said Tom. "I could smoke it all day. But I bet you Jeff Thatcher couldn't." "Jeff Thatcher! Why, he'd keel over just with two draws. Just let him try it once. HE'D see!" "I bet he would. And Johnny Miller--I wish could see Johnny Miller tackle it once." "Oh, don't I!" said Joe. "Why, I bet you Johnny Miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. Just one little snifter would fetch HIM." "'Deed it would, Joe. Say--I wish the boys could see us now." "So do I." "Say--boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, I'll come up to you and say, 'Joe, got a pipe? I want a smoke.' And you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'Yes, I got my OLD pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.' And I'll say, 'Oh, that's all right, if it's STRONG enough.' And then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!" "By jings, that'll be gay, Tom! I wish it was NOW!" "So do I! And when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?" "Oh, I reckon not! I'll just BET they will!" So the talk ran on. But presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. The silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased. Every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time. Both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. Joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tom's followed. Both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. Joe said feebly: "I've lost my knife. I reckon I better go and find it." Tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance: "I'll help you. You go over that way and I'll hunt around by the spring. No, you needn't come, Huck--we can find it." So Huck sat down again, and waited an hour. Then he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades. They were wide apart in the woods, both very pale, both fast asleep. But something informed him that if they had had any trouble they had got rid of it. They were not talkative at supper that night. They had a humble look, and when Huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well--something they ate at dinner had disagreed with them. About midnight Joe awoke, and called the boys. There was a brooding oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. The boys huddled themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. They sat still, intent and waiting. The solemn hush continued. Beyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness. Presently there came a quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished. By and by another came, a little stronger. Then another. Then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the Spirit of the Night had gone by. There was a pause. Now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. And it showed three white, startled faces, too. A deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. A sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. Another fierce glare lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the tree-tops right over the boys' heads. They clung together in terror, in the thick gloom that followed. A few big rain-drops fell pattering upon the leaves. "Quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed Tom. They sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no two plunging in the same direction. A furious blast roared through the trees, making everything sing as it went. One blinding flash after another came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. And now a drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground. The boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the booming thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly. However, one by one they straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be grateful for. They could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises would have allowed them. The tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast. The boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the river-bank. Now the battle was at its highest. Under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. Every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunder-peals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. The storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. It was a wild night for homeless young heads to be out in. But at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. The boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not under it when the catastrophe happened. Everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against rain. Here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and chilled. They were eloquent in their distress; but they presently discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. Then they piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were glad-hearted once more. They dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on, anywhere around. As the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. They got scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. After the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more. Tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could. But they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything. He reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer. While it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. This was to knock off being pirates, for a while, and be Indians for a change. They were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras--all of them chiefs, of course--and then they went tearing through the woods to attack an English settlement. By and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped each other by thousands. It was a gory day. Consequently it was an extremely satisfactory one. They assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a difficulty arose--hostile Indians could not break the bread of hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. There was no other process that ever they had heard of. Two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates. However, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form. And behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be seriously uncomfortable. They were not likely to fool away this high promise for lack of effort. No, they practised cautiously, after supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. They were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and skinning of the Six Nations. We will leave them to smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present. CHAPTER XVII BUT there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil Saturday afternoon. The Harpers, and Aunt Polly's family, were being put into mourning, with great grief and many tears. An unusual quiet possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience. The villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked little; but they sighed often. The Saturday holiday seemed a burden to the children. They had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up. In the afternoon Becky Thatcher found herself moping about the deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. But she found nothing there to comfort her. She soliloquized: "Oh, if I only had a brass andiron-knob again! But I haven't got anything now to remember him by." And she choked back a little sob. Presently she stopped, and said to herself: "It was right here. Oh, if it was to do over again, I wouldn't say that--I wouldn't say it for the whole world. But he's gone now; I'll never, never, never see him any more." This thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling down her cheeks. Then quite a group of boys and girls--playmates of Tom's and Joe's--came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking in reverent tones of how Tom did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and how Joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as they could easily see now!)--and each speaker pointed out the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added something like "and I was a-standing just so--just as I am now, and as if you was him--I was as close as that--and he smiled, just this way--and then something seemed to go all over me, like--awful, you know--and I never thought what it meant, of course, but I can see now!" Then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who DID see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped at and envied by all the rest. One poor chap, who had no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance: "Well, Tom Sawyer he licked me once." But that bid for glory was a failure. Most of the boys could say that, and so that cheapened the distinction too much. The group loitered away, still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices. When the Sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. It was a very still Sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush that lay upon nature. The villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. But there was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. None could remember when the little church had been so full before. There was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then Aunt Polly entered, followed by Sid and Mary, and they by the Harper family, all in deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew. There was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. A moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: "I am the Resurrection and the Life." As the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor boys. The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. The congregation became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit. There was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his handkerchief, and stood transfixed! First one and then another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one impulse the congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up the aisle, Tom in the lead, Joe next, and Huck, a ruin of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear! They had been hid in the unused gallery listening to their own funeral sermon! Aunt Polly, Mary, and the Harpers threw themselves upon their restored ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor Huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. He wavered, and started to slink away, but Tom seized him and said: "Aunt Polly, it ain't fair. Somebody's got to be glad to see Huck." "And so they shall. I'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" And the loving attentions Aunt Polly lavished upon him were the one thing capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before. Suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow--SING!--and put your hearts in it!" And they did. Old Hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters Tom Sawyer the Pirate looked around upon the envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest moment of his life. As the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear Old Hundred sung like that once more. Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day--according to Aunt Polly's varying moods--than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself. 
7198	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 6 CHAPTER XXIII AT last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred--and vigorously: the murder trial came on in the court. It became the absorbing topic of village talk immediately. Tom could not get away from it. Every reference to the murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as "feelers"; he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip. It kept him in a cold shiver all the time. He took Huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him. It would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of distress with another sufferer. Moreover, he wanted to assure himself that Huck had remained discreet. "Huck, have you ever told anybody about--that?" "'Bout what?" "You know what." "Oh--'course I haven't." "Never a word?" "Never a solitary word, so help me. What makes you ask?" "Well, I was afeard." "Why, Tom Sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out. YOU know that." Tom felt more comfortable. After a pause: "Huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?" "Get me to tell? Why, if I wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me they could get me to tell. They ain't no different way." "Well, that's all right, then. I reckon we're safe as long as we keep mum. But let's swear again, anyway. It's more surer." "I'm agreed." So they swore again with dread solemnities. "What is the talk around, Huck? I've heard a power of it." "Talk? Well, it's just Muff Potter, Muff Potter, Muff Potter all the time. It keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's I want to hide som'ers." "That's just the same way they go on round me. I reckon he's a goner. Don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?" "Most always--most always. He ain't no account; but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt anybody. Just fishes a little, to get money to get drunk on--and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that--leastways most of us--preachers and such like. But he's kind of good--he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when I was out of luck." "Well, he's mended kites for me, Huck, and knitted hooks on to my line. I wish we could get him out of there." "My! we couldn't get him out, Tom. And besides, 'twouldn't do any good; they'd ketch him again." "Yes--so they would. But I hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the dickens when he never done--that." "I do too, Tom. Lord, I hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before." "Yes, they talk like that, all the time. I've heard 'em say that if he was to get free they'd lynch him." "And they'd do it, too." The boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. As the twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. But nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive. The boys did as they had often done before--went to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and there were no guards. His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before--it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when Potter said: "You've been mighty good to me, boys--better'n anybody else in this town. And I don't forget it, I don't. Often I says to myself, says I, 'I used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what I could, and now they've all forgot old Muff when he's in trouble; but Tom don't, and Huck don't--THEY don't forget him, says I, 'and I don't forget them.' Well, boys, I done an awful thing--drunk and crazy at the time--that's the only way I account for it--and now I got to swing for it, and it's right. Right, and BEST, too, I reckon--hope so, anyway. Well, we won't talk about that. I don't want to make YOU feel bad; you've befriended me. But what I want to say, is, don't YOU ever get drunk--then you won't ever get here. Stand a litter furder west--so--that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when a body's in such a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but yourn. Good friendly faces--good friendly faces. Git up on one another's backs and let me touch 'em. That's it. Shake hands--yourn'll come through the bars, but mine's too big. Little hands, and weak--but they've helped Muff Potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could." Tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors. The next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room, drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out. Huck was having the same experience. They studiously avoided each other. Each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination always brought them back presently. Tom kept his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the court-room, but invariably heard distressing news--the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor Potter. At the end of the second day the village talk was to the effect that Injun Joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be. Tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. He was in a tremendous state of excitement. It was hours before he got to sleep. All the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for this was to be the great day. Both sexes were about equally represented in the packed audience. After a long wait the jury filed in and took their places; shortly afterward, Potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was Injun Joe, stolid as ever. There was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. The usual whisperings among the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. These details and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as impressive as it was fascinating. Now a witness was called who testified that he found Muff Potter washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. After some further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said: "Take the witness." The prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when his own counsel said: "I have no questions to ask him." The next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse. Counsel for the prosecution said: "Take the witness." "I have no questions to ask him," Potter's lawyer replied. A third witness swore he had often seen the knife in Potter's possession. "Take the witness." Counsel for Potter declined to question him. The faces of the audience began to betray annoyance. Did this attorney mean to throw away his client's life without an effort? Several witnesses deposed concerning Potter's guilty behavior when brought to the scene of the murder. They were allowed to leave the stand without being cross-questioned. Every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined by Potter's lawyer. The perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. Counsel for the prosecution now said: "By the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar. We rest our case here." A groan escaped from poor Potter, and he put his face in his hands and rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the court-room. Many men were moved, and many women's compassion testified itself in tears. Counsel for the defence rose and said: "Your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced by drink. We have changed our mind. We shall not offer that plea." [Then to the clerk:] "Call Thomas Sawyer!" A puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even excepting Potter's. Every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon Tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand. The boy looked wild enough, for he was badly scared. The oath was administered. "Thomas Sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of June, about the hour of midnight?" Tom glanced at Injun Joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. The audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. After a few moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear: "In the graveyard!" "A little bit louder, please. Don't be afraid. You were--" "In the graveyard." A contemptuous smile flitted across Injun Joe's face. "Were you anywhere near Horse Williams' grave?" "Yes, sir." "Speak up--just a trifle louder. How near were you?" "Near as I am to you." "Were you hidden, or not?" "I was hid." "Where?" "Behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave." Injun Joe gave a barely perceptible start. "Any one with you?" "Yes, sir. I went there with--" "Wait--wait a moment. Never mind mentioning your companion's name. We will produce him at the proper time. Did you carry anything there with you." Tom hesitated and looked confused. "Speak out, my boy--don't be diffident. The truth is always respectable. What did you take there?" "Only a--a--dead cat." There was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked. "We will produce the skeleton of that cat. Now, my boy, tell us everything that occurred--tell it in your own way--don't skip anything, and don't be afraid." Tom began--hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. The strain upon pent emotion reached its climax when the boy said: "--and as the doctor fetched the board around and Muff Potter fell, Injun Joe jumped with the knife and--" Crash! Quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his way through all opposers, and was gone! CHAPTER XXIV TOM was a glittering hero once more--the pet of the old, the envy of the young. His name even went into immortal print, for the village paper magnified him. There were some that believed he would be President, yet, if he escaped hanging. As usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took Muff Potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. But that sort of conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault with it. Tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights were seasons of horror. Injun Joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom in his eye. Hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. Poor Huck was in the same state of wretchedness and terror, for Tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night before the great day of the trial, and Huck was sore afraid that his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding Injun Joe's flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court. The poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? Since Tom's harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, Huck's confidence in the human race was well-nigh obliterated. Daily Muff Potter's gratitude made Tom glad he had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up his tongue. Half the time Tom was afraid Injun Joe would never be captured; the other half he was afraid he would be. He felt sure he never could draw a safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse. Rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no Injun Joe was found. One of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective, came up from St. Louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually achieve. That is to say, he "found a clew." But you can't hang a "clew" for murder, and so after that detective had got through and gone home, Tom felt just as insecure as he was before. The slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened weight of apprehension. CHAPTER XXV THERE comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. This desire suddenly came upon Tom one day. He sallied out to find Joe Harper, but failed of success. Next he sought Ben Rogers; he had gone fishing. Presently he stumbled upon Huck Finn the Red-Handed. Huck would answer. Tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to him confidentially. Huck was willing. Huck was always willing to take a hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital, for he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time which is not money. "Where'll we dig?" said Huck. "Oh, most anywhere." "Why, is it hid all around?" "No, indeed it ain't. It's hid in mighty particular places, Huck --sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses." "Who hides it?" "Why, robbers, of course--who'd you reckon? Sunday-school sup'rintendents?" "I don't know. If 'twas mine I wouldn't hide it; I'd spend it and have a good time." "So would I. But robbers don't do that way. They always hide it and leave it there." "Don't they come after it any more?" "No, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else they die. Anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks--a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because it's mostly signs and hy'roglyphics." "HyroQwhich?" "Hy'roglyphics--pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to mean anything." "Have you got one of them papers, Tom?" "No." "Well then, how you going to find the marks?" "I don't want any marks. They always bury it under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. Well, we've tried Jackson's Island a little, and we can try it again some time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the Still-House branch, and there's lots of dead-limb trees--dead loads of 'em." "Is it under all of them?" "How you talk! No!" "Then how you going to know which one to go for?" "Go for all of 'em!" "Why, Tom, it'll take all summer." "Well, what of that? Suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds. How's that?" Huck's eyes glowed. "That's bully. Plenty bully enough for me. Just you gimme the hundred dollars and I don't want no di'monds." "All right. But I bet you I ain't going to throw off on di'monds. Some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece--there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar." "No! Is that so?" "Cert'nly--anybody'll tell you so. Hain't you ever seen one, Huck?" "Not as I remember." "Oh, kings have slathers of them." "Well, I don' know no kings, Tom." "I reckon you don't. But if you was to go to Europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around." "Do they hop?" "Hop?--your granny! No!" "Well, what did you say they did, for?" "Shucks, I only meant you'd SEE 'em--not hopping, of course--what do they want to hop for?--but I mean you'd just see 'em--scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way. Like that old humpbacked Richard." "Richard? What's his other name?" "He didn't have any other name. Kings don't have any but a given name." "No?" "But they don't." "Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say--where you going to dig first?" "Well, I don't know. S'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of Still-House branch?" "I'm agreed." So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke. "I like this," said Tom. "So do I." "Say, Huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?" "Well, I'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and I'll go to every circus that comes along. I bet I'll have a gay time." "Well, ain't you going to save any of it?" "Save it? What for?" "Why, so as to have something to live on, by and by." "Oh, that ain't any use. Pap would come back to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it if I didn't hurry up, and I tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick. What you going to do with yourn, Tom?" "I'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married." "Married!" "That's it." "Tom, you--why, you ain't in your right mind." "Wait--you'll see." "Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do. Look at pap and my mother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well." "That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight." "Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you better think 'bout this awhile. I tell you you better. What's the name of the gal?" "It ain't a gal at all--it's a girl." "It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl--both's right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?" "I'll tell you some time--not now." "All right--that'll do. Only if you get married I'll be more lonesomer than ever." "No you won't. You'll come and live with me. Now stir out of this and we'll go to digging." They worked and sweated for half an hour. No result. They toiled another half-hour. Still no result. Huck said: "Do they always bury it as deep as this?" "Sometimes--not always. Not generally. I reckon we haven't got the right place." So they chose a new spot and began again. The labor dragged a little, but still they made progress. They pegged away in silence for some time. Finally Huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow with his sleeve, and said: "Where you going to dig next, after we get this one?" "I reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on Cardiff Hill back of the widow's." "I reckon that'll be a good one. But won't the widow take it away from us, Tom? It's on her land." "SHE take it away! Maybe she'd like to try it once. Whoever finds one of these hid treasures, it belongs to him. It don't make any difference whose land it's on." That was satisfactory. The work went on. By and by Huck said: "Blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. What do you think?" "It is mighty curious, Huck. I don't understand it. Sometimes witches interfere. I reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now." "Shucks! Witches ain't got no power in the daytime." "Well, that's so. I didn't think of that. Oh, I know what the matter is! What a blamed lot of fools we are! You got to find out where the shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!" "Then consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing. Now hang it all, we got to come back in the night. It's an awful long way. Can you get out?" "I bet I will. We've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody sees these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go for it." "Well, I'll come around and maow to-night." "All right. Let's hide the tools in the bushes." The boys were there that night, about the appointed time. They sat in the shadow waiting. It was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old traditions. Spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note. The boys were subdued by these solemnities, and talked little. By and by they judged that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to dig. Their hopes commenced to rise. Their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace with it. The hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a new disappointment. It was only a stone or a chunk. At last Tom said: "It ain't any use, Huck, we're wrong again." "Well, but we CAN'T be wrong. We spotted the shadder to a dot." "I know it, but then there's another thing." "What's that?". "Why, we only guessed at the time. Like enough it was too late or too early." Huck dropped his shovel. "That's it," said he. "That's the very trouble. We got to give this one up. We can't ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of thing's too awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering around so. I feel as if something's behind me all the time; and I'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front a-waiting for a chance. I been creeping all over, ever since I got here." "Well, I've been pretty much so, too, Huck. They most always put in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it." "Lordy!" "Yes, they do. I've always heard that." "Tom, I don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. A body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure." "I don't like to stir 'em up, either. S'pose this one here was to stick his skull out and say something!" "Don't Tom! It's awful." "Well, it just is. Huck, I don't feel comfortable a bit." "Say, Tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else." "All right, I reckon we better." "What'll it be?" Tom considered awhile; and then said: "The ha'nted house. That's it!" "Blame it, I don't like ha'nted houses, Tom. Why, they're a dern sight worse'n dead people. Dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. I couldn't stand such a thing as that, Tom--nobody could." "Yes, but, Huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. They won't hender us from digging there in the daytime." "Well, that's so. But you know mighty well people don't go about that ha'nted house in the day nor the night." "Well, that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been murdered, anyway--but nothing's ever been seen around that house except in the night--just some blue lights slipping by the windows--no regular ghosts." "Well, where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, Tom, you can bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it. It stands to reason. Becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em." "Yes, that's so. But anyway they don't come around in the daytime, so what's the use of our being afeard?" "Well, all right. We'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so--but I reckon it's taking chances." They had started down the hill by this time. There in the middle of the moonlit valley below them stood the "ha'nted" house, utterly isolated, its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof caved in. The boys gazed awhile, half expecting to see a blue light flit past a window; then talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the circumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of Cardiff Hill. CHAPTER XXVI ABOUT noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had come for their tools. Tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; Huck was measurably so, also--but suddenly said: "Lookyhere, Tom, do you know what day it is?" Tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in them-- "My! I never once thought of it, Huck!" "Well, I didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was Friday." "Blame it, a body can't be too careful, Huck. We might 'a' got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a Friday." "MIGHT! Better say we WOULD! There's some lucky days, maybe, but Friday ain't." "Any fool knows that. I don't reckon YOU was the first that found it out, Huck." "Well, I never said I was, did I? And Friday ain't all, neither. I had a rotten bad dream last night--dreampt about rats." "No! Sure sign of trouble. Did they fight?" "No." "Well, that's good, Huck. When they don't fight it's only a sign that there's trouble around, you know. All we got to do is to look mighty sharp and keep out of it. We'll drop this thing for to-day, and play. Do you know Robin Hood, Huck?" "No. Who's Robin Hood?" "Why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in England--and the best. He was a robber." "Cracky, I wisht I was. Who did he rob?" "Only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like. But he never bothered the poor. He loved 'em. He always divided up with 'em perfectly square." "Well, he must 'a' been a brick." "I bet you he was, Huck. Oh, he was the noblest man that ever was. They ain't any such men now, I can tell you. He could lick any man in England, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half." "What's a YEW bow?" "I don't know. It's some kind of a bow, of course. And if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry--and curse. But we'll play Robin Hood--it's nobby fun. I'll learn you." "I'm agreed." So they played Robin Hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the morrow's prospects and possibilities there. As the sun began to sink into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of Cardiff Hill. On Saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again. They had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their last hole, not with great hope, but merely because Tom said there were so many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and turned it up with a single thrust of a shovel. The thing failed this time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling that they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that belong to the business of treasure-hunting. When they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun, and something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. Then they crept to the door and took a trembling peep. They saw a weed-grown, floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs. They presently entered, softly, with quickened pulses, talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat. In a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own boldness, and wondering at it, too. Next they wanted to look up-stairs. This was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each other, and of course there could be but one result--they threw their tools into a corner and made the ascent. Up there were the same signs of decay. In one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise was a fraud--there was nothing in it. Their courage was up now and well in hand. They were about to go down and begin work when-- "Sh!" said Tom. "What is it?" whispered Huck, blanching with fright. "Sh! ... There! ... Hear it?" "Yes! ... Oh, my! Let's run!" "Keep still! Don't you budge! They're coming right toward the door." The boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knot-holes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear. "They've stopped.... No--coming.... Here they are. Don't whisper another word, Huck. My goodness, I wish I was out of this!" Two men entered. Each boy said to himself: "There's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's been about town once or twice lately--never saw t'other man before." "T'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant in his face. The Spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore green goggles. When they came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. His manner became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded: "No," said he, "I've thought it all over, and I don't like it. It's dangerous." "Dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb" Spaniard--to the vast surprise of the boys. "Milksop!" This voice made the boys gasp and quake. It was Injun Joe's! There was silence for some time. Then Joe said: "What's any more dangerous than that job up yonder--but nothing's come of it." "That's different. Away up the river so, and not another house about. 'Twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed." "Well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!--anybody would suspicion us that saw us." "I know that. But there warn't any other place as handy after that fool of a job. I want to quit this shanty. I wanted to yesterday, only it warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys playing over there on the hill right in full view." "Those infernal boys" quaked again under the inspiration of this remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was Friday and concluded to wait a day. They wished in their hearts they had waited a year. The two men got out some food and made a luncheon. After a long and thoughtful silence, Injun Joe said: "Look here, lad--you go back up the river where you belong. Wait there till you hear from me. I'll take the chances on dropping into this town just once more, for a look. We'll do that 'dangerous' job after I've spied around a little and think things look well for it. Then for Texas! We'll leg it together!" This was satisfactory. Both men presently fell to yawning, and Injun Joe said: "I'm dead for sleep! It's your turn to watch." He curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. His comrade stirred him once or twice and he became quiet. Presently the watcher began to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now. The boys drew a long, grateful breath. Tom whispered: "Now's our chance--come!" Huck said: "I can't--I'd die if they was to wake." Tom urged--Huck held back. At last Tom rose slowly and softly, and started alone. But the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. He never made a second attempt. The boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting. Now one snore ceased. Injun Joe sat up, stared around--smiled grimly upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees--stirred him up with his foot and said: "Here! YOU'RE a watchman, ain't you! All right, though--nothing's happened." "My! have I been asleep?" "Oh, partly, partly. Nearly time for us to be moving, pard. What'll we do with what little swag we've got left?" "I don't know--leave it here as we've always done, I reckon. No use to take it away till we start south. Six hundred and fifty in silver's something to carry." "Well--all right--it won't matter to come here once more." "No--but I'd say come in the night as we used to do--it's better." "Yes: but look here; it may be a good while before I get the right chance at that job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very good place; we'll just regularly bury it--and bury it deep." "Good idea," said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down, raised one of the rearward hearth-stones and took out a bag that jingled pleasantly. He subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself and as much for Injun Joe, and passed the bag to the latter, who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife. The boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant. With gloating eyes they watched every movement. Luck!--the splendor of it was beyond all imagination! Six hundred dollars was money enough to make half a dozen boys rich! Here was treasure-hunting under the happiest auspices--there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to where to dig. They nudged each other every moment--eloquent nudges and easily understood, for they simply meant--"Oh, but ain't you glad NOW we're here!" Joe's knife struck upon something. "Hello!" said he. "What is it?" said his comrade. "Half-rotten plank--no, it's a box, I believe. Here--bear a hand and we'll see what it's here for. Never mind, I've broke a hole." He reached his hand in and drew it out-- "Man, it's money!" The two men examined the handful of coins. They were gold. The boys above were as excited as themselves, and as delighted. Joe's comrade said: "We'll make quick work of this. There's an old rusty pick over amongst the weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace--I saw it a minute ago." He ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel. Injun Joe took the pick, looked it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to himself, and then began to use it. The box was soon unearthed. It was not very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong before the slow years had injured it. The men contemplated the treasure awhile in blissful silence. "Pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said Injun Joe. "'Twas always said that Murrel's gang used to be around here one summer," the stranger observed. "I know it," said Injun Joe; "and this looks like it, I should say." "Now you won't need to do that job." The half-breed frowned. Said he: "You don't know me. Least you don't know all about that thing. 'Tain't robbery altogether--it's REVENGE!" and a wicked light flamed in his eyes. "I'll need your help in it. When it's finished--then Texas. Go home to your Nance and your kids, and stand by till you hear from me." "Well--if you say so; what'll we do with this--bury it again?" "Yes. [Ravishing delight overhead.] NO! by the great Sachem, no! [Profound distress overhead.] I'd nearly forgot. That pick had fresh earth on it! [The boys were sick with terror in a moment.] What business has a pick and a shovel here? What business with fresh earth on them? Who brought them here--and where are they gone? Have you heard anybody?--seen anybody? What! bury it again and leave them to come and see the ground disturbed? Not exactly--not exactly. We'll take it to my den." "Why, of course! Might have thought of that before. You mean Number One?" "No--Number Two--under the cross. The other place is bad--too common." "All right. It's nearly dark enough to start." Injun Joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously peeping out. Presently he said: "Who could have brought those tools here? Do you reckon they can be up-stairs?" The boys' breath forsook them. Injun Joe put his hand on his knife, halted a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. The boys thought of the closet, but their strength was gone. The steps came creaking up the stairs--the intolerable distress of the situation woke the stricken resolution of the lads--they were about to spring for the closet, when there was a crash of rotten timbers and Injun Joe landed on the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway. He gathered himself up cursing, and his comrade said: "Now what's the use of all that? If it's anybody, and they're up there, let them STAY there--who cares? If they want to jump down, now, and get into trouble, who objects? It will be dark in fifteen minutes --and then let them follow us if they want to. I'm willing. In my opinion, whoever hove those things in here caught a sight of us and took us for ghosts or devils or something. I'll bet they're running yet." Joe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend that what daylight was left ought to be economized in getting things ready for leaving. Shortly afterward they slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight, and moved toward the river with their precious box. Tom and Huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after them through the chinks between the logs of the house. Follow? Not they. They were content to reach ground again without broken necks, and take the townward track over the hill. They did not talk much. They were too much absorbed in hating themselves--hating the ill luck that made them take the spade and the pick there. But for that, Injun Joe never would have suspected. He would have hidden the silver with the gold to wait there till his "revenge" was satisfied, and then he would have had the misfortune to find that money turn up missing. Bitter, bitter luck that the tools were ever brought there! They resolved to keep a lookout for that Spaniard when he should come to town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him to "Number Two," wherever that might be. Then a ghastly thought occurred to Tom. "Revenge? What if he means US, Huck!" "Oh, don't!" said Huck, nearly fainting. They talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to believe that he might possibly mean somebody else--at least that he might at least mean nobody but Tom, since only Tom had testified. Very, very small comfort it was to Tom to be alone in danger! Company would be a palpable improvement, he thought. CHAPTER XXVII THE adventure of the day mightily tormented Tom's dreams that night. Four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune. As he lay in the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away--somewhat as if they had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by. Then it occurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a dream! There was one very strong argument in favor of this idea--namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real. He had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he imagined that all references to "hundreds" and "thousands" were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in the world. He never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in actual money in any one's possession. If his notions of hidden treasure had been analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars. But the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a dream, after all. This uncertainty must be swept away. He would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find Huck. Huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and looking very melancholy. Tom concluded to let Huck lead up to the subject. If he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a dream. "Hello, Huck!" "Hello, yourself." Silence, for a minute. "Tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the money. Oh, ain't it awful!" "'Tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! Somehow I most wish it was. Dog'd if I don't, Huck." "What ain't a dream?" "Oh, that thing yesterday. I been half thinking it was." "Dream! If them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream it was! I've had dreams enough all night--with that patch-eyed Spanish devil going for me all through 'em--rot him!" "No, not rot him. FIND him! Track the money!" "Tom, we'll never find him. A feller don't have only one chance for such a pile--and that one's lost. I'd feel mighty shaky if I was to see him, anyway." "Well, so'd I; but I'd like to see him, anyway--and track him out--to his Number Two." "Number Two--yes, that's it. I been thinking 'bout that. But I can't make nothing out of it. What do you reckon it is?" "I dono. It's too deep. Say, Huck--maybe it's the number of a house!" "Goody! ... No, Tom, that ain't it. If it is, it ain't in this one-horse town. They ain't no numbers here." "Well, that's so. Lemme think a minute. Here--it's the number of a room--in a tavern, you know!" "Oh, that's the trick! They ain't only two taverns. We can find out quick." "You stay here, Huck, till I come." Tom was off at once. He did not care to have Huck's company in public places. He was gone half an hour. He found that in the best tavern, No. 2 had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied. In the less ostentatious house, No. 2 was a mystery. The tavern-keeper's young son said it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw anybody go into it or come out of it except at night; he did not know any particular reason for this state of things; had had some little curiosity, but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery by entertaining himself with the idea that that room was "ha'nted"; had noticed that there was a light in there the night before. "That's what I've found out, Huck. I reckon that's the very No. 2 we're after." "I reckon it is, Tom. Now what you going to do?" "Lemme think." Tom thought a long time. Then he said: "I'll tell you. The back door of that No. 2 is the door that comes out into that little close alley between the tavern and the old rattle trap of a brick store. Now you get hold of all the door-keys you can find, and I'll nip all of auntie's, and the first dark night we'll go there and try 'em. And mind you, keep a lookout for Injun Joe, because he said he was going to drop into town and spy around once more for a chance to get his revenge. If you see him, you just follow him; and if he don't go to that No. 2, that ain't the place." "Lordy, I don't want to foller him by myself!" "Why, it'll be night, sure. He mightn't ever see you--and if he did, maybe he'd never think anything." "Well, if it's pretty dark I reckon I'll track him. I dono--I dono. I'll try." "You bet I'll follow him, if it's dark, Huck. Why, he might 'a' found out he couldn't get his revenge, and be going right after that money." "It's so, Tom, it's so. I'll foller him; I will, by jingoes!" "Now you're TALKING! Don't you ever weaken, Huck, and I won't." 
7199	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 7 CHAPTER XXVIII THAT night Tom and Huck were ready for their adventure. They hung about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door. Nobody entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the Spaniard entered or left the tavern door. The night promised to be a fair one; so Tom went home with the understanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, Huck was to come and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try the keys. But the night remained clear, and Huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar hogshead about twelve. Tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. Also Wednesday. But Thursday night promised better. Tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. He hid the lantern in Huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began. An hour before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were put out. No Spaniard had been seen. Nobody had entered or left the alley. Everything was auspicious. The blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant thunder. Tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern. Huck stood sentry and Tom felt his way into the alley. Then there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon Huck's spirits like a mountain. He began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern--it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that Tom was alive yet. It seemed hours since Tom had disappeared. Surely he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement. In his uneasiness Huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away his breath. There was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. Suddenly there was a flash of light and Tom came tearing by him: "Run!" said he; "run, for your life!" He needn't have repeated it; once was enough; Huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. The boys never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the lower end of the village. Just as they got within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down. As soon as Tom got his breath he said: "Huck, it was awful! I tried two of the keys, just as soft as I could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that I couldn't hardly get my breath I was so scared. They wouldn't turn in the lock, either. Well, without noticing what I was doing, I took hold of the knob, and open comes the door! It warn't locked! I hopped in, and shook off the towel, and, GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!" "What!--what'd you see, Tom?" "Huck, I most stepped onto Injun Joe's hand!" "No!" "Yes! He was lying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old patch on his eye and his arms spread out." "Lordy, what did you do? Did he wake up?" "No, never budged. Drunk, I reckon. I just grabbed that towel and started!" "I'd never 'a' thought of the towel, I bet!" "Well, I would. My aunt would make me mighty sick if I lost it." "Say, Tom, did you see that box?" "Huck, I didn't wait to look around. I didn't see the box, I didn't see the cross. I didn't see anything but a bottle and a tin cup on the floor by Injun Joe; yes, I saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the room. Don't you see, now, what's the matter with that ha'nted room?" "How?" "Why, it's ha'nted with whiskey! Maybe ALL the Temperance Taverns have got a ha'nted room, hey, Huck?" "Well, I reckon maybe that's so. Who'd 'a' thought such a thing? But say, Tom, now's a mighty good time to get that box, if Injun Joe's drunk." "It is, that! You try it!" Huck shuddered. "Well, no--I reckon not." "And I reckon not, Huck. Only one bottle alongside of Injun Joe ain't enough. If there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and I'd do it." There was a long pause for reflection, and then Tom said: "Lookyhere, Huck, less not try that thing any more till we know Injun Joe's not in there. It's too scary. Now, if we watch every night, we'll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then we'll snatch that box quicker'n lightning." "Well, I'm agreed. I'll watch the whole night long, and I'll do it every night, too, if you'll do the other part of the job." "All right, I will. All you got to do is to trot up Hooper Street a block and maow--and if I'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the window and that'll fetch me." "Agreed, and good as wheat!" "Now, Huck, the storm's over, and I'll go home. It'll begin to be daylight in a couple of hours. You go back and watch that long, will you?" "I said I would, Tom, and I will. I'll ha'nt that tavern every night for a year! I'll sleep all day and I'll stand watch all night." "That's all right. Now, where you going to sleep?" "In Ben Rogers' hayloft. He lets me, and so does his pap's nigger man, Uncle Jake. I tote water for Uncle Jake whenever he wants me to, and any time I ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he can spare it. That's a mighty good nigger, Tom. He likes me, becuz I don't ever act as if I was above him. Sometime I've set right down and eat WITH him. But you needn't tell that. A body's got to do things when he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady thing." "Well, if I don't want you in the daytime, I'll let you sleep. I won't come bothering around. Any time you see something's up, in the night, just skip right around and maow." CHAPTER XXIX THE first thing Tom heard on Friday morning was a glad piece of news --Judge Thatcher's family had come back to town the night before. Both Injun Joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a moment, and Becky took the chief place in the boy's interest. He saw her and they had an exhausting good time playing "hi-spy" and "gully-keeper" with a crowd of their school-mates. The day was completed and crowned in a peculiarly satisfactory way: Becky teased her mother to appoint the next day for the long-promised and long-delayed picnic, and she consented. The child's delight was boundless; and Tom's not more moderate. The invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable anticipation. Tom's excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing Huck's "maow," and of having his treasure to astonish Becky and the picnickers with, next day; but he was disappointed. No signal came that night. Morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at Judge Thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start. It was not the custom for elderly people to mar the picnics with their presence. The children were considered safe enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. The old steam ferryboat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision-baskets. Sid was sick and had to miss the fun; Mary remained at home to entertain him. The last thing Mrs. Thatcher said to Becky, was: "You'll not get back till late. Perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child." "Then I'll stay with Susy Harper, mamma." "Very well. And mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble." Presently, as they tripped along, Tom said to Becky: "Say--I'll tell you what we'll do. 'Stead of going to Joe Harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the Widow Douglas'. She'll have ice-cream! She has it most every day--dead loads of it. And she'll be awful glad to have us." "Oh, that will be fun!" Then Becky reflected a moment and said: "But what will mamma say?" "How'll she ever know?" The girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly: "I reckon it's wrong--but--" "But shucks! Your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? All she wants is that you'll be safe; and I bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it. I know she would!" The Widow Douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. It and Tom's persuasions presently carried the day. So it was decided to say nothing anybody about the night's programme. Presently it occurred to Tom that maybe Huck might come this very night and give the signal. The thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. Still he could not bear to give up the fun at Widow Douglas'. And why should he give it up, he reasoned--the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come to-night? The sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day. Three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. The crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. All the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by-and-by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. After the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. By-and-by somebody shouted: "Who's ready for the cave?" Everybody was. Bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was a general scamper up the hill. The mouth of the cave was up the hillside--an opening shaped like a letter A. Its massive oaken door stood unbarred. Within was a small chamber, chilly as an ice-house, and walled by Nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. It was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun. But the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. The moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. But all things have an end. By-and-by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead. This main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. Every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand--for McDougal's cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. It was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same--labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to any of them. No man "knew" the cave. That was an impossible thing. Most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. Tom Sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one. The procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points where the corridors joined again. Parties were able to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the "known" ground. By-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the day. Then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no note of time and that night was about at hand. The clanging bell had been calling for half an hour. However, this sort of close to the day's adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. When the ferryboat with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for the wasted time but the captain of the craft. Huck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat's lights went glinting past the wharf. He heard no noise on board, for the young people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired to death. He wondered what boat it was, and why she did not stop at the wharf--and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his attention upon his business. The night was growing cloudy and dark. Ten o'clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began to wink out, all straggling foot-passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts. Eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now. Huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing happened. His faith was weakening. Was there any use? Was there really any use? Why not give it up and turn in? A noise fell upon his ear. He was all attention in an instant. The alley door closed softly. He sprang to the corner of the brick store. The next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his arm. It must be that box! So they were going to remove the treasure. Why call Tom now? It would be absurd--the men would get away with the box and never be found again. No, he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. So communing with himself, Huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible. They moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a cross-street. They went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up Cardiff Hill; this they took. They passed by the old Welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward. Good, thought Huck, they will bury it in the old quarry. But they never stopped at the quarry. They passed on, up the summit. They plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. Huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him. He trotted along awhile; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. The hooting of an owl came over the hill--ominous sound! But no footsteps. Heavens, was everything lost! He was about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from him! Huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the ground. He knew where he was. He knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into Widow Douglas' grounds. Very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't be hard to find. Now there was a voice--a very low voice--Injun Joe's: "Damn her, maybe she's got company--there's lights, late as it is." "I can't see any." This was that stranger's voice--the stranger of the haunted house. A deadly chill went to Huck's heart--this, then, was the "revenge" job! His thought was, to fly. Then he remembered that the Widow Douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her. He wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare--they might come and catch him. He thought all this and more in the moment that elapsed between the stranger's remark and Injun Joe's next--which was-- "Because the bush is in your way. Now--this way--now you see, don't you?" "Yes. Well, there IS company there, I reckon. Better give it up." "Give it up, and I just leaving this country forever! Give it up and maybe never have another chance. I tell you again, as I've told you before, I don't care for her swag--you may have it. But her husband was rough on me--many times he was rough on me--and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. And that ain't all. It ain't a millionth part of it! He had me HORSEWHIPPED!--horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!--with all the town looking on! HORSEWHIPPED!--do you understand? He took advantage of me and died. But I'll take it out of HER." "Oh, don't kill her! Don't do that!" "Kill? Who said anything about killing? I would kill HIM if he was here; but not her. When you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her--bosh! you go for her looks. You slit her nostrils--you notch her ears like a sow!" "By God, that's--" "Keep your opinion to yourself! It will be safest for you. I'll tie her to the bed. If she bleeds to death, is that my fault? I'll not cry, if she does. My friend, you'll help me in this thing--for MY sake --that's why you're here--I mightn't be able alone. If you flinch, I'll kill you. Do you understand that? And if I have to kill you, I'll kill her--and then I reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business." "Well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. The quicker the better--I'm all in a shiver." "Do it NOW? And company there? Look here--I'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. No--we'll wait till the lights are out--there's no hurry." Huck felt that a silence was going to ensue--a thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one side and then on the other. He took another step back, with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and--a twig snapped under his foot! His breath stopped and he listened. There was no sound--the stillness was perfect. His gratitude was measureless. Now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes--turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship--and then stepped quickly but cautiously along. When he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and flew. Down, down he sped, till he reached the Welshman's. He banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows. "What's the row there? Who's banging? What do you want?" "Let me in--quick! I'll tell everything." "Why, who are you?" "Huckleberry Finn--quick, let me in!" "Huckleberry Finn, indeed! It ain't a name to open many doors, I judge! But let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble." "Please don't ever tell I told you," were Huck's first words when he got in. "Please don't--I'd be killed, sure--but the widow's been good friends to me sometimes, and I want to tell--I WILL tell if you'll promise you won't ever say it was me." "By George, he HAS got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!" exclaimed the old man; "out with it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad." Three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in their hands. Huck accompanied them no further. He hid behind a great bowlder and fell to listening. There was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry. Huck waited for no particulars. He sprang away and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could carry him. CHAPTER XXX AS the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on Sunday morning, Huck came groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old Welshman's door. The inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night. A call came from a window: "Who's there!" Huck's scared voice answered in a low tone: "Please let me in! It's only Huck Finn!" "It's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!--and welcome!" These were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. He could not recollect that the closing word had ever been applied in his case before. The door was quickly unlocked, and he entered. Huck was given a seat and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves. "Now, my boy, I hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too --make yourself easy about that! I and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here last night." "I was awful scared," said Huck, "and I run. I took out when the pistols went off, and I didn't stop for three mile. I've come now becuz I wanted to know about it, you know; and I come before daylight becuz I didn't want to run across them devils, even if they was dead." "Well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it--but there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. No, they ain't dead, lad--we are sorry enough for that. You see we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them--dark as a cellar that sumach path was--and just then I found I was going to sneeze. It was the meanest kind of luck! I tried to keep it back, but no use --'twas bound to come, and it did come! I was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, I sung out, 'Fire boys!' and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. So did the boys. But they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them, down through the woods. I judge we never touched them. They fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any harm. As soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. They got a posse together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. My boys will be with them presently. I wish we had some sort of description of those rascals--'twould help a good deal. But you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, I suppose?" "Oh yes; I saw them down-town and follered them." "Splendid! Describe them--describe them, my boy!" "One's the old deaf and dumb Spaniard that's ben around here once or twice, and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged--" "That's enough, lad, we know the men! Happened on them in the woods back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. Off with you, boys, and tell the sheriff--get your breakfast to-morrow morning!" The Welshman's sons departed at once. As they were leaving the room Huck sprang up and exclaimed: "Oh, please don't tell ANYbody it was me that blowed on them! Oh, please!" "All right if you say it, Huck, but you ought to have the credit of what you did." "Oh no, no! Please don't tell!" When the young men were gone, the old Welshman said: "They won't tell--and I won't. But why don't you want it known?" Huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew anything against him for the whole world--he would be killed for knowing it, sure. The old man promised secrecy once more, and said: "How did you come to follow these fellows, lad? Were they looking suspicious?" Huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. Then he said: "Well, you see, I'm a kind of a hard lot,--least everybody says so, and I don't see nothing agin it--and sometimes I can't sleep much, on account of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing. That was the way of it last night. I couldn't sleep, and so I come along up-street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when I got to that old shackly brick store by the Temperance Tavern, I backed up agin the wall to have another think. Well, just then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their arm, and I reckoned they'd stole it. One was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and I see that the big one was the deaf and dumb Spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil." "Could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?" This staggered Huck for a moment. Then he said: "Well, I don't know--but somehow it seems as if I did." "Then they went on, and you--" "Follered 'em--yes. That was it. I wanted to see what was up--they sneaked along so. I dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the Spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as I told you and your two--" "What! The DEAF AND DUMB man said all that!" Huck had made another terrible mistake! He was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the Spaniard might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do. He made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder. Presently the Welshman said: "My boy, don't be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world. No--I'd protect you--I'd protect you. This Spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now. You know something about that Spaniard that you want to keep dark. Now trust me--tell me what it is, and trust me --I won't betray you." Huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear: "'Tain't a Spaniard--it's Injun Joe!" The Welshman almost jumped out of his chair. In a moment he said: "It's all plain enough, now. When you talked about notching ears and slitting noses I judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don't take that sort of revenge. But an Injun! That's a different matter altogether." During breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood. They found none, but captured a bulky bundle of-- "Of WHAT?" If the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from Huck's blanched lips. His eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended--waiting for the answer. The Welshman started--stared in return--three seconds--five seconds--ten --then replied: "Of burglar's tools. Why, what's the MATTER with you?" Huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. The Welshman eyed him gravely, curiously--and presently said: "Yes, burglar's tools. That appears to relieve you a good deal. But what did give you that turn? What were YOU expecting we'd found?" Huck was in a close place--the inquiring eye was upon him--he would have given anything for material for a plausible answer--nothing suggested itself--the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper--a senseless reply offered--there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it--feebly: "Sunday-school books, maybe." Poor Huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket, because it cut down the doctor's bill like everything. Then he added: "Poor old chap, you're white and jaded--you ain't well a bit--no wonder you're a little flighty and off your balance. But you'll come out of it. Rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, I hope." Huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the talk at the widow's stile. He had only thought it was not the treasure, however--he had not known that it wasn't--and so the suggestion of a captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. But on the whole he felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all question that that bundle was not THE bundle, and so his mind was at rest and exceedingly comfortable. In fact, everything seemed to be drifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in No. 2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and Tom could seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption. Just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. Huck jumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even remotely with the late event. The Welshman admitted several ladies and gentlemen, among them the Widow Douglas, and noticed that groups of citizens were climbing up the hill--to stare at the stile. So the news had spread. The Welshman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors. The widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken. "Don't say a word about it, madam. There's another that you're more beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me to tell his name. We wouldn't have been there but for him." Of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the main matter--but the Welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he refused to part with his secret. When all else had been learned, the widow said: "I went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that noise. Why didn't you come and wake me?" "We judged it warn't worth while. Those fellows warn't likely to come again--they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of waking you up and scaring you to death? My three negro men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night. They've just come back." More visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a couple of hours more. There was no Sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody was early at church. The stirring event was well canvassed. News came that not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. When the sermon was finished, Judge Thatcher's wife dropped alongside of Mrs. Harper as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said: "Is my Becky going to sleep all day? I just expected she would be tired to death." "Your Becky?" "Yes," with a startled look--"didn't she stay with you last night?" "Why, no." Mrs. Thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as Aunt Polly, talking briskly with a friend, passed by. Aunt Polly said: "Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher. Good-morning, Mrs. Harper. I've got a boy that's turned up missing. I reckon my Tom stayed at your house last night--one of you. And now he's afraid to come to church. I've got to settle with him." Mrs. Thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever. "He didn't stay with us," said Mrs. Harper, beginning to look uneasy. A marked anxiety came into Aunt Polly's face. "Joe Harper, have you seen my Tom this morning?" "No'm." "When did you see him last?" Joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. The people had stopped moving out of church. Whispers passed along, and a boding uneasiness took possession of every countenance. Children were anxiously questioned, and young teachers. They all said they had not noticed whether Tom and Becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. One young man finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave! Mrs. Thatcher swooned away. Aunt Polly fell to crying and wringing her hands. The alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the whole town was up! The Cardiff Hill episode sank into instant insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs were manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half an hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward the cave. All the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. Many women visited Aunt Polly and Mrs. Thatcher and tried to comfort them. They cried with them, too, and that was still better than words. All the tedious night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at last, all the word that came was, "Send more candles--and send food." Mrs. Thatcher was almost crazed; and Aunt Polly, also. Judge Thatcher sent messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer. The old Welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. He found Huck still in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever. The physicians were all at the cave, so the Widow Douglas came and took charge of the patient. She said she would do her best by him, because, whether he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the Lord's, and nothing that was the Lord's was a thing to be neglected. The Welshman said Huck had good spots in him, and the widow said: "You can depend on it. That's the Lord's mark. He don't leave it off. He never does. Puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his hands." Early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. All the news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-shots sent their hollow reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. In one place, far from the section usually traversed by tourists, the names "BECKY & TOM" had been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke, and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. Mrs. Thatcher recognized the ribbon and cried over it. She said it was the last relic she should ever have of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so precious, because this one parted latest from the living body before the awful death came. Some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of men go trooping down the echoing aisle--and then a sickening disappointment always followed; the children were not there; it was only a searcher's light. Three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and the village sank into a hopeless stupor. No one had heart for anything. The accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the Temperance Tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse, tremendous as the fact was. In a lucid interval, Huck feebly led up to the subject of taverns, and finally asked--dimly dreading the worst--if anything had been discovered at the Temperance Tavern since he had been ill. "Yes," said the widow. Huck started up in bed, wild-eyed: "What? What was it?" "Liquor!--and the place has been shut up. Lie down, child--what a turn you did give me!" "Only tell me just one thing--only just one--please! Was it Tom Sawyer that found it?" The widow burst into tears. "Hush, hush, child, hush! I've told you before, you must NOT talk. You are very, very sick!" Then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great powwow if it had been the gold. So the treasure was gone forever--gone forever! But what could she be crying about? Curious that she should cry. These thoughts worked their dim way through Huck's mind, and under the weariness they gave him he fell asleep. The widow said to herself: "There--he's asleep, poor wreck. Tom Sawyer find it! Pity but somebody could find Tom Sawyer! Ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching." CHAPTER XXXI NOW to return to Tom and Becky's share in the picnic. They tripped along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar wonders of the cave--wonders dubbed with rather over-descriptive names, such as "The Drawing-Room," "The Cathedral," "Aladdin's Palace," and so on. Presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and Tom and Becky engaged in it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled web-work of names, dates, post-office addresses, and mottoes with which the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke). Still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed. They smoked their own names under an overhanging shelf and moved on. Presently they came to a place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and ruffled Niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. Tom squeezed his small body behind it in order to illuminate it for Becky's gratification. He found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him. Becky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future guidance, and started upon their quest. They wound this way and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. In one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of a man's leg; they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into it. This shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was incrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the midst of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. Under the roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. Tom knew their ways and the danger of this sort of conduct. He seized Becky's hand and hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat struck Becky's light out with its wing while she was passing out of the cavern. The bats chased the children a good distance; but the fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the perilous things. Tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows. He wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit down and rest awhile, first. Now, for the first time, the deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children. Becky said: "Why, I didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since I heard any of the others." "Come to think, Becky, we are away down below them--and I don't know how far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. We couldn't hear them here." Becky grew apprehensive. "I wonder how long we've been down here, Tom? We better start back." "Yes, I reckon we better. P'raps we better." "Can you find the way, Tom? It's all a mixed-up crookedness to me." "I reckon I could find it--but then the bats. If they put our candles out it will be an awful fix. Let's try some other way, so as not to go through there." "Well. But I hope we won't get lost. It would be so awful!" and the girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities. They started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar about the look of it; but they were all strange. Every time Tom made an examination, Becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily: "Oh, it's all right. This ain't the one, but we'll come to it right away!" But he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of finding the one that was wanted. He still said it was "all right," but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had said, "All is lost!" Becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come. At last she said: "Oh, Tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! We seem to get worse and worse off all the time." "Listen!" said he. Profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were conspicuous in the hush. Tom shouted. The call went echoing down the empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a ripple of mocking laughter. "Oh, don't do it again, Tom, it is too horrid," said Becky. "It is horrid, but I better, Becky; they might hear us, you know," and he shouted again. The "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope. The children stood still and listened; but there was no result. Tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried his steps. It was but a little while before a certain indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to Becky--he could not find his way back! "Oh, Tom, you didn't make any marks!" "Becky, I was such a fool! Such a fool! I never thought we might want to come back! No--I can't find the way. It's all mixed up." "Tom, Tom, we're lost! we're lost! We never can get out of this awful place! Oh, why DID we ever leave the others!" She sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that Tom was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. He sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. Tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. He fell to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a better effect. She said she would try to hope again, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any more. For he was no more to blame than she, she said. So they moved on again--aimlessly--simply at random--all they could do was to move, keep moving. For a little while, hope made a show of reviving--not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with failure. By-and-by Tom took Becky's candle and blew it out. This economy meant so much! Words were not needed. Becky understood, and her hope died again. She knew that Tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his pockets--yet he must economize. By-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit. At last Becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. She sat down. Tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! Becky cried, and Tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. Fatigue bore so heavily upon Becky that she drowsed off to sleep. Tom was grateful. He sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested there. The peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories. While he was deep in his musings, Becky woke up with a breezy little laugh--but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it. "Oh, how COULD I sleep! I wish I never, never had waked! No! No, I don't, Tom! Don't look so! I won't say it again." "I'm glad you've slept, Becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find the way out." "We can try, Tom; but I've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. I reckon we are going there." "Maybe not, maybe not. Cheer up, Becky, and let's go on trying." They rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. They tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. A long time after this--they could not tell how long--Tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping water--they must find a spring. They found one presently, and Tom said it was time to rest again. Both were cruelly tired, yet Becky said she thought she could go a little farther. She was surprised to hear Tom dissent. She could not understand it. They sat down, and Tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. Thought was soon busy; nothing was said for some time. Then Becky broke the silence: "Tom, I am so hungry!" Tom took something out of his pocket. "Do you remember this?" said he. Becky almost smiled. "It's our wedding-cake, Tom." "Yes--I wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got." "I saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, Tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding-cake--but it'll be our--" She dropped the sentence where it was. Tom divided the cake and Becky ate with good appetite, while Tom nibbled at his moiety. There was abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. By-and-by Becky suggested that they move on again. Tom was silent a moment. Then he said: "Becky, can you bear it if I tell you something?" Becky's face paled, but she thought she could. "Well, then, Becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink. That little piece is our last candle!" Becky gave loose to tears and wailings. Tom did what he could to comfort her, but with little effect. At length Becky said: "Tom!" "Well, Becky?" "They'll miss us and hunt for us!" "Yes, they will! Certainly they will!" "Maybe they're hunting for us now, Tom." "Why, I reckon maybe they are. I hope they are." "When would they miss us, Tom?" "When they get back to the boat, I reckon." "Tom, it might be dark then--would they notice we hadn't come?" "I don't know. But anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they got home." A frightened look in Becky's face brought Tom to his senses and he saw that he had made a blunder. Becky was not to have gone home that night! The children became silent and thoughtful. In a moment a new burst of grief from Becky showed Tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers also--that the Sabbath morning might be half spent before Mrs. Thatcher discovered that Becky was not at Mrs. Harper's. The children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then--the horror of utter darkness reigned! How long afterward it was that Becky came to a slow consciousness that she was crying in Tom's arms, neither could tell. All that they knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. Tom said it might be Sunday, now--maybe Monday. He tried to get Becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. Tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. He would shout and maybe some one would come. He tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more. The hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. A portion of Tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. But they seemed hungrier than before. The poor morsel of food only whetted desire. By-and-by Tom said: "SH! Did you hear that?" Both held their breath and listened. There was a sound like the faintest, far-off shout. Instantly Tom answered it, and leading Becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. Presently he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer. "It's them!" said Tom; "they're coming! Come along, Becky--we're all right now!" The joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. Their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded against. They shortly came to one and had to stop. It might be three feet deep, it might be a hundred--there was no passing it at any rate. Tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. No bottom. They must stay there and wait until the searchers came. They listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. The heart-sinking misery of it! Tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. He talked hopefully to Becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again. The children groped their way back to the spring. The weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. Tom believed it must be Tuesday by this time. Now an idea struck him. There were some side passages near at hand. It would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness. He took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and Becky started, Tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. At the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." Tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! Tom lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to--Injun Joe's! Tom was paralyzed; he could not move. He was vastly gratified the next moment, to see the "Spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. Tom wondered that Joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed him for testifying in court. But the echoes must have disguised the voice. Without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. Tom's fright weakened every muscle in his body. He said to himself that if he had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting Injun Joe again. He was careful to keep from Becky what it was he had seen. He told her he had only shouted "for luck." But hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run. Another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes. The children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. Tom believed that it must be Wednesday or Thursday or even Friday or Saturday, now, and that the search had been given over. He proposed to explore another passage. He felt willing to risk Injun Joe and all other terrors. But Becky was very weak. She had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. She said she would wait, now, where she was, and die--it would not be long. She told Tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him to come back every little while and speak to her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was over. Tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave; then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom. 
7197	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 5 CHAPTER XVIII THAT was Tom's great secret--the scheme to return home with his brother pirates and attend their own funerals. They had paddled over to the Missouri shore on a log, at dusk on Saturday, landing five or six miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided benches. At breakfast, Monday morning, Aunt Polly and Mary were very loving to Tom, and very attentive to his wants. There was an unusual amount of talk. In the course of it Aunt Polly said: "Well, I don't say it wasn't a fine joke, Tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. If you could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off." "Yes, you could have done that, Tom," said Mary; "and I believe you would if you had thought of it." "Would you, Tom?" said Aunt Polly, her face lighting wistfully. "Say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?" "I--well, I don't know. 'Twould 'a' spoiled everything." "Tom, I hoped you loved me that much," said Aunt Polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy. "It would have been something if you'd cared enough to THINK of it, even if you didn't DO it." "Now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded Mary; "it's only Tom's giddy way--he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything." "More's the pity. Sid would have thought. And Sid would have come and DONE it, too. Tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little." "Now, auntie, you know I do care for you," said Tom. "I'd know it better if you acted more like it." "I wish now I'd thought," said Tom, with a repentant tone; "but I dreamt about you, anyway. That's something, ain't it?" "It ain't much--a cat does that much--but it's better than nothing. What did you dream?" "Why, Wednesday night I dreamt that you was sitting over there by the bed, and Sid was sitting by the woodbox, and Mary next to him." "Well, so we did. So we always do. I'm glad your dreams could take even that much trouble about us." "And I dreamt that Joe Harper's mother was here." "Why, she was here! Did you dream any more?" "Oh, lots. But it's so dim, now." "Well, try to recollect--can't you?" "Somehow it seems to me that the wind--the wind blowed the--the--" "Try harder, Tom! The wind did blow something. Come!" Tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then said: "I've got it now! I've got it now! It blowed the candle!" "Mercy on us! Go on, Tom--go on!" "And it seems to me that you said, 'Why, I believe that that door--'" "Go ON, Tom!" "Just let me study a moment--just a moment. Oh, yes--you said you believed the door was open." "As I'm sitting here, I did! Didn't I, Mary! Go on!" "And then--and then--well I won't be certain, but it seems like as if you made Sid go and--and--" "Well? Well? What did I make him do, Tom? What did I make him do?" "You made him--you--Oh, you made him shut it." "Well, for the land's sake! I never heard the beat of that in all my days! Don't tell ME there ain't anything in dreams, any more. Sereny Harper shall know of this before I'm an hour older. I'd like to see her get around THIS with her rubbage 'bout superstition. Go on, Tom!" "Oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. Next you said I warn't BAD, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more responsible than--than--I think it was a colt, or something." "And so it was! Well, goodness gracious! Go on, Tom!" "And then you began to cry." "So I did. So I did. Not the first time, neither. And then--" "Then Mrs. Harper she began to cry, and said Joe was just the same, and she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it out her own self--" "Tom! The sperrit was upon you! You was a prophesying--that's what you was doing! Land alive, go on, Tom!" "Then Sid he said--he said--" "I don't think I said anything," said Sid. "Yes you did, Sid," said Mary. "Shut your heads and let Tom go on! What did he say, Tom?" "He said--I THINK he said he hoped I was better off where I was gone to, but if I'd been better sometimes--" "THERE, d'you hear that! It was his very words!" "And you shut him up sharp." "I lay I did! There must 'a' been an angel there. There WAS an angel there, somewheres!" "And Mrs. Harper told about Joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you told about Peter and the Painkiller--" "Just as true as I live!" "And then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for us, and 'bout having the funeral Sunday, and then you and old Miss Harper hugged and cried, and she went." "It happened just so! It happened just so, as sure as I'm a-sitting in these very tracks. Tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen it! And then what? Go on, Tom!" "Then I thought you prayed for me--and I could see you and hear every word you said. And you went to bed, and I was so sorry that I took and wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'We ain't dead--we are only off being pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that I thought I went and leaned over and kissed you on the lips." "Did you, Tom, DID you! I just forgive you everything for that!" And she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of villains. "It was very kind, even though it was only a--dream," Sid soliloquized just audibly. "Shut up, Sid! A body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he was awake. Here's a big Milum apple I've been saving for you, Tom, if you was ever found again--now go 'long to school. I'm thankful to the good God and Father of us all I've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on Him and keep His word, though goodness knows I'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got His blessings and had His hand to help them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile here or ever enter into His rest when the long night comes. Go 'long Sid, Mary, Tom--take yourselves off--you've hendered me long enough." The children left for school, and the old lady to call on Mrs. Harper and vanquish her realism with Tom's marvellous dream. Sid had better judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the house. It was this: "Pretty thin--as long a dream as that, without any mistakes in it!" What a hero Tom was become, now! He did not go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public eye was on him. And indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink to him. Smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. Boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. They would have given anything to have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and Tom would not have parted with either for a circus. At school the children made so much of him and of Joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." They began to tell their adventures to hungry listeners--but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material. And finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached. Tom decided that he could be independent of Becky Thatcher now. Glory was sufficient. He would live for glory. Now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to "make up." Well, let her--she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people. Presently she arrived. Tom pretended not to see her. He moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk. Soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. It gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. Presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward Tom. Then she observed that now Tom was talking more particularly to Amy Lawrence than to any one else. She felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She said to a girl almost at Tom's elbow--with sham vivacity: "Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to Sunday-school?" "I did come--didn't you see me?" "Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?" "I was in Miss Peters' class, where I always go. I saw YOU." "Did you? Why, it's funny I didn't see you. I wanted to tell you about the picnic." "Oh, that's jolly. Who's going to give it?" "My ma's going to let me have one." "Oh, goody; I hope she'll let ME come." "Well, she will. The picnic's for me. She'll let anybody come that I want, and I want you." "That's ever so nice. When is it going to be?" "By and by. Maybe about vacation." "Oh, won't it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?" "Yes, every one that's friends to me--or wants to be"; and she glanced ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing within three feet of it." "Oh, may I come?" said Grace Miller. "Yes." "And me?" said Sally Rogers. "Yes." "And me, too?" said Susy Harper. "And Joe?" "Yes." And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly away, still talking, and took Amy with him. Becky's lips trembled and the tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had what her sex call "a good cry." Then she sat moody, with wounded pride, till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what SHE'D do. At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant self-satisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple--and so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides. Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom's veins. He began to hate himself for throwing away the chance Becky had offered for a reconciliation. He called himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. He wanted to cry with vexation. Amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart was singing, but Tom's tongue had lost its function. He did not hear what Amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise. He kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher never once suspected that he was even in the land of the living. But she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was glad to see him suffer as she had suffered. Amy's happy prattle became intolerable. Tom hinted at things he had to attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. But in vain--the girl chirped on. Tom thought, "Oh, hang her, ain't I ever going to get rid of her?" At last he must be attending to those things--and she said artlessly that she would be "around" when school let out. And he hastened away, hating her for it. "Any other boy!" Tom thought, grating his teeth. "Any boy in the whole town but that Saint Louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is aristocracy! Oh, all right, I licked you the first day you ever saw this town, mister, and I'll lick you again! You just wait till I catch you out! I'll just take and--" And he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy --pummelling the air, and kicking and gouging. "Oh, you do, do you? You holler 'nough, do you? Now, then, let that learn you!" And so the imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction. Tom fled home at noon. His conscience could not endure any more of Amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other distress. Becky resumed her picture inspections with Alfred, but as the minutes dragged along and no Tom came to suffer, her triumph began to cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no Tom came. At last she grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried it so far. When poor Alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: "Oh, here's a jolly one! look at this!" she lost patience at last, and said, "Oh, don't bother me! I don't care for them!" and burst into tears, and got up and walked away. Alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she said: "Go away and leave me alone, can't you! I hate you!" So the boy halted, wondering what he could have done--for she had said she would look at pictures all through the nooning--and she walked on, crying. Then Alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. He was humiliated and angry. He easily guessed his way to the truth--the girl had simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon Tom Sawyer. He was far from hating Tom the less when this thought occurred to him. He wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much risk to himself. Tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. Here was his opportunity. He gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the page. Becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act, and moved on, without discovering herself. She started homeward, now, intending to find Tom and tell him; Tom would be thankful and their troubles would be healed. Before she was half way home, however, she had changed her mind. The thought of Tom's treatment of her when she was talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame. She resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book's account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain. CHAPTER XIX TOM arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market: "Tom, I've a notion to skin you alive!" "Auntie, what have I done?" "Well, you've done enough. Here I go over to Sereny Harper, like an old softy, expecting I'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from Joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. Tom, I don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. It makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to Sereny Harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a word." This was a new aspect of the thing. His smartness of the morning had seemed to Tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. It merely looked mean and shabby now. He hung his head and could not think of anything to say for a moment. Then he said: "Auntie, I wish I hadn't done it--but I didn't think." "Oh, child, you never think. You never think of anything but your own selfishness. You could think to come all the way over here from Jackson's Island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow." "Auntie, I know now it was mean, but I didn't mean to be mean. I didn't, honest. And besides, I didn't come over here to laugh at you that night." "What did you come for, then?" "It was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded." "Tom, Tom, I would be the thankfullest soul in this world if I could believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did--and I know it, Tom." "Indeed and 'deed I did, auntie--I wish I may never stir if I didn't." "Oh, Tom, don't lie--don't do it. It only makes things a hundred times worse." "It ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. I wanted to keep you from grieving--that was all that made me come." "I'd give the whole world to believe that--it would cover up a power of sins, Tom. I'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. But it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?" "Why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, I just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and I couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. So I just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum." "What bark?" "The bark I had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. I wish, now, you'd waked up when I kissed you--I do, honest." The hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes. "DID you kiss me, Tom?" "Why, yes, I did." "Are you sure you did, Tom?" "Why, yes, I did, auntie--certain sure." "What did you kiss me for, Tom?" "Because I loved you so, and you laid there moaning and I was so sorry." The words sounded like truth. The old lady could not hide a tremor in her voice when she said: "Kiss me again, Tom!--and be off with you to school, now, and don't bother me any more." The moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a jacket which Tom had gone pirating in. Then she stopped, with it in her hand, and said to herself: "No, I don't dare. Poor boy, I reckon he's lied about it--but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. I hope the Lord--I KNOW the Lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness in him to tell it. But I don't want to find out it's a lie. I won't look." She put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. Twice she put out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. Once more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "It's a good lie--it's a good lie--I won't let it grieve me." So she sought the jacket pocket. A moment later she was reading Tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "I could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!" CHAPTER XX THERE was something about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom, that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again. He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said: "I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever I live--please make up, won't you?" The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face: "I'll thank you to keep yourself TO yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll never speak to you again." She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take in," she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's offensive fling had driven it entirely away. Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. The title-page--Professor Somebody's ANATOMY--carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece--a human figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation. "Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a person and look at what they're looking at." "How could I know you was looking at anything?" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped, and I never was whipped in school." Then she stamped her little foot and said: "BE so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen. You just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!"--and she flung out of the house with a new explosion of crying. Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said to himself: "What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school! Shucks! What's a licking! That's just like a girl--they're so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell old Dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way he always does--ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't got any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix--let her sweat it out!" Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still--because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!" Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout--he had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle. A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. Quick--something must be done! done in a flash, too! But the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention. Good!--he had an inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and fly. But his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost--the master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next moment the master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence while one might count ten --the master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke: "Who tore this book?" There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt. "Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?" A denial. Another pause. "Joseph Harper, did you?" Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of boys--considered a while, then turned to the girls: "Amy Lawrence?" A shake of the head. "Gracie Miller?" The same sign. "Susan Harper, did you do this?" Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation. "Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face--it was white with terror] --"did you tear--no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal] --"did you tear this book?" A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his feet and shouted--"I done it!" The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed--for he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either. Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear-- "Tom, how COULD you be so noble!" CHAPTER XXI VACATION was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good showing on "Examination" day. His rod and his ferule were seldom idle now--at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins' lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they conspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school. In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their hair. All the rest of the house was filled with non-participating scholars. The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited, "You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage," etc.--accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used--supposing the machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired. A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a little lamb," etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat down flushed and happy. Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into the unquenchable and indestructible "Give me liberty or give me death" speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house but he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse than its sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak attempt at applause, but it died early. "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck" followed; also "The Assyrian Came Down," and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises, and a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with honor. The prime feature of the evening was in order, now--original "compositions" by the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to "expression" and punctuation. The themes were the same that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the Crusades. "Friendship" was one; "Memories of Other Days"; "Religion in History"; "Dream Land"; "The Advantages of Culture"; "Forms of Political Government Compared and Contrasted"; "Melancholy"; "Filial Love"; "Heart Longings," etc., etc. A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language"; another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of them. No matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort was made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind could contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the most relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is unpalatable. Let us return to the "Examination." The first composition that was read was one entitled "Is this, then, Life?" Perhaps the reader can endure an extract from it: "In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity! Imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the observed of all observers.' Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly. "In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour arrives for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such bright dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming than the last. But after a while she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her ear; the ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted health and imbittered heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!" And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "How sweet!" "How eloquent!" "So true!" etc., and after the thing had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic. Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting" paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." Two stanzas of it will do: "A MISSOURI MAIDEN'S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA "Alabama, good-bye! I love thee well! But yet for a while do I leave thee now! Sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell, And burning recollections throng my brow! For I have wandered through thy flowery woods; Have roamed and read near Tallapoosa's stream; Have listened to Tallassee's warring floods, And wooed on Coosa's side Aurora's beam. "Yet shame I not to bear an o'er-full heart, Nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes; 'Tis from no stranger land I now must part, 'Tis to no strangers left I yield these sighs. Welcome and home were mine within this State, Whose vales I leave--whose spires fade fast from me And cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete, When, dear Alabama! they turn cold on thee!" There were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless. Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady, who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to read in a measured, solemn tone: "A VISION "Dark and tempestuous was night. Around the throne on high not a single star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power exerted over its terror by the illustrious Franklin! Even the boisterous winds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered about as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene. "At such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit sighed; but instead thereof, "'My dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide--My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy,' came to my side. She moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks of fancy's Eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned save by her own transcendent loveliness. So soft was her step, it failed to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by her genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away un-perceived--unsought. A strange sadness rested upon her features, like icy tears upon the robe of December, as she pointed to the contending elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings presented." This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest effort of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the most "eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that Daniel Webster himself might well be proud of it. It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience referred to as "life's page," was up to the usual average. Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over the house. He knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. He sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering rose higher and higher--the cat was within six inches of the absorbed teacher's head--down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in an instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did blaze abroad from the master's bald pate--for the sign-painter's boy had GILDED it! That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come. NOTE:--The pretended "compositions" quoted in this chapter are taken without alteration from a volume entitled "Prose and Poetry, by a Western Lady"--but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be. CHAPTER XXII TOM joined the new order of Cadets of Temperance, being attracted by the showy character of their "regalia." He promised to abstain from smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. Now he found out a new thing--namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing. Tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order. Fourth of July was coming; but he soon gave that up --gave it up before he had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours--and fixed his hopes upon old Judge Frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official. During three days Tom was deeply concerned about the Judge's condition and hungry for news of it. Sometimes his hopes ran high--so high that he would venture to get out his regalia and practise before the looking-glass. But the Judge had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. At last he was pronounced upon the mend--and then convalescent. Tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of injury, too. He handed in his resignation at once--and that night the Judge suffered a relapse and died. Tom resolved that he would never trust a man like that again. The funeral was a fine thing. The Cadets paraded in a style calculated to kill the late member with envy. Tom was a free boy again, however --there was something in that. He could drink and swear, now--but found to his surprise that he did not want to. The simple fact that he could, took the desire away, and the charm of it. Tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning to hang a little heavily on his hands. He attempted a diary--but nothing happened during three days, and so he abandoned it. The first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a sensation. Tom and Joe Harper got up a band of performers and were happy for two days. Even the Glorious Fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the world (as Tom supposed), Mr. Benton, an actual United States Senator, proved an overwhelming disappointment--for he was not twenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it. A circus came. The boys played circus for three days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting--admission, three pins for boys, two for girls--and then circusing was abandoned. A phrenologist and a mesmerizer came--and went again and left the village duller and drearier than ever. There were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder. Becky Thatcher was gone to her Constantinople home to stay with her parents during vacation--so there was no bright side to life anywhere. The dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. It was a very cancer for permanency and pain. Then came the measles. During two long weeks Tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its happenings. He was very ill, he was interested in nothing. When he got upon his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change had come over everything and every creature. There had been a "revival," and everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and girls. Tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. He found Joe Harper studying a Testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing spectacle. He sought Ben Rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a basket of tracts. He hunted up Jim Hollis, who called his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. Every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of Huckleberry Finn and was received with a Scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever. And that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. He covered his head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. He believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity of endurance and that this was the result. It might have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like himself. By and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its object. The boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. His second was to wait--for there might not be any more storms. The next day the doctors were back; Tom had relapsed. The three weeks he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. When he got abroad at last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. He drifted listlessly down the street and found Jim Hollis acting as judge in a juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her victim, a bird. He found Joe Harper and Huck Finn up an alley eating a stolen melon. Poor lads! they--like Tom--had suffered a relapse. 
7200	----	THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER BY MARK TWAIN (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) Part 8 CHAPTER XXXII TUESDAY afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. The village of St. Petersburg still mourned. The lost children had not been found. Public prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came from the cave. The majority of the searchers had given up the quest and gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children could never be found. Mrs. Thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the time delirious. People said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a moan. Aunt Polly had drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. The village went to its rest on Tuesday night, sad and forlorn. Away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted, "Turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!" Tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah! The village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the greatest night the little town had ever seen. During the first half-hour a procession of villagers filed through Judge Thatcher's house, seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed Mrs. Thatcher's hand, tried to speak but couldn't--and drifted out raining tears all over the place. Aunt Polly's happiness was complete, and Mrs. Thatcher's nearly so. It would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the great news to the cave should get the word to her husband. Tom lay upon a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of the wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it withal; and closed with a description of how he left Becky and went on an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad Mississippi rolling by! And if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen that speck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more! He told how he went back for Becky and broke the good news and she told him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was going to die, and wanted to. He described how he labored with her and convinced her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and Tom hailed them and told them their situation and their famished condition; how the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because," said they, "you are five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in" --then took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or three hours after dark and then brought them home. Before day-dawn, Judge Thatcher and the handful of searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind them, and informed of the great news. Three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be shaken off at once, as Tom and Becky soon discovered. They were bedridden all of Wednesday and Thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and worn, all the time. Tom got about, a little, on Thursday, was down-town Friday, and nearly as whole as ever Saturday; but Becky did not leave her room until Sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness. Tom learned of Huck's sickness and went to see him on Friday, but could not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on Saturday or Sunday. He was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his adventure and introduce no exciting topic. The Widow Douglas stayed by to see that he obeyed. At home Tom learned of the Cardiff Hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had eventually been found in the river near the ferry-landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape, perhaps. About a fortnight after Tom's rescue from the cave, he started off to visit Huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting talk, and Tom had some that would interest him, he thought. Judge Thatcher's house was on Tom's way, and he stopped to see Becky. The Judge and some friends set Tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again. Tom said he thought he wouldn't mind it. The Judge said: "Well, there are others just like you, Tom, I've not the least doubt. But we have taken care of that. Nobody will get lost in that cave any more." "Why?" "Because I had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked--and I've got the keys." Tom turned as white as a sheet. "What's the matter, boy! Here, run, somebody! Fetch a glass of water!" The water was brought and thrown into Tom's face. "Ah, now you're all right. What was the matter with you, Tom?" "Oh, Judge, Injun Joe's in the cave!" CHAPTER XXXIII WITHIN a few minutes the news had spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men were on their way to McDougal's cave, and the ferryboat, well filled with passengers, soon followed. Tom Sawyer was in the skiff that bore Judge Thatcher. When the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place. Injun Joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free world outside. Tom was touched, for he knew by his own experience how this wretch had suffered. His pity was moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day he lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast. Injun Joe's bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. The great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through, with tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had wrought no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself. But if there had been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut away Injun Joe could not have squeezed his body under the door, and he knew it. So he had only hacked that place in order to be doing something--in order to pass the weary time--in order to employ his tortured faculties. Ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule, left there by tourists; but there were none now. The prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. He had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these, also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. The poor unfortunate had starved to death. In one place, near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from a stalactite overhead. The captive had broken off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone, wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once in every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick--a dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours. That drop was falling when the Pyramids were new; when Troy fell; when the foundations of Rome were laid when Christ was crucified; when the Conqueror created the British empire; when Columbus sailed; when the massacre at Lexington was "news." It is falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. Has everything a purpose and a mission? Did this drop fall patiently during five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human insect's need? and has it another important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come? No matter. It is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping water when he comes to see the wonders of McDougal's cave. Injun Joe's cup stands first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even "Aladdin's Palace" cannot rival it. Injun Joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people flocked there in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the farms and hamlets for seven miles around; they brought their children, and all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as satisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have had at the hanging. This funeral stopped the further growth of one thing--the petition to the governor for Injun Joe's pardon. The petition had been largely signed; many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a committee of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail around the governor, and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty under foot. Injun Joe was believed to have killed five citizens of the village, but what of that? If he had been Satan himself there would have been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition, and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired and leaky water-works. The morning after the funeral Tom took Huck to a private place to have an important talk. Huck had learned all about Tom's adventure from the Welshman and the Widow Douglas, by this time, but Tom said he reckoned there was one thing they had not told him; that thing was what he wanted to talk about now. Huck's face saddened. He said: "I know what it is. You got into No. 2 and never found anything but whiskey. Nobody told me it was you; but I just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as I heard 'bout that whiskey business; and I knowed you hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some way or other and told me even if you was mum to everybody else. Tom, something's always told me we'd never get holt of that swag." "Why, Huck, I never told on that tavern-keeper. YOU know his tavern was all right the Saturday I went to the picnic. Don't you remember you was to watch there that night?" "Oh yes! Why, it seems 'bout a year ago. It was that very night that I follered Injun Joe to the widder's." "YOU followed him?" "Yes--but you keep mum. I reckon Injun Joe's left friends behind him, and I don't want 'em souring on me and doing me mean tricks. If it hadn't ben for me he'd be down in Texas now, all right." Then Huck told his entire adventure in confidence to Tom, who had only heard of the Welshman's part of it before. "Well," said Huck, presently, coming back to the main question, "whoever nipped the whiskey in No. 2, nipped the money, too, I reckon --anyways it's a goner for us, Tom." "Huck, that money wasn't ever in No. 2!" "What!" Huck searched his comrade's face keenly. "Tom, have you got on the track of that money again?" "Huck, it's in the cave!" Huck's eyes blazed. "Say it again, Tom." "The money's in the cave!" "Tom--honest injun, now--is it fun, or earnest?" "Earnest, Huck--just as earnest as ever I was in my life. Will you go in there with me and help get it out?" "I bet I will! I will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and not get lost." "Huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the world." "Good as wheat! What makes you think the money's--" "Huck, you just wait till we get in there. If we don't find it I'll agree to give you my drum and every thing I've got in the world. I will, by jings." "All right--it's a whiz. When do you say?" "Right now, if you say it. Are you strong enough?" "Is it far in the cave? I ben on my pins a little, three or four days, now, but I can't walk more'n a mile, Tom--least I don't think I could." "It's about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go, Huck, but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me know about. Huck, I'll take you right to it in a skiff. I'll float the skiff down there, and I'll pull it back again all by myself. You needn't ever turn your hand over." "Less start right off, Tom." "All right. We want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things they call lucifer matches. I tell you, many's the time I wished I had some when I was in there before." A trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who was absent, and got under way at once. When they were several miles below "Cave Hollow," Tom said: "Now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from the cave hollow--no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. But do you see that white place up yonder where there's been a landslide? Well, that's one of my marks. We'll get ashore, now." They landed. "Now, Huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that hole I got out of with a fishing-pole. See if you can find it." Huck searched all the place about, and found nothing. Tom proudly marched into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said: "Here you are! Look at it, Huck; it's the snuggest hole in this country. You just keep mum about it. All along I've been wanting to be a robber, but I knew I'd got to have a thing like this, and where to run across it was the bother. We've got it now, and we'll keep it quiet, only we'll let Joe Harper and Ben Rogers in--because of course there's got to be a Gang, or else there wouldn't be any style about it. Tom Sawyer's Gang--it sounds splendid, don't it, Huck?" "Well, it just does, Tom. And who'll we rob?" "Oh, most anybody. Waylay people--that's mostly the way." "And kill them?" "No, not always. Hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom." "What's a ransom?" "Money. You make them raise all they can, off'n their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if it ain't raised then you kill them. That's the general way. Only you don't kill the women. You shut up the women, but you don't kill them. They're always beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. You take their watches and things, but you always take your hat off and talk polite. They ain't anybody as polite as robbers --you'll see that in any book. Well, the women get to loving you, and after they've been in the cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after that you couldn't get them to leave. If you drove them out they'd turn right around and come back. It's so in all the books." "Why, it's real bully, Tom. I believe it's better'n to be a pirate." "Yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to home and circuses and all that." By this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, Tom in the lead. They toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel, then made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. A few steps brought them to the spring, and Tom felt a shudder quiver all through him. He showed Huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against the wall, and described how he and Becky had watched the flame struggle and expire. The boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their spirits. They went on, and presently entered and followed Tom's other corridor until they reached the "jumping-off place." The candles revealed the fact that it was not really a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet high. Tom whispered: "Now I'll show you something, Huck." He held his candle aloft and said: "Look as far around the corner as you can. Do you see that? There--on the big rock over yonder--done with candle-smoke." "Tom, it's a CROSS!" "NOW where's your Number Two? 'UNDER THE CROSS,' hey? Right yonder's where I saw Injun Joe poke up his candle, Huck!" Huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said with a shaky voice: "Tom, less git out of here!" "What! and leave the treasure?" "Yes--leave it. Injun Joe's ghost is round about there, certain." "No it ain't, Huck, no it ain't. It would ha'nt the place where he died--away out at the mouth of the cave--five mile from here." "No, Tom, it wouldn't. It would hang round the money. I know the ways of ghosts, and so do you." Tom began to fear that Huck was right. Misgivings gathered in his mind. But presently an idea occurred to him-- "Lookyhere, Huck, what fools we're making of ourselves! Injun Joe's ghost ain't a going to come around where there's a cross!" The point was well taken. It had its effect. "Tom, I didn't think of that. But that's so. It's luck for us, that cross is. I reckon we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that box." Tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended. Huck followed. Four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the great rock stood in. The boys examined three of them with no result. They found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with a pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rind, and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. But there was no money-box. The lads searched and researched this place, but in vain. Tom said: "He said UNDER the cross. Well, this comes nearest to being under the cross. It can't be under the rock itself, because that sets solid on the ground." They searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged. Huck could suggest nothing. By-and-by Tom said: "Lookyhere, Huck, there's footprints and some candle-grease on the clay about one side of this rock, but not on the other sides. Now, what's that for? I bet you the money IS under the rock. I'm going to dig in the clay." "That ain't no bad notion, Tom!" said Huck with animation. Tom's "real Barlow" was out at once, and he had not dug four inches before he struck wood. "Hey, Huck!--you hear that?" Huck began to dig and scratch now. Some boards were soon uncovered and removed. They had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. Tom got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as he could, but said he could not see to the end of the rift. He proposed to explore. He stooped and passed under; the narrow way descended gradually. He followed its winding course, first to the right, then to the left, Huck at his heels. Tom turned a short curve, by-and-by, and exclaimed: "My goodness, Huck, lookyhere!" It was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern, along with an empty powder-keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two or three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish well soaked with the water-drip. "Got it at last!" said Huck, ploughing among the tarnished coins with his hand. "My, but we're rich, Tom!" "Huck, I always reckoned we'd get it. It's just too good to believe, but we HAVE got it, sure! Say--let's not fool around here. Let's snake it out. Lemme see if I can lift the box." It weighed about fifty pounds. Tom could lift it, after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it conveniently. "I thought so," he said; "THEY carried it like it was heavy, that day at the ha'nted house. I noticed that. I reckon I was right to think of fetching the little bags along." The money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross rock. "Now less fetch the guns and things," said Huck. "No, Huck--leave them there. They're just the tricks to have when we go to robbing. We'll keep them there all the time, and we'll hold our orgies there, too. It's an awful snug place for orgies." "What orgies?" "I dono. But robbers always have orgies, and of course we've got to have them, too. Come along, Huck, we've been in here a long time. It's getting late, I reckon. I'm hungry, too. We'll eat and smoke when we get to the skiff." They presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. As the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got under way. Tom skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with Huck, and landed shortly after dark. "Now, Huck," said Tom, "we'll hide the money in the loft of the widow's woodshed, and I'll come up in the morning and we'll count it and divide, and then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for it where it will be safe. Just you lay quiet here and watch the stuff till I run and hook Benny Taylor's little wagon; I won't be gone a minute." He disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two small sacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started off, dragging his cargo behind him. When the boys reached the Welshman's house, they stopped to rest. Just as they were about to move on, the Welshman stepped out and said: "Hallo, who's that?" "Huck and Tom Sawyer." "Good! Come along with me, boys, you are keeping everybody waiting. Here--hurry up, trot ahead--I'll haul the wagon for you. Why, it's not as light as it might be. Got bricks in it?--or old metal?" "Old metal," said Tom. "I judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool away more time hunting up six bits' worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would to make twice the money at regular work. But that's human nature--hurry along, hurry along!" The boys wanted to know what the hurry was about. "Never mind; you'll see, when we get to the Widow Douglas'." Huck said with some apprehension--for he was long used to being falsely accused: "Mr. Jones, we haven't been doing nothing." The Welshman laughed. "Well, I don't know, Huck, my boy. I don't know about that. Ain't you and the widow good friends?" "Yes. Well, she's ben good friends to me, anyway." "All right, then. What do you want to be afraid for?" This question was not entirely answered in Huck's slow mind before he found himself pushed, along with Tom, into Mrs. Douglas' drawing-room. Mr. Jones left the wagon near the door and followed. The place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any consequence in the village was there. The Thatchers were there, the Harpers, the Rogerses, Aunt Polly, Sid, Mary, the minister, the editor, and a great many more, and all dressed in their best. The widow received the boys as heartily as any one could well receive two such looking beings. They were covered with clay and candle-grease. Aunt Polly blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her head at Tom. Nobody suffered half as much as the two boys did, however. Mr. Jones said: "Tom wasn't at home, yet, so I gave him up; but I stumbled on him and Huck right at my door, and so I just brought them along in a hurry." "And you did just right," said the widow. "Come with me, boys." She took them to a bedchamber and said: "Now wash and dress yourselves. Here are two new suits of clothes --shirts, socks, everything complete. They're Huck's--no, no thanks, Huck--Mr. Jones bought one and I the other. But they'll fit both of you. Get into them. We'll wait--come down when you are slicked up enough." Then she left. CHAPTER XXXIV HUCK said: "Tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. The window ain't high from the ground." "Shucks! what do you want to slope for?" "Well, I ain't used to that kind of a crowd. I can't stand it. I ain't going down there, Tom." "Oh, bother! It ain't anything. I don't mind it a bit. I'll take care of you." Sid appeared. "Tom," said he, "auntie has been waiting for you all the afternoon. Mary got your Sunday clothes ready, and everybody's been fretting about you. Say--ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?" "Now, Mr. Siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business. What's all this blow-out about, anyway?" "It's one of the widow's parties that she's always having. This time it's for the Welshman and his sons, on account of that scrape they helped her out of the other night. And say--I can tell you something, if you want to know." "Well, what?" "Why, old Mr. Jones is going to try to spring something on the people here to-night, but I overheard him tell auntie to-day about it, as a secret, but I reckon it's not much of a secret now. Everybody knows --the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't. Mr. Jones was bound Huck should be here--couldn't get along with his grand secret without Huck, you know!" "Secret about what, Sid?" "About Huck tracking the robbers to the widow's. I reckon Mr. Jones was going to make a grand time over his surprise, but I bet you it will drop pretty flat." Sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way. "Sid, was it you that told?" "Oh, never mind who it was. SOMEBODY told--that's enough." "Sid, there's only one person in this town mean enough to do that, and that's you. If you had been in Huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never told anybody on the robbers. You can't do any but mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised for doing good ones. There--no thanks, as the widow says"--and Tom cuffed Sid's ears and helped him to the door with several kicks. "Now go and tell auntie if you dare--and to-morrow you'll catch it!" Some minutes later the widow's guests were at the supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room, after the fashion of that country and that day. At the proper time Mr. Jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was another person whose modesty-- And so forth and so on. He sprung his secret about Huck's share in the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and effusive as it might have been under happier circumstances. However, the widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many compliments and so much gratitude upon Huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody's gaze and everybody's laudations. The widow said she meant to give Huck a home under her roof and have him educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in business in a modest way. Tom's chance was come. He said: "Huck don't need it. Huck's rich." Nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept back the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. But the silence was a little awkward. Tom broke it: "Huck's got money. Maybe you don't believe it, but he's got lots of it. Oh, you needn't smile--I reckon I can show you. You just wait a minute." Tom ran out of doors. The company looked at each other with a perplexed interest--and inquiringly at Huck, who was tongue-tied. "Sid, what ails Tom?" said Aunt Polly. "He--well, there ain't ever any making of that boy out. I never--" Tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and Aunt Polly did not finish her sentence. Tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said: "There--what did I tell you? Half of it's Huck's and half of it's mine!" The spectacle took the general breath away. All gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. Then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. Tom said he could furnish it, and he did. The tale was long, but brimful of interest. There was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the charm of its flow. When he had finished, Mr. Jones said: "I thought I had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it don't amount to anything now. This one makes it sing mighty small, I'm willing to allow." The money was counted. The sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand dollars. It was more than any one present had ever seen at one time before, though several persons were there who were worth considerably more than that in property. CHAPTER XXXV THE reader may rest satisfied that Tom's and Huck's windfall made a mighty stir in the poor little village of St. Petersburg. So vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. It was talked about, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. Every "haunted" house in St. Petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure--and not by boys, but men--pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them. Wherever Tom and Huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared at. The boys were not able to remember that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. The village paper published biographical sketches of the boys. The Widow Douglas put Huck's money out at six per cent., and Judge Thatcher did the same with Tom's at Aunt Polly's request. Each lad had an income, now, that was simply prodigious--a dollar for every week-day in the year and half of the Sundays. It was just what the minister got --no, it was what he was promised--he generally couldn't collect it. A dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in those old simple days--and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter. Judge Thatcher had conceived a great opinion of Tom. He said that no commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. When Becky told her father, in strict confidence, how Tom had taken her whipping at school, the Judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty lie which Tom had told in order to shift that whipping from her shoulders to his own, the Judge said with a fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie--a lie that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to breast with George Washington's lauded Truth about the hatchet! Becky thought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped his foot and said that. She went straight off and told Tom about it. Judge Thatcher hoped to see Tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some day. He said he meant to look to it that Tom should be admitted to the National Military Academy and afterward trained in the best law school in the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both. Huck Finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the Widow Douglas' protection introduced him into society--no, dragged him into it, hurled him into it--and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear. The widow's servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend. He had to eat with a knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book, he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot. He bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up missing. For forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress. The public were profoundly concerned; they searched high and low, they dragged the river for his body. Early the third morning Tom Sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee. Huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. He was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. Tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home. Huck's face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. He said: "Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it don't work; it don't work, Tom. It ain't for me; I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me, and friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes me get up just at the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom; they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow; and they're so rotten nice that I can't set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher's; I hain't slid on a cellar-door for--well, it 'pears to be years; I got to go to church and sweat and sweat--I hate them ornery sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell--everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it." "Well, everybody does that way, Huck." "Tom, it don't make no difference. I ain't everybody, and I can't STAND it. It's awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy--I don't take no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got to ask to go in a-swimming--dern'd if I hain't got to ask to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort--I'd got to go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I'd a died, Tom. The widder wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks--" [Then with a spasm of special irritation and injury]--"And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such a woman! I HAD to shove, Tom--I just had to. And besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to go to it--well, I wouldn't stand THAT, Tom. Looky here, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and I ain't ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes--not many times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git--and you go and beg off for me with the widder." "Oh, Huck, you know I can't do that. 'Tain't fair; and besides if you'll try this thing just a while longer you'll come to like it." "Like it! Yes--the way I'd like a hot stove if I was to set on it long enough. No, Tom, I won't be rich, and I won't live in them cussed smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and I'll stick to 'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!" Tom saw his opportunity-- "Lookyhere, Huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from turning robber." "No! Oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, Tom?" "Just as dead earnest as I'm sitting here. But Huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't respectable, you know." Huck's joy was quenched. "Can't let me in, Tom? Didn't you let me go for a pirate?" "Yes, but that's different. A robber is more high-toned than what a pirate is--as a general thing. In most countries they're awful high up in the nobility--dukes and such." "Now, Tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me? You wouldn't shet me out, would you, Tom? You wouldn't do that, now, WOULD you, Tom?" "Huck, I wouldn't want to, and I DON'T want to--but what would people say? Why, they'd say, 'Mph! Tom Sawyer's Gang! pretty low characters in it!' They'd mean you, Huck. You wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't." Huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. Finally he said: "Well, I'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if I can come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang, Tom." "All right, Huck, it's a whiz! Come along, old chap, and I'll ask the widow to let up on you a little, Huck." "Will you, Tom--now will you? That's good. If she'll let up on some of the roughest things, I'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust. When you going to start the gang and turn robbers?" "Oh, right off. We'll get the boys together and have the initiation to-night, maybe." "Have the which?" "Have the initiation." "What's that?" "It's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts one of the gang." "That's gay--that's mighty gay, Tom, I tell you." "Well, I bet it is. And all that swearing's got to be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find--a ha'nted house is the best, but they're all ripped up now." "Well, midnight's good, anyway, Tom." "Yes, so it is. And you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with blood." "Now, that's something LIKE! Why, it's a million times bullier than pirating. I'll stick to the widder till I rot, Tom; and if I git to be a reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, I reckon she'll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet." CONCLUSION SO endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a BOY, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a MAN. When one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop--that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can. Most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy. Some day it may seem worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present.